Godfrey compressed his lips against a retort along the lines of not having all that much choice.
The annoying Miss Hinckley regarded him for a moment, then coolly inclined her head in farewell, opened the door, and swept out.
He watched the panel close behind her, then relaxed into the pillows and pondered what had just occurred. He was prepared to take an oath that, despite her attempt at depressing his pretensions, the intriguing Miss Hinckley was every bit as aware of him as he was of her.
If she hadn’t been quite so vehement in her insistence that he hadn’t known what he was doing, if she hadn’t made that last, patently fallacious claim of having already forgotten what had occurred, he might have been inclined to play the gentleman and let the matter, along with his attraction to her, slide.
But now?
If she’d thought to deflect his attention from her, she’d miscalculated on a fairly major scale.
Ellie held to her stated intention and, over the luncheon table, informed her father that Cavanaugh had woken, but was showing signs of developing a fever and, after some discussion, had been persuaded to remain in bed until he had properly recovered from his recent ordeal.
Her father, Harry, and Maggie accepted that news with ready understanding and, on her father’s part, a wish for Cavanaugh’s speedy recovery.
Morris, Pyne, and Masterton frowned.
Before they could quibble, Ellie continued, “Given Cavanaugh’s purpose here, we deemed it preferable he be fully recovered before he views the painting, as illness might affect his ability to conduct the necessary examinations. There’s also the issue that it was solely our wish to sell the Albertinelli that brought Cavanaugh here, to be caught in the storm and fall ill in the first place.”
Her father nodded. “Indeed—we bear some degree of responsibility. I quite take your point, my dear.”
Ellie returned her father’s gentle smile, then glanced at their three visitors. “Besides, what with being snowed in, there’s no way of notifying the gallery that the painting has been authenticated—not until the snow clears and the roads are open again.”
“Just so,” her father said. “No reason to rush the man when it looks as if we’ll be immured for a week.”
“A week?” Pyne frowned. “Is that what your stableman is saying?”
Her father nodded. “A week at least. Johnson thinks there’s more snow on the way, so the situation is likely to get worse before it gets better.”
Masterton smiled easily at her father and Ellie. “Getting worse before improving—that sounds rather like your patient.”
Ellie inclined her head. “Mrs. Kemp suspects so.”
“Still,” Masterton went on, “as Matthew says, there’s no need to rush. Plenty of time for Cavanaugh to throw off his chill and authenticate the painting in time to send the word south once that’s possible.”
Ellie was relieved when Morris and Pyne, apparently taking their cue from Masterton, allowed the matter of Cavanaugh’s illness and the consequent delay in his assessment of the Albertinelli to pass without further discussion.
While neither Morris nor Pyne had any real say in her father’s decisions, their arguments had been known to sway him. Masterton, being able to claim a family connection and, she suspected, still having an eye on her, occasionally stuck in his oar on family decisions, but in this case, he was, apparently, prepared to be sensible.
“Half your luck, Matthew,” Pyne said. “I wouldn’t mind an old master or two hanging on my walls and being able to sell them off when need arises.”
Morris humphed. “I just wish my ancestors had been half as farsighted as yours.”
From what Ellie had heard from her father and also on the local grapevine, despite their earlier offers of financial assistance, both Morris and Pyne might be in significantly worse financial straits than the Hinckleys. Morris’s farm outside Galphay hadn’t done well over the past decade, and while Pyne’s business was said to be sound, it seemed his wife was intent on running him aground.
Ellie wasn’t surprised to hear the pair voice a degree of envy over the Hinckleys selling a painting they no longer even looked at and, through that simple singular act, reviving the family’s fortunes.
“Nevertheless, I suspect we should hold back from making any assumptions.” Masterton looked at her father. “After all, the sale of the painting is conditional on Cavanaugh’s authentication.”
Her father smiled. “True, but there’s really no question about the painting’s bona fides. It’s been here, in this house, since my long-ago ancestor brought it back from his Grand Tour. He knew the artist’s family and purchased it directly from them. I have no doubt as to Cavanaugh’s verdict. His opinion is more in the nature of a necessary approval prior to the sale.”
“I see.” Masterton glanced at Ellie. “In that case, given that Cavanaugh is now here, any delay due to illness is neither here nor there. By the time the thaw sets in, you’ll have your verdict, and the sale will proceed as quickly as it would have regardless.”
“Precisely.” For good measure, Ellie added, “Indeed, I believe we owe Cavanaugh some consideration on that score. Rather than brave the storm, he could have stopped in Ripon, in which case, his viewing of the painting wouldn’t occur until several days after the thaw. Instead, as matters now stand, regardless of his illness and recovery, we’ll be moving forward as rapidly as Mother Nature allows.”
“Well said, my dear.” Her father nodded benignly.
While Morris and Pyne remained rather grudging in their acceptance, Masterton smiled in relaxed agreement, leaving Ellie more in charity with him than she usually was.
Chapter 3
By the following morning, Godfrey was already feeling the effects of his enforced sojourn in what, he had to admit, was an otherwise comfortable bed. His liking for idleness had never been great, and being stuck between the sheets steadily eroded what patience he had, along with his hold on his temper, resulting in an increasing querulousness that even he found trying.
Worse, that morning, he’d started coughing.
From experience, he knew that was a bad sign and tried to suppress the instinct as much as he could.
When his distracting principal jailer entered the room some minutes after the clocks had struck ten, he quickly sat up to make his case. “I need to be up and about. Nothing strenuous, but I’m sure walking a trifle and being dressed will make me feel—”
He broke off on a hacking cough, then wheezed and coughed some more.
She rushed to the side of the bed as he bent forward, sounding and feeling as if his lungs were full of gravel and mud. She set aside the basket of mending she’d brought in, but then hovered, clearly unsure what to do.
Luckily, the coughing subsided, but by the time he’d regained his breath, straightened, and raised his gaze to her face, her features had hardened and her jaw had set.
“No.” Her tone brooked no argument. “As you’ve just demonstrated, you’re in no case at all to be wandering about out of bed.”
He held her gaze, then sighed and slumped on the pillows at his back. With his gaze trained on the ceiling, he sighed again, in even more heartfelt vein. He knew he was being melodramatic. He’d thought his sister, Stacie, was the family’s drama queen, but apparently, he had his own talents in that sphere. Fretfully, he picked at the sheet. “Perhaps some fresh air…”