I can get away, I’ll look in later.” She would make sure she did.
They exchanged nods, and she left him with Wally.
She did return later and sat beside him, and with no more mending to be done, they chatted about, of all things, the theaters in London and the Opera and musical performances he had seen and she could only dream of.
Through his eyes, that other life—the one she might have had if things had been different and her father’s accident hadn’t occurred—came alive.
When she finally left him to settle to sleep, she walked from his room with a far deeper appreciation of what Fate had denied her.
Monday morning dawned, and while Godfrey felt rather better, he knew he was some way from full recovery and so held to his promise to the lovely Ellie and dutifully remained abed. He was delighted to be presented with a bowl of remarkably delicious porridge drizzled with honey as well as two slices of toast and jam with which to break his fast.
Sadly, after briefly looking in on him after her own breakfast—and applauding his tack—Ellie had to leave to deal with household matters.
He made himself read more about Hinckley Hall and its history and was pleased to discover his ability to concentrate had improved. But after half an hour, his mind started to wander—flirting with the question of why Mr. Hinckley, who, curiously, he’d yet to meet, wanted to sell the Albertinelli. From all he’d thus far gleaned, the estate was—or at least should be—reasonably prosperous. Had it somehow fallen on hard times? Did the family need the money from the sale to continue to live in the style to which they were accustomed, or was there some other, non-financial reason that had prompted Mr. Hinckley to contact the National Gallery?
Godfrey’s mind circled through the options, but he had no way of learning which applied. Eventually, he forced his eyes back to the book and set himself to plow on.
When a knock fell on the door, he looked up eagerly; although he’d immediately registered that the knock wasn’t the same as Ellie’s light tap, he was ready to welcome any distraction. “Come in,” he called and waited to see who appeared.
Pyne entered, followed, this time, by another man of similar age. Gentleman farmer was Godfrey’s immediate assessment, which was proved correct as Pyne clapped his hands and declared, “Good morning to you, Cavanaugh. What-ho!” Pyne gestured at the other man. “Allow me to present Mr. Edward Morris. An old friend of mine and of Matthew’s. Morris has land up around Kirkby Malzeard.” Pyne waved toward the west.
Morris came forward and offered his hand. “Both Walter and I were visiting here when the storm struck. We come every Wednesday to take luncheon with Matthew—with Hinckley, that is.”
“I see.” Godfrey shook Morris’s hand, then waved his visitors to the chairs. “You come at an opportune moment, gentlemen. I find myself sorely in need of distraction.”
Pyne again claimed the wing chair, leaving Morris to avail himself of the straight-backed chair Wally had left on the other side of the bed. Pyne glanced at the book Godfrey had laid down. “I see you’ve been reading a history, so that’s hardly surprising, heh? Never could understand what I was supposed to learn by reading about people long gone. But then, I suppose you’re used to dealing with all these long-dead painters.”
Godfrey couldn’t hide his smile. “Indeed.” He recalled Pyne’s Saturday inquisition, which had centered on Godfrey’s peculiar occupation and his credentials to assess the Albertinelli.
He assumed that, having largely gained his answers, the man would take a different inquisitorial tack and was mildly surprised when Pyne cleared his throat and said, “Hope you don’t mind me asking more about this whole art business, but I’ve never paid much attention to arty things—never really thought there was much value attached to paintings and the like—and now I find there is, that there’s a world of business I never imagined out there, and well, I’m curious.”
Perhaps because he was feeling better, Godfrey accepted that Pyne spoke sincerely, and smiled encouragingly. “No, of course not—I’m happy to tell you what I can.” He settled against his pillows and gestured. “Ask away.”
“Good-oh.” Pyne’s eyes lit. He sat straight, his hands braced on his knees. “Tell me about the old paintings like Matthew’s—like the Albertinelli. Are there many of them about? Many other painters like that chap?”
“Not all that many paintings, because there aren’t all that many master painters of that era—the