High Renaissance, as it’s known—whose works have survived to this day.”
Slipping into a lecture on High Renaissance art was the definition of easy, and to his credit, Pyne appeared to lap up every word. Clearly, his interest in art truly had been piqued by the situation with his friend’s Albertinelli.
While Godfrey rambled, touching on those aspects he suspected Pyne would like to hear about and responding to Pyne’s questions, Morris sat more or less mum. He was listening, but remained on the periphery of the discussion. Godfrey had to wonder why he’d come.
Eventually, Pyne ran out of questions, and both he and Godfrey glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was nearly ten-thirty; they’d been talking for over an hour.
“Right, then!” Pyne slapped his hands on his knees and stood. “Thank you for the information, Cavanaugh, but we’d better leave you to rest, or Ellie will be after us for tiring you out, what?”
This last was said with a jovial air, but Morris, who had also come to his feet, assumed a serious, almost severe expression. “Miss Hinckley is a caring lady. She runs this large household in exemplary fashion and has many calls on her time. She is always very busy.”
The look Morris bent on Godfrey was, he suspected, meant to depress any pretensions of importance he harbored and make him feel guilty over taking up Ellie’s time.
“That’s true enough,” Pyne allowed, “but she did say to tell you, Cavanaugh, that she expects to be up to keep you company shortly.”
Morris’s expression could only be described as sour—as if he’d sucked a particularly tart lemon. He shifted his gaze to Pyne, but there was nothing he could say as, with a jaunty wave, Pyne made for the door.
His gaze on Morris’s face, Godfrey called, “I’ll look forward to enjoying Miss Hinckley’s company.”
Morris shot him a dark, definitely disapproving—almost warning—look but, after hesitating for an instant, had no option but to follow Pyne out of the room.
When the door closed—firmly—behind the pair, Godfrey stared at the panels, then humphed. “Obviously, Morris harbors some interest in Ellie.” He replayed the man’s words and frowned. Morris had spoken of Ellie as if she were a housekeeper rather than the effective lady of the house—or as if her housekeeping skills were the only aspect of her that held value, at least to Morris. “Regardless,” Godfrey muttered, “I didn’t mistake his proprietary air.” Morris had wanted to warn him away.
With another dismissive humph, Godfrey reached for the book on Hinckley Hall just as the door opened and Wally entered, bearing a tray that sported a teapot along with a single silver dome. Godfrey abandoned the book. “What have they sent up?” He was starving.
Wally came to the bed and, with a flourish, placed the tray across Godfrey’s lap and whisked the dome away. “Proper coffee and two nice pieces of seed cake.”
Godfrey grinned. “Excellent. Sustenance!”
After Wally had departed, carting away the empty cup and plate on which not a single crumb of the delicious seed cake remained, Godfrey settled to wait for Ellie to appear. Pyne had said “shortly,” and surely that was now; it was after eleven o’clock.
He didn’t feel like reading, and that left his mind free to wander, more or less aimlessly. He thought of his family; now, in the aftermath of Christmas, as usual spent at the abbey, they would all be at their various homes, settling back into their—in their terms—blissful family lives. Each of his siblings had their spouse and children to hold, protect, and nurture, and each had their particular interests to pursue, rolling forward through the coming year.
He considered the pictures such thoughts painted in his mind—much like a five-paneled artwork, with a panel for each Cavanaugh. The first four panels were detailed and complete, the lives they represented full and fulfilling.
Despite his closeness to his siblings, he still felt like an outsider looking in—as if he was viewing their achievements from an emotional distance. More disturbing still, even with his position as an expert authenticator of artworks well and truly established, his own painting wasn’t properly filled in. It remained incomplete, with a blank section at its heart.
As if he had nothing to center him, no anchor.
After a while, he drew his mind from contemplating that intrinsic emptiness—that inner hollowness—and set it wandering again. The look Masterton had bent on Ellie resurfaced, to be followed by Morris’s pseudo-warning.
His restlessness returned, a persistent, niggling insistence that he really ought to get up and…be there. For