for the past several days without going into a decline, could I please see those documents now?”
She blinked, then lowered her embroidery to her lap. After a moment of staring at him, a frown formed in her eyes. “Studying them won’t…well, exhaust you, will it?”
He grinned and laid a hand on his chest. “I swear on my honor that examining such documents will not adversely impact my health.” He paused, then arched his brows. “In fact, not examining them might well result in me going into an overactively frustrated state.”
She threw him a look, but rose, set her embroidery on the chair, and headed for the door. “I’ll fetch them, and we’ll see.”
Godfrey watched her go, genuinely more excited than he’d felt in weeks.
Ellie returned to the best guest bedchamber with the sheaf of documents she’d collected from the top drawer of the dresser above which the Albertinelli painting hung.
Approaching the bed, she couldn’t help but note the eager excitement in Godfrey’s face. He looked like a boy about to get his most-wished-for birthday present.
Smiling, she held out the papers, and he all but seized them. In doing so, his long fingers slid over hers; albeit unintentional, the caress still affected her. Still made her knees slightly weak.
“Thank you.” His gaze—avid—had locked on the topmost document.
“You’re welcome—I was keeping them for you.” She returned to the chair and picked up her embroidery, but continued to watch him.
He flicked through the letters and documents, then sighed a happy sigh. He glanced at her. “These are far more comprehensive than I—or the gallery—expected. Far more than most people with paintings like the Albertinelli have.”
She smiled. “Luckily, my ancestor—the one who bought the painting—and those who followed were rather garrulous letter-writers. And they kept everything. The family archives are extensive.” She nodded at the papers. “That’s where I found those.”
He’d returned his gaze to the documents. Now, he shook his head. “Amazing.”
She watched him sort through the letters and notes, laying them in various piles on the counterpane.
Then he started to read with utter concentration.
An hour passed, and he said not a word, just steadily worked his way through the papers, setting some aside while devouring others, then re-sorting his piles.
When a tap on the door heralded Wally with Godfrey’s afternoon tea on a tray, Ellie rose. “I have to speak with Cook. I probably won’t manage to return this evening.”
“Mm.” Godfrey hadn’t looked up, leaving Wally standing with the tray poised and nowhere to set it.
Ellie softly huffed, walked to the bed, and tried to tug the letter Godfrey was perusing from his fingers; she wasn’t surprised when he only clutched it tighter, but at least he looked up. “Wally is here with your afternoon tea. You need to move the papers aside.”
“Oh.” Godfrey looked to the side and seemed to see Wally for the first time. Then he glanced about and ended looking at the bedside table. “Put it there.”
Wally sighed and did. To Ellie, he said, “It’s always like this when he gets caught up in something arty. I’ll see he drinks his tea, miss, and eats his dinner, come to that, although I’ll probably have to wrestle those papers away to do it.”
“Thank you.” With an amused glance at Godfrey, she picked up her embroidery, slid it into her bag, then walked to the door. Pausing, she looked back, took in the total absorption that gripped him, then, smiling, opened the door and left him to it.
Godfrey was only vaguely aware that Ellie had gone. Wally was a hovering presence by his side, but the letter in his hand commanded his undivided attention. It wasn’t from Ellie’s many-times-great-uncle Henry, whose scrawl Godfrey could already identify, but was executed in a much more distinctive hand on a parchment carrying an embossed coat of arms.
A coat of arms Godfrey had seen before, many times over the years.
What he was looking at was a letter in Italian stating that the Medicis of Florence—Albertinelli’s home—were unable to accept delivery of the painting one of the ladies of the house had commissioned.
Godfrey stared at the thick, yellowing parchment in his hands while his mind whirled, assembling all he knew of Florence in 1495, the year noted at the top of the letter.
Distantly, he heard Wally ask something, but he couldn’t drag his mind from the black, spiky writing. “Shh,” he murmured. “I have to study this.”
Ellie woke the next morning to the sound of steady dripping.
She pushed back the covers, threw on her warm