robe, and went to the window. Flinging back the heavy curtains, she gazed out at a sight that had her smiling. Water was slowly dripping from the eaves, and the bare branches of the trees were gradually reappearing as the snow and ice that had sheathed them melted away.
She looked up toward where the sun should be. While there was no sunshine as such, a glowing orb shone through the still-thick yet whiter clouds.
The thaw had finally arrived.
Buoyed, she continued to smile as she washed and dressed, then headed downstairs.
On reaching the front hall, she discovered the mail plus a stack of newspapers piled on the hall table.
“Just arrived, miss.” Kemp came up bearing a silver salver. “The lad who brought them said the road from here to Ripon was passable by horse, but for carriages, it’ll be another day or two, and he didn’t think he’d be able to go much farther than the Laver. He said the drifts on the other side of the river were even deeper than here.”
“Still, that we’ve at least got these is excellent news.” Having heard the rumble of male voices from the breakfast parlor, she gathered the rolled newspapers and waved Kemp, who had stacked the letters on his salver, ahead of her. “Let’s take these to the others and spread the news.”
Her family had beaten her to the parlor and were already seated about the large table, along with Morris, Pyne, and Masterton. While Kemp delivered the letters to her father, Ellie set the newspapers on a side table, then slipped into her customary chair opposite her father and smiled at him when he looked inquiringly her way. “Good morning,” she responded brightly. “It appears we’re finally going to have a warmer day.”
She exchanged greetings with the others, then helped herself to toast, and Harry passed the marmalade. The men were addressing plates of ham, eggs, and sausages and discussing the forecasts for the rest of the winter and the prospects for the local cabbage crop.
She’d poured herself a cup of tea and was taking a sip when the farming discussion reached its end, and her father looked up the table at her.
“How is Mr. Cavanaugh’s convalescence progressing?”
She’d informed her father that Godfrey was a member of the aristocracy, but in light of his stated preference not to flaunt his title—a stance her father had viewed approvingly—they’d decided to honor his wishes.
She lowered her cup. “He’s much improved, but Mrs. Kemp and I—and Cook as well as his man—believe a few more days are necessary to ensure a full recovery.”
Her father nodded soberly. “A chill of the depth he endured is not to be taken lightly. Please offer him my compliments and assure him that him making a full recovery is important to us all.”
Ellie smiled. “I will. Meanwhile, he’s studying those documents from our archives—the ones that mention the painting.”
Seated to her right, Masterton had been sipping his coffee. He lowered his mug and frowned. “What documents are those?”
Morris and Pyne also looked interested.
Ellie’s father explained, “There were letters from when old Henry Hinckley bought the painting, and others later, after he brought it home. And various papers in Italian had been folded with the letters.”
Masterton’s frown deepened. “Do you read Italian?”
Her father shook his head, and Ellie said, “I just gathered everything in the archives that contained the artist’s name.”
“The gallery wrote that any document mentioning the painting was important and that we should show all such documents to them or, rather, to their authenticator, meaning Cavanaugh. So Ellie collected all the letters.” Her father looked at her. “Now he’s seen them, what did he say?”
“He said that we have far more documentation than most people with paintings like ours.” She suppressed a smile at the memory of Godfrey’s utter absorption, of how the papers had seized his entire awareness and not let go. “He seemed very pleased. I gather he has to study the documents carefully as part of his assessment of the painting.”
“Huh,” Pyne said. “Fancy that.” After a moment of cogitation, he asked, “What’s he think to find in the letters? Do you know?”
“I think it’s that the existence of the letters and their mentions of the painting prove that Great-uncle Henry bought it and brought it here, to the Hall.” Ellie shrugged. “I don’t know what else he might look for or find.”
“Hmm.” Pyne fell silent, transparently digesting the existence of the letters.
Ellie finished her toast and drained her teacup.
As she set the cup on