A painting in a gallery was safe enough. Once she visited the gallery and lay her fretting to rest, perhaps she’d visit the manor, after all. She felt guilty abandoning Grey after all the unhappy incidents that left him foolishly living like a hermit. He was too good a man to spend his life alone. She knew she could never be more than an assistant to him—and she deserved better than that. But while he was here and paying her generously, she’d learn to conceal her feelings a while longer. It wasn’t as if she’d ever expected men to look at her non-prepossessing presence, as she wanted Grey to do.
Besides, she couldn’t sit here helplessly all day, bemoaning her fate, while lives were at stake. It just wasn’t in her.
Gathering up gloves, bonnet, and Peg, they took the newly-cleared alley to what Grey called Market Street. On a Friday, farm carts gathered in front of the mercantile. She’d been so anxious to reach the gallery, she’d forgotten to consult Miss Fields. The summer harvest was not bountiful, but far fresher than pickled. They needed to shop before the meager fare was gone.
“Run back and fetch Miss Fields, will you, please? Tell her to bring both baskets. Those melons look delicious. I’ll leave a coin with Mr. Oswald, then go down to visit with Thea.”
Admiring a box of blackberries, Peg nodded eagerly and ran off on her errand.
After leaving one of Grey’s sovereigns with the mercantile owner, El strolled down a few doors to see if the gallery had opened yet.
Thea greeted her at the entrance. “Avoiding the uproar, too, I see. Is it true, Mort might be a killer? I know he is large, but he’s such an exceptional artist, it’s hard to understand. Living here, he’s self taught. He’s taking Arnaud’s lessons with such brilliance!”
“I don’t think anything is decided. There seems to be a conspiracy of sorts involving Greybourne’s heir, and I fear some of the artists might be involved, or perhaps just Percival.”
Grey’s cousin made a disdainful gesture. “I tried to warn Grey about Stewart! But would he listen? His heir is a bounder, through and through.”
“It seems so.” El tried to keep to her task. “Out of curiosity, I thought I’d take another look at Mort’s paintings.”
Thea grimaced at the empty gallery. “Everyone has gone to the manor. Hunt opened the Great Hall so anyone in the village can hear the testimony. It’s the best entertainment available while our theater troupe is touring.”
“Perhaps I’ll go up to watch, then. That sounds safer than the shouting brawl last night. But might I take a look at Mort’s paintings first? Grey is writing an article, and I thought I’d refresh my memory.” El drifted into the dim interior, trying to find the landscape she remembered.
“I believe Mort started taking them down to rearrange them the other day, so you may have to hunt. If you don’t mind keeping an eye on the place, I’d like to run up to the mercantile for notepaper. I want to start sending invitations to our new exhibit.” She gestured at Arnaud’s canvases, which now held far more cheerful subjects than the previous stormy ones.
“Don’t let me detain you. I’ll hold the fort until you return.” El couldn’t imagine any actual customers arriving. And if delicate, ladylike Thea could hold off any thieves or vandals with her presence, she surely could. Although she’d have brought her walking stick had she known she’d be guarding a gallery. Perhaps some day she’d buy a more ladylike one. She liked having a weapon—and she might not always be able to afford Peg to accompany her.
That was a sad thought, so she shoved it aside to wander deeper into the ancient building. She didn’t see the landscape, but it didn’t sound as if any had been sold.
Finding a stack half-hidden in the shoemaker’s corner—he must be at the manor, along with the clockmaker who usually occupied the other booth—El gently sorted through the canvases. She didn’t have much light. A gallery owner would carry the work out where it could be seen, but she didn’t intend to buy. She didn’t want to put any one to trouble.
Finally finding the one she thought she remembered, she attempted to dislodge it from the stack.
“Those aren’t for sale any more,” a male voice said from behind her.
Startled, El straightened and turned to find Tiny, hammer and crate in hand. He didn’t look quite so blandly harmless as she remembered. She’d thought him young and weak, but he revealed a wiry strength in the way he held his burden, and his narrowed eyes exposed a harshness she’d not noticed when he’d been surrounded by bigger, louder men.
Shouldn’t he be with the other prisoners? “That’s a shame. There is one Greybourne particularly admired,” she lied to explain her interest. “Are they done interrogating at the manor? Are they sending Percival to assize court?”
He gestured deprecatingly. “Oncet they learnt I couldn’t knock down a feather, they sent me on my way. I ain’t hanging about to see what happens next.”
He meant to leave the village? Sensible, she supposed. She nodded and pointed at the stack. “I thought I might persuade Grey to purchase the river view for the house.”
“Mort will likely hang if your professor has aught to say about it.” Tiny dropped the empty crate and pried at the lid.
El didn’t know what to say to that statement. “I am sorry to hear that. Are some of these yours?”
“Don’t matter now, does it? I’ll be leaving.” He glared at her suspiciously. “Which one was it you wanted to see?”
Could she delay him until Thea returned? No, she didn’t feel safe. “It’s no matter. I can see I’m in your way. Tell Thea I’ll meet her at the manor.” She lifted her hem and turned away.
“You saw it, didn’t ya? In here giving fancy lectures?—”
Pain struck her head, and she didn’t hear the rest.
Forty
Grey
