A Connoisseur of Beauty

by Coleridge, Daphne

  A Connoisseur of Beauty

  A Romance

  Daphne Coleridge

  Copyright © Daphne Coleridge 2013

  Chapter One

  Amy Montford stood on the hillside above Wolfston Hall, marvelling at its mellow beauty bathed in the bright sun of a late spring day. Taking in the fine Elizabethan architecture and the weathered stonework of the medieval old hall, she knew that every timber and every brick was beloved to her. She knew every nook and cranny, every secret that it held and all the stories of past glories, treacheries, loves found and battles lost. She belonged to Wolfston Hall. But it did not belong to her. Perhaps it had been lost when her great grandfather had handed it on, crippled by death duties, to his son, Henry. Yet somehow her grandfather had clung on to it, refusing to sell any of its treasures and living hand to mouth all his life. Certainly it was all but lost when her father had inherited it, saddled with crippling debts. Any hope of him reviving its fortunes had been dashed when the young wife he adored had died when their daughter was only two. Turning to drink and lost in despair, Amy’s father had allowed Wolfston Hall to be sold to a close family friend, James Wilson. James had been quite happy for his old friend and daughter to make free use of the place whilst he travelled the world. Meanwhile Amy’s father had moved into a small terraced cottage in the village, eventually refusing even to visit his old family home. Amy, however, spent much of her childhood running wild about the corridors and learning to draw and paint the lovely old house. Then, a year ago, James Wilson had died and the property was put on the market. For a year rumours had abounded about potential buyers and now the deed was done. Wolfston Hall had been sold and she was no longer free even to wander its grounds.

  No longer free to wander its grounds, but about to walk down the hill, through its gardens and out through the front gate! Enough sadness and loss in your life and you begin to feel defiant, Amy thought to herself. And for her it had all been sadness and loss, culminating in the death of her dear, sweet, gentle, flawed father last winter. The only thing that had helped her carry on had been her love of painting. She may have had to drop out of her art course to look after her ailing father, but she would continue to paint as long as she continued to breathe. And now she was having her first exhibition! All right, not the prestigious art school stuff or London gallery exhibitions that some of her ex-art student friends were now enjoying. That was the cost of dropping out. This was just the parish rooms next to the old Norman church, but she was just as excited as if it had been the Royal Academy itself. Down through the wilderness and into the rose garden, Amy followed through the walled garden at the side of the house and onto the sweep of the drive. The gardens were a little overgrown but it would take more than a half century of neglect to detract from the beauty of such a house. Just as she turned the corner to the front she caught the sound of wheels crunching on the drive as a car pulled away. Taken by surprise, she didn’t even have time to pull back. The new owner? There was a glimpse of a pair of broad shoulders and a dark head as she watched a sleek silver sports car moving away at speed. Had the driver caught sight of her in his mirror? Who cared!

  As Amy went to unlock the door to the parish rooms she was met by Alice Davy, who lived next door to the church.

  “Hallo, Amy. Lovely morning. I’m coming to look at your paintings as promised.” She smiled brightly.

  “Come in. If you’re lucky I can muster up coffee and biscuits. I spent yesterday hanging the paintings, so I should have a quiet day today, especially if no one else comes in for a look!”

  “Well, Montford may be a beautiful village, but we are a bit out of the way,” mused Alice. “Your best bet is if anyone stops off at the Five Bells or Jane’s Tearooms.”

  “I put posters up there. Well, we’ll see,” replied Amy without much hope. “By the way there was a car outside Wolfston Hall just now.”

  “Yes, I was going to tell you. Judy said the new owner was going to come and collect the keys today. American, I think: a Mr Lewis.” Alice paused, “It must be very hard for you.”

  Amy shrugged her shoulders and continued to open the door. She was trying not to think about it. However, the long morning provided little distraction. A few friends and neighbours popped in, mostly just to pass the time of day. A couple bought paintings, allowing her to put two red spots on the frames. Not a complete waste of time, then. She was just contemplating locking up and going over to the pub for a late lunch when the door creaked open, letting in a flood of sunlight. Silhouetted in the doorway was a tall male figure, broad of shoulder and long of limb. There was something intimidating and impressive in his sheer proportions as he blocked the sun from the room. And then he came in, the light falling on his face. Strong features, dark brows, and an expression that immediately conveyed both strength and intelligence. Dressed in an immaculately elegant suit he seemed out of place in the dusty, run-down gloom of the parish rooms.

  “Good morning – may I look at the paintings?” He had a pleasant deep voice and English accent and smiled as he turned to Amy. And then his expression changed; a fleeting moment of recognition, a sudden eager flash in his grey eyes. “I’m sorry, I thought that...” He swiftly regained his composure. “It’s coming in from the bright sun. I’ll have to acclimatize my eyes. Do you mind?” He indicated that he wanted to look around at the paintings. Amy nodded mutely. She too felt suddenly discomposed. Even as she withdrew to the table she had set up and sat down to pretend to look at the price list and tick off the couple she had sold, she was profoundly aware of the potent presence in the room. She stole a glance as he studied a large oil painting of Wolfston Hall which she had painted the previous autumn. There was no doubt; he was a splendid piece of creation. The height, the hint of suppressed strength under the fine cloth of his suit, even the brooding intensity with which he studied her picture. And the way he had looked at her for a moment. She didn’t know who it was he had momentarily mistaken her for, but she rather wished she was that person. To be looked at in such a way by such a man!

  The stranger was still looking with concentrated interest at her pictures. He paused a long while over one of the wood above Wolfston Hall where she had painted the bluebells early one morning a few weeks previously. The paint was only just dry.

  “Lovely,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. “The way the mist is still moving through the trees.”

  Amy said nothing but waited until he turned to her.

  “They told me over at the pub that there was an exhibition here,” he explained. “I’m glad I came over. You have an extraordinary touch with light and colour. Not quite like anything I’ve seen.” He spoke with quiet authority, all the while scrutinising Amy with his intense grey eyes. She felt herself flush slightly.

  “Beef and ale pie at the Five Bells?” she asked with an attempt at lightness under the heat of his gaze.

  He smiled readily. “Yes. With potatoes and carrots. A speciality?”

  “Tom’s very best. All the food there is good, and a nice ale on tap.”

  “Quite right; I sampled that too. Very welcoming they were.”

  “And you are interested in painting? Do you paint yourself?”

  “Yes and no. I can appreciate but am no great artist myself. I know enough to recognise that your painting of Wolfston Hall is exceptional. You paint with great authority and also a curious note of tenderness. You know the place well?”

  “All my life.”

  “And it holds an important place in your heart?”

  “Yes,” replied Amy simply. If he could read that in her painting there was no point in denying it.

  The man perused the painting again and then took in some of the others she had painted of the Hall.
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  “Was it your home?” he asked bluntly, his eyes seeming to bore into her again, as if she could have no secret. She flushed afresh.

  “Not really,” Amy replied evasively, “but I love to paint it. As long as I can paint it, it is mine.” She didn’t know what made her make this admission; something about the intensity of his look seemed to demand this honesty.

  “Well, your paintings are lovely,” he responded with a gentle smile, “And I will buy the one of Wolfston Hall in the autumn. Shall I write the cheque out to you?”

  “Yes, Amy Montford,” she said, more business like now. “Do you want to take it with you rather than collect it at the end of the exhibition?”

  “Yes, please,” he was busy writing the cheque, “Oh, and by the way, do you know who does own the house?”

  “Some American, apparently.” Amy’s emotions were still raw and she had allowed a touch of bitterness into her voice.

  The man smiled understandingly. “You don’t think the new owner will give it the love and appreciation it deserves?”

  “Maybe,” replied Amy, ruefully, “Or maybe it’s some crass, uncultured nouveau riche who just want to buy a slice of Olde England!” She knew she was being unfair and prejudiced, but the comment just slipped out, revealing her worst fears.

  The man took the picture which Amy had been wrapping in bubble wrap.

  “Let’s hope not. Thank you for the painting.” And suddenly he was gone. Amy stared at the door that had closed after him for a moment and then glanced down at the cheque. It was signed in the name of Hunter Lewis.

  Ten minutes later Amy was sitting in the solicitor’s office of Jarvis and Jarvis, talking to her friend, Judy Jarvis. Judy was saying, “Let me get this right; you described Hunter Lewis, renowned international art expert and general connoisseur of beauty – to his face – as a crass, uncultured, nouveau riche who wanted to buy a slice of Olde England!”

  “No! Well, yes. At least, I didn’t know either that he was Hunter Lewis or that he was the man who had bought Wolfston Hall. He didn’t mention that fact. Of course I know about Hunter Lewis by reputation, but...will you stop laughing like that, Judy! I feel awful. You should have told me who was buying the place.”

  “I tried ringing you this morning. I left you a text message and a voice message. I wasn’t able to tell you before. At first because I didn’t know the name of the buyer, only his solicitor, and then because they asked for confidentiality. It’s not my fault you never turn your phone on.”

  Amy was examining her phone which confirmed what Judy had said. “He had an English accent,” she complained. “Alice said the buyer was American. She said he was called Mr Lewis, but so are a few thousand or more ordinary Mr Lewises.”

  “He was educated in England, hence the accent. Anyway, didn’t you recognise him? He’s in the papers from time to time and quite memorable.” Judy twinkled appreciatively at Amy. “I may be nearly sixty, but I can still appreciate a handsome man when I see one. Quite a disconcerting presence in a small office!”

  “I wasn’t unaware of his charms,” replied Amy primly, “but I was taken off guard. And he was easy to talk to, so I just said what I said. Honestly! – what must he think of me?”

  “Well, he bought your painting,” said Judy shrewdly. “And this is the man who can make the reputation of a young artist just by putting their work in his showroom. New York, Paris, London! To have a piece bought by him is pretty much an entrée into the upper echelons of the art world.”

  “Maybe,” responded Amy, uncertainly, “But I think it was more a case of him buying a picture of his new home to put over the mantel piece.”

  “Private collection,” corrected Judy.

  “Whatever. Anyway, now I’ve insulted him, I doubt I’ll be hearing from him again.”

  In this assumption Amy was quickly proved wrong. As she sat in the parish rooms the following morning her mobile rang. After Judy’s admonishment she had made sure it was turned on. A deep male voice greeted her.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you? I know you are stewarding at your exhibition, but I’ve just been speaking to Judy Jarvis. I wanted to know a bit more of the history of Wolfston Hall and particularly the background to some of the paintings here. She says you are the person to ask. Could you spare some time this evening? I’m still on my own here, so it would be a kindness.”

  Without giving herself time to think Amy replied correctly and politely, “Yes, of course. What time shall I come?”

  “Would six for drinks suit you?”

  “Of course, I’ll see you then.”

  It was only when the call was ended that she realised how it had flustered her. She had spent a restless night of embarrassment remembering what she had said to Hunter Lewis, but resigned herself to a distant, polite relationship. And now she was invited, alone, into his home. Her old home. She didn’t need to think for too long to realise what confused emotions would arise in her. Added to that was the memory of his physical presence. She couldn’t deny his sheer animal magnetism, but she had always kept clear of any chance of romantic or physical entanglement. In her mind there existed two kinds of relationship, both of them doomed to end in misery – there was the true love she knew her parents had briefly enjoyed, but that had destroyed her father’s life. Then there was the possibility of a more casual, just-for-the-moment liaison. Would she care for that or was it just another route to a broken heart? All a bit academic, she reminded herself. As if a man like Hunter Lewis would be interested in her on any terms! She went into the toilets and briefly indulged in examining herself in the mirror. Well, she had to acknowledge, there wasn’t much wrong with the way she looked. Her figure was willowy, but enhanced by soft, womanly curves. Her clear blue eyes sparkled, her lips were enticingly full and shapely, her skin white and smooth. But he had his pick of glamorous beauties, and glamorous she was not in her faded jeans and tight white tee shirt. More to the point, what had she to offer? A college drop-out, the sole survivor of a once fine family, her own father having wasted his life in drink and despair. Not much to impress there. No! She shook her mane of dark hair defiantly. Well, she would hold her head high and play her part, but not entertain the possibility of any romance.

  So, holding her head high, she stood at the doors of Wolfston Hall as a guest. The fact that she had chosen a smart pair of figure-enhancing grey suit trousers and a flatteringly cut white blouse of impeccable quality was simply to help with her self-confidence. Unfortunately her self-confidence was immediately assailed by the figure that opened the door and bestowed upon her a warm smile and a swift assessing glance of equal warmth. Hunter Lewis was dressed casually in jeans and white linen shirt which did nothing to diminish his dark good looks and nothing to conceal the movements of a powerfully muscled body beneath the cloth.

  “Please come in. May I call you Amy?” He held out his hand and engulfed her slender white one in a strong hand shake which seemed to flood warmth into her body so that her spine tingled.

  “Um, yes,” she mumbled, feeling very small and unimpressive.

  “I’m Hunter. It’s such a pleasure to have you here. I understand from Judy that your family has historical links with the house and that nobody knows more about its mysteries and treasures than you.”

  Amy nodded. She wondered if he had yet heard stories in the pub about how her family had lost their money and it was only through the kindness of James Wilson that her father had eked a living for a few years tending the garden in the grounds the family had once owned.

  “Well, I don’t need to tell you what a wonderful place this is.” He was leading her into the vast kitchen in the medieval old hall and she saw he had been reading a selection of newspapers at one end of the scrubbed oak table and drinking wine. “I was seduced by it the first time I saw it.”

  The subtext to this, Amy thought shrewdly was: “I saw it, I wanted it, now it’s mine.” He had the manner of a man who took it for granted that he could take what he wanted as a right.


  “Would you like some wine? I know it looks like I’m camping here for the moment, but I only came down to collect the keys yesterday and to take a look at my new purchase. It was an impulse to stay on for a few days, so I am having some of my things sent down today and will arrange for staff in due course.” He was pouring her some wine, and Amy was stuck by the fact that he was being friendly in only the most stilted way, almost as if nervous himself.

  He passed the wine to her, looking her straight in the eyes and smiling. Something in her turned to water. Despite the strong good looks and formal manner there was a wistfulness in those intense grey eyes that took her by surprise. But she had resolved to be on her dignity, so she smiled only lightly in return and did not allow him to maintain eye contact.

  “Well, bring your drink and we’ll look at some of the pictures,” he turned abruptly, businesslike again. He led her down the familiar corridors. She had not been inside the house since James Wilson’s death the year before, but despite a slightly desolate air and a pervading musty smell, nothing had changed. As if reading her mind Hunter said, “I’m not going to change anything. I have no plans to strip it out and fill it with modern trimmings, just to preserve and enhance what is here. I’m really not a crass, uncultured nouveau riche, although I suppose I have just bought a slice of Olde England and I can understand that you must feel that I am trampling over your memories.” His eyes twinkled at her momentarily as he repeated her words back to her and Amy felt herself flush deeply.

  “It was inexcusable of me to say that, even if you did omit to point out the obvious and tell me that you were the new owner of Wolfston Hall.”

  “I’m sorry, but I felt some sensibility about blurting it out when confronted with the visual proof of your affinity with the place. As you said, as long as you can paint it, it’s still yours.”

  Amy reached new depths of embarrassment at these words. “Well, it’s not mine, it’s yours,” she said, rather abruptly.