A Connoisseur of Beauty (2 page)

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.”

Th
e 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.

Hunter turned to look at her as they entered the Great Hall, “But would it surprise you to know that I respect that right to a sense of ownership. Any real object of beauty; a painting, a sculpture, a building, belongs not just to the person who pays the price and puts it on display as his possession, but also to all those who can look and truly appreciate that beauty. Not that I don’t enjoy being the proprietor of such a place. Most of my life has been given over to the acquisition of beautiful artefacts. Some I keep for my enjoyment, some I let go.”

Amy was listening to him intently. She was recalling an article she had read about him about eighteen months before. Connoisseur of Beauty, it had been entitled, and it charted the opening of his galleries, and acknowledged his exquisite taste and expertise in the world of art. She also recalled his life as portrayed in the gossip columns. He also liked to acquire beautiful women. Some he kept for his enjoyment, some he let go. She remained wary of him, following him into the room. Almost involuntarily she let out a small gasp. Hunter smiled,

“I was interested in your reaction. Do you approve of the change?”

Above the fireplace was her own painting that he had bought the previous day. The strong colours and the large canvas were quite in keeping with the grand setting and seeing it in this new context it was almost like seeing the painting anew. It looked magnificent.

“Well since I remember that James had that vast oil painting of his Golden Retriever, Sassy, there before, I can only approve the change. James was a good man, but not perfect.”

Hunter laughed, “Yes, I acknowledged the technical merits of the picture and then rapidly removed it.” Their eyes met in mutual understanding.

Amy turned to take in the rest of the room, “Any other minor changes in mind?”

“Maybe. I may commission some new paintings. Some of these are excellent but some of more historical or sentimental interest, as I’m sure you’ll acknowledge. But one interests me in particular for a number of reasons, both because I’m curious about its origin and because... but let’s go and look at it.”

Amy wasn’t in much doubt as to where she was going to be led. The controversy surrounding the painting of Elizabeth
Montford had been disputed over a couple of centuries. Sure enough she was led up the stairs to the small gallery of paintings with which she was so familiar. Most, after all, were her ancestors.

“Is it? “ Hunter asked simply. He was looking at her intently again and she was ready to feel uncomfortable under his penetrating stare. However, there were two questions which he could be asking, and she decided to assume that it was the more technical one.

“Well, no one can prove it, but for my money, yes. Certainly it is eighteenth century, because it is of Elizabeth Montford. Unfortunately a small house fire fifty years ago damaged the bottom of the canvas and obliterated any signature.  After that it was effectively trimmed up and reframed. You can tell by the composition that there should be more in the foreground.”

Hunter acknowledged this with an authoritative nod. “It is certainly in the style of Gainsborough. He had his imitators, but the sheer quality of the work... of course he was really a landscape artist, but portrait painting was more lucrative. Was it him who observed that a man may do great things and starve in a garret?”

Amy smiled and nodded, although this was a little close to home. Her work may not be great but she was perilously close to the starving in a garret part. Her father had almost literally left her with the money tucked in the tea caddy and nothing else but the cottage in which they had lived.

“And my other question...
” Hunter turned the full force of his gaze onto Amy. He surveyed her face and body almost hungrily, a look mingled of curiosity, eagerness and desire. “Is this you? I was bewitched by the beauty of the image the moment I saw it. Then I walked into your exhibition and saw you...?”

Amy struggled to compose herself under the ferocity of his scrutiny, adopting lightness in her tone of voice which was very different to what she was feeling. 

“No, it’s an eighteenth century work but the...likeness is, well, unsurprising.” Amy deliberately looked at the painting so as to disengage herself from Hunter, who was still holding her with his eyes. “She is my ancestor and it was always said that there were two kinds of Montford women, the Elizabeths and the Harriets. Harriet Montford is over here, in a seventeenth century painting. She was, well, you can see, handsome enough, but stocky and anything but delicate. She was renowned for breeding dogs and horses. Elizabeth was renowned for a string of aristocratic and, it was rumoured, royal lovers. In fact her third son was not thought to be his father’s son, so to speak, but as there was no chance of him inheriting, this fact was discretely glossed over.”

“So beautiful, yet cold and faithless,”
mused Hunter. “It’s often the way.”

Amy bridled a bit at this criticism, feeling it somehow reflected on her. “Well, we don’t know she was cold, she may have been very warm in her relationships, however adulterous.”

Hunter laughed, “A novel way of looking at it, and perhaps a man would be prepared to accept an element of duplicity just for the pleasure of being with such a woman.”

Amy’s cheeks felt pink again, but she allowed him to lead her down the gallery as he asked pertinent and intelligent questions about the other works that hung there. Then he offered her more wine, which she accepted, the warm glow imparted by the wine mingling with the warm glow that was
imparted by his mere presence. A few more questions about the history of the house and then,

“
Now, down to business. I think I want at least one more painting by you for the Great Hall. Something of the gardens, I’ll leave it to your artistic judgement. I hope you’ll accept the commission. I’ll pay twice the price I did for the one of Wolfston in autumn. I hope that is acceptable.”

Amy nodded, “Yes, of course.” She could hardly complain, it would be a delight to paint and it wasn’t as if she didn’t need the money. Yet somehow this sudden businesslike approach cut across the rosy glow that had flooded her. And yet she had been the one determined to be anything but romantic. By the time she left her head was spinning with impressions, questions and thoughts, but she shook
them off. It was all very intriguing, but the only salient point was that she had a painting to do. She would concentrate on that and not wonder about what possibilities further meetings with the new owner of Wolfston Hall might produce.

***

Chapter Two

Amy heard no more from Hunter for the rest of the week, most of which she spent attending her exhibition. She observed various comings and goings from
Wolfston Hall that suggested he was establishing himself there at least for the immediate future. She herself had sold six paintings, including the one that Hunter had bought. With the money from her commission she could roll along for a month or two longer although she knew that it was time to start deciding what to do with her life now she was no longer looking after her father. Should she return to college? Was it possible to make a living as an artist? Somehow she felt a strong inclination not to make any decisions yet. After all, she had the painting to do at Wolfston Hall and that was her top priority. The fact that this might mean further contact with Hunter did nothing to detract from the proposition.

Saturday morning she was woken by a knock at the door. She padded down sleepily in her silky white pyjamas, trying to straighten her ruffled hair, to be confronted by the delivery
of a bouquet of beautiful cream-coloured roses. Not just any roses, she discovered, as she carefully placed them in vases. Never before had she seen roses so perfect, so lustrous of petal, so satin to the touch, so fragrant. They were also abundant, enough to fill three big vases; one for the little room at the front of her cottage, one for the kitchen behind and one for her to take up to her bedroom so that too could be filled with the delicious perfume. She also took up the small white envelope that had come with them. Somehow she knew that they were from Hunter Lewis. Who else could provide flowers that looked like they had been plucked in the Garden of Eden? And she thought she knew why he had chosen that particular pearly-hued shade of cream. For it was flowers exactly like these that lay tumbled in the lap of Elizabeth Montford, contrasting with the silver grey of her dress, in the portrait they had looked at together. Yet, in the painting, there had been a single red flower in the bouquet. If she had been asked to comment on the symbolism in the painting, she would have said the white flowers represent the cold beauty of the sitter, the single red bloom her adultery.  Happily Hunter had left out the red flower.

Placing the vase by the window which overlooked her little courtyard garden, Amy, with a slight tremble of eagerness in her fingers, opened the envelope. Her eyes instantly picked out the signature, Hunter Lewis, before she set to reading the message. “Please come and start your painting this morning at ten-thirty.” Amy was perplexed and, to be honest, a little disappointed. There is nothing more romantic than to be sent roses by a dashingly handsome man, but the message quickly negated any impression of romance with its brisk, businesslike message. Also, despite the “please” it was more a demand than a request. He simply assumed she had no prior commitment and was at his beck and call. She might have had something important to do that morning. OK, she hadn’t, but she wasn’t sure she like
d the assumption that her life was empty and she was just waiting about to be summoned by the likes of Hunter Lewis. Perhaps he was accustomed to sending artists who were working on a commission for him instructions accompanied by bunches of flowers. And yet, as she brushed her hand across the petals of those delicious flowers, she felt again a little of the warm glow she had felt when she had met Hunter that second time. But even if there was a hint of romance in the gift, was she really ready for any sort of relationship? She had always assiduously avoided any liaisons, feeling her emotions had been knocked about enough in the last few years without any complication of that sort. And if his roses were the opening move in a seduction, was she just lined up to be another conquest? She knew she could not cope with the prospect of being romanced and discarded, just another beautiful object to be dispassionately used. Well, she would certainly go along and start the painting, but she would keep Hunter Lewis carefully at arm’s length until she knew not only what it was that he wanted, but what it was she wanted too.