The Governess of Highland Hall (27 page)

“Please. Don’t apologize. I’m glad to see both you and Millicent resting so peacefully.”

She smoothed her hand over her hair and tucked behind her ear that one strand he had just been admiring. She glanced across the room. “When did the doctor arrive?”

“Just a few moments ago.”

“What will he think of me, sleeping the day away?”

“He thinks you’ve done an excellent job caring for the children, and I quite agree.”

Her ruffled expression faded and was replaced by a slight smile. “Thank you, sir.”

Millicent’s eyes fluttered open, and she looked up at him. “Papa …”

“Hello, Millie. Have you had a good rest?”

She nodded, a slight smile warming her expression.

“How are you feeling?”

“A little better,” she said softly.

“Well, that’s very good news.” He leaned down and brushed his hand across her forehead, taking a closer look at her pale blue eyes and the sprinkle of freckles across her pert nose. “You must do all you can to get well, because I am making plans to go and cut our Christmas tree very soon.”

Her eyes widened. “A Christmas tree?”

He nodded. “Mr. McTavish says we have some very nice evergreens just west of the cottages, and you must come along to help me choose the very best one.”

She pushed up to a half-sitting position. “Can we go today?” Her eyes brightened, but her voice still sounded strained.

William and Miss Foster exchanged a smile. “It’s a bit too rainy today, but we’ll go cut our Christmas tree very soon.” He gently touched her shoulder. “Now lie down and rest. And you must listen to the doctor and Miss Foster and do everything they say so you can get well.”

“I will, Papa. I promise.”

“Did you say we’re going to cut a Christmas tree?” Andrew called from his bed.

William turned. “Yes. Would you like to come along?”

“You know I would!” The boy’s face lit up. “I’m sure we’ll find a grand tree. And it will be much better than any we had in London.”

William’s hands fell to his sides. Their Christmas celebrations had been subdued the last two years since his wife’s death. For the children’s sake he must do better this year, and he would. “Do you think we should put the tree in the drawing room or the great hall?”

“The great hall,” Andrew called, rising to his knees. “Then it can be very tall, and we’ll see it every morning when we come down for Scripture reading and prayer.”

“Oh yes, Papa, the great hall,” Millie added.

The doctor patted Andrew on the shoulder. “There now, settle down, my boy. You don’t want to strain your voice.”

Andrew huffed and flopped back on the bed. “I’m feeling much better. I’m not sick anymore, not at all.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” The doctor slipped his stethoscope around his neck.

“When may I get up?” Andrew plucked at his covers. “I’m very tired of staying in bed.”

“Soon.” The doctor turned and addressed Miss Foster. “After twenty-four hours with no fever, he may get up for a short time. But he must take it slowly and not overtire himself.”

Miss Foster nodded. “Very good, doctor. I’ll see to it.”

“And now let me see how this young lady is doing.” He smiled at Millie as he approached.

William stepped back and motioned Miss Foster to join him by the door. He pulled his watch from his vest pocket and checked the time. “I need to go down. The art dealer from London is here, and he should be done with his appraisals soon.”

He glanced at the children. “I’d like to hear the doctor’s report about Millie.”

“I’ll come and find you after he’s finished.”

William nodded. “Thank you. I’d appreciate it.”

“Of course, sir.” A sweet smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “I’m glad to do whatever I can to ease your concern.” She had obviously put their disagreement at her parents’ cottage behind her and was ready to renew their friendship.

He returned her smile, knowing he should go, but he hesitated. Their gazes met and held, and a powerful sense of connection passed between them.

Just as quickly, a warning sped through his mind. He must not let his emotions overrule his good sense. He was grateful for Miss Foster’s kindness and care toward the children. That was all. It couldn’t be anything more. Emotions and feelings were not reliable, and he would not let them take the lead.

William drummed his fingers on his desk as he watched raindrops drizzle down the windowpane. He stretched and groaned. What he needed was a good hike across the fields, but rainy weather and concern for the children had kept him indoors for almost a week.

Lawrence stepped into the library. “Excuse me, sir. Mr. Henshaw has finished. Would you like me to show him in?”

William stood. The man might want to ask him about some of the paintings. “No. I’ll come out.”

Lawrence nodded. “Very good, sir. He wants to take the five o’clock train back to London. Shall I order the carriage?”

“Yes, have Gates bring it round and take him to the station when we’ve finished.” William strode out of the library and met the art dealer in the great hall. “Mr. Henshaw, thank you for coming. I hope you were able to collect all the information you need for the appraisals.”

Mr. Henshaw nodded. “Yes sir. Your man, Lawrence, has been most helpful.” He glanced around the great hall. “You have a beautiful home and some very fine paintings.”

“Thank you. I’m anxious to hear your estimation of their value.”

Mr. Henshaw lifted dark eyebrows, surprise reflected in his eyes. “I
want to give you an accurate appraisal, and that means I must do my research for comparable pieces and recent sales. I’m afraid it will take me a few weeks to find that information and write up my report.”

“A few weeks?” Now it was William’s turn to be surprised.

“Yes, and with the Christmas holiday coming, I don’t believe I will be able to send it to you until well after New Year’s.”

William’s shoulders tensed. “Mr. Henshaw, let me be frank. I am facing a deadline on the first of March to pay the death duties that were incurred when I inherited Highland. I need to know if the sale of these paintings is going to bring in sufficient funds.”

“I see.” Mr. Henshaw stroked his beard. “I’ll do all I can to hurry the process along, but it takes time to make accurate appraisals. Then we must make arrangements to bring representative pieces to our gallery in London and put those on display. We also have to add your paintings to our catalog and be sure the information is published and distributed to prospective buyers. It’s not a quick and easy process, not at all.”

“I understand it won’t happen tomorrow or next week, but with that deadline approaching, I need to know when I might expect to receive the proceeds of the sales.”

“Well, it’s hard to say. Most people who are redecorating or moving to new residences in London will do so in late winter or early spring so they can be ready to entertain guests during the season. But there are some”—he wrinkled his nose slightly—“Americans, for instance, who purchase artwork year round.”

William lifted his brows. “Americans?”

“Yes sir, Americans and the
nouveau riche
—those who’ve made their money from industry, newspapers, or transportation rather than receiving it as an inheritance. They are the most likely buyers for these types of paintings.”

William grimaced. “Yes, I suppose they have the money.”

“Yes sir. And they like to line their walls with classic paintings by prominent artists to give the impression they have lived in their home for generations. But if you ask me, they fool no one but themselves.”

“So you think our paintings might be purchased by someone like that?”

“Perhaps. But the process could also take months. There’s really no way of knowing.” He shifted slightly away from William. “I’m sorry. But I can’t guarantee you will have the funds by the first of March.”

“I see. So there’s no way to know the amount we will receive or when we will receive it?”

“I can give you the appraisals soon after New Year’s, but then we have to wait and see what sells.”

“I don’t suppose you would be interested in purchasing the paintings outright?”

“Oh, no sir. That’s not how it’s done. We act as your agent and representative, taking a commission only from the pieces that are sold.”

William narrowed his eyes. “And just how much is your commission?”

Mr. Henshaw hesitated, his face coloring slightly. “Our commission is twenty-five percent for pieces up to fifty thousand pounds.”

A shockwave jolted William. “Twenty-five percent?”

“Of course, the percentage decreases for those that sell for more than that.”

He glared at Henshaw. “A quarter of the value goes to you simply for connecting me with a buyer?”

Mr. Henshaw straightened. “We do much more than that, sir. As I said, we represent you and make sure you receive the highest price possible from each sale.”

“Minus your commission.”

Mr. Henshaw cleared his throat and lowered his gaze. “Yes sir. Minus our commission.”

William blew out a deep breath. What did he expect? The man knew the market and had a decent reputation. William swallowed his irritation and nodded to Mr. Henshaw. “Very well. I understand. I’ll look forward to receiving the appraisals and finalizing our agreement after the New Year’s holiday.”

“Thank you, sir.” Mr. Henshaw smiled. “I promise we’ll do our very best for you.”

“I hope so, Mr. Henshaw.”

The art dealer placed his hat on his head and reached out to shake William’s hand. “A pleasure doing business with you, sir. A pleasure, indeed.”

Sir William’s voice rose from the great hall as Julia crossed the open gallery. Even though his words were polite, she could hear the tension in his voice. She frowned and glanced over the railing.

He stood below, conversing with a gentleman she assumed was the art dealer. As she descended the main staircase, he bid the man good day and Mr. Lawrence ushered him out the front door.

William looked up and met her gaze, his expression sober. “Miss Foster.”

“You asked me to bring you the doctor’s report about Millie.”

“Yes.” He motioned her to continue.

“Her fever has broken, and the rash is fading. He is pleased with her progress and says she is over the worst of her illness. He’ll come again tomorrow afternoon to check on her.”

“Very good.” But the news did not bring him the relief she had expected.

“Is everything all right, sir?”

He glanced toward the door, his frown deepening. “No, I’m afraid it is not.” He motioned toward the library. “There’s something I want to discuss with you.”

“Of course, sir.” She followed him across the hall and into the library. She waited for him to offer her a chair, but he did not.

Instead, he paced to the fireplace, his back to her. “The art dealer has informed me it may take several months to see any income from the sale of the paintings.” He turned and noticed she was still standing. “Please, be seated.”

She took a chair and clasped her hands in her lap. “I’m sorry. I know you had hoped that would provide the funds you need.”

“Yes. But stripping the house of these family treasures is becoming less
appealing the more I consider it, especially knowing the hefty commission he wants to charge.”

“How much is his commission?”

“Twenty-five percent.” He released a disgusted huff.

Julia had no way of knowing if that was a fair commission or not, but Sir William certainly didn’t seem to think so. “Is there some way you might sell the paintings without his help?”

He glared into the fireplace. “I doubt it. They’ve probably got a lock on the system.” Clasping his hands behind his back, he crossed the room and stared out the windows toward the gray sky. “I must find some other way to raise those funds.”

“I had hoped our efforts to economize would help.”

His tense posture eased as he turned toward her again. “Your efforts are saving us a great deal of money, and I’m grateful. More important, they’ve allowed my sister to gain confidence and experience in running the house.” Suddenly, his expression darkened again. “Although that has not led her in the direction I had hoped.”