A Connoisseur of Beauty by Daphne Coleridge Page A

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