A Connoisseur of Beauty by Daphne Coleridge Page B

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.
    “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