business."
"Ah. Do you mean, then, to continue with his gallery after he retires?"
, She squirmed. “Yes. I believe I have created a reputation sufficient to keep our present clients in our fold."
"But is it not difficult for a female to handle such a— well, what sounds like an extensive business? No,” Edward added hastily, “I cast no aspersions on your ability. I just mean that, um, people do not do business—valuable paintings and other art work—with a, er . . ."
"With a female.” Helen readied herself to deliver a stinging confutation, but at the expression of chagrin on Mr. Beresford's face, Helen was forced to smile. “I know what you mean, sir, and that has been, of course, a problem for me. Fortunately, my father has given me the utmost support. He not only introduced me to his clients long ago but made sure they were made aware of my growing expertise. With their knowledge, he often let me handle transactions from start to finish, including both the financial and the artistic aspects. At the risk of appearing odiously conceited, I think I may say that my father's clients now look upon me with the same respect they grant my father."
"I have not the slightest doubt that this is the case.” Mr. Beresford's smile was warm. “Still, it must have been difficult for you. When did you find time for the usual frivolities of just being a young woman?"
Helen laughed. “I'm afraid I was never a very frivolous young woman. I left that to Trix. She was frivolous enough for both of us. Not that she was a hoyden,” she added swiftly, “or anything of that sort."
"I'm sure she wasn't,” replied Mr. Beresford gravely.
A silence fell then, surprisingly comfortable, until Helen roused herself to ask, “And what of you, Mr. Beresford? What sort of a young man were you? Definitely not the frivolous sort, according to Chris."
At the mention of Chris's name, Helen noted a marked change in Mr. Beresford's expression. Was that hostility she saw in his eyes? Without doubt, a certain coldness.
"I have never thought of myself as being a sober youth. Indeed, though not what one could call hey-go-mad, I had my carefree moments."
"Which is a very good thing,” inserted Helen promptly. Chris had referred to his cousin as a “boring little stick.” Moreover, Helen had received the impression that Chris often teased him for his probity. Knowing Chris, she surmised that he was probably less than kind in his epithets. “Did you grow up here at the Abbey?” she asked.
"Oh, no. My father was the vicar of a parish some thirty miles distant. It was a good living, with a comfortable vicarage surrounded by fruitful gardens."
"Was the vicar? He is no longer living?"
"No, he passed away just last year. My mother preceded him in death by some fifteen years, so the last part of his life was somewhat lonely—even though he had friends and many hobbies to interest him."
Good Lord, thought Edward, I'm prattling like a country miss at her first town party.
"You must have been a great comfort to him, as well. Were you still living in the vicarage?"
Edward pursed his mouth. He was a private person, for God's sake, and he did not intend to reveal any more of himself to this lovely stranger, whose interest, if he was not mistaken, was not altogether casual. It was more likely she was an adherent of the philosophy “know thine enemy.” Though he wished she would not continue to view him in that light.
"Oh, no. My uncle—Chris's father—deeded a property to me some years ago. Briarwood lies near Amesbury, some twenty-five miles distant, and has been my residence for more than fifteen years."
"And you were happy there?"
"Oh yes.” Edward's mind flashed to long ranks of mullioned windows glinting in the sun. “Very happy. I miss it."
"Still—” Miss Prestwick's voice took on an unbecoming sharpness. “You must have been more than happy to leave it to take up residence at Whitehouse Abbey."
At this, Edward could contain
"Ah. Do you mean, then, to continue with his gallery after he retires?"
, She squirmed. “Yes. I believe I have created a reputation sufficient to keep our present clients in our fold."
"But is it not difficult for a female to handle such a— well, what sounds like an extensive business? No,” Edward added hastily, “I cast no aspersions on your ability. I just mean that, um, people do not do business—valuable paintings and other art work—with a, er . . ."
"With a female.” Helen readied herself to deliver a stinging confutation, but at the expression of chagrin on Mr. Beresford's face, Helen was forced to smile. “I know what you mean, sir, and that has been, of course, a problem for me. Fortunately, my father has given me the utmost support. He not only introduced me to his clients long ago but made sure they were made aware of my growing expertise. With their knowledge, he often let me handle transactions from start to finish, including both the financial and the artistic aspects. At the risk of appearing odiously conceited, I think I may say that my father's clients now look upon me with the same respect they grant my father."
"I have not the slightest doubt that this is the case.” Mr. Beresford's smile was warm. “Still, it must have been difficult for you. When did you find time for the usual frivolities of just being a young woman?"
Helen laughed. “I'm afraid I was never a very frivolous young woman. I left that to Trix. She was frivolous enough for both of us. Not that she was a hoyden,” she added swiftly, “or anything of that sort."
"I'm sure she wasn't,” replied Mr. Beresford gravely.
A silence fell then, surprisingly comfortable, until Helen roused herself to ask, “And what of you, Mr. Beresford? What sort of a young man were you? Definitely not the frivolous sort, according to Chris."
At the mention of Chris's name, Helen noted a marked change in Mr. Beresford's expression. Was that hostility she saw in his eyes? Without doubt, a certain coldness.
"I have never thought of myself as being a sober youth. Indeed, though not what one could call hey-go-mad, I had my carefree moments."
"Which is a very good thing,” inserted Helen promptly. Chris had referred to his cousin as a “boring little stick.” Moreover, Helen had received the impression that Chris often teased him for his probity. Knowing Chris, she surmised that he was probably less than kind in his epithets. “Did you grow up here at the Abbey?” she asked.
"Oh, no. My father was the vicar of a parish some thirty miles distant. It was a good living, with a comfortable vicarage surrounded by fruitful gardens."
"Was the vicar? He is no longer living?"
"No, he passed away just last year. My mother preceded him in death by some fifteen years, so the last part of his life was somewhat lonely—even though he had friends and many hobbies to interest him."
Good Lord, thought Edward, I'm prattling like a country miss at her first town party.
"You must have been a great comfort to him, as well. Were you still living in the vicarage?"
Edward pursed his mouth. He was a private person, for God's sake, and he did not intend to reveal any more of himself to this lovely stranger, whose interest, if he was not mistaken, was not altogether casual. It was more likely she was an adherent of the philosophy “know thine enemy.” Though he wished she would not continue to view him in that light.
"Oh, no. My uncle—Chris's father—deeded a property to me some years ago. Briarwood lies near Amesbury, some twenty-five miles distant, and has been my residence for more than fifteen years."
"And you were happy there?"
"Oh yes.” Edward's mind flashed to long ranks of mullioned windows glinting in the sun. “Very happy. I miss it."
"Still—” Miss Prestwick's voice took on an unbecoming sharpness. “You must have been more than happy to leave it to take up residence at Whitehouse Abbey."
At this, Edward could contain
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