Free A Connoisseur of Beauty by Daphne Coleridge

painting from a still life or even a model. I saw some of the work James had been doing when I was up there and it looked terrific.”
    “James is an old friend?” asked Hunter, who seemed to be studying the piece of bread he was buttering with unnecessary attention.
    “I was studying art in London before my father became ill,” said Amy. “There was a whole bunch of students and artists I mixed with. James and a couple of others were a bit older – he's about thirty – and already beginning to establish themselves. It's not that I was particularly good friends with him, just that he happened to be looking for someone to share his studio at the same moment I was looking to go to London.” Some part of Amy wanted to say that she might never have felt the need to leave Montford in quite so much of a hurry if she hadn't thought that Hunter was about to get married. In fact, if she had known he was about to return to Wolfston Hall as a free agent she might have reconsidered moving altogether. But perhaps it was better that she did start building her own life. It was all quite confusing, so she said no more but buttered her own slice of bread with as much care as Hunter had. It was Marilyn who broke the silence.
    “I must say I wis h I was young and talented and about to go up to London to be an artist,” said Marilyn wistfully.
    “Do you paint?” asked Amy, recovering herself a bit.
    “A few rather tame watercolours, but nothing with the spirit and style I saw in your paintings of this place. I'm like my grandson here; more of a connoisseur than an artist myself. I hope you do really well.”
    “From what I've he ard from my friends it can be hard to get noticed,” said Amy, absent-mindedly watching Hunter, who was clearing away their plates and carrying the casserole dish over to the table.
    “Well, I happen to know a very successful and influential gallery owner and collector,” said Marilyn.
    Amy suddenly realised that Marilyn was referring to Hunter and blushed deeply. She hadn't meant to come over as dropping a hint. She had actually forgotten all about Hunter's impressive credentials in the art world at that moment in time. “I think that particular art collector may be out of my league,” said Amy.
    “That's funny, because I thought you might be out of my league,” retorted Hunter. Amy's blush deepened by a further couple of shades. She couldn't tell if he was teasing or not.
    “Well I think my casserole smells delicious,” said Marilyn, and the tension was broken. After that the conversation seemed to be light and pleasant and Amy was able to relax again. The evening ended on a friendly note with Amy promising to be round the following day to work on the portrait, although she was beginning to have to make preparations for her move too. As they wished her goodnight at the door Amy stooped to allow a polite exchange of kisses to the cheeks with Marilyn. Hunter, in turn, took her shoulders and delivered a quick kiss to Amy's lips. With his grandmother by his side it was perhaps understandable that this wasn't a lingering kiss, but Amy was convinced she could still feel the warmth from the contact when she arrived back home.
    Amy had fallen asleep the evening of the dinner at Wolfston Hall with something of a glow about her. But when she woke the next morning the harsh reality hit her. Hunter had indicated that he was only over in England for a couple of days and was not planning to return until the end of the month – by which time Amy would be gone. There was every possibility that she might not see him again. But there was at least a chance that she would bump into him whilst she was at Wolfston Hall that day. In hopeful anticipation of such an encounter Amy found herself taking particular care to pick out some nicely fitting jeans and one of her favourite tops – items she might not usually have risked knowing that they might acquire the occasional smudge of oil paint. She was disappointed,