Restless Nights. CATHERINE GEORGE
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for spotting ‘sleepers’, the valuable art finds which occasionally slipped through auction houses unnoticed or miscatalogued.
Gabriel’s jealousy of Harry Brett’s affection for Adam Dysart had been at its height during the school holidays she’d spent with her father after her parents’ divorce, when he had talked too much, as far as she was concerned, about the boy he’d seen far more often than his daughter.
Removed to London by her mother at the age of thirteen, Gabriel had missed her father badly. Her main consolation had been the discovery that she’d inherited his particular gifts and the same, tunnel-visioned love of his craft, and now, with a Fine Arts degree under her belt, and several years spent in earning a name for herself as a skilled restorer, she was almost as good as Harry Brett. But one look at Adam Dysart had rocketed her back to her teens, reviving the resentment she’d thought dead and buried long ago. And, to cap it all, she was now beholden to him for putting up the money for the roof. Even if her father had repaid the loan.
When Gabriel got back to the house the phone was ringing.
‘Only me,’ said her mother. ‘You sound disappointed, darling.’
‘Relieved, not disappointed. I was expecting one of Dad’s customers.’
‘How is Harry?’
‘Improving. If he behaves he’ll be home next week.’
‘That’s good news. Are you intending to stay on to look after him?’
‘Yes. He’ll have to take it easy for a while, so I mean to be on hand to see that he does.’
‘But I thought Miss Prince still came in to clean and leave the odd meal.’
‘She does, thank goodness. But he needs me to help with the business. At least for a while.’
‘Can’t his assistants do that?’
‘They’re good lads, and they work hard, but they’re still learning. Dad needs someone like me. And I can make sure he behaves himself at the same time.’
Another pause. ‘Look, Gabriel,’ said her mother carefully, ‘if Harry needs professional care for a while, I could quite easily pay for it.’
‘You know Dad wouldn’t stand for that. Don’t worry, Mother. I can cope.’
‘But what about your job?’
‘I had some time owing to me. But in any case I’ve decided to resign, maybe go into business for myself. I’ve got plenty of contacts.’ She sighed. ‘To be honest, since Jake took Trent Restorations over from his father things have been—well, tricky.’
‘You mean he chases you round your workbench?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Men!’ said Laura Brett succinctly. ‘But how will you manage financially? I suppose you’ll be working for love for your father.’
‘Not a bit of it. Dad’s paying me the going rate.’
‘Is he now? Good for Harry. Tell him—tell him I’m glad he’s on the mend.’
Gabriel chatted with her mother for a while longer, and afterwards decided to wait for Adam Dysart’s call before thinking about food. Supper would taste better after she’d eaten the required humble pie. She sat at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, feeling oppressed by the silence, and wished, not for the first time, that the house her father had inherited from his aunt was less isolated. Part of a working farm in the past, the building was old, and full of beams that creaked ominously as day temperatures gave way to night. Gabriel felt very much alone in a rambling, half-empty house never intended for one single occupant.
A knock on the kitchen door brought her to her feet, startled. Used to her London flat, with an intercom to vet callers, Gabriel wasn’t at all keen to open the door. This was silly, she told herself. It wasn’t even dark yet. The knock came again.
‘Miss Brett—Gabriel,’ called a familiar voice. ‘It’s Adam Dysart.’
Knowing it was useless to pretend she was out when every light in the house was blazing Gabriel went to the door, unlocked it, and faced Adam Dysart for the second time that day. Tall, brimming with self-confidence, and looking a lot more respectable in a dazzling white T-shirt and khakis, he stared at her in stunned silence.
‘Hi,’ he said eventually. ‘I was passing this way, so I thought I’d ask after your father in person instead of ringing.’
Just passing. Even though Haywards Farm was miles from anywhere down a lane full of potholes. ‘You’d better come in,’ she said, secretly glad of any company, even Adam Dysart’s. She waved him towards the round oak table. ‘Won’t you sit down?’
Adam shook his head. ‘I won’t keep you. I was just anxious to know how things are with your father.’
‘He’s a lot better. If all goes well he should be home next week.’
‘Thank God for that!’ said Adam, with such obvious sincerity Gabriel thawed slightly and, mindful of humble pie, remembered to smile.
‘Can I offer you a drink?’
His answering smile lit up his face. ‘In the circumstances a celebratory glass of beer would be good.’
Gabriel waved Adam to a chair, took a can from the fridge, and poured him a glass of beer.
He thanked her, and raised his glass in toast. ‘To Harry’s swift recovery.’
‘Amen to that,’ she said, then looked him in the eye. ‘Mr Dysart—’
‘Adam!’
She steeled herself. ‘I must apologise for my—my attitude this afternoon. If you’ll bring your painting back tomorrow I’ll see what I can do. If, of course, you trust me to do a satisfactory job on it.’
Adam looked at her in silence for a moment, a wry twist to his mouth. ‘This is unexpected. Earlier on you just about ran me off the property.’
‘That was this afternoon,’ she snapped, then reined herself in. Humble pie, humble pie, she chanted silently, and gave him a conciliatory smile. ‘Of course if you prefer to take your work elsewhere I quite understand.’
He shook his head emphatically. ‘No way. Harry says you’re even better than he is, which is good enough for me.’ His lips twitched. ‘This change of heart is his idea, I take it?’
‘Yes. He got very agitated because I’d refused you. So please bring your picture back, Mr Dysart—’
‘Adam.’
‘Right. Is your painting likely to be valuable?’
He shrugged. ‘My gut feeling says it is. Though I bought it for a song at auction in London this morning.’ He leaned forward, his eyes bright with enthusiasm. ‘I’m positive that under the layers of dirt and overpaint there’s something interesting. So far the only thing visible is a head and shoulders of a girl. But something about it says 1820s to me.’
‘Any ideas about the artist?’ said Gabriel, her interest caught.
‘Dirty though my lady is, what I can see of the skin tone suggests William Etty possibly—’
‘The man known for nudes,’ she said quickly, winning a look of respect from Adam.
He drained his glass and sat back in his chair, looking very much at home. As he was, Gabriel reminded herself. Drinking beer with her father at this table was probably a more regular occurrence for Adam Dysart than it was for Harry Brett’s daughter.
‘It’s hard to explain,’ he told her, ‘but I get a certain tingle at the back of my neck when I spot a possible sleeper.’
‘The unidentified goodies that slip past the auctioneers.’
‘Exactly.’