Her heart was pounding, her fingers were tingling, but she managed, somehow, to say in a normal voice, “I thought you might enjoy it.” To Matron: “Mr. Ravenel is a dealer in art and antiquities.”
“So I hear.” Did Matron actually dimple? No, that was too much. But she was looking at Mr. Ravenel with what passed for her as unqualified approval. “I have a reproduction of one of the elder Mr. Ravenel’s paintings. I had the privilege of seeing the original in the Museum of Art in Philadelphia.”
Lucy looked quizzically up at John. She’d had no idea that his father was quite so famous. “We had to let some of the paintings go,” he said to her, as if in answer to a question. “I’ve tried, when possible, to sell to institutions rather than private individuals. My father felt strongly about art being available to everyone, not just the few.”
“But one must make a living?” said Matron.
Lucy wasn’t sure what magic John had wrought, but they appeared to be on excellent terms. Or maybe, she thought giddily, that was just John. He had a way of setting people at ease, making them comfortable in their own skins.
And he had come here. For her. He placed one hand unobtrusively beneath Lucy’s elbow, just a small gesture, not the sort of touch to which Matron could possibly object, but Lucy could feel warmth rushing through her, warmth and the certainty that all would be well, was well.
“This house,” Matron was saying, “is very much a testament to that. The carvings are in themselves works of art. It does seem rather . . . out of proportion that all this was intended, at one time, merely for the private use of one family.”
“I understand the Pratt family used to live here?” John said, so casually that Lucy wouldn’t have known there was anything more to it but for the tightening of his fingers on her elbow.
In the midst of her haze of happiness, she felt a moment’s doubt. But no. Just because he was pursuing his own interests didn’t mean his feelings for her weren’t just as real. She hadn’t imagined the way he looked at her, the touch of his fingers on her elbow, the subtle possessiveness in the way he stood, his body shielding hers, claiming her.
“Their loss is our gain,” Matron said practically. “Such houses have become unwieldy as private homes, but they serve very well for communal living. We were forced to make some changes, of course, but we have done our best to retain the unique character of the house.”
“I was admiring the mural in the hall,” said John. “Saint George?”
“A red-cross knight forever kneeled / To a lady on his shield,” quoted Matron, unexpectedly and fancifully. Apologetically, she said, “Yes, I believe it is Saint George. But if you want to see the real treasure of Stornaway House . . .”
There was a hullaballoo by the billiards table.
Matron broke off with a tsk of annoyance. “If I have told Miss Brennan once, I have told her a dozen times. If her young man provokes one more altercation . . . Forgive me, Mr. Ravenel. I’m afraid I can’t offer you that tour just now. If you would care to return again during visiting hours next weekend . . .”
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” John assured her. “But I’m afraid I leave for Charleston on Tuesday.”
“You have enjoyed your stay in New York?” Matron was frowning over John’s shoulder, at the crowd by the billiards table.
“Far more than I ever imagined.” The words were for Matron, but John looked at Lucy as he said them. “This visit has been . . . a revelation.”
Lucy nodded mutely, not trusting herself to speak. Who knew it was possible to feel this strongly, on such scant acquaintance? She felt as though nerves she had never known she possessed had been awakened; every look, every word, awakened a delightful agony of anticipation.
“Since you are leaving so soon . . .” Beneath the thick spectacles, Matron’s blue eyes twinkled. “It is a slight breach of the rules, but for a gentleman involved in the arts . . . Miss Young, would you be so kind as to take Mr. Ravenel up to the seventh floor?”
“There’s a seventh floor?” Lucy’s voice came out rather more breathless than she would have liked. “That is, I always assumed the attic rooms were at the very top.”
Matron looked pleased. “They are usually, but not in Stornaway House. The seventh floor is a well-kept secret.”
“A secret?” Lucy felt John’s attention being diverted from her. “That sounds intriguing.”
“It’s nothing so exciting as that, just a rather unusual little room . . . Miss Brennan! If you’ll pardon me, Mr. Ravenel, I really must have a word with Miss Brennan’s young man.” Her voice brisk, Matron said, “The main staircase doesn’t reach all the way up, but you’ll find the service stairs at the end of the fifth-floor corridor. Be sure to shut the door again when you’re done.”