A Connoisseur of Beauty Read Free

through the kindness of James Wilson that her father had eked a living for a few years tending the garden in the grounds the family had once owned.
    “Well, I don’t need to tell you what a wonderful place this is.” He was leading her into the vast kitchen in the medieval old hall and she saw he had been reading a selection of newspapers at one end of the scrubbed oak table and drinking wine. “I was seduced by it the first time I saw it.”
    Th e subtext to this, Amy thought shrewdly was: “I saw it, I wanted it, now it’s mine.” He had the manner of a man who took it for granted that he could take what he wanted as a right. 
    “Would you like some wine? I know it looks like I’m camping here for the moment, but I only came down to collect the keys yesterday and to take a look at my new purchase. It was an impulse to stay on for a few days, so I am having some of my things sent down today and will arrange for staff in due course.” He was pouring her some wine, and Amy was stuck by the fact that he was being friendly in only the most stilted way, almost as if nervous himself.
    He passed the wine to her, looking her straight in the eyes and smiling. Something in her turned to water. Despite the strong good looks and formal manner there was a wistfulness in those intense grey eyes that took her by surprise. But she had resolved to be on her dignity, so she smiled only lightly in return and did not allow him to maintain eye contact.
    “Well, bring your drink and we’ll look at some of the pictures,” he turned abruptly, businesslike again. He led her down the familiar corridors. She had not been inside the house since James Wilson’s death the year before, but despite a slightly desolate air and a pervading musty smell, nothing had changed. As if reading her mind Hunter said, “I’m not going to change anything. I have no plans to strip it out and fill it with modern trimmings, just to preserve and enhance what is here. I’m really not a crass, uncultured nouveau riche, although I suppose I have just bought a slice of Olde England and I can understand that you must feel that I am trampling over your memories.” His eyes twinkled at her momentarily as he repeated her words back to her and Amy felt herself flush deeply.
    “It was inexcusable of me to say that, even if you did omit to point out the obvious and tell me that you were the new owner of Wolfston Hall.”
    “I’m sorry, but I felt some sensibility about blurting it out when confronted with the visual proof of your affinity with the place. As you said, as long as you can paint it, it’s still yours.”
    Amy reached new depths of embarrassment at these words. “Well, it’s not mine, it’s yours,” she said, rather abruptly.
    Hunter turned to look at her as they entered the Great Hall, “But would it surprise you to know that I respect that right to a sense of ownership. Any real object of beauty; a painting, a sculpture, a building, belongs not just to the person who pays the price and puts it on display as his possession, but also to all those who can look and truly appreciate that beauty. Not that I don’t enjoy being the proprietor of such a place. Most of my life has been given over to the acquisition of beautiful artefacts. Some I keep for my enjoyment, some I let go.”
    Amy was listening to him intently. She was recalling an article she had read about him about eighteen months before. Connoisseur of Beauty, it had been entitled, and it charted the opening of his galleries, and acknowledged his exquisite taste and expertise in the world of art. She also recalled his life as portrayed in the gossip columns. He also liked to acquire beautiful women. Some he kept for his enjoyment, some he let go. She remained wary of him, following him into the room. Almost involuntarily she let out a small gasp. Hunter smiled,
    “I was interested in your reaction. Do you approve of the change?”
    Above the fireplace was her own painting that he had