FIVE
SOPHIE QUIETLY TIPTOED DOWN THE hall to see if the grand staircase was clear. Mr. Taylor was touching the railing with a white glove, checking for any speck of dirt or dust; Mariah was already out with Aunt Bentley, making it inadvisable for Sophie to be seen by him or any of the other servants. She dashed down the hall to the servants’ staircase and saw Adell at the bottom, washing the steps, one at a time. There was no way to get past her without being seen.
“Botheration!” she growled under her breath.
She heard Mr. Taylor’s firm steps—he was nearly to the top of the grand staircase and he would see her before she could reach her room. There was nowhere else to go but up. She climbed the staircase by twos, past the servants’ attic apartments, and to the roof. She unlocked the door and stepped out into the sunlight and fresh air. She still felt trapped, but at least she was no longer in that stuffy bedroom.
For a short while, Sophie amused herself by watching the people on the street down below go about their business. How she longed to go about her own business and find a position so that she could support herself and Mariah. Aunt Bentley had only promised them one season, and it would be over before they knew it. And that was if she didn’t discover their deception first and cast them out of the house.
Then Sophie saw something out of the corner of her eye: The door on the roof adjacent to hers was open. It was like a miracle; a way out of her fix. She could escape without any of her aunt’s servants seeing her. The only barrier was a two-foot brick wall that separated the two houses, but as she stepped over it, she began to have doubts. What if she were caught and arrested for trespassing? Or as a burglar? Who knew what or whom she would find in a strange house?
Unsure, she sat on the brick barricade between the two houses. Her shadow cast a long silhouette on the roof—if she didn’t leave soon the day would be wasted and any opportunity to find work would be lost. She stood up and tiptoed to the door and listened. When she couldn’t hear anything, she quietly stepped inside.
Climbing down the stairs, Sophie saw that the entire level was one large room with several easels and paint cans. A large canvas, nearly as tall as her and four times as wide, stood in the center of the room. It depicted a knoll covered in long, wet grass, and a castle in the distance. But the center was surprisingly blank, as if something was yet to be painted.
She took a step back from the canvas and bumped into a table—a paint can clattered to the floor. She heard an angry voice using words that would have made even Mr. Ellis blush. The open door had not been a miracle, but a mistake.
Of all the pigeon-headed things to do!
Quickly she picked up the paint can and put it back on the table, then ran toward the staircase. But her exit was blocked by a bald, portly, middle-aged man wearing a smock covered with paint splatters.
“What in the name of all that is holy are you doing in my house?” he bellowed in a slight Scottish lilt.
“F-f-forgive me, sir,” Sophie said. “I was attempting to leave my aunt’s house without detection, and I noticed that your roof door was ajar—”
“And that’s how you knocked over my paint can?” he said loudly. “I’m calling the Watch.”
“Truly, I wasn’t trying to steal from you!” Sophie protested. “I was merely borrowing your roof to exit. Surely that isn’t a crime.”
“It’s breaking and entering.”
“I didn’t break anything, and I was exiting.”
He picked up a long wooden paintbrush and brandished it at her like a sword. “Lassie, don’t think you can escape that easily!”
“Calm yourself, Sir Thomas,” a lady’s voice said. A woman of middling years came up the stairs behind him. She was neither young nor slender, but undeniably pretty, with large brown eyes, a small nose, and a generous mouth. She wore an apron over her dress and her brown curls escaped from her lacy cap.
The woman smiled warmly at Sophie and gently took the paintbrush-turned-weapon out of Sir Thomas’s hand. “Let’s start again, shall we?” she said. “I am Mrs. Spooner, and may I introduce you to Sir Thomas Watergate, the renowned artist.”
Sophie executed a stiff bow. “I am Miss Sophie Carter … I’m Lady Bentley’s niece come to stay.”
“Aye,” Sir Thomas said, rubbing his chin. “You’re the one she’s trying to leg-shackle to any man under sixty with enough money to afford a chit of a wife with no expectations.”
“And how would you know that?” Sophie asked between clenched teeth.
“She paid me a call, seeing if I was interested in meeting you, lass,” Sir Thomas said, “and I’m right grateful I had the good sense to decline.”
“Not as grateful as I am.”
“Now, now, let’s not be uncivil,” Mrs. Spooner said with a barely suppressed smile. “Miss Carter, would you care for some tea?”
Sophie’s stomach grumbled loudly before she could answer.
“I’ll take that as a yes, dear girl,” Mrs. Spooner said. She took Sophie’s arm and led her down the stairs to a blue parlor, where she rang the bell and instructed a servant to bring tea immediately.
“Please sit, Miss Carter,” she said, graciously pointing to the chair beside her.
Sophie sat down and thanked her.
“Don’t be disturbed by Sir Thomas’s outbursts,” she said. “Geniuses rarely have even temperaments.”
A servant set down a silver tray on the table, and Mrs. Spooner poured tea into delicate white cups and matching saucers with pink and blue flowers.
“Is he really a famous painter?” Sophie asked.
Mrs. Spooner nodded. “His paintings are displayed in all the most famous galleries. And people pay him outrageous sums to paint their portraits.”
“The detail is so fine and precise on the grassy knoll,” Sophie said. “One can almost imagine oneself in the painting, walking through the wet grass.”
Mrs. Spooner set down her teacup with such haste that it spilled. “That’s it. Why did it not strike me before? Just the thing!”
And with that incomprehensible speech, she stood up and nearly ran out of the room, calling loudly for Sir Thomas.
Everyone in this house is stark raving mad.
Mrs. Spooner reentered the room with her lacy cap completely askew, dragging Sir Thomas by the arm.
“Look at her face, her hair, her form. She’s perfect for Joan of Arc,” Mrs. Spooner insisted.
Sophie colored under their mutual scrutiny.
“By George, you’re right, Prudie!” Sir Thomas said, squeezing her tightly and giving her a great smack of a kiss on the lips.
“Lady Bentley’s niece—” Sir Thomas began.
“My name is Sophie Carter.”
“Miss Carter, I’ve decided not to call the Watch, on the condition that you will pose for my painting as its model.”
“I’m afraid that I don’t have the time,” Sophie said matter-of-factly. “I’m currently looking for employment.”
“I’ll pay you a salary,” Sir Thomas said. “Better money than you’ll make at any shop in London for doing nothing at all.”
“What are you proposing to pay me?”