“Morning, Mrs. H.”
Lady Cynthia’s drawling voice preceded her into the kitchen. She took a seat at the table and reached for a carrot from the bunch Tess chopped. Tess gave her a grin, more comfortable now with Cynthia’s impromptu visits.
Cynthia wore trousers, waistcoat, and frock coat, with a cravat loosely tied about her neck. She’d told me once that in dressing in men’s clothing, she merely emulated a famous lady novelist from France called George Sand, but as I’d never heard of the woman, the reference meant little to me. Lady Cynthia and I had become friends, growing ever closer—she had been of valuable assistance as I’d looked into problems in the past year, some of which had proved quite perilous.
“Favor to ask,” Cynthia said after I returned her greeting. “My friend, Miss Townsend. You met her last night.”
I recalled the beautiful young woman who had slipped in next to Cynthia and taken her arm. “The lady who praised my lobster rissoles?”
Cynthia chuckled. “I thought you’d remember her liking your food. She’s the one who craves a boon. She’s an artist, and a dashed clever one. She wants to paint you, Mrs. H.”
3
Paint?” I ceased sorting the mushrooms I’d use in omelets for the upstairs and gazed at Cynthia in dismay. “Me? Are you certain?”
“I am indeed. She wanted to meet you, which is why I persuaded Auntie to summon you above stairs last evening. I beg your pardon—I know you prefer to rusticate here, but I couldn’t traipse down with Miss Townsend in all our finery without some explanation to my aunt. Besides, I knew you were running about ragged. Didn’t wish to intrude.”
I returned to the mushrooms. “You could have brought her down a quieter day. This morning, for instance.”
Cynthia’s face crinkled in amusement. “I enjoy when you admonish me, Mrs. H. So polite you are, but you make your feelings known. I have my reasons. I wanted to show Auntie that Miss Townsend is a quiet-spoken, respectable young woman, never mind she’s an artist. I persuaded Auntie to let her come to the supper ball, and I turned myself out like a dressmaker’s doll so Auntie’s cronies wouldn’t be shocked by me.”
“You looked beautiful,” I said in true admiration. “The gown suited you.”
“Ha. Full of pins poking at me—dressmaker had to alter it at the last minute. But my sacrifice was worth it. Worked a dream. Auntie was charmed with Miss Townsend and happy to have her come and paint our servants.”
I tossed a shriveled mushroom into my slop bowl and continued sorting the others, the woodsy smell comforting.
“I return to my original question,” I said. “Why does Miss Townsend wish to paint me? And how exactly does she mean to?”
Tess had been listening hard while her hands continued with the carrots. “Artists’ models are dreadful wicked women, ain’t they?” She sounded more eager than appalled.
“My, my, I’ve shocked you both,” Cynthia said cheerfully. “Miss Townsend is a lady through and through, I assure you, from a genteel and quiet family. More respectable than my scandalous family, believe me. She paints domestic scenes, in the style of painters like Berthe Morisot or Mary Cassatt.”
She waited, but I could not claim to be any more familiar with these ladies than I was with the novelist George Sand. My knowledge of the art world was confined to what I read in the newspapers, or what Mr. Davis read out to me—most was criticism of paintings I doubted I’d have the opportunity to view.
Tess allowed me to hide my ignorance by asking, “Who are they? Sound Frenchified to me.”
“Miss Cassatt is an American,” Cynthia answered. “But yes, she moved to Paris and is Frenchified now, as you say. Miss Morisot—she is more properly Madame Manet, as she is married to the famous artist’s brother—is indeed French. Anyway, they paint ladies having tea, or mothers with their children, that sort of thing. Miss Townsend had the great fortune to study with Miss Morisot, for which she will be forever grateful. I’m not as clever about art as Bobby, but I think Miss Townsend is a dashing great painter. She is modest about it, but her daubs are beautiful.”
“And now she wishes to paint a cook.” I finished with the mushrooms and began to separate herbs from their tangle, the pleasing scents of thyme, dill, and chervil replacing the fresh-turned earth scent of the mushrooms.
“She plans a series of domestic scenes, which will include a cook and maids at work, that sort of thing,” Cynthia explained.
I gave her a doubtful look. “I cannot imagine ladies and gentlemen in a rush to buy paintings filled with ordinary servants.”
Cynthia shrugged. “Miss Townsend is less worried about selling the paintings than she is making a name for herself. Fame is her ambition, not fortune. Her family is appallingly wealthy, and they indulge her.”
How splendid it must be to have a doting family and the money to do anything one pleases. “I don’t have much time, as you know. My day out, I am afraid, is already spoken for.”
Cynthia understood why. Thursdays, my one full day off, were reserved entirely for my daughter.
“That is no trouble, Mrs. H. Miss Townsend wants to come down to the kitchen, to sit and make sketches. She doesn’t expect you to pose or anything like that. You and Tess are to go about your business, she says, and she will be a mouse in the corner with a sketchbook.”
I glanced at the nearest corner, which was filled with a coal bucket, shelves of crockery and copper kettles, brooms, and empty crates waiting to be returned to the market.
“It will be cramped, hot, and dirty,” I warned. “A lady will never be comfortable here.”
“Miss Townsend is quite sturdy. The stories she tells me of places she’s lived and things she’s done in pursuit of her art would make your skin prickle. It did mine.” Cynthia rubbed her arms as though feeling the prickle still. “If it is too much trouble for you, I’ll put her off.”
Cynthia was a kindhearted young woman. Most ladies of the house would simply lead said artist downstairs and tell them to have at it, without bothering about inconvenience to the staff. Cynthia had paused to give consideration to us.
Also, Cynthia and I had become close in the year that I’d worked in this house, far closer than her aunt was comfortable with. Cynthia thought nothing of coming downstairs to sit in the kitchen while I worked, talking of whatever was on her mind. I was also privy to her comings and goings that her aunt and uncle knew nothing of, and I often let her into the house through the scullery long after she was supposed to have been abed.
“I admit curiosity,” I said. “I still cannot imagine any interest in pictures of a cook or a kitchen, but as long as she stays out of the way . . .”