“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.”