I had told my friend Joanna about Daniel, of course. She looked him over dubiously as he grinned at her, which I understood. Daniel was in his laborer’s clothes, and with his unruly hair and worn cap, he did not appear the heroic figure I’d made him out to be.

Grace, however, was delighted to see him. “Good day, Mr. McAdam.” She shook his hand with pretty manners. “I am glad you’ve come to visit me.”

“I’ve done one better,” Daniel said, giving Joanna his most charming smile. “I’m here to take you on a treat, you and your mum both. A visit to an artist, who has done a painting of your mother.”

Joanna’s brow puckered. “Oh?”

“I explained about that,” I said quickly. “Miss Townsend sketched me cooking. Nothing untoward. I am pleased to hear she has finished.”

“Not quite finished,” Daniel said. “But the picture is complete enough that she wouldn’t mind you having a look. As I know you’re longing to.”

I was. When Miss Townsend had announced she’d finished the painting, a great curiosity to see it had surged through me. But of course, the picture was in her private studio, and it would not be dignified or proper for me to beg to be admitted.

Daniel must have arranged it. He always knew how to turn me up sweet.

25

Miss Townsend’s studio was in Mayfair, in a narrow house in Upper Brook Street, near Hyde Park. She’d hired the house and put her studio on the top floor, where the light was best.

Lady Cynthia, Mr. Thanos, and Bobby were in the studio when we arrived. They greeted Grace with pleasure, as did Miss Townsend when she was introduced.

Miss Townsend, who did not seem surprised I had a daughter—Bobby had likely told her—gave me a penetrating look, one filled with understanding.

“This is where I’ve been rusticating,” Miss Townsend said, indicating the studio with a wave. “I apologize, Mrs. Holloway, for not sending word. I had no idea anyone would be so worried about me. I tend to forget the time when I’m hard at it.”

“I’ll say,” Bobby growled.

The rooms at the top of the house had been knocked together to form one great loft, six windows letting in light. It was a bit chilly, though a stove had been fitted to the chimney, trying its best to cut the cold.

Miss Townsend had been working on several canvases. Three large ones dominated standing easels, and one painting, more complete than the others, leaned against the wall under the windows.

“I’m not finished by a long way,” Miss Townsend said. “But I wanted your opinion. Have I got it right?”

I stood back and gazed at the four paintings. She’d put the figures of a cook and her assistant in each, and tables, dishes, and some of the food, but not the background.