I’d worried about being recognized in a painting, but I needn’t have bothered. While the cook had my shape and my style of cook’s dress and apron, the face was a sort of blur with the merest line of jaw and nose. In one, the cook was looking down, her eyes not visible. A curl of dark hair laced from her cap to droop down her neck, exactly as mine did when I was hot and hurried.

In spite of its odd nature, the painting amazed me. In simple lines, with nothing sharp, Miss Townsend had conveyed the portrait of a cook hard at work, capturing the movement. A cook was never still, always chopping, peeling, stirring, basting, and scurrying to and fro.

In another painting, the cook was at the stove, her back to the room, and again, I could imagine her shaking the pan or flipping frying sausages. The assistant, having the slim figure of Tess, her unruly hair, and often askew cap, vigorously chopped a carrot.

The food was more recognizable than the two people—with a glimpse of a scullery maid in the far room washing dishes. A bowl of cooked potatoes sprinkled with parsley gently steamed. Mushrooms, dark and fresh, overflowed a basket. Bright fruit lay both cut and uncut, and in another painting, the table held cakes and tarts, a loaf of sugar waiting to be pounded into usable chunks.

I stared in awe, my hands coming together in delight, as Miss Townsend watched me carefully.

Grace came to stand beside me. “Is that you, Mum?” she asked with childish frankness. “You’re all blurry.”

Laughter around me loosened my tongue. “It is me,” I told her. “And yet, it’s every cook. And every cook’s assistant. They are beautiful.”

Miss Townsend relaxed. “I’m pleased you approve.” Her words were light, but I heard gratification in them.

“Will people truly buy these?” I asked.

“Oh yes,” Cynthia assured me. “Judith sells all sorts of canvases. She has people lined up for her next ones.”

“Good,” I said. “These should be seen.”

“You are a lovely woman, Mrs. Holloway,” Miss Townsend said. “I will pour wine, and we will celebrate. Lemonade for your daughter.”

She had servants downstairs apparently, though I’d seen not a sign of any—Miss Townsend had admitted us to the house herself. She summoned one, not by a bell but through a speaking tube, to my and Grace’s intense interest.

An elderly butler, who pretended not to notice that a cook, her daughter, and a common deliveryman had come to visit his mistress, arrived with a tray of glasses and a bottle of wine, a carafe of lemonade for Grace. He served with an air of one who’d rather be elsewhere, but I imagined he was used to Miss Townsend and her eccentric guests.