“And she is modest,” Cynthia broke in. “Overly so, I’d say. Monsieur Degas praised her work, and he is notoriously hard to please. And has little use for the female sex.”

I agreed with this difficult-to-please man that Miss Townsend’s work—what I could glimpse of it—was indeed worth praise.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Cynthia said. “Mrs. Holloway’s a good sort, so if you have any need, simply ask her. She can provide you with food and drink that tastes of heaven.”

“Hardly heaven,” I said in mild rebuke.

“Now you are the modest one.” Cynthia laughed at me and strode off, calling a greeting to Mr. Davis as she went.

That man entered the kitchen, radiating disapproval. He took in Miss Townsend, who settled herself and quietly took out a pencil, but pinched his lips together and said not a word. He and Mrs. Redfern had been told to expect Miss Townsend’s presence, and both had expressed disapprobation.

However, Mr. Davis would never air his grievances in front of a guest. He only gave me a look and glided out again.

Miss Townsend had been sharpening her pencil with a knife, but I saw her flash of eyes that told me she’d taken in Mr. Davis’s admonition.

“What do ye want us to do?” Tess asked Miss Townsend in eagerness.

“Nothing at all,” Miss Townsend replied. “Go about your business. I will keep out of your way.”

Tess looked a bit disappointed, but she returned to her task of rolling out dough for this evening’s tarts. She couldn’t cease glancing every few seconds at Miss Townsend, especially when that lady’s pencil began to whisper across the page.

Miss Townsend proved so unobtrusive, however, that after a time, even Tess forgot she was there. I sautéed pears for the tart, adding in the last of the dried berries in the larder. Soon spring would arrive, and with it, delicate vegetables tasting of sunshine and rain, a promise that winter’s hold had loosened.

Not long later, Mrs. Redfern, who’d come into the kitchen to fetch a pot of tea for Mrs. Bywater, glanced out of the high windows.

“It’s that Mr. McAdam,” she said stiffly. “With a delivery, it seems.”

I wished I hadn’t raised my head so quickly at the mention of his name. Mrs. Redfern gave me a frown, as though to remind me of her scolding the night before.

“He can’t help making deliveries,” I said, wiping flour from my hands. “It is his job. I do need the things he brings.”

“You do indeed.” Mrs. Redfern fixed me with a gaze. “But he should not linger.”

“Never mind, Mrs. Redfern. As I told you, I am not rushing to elope with him, or even walk out with him. We are friends.”