When I hastened from stove to cupboard at one point, I nearly tripped over Miss Townsend, who’d slipped to the corner stool with her sketchbook. She smiled at me serenely and moved her feet.

I had no time to speak to her at the moment, and once the meal was ready, she went upstairs to partake of it.

Cynthia returned from her outing to the Foundling Hospital late that afternoon. She arrived soon after Mrs. Bywater’s guests had departed, and I wondered if she had waited to watch them go before venturing inside.

“It was ghastly,” she exclaimed, tossing her hat to my flour-strewn table. “I want to adopt the lot of those poor children. Thanos feels the same. I think I’ve never been more disgusted at my fellow beings than today, Mrs. H. Would like to herd them straight to hell.”

11

Sit down, Cyn.” Miss Townsend, who’d descended to us again once tea had finished, rose from her seat and closed her sketchbook. She’d so far never let any of us see what she’d drawn. “I’m sure Mr. Davis could spare you some brandy.”

“A cup of tea,” I countered.

Cynthia did not answer but fell into a seat at the table. I poured her a cup from a full pot of tea and slid it toward her as she tugged off her gloves.

“’Fraid it will take more than tea to wash the foul taste from my mouth,” she declared after she’d gulped a swallow of the hot liquid and dabbed her lips with her fingers. “I think I’d rather have been at my aunt’s table, listening to her tell the gentlemen how well I embroider, which is all rot. I can’t embroider a stitch.”

Miss Townsend answered in her gentle voice, “Consider that if she boasted how well you played the piano, you’d be called to demonstrate. Not many will demand you take out your basket and fall to embroidering while they watch.”

“I wouldn’t put it past Auntie to suggest it.” Cynthia took another pull of tea, letting the beverage and Miss Townsend’s quiet teasing calm her.

“I can’t tell you all of it,” Cynthia said, holding her teacup in a tight clasp. “Not at present. Later, perhaps. I’m overwhelmed by it all at the moment. A sea of children, all dressed alike. Made to sit quietly to eat, no laughing, no conversation. Little automatons shoveling in their Sunday dinner. The spectators filed past them, assessing this one or that one. Some came to gauge whether one would do for a scullery maid or bootboy, but others came to watch their favorites. Visit almost every Sunday, these last folks, taking note of what the children do, how they look.” Cynthia closed her hands around her cup so hard I feared the porcelain would break.

“Unsavory,” Miss Townsend said, anger in her eyes.