The weather grew warmer, and she and Pippa spent the afternoons wandering about the grounds of Downes Manor. Charlotte was slowly introducing new ideas about gardening to the ancient, clutch-mouthed gardener who ran the outdoor staff. After much coaxing he put up an airy lattice frame south of the house and began to train roses to grow over it. Charlotte hung the inside with light pink cotton and she, Pippa, and Katy would escape the afternoon sun by sitting in rosy shade. After a while she asked the footmen to bring them tea there, and one day the three of them even stayed through a brief March shower. Pippa shrieked and shrieked with delight as water pummeled the light roof, making a sound like hundreds of grenadiers beating drums.

Charlotte was trying to paint a landscape for the first time: the gentle slope of the hill down from the summer house to the river at the base of the garden. But it wasn’t terribly satisfying. She missed the struggle and frustration of drawing faces, trying to catch a kernel of emotion that was present one minute and lost the next.

The portrait of Mall was finished. In the end, Charlotte set her in a little courtyard, outside. Somehow what finally came through in the picture was not the young, strong, funny Mall that she wanted to catch, but the bone-weary, exhausted Mall at the end of a hard day. The Mall who had polished too much silver and carried too much hot water. Charlotte showed it to her tentatively, afraid that she would think it ugly. But Mall burst into tears. She stood in front of the picture, choked with sobs.

“But, Mall …” Charlotte wasn’t sure what to say.

“It’s her,” Mall gulped. “It’s me mum.”

Charlotte looked back at the portrait. She looked through Mall’s eyes—and there was a tired, rather fierce, angular Welshwoman staring back at her.

Mall had stopped sobbing and was just staring at the picture. “She died after me brother John was born. It was just too many: eight children, just too many. I couldn’t do anything. She never even got to see John….”

“Take it. Take it home to John.”

“Oh, my lady, I couldn’t!”

“Yes, you can. I am giving it to you. And I am going to send you to Wales, Mall. Did I tell you that I own a house there? Well, I’d like you to go with Keating and see what shape my house is in,” Charlotte said steadily. There was an acid tightness at the back of her throat. She knew what it was: just a little fear. Women died in childbirth all the time. That didn’t mean she would.

“Me?” Mall stared at her with wide eyes.

“Yes.”

“But I’m just the third housemaid, my lady.”