“Here’s a ha’penny.” I thrust a floury coin at him and snatched the paper from his hand. The lad scowled at me but decided to cut his losses and charged back upstairs.
Elsie shook her head and returned to her sink. “Cheeky beggar. Not bad news, I hope?” she added as she caught a glimpse of my face as I read the paper.
“No,” I said breathlessly. “It is good.”
I thrust the scrap into my pocket and returned to the kitchen, leaving Elsie baffled.
The note had been written in carefully printed letters, consisting of three simple words:I am here.
* * *
Early on Monday afternoon, as soon as I dared, I donned my best frock and tucked the little box I’d purchased from Hannah for Grace into my pocket. Downstairs, I took upmy basket with a warm star-shaped bread wrapped in a towel, and walked from Mount Street to Park Street and turned from there into Upper Brook Street.
The May weather had become fine, with the sun shining hard and a few puffy clouds drifting overhead. Because of the warmth, fewer fireplaces burned, which meant less smoke in the hazy air.
Mrs.Bywater would soon begin her yearly debate about whether to remain in the hot and smelly city for the summer or retreat to the cooler countryside. On the one hand, she lived in London fairly cheaply, as Lord Rankin did not charge the Bywaters rent to live in his house.
The air in Somerset was much more salubrious than London’s, but the Bywaters’ house there was sparsely staffed. If Mrs.Bywater took any maids or footmen from this house to Somerset with her, she’d have to pay them, as their terms with the agency were for Lord Rankin’s London house only.
She’d once tried to chivy us all to the country with her, with no promise of pay at all, but Mr.Davis had put his foot down about that. Also, the Bywaters’ country-house servants might have severely objected to us descending on them, though Mrs.Bywater had not considered that.
Servants were at the mercy of their masters, it was true, but only to a point. If we decided we were being unfairly treated, we could be plenty obstinate. Mrs.Bywater had backed down from Mr.Davis’s objections—he supported by Mrs.Redfern and me. Now whenever Mrs.Bywater took servants to Somerset with her, it was only one or two, and those were paid extra wages.
Thinking of Mrs.Bywater returned me to speculations on the letter she’d received, and I sped my steps to Miss Townsend’s tall house in the middle of Upper Brook Street.
The elderly butler, Hubbard, whose stiff manner hid a soft heart, opened the front door and ushered me into an elegant hall. Whenever I’d attempted to visit Miss Townsend through the below-stairs kitchen door, she’d overruled me and insisted on me entering through the front, claiming I was arriving as a guest. I found this odd and uncomfortable, but Hubbard welcomed me as courteously as if I’d stepped down from a lord’s carriage.
I handed Hubbard the basket. “That’s for Miss Townsend’s tea. There’s extra pieces for the rest of the household.”
Hubbard gave me a cool bow of thanks, though I swore I detected a gleam of anticipation in his eyes. Basket on his arm, he stepped across the hall to a speaking tube that hung within an elaborately carved frame. He lifted the mouthpiece, blew into it, and spoke.
“Mrs.Holloway has arrived, madam.”
I heard a muffled voice from the other end of the tube before Hubbard hung up the receiver.
“You are to proceed to the studio, Mrs.Holloway. Lady Cynthia is already there.”
“Thank you, Hubbard.”
I turned to the stairs and steeled myself to march up them to the top floor. I should be used to such exertion, as my bedchamber was in the attic of a house as large, but I puffed as I stepped off the final landing.
Miss Townsend had converted her attic rooms into one large studio, with skylights to illuminate it. I’d once wondered idly where her servants slept, and Cynthia had told me they each had a comfortable room on the house’s third floor.
While I was happy with my own place, I sometimes wished Miss Townsend’s cook wasn’t so devoted to her. I’d relish working in a house where I had a real bedroom with a window. It was small wonder that Miss Townsend’s staff all adored her.
When I entered the studio, Miss Townsend, a slim lady with very dark hair and brown eyes, sat before a canvas as tall as she was, her brush poised as she contemplated where to put her next stroke. The canvas was at such an angle that I could not see the entire composition, but I spied colorful draperies and a very naked young woman in the middle of them.
I did not recognize the model in the picture, but she was no doubt one of Miss Townsend’s and Lady Cynthia’s rather scandalous friends.
“She’s here, Judes,” Cynthia announced from the depths of a sofa where she lounged. She wore her man’s suit this afternoon and was buried in an issue of a racing newspaper.
Miss Townsend swung around on her stool and bathed me in a warm smile. “Welcome, Mrs.Holloway. Please, sit. I have instructed Hubbard to send up a scrumptious tea.”
“I cannot stay long.” I took the indicated chair, which was soft. It felt good on my legs after the walk, but I perched on its edge, unwilling to become too comfortable. I wanted to leave as soon as I was able.
“We know.” Miss Townsend rose and went to a small chest-on-stand and opened a drawer, her every move elegant. “Here’s the letter. Have a look and see what you make of it.”
She handed me an envelope similar to the one Mrs.Bywater had received. As I studied it, the door banged open, and another young woman in a frock coat and trousers strode inside.
