Mary unfolded her legs and eyed the tray with a wry smile. “Two years on my own in Paris, and I’ve adjusted quite well tobeing waited on, hand and foot. I’m not sure what it says about my character.”
Julia sat across from her. “Do you miss France?”
Mary poured their coffees and sat back, stirring and contemplating. “I miss the freedom. And I miss the evenings on my own when the city empties into its boulevards, and Parisians stroll the sidewalks. I’d find a table and sketch the passersby until the light failed.”
“Unusual—an English girl alone in a foreign city. It must have been hard to give up Montmartre and the Louvre.”
“Lou persuaded Charles to build this studio to lure me back. I would have come home anyway. Louisa . . . well, she suffered another miscarriage, and Charles was worried about her.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Louisa longs for motherhood. It breaks my heart to see her disappointed again. I often wonder . . .”
Julia waited.
“I think I told you Louisa hoped to nurse in the Crimea?”
“Yes, I remember.”
“Well, her father was a doctor. Charles said Dr. Upton let Louisa train because he never thought she’d finish the course. Then her father refused to let her sail with Miss Nightingale and the other nurses.”
“That seems particularly cruel.”
“She nursed him to the end and keeps his doctor’s bag and portrait in her room like a shrine. Poor Louisa.”
“She did a wonderful favor for you with this studio.” Julia looked around, her eyes resting on the damaged canvas. “Have you heard anything from the police?”
“Nothing yet.”
“About those letters . . . should you have mentioned them to that constable?”
“Lou would faint if the accusations about my teacher wound up in a police report.”
“And now this,” Julia said. “It’s possible the break-in and letters are connected.”
“I’ve wondered about that.” Mary bit her lip. “I should tell the police, but there are others involved.”
Julia took a sip of coffee and waited for Mary to continue.
“A few painter friends received letters, too. One told me a man had followed her model and accosted the girl on the pavement outside the studio.”
“That sounds serious enough to report.”
“Oh, and a young milliner who models for us got a letter accusing her of posing in the nude and consorting with prostitutes. All lies, but the writer threatened to tell her employers.” Mary shook her head. “Why extort a poor hatmaker like Annie O’Neill?”
Julia had taken a sip and nearly choked on her coffee. “Annie O’Neill?” She set her saucer and cup on the table. “Good Lord, poor Annie.”
“You know her?”
“Yes, she’s a patient.”How extraordinary,Julia thought.More trouble for the girl.
Mary shrugged. “It doesn’t make sense. She has next to nothing.”
“So many victims . . . perhaps that’s a reason to speak to the police. You might talk to one I know at Scotland Yard, Inspector Richard Tennant.”
“He’s the officer who . . . I’m sorry. I read about your ordeal in the newspapers, of course. He was the policeman in the case.”
“Yes.” Julia looked away. “I underestimated the danger to me. I scoffed at it, and that was a mistake.”
