“You of all people will not be painted with flattery,” he assured her before looking back down at his sketch. “You will be painted as who you are when all the poses and defenses and masks have been stripped away.”

But would he ever know her completely? Or understand her fully? One never did, did one? One never knew even oneself to the deepest depths. How could one be expected to know another human being, then? It was an uncomfortable realization when he prided himself upon understanding the subjects of his portraits.

“I am horribly alarmed,” she told him curtly without looking alarmed at all. “You are very adroit at changing a subject.”

“Was there one to change?” he asked, smiling at her again.

“You have to go back,” she said. “You have to talk to Mr. Cox-Phillips and find out all you can about yourself. You will forever regret it if you do not. It is true that your grandmother treated you badly, Joel, but it is equally true that she treated you very well. It is all a matter of perspective. You must find out more so that you can understand better. You must find out all you can about your mother. Had she lived, everything might have been different. Perhaps she is someone you need to love even though you will never know her in person. At least you can find out all you can.”

“Sentimental drivel,” he said. “He would conclude I had changed my mind about being in his will and had come crawling back there to ingratiate myself with him. He would assume avarice had caught up with me.”

“Then tell him he is wrong,” she said. “You must go. I shall go with you.”

Joel set aside his sketch pad—he could not get her stubborn chin right anyway without making her look like a caricature—and leaned back in the chair. He crossed his arms over his chest and rested one booted ankle across the other knee. He ought to have gone to Edwina. Or to Miss Ford. Or come back here to brood alone. His first impression of Miss Camille Westcott had been the right one. She was overbearing and obnoxious.

“To hold my hand, I suppose,” he said. “To prod me forward with a sharp finger at my back. To prompt me with the questions I need to ask. To scold the old man if he makes me cry.”

Her lips virtually disappeared. She sat up straight and was doing the perfect-posture thing again. Her spine presumably did not need the support of the back of the sofa. It was made of steel.

“I thought to offer moral support,” she said. “You clearly do not need it. Just as I do not need your escort back to the orphanage, Mr. Cunningham. I daresay I will not be accosted more than four or five times as I walk alone, and doubtless my screams will bring gentlemen running to my rescue. You will do as you please with regards to Mr. Cox-Phillips. I have learned that you are stubborn to a fault. It does not matter to me the snap of my fingers what you do.”

She got to her feet and Joel jumped to his. He was between her and the hallway, so she stood where she was, holding his gaze, her jaw like granite. The Amazon in a belligerent mood. If she had had a spear in her hand . . .

“I made some soup yesterday,” he said. “I ate some last night and did not poison myself. Let me warm it up. I bought some bread at the bakery early this morning too. Stay and eat with me.”

“To hold your hand?” she asked.

“I need one hand to hold the bowl and the other to spoon up the soup,” he told her. “I apologize for what I said. You have been remarkably kind in coming here and listening to my ravings. Alas, I have repaid your goodness with bad temper. Stay? Please?”

It had been a purely impulsive invitation. Whatever would they talk about if she agreed? And what were the chances that Edgar or Marvin would knock on his door for some reason or other? Or that one or both of them would see or hear her leave later? But he did not want to be alone yet.

What if the soup had thickened to such a degree that it would need to be chiseled with a sharp-edged knife? He was not the world’s best cook.

“What kind of soup?” she asked.

Eleven

A hired carriage was awaiting Camille when school was dismissed for the day on Thursday. Joel jumped out when she appeared and handed her inside. She raised her eyebrows at the chipped, faded exterior, the shabby, slightly ripped seats inside, and the somewhat stale smell, which even the open windows could not quite dispel. But she did not say anything. At least it appeared reasonably clean. She had not looked too closely at the horses.

“You did not change your mind, then?” she asked as he seated himself beside her.

“Oh, I did,” he said. “An hour ago. And two hours before that, and half an hour before that, and so on back to the night before last. This time I changed my mind in favor of going.”

He both looked and sounded cheerful, but she was not deceived. He had agreed before she left his rooms two days ago that he would go back to Mr. Cox-Phillips’s house and had told her with grudging good grace that she might accompany him if she wished. He had suggested that they go today after school.

“And did you write to inform him you were coming?” she asked as the carriage jerked into motion and gave Camille a foretaste of how ineffective the springs were going to be.

“No,” he said. “Why should I give him advance warning? And it is not as though he is going anywhere, is it? Except to his grave.”

She turned her head to glance reproachfully at him. He was looking suddenly grim and a bit pale, his head half turned toward the window next to him. She drew breath to speak, but he looked as if he wished to be left alone with his thoughts, and she had no wish to turn into a scold.