Page 88 of The Heiress's Daughter
“Just what? Spit it out, gel!”
“I don’t belong here.”
“Don’t belong here? What nonsense! Who says so?”
“Well, you did, ma’am. You and Mrs. Price-Jones.”
“Mrs. Price-Jones and I?”
“Yes, ma’am, I heard you talking about me. I think it was Mrs. Price-Jones who said I’d bring Clarissa to ruin, but you agreed. But I don’t want that, so…”
“Pish tush! What nonsense. Eavesdroppers never hear any good of themselves so let that be a lesson to you, young lady. And I’ll wager you didn’t hear the whole conversation.”
“No, ma’am.”
“You thinkyoucan bring Clarissa to ruin? Poppycock! She is inmycare! So clear your mind of that bit of nonsense. So, what were your plans, eh? How did you intend to earn your bread and butter—though I’ll wager you’d be lucky to get so much as a crust of bread, probably stale, and never a sniff of butter.”
“I was going to become a street artist.”
“Awhat?”
“Street artist. It’s how Maman started, drawing pictures on the footpath in chalk.”
“Street artist?Good gad.” The old lady picked up the drawings Zoë had done of her and the dogs. “You did these, did you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
There was a long silence. “So you think you don’t belong here, do you?”
“Yes, ma’am. I don’t…fit. I’m not a servant, and I’m never gunna make a lady. And I don’t do nothing, nothing useful, that is.”
The old lady gave her an appalled look. “Useful?Good gad, gel, there is more to life than being useful. Pigs are useful. Chickens are useful. Servants are useful, but most of the ton, myself included, live utterly useless lives and still manage to be happy…though some are also ornamental, I have to admit.” She peered at Zoë. “But that’s what you want, is it, gel? To beuseful?” She pronouncedusefulas if it were something nasty she’d stepped in.
Zoë nodded.
The old lady pondered for a few minutes, eyeing Zoë as if she were some kind of peculiar bird. Then she sat up with a jerk. “I have it! If you are so determined to be useful, I shall employ you as my artist-in-residence.”
“Your what? Artist-in-residence? There ain’t no such position.”
Lady Scattergood raised her lorgnette and said in freezing tones, “You are acquainted with the more rarefied household cultural practices of the English aristocracy, are you?”
Zoë flushed. “No, ma’am.”
“Very well then. Artist-in-residence you are. Your first commission is to paint a portrait of me. None of your pencil or charcoal nonsense. Proper paints, you hear me? And when you’ve finished that, you will start on portraits of the dogs. Understand?”
“Yes, but I don’t have any proper paints.”
She waved an impatient hand. “Pish tush, don’t bother me with trivialities. Buy whatever you need and get the shopkeeper to send me the bills. Now, off with you.”
“Yes, ma’am, thank you, ma’am.” Dazed at theunexpected turn in her fortunes, Zoë bobbed a curtsy and turned to leave.
“And Zoë.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“This time when you remove those appalling rags you’re wearing, burn them.”
“Oh, but—
