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they artistic?”
    “My brother is destined for the military. One of my sisters is a good musician, the other has no artistic bent that we are aware of.”
    “And they live in Germany?”
    “Yes.”
    “Yet you chose to come to London to work.”
    “There are reasons…” His face took on a reserved look. Then he smiled, a smile that transformed his features. “London is a good place for those who wish to make their way as a painter, and I have to earn my bread like this. In the future perhaps—”
    “You will prefer different subjects, a different style?”
    “I hope so. But meanwhile I can benefit from the English love of landscape, especially when a painting portrays their own handsome property set in the midst of it. I have noticed that these kinds of paintings and family portraits are what hang on the walls of most houses that I visit.”
    Cassandra thought of the dozens of portraits that hung in the public rooms at Rosings and also in corridors and passages where they were never noticed. And on the top floor, a picture gallery ran the length of the central part of the house, where the finest portraits hung, from stiff Tudor faces, all very much alike, through the long, big-eyed, livelier Stuarts, a riot of lace and silk and satin, for the de Bourghs had always held to the royalist cause, to the wide-skirted and gold-laced men and women of the last century.
    Belle came dancing into the room, a vision in a figured muslin, with a wide sash about her slim waist, and a fetching hat in her hand. Now, as he rose to his feet, Mr. Lisser had no eyes or thoughts for anyone but Belle; she was a minx, to lead him on like that. Cassandra stood up, too.
    “I am going to show Mr. Lisser the gallery of family portraits,” she said.
    “Oh, let me do that, you are wanted in your mama’s room, she asked me to look for you.”
    Belle went off with Mr. Lisser, and Cassandra dutifully went to her mother’s chamber, where her mother was surprised to see her; no, she hadn’t summoned her, she had merely remarked to Belle that she might find her cousin downstairs with Mr. Lisser.
    “And I wish, my love, that you will not spend so much time with Mr. Lisser. He is here to work, you know, not to talk.”
    “He is giving me some very helpful advice, Mama.”
    Mrs. Partington gave a faint smile. “He is very kind, but you must not presume upon his kindness. He is no Herr Winter, not a drawing master, but an accomplished artist, he is not to be wasting his time on your little drawings and sketches.”
    “Thank you, Mama,” said Cassandra, whisking herself away before she should say something she would regret.
    Mr. Partington also disapproved of the time Cassandra spent with Mr. Lisser, and told his wife so. “She is putting herself forward, it is always so. She talks to him as though she were an equal, another artist; very unbecoming behaviour in a young girl. And she is too often alone with him. While he has too much sense to take advantage, word will get around, tongues will wag. It is not appropriate for a Miss Darcy to be closeted for hours on end with a young man, however much their talk is of grounds and colours and form.”
    “I have already mentioned the matter to her, my dear,” said Mrs. Partington in soothing tones.
    So Cassandra had to snatch moments with Henry Lisser at such times as her mother was out visiting, and Mr. Partington was out inspecting a pig or giving instructions for his early wheat.
    “I should like to paint Mr. Partington in his farmer’s smock,” said Mr. Lisser, showing Cassandra a sketch he had made without Mr. Partington’s knowledge. “He seems more at home out on the land than he does in the drawing room in his fine clothes. No, don’t frown, I am not speaking ill of your stepfather, I admire him for it. My father, also, is a keen farmer.” Again, that reserved look. Did he feel that his origins were low, that it was a disgrace to be the son of a farmer? Certainly, there was no hint of