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  “My father was at home taking care of me while his wife lived on the old master’s doorstep, and he told me that the old man’s jaw dropped down almost to his chest. He was that astonished at what I’d done.”

  “So?” Zoë asked when Russell paused. “What did he do?”

  “He told my mother to bring me to him when I was seven. My mother said he’d probably be dead by then and she’d have to get someone else to teach me. My father said the old man sneered at her, said, ‘Six,’ then left their house.”

  “Wow,” Zoë said. She was lying on the grass beside him, with an arm’s length between them. “Wow, what a great story. You knew you could draw practically from the time you were born, while I didn’t know it until I was an adult. Did you go to him when you were six?”

  “Aye, I did. On my sixth birthday, my mother was there with me.”

  “She didn’t leave you alone there with him, did she? You were just a child and with that bad-tempered old man!”

  Again Russell laughed. “I told you my mother was clever. She’d had years to prepare for her only child going into apprenticeship. She’d found out that the old man could never keep servants. His rages, and the way he accused them of things they didn’t do, made them leave. No one ever stayed more than a year.”

  “So what did your mother do?”

  “She sent me to him with a box full of food.”

  Zoë looked at him in question.

  “During the years that I’d been growing up and drawing so much that she said I was driving her mad, she set out to learn to cook. Custard pies. Meat pies. They were beautiful and tasted like heaven. I was given a cold bare room in the old man’s house, but every morning she’d knock on his door and give me a box full of food. It was her plan for the old man to taste her cooking and hire her to work for him.”

  “Did she get it?”

  “Oh yes, she did. She was his cook for two years, then she was his housekeeper. In my third year there, my father came to work for him too.”

  “So your whole family was there,” Zoë said. “And you learned your art at the knee of a master.”

  “Hmph!” Russell said. “At the end of his boot was more like it. He was as mean as they come. He begrudged me everything I did, was jealous of me, and he fired my mother every three months.”

  “But she didn’t leave?”

  “Leave her only son?” Russell smiled. “She was a match for the master and when he told her to get out, she just laughed at him. And he knew that no one could replace her. She kept his house clean and filled his table with good food—even though he complained about every cent she spent.”

  Russell’s voice lowered. “He died when I was sixteen and he left everything to my mother.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Zoë said. “He wasn’t so bad after all.”

  “Yes he was,” Russell said. “I’m sure that if he’d had even one relative he could abide, he’d have left everything to him, but he didn’t. He’d done a lot of work for the church but they’d stolen half the money they owed him, so he couldn’t leave it to them. My mother was the only person who’d ever come close to liking him.”

  Zoë looked up at the tree leaves for a while. “What happened to your parents?”

  “They’re still there,” he said. “My mother lives in the master’s house with my father. They’re quite old now and my mother writes me every week with laments that I have not given her grandchildren.”

  At that, he turned and looked at Zoë. For a full minute, she thought of living with this man and staying here forever.

  In the next minute, she got her mind under control. She’d only met him a few hours ago.

  Russell reached across the space separating them and took her hand in his. “Sometimes a person knows when things are right,” he said softly.

  Zoë looked into his eyes and she wanted to roll over to him and put her arms around his neck. She wanted to kiss him, probably even make love with him, but she didn’t. She knew she was going to leave soon and she didn’t want to hurt him or herself.

  Russell saw the change in her eyes and knew that the moment had passed. “So tell me the truth about your training. Did you spend three months on mixing the color that exactly matches the sun on a pond at noon?”

  “Not quite,” Zoë said, sitting up. “I never had a teacher. My talent is purely natural.” She gave a great sigh. “Some of us have to learn to draw and some of us have a gift.”

  Russell sat up. “Is that so? What say you we have a bit of a competition?”

  “You’re on, baby!” she said, reaching for the sketch pad that was between them.

  Russell touched the paper just as she did. He put his hand over hers and their heads were close together. Zoë sucked in her breath and held it. She was sure he was going to kiss her.

  “I can wait,” he said softly, and she could feel his breath on her lips. “But I warn you that I am as sure of what I want as I was the day I picked up my first piece of charcoal. You will give in to me.”

  Zoë wanted to give in to him right that moment, but she pulled back. “That’s what you think,” she said, and he laughed.

  Fifteen

  It was nearly evening, and the beautiful room was glowing with the setting sun. It was a small, cozy room with cream-colored wallpaper that had been hand-painted with bamboo and luminescent birds.

  Zoë, Amy, and Faith were sitting at a round pedestal table and before them was a feast of Amy’s making: breads, early fruit, peas, parsnips, three kinds of meat. A huge pot of tea sat in the middle of the table. Amy had dismissed the servants, who tended to stand at attention and wait for someone to give them something to do.

  “So, what have you two been up to today?” Amy asked as she put a slice of rare roast beef on Faith’s plate.

  The two women just stared at her. At last, Zoë said, “Should we kill her now or wait five minutes?”

  “I vote for now,” Faith said.

  “Okay,” Amy said, “so maybe I’ve been a little busy today and I haven’t taken care of you two the way I should have, but—”

  “Taken care of us!” Zoë said, then lowered her voice. “When did you become our mother?”

  “Amy,” Faith said, then took a breath. “All this,” she waved her hand to include the house, even the world, “may seem normal to you, but Zoë and I realize that we have been transported back to another time. It’s strange to us.”

  “It’s more than strange,” Zoë said.

  Amy didn’t seem in the least perturbed by their words or their attitudes. “More than strange, is it? Golly, Zoë, was that you riding on the back of that horse with Mr. Johns? You sure seemed to have your arms tightly wrapped around him. And you, Faith, didn’t you return today with Beth and you two were laughing? I haven’t known you very long, but I’ve never before seen such happiness on your face. And the gardeners said you spent over two hours in the kitchen garden and that you were practically wallowing in the herbs.”

  “What we did is beside the point,” Zoë said, but she looked at her plate while she said it.

  “Amy,” Faith said, “I think we should take all of this a little more seriously than we have been. I’d really like a more complete explanation about how you know so much about this place when you only got here today.”

  “I don’t know,” Amy said. “I really and truly don’t have an answer for you. It’s as though there are two realities in my mind and each of them is as clear as the other. I remember my husband, Stephen, and my two sons. But I also remember growing up under the fists of my father and sister in that public house—even though I’ve told everyone that I grew up in America. Most of all, I remember him rescuing me, and—”

  “Him. His lordship? Do you mean Tristan?” Zoë asked.

  “Yes. Tristan,” Amy said. “Part of me is horrified at the thought of calling him by his first name and another part thinks that’s what I should call him.”

  “I heard how you’ve given the poor man a very hard time,”