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portrait, that will be a good thing, too.”
    Thomas arrived outside the bedroom door and waited until Augusta motioned him inside. “You can put the trunk beside the dresser, Thomas.” She thanked him and then waited until he was out of earshot. “It’s my hope that word of your talent will spread and you won’t be in the factory for long. I don’t want to sound like my mother, but I shiver at the thought of you working among all of those unrefined men.”
    Scooping up an armful of nightgowns, I dropped them into the trunk. “You forget that I am not the daughter of wealthy parents. For years, my father was a simple farmer who painted when time permitted. Once we were in Paris, he no longer farmed, but he wasn’t a man of wealth or education.”
    “But his reputation among well-known artists gave him a position of honor.”
    I snorted. A most unladylike reaction, yet the notion that my father held a position of honor required a snort. Yes, my father’s talent was admired by his peers and members of the art community, but he hadn’t achieved a position of honor. He wouldn’t have been teaching unexceptional art students if he’d been esteemed by Parisian society. Yet I would never say such a thing to Augusta. Besides, I would have had to interrupt her prolonged criticism of my unladylike snort.
    Instead, I retrieved a dress the shade of ripe cranberries from the heaping pile on the bed. “Will this be acceptable for church services tomorrow morning?” I held it close to my body, enjoying the feel of the cool, slick silk against my outstretched hand.
    “Yes, of course. Let me look in the closet. I have a hat with ribbons that are a perfect match.” Before I could object, she ducked into the depths of the closet. I couldn’t understand her muffled remarks, but moments later she backed out of the small space. With a triumphant glint in her eyes, she held the hat aloft. “I told you. It’s perfect.” She thrust a sand-colored hat adorned with cranberry taffeta in my direction. “Here. Try it on.”
    I didn’t object, for it was evident I would meet with little success. I snugged the hat onto my head and jabbed a pin through the woven, pale yellow straw. When I turned to receive Augusta’s appraisal, she waved me to the hallway.
    “Hurry, there’s someone downstairs.”
    “But . . .” I pointed to the hat.
    “Come on!” she urged.
    At any moment I expected her to bounce up and down and yank me along by the arm. “What’s the hurry? Won’t Frances answer the door?”
    I was only a few steps behind her when we arrived at the top of the staircase. At that very spot, without the least bit of warning, Augusta came to an abrupt halt. Unable to slow my momentum, I plowed into her backside and sent her plummeting like a sack of potatoes. The spectacle was not pretty. Arms akimbo, she slid and toppled. Thud. Thud. Thud . With each strike, her petticoats, pantaloons, or stockings came into full view.
    She landed with her body turned toward the spindled banister, her face hidden from view. Terror clutched my throat. My breathing turned shallow and I forced myself to inhale. What if she’d broken an arm? What if I’d knocked her unconscious? What if she’s dead? I clattered down the steps and dropped beside Augusta. I slapped my palm across my mouth to hold back the sound of a dreaded giggle.
    When I was certain any threat of laughter was under control, I leaned close and whispered her name. Ever so slowly she turned to face me. A hint of purplish blue tinged her prominent cheekbones, but she was alive. Relief flooded over me like a cleansing rain, and I exhaled a deep breath. “Is anything broken?”
    “I don’t think so.” She struggled to free one arm from between the spindles and righted herself. Before we could further assess her injuries, we both turned toward the sound of a man’s laughter and light applause.
    “A fine entrance, Augusta. I do hope this was a practice session for your performance