“Would you like to pop that in the back?” He indicated a small trapdoor behind him.
“No, thank you. It’s fine where it is. What were you going to say before we hit that pothole?” she asked, striving for a little normality.
“Oh yes, I was wondering, Mademoiselle Vita-That-Means-Life, how does a young woman like you come to be all on her own, walking along a lonely country lane?”
She was ready for the question. “I was dismissed from my post.”
“Which was?”
“I am— Iwasa maidservant in a big house.” Borrowing Marie’s story as well as her clothes.
He gave her a searching sideways look, as if assessing her afresh.
Not wanting to be taken for a thief or anything, she added, “Because my mistress is stupid, and her son is a nasty lustful pig, and when he tried to…you know, I—I hit him. Hard. Where it hurts most. And of course they blamed me, so I was dismissed.”
He gave a shout of laughter. “Good for you. So now, where are you headed? Home to your family?”
She shook her head. “No family.” And then, realizing it might not be clever to admit that she was alone in the world, she added, “Just my grandmother. I’m going to stay with her.”
“And where does she live?”
“Not far.” She gestured vaguely ahead. It was one thing to obtain directions, but they’d turned out to be rather less precise than she’d realized.
“Good thing you’re not wearing a red riding hood.”
She glanced at him, puzzled for a moment, then caught the reference. “I have dealt with wolves before,” she said crispy. “I’m sure I can deal with a fox. Or anything else.”
He chuckled. “I’m sure you can.”
“And you,” she said, turning the subject, “where are you heading?”
“Oh, me, I’m just a vagabond. I go where I please, where the road takes me.”
“A vagabond?” She gave him a sideways glance, taking in the strong, clean profile.
“It’s a life that suits me well.”
“But how do you make a living?” The question was out before she considered it. It was most uncivil of her to ask such an intrusive question, but he was a stranger and she was a maidservant. And she was curious. He didn’t look or dress or act much like a homeless vagabond—though he did need a haircut and a good shave. And he was English, and they were in France.
“Oh, doing this and that.”
Serve her right. They traveled on in silence.
A few hours later they approached a small stone bridge. Zoë tensed. This must be the bridge she was expecting. On most quiet country roads, small rivers and streams were crossed via a ford, not a bridge. The bridge would have been constructed by some rich person for their carriage’s convenience. Her ancestors perhaps?
She leaned forward. Not far now to the entrance to her mother’s childhood home, if her information was correct. More than thirty years since her grandparents and uncle had been sent to the guillotine. And her eleven-year-old mother smuggled out of the country by a loyal nurse.
Through the tangled weeds and vegetation that edged the road, she caught glimpses of a long, high stone wall, in poor repair now. The estate boundary? No doubt it had been partially pulled down during the riots. Years of neglect had done the rest.
Up ahead she could see two tall stone pillars, one of which bore a headless eagle, the other just a shapeless lump of stone that had once been a matching eagle. What gates there had once been were no longer in evidence. Ripped down, probably, and the iron reused.
“If you could stop up there, I’ll be getting off, thank you,” she told Reynard, pointing.
He gave her a curious sidelong glance. “Up there? That’s barely a road. I doubt if it leads anywhere.”
“It leads to Grand-mère’s.” It wasn’t really a lie.
He shrugged, and the wagon slowed and then stopped.He gave the weed-choked driveway a thoughtful look. “Are you sure she lives up there? Doesn’t look as though anyone has been along there for a good long time.”
