There was no real hurry. Marie would be in Paris by now and Lucy would have taken her in. And Lucy didn’t know what Zoë was doing. She wouldn’t be expecting Zoë until the house party ended the following week, and Zoë would be back in Paris before then.
“I’ll stay,” she told him. “At least until I’ve done the dishes.”
He nodded. “And make sure Rocinante has water, please. And that she doesn’t get tangled in her tether.” Heslung an ingenious device, which held his easel, onto his back, hesitated, then put down his holdall. “If you do decide to leave after all, thank you for your company, mademoiselle. It has been a pleasure knowing you.” To her surprise, he took her hand and planted a light kiss on it. “Au ’voir, Mademoiselle Vita.”
At the touch of his lips on the back of her hand, she felt a warm shiver go through her. She stood still, watching him stroll away.
Chapter Four
Zoë washed the breakfast dishes, checked on Rocinante, who was placidly cropping grass, and repacked her bundle. She glanced around the campsite and noticed the folded pile of blankets that Reynard had slept in. She placed them inside the wagon—the sky was clear, but it might rain—and took a final, wistful look around.
Wistful?She took herself to task over the thought. Really, she had no good reason to stay. Yes, she was quite enjoying the carefree life of a vagabond, and Reynard was attractive and good company, but there was no future for her here, no real reason to stay on.
She picked up her bundle and walked into the village. It took longer than she expected, and her feet were sore by the time she arrived, and the blister worse, despite the ointment she’d rubbed on it. There were perhaps twenty whitewashed cottages, built around a square, lined with well-swept cobblestones. A round stone well stood in the center of the square, with a wrought iron frame above holding thewinding system. On the hill overlooking the village there stood a small, ancient-looking church.
On the far side of the square she spied a tavern with an iron sign hanging above the door, declaring it to be Le Poisson Rouge. Several tables and benches had been set outside, and a motherly-looking woman bustled about, scrubbing the tables down. Zoë approached her. She turned out to be the tavern keeper’s wife and was full of local information.
“Thediligence, mademoiselle? Oh, but you must go to Nantes, the next big town, to catch it. How far? Maybe seven or eight hours if you are walking. A ride?” She pursed her lips, thinking, then gave Zoë a searching look and shook her head. “To be sure, I know several people who will be traveling to Nantes, but I would not recommend them to a pretty young demoiselle traveling alone—you are alone, are you not?”
Zoë nodded.
Again the woman shook her head. “Then no, there is nobody I would recommend. But I will ask around. In any case, you have missed thediligencefor this week—it only passes through Nantes on a Thursday around noon, so you have plenty of time to get there.”
So, the decision was made for her, Zoë thought. There was no point moving on just yet. She was safe and comfortable and enjoying Reynard’s company. She would stay another few days.
“You might try the miller’s son,” the woman added on an afterthought. “He takes a load to Nantes every Thursday morning. He’s a good lad, a little simple and slow, but safe and a reliable ride. I’m sure he’d be happy to take you with him.”
Zoë thanked the woman, and, once she’d learned where she could find the miller and his son, asked her advice on purchasing some supplies. If she was going to stay with Reynard for the best part of a week—and he’d stressed shewas welcome to—it was only fair that she shared the costs, even if the farmer’s wife was feeding them.
“Alas, mademoiselle, you have missed market day, but if you try that house, and that”—she pointed—“they will sell you good cheese, and that one makes very good sausages. And in the house with the blue half door, open at the top, you will find the baker. As for vegetables or eggs, those you must get from farms. Just ask. Most people here produce what they need to live, and what they don’t produce, they buy at the weekly market, which is finished for this week.”
Again Zoë thanked her, and in gratitude bought a couple of bottles of the local wine from her. Following her directions, she soon found the miller and learned that his son, Jean-Paul, would be happy to take her with him. He left around dawn every Thursday and would get her to Nantes in good time for thediligence.
She left the village feeling satisfied with her discoveries and laden with provisions: a round yellow cheese, several fat, spicy sausages—saucissons secs—a cheese, leek and egg tart and two long, thin loaves of fresh, crusty bread as well as the wine. The bread was still warm and smelled glorious. Unable to resist, she broke off a piece of the crust and ate it.
Truth to tell, she wasn’t at all averse to spending more time with Reynard. He was very good company and he didn’t make her at all uncomfortable. In fact, she found him fascinating, far more interesting and attractive than any of the gentlemen she’d met at the social occasions she’d attended in Paris.
In truth, she was enjoying herself more than she had in ages. Nobody had any expectations of her, and wasn’t that a wonderfully freeing feeling?
She limped along, observing some of the things that Reynard had pointed out to her the day before.
By the time she reached the wagon, she’d eaten almost a quarter of the smaller loaf. There was no sign of Reynard, so after checking that the horse still had water and was not tangled in her tether, she tended her blister, which had burst. It would heal more quickly now.
Then she cut herself several slices of the spicy sausage and some cheese and bread and put the rest away in the wagon. It was a simple lunch but delicious.
What to do next? The fire had died, so she decided to make herself useful and went looking for fallen branches and twigs for fuel. She made a sizable pile, then settled down to read. Thinking of the horse, Rocinante, she selectedDon Quixote, which she’d started reading several years before with Lady Scattergood but had never finished.
She found a cozy spot under a tree taking the book, as well as her sketchpad and pencils in case she felt like drawing something. She read for a while, but though her reading had improved hugely in the last few years, under first Lady Scattergood’s mentorship then Lucy’s, some books were still heavy going.
Zoë had come to reading late in life. Her mother read and spoke French, of course, but having arrived in England as an eleven-year-old refugee, alone and unsupported, her education had stopped in favor of scraping a living. And once Zoë came along, there was barely enough money to feed them both, let alone educate her. Maman had done her best to pass on what knowledge she had, but that was all.
Zoë had always adored her mother, but now, having seen where she came from, and thinking about the life Maman had lived once she came to England, she marveled anew at how she had survived, against all the odds. From the age of eleven.
She knew—Maman had told the stories often enough—how she’d first started drawing pictures in chalk on the footpath. Later, when she could afford paper and pencils, she’d drawn portraits. They weren’t very good, Mamansaid, but people were generous toward a young girl, and eventually her activities drew the attention of a real artist, who hired her as a model. Which had become her main source of income.
Eventually that had led to her meeting and becoming the mistress of Sir Bartleby Studley, Zoë’s father. Who’d abandoned her the minute her pregnancy started to show, the swine.
Then, when Zoë was twelve, Maman died, and Zoë was placed in an orphanage, where the education the girls received was wholly devoted to training them as obedient servants or wives.Reading and writing is quite unnecessary for orphan gels, the matron, Miss Glass, used to say. Silly old bag! It had been her sisters and old Lady Scattergood and now Lucy who had taught her to read and write with relative ease. And to read for enjoyment.
