Lost in memories, Zoë found herself gazing blankly at the same page for ages. She set the book aside, reached for her sketchbook and pencil and began idly drawing, faces at first—they were her preference. She drew the tavern keeper’s wife and the baker and then Marie sitting nervously in thediligencecoach. Her pencil flew and she went into that dream state she so often did when she was working.
A rustle in the grass nearby startled her out of her reverie. She looked around anxiously—and saw a squirrel foraging for acorns. Smiling at her foolishness, she looked down at her page and found she’d drawn half a dozen sketches of Reynard.
OfReynard? What on earth had she been thinking? Granted, he had an interesting face, with those high cheekbones, firm chin, the dark lock of hair that fell over his forehead and those flashing blue eyes—and that smile of his that caused her insides to…She thrust the thought away.
Sixdrawings of him? Really? It was ridiculous.
Hastily, she turned over the page and did a quick sketch of the squirrel, and then one of Rocinante. She hardly everdrew animals these days—Lucy and Gerald had no pets—but she’d enjoyed drawing them when she’d lived with Lady Scattergood and her herd of little dogs.
The sun was low in the sky when she heard him return at last. He was whistling, obviously in a good mood. Would his mood change when he saw her there? She’d long since returned his book to the shelf and hidden her sketchbook. She wasn’t sure why she was being so secretive—he was just a vagabond. But he was an English vagabond and an artist, and somehow it felt wiser to conceal her true self from him.
There would be too many questions otherwise.
He appeared in the clearing, carrying the canvas bundle slung over his shoulder and a small iron pot in his hand. When he saw her standing uncertainly there, a wide white grin split his tanned face. “So, Mademoiselle Vita, you have elected to stay with Rocinante and me?”
“I hope you don’t mind. I did go to the village, and I asked about thediligence, and the woman said I’d missed it for this week. It passes through Nantes every Thursday. So, if it’s all right with you, I’ll stay a little longer. Do you mind?” For some reason she didn’t tell him about the miller’s son. Why, she wasn’t quite sure.
“Not at all, I’m delighted.” He glanced at the pile of wood beside the fire and said, “I see you’ve been busy. I don’t suppose you’ve cooked the dinner?”
“No, sorry.” Guilt flooded her. Of course she should have cooked something. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know a bit about cooking—they’d been taught the basics at the orphanage, and she’d picked up some fancy techniques when she’d first come to Lady Scattergood’s and spent time in the kitchen helping Cook. But cooking in the open over a campfire—she hadn’t even thought about it. “But I did buy some provisions—cheese, sausage, bread and a cheese-and-vegetable tart. And some wine.”
“Excellent. I hoped you might still be here. The farmer’s wife offered to feed me, but when I said I had to get back,she gave me some cassoulet”—he gestured with the small pot—“which is still warm and smells very tasty. Fetch the dishes, bread and wine and we’ll dine in style tonight. We can save the tart and sausage for tomorrow.”
He built up the fire and hung the cassoulet to warm while he checked on his horse. Zoë fetched the dishes and spread a rug for them to sit on. Every meal was a picnic with Reynard.
“How is your commission going?” she asked as he dished up the cassoulet, which was some kind of bean stew studded with pork, sausage and chicken and fragrant with herbs and garlic. It smelled absolutely delicious.
“Well enough. The pig is enormous.”
She almost dropped her spoon. “Thepig? You’re paintinga pig?”
He said in a mock-outraged voice, “What? You question the right of a pig to have his portrait taken, Mademoiselle Vita? I’m shocked, utterly shocked by your shameful ignorance.” His face was solemn but his eyes were dancing. “I’ll have you know, this pig—by name Le Duc de Gaudet—is no ordinary porker. He’s a champion pig, you understand, the finest pig in the district, sire of champion—and delicious—piglets by the dozen. Sows far and wide line up to be, um, introduced to him. And you question why such a noble creature should have his portrait painted?” He shook his head in deep, sorrowful reproach. She giggled.
In a more ordinary voice, he continued, “Gaudet, the farmer, is immensely proud of his pig, so much so that it was all I could do to persuade him to let me include his wife in the painting. He wanted the portrait to be just himself and his glorious pig.” He gestured with his spoon to the cassoulet. “Madame Gaudet was very grateful for the inclusion. She knows she comes second in importance to her husband’s pig.”
Zoë chuckled. “And the painting is coming along all right?”
He leaned forward and poured some more wine into her mug. “Yes, I’m quite fast. The background is easy—just the house and some trees. And the pig is looking good, if I say so myself. I’m good with animals.”
“And the farmer and his wife?”
He grimaced. “People are more difficult. But I’ll get there. I’ll fill in some more of the background this evening. It’s not so detailed that I’ll need much light.”
After dinner, while Zoë washed the dishes and put everything away, Reynard set up his easel and began to paint. “Could I see what you’re doing?” she asked diffidently.
Some people hated having their unfinished work observed, but he shrugged indifferently and said, “If you like. I have only the pig and the background at the moment. Gaudet and Madame Gaudet are just outlines at present. I’ll do them tomorrow.”
She walked around to look at the painting over his shoulder. The light was fading and he’d hung a lantern from a nearby tree. He was adding to the background, which, as he said, was not very detailed: a blur of greenery behind a whitewashed stone barn. As he’d said, he’d painted only the pig and the background so far—the farmer and his wife were just sketched in lightly.
The pig was good, quite lifelike, and huge, as he’d said. She smiled, recalling the creature’s grand name—the Duke of Gaudet.
As she watched, Reynaud dabbled several shades of paint on parts of the greenery, which gave the previous plain green vegetation fresh depth and texture. Next he feathered faint gray and light brown lines and light daubs of paint on the barn. Under her gaze the plain white surface took on the dips and shadows and rough surface of whitewashed stonework.
“That’ll do for tonight,” he said, and began to clean his brushes and pack them away.
“You’re good,” Zoë said, and he turned his head and grinned at her, a flash of white in the dying light.
“At some things.”
