By late afternoon, Reynard had sketched in the widow and her children, aged twelve, ten and six, painted the dog and the background and took notes for Vita. The children were unable to stay still for long, and he could tell the widow was getting anxious about doing nothing for several hours. She ran both the farm and the household on her own, with the help of the children, so her work was really cut out for her. So after roughing in their poses on the canvas, he did a pencil sketch of each of them.
He didn’t know why, but for some reason he could draw faces quite well, but when it came to painting them…He shook his head. He would watch Vita when she did them and hope to pick up some of her techniques.
When he had done as much as he could, Reynard returned to the camp carrying, along with his easel, paints and other supplies, the rolled-up old canvas from the Gaudets, another gold-framed painting from a neighbor, and a warm rabbit pie. It smelled divine—the widow was a good cook.
The neighbor had marched into the widow’s yard, carrying the large painting and demanding Reynard paint himand his prize bull. He had just seen the portrait of Gaudet’s pig.
Delighted to oblige—especially after seeing the painting the man was offering in exchange—Reynard accepted the commission. He wrapped both framed paintings in an old cloth given to him by the widow. She hadn’t wanted her frame chipped or damaged.
When he walked into the camp laden with paintings, paint supplies, pie and more, the dog and Vita flew to meet him. “Good heavens, what have you got there?” she said, relieving him of the pie. “Is this from Madame Gaudet? Were they happy with the painting?”
“Ecstatic,” he said. “And no, the pie is from another woman, our next client. Down, Hamish, this pie is not for dogs!” he added to the dog in English. Hamish far from being wary and lugubrious, was now frolicking around him like a puppy.
Vita laughed. “He’s really coming out of his shell, isn’t he? Yesterday he seemed quite an elderly dog, but now, with several good feeds, a wash and some love and care, I’ve decided he’s much younger than we thought. Shall we eat this pie now while it’s still warm?”
Reynard set down his burdens and, laughing, gave the dog a good scruff around the head and neck. Then he took the wrapped framed paintings and Gaudet’s rolled-up canvas into the wagon, placed them carefully in the big cupboard and locked it.
She watched curiously, but didn’t comment or ask.
He headed for the campfire, running his hands together. “I’m parched.”
“Me, too. The water is boiling. I thought you’d want tea when you got back.” She’d placed the pie by the fire to keep warm. The teapot, tea caddy and mugs were set out ready, but she hung back, apparently waiting to let him make the tea.
He warmed the teapot. “Why didn’t you make some yourself?”
She made a self-deprecating sort of moue. “Tea is expensive. I didn’t like to presume.”
Shaking his head in wry amusement, Reynard made the tea. The girl was full of contradictions. She could paint over his painting without a by-your-leave, and yet she wouldn’t presume to make herself a cup of tea.
“I have two more commissions,” he told her as he poured the tea.
Her face lit up. “Oh, Reynard, that’s wonderful.”
He grinned. “You’ve brought me luck, Mademoiselle Vita-from-the-Latin. I started one painting today—it’s of a widow and her three children. And dog. I’ve roughed out most of it, but I thought you could work your magic on the woman and children.”
She beamed at him. “So you truly didn’t mind my interference, then? You weren’t just being polite? Of course, I’d be delighted to help.”
He sipped his tea. “We could do this permanently, you know—collaborate, I mean. I do the background and animals and you do the people.”
The sparkle in her eyes died. “It’s very kind of you, but I’m only here for a short time.”
He frowned. “You mean you’re still planning to go to Paris?”
She nodded.
He pursed his lips. It was one thing for her to think about going to the city when she’d just been sacked and learned her grandmother was dead and she had nowhere to go, but for the last few days things had been going so well. He’d been sure she was enjoying this life of his. She was an innocent from the country and had no idea that in Paris, she’d be taking herself into a den of lions. Worse.
“But you know no one in Paris. You have nowhere to go and nobody to help you. You don’t even have a job, and without a character reference you’re not likely to get one.” He shook his head and added, “No doubt you’ve formedsome romantic image in your head of Paris, but it’s not like that, I promise you. The city is a jungle and full of dangers, especially for young women on their own.” Especially beautiful young women.
She lifted a shoulder. “Nevertheless, I am going.” She didn’t meet his eyes.
The strength of his desire to keep her with him shocked him a little. How could he persuade her? She was safe here with him. And they’d been happy, hadn’t they?
Ah well, there was still time to change her mind. “I thought you could come to the widow’s farm and paint her. You don’t have to. I made a few sketches of her and the children, but I thought it would be easier for you to see them in the flesh.”
She cut a large slice of the pie, slid it onto a plate and handed it to him. “You wouldn’t mind her knowing that I do some of the painting?”
He shook his head. “People’s opinions of me don’t matter. What counts is the quality of the final painting, and we both know that if you paint the people, it will be better. We’ll go to the farm after we’ve eaten.”
