“How did your painting go? A bull, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, a big ugly brute of a thing, with evil little eyes. Oh, you meant the bull, did you? I assumed you meant the farmer, seeing as you prefer painting people. No, the bull was quite handsome.”
She chuckled. The soft evening light slowly dimmed, wrapping around them as they walked. They talked about their day and about their paintings and the people. The dog zigzagged ahead, sniffing various fascinating scents and christening them, until he paused, ears pricked, and darted off into the scrub, presumably in search of his evening meal.
It felt like coming home. But she was supposed to be leaving soon.
She told Reynard about the widow LeBlanc and the stories she told. “It was sad, bittersweet, and yet so romantic. I couldn’t paint her late husband in, of course, but I did include the tippet he made for her. It’s not quite glossy enough. I’ll fix that tomorrow.”
“So it’s finished, then?”
“No. I’ll need another day at least.” And then she would leave.
She glanced at the large canvas bag he was carrying. It looked heavy. “Is that more paintings?”
He nodded. “Yes, I’m collecting them before the owners change their mind.” He gave her a quick grin. “Striking while the iron is hot. Besides, it will be easier if I frame them all in one go rather than bit by bit.”
When they got into camp, Reynard went to lock the old paintings in the big cupboard in the wagon while Zoë busied herself getting the fire going. Reynard had shown her how to set a fire and where to find the best wood to gather to keep it going, and she was quite proud of her new skill.
She was really starting to enjoy this life. Oh, there were inconveniences, to be sure—washing in the cold stream, having to fetch and heat water and so on, but she had memories of her childhood in the slums of London, when she and Maman had had no means of heating water or cooking and no place to wash except with a basin in their one room with cold water fetched from the neighborhood pump. And everywhere—except their own room—it was dirty, whereas here, out in nature, there was dirt all around them, but somehow it was clean dirt.
Clean dirt.She smiled to herself at that little piece of nonsense.
Even at the orphanage, she’d washed in cold water in a basin. The first ever proper bath she’d had—almost fully immersed, with warm water and delicious-smelling soap—was at Lady Scattergood’s home. The old lady loved her baths and wallowed in her large bathtub for an hour or more most days.
The first time Zoë had climbed into the bath, oh, it was heavenly. Betty, the maid, had even scrubbed her back for her, and afterward she felt so wonderfully clean from her head to her toes. Yes, she would miss baths, that was certain. But it was a small thing to miss.
She hung the small pot over the fire to heat, then fetched the rug and spread it out. The best part of the day was theevening, eating supper, drinking tea, or wine if they had it, and sitting by the fire with Reynard.
They talked—oh, of nothing special, really, but it was pleasant, and it flowed easily without her having to think up ways to make conversation, the way she so often did with strangers. He was no longer a stranger. Not quite a week they’d been together, but it felt almost as though she’d known him forever.
Which was foolish, because she still didn’t know very much about him. Even so, when she was with him, it felt as though she had a small bubble of happiness inside her.
Sometimes he told a funny story, often about his time in the army. He never referred to the grim times, and listening to his tales, one would be forgiven for thinking the war had been nothing but a series of entertaining japes. Though having been enlisted at sixteen and staying in the army until after Waterloo, and having been in “a dozen or so battles” and receiving what he’d called “a few scratches,” she knew full well that there must have been some utterly horrific times for a young boy.
And there were times during these quiet, companionable evening sessions when they hardly talked at all, and yet it wasn’t the slightest bit awkward, as silences could be. She would sit, gazing into the dancing flames and the glowing coals, and all that she could hear was the wind soughing through the leaves and the fire crackling and, in the distance, the call of a bird or some wild creature. She’d feel no obligation to break the peace of that silence. And neither would he.
But the thought of those three wives and the children ate at her. One night she asked him again, straight out. “Did you really marry three different women?”
He turned his head and looked at her. “No, of course I didn’t.” There was no twinkle in his eyes. His voice was quiet and matter-of-fact and sincere.
She was inclined to believe him.
“Then why…?”
He shrugged. “Strange as it sounds, there is an occasional woman who will go to extreme lengths to lure me into marriage. Saying I have three wives and a handful of children tends to discourage them.”
“So you didn’t marry three women?” She had to be sure.
“No.” He glanced at her and added, “My word of honor on it. Not even one woman.”
She blinked. “You’re not marriedat all?”
“No, not at all. I’m entirely single and fancy-free.” It was a flat statement of fact.
She believed him. He wasn’t just saying it to allay her qualms. After all, he’d made no attempt to seduce her. His treatment of her had, from the very beginning, been that of a gentleman, letting her sleep in safety in his wagon while he slept on the ground outside. He’d even stepped back from that kiss, when she had been more than willing to continue. They weren’t the actions of a seducer, or those of the kind of man who would deceive a woman into a bigamous marriage.
It was a weight off her mind. But now, knowing that he wasn’t married at all, and that the three wives story was a bit of nonsense he’d initially used to keep her at a distance, it became even more difficult to resist him.
