Would she go or would she stay?
She ought to go, she knew. The longer she stayed the harder it would be to leave him.
They hadn’t made love. But the more she thought about it, the more she wanted to, and hang the consequences. She’d heard an old lady say once that at the end of her life, it wasn’t the things she’d done that she most regretted, but the things she hadn’t done.
Love was always a risk, was it not?
Besides, she’d only just finished her courses, and she knew from Lucy’s long campaign to conceive that the middle time between her courses was the most likely. And if she did conceive, well, she would deal with that if it happened.
Did shehaveto leave on Thursday?
Once she left here she’d never see Reynard again, never see his smile, hear that deep voice and that irresistible chuckle. Or gaze into those eyes, those sparkling Mediterranean-blue eyes.
She’d be introduced to dozens of eligible young men and was expected to choose one for a husband. She owed it to everyone who’d helped her and who hoped for so much for her. And loved her.
But she couldn’t imagine feeling for those polite, pleasant, well-dressed young gentlemen anything like what she felt for Reynard.
One night for love. It wasn’t much to ask.
But would it be enough? What if she stayed for another week? She could. There was nothing urgent requiring her return.
She could write to Lucy and Gerald and tell them she was extending her stay. She could get a letter to the miller’s son today and he could post it in Nantes tomorrow in time for delivery to Paris by thediligence. Then they wouldn’t worry.
Yes, that’s what she would do. She sat down immediately and wrote to Lucy, explaining that she was going to be away another week, but not to worry, that she was safe and having a wonderful time.
She folded and sealed the letter. She would take it to the miller’s son before she went to the LeBlanc farm. And then she’d finish the painting.
And tonight she would invite Reynard into the wagon. A shiver of anticipation ran through her. She couldn’t wait.
“There,” Zoë said a couple of hours later. “It’s finished. You can look now, but don’t touch—the paint is still wet.” Madame LeBlanc and the children clustered excitedly around.
“Mon Dieu, do I really look like that?” Madame LeBlanc exclaimed.
Zoë gave her a sharp look, but by her expression the woman was pleased.
“You make me look almost pretty. So flattering.”
Zoë shook her head. “I paint what I see, madame. There is no flattery.” It was true. She admired this woman, battling on, keeping the farm going on her own while raisingthree children, and if that admiration was reflected in her painting, it was her truth she portrayed.
“Oui, Maman,” the little girl piped up.“Tu es très jolie, et moi aussi.”She jiggled happily up and down. The boys, too, seemed pleased with the portrait, but were much gruffer in their praise.
Madame LeBlanc laughed and hugged the little girl. She gazed at the painting for a long time, then wiped her eyes on her apron. “My Henri might be dead, but I can see him in my boys’ faces, so I have them all here for me now, all my family. And my little one can see what her papa looked like as a boy.Merci, mademoiselle, a thousand times. I shall treasure this painting forever.”
Zoë was touched by the woman’s sincerity and was delighted by her pleasure in the painting. “I’ll take it back to camp and when it’s dry—which might take a day or two—Reynard will frame it.”
Madame LeBlanc nodded. “Yes, he has my frame already. You will bring it, yes? I don’t need to come?”
Zoë smiled at her eagerness. “Yes, I will.” Because she was staying another week.
Later that afternoon, Reynard strolled into camp with his easel on his back and his large canvas holdall bulging, Hamish at his heels. “I’ve finished the LeBlanc painting,” she told him.
“Excellent. May I look now?”
“Of course.” She brought it out and gave it to him. He took it into the best light and examined it carefully, taking such a long time, she started to get quite nervous. Then he ran a hand through his thick, glossy hair and shook his head. “I don’t know how you do it. This is marvelous, Vita. You are so talented.”
She blushed, relieved and delighted by his praise.
He put it in the wagon. “I’ll be able to frame it as soon as it’s dry, along with the other paintings we’ve done. Tomorrow I’ll string up a canvas to work under and remove the old paintings. I framed Gaudet’s, but that was so he could show it to his friends, and thus drum up customers for us. But in general I prefer to frame them all in one go, rather than one at a time over a series of days. That’s why I’ve collected the frames.”
