She shook her head. “No, I think I’ll stay and have a bath.”
He smiled. “I wish I could provide you with a proper hot bath. Perhaps another time. Meanwhile, the stream is clean and bracing. Do you want me to stay while you bathe?”
“No, it’s all right. Hamish will look after me.”
His smile deepened. “I wasn’t thinking of privacy, but you’re right, it’s too cold to spend time frolicking in a stream. In summer, now”—he bent and gave her a swift kiss—“it’s a pleasure we can look forward to.” He leapt lightly down from the van and disappeared.
She lay there for a while, dreaming in her warm nest of bedclothes, then finally gathered herself and her clothing together—and the sheet that showed a few spots of blood—and headed for the stream. He was right, it was very cold, so she bathed swiftly, using the last of her sister’s lovely soap. Hamish watched, his expression mildly bemused at this unnatural fondness for soap and water.
She washed the sheet, scrubbing out the bloodstains—cold water was good for that, at least—then wrung it out and draped it over the line Reynard had strung behind the caravan, along with her underclothes. Then she waited for Reynard to return.
He returned late in the afternoon, walking into the camp, whistling, his large canvas bag slung over his shoulder. He greeted her with a smile and a kiss that left her shivering with desire. She couldn’t wait for tonight.
First he set up a kind of trestle table, then collected some of the paintings he’d stored in the caravan, stacking them on their sides, large paintings in ornate gold-leafed frames.
Then, working methodically, he placed the largest painting face down on the trestle table and removed first the backing, then the painting from its frame. He carefully lifted out the canvas and laid it aside, face up.
Curiously Zoë wandered over to look at it—and gasped.
He glanced at her and gave a quick smile. “What do you think?”
She didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure what she thought. The painting was old, beautifully painted and undoubtedly valuable. It depicted a sumptuously dressed man with flowing dark locks and a pointed beard. He was reclining comfortably on a chair, partially wrapped in a red velvet cloak. You could almost feel the rich softness of the velvet. Scattered carelessly around him were several small statues, a bust, aglobe and various tapestries and paintings—the possessions of a rich, cultured man.
She wasn’t sure, but she thought it might be by Charles Le Brun. She’d seen several of his paintings in her studies with Lucy in the last few years.
How had a painting of this quality ended up in a farmer’s house? And why on earth would a farmer be willing to swap it for a much less skillful painting? Reynard’s work was quite good, but this was by the hand of a master.
Reynard straightened and saw her still staring. He gestured at the painting. “What do you think?”
“I’m not sure. Is this the painting you got from your bull farmer?”
“Yes. Isn’t it a beauty?”
She frowned. “It’s magnificent. But I don’t understand. Where did he get it from?”
He shrugged carelessly. “No idea. I didn’t ask. Not my business.”
She said slowly, “I’m not sure, but I think it’s quite valuable.”
He gave her an enigmatic look. “You think so, eh?”
She nodded, gaining confidence in her judgment. “I’m sure of it. So if the farmer didn’t want it, why didn’t he sell it? For actual money?”
Again Reynard made a careless gesture. “Who knows how people’s minds work? Maybe it was too much trouble—presumably he’d need to go to Paris to find a buyer, and that’s a long way to travel. And even if he did, where would a simple country farmer start? The point is, he didn’t want it—said he was sick of looking at some rich old dead aristo showing off his treasures and would rather have a good honest painting of what’s important to him—himself and his bull. So he was happy to swap an old painting for a new one—as long as he kept the frame. Me, I don’t look gift horses in the mouth.”
She gave him a troubled look. “But doesn’t he realize it might be worth a lot of money?”
Reynard shrugged. “It’s not for me to tell him what to do. I offered to swap old paintings for new, and he liked the bargain.”
“But…”
He turned away. “I’m not going to argue about this, Vita. He gave me this painting, and in return I will give him one he much prefers.” He turned to the next ornately framed painting and set about removing the old painting that was in it.
Zoë watched, even more troubled. It was also valuable, she was sure. She didn’t recognize the artist, but again, it portrayed people she was sure could have nothing to do with a rustic farmer: a family group this time, the woman in silks and embroidered satins, laden with jewels, her hair piled high and powdered. Her husband, too, wore satin and lace and an ornate powdered wig. Several beautifully dressed children were posed around them, children she was sure had never lived on a farm in their lives.
“But you can’t do that! These are valuable paintings, I’m certain of it.”
“Value is in the eye of the beholder.” His voice was indifferent.
