Zoë picked up her bundle, and half-blinded by tears, she ran toward thevillage.
Chapter Eight
Reynard woke later than usual: the sun was well up in the sky. It had taken him a long time to fall asleep; he’d been kept awake by thoughts that kept circling in his mind. He shouldn’t have let her go off to bed like that. He should have explained his point of view better, should have trusted her.
Not let her stagger into the wagon early, looking so devastated.
She was an honest girl. He’d seen that from the first.
He’d already decided to come clean to her and explain everything. He’d planned to do it that evening, by the fire, which was always so conducive to good conversation.
If only he hadn’t started removing the old paintings from their frames. It had totally disrupted his plan. She’d been shocked, deeply shocked, and terribly dismayed.
And he’d been so thrown, so disturbed by the strength of her reaction—and by her clear repudiation of him—that he’d just let her go to bed. Instead of which he should havesat her down by the fire, given her a glass of wine and explained.
He’d been a fool not to tell her everything in the first place. But he hadn’t known her then, and previous experience with women had taught him not to trust first impressions.
But Vita was different.
He wanted her, wanted her to be part of his life. Oh, he knew there would be problems, serious ones, but he didn’t care. She was what he wanted.
He lit the fire and put the water on to heat. Where was she, anyway? She was usually up by now. Though, come to think of it, she’d probably slept badly, too. The thing that had finally helped him to sleep was the warm weight of Hamish, lying against his spine.
He glanced around, suddenly aware that the dog was missing. No doubt off hunting for his breakfast. Reynard busied himself preparing breakfast.
The water boiled, but instead of making tea, he decided it was time to shave. If he was going to put the question to her, it would surely be better not to look like a shabby, unshaven vagabond.
He shaved, enjoying the feel of a clean, smooth jaw. He boiled a fresh pot of water but delayed making the tea. He didn’t want it to stew, and she still hadn’t emerged from the wagon. She wasn’t usually such a late sleeper. Was she ill?
Or perhaps still upset after last night’s quarrel?
He knocked on the door. “Vita?”
There was no answer. He knocked again, but…nothing. He tried the door. It swung open. But last night she’d bolted it against him; he’d heard the snick of the bolt—felt it—and was ashamed at his harsh words.
That wounded look in her eyes when she realized the paintings were looted, that people she’d known and liked had looted them from the homes of aristos. It had flicked him on the raw, and he’d been defensive and somehow angry. He’d spoken harshly, he realized, partly in anger at herexpression of wounded innocence, of silent accusation. How could she not have known the history of her own country?
Though, of course, she was young. And most people preferred to sweep the ugliness of the past under the carpet, pretending it had never happened. And that none of them had been involved. They did, however, like the advances that had come with the revolution, the fairer laws, especially for poor people.
Of course he hadn’t explained what he was doing, just that he swapped old paintings for new. But how had she not guessed?
That look in her eyes as she’d stared at Madame LeBlanc’s painting, it still haunted him.
Was she perhaps washing in the stream, as was her habit? Had he somehow missed her exit from the wagon?
He climbed into the wagon and looked around.
Everything was neat and clean. None of her things were hanging on their usual hooks. Nothing of hers was visible. She’d gone. But on the neatly made bed lay the half-rolled paintings. He picked them up. And swore.
There should have been three paintings, but there were only two. He could hardly believe his eyes. One of the valuable old paintings was missing—the one from the widow LeBlanc.
She’dstolenit! He checked again, and yes, it was true: his “honest” little artist had vanished, taking with her one of his more valuable paintings. Damn it all!
Thank goodness the others had been locked in the cupboard.
Though, why hadn’t she taken the other two paintings? Did she think she was entitled to that one because she had painted its replacement? They never had come to any agreement. Why hadn’t she talked to him about it?
He sat down heavily on the bunk, holding the roll of canvas in nerveless hands. How could she? He’d trusted her. Been sure they were fall—becoming closer.
