“Yes, she left me, and now I’m all alone, rattling around this big old house with nobody to care for me. I might as well be a ghost.” She sighed again and shot Zoë a swift glance from under her heavy eyelids.
Izzy said, “Yes, all alone, you poor dear, apart from your butler, the cook, your dresser, several maids and a footman—and your six little dogs.”
The old lady snorted. “Servants don’t count. The dogs do, of course, but otherwise, I’m all alone.”
“Except for the visitors who call on you almost every day,” Clarissa said.
“Which include Clarissa and me,” Izzy added. “And then there are the friends who come to play cards with you most evenings.”
The old lady glared at them, sat up and stamped her cane. “Enough of your impudence, gels! It is quite clear to me that the only place for young Zoë to live is here, in her old room—which I have had especially redecorated for her. Almost three years ago I appointed her my official Artist inResidence, and that position has not changed. No, don’t argue—I have spoken!” She banged her cane on the floor again and sat back in her chair, having delivered her decree.
Zoë couldn’t help but smile. There was no sign now of the bereft, lonely old lady—here was the Lady Scattergood she knew and loved: autocratic and imperious. She might never leave her house, but within it she ruled like the empress she appeared.
She glanced at her sisters, who, smiling, both nodded their silent agreement. They’d obviously known what the old lady was going to say, and though they had both invited her to live with them, they’d all be living so close—just across the garden—that Zoë could see them whenever she wanted.
She came forward and hugged the old lady. “Lady Scattergood, I wouldloveto live here with you. Thank you so much.”
“Oh pish-tush! Lot of fuss about nothing. Of course you’ll live here with me! Never any question about it,” the old lady said gruffly, deeply pleased.
Clarissa said, “And since we’re all just a few steps across the garden, we can pop in and out as much as we want. And meet in the summerhouse as we always used to.”
“And, of course, Clarissa and I and our husbands will be on hand to escort you to all the various social events,” Izzy added, “so we won’t need to hire a chaperone.”
It was the perfect resolution, Zoë decided. She wouldn’t be underfoot in her sisters’ marriages, but would be able to see them whenever she wanted. Best of all, Lady Scattergood wouldexpect her to paint, whereas for her sisters, social occasions and the search for a husband would come before what they probably regarded as her hobby.
They didn’t yet understand how her time away and her lessons in painting from some of the best French painters—not to mention that magical week working with Reynard—had cemented in her the desire to become a professional artist.
With a heavy heart, Reynard gave up the search for Vita and returned to the village where they’d been working. It was the last thing he felt like doing, but he’d made commitments and needed to honor them. Besides, he’d left Hamish and his horse in the care of Madame LeBlanc’s son.
“So you didn’t find Mademoiselle Vita, then,” the innkeeper’s wife greeted him on his return.
“No.”
“You forgot the address of your uncle and aunt, then?” she added ironically.
“Of course I didn’t. She wasn’t there,” Reynard said crisply, and strode off to where he’d left his wagon, horse and dog. As he approached the LeBlanc farm a large creature burst from the bushes, almost knocking him over. Laughing, he scruffled his dog’s ruff and suffered some exuberant, sloppy licks in return.
The LeBlancs had taken good care of him; Hamish was in excellent condition, and not only had someone—he suspected the little girl—brushed his scruffy coat, but they’d carefully tied his fringe back with two pink ribbons. “Very fetching,” he told the dog, who snorted and shook his head vigorously. The ribbons failed to be dislodged.
Feeling better than he had in days—you could trust dogs at least—Reynard continued on to the farm, where he found Rocinante in excellent condition as well. Her hat had even been refreshed with some new flowers.
He thanked madame and her children for their care, and when madame refused the money he offered, he quietly tucked some notes under a pot of honey on the kitchen table and gave a few coins to each of the children.
But the questions didn’t stop. Like the innkeeper’s wife, Madame LeBlanc wanted to know where Vita was and why she’d run off without so much as a goodbye. She wasn’t subtle about it, either.
And later, as he reconnected with people who’d commissioned paintings from him, it seemed nobody had believed the “cousin” story, and they almost universally assumed that her abrupt disappearance was because of something he’d done. The implication was that he’d made unwelcome advances, and, being a good and virtuous girl, Vita had taken herself off to safety out of his lecherous reach.
Of course, he denied it, reiterating that she was his cousin, but the skeptical expressions told him how little that story was believed. And he couldn’t explain that she’d stolen one of the valuable old paintings, because he didn’t want them to start speculating about the true value of the paintings they so willingly exchanged.
Refusing to dwell on it, he got on with painting the replacements, and though it was clear that Vita was by far the better painter of people, he’d picked up a few techniques from watching her work, and the result, if not as good, was adequate enough. At least nobody complained. Not to his face.
It was lonely, working on his own again. It was ridiculous that he missed her so much when she had spent only a week with him, but somehow he did. He missed her in the morning, returning from her wash in the stream, her complexion bright and dewy, her gorgeous green eyes sparkling with life, then sipping her morning cup of tea with a blissful expression. She didn’t have a lot to say in the morning, which he liked. It was companionable and peaceful.
Most of all, he missed her in the evening, sitting by the fire, talking about their day, the firelight gilding her dark curls and turning her pure, pale skin peach and gold. She’dmade him laugh, too, with her stories and her pithy observations about the people she’d met. But now, thinking about it, though he’d told her a little of his own story, she’d told him almost nothing about herself.
He’d kept quite a bit back himself—things that were significant but, when he thought about it, not really important. Admittedly he’d bent the truth quite a bit. But then, so had she.
So he painted on alone. Of course, the dog kept him company, but there were times when Hamish’s eyes rested on him with what Reynard would swear was reproach. And no matter how many times he reminded himself that all dogs learned to do “reproach” as puppies, Hamish’s lugubrious expression and heavy sighs quite clearly conveyed that he was missing Vita and that he knew who was to blame.
