“I only hunt for food, and then only when I need it.” When he was in the army, there’d been times when foodwas short, and then he’d happily hunted in order to fill the pot—rabbits and hares mostly and the occasional bird. And when he was traveling in France, it was the same thing.
She stared at him a moment. “But you can’t possibly be short of food.”
“I’m not, and so I don’t hunt.” He could see she was prepared to argue the point, so he continued, “I particularly don’t hunt for sport. I fail to see the sport in dozens of men and dogs chasing one small fox, making a great hullabaloo and careering all over the countryside, trampling crops and lord knows what else, all in the name of sport. So I won’t do it. Now, is that everything on your list?”
She glanced at her list and gave a grudging nod.
“Good, because I have a question for you.”
“A question forme?” She drew herself up, preparing to do battle again.
“Yes, that portrait you sent down here, the one you asked to be hung in the portrait gallery.”
“I know you don’t like it, but—”
“It’s a very good portrait.”
“Oh. Well, I thought it should be in the portrait gallery because—”
“I don’t give a hang where you choose to display it. It can stay there for all I care. You’ve contributed as much and a good deal more to the Foxton family than some of the wastrel ancestors whose portraits hang there in pride of place.”
Her jaw dropped open.
“What I want to know is the fellow’s name.”
“What fellow?”
“The chap who painted it.”
“It wasn’t a man, it was a chit of a girl.”
Julian stiffened. “Agirl? What girl?”
“An insolent baggage. You would not believe the cheek she gave me, always answering back and rarely with a civil response. I had to take a very firm line with her.”
“What girl?” he repeated. A girl? It had to be Vita, it had to be. “Was she French?”
“Of course she wasn’t French! Would I have my portrait painted by a Frenchwoman? I hope I’m more patriotic than that! What business is it of yours, anyway?”
“So she spoke to you in English?”
“Naturally.”
“Without any kind of accent?” he persisted.
She said impatiently, “She wasEnglish, Foxton. Do you think I can’t tell an English girl from a foreigner? And she spoke like a lady—though her manners were not those of a properly bred gel.” She narrowed her eyes. “Why do you want to know?”
He ignored that. “What was her name?”
“Her name?” She made a pettish gesture. “How would I know her name? I don’t bother with the names of such as she.”
There were times when he could happily strangle his grandmother. “But the signature, Z-B, you must know what it stands for.”
“Well, I don’t. All I know is that she was a brazen-faced hussy with no respect for her elders. But despite her attitude and her youth, she was a competent enough painter, I admit, although she charged me an arm and a leg for a perfectly ordinary painting.Andshe got my nose wrong, and so I told her at the time, but would she listen?” She snorted.
The nose was perfect, and the portrait as a whole was superb, Julian thought, but he harnessed his impatience and forced himself to say in a calmer voice, “How did you find her, Grandmama?”
She gave him a long narrow look, then made a vague gesture. “Oh, she’s some kind of protégée of Olive Barrington.”
