Chapter Two

Five hours later she was starting to limp. The sun overhead beat down relentlessly. The road was dusty, the fields on one side were filled with serried rows of grapevines and on the other, open fields bordered by a thick hedge. There was no sign of the next village. Zo? was wearing her own leather half boots—Marie’s feet were too large for an exchange of footwear—but they were new, and she’d never had to walk very far in them. She was hot and thirsty and a blister was starting.

Cursing herself for not planning this better, she brightened when she heard the sound of water nearby. Pushing through the long grass and weeds that lined the road, she came across a little stream, burbling clear and fast over a bed of smooth stones.

She scooped up a few mouthfuls of the water, then splashed some on her face and carefully washed her scratched arms. She pulled off her boots and stockings and plunged her aching feet into the blissfully cool water. She lay back, her eyes closed, enjoying the sunshine now that her thirst was quenched and her feet were cooling.

“Blisters, eh?” The deep voice startled her. She snatched up her boots and stockings, ready to run.

In careful French the man said, “Your feet, they are sore, mademoiselle, n’est-ce pas ?”

He stood a dozen yards away, tall, lean and tanned, his jaw dark with several days’ worth of whiskers. He wore no hat. His nose was bold, his hair dark brown, untidy and overlong. He was dressed simply in worn trousers and a faded blue shirt, open at the neck to reveal a strong column of tanned throat. His eyes were the color of his shirt—no, the color of the sea, the Mediterranean Sea.

Gerald had taken her and Lucy to the South of France one summer, and Zo? had been amazed and entranced by the color of the sea there. When she’d last seen it, the English Channel had been gray and sullen, like tarnished silver, but the Mediterranean had sparkled between green and turquoise.

She’d never seen eyes that color.

She was hard put to place him. He was English, she could tell by his accent, not to mention his initial comment, which she hadn’t noticed at first was in English, and he carried himself with unconscious assurance, but he didn’t look like a gentleman, or even a farmer. Romany, perhaps? Though he didn’t look or sound like any of the Romany she’d seen. He was English, surely.

He smiled, a slash of brilliant white in his tanned face, and she swallowed. He was very good-looking. “Don’t worry,” he said in his accented French, “I did not intend to um, disturber ? no, déranger you. I just came to fetch water for my horse and me.” He held up a small blackened pot and a bucket. “I’m making tea.”

Tea? She would kill for a cup of tea.

He swished the bucket and the pot through the clear water, and lifted them, dripping. He turned to leave, then said, “Perhaps you’d care to join me for a cup of tea, mademoiselle?” And then he added to himself in English, “Probably not. You French don’t much care for tea, do you?”

Zo? hesitated—he was an unshaven, shabbily dressed stranger and they were all alone in the middle of nowhere. And after what had happened earlier, she ought to avoid him, but he was just one man, and for some reason she didn’t feel threatened by him. Perhaps it was his Englishness, or maybe that smile of his. Or his blue—sea-blue eyes. Or the offer of tea. It seemed somehow…civilized.

Nevertheless, she would not be foolish: caution must prevail. She would love a cup of tea, but she would keep her distance. And she would not confess her own Englishness—that might spark awkward questions. In French she said, “ Merci , monsieur, it is very kind of you.”

He smiled again, and again she swallowed. “Excellent. I will be over there”—he gestured—“with my horse and wagon.”

Zo? dried her feet and put her stockings and boots back on. She picked up a large stone—it would be a weapon of sorts if she needed one—then went to find him. A thin column of smoke guided her to a shady overhang in a small clearing beside the road. She reached the edge of the clearing and halted at the sound of someone talking.

A rawboned old horse stood beside a covered wagon that had once been painted in bright colors, but which were now faded. She almost laughed aloud at the sight of his horse. An unprepossessing creature, it wore a battered straw hat decorated with faded old fabric flowers. Its ears poked through two holes in the hat. The animal was old and bony, but its coat was clean and seemed well groomed.

She couldn’t see anyone else, and she quickly realized that the man was talking to his horse. He’d placed the bucket of water in front of it, but the animal showed no inclination to drink. “Not good enough for you, is it?” He addressed it in English. “Or are you demonstrating an adherence to that irritating proverb? But I didn’t lead you to water, I brought the water to you ! At great personal effort. And good sparkling, clear water it is, too, so why would you turn your nose up at it? Perverse and ungrateful, that’s what you are, my lady.”

The horse tossed its head then nudged his pocket.

“Oh-ho, like that, is it? You want more oats? Cupboard love, that’s what it is.” He scratched the horse’s long nose. “And don’t bat those preposterously long lashes at me, I’m impervious to your wiles. You know perfectly well that you’ve already had your oats for the day. It’s grass for you now, my girl.”

The horse nudged him again, and the man rubbed the animal’s nose, saying, “You are aware, I suppose, that most women would kill for lashes like that, aren’t you? You certainly make good use of them. But are you grateful? Not in the least. Shameless, that’s what you are, as well as perverse and greedy.”

Zo? stifled a giggle. It was quite charming, the one-sided conversation with the ancient, rawboned horse in the silly hat. But he spoke with no particular regional accent, which gave her no clue as to where in England he came from. Another reason to hide her Englishness from him.

The horse nudged him again, and he said severely, “Oh very well, you insatiable female.” He pulled a handful of grain from his pocket and fed it to the horse.

Somehow the silly hat on the old horse and the way the man talked to it made her feel safer. And it was all in English, so presumably he didn’t expect anyone overhearing it to understand, so he wasn’t putting on a show.

He left the horse and checked the fire. The small pot he’d filled earlier hung from a metal tripod set up over the flames. Steam rose from it.

She moved closer, still keeping the stone hidden in the folds of her skirt, though she no longer expected to have need of it. Nevertheless, caution prevailed.

He turned his head, saw her and smiled. That smile again. It was irresistible: she found herself smiling back. He gestured to the steaming pot and said in French, “Not long now. Come and sit down.” He patted the grass beside him.

She sat down opposite him, keeping the fire between them. She gestured to the wagon. “You are Romany?”

“No, I bought it from them, though. The horse, too. Paid too much for them both, but still, it gets me from place to place in comfort, if not in style. Ah, there we are, it’s boiling.” He carefully unhooked the little pot from the tripod, poured a little water into a battered enamel teapot and swished it around. Warming the pot. His hands were shapely but strong and deft.

Then he spooned three generous spoonfuls of tea into the pot.

Zo? blinked. Three heaped spoonfuls? Tea was expensive. He poured boiling water into the teapot. She caught a whiff of tea. It smelled wonderful.

While they waited for the tea to steep, he squatted on his heels and said, “So, have you come far?”

“Just from the last village.”

“A hot day for walking.”

“Yes, I was pleased to come across that stream.”

The tea being sufficiently steeped, he produced two tin mugs and poured the tea. “Sugar?” He held up a small tin that rattled.

She nodded. “One lump, if you please. And do you have any milk?”

He grimaced. “Sorry. Don’t take it myself, but if I see a cow…” He winked.

He approached her, mug in hand, then put out his free hand as if to touch her head. Zo? flinched, ducked and scuttled backward.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said mildly. “I was just going to remove the leaves from your hair.”

“Leaves?” She ran her fingers through her hair and found several dead leaves. She brushed them free, then sat down again.

His eyes ran over her and she suddenly felt quite self-conscious. “You’re a little sunburned, too.” He passed her the mug. “You don’t have a hat?”

“No, I was wearing a headscarf, but I lost it when— I lost it.” She took the mug, and wrapped her fingers around it, inhaling the fragrance. She sipped the tea slowly. It was glorious even without the milk—hot and strong and sweet, just the way she liked it. French people did drink tea, of course, but not quite like this. They had a preference for coffee, and herbal teas and tisanes, which she enjoyed, but sometimes she just craved plain English-style tea.

He watched her curiously. “In my experience not many French people like tea—at least not the way I make it.”

No doubt the people he met were poor and couldn’t afford it. But all she said was “It’s delicious. Thank you so much.”

While she savored the tea, he produced a loaf of bread and proceeded to cut several slices, to which he added some cheese and a few slices of ham. Zo?’s stomach rumbled. She hoped he hadn’t heard it, but without asking, he passed her a thick slice of bread topped with cheese and ham, saying, “Here. I usually have a bit of something to eat with my tea. No biscuits, I’m afraid.”

“This is wonderful, thank you.” They ate in silence, gazing into the flames of the fire. She kept darting glances at him. He had an interesting face. She wouldn’t mind drawing him. No, painting him. Those eyes…

When he’d finished, he lifted the teapot. “A top-up?”

She nodded and he shared the rest of the tea between them. Once they’d finished, he tossed the dregs onto the fire, which startled Zo?. Was he not going to reuse the tea leaves? Maman had always been very frugal with tea, and had reused the tea leaves at least once. But this vagabond was oddly extravagant. Wasteful. Generous.

Was it because he was a man and knew no better? Household thrift was usually the province of women. She watched as he used the rest of the water and what remained in the horse’s bucket to put the fire out completely.

He swiftly packed everything away and said, “Now, can I offer you a lift?”

Zo? hesitated.

“Just to the next village if you like,” he said. And then, when she still hesitated, he added, “You’ll be perfectly safe, my word of honor on it.”

That was all very well, but how could she know whether he had any honor to base his word on? A man might be handsome and charming and still be untrustworthy.

But her feet were still aching, the blister was stinging and now that the sun was high in the sky it was even hotter. Besides, he’d been nothing but kind so far. And she still had her stone.

“Thank you,” she said. “It’s very kind of you.”

He smiled. “Then, since we will be fellow travelers, we’d better introduce ourselves.” He gave a funny little bow. “I am Reynard.”

Interesting. Reynard meant “fox.” It was clearly a made-up name, perhaps a kind of warning. That he was cunning and without scruples?

Two could play at that game. “I am Vita,” she told him.

“That means ‘life,’ does it not?”

She nodded. “From the Latin, I am told.” Zo? also meant “life,” only it was from the Greek.

“An interesting name.” For a maidservant, he meant.

She lifted an indifferent shoulder. “My mother’s employer named me.”

“Well then, mademoiselle Vita-from-the-Latin, I will just harness Rocinante here and then we’ll be on our way.” He led the horse to the wagon and backed her into the shafts.

“Rocinante?” She gave a choke of laughter. It was perfect. Except that the original Rocinante was male.

He raised an eyebrow. “You are familiar with Don Quixote ?”

“Who? No.” She shook her head. “Just that it’s a funny name.” A French country maidservant would be unlikely to know the Cervantes novel. She only knew it because Lady Scattergood had gotten her to read it aloud. “And I was thinking of her hat.”

“Rocinante might be old, but she’s an elegant lady. I would offer you her hat, only she would miss it,” he said so seriously that she laughed again.

Recognizing the name had been a careless slip. They would be able to communicate much more easily in English—his French was confident, but fairly basic, and when he was stuck for a word, he had a tendency to Frenchify an English one, which she found quite entertaining. But as long as she maintained her role as a poor country girl, she couldn’t admit to any knowledge of English, let alone familiarity with a classic of Spanish literature.

A maidservant traveling alone by foot would not engender much curiosity; a young English lady traveling alone through the French countryside would certainly be cause for speculation. And Zo? wished to remain anonymous.

Her pilgrimage was personal and private and nobody else’s business. Besides, she might cry, and she didn’t want anyone to witness that. She hadn’t cried since Maman died.

He gave Zo? a thoughtful look, fed Rocinante an apple core and finished fastening the traces. Then he leaned inside the wagon and brought out a man’s hat.

“You’re getting sunburned,” he explained as he held it out to her. “It’s not as elegant as Rocinante’s but it’s all I have.”

He was right. She could feel the sun tightening her skin. She glanced inside the hat, but it seemed quite clean and unstained. His hair was also clean and glossy. She put it on, and then laughed as it slid down until it rested on her nose. “Thank you. It’s a bit too big, but it will do for the moment.” She twisted her hair into a knot and tucked it into the hat, which cooled her neck and helped position the hat so she could see.

He donned another hat, this one quite disreputable-looking, climbed up on the wagon and held out a hand first to take her bundle, then to help her up. She grasped it and felt a slight frisson at the skin-to-skin contact. His hand was warm and strong and he lifted her to the seat without apparent effort. Wiry strength, not meaty muscle.

They set off, Rocinante at a steady amble. Still feeling a little wary, she perched on the very edge of the seat, her bundle between them, close at hand.

“We don’t go fast,” he commented, “but we get there in the end. And the scenery is beautiful.”

“Beautiful?” It was all just hedges—not exactly neat, at that—and beyond them fields and rows and rows of grapevines.

He glanced at her and gave a soft huff of laughter. “I don’t suppose a country girl would see anything special in it, but I like to observe the birds and small creatures. Hear that?” He tilted his head. “Those are chaffinches, and if you look carefully, you’ll see them—they’re probably nesting in that hedge there.” Then he pointed to the sky. “And there’s a pair of hawks, looking for their next meal.”

She looked and saw two birds high in the sky—just dots, really—gliding effortlessly. As she watched, one of them suddenly plummeted like a falling stone. She gasped, thinking it was about to crash into the ground, but at the very last minute it swooped back up and flew off, some small, doomed creature wriggling in its beak.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” he murmured. “I could watch them for hours.”

“Mm.” She was wondering about the poor little wriggling thing.

He glanced at her and smiled. “Nature isn’t softhearted, and neither are we.”

She sighed. “I know. But I’d rather not watch.” Which was a bit cowardly of her, she knew.

The wagon rumbled on. They rode in silence, and Zo? started to relax.

“So, Mademoiselle Vi— Oops!” The wagon hit a pothole and jolted so hard that Zo? was almost thrown from her seat. His arm shot out and wrapped around her waist, pulling her to safety.

“ M-merci ,” she gasped.

“Sorry, I should have spotted that hole. Still, no damage done.”

His arm was still around her waist, warm and strong, her bundle squashed between them. She moved a little uncomfortably, and he seemed to notice where his arm rested and withdrew it immediately. “You shouldn’t sit so close to the edge. This road is full of potholes and I might not be so quick to catch you next time.”

She nodded and moved a few inches closer to him. He glanced at her and chuckled. “I won’t bite, you know.” He gave her a droll look and added, “Not unless you want me to.”

It was just harmless flirting, she knew, so, feeling a little foolish, she moved another few inches closer and placed her bundle on her lap. She was probably being overcautious, but her earlier experience with the three men had rattled her.

“Would you like to pop that in the back?” He indicated a small trapdoor behind him.

“No, thank you. It’s fine where it is. What were you going to say before we hit that pothole?” she asked, striving for a little normality.

“Oh yes, I was wondering, Mademoiselle Vita-That- Means-Life, how does a young woman like you come to be all on her own, walking along a lonely country lane?”

She was ready for the question. “I was dismissed from my post.”

“Which was?”

“I am— I was a maidservant in a big house.” Borrowing Marie’s story as well as her clothes.

He gave her a searching sideways look, as if assessing her afresh.

Not wanting to be taken for a thief or anything, she added, “Because my mistress is stupid, and her son is a nasty lustful pig, and when he tried to…you know, I—I hit him. Hard. Where it hurts most. And of course they blamed me, so I was dismissed.”

He gave a shout of laughter. “Good for you. So now, where are you headed? Home to your family?”

She shook her head. “No family.” And then, realizing it might not be clever to admit that she was alone in the world, she added, “Just my grandmother. I’m going to stay with her.”

“And where does she live?”

“Not far.” She gestured vaguely ahead. It was one thing to obtain directions, but they’d turned out to be rather less precise than she’d realized.

“Good thing you’re not wearing a red riding hood.”

She glanced at him, puzzled for a moment, then caught the reference. “I have dealt with wolves before,” she said crispy. “I’m sure I can deal with a fox. Or anything else.”

He chuckled. “I’m sure you can.”

“And you,” she said, turning the subject, “where are you heading?”

“Oh, me, I’m just a vagabond. I go where I please, where the road takes me.”

“A vagabond?” She gave him a sideways glance, taking in the strong, clean profile.

“It’s a life that suits me well.”

“But how do you make a living?” The question was out before she considered it. It was most uncivil of her to ask such an intrusive question, but he was a stranger and she was a maidservant. And she was curious. He didn’t look or dress or act much like a homeless vagabond—though he did need a haircut and a good shave. And he was English, and they were in France.

“Oh, doing this and that.”

Serve her right. They traveled on in silence.

A few hours later they approached a small stone bridge. Zo? tensed. This must be the bridge she was expecting. On most quiet country roads, small rivers and streams were crossed via a ford, not a bridge. The bridge would have been constructed by some rich person for their carriage’s convenience. Her ancestors perhaps?

She leaned forward. Not far now to the entrance to her mother’s childhood home, if her information was correct. More than thirty years since her grandparents and uncle had been sent to the guillotine. And her eleven-year-old mother smuggled out of the country by a loyal nurse.

Through the tangled weeds and vegetation that edged the road, she caught glimpses of a long, high stone wall, in poor repair now. The estate boundary? No doubt it had been partially pulled down during the riots. Years of neglect had done the rest.

Up ahead she could see two tall stone pillars, one of which bore a headless eagle, the other just a shapeless lump of stone that had once been a matching eagle. What gates there had once been were no longer in evidence. Ripped down, probably, and the iron reused.

“If you could stop up there, I’ll be getting off, thank you,” she told Reynard, pointing.

He gave her a curious sidelong glance. “Up there? That’s barely a road. I doubt if it leads anywhere.”

“It leads to Grand-mère’s.” It wasn’t really a lie.

He shrugged, and the wagon slowed and then stopped. He gave the weed-choked driveway a thoughtful look. “Are you sure she lives up there? Doesn’t look as though anyone has been along there for a good long time.”

She didn’t answer, just passed him his borrowed hat, picked up her bundle and jumped down. “Thank you for all your help, Monsieur Reynard. The best of luck with your…enterprises.”

“You can keep the hat. As you see, I have two.”

She shook her head. “Thank you, but no. Goodbye.”

He nodded, but frowning, made no move to continue on. Zo? hitched her bundle over her shoulder and set off up the drive. She wasn’t expecting—or even hoping—to come across any long-lost relatives; it was clear that nobody came here any longer, but she wanted to see it for herself. Had to see it for herself. Where her mother had started life. Where her ancestors had come from.

She knew how Maman’s life had ended, and it was grim: in sickness and poverty in the slums of London. But her childhood, Maman always maintained, had been a happy one. Up to the age of eleven, anyway.