Chapter Three

She trudged along the long, curving, tree-lined driveway, weaving through clumps of weeds and keeping an eye out for things that slithered.

The sun beat down. She stopped once or twice to wipe her brow, and hoped she would come across a stream or some source of water soon.

She turned a corner and stopped dead. There it was. Chateau de Chantonney, once home to the Comte de Chantonney and his family. And Maman. She put down her bundle and just stared up at the chateau.

Once a beautiful fairy-tale castle, with a round turret at each corner—she remembered Maman telling her about those turrets—now a ruined, crumbling, abandoned wreck, with a partially collapsed roof, smashed windows, and signs of a long-ago fire.

She looked cautiously around—there was nobody in sight—and approached the chateau. The remains of the front door, once a grand carved oak entrance, hung crookedly on warped hinges. They had smashed their way in, whoever they were, all those years ago.

She pushed it open and entered. The formerly elegant entry hall had chipped and smashed tile work on the floor, the walls were covered in delicate murals, now faded and ruined by violent gashes. The remains of what had been a chandelier hung crookedly from the ceiling, the crystals taken.

Carefully she mounted the stairs. Most of the delicate wrought iron banisters had been wrenched off and carried away. A few twisted bits stubbornly remained: a memory of past elegance. She peered in room after room, seeing ragged shreds of wallpaper, ruined statuary, smashed plasterwork and years’ worth of dust and dirt and cobwebs. No paintings, no furniture, except those things too heavy to move, and they were either smashed or partially burned. And in many places there was the smell of damp. And mold. And decay.

It was heartbreaking, seeing so much beauty so wantonly destroyed. The echoes of past violence, the rage of the mob, too long denied the necessities of life, were almost tangible.

She climbed and climbed, recalling Maman’s stories until she came to what she was sure had been the nursery. More delicate frescoes gouged and slashed at. Furniture and toys broken, the remains flung wantonly about.

A scrap of dirty lace caught her eye and she bent to pull it out from beneath a splintered piece of wood. And gasped. It was a doll, her once dainty blue silk dress in shreds, faded and dotted with mold. There was no head. Zo? searched and found it, cleanly severed from the little doll’s body.

As if guillotined.

Maman had told her about this doll, how she’d wanted to take it with her, but she’d been hustled away in the night in a rush, and there had been no time to find it. Marianne, her favorite doll, the best friend of a lonely little girl. Maman had even painted her, years later, from memory.

Feeling ill, Zo? cradled Marianne against her chest, imagining the scene. Acid curdled in her throat. Such anger and hatred. Against a doll .

A drop of water fell on her hand, startling her. She glanced up at the ceiling, but it wasn’t a leak—she was weeping. She hadn’t realized it. She went to wipe her eyes and found her cheeks were wet with tears. She scrubbed them away.

Thank God for the intervention of Berthe, Maman’s nursemaid, who, catching wind of the revolutionary unrest brewing in the surrounding villages, had bundled Maman into a cart and spirited her away before anyone realized the daughter of the comte was still here. The other servants had taken what they could and fled. Or joined the mob.

Maman’s parents and her brother, Philippe, the heir, were already in Paris, but Maman had come down with measles and had remained behind, too ill to travel.

So she’d been alone, except for servants, many of whom secretly despised the aristocracy. Zo? swallowed, thinking of it. A little girl, helpless, unprotected, waiting to be torn apart by a screaming, raging mob.

Ironically, her illness had turned out to be fortuitous. Had Maman gone with her family to Paris she would have gone to the guillotine with the rest of them. And had it not been for Berthe, she would no doubt have been murdered here, like her doll.

Berthe had stuffed her bodice with what jewels Grand-mère had left behind: a canny decision. She’d taken Maman to the coast and used some of the jewels to bribe a fisherman to smuggle the child out of France and take her to England. As she bade Maman farewell, she’d pressed a gold locket and bracelet into her hand. “You can sell these when you get to Angleterre,” she’d said.

And if she’d kept the rest of the jewels herself, who could argue with that? She’d saved Maman’s life, at considerable risk to her own.

Maman had described that journey to Zo?: eleven years old, sailing with strangers into the dark, all alone, in fear for her life, going to a strange country where she knew no one and didn’t even speak the language.

Zo? had heard the story a hundred times, but now, standing in the ruined chateau, holding the viciously beheaded doll, she could imagine it as never before.

“Oh, Maman,” she whispered. Tears rolled down her cheeks, unheeded.

By late afternoon, Zo? had had enough of exploring her mother’s former home. Emotionally she was wrung out like a wet rag. She supposed she could spend the night there, gather up some dusty fabrics and make a nest on the floor—very little furniture remained intact—but it was too depressing, too evocative of tragedy and violence.

She’d hoped she might find some small thing to take with her as a memento, but the only thing she had found was the poor decapitated doll, and she didn’t want that. So she left the way she’d arrived: empty-handed.

And perhaps that was better. No sad talismans, just memories.

She’d noticed a farmhouse on the way to her mother’s house; she would ask there for a bed for the night. She would even sleep in the barn if there was no bed available. Country people were reputed to be hospitable, and besides, she had money to pay.

But when she knocked on the door and inquired, the reaction shocked her. She’d no sooner made her inquiry when “Begone with you! We don’t want your kind here!” And the woman had slammed the door in her face.

Zo? blinked. Your kind? What kind was that? Did the woman think she was a beggar? Admittedly her clothes had picked up a little dirt, first from the fox hole and then dust from the abandoned chateau. But she’d been very polite when she asked whether she could procure a bed for the night. And she was happy to pay. There was no call for such rude hostility.

Pondering that hostile reception, she walked back down the lane, heading for the intersection where she’d parted company with Reynard.

We don’t want your kind here!

Your kind? Realization hit. No, the woman didn’t think she was a beggar—quite the opposite, despite her dusty clothing. It was her aristocratic accent at fault. Zo? hadn’t thought twice about it, having learned her French from Maman, but Lucy had drilled into her the importance of accents.

Lucy had been working to eradicate Zo?’s English accent, which reeked of the slums of London. It wouldn’t matter how elegantly she dressed and how ladylike she appeared, Lucy often said, Zo?’s lowly upbringing had been obvious to all the minute she’d opened her mouth.

Lucy herself had personal experience of it, having developed her own elegant English accent in a series of exclusive private schools, and learning Viennese accented German from a well-born opera singer, as well as aristocratic French from a comtesse.

Accent prejudice worked both ways. The farm woman was probably a rabid revolutionary. Oh well, lesson learned. She would be more careful in future, not just wearing Marie’s clothes, but imitating her soft country accent.

The sky was darkening. With any luck she was not too far from the next village, otherwise she’d have to find a place in the open to sleep. Under some bushes or beneath a bridge, perhaps.

It was a sobering thought. Her impulsive decision to go by herself to see her mother’s former home was proving far riskier than she’d imagined. Still, although having to sleep in the open was a daunting prospect, she couldn’t regret the decision. She was glad to have seen for herself where her mother came from. And seeing for herself that Maman’s tales were true, and not fantasies or wishful thinking, as some people had thought—and said.

“You? Daughter of a count? Pull the other one.” émigrés often had stories like that, boasting of their grand former lives. Nobody believed them anymore.

But Maman’s was true.

Ruined as the chateau was, it was better than knowing you sprang from a run-down slum in the back streets of London. Or a strictly run orphan asylum where you were nobody and a nuisance—and where they even changed your name because they said the name her mother had given her was “too foreign” for an orphan.

No, she had no regrets about coming here.

She reached the road and began to walk. She hadn’t gone far when a voice called out, “Grand-mère not home, then?”

She whirled around and saw the painted wagon parked in a shady nook just off the road. Reynard strolled forward. “So was there nobody—?” He broke off with a look of concern. “But you’ve been crying.”

She swallowed, tried to think of what to say and decided on the truth. Well, some of it. “My grandmother is dead. There’s no one left.”

“I’m so sorry,” he said gently.

She gave a fatalistic little shrug, and picked up the bundle she’d dropped when he first spoke.

“What will you do now?”

She shook her head. “I’m not sure. Maybe catch the diligence to Paris and look for a job there.”

His brows rose. “The diligence ? It’s not cheap.”

“I have sufficient.”

“And the diligence doesn’t pass through this way. You’ll need to get to a bigger town, a busier road.”

“I know.”

“It’s quite a way even to the next village.” He regarded her thoughtfully. “And in the meantime it’s getting dark.”

She shrugged. “?a se voit.”

“I know it’s obvious,” he said impatiently. “What I mean is, where are you going to sleep?”

“I will find somewhere.”

“At this time? Don’t be ridiculous. Come and have some dinner—I have stew simmering in the pot. You can sleep in the wagon.”

She opened her mouth and he added, “And I will sleep under the wagon. I’ve done it often. It’s quite pleasant when it’s as warm and dry as it is now.”

She hesitated, and he said, “You have no need to worry. My intentions are honorable, and even if they weren’t, the wagon has a bolt on the inside of the door. You will be quite safe. Now come along, I don’t want my stew to burn.”

The man calling himself Reynard discreetly observed the girl while he stirred the stew. She intrigued him, and not just because she was beautiful, with those dazzling green eyes, pure complexion and curly dark hair. She’d pulled her hair back in a knot, but tiny dark curls clustered like feathers around her forehead and her dainty ears and at the creamy soft nape of her neck. Her mouth was a soft and satiny dark pink. She was temptation personified.

But she wasn’t the kind of girl he could seduce: a virtuous maidservant who’d lost her position by refusing a gentleman’s advances was hardly likely to succumb to the charms of a shabby vagabond.

Though it was a shame—apart from being lovely, she intrigued him in other ways. She was guarded—as nervous as a doe in hunting season. Understandable, he supposed, seeing she was traveling alone and he was a stranger. She was bright. Quick, too, with an answer for everything…

He tasted the stew and tossed in a little more salt.

That story about her grandmother…It didn’t quite fit. Oh, he didn’t doubt her grief—those tearstains were real—but he’d been up that lane before and had a poke around the ruined chateau. It was deserted and had been for decades, and the only house nearby housed a farmer and his wife, both around thirty and too young to be grandparents.

Her hands were very soft, too, and not the hands of a maid who did menial work. Although he supposed she could be a lady’s maid, and her hands kept soft because she was handling silks and satins on a daily basis. Her mistress wouldn’t want rough skin catching on those delicate fabrics. Still, there was something about her…

He stirred the stew and pondered.

“You’re not from around here,” she said.

“No, I’m English. But I like this part of the world and have traveled this way several times.” And the pickings had been good enough that he thought it well worth another visit.

But her disingenuous question intrigued him. He was well aware his French accent wasn’t particularly good and that she must already have realized he was English. So why ask?

“And yet you travel around France?”

“That’s right. I like it here.”

She gave him a thoughtful look, and it occurred to him that she thought there was something shady about his being here. As if he were wanted for some crime in England. He smiled to himself. He wasn’t going to enlighten her. He produced a couple of bowls, dished up the stew and cut a few slices of bread to mop up the juices. It wasn’t fancy, but it was filling and tasty.

She tasted it cautiously, then looked up in surprise. “This is very good.”

He laughed. “You think men can’t cook?”

“No, I mean, I’ve never eaten anything cooked in the open over a fire before.”

He raised a brow. “Not even when you lived in the country with your grandmother?”

She shook her head. “I never lived with her. I was raised in an orphanage by nuns.” She ate another spoonful. “What’s in this?” A deft change of subject, he noted.

“Vegetables, beans, a rabbit and some herbs. And a splash of wine, which reminds me.” He poured a little wine into the mugs that they’d used for tea earlier, and passed one to her, saying, “No glasses, I’m afraid.”

She thanked him and continued her meal.

“So, when you went to find your grandmother,” he prompted.

“Do you have a home?” she said, once more changing the subject.

“Several.”

She blinked and looked up from her meal. “Several?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” She dipped a corner of the bread into the stew. “And do you have a family? A wife? Children?”

She was a curious little cat, but he wasn’t born yesterday. If she was angling for a husband, well, he had ways of dealing with that kind of thing.

“Yes. Three wives, and—”

Her spoon fell into her bowl with a clatter. “ Three wives?” she exclaimed. “Three?”

“Yes,” he said placidly. “And four—no, what date is it? Probably five children by now. One of the wives was due to give birth this week.”

She stared at him. “But that’s illegal.”

“Giving birth? I don’t think so.”

“No, having three wives.”

“Why shouldn’t I have three? Or four if I want. What business is it of anyone else’s, as long as the wives don’t mind? And they don’t—they each have a house, and I support them and the children well enough.”

“How? By ‘doing this and that’?”

He grinned at her indignation. “Exactly. Now, I’m afraid there’s no dessert, only apples.” He pulled two out of his pocket and tossed one to her.

She caught it deftly, then eyed it with suspicion. “These look like the apples that were growing a mile—a kilometre or so back.”

“Do they?” he said innocently. “They’re delicious.” He bit into it.

She hesitated.

“If you don’t like apples, you can give that one to Rocinante.”

She eyed him disapprovingly, but bit into the apple.

“See, delicious, isn’t it? There they were, lonely and unloved. A shame to have left them hanging over the roadway where anything could happen to them.” She was delightfully easy to tease. Clearly she was, at heart, an honest little soul.

The meal finished with, she offered to clean the dishes, and he left her to it, saying he had a little local business to see to and that he would be back in an hour or so. “You won’t be frightened, will you? If you’re nervous, just get in the wagon and bolt the door. I’ll knock to let you know I’m back. Or if I’m late, just go to bed and lock yourself in—here’s the key to the outside door in case you’re worried about being locked in from the outside—and I’ll see you in the morning.” On that thought he took a couple of blankets from the wagon, and the piece of canvas he used as a groundsheet.

She hesitated.

“You’d trust me with your belongings?”

He laughed. “I do—you have an honest face. Besides, there’s nothing in there worth stealing.” It wasn’t true, but she didn’t need to know that. His valuables were already securely locked away, and he wasn’t offering her those keys. “So, I’ll see you in the morning.”

She nodded and accepted the key, though her expression remained doubtful. Reynard repressed a smile: no doubt she thought him off on more nefarious adventures, like stealing apples.

He had no doubt she would be there when he returned. She had nowhere else to go, it seemed.

He strolled away into the night.

The stream was not far away—Reynard had chosen a good spot to camp. Zo? went to check the horse had enough water, fed Rocinante her apple core and filled a bucket from the stream. She heated a fresh pot of water and used it to wash the dishes. When she’d finished, she heated some more water and washed herself and dressed in her spare clothes. She rinsed out her underclothes and sponged down her dress. Finding a leafless, but bushy fallen limb nearby, she dragged it close to the fire and draped her washing over it to dry.

Now what? she thought. She sat staring into the flames and pondered her options. She’d done what she’d come to do—see her mother’s old home for herself—so in the morning she would make for the nearest town that the diligence passed through and head back to Lucy and Gerald in Paris.

Which was closer? The town where Marie had caught the diligence , or one farther ahead? To go back was to pass the place where those vile men had chased her. They might live close to the road. So she’d go forward to the next town that the diligence passed through.

And then what? Prepare for returning to London, where she’d make her come-out into society. She shivered. The whole idea made her nervous. So much depended on people not finding out she was yet another bastard daughter of Sir Bartleby Studley. Her half sister Izzy had managed it—despite the whispers—but that had more or less ended when she’d married Leo, Lord Salcott, whose reputation was that of a very high stickler. But when Zo? appeared, she was sure her strong resemblance to Izzy would cause tongues to wag again, even though she’d be presented as a French cousin.

For herself, she didn’t much care what people thought of her, but she was utterly determined not to have the shame of her irregular birth rebound on the sisters who’d given her love and acceptance and so much more.

She added more wood to the fire and turned her clothes around to speed the drying.

A hoarse scream in the distance startled her. What was that? Some creature, or perhaps a woman in trouble? She picked up a stick destined for the fire, and glanced fearfully around, waiting and listening.

It was a mild night and the half-moon shone fitfully through drifts of cloud, casting shadows that shifted and darkened. She couldn’t see much beyond the light thrown by the fire. Anything could be out there. There were still wolves and bears in France, she’d heard.

Something rustled in the bushes and she jumped. The scream came again, closer this time. What on earth could it be? She was a city girl, familiar only with the sights and sounds of central London. And Paris.

The scream sounded a third time. That did it. She wasn’t going to sit here waiting to be eaten. She hurried to the wagon. A candle stood on a shelf by the door. She lit it from the fire, grabbed her damp clothes and climbed into the wagon.

There was a bolt on the inside, as he’d said. She shot the bolt and immediately felt much safer.

She held the candle high and looked around. Inside, the wagon was neat and clean. Clothes hung on hooks, and a line had been strung from one side of the wagon to the other. For hanging washing, perhaps? She hung her damp clothes over it, hoping they’d be dry by morning.

At one end of the wagon there was a wide bed, the width of the wagon. To her surprise it was made up with sheets and blankets and a pillow: an unexpected luxury for a vagabond. She bent and sniffed. There was a very faint smell of Reynard, but otherwise it seemed clean. Across the opposite end of the wagon was a large cupboard. She tried it. It was locked, which seemed curious. A vagabond with locks? But she supposed if he had to leave the wagon unguarded, locks were necessary.

How on earth did he earn enough to support three wives and five children?

She also found an ironbound wooden chest. She tried it, but it was also locked. On a shelf above it she found several books in English. He could read, then, which made him an educated vagabond. Interesting.

Next to the door there was a small cupboard lined with zinc. In it she found few crumbs, the heel of a loaf of bread, a stub of sausage and some cheese wrapped in a cloth. A mouseproof food cupboard, she decided. Above it was another cupboard, in which were stored the enamel mugs they’d drunk tea from and a few bowls and spoons and knives. Really, this wagon was very well set up. It had everything but a bath. Almost.

Three years living the life of a lady and she’d forgotten how little you really needed to live. She and Maman had owned only a few bowls and spoons. And in the small room in which they’d lived, there was nowhere to cook. Not that Maman had ever learned to cook.

What was an educated Englishman doing here in rural France? How did he make a living, wandering from place to place—doing what? Was he in some kind of disgrace? Had he been exiled?

Were those three wives and five children a tease? They could be. But he was definitely living the life of a vagabond. She supposed she’d know more when he returned from doing whatever business he was off doing.

She hoped it was something honest, at least. Though what difference it would make to her, she had no idea. She’d be leaving as soon as they reached the next village.

She yawned. After the day she’d had, she was exhausted. She wouldn’t wait up for him. And she certainly wasn’t going to go outside to face whatever was making those horrid noises. She was so grateful to have a safe place to sleep. If it wasn’t for Reynard, she could be sleeping out in the open, and then who knew what might have happened.

She undressed to her chemise, climbed into bed and lay awake thinking about Reynard.

He might be handsome and charming, but he clearly was someone to be cautious about. That smile of his would seduce anyone. And there was something about his expression, a lurking amusement in those blue, blue eyes as he told his stories that made her doubt their truth.

And yet he’d been nothing but kind.

He’d certainly stolen those apples, but that wasn’t such a big thing—although how did he get the rabbit for the stew they’d eaten? Was poaching a crime in France these days? She didn’t know. And anyway, tomorrow they would reach the next village and she would see about getting a ride to a town where the diligence stopped.

Outside, that ghastly hoarse scream sounded again. She shivered and snuggled down, pulling the bedclothes more tightly around her.

He would be sleeping outside. With whatever that creature was making that dreadful sound. She swallowed. If he knocked on the door, she would have to let him inside. She couldn’t leave him outside, not with that frightful creature lurking out there in the dark.

And then what? There was only one bed.

She’d face that problem when it came, she decided. She closed her eyes and slept.

She awoke to bright sunlight filtering into the wagon. It took her a few moments to realize where she was, but once she did, she sat up, mortified. Had he come knocking on the door last night and she’d slept right through it? She quickly dressed, stepped out and found him by the fire, attending to a sizzling pan. The small black pot hung over the fire on a tripod.

“Ah, there you are. Sleep well?” he said, and without waiting for her response, added, “Ham and eggs all right for breakfast? And there’s bread there.” He gestured to a plate containing several slices of bread.

“Y-yes, thank you,” she stammered. “And I slept very well, thank you”—too well—“what about you?”

“Oh, I always sleep well,” he said carelessly. “One or two eggs?”

“One, please.”

He cracked four eggs into the pan, and a few minutes later said, “Pass me a couple of plates, will you?”

He deftly scooped an egg and some ham onto her plate and scooped the rest onto his own. It looked and smelled heavenly, and despite eating well the previous night she found she was very hungry.

Silence fell as they ate. “This is delicious,” she commented. “You cook very well.” The ham was tender and her egg was perfect, with a firm white and a runny yolk.

“For a man, do you mean?” He grinned at her sheepish expression. “I like to eat, and thus I learned to cook.” He used his bread to mop up some egg yolk. “I’ll make some tea in a moment.”

If he was going to do it, Zo? decided that she could also mop up her yolk with bread. It was not what a lady would do, but she wasn’t a lady, was she? At least not yet.

“You really slept all right?” she asked him between mouthfuls.

He gave her a quizzical look. “Yes, as I said. I always do.”

“But what about the…the wild animal?”

“What wild animal?”

“I heard it—or them—several times. A terrible kind of scream. At first I thought it was a woman in trouble, but then I realized it was some kind of beast.”

He grinned. “A kind of scream? A fox, then.”

“A fox ? But it sounded…I thought…”

“You thought it was some dreadful beast?” He sounded amused.

“Yes,” she muttered, feeling foolish.

“I thought you were a country girl.”

“There were no foxes at the orphanage.” Not in the heart of London, anyway.

“No, the nuns wouldn’t allow them,” he agreed solemnly. “And in the great house where you worked? No foxes on the estate?”

“I didn’t go outside much. We were kept too busy.”

“Yes, of course.” He set his empty plate to one side and set about making tea. Three heaped spoonfuls, just like yesterday, she noted. So lavish—for a vagabond.

“Did your business prosper?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Yes, most excellently. I have a commission from a farmer. That’s where I got the eggs and ham and also”—he held up a small ceramic jar sealed with a cork—“some fresh milk, just for mademoiselle.”

“Lovely, thank you. So, what was this commission, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Not at all. He wants a painting of himself and his prize pig.”

“A painting? You’re an artist?” She was stunned.

“Of sorts.” He poured the tea, added sugar and milk to her mug and passed it to her.

She drank it thoughtfully. He was a painter. It put a whole new light on things. She could see some sense now in his wandering lifestyle. Though how he could make a living from portraits of country farmers and livestock, she had no idea.

“It means I won’t be moving on today. The farmer lives just over that hill, and I’ll be working there.”

“Yes, of course,” she murmured. He was an artist! Like her.

“The next village is about three or four miles—no idea what that is in kilometres; I still don’t have the hang of them yet—but it should only take an hour or two to walk there. Or”—he shot her a quick glance—“you could stay here until I’ve finished the painting. I’m quick; two days, three at the most, and then you could travel on to the village with me. You’d be most welcome.”

“Thank you.” She should move on, she knew, but her blisters were still sore. And though she’d been lucky in finding a safe ride with him, her previous nasty experience had eroded her confidence. Besides, Reynard, for all his mystery, was easy and pleasant company. And he was an artist, which had aroused her curiosity. Being one herself, she really wanted to see his work.

He climbed into the wagon and brought out a large rectangular canvas holdall. His artist’s equipment? “And while you’re thinking about it, since the farmer—or rather, his good wife—has offered to provide us with all the food we’ll need, you need not worry about that kind of thing.”

She nodded. Did he actually want her to stay?

There was no real hurry. Marie would be in Paris by now and Lucy would have taken her in. And Lucy didn’t know what Zo? was doing. She wouldn’t be expecting Zo? until the house party ended the following week, and Zo? would be back in Paris before then.

“I’ll stay,” she told him. “At least until I’ve done the dishes.”

He nodded. “And make sure Rocinante has water, please. And that she doesn’t get tangled in her tether.” He slung an ingenious device, which held his easel, onto his back, hesitated, then put down his holdall. “If you do decide to leave after all, thank you for your company, mademoiselle. It has been a pleasure knowing you.” To her surprise, he took her hand and planted a light kiss on it. “ Au ’voir , Mademoiselle Vita.”

At the touch of his lips on the back of her hand, she felt a warm shiver go through her. She stood still, watching him stroll away.