Chapter Six

In the early afternoon Reynard took the painting back to Gaudet’s farm to show him and his wife the finished product and transfer it into the ornate gold-leafed frame. He took with him his painting supplies and easel, strapped to his back in case he was given another commission. He liked to be prepared.

“ C’est magnifique! ” Gaudet exclaimed when he lifted the painting out of its wrapping, and both he and his wife went into raptures—Gaudet about the portrait of the pig, Madame Gaudet about the portraits of herself and her husband.

Reynard was delighted. “Then if you’re happy with the exchange, I’ll just remove the old painting and put this one into your frame.”

Gaudet snorted. “More than happy, monsieur. Who wants to have stiff-rumped aristos staring down their noses at honest people going about their business? But this”—he gestured proudly at the new painting—“this is about real people. And the only aristo in it is Le Duc de Gaudet, who well deserves his place.” He guffawed loudly at his joke.

Reynaud then took the old painting and set about removing it from its frame, first the back cover, then the old canvas, which he set carefully aside.

Gaudet, who had been watching, asked, “What will you do with that? Sell it?”

Reynard shrugged. “Perhaps. I haven’t decided.” It was a lie. He knew exactly what he was going to do with it. He placed a protective cloth on either side of the old painting and rolled it up. He reached for his own painting, and added, “A lot of artists reuse old canvas and paint over old paintings.”

Gaudet snorted. “And a good thing, too.”

“Is that what you will do?” Madame Gaudet asked curiously.

Reynard carefully fitted the new painting into the old frame. He’d measured well: it fitted perfectly. “I’m not sure. All I know is ‘waste not, want not.’?” To which both Gaudets nodded in agreement.

The new painting framed, they all went into the house to choose a place to hang it. No question, really—it was to hang in pride of place on the wall opposite the entrance, where every visitor would be sure to see and admire it. Then they toasted it—and the artist—with homemade wine, which was surprisingly good.

His plan had been to go into the village to try to drum up another commission, but when he mentioned that, both Gaudet and his wife had suggestions for him. It seemed at church they had boasted widely of their special personal artist and what he was doing for them. They gave him several people to call on.

An hour later, he had three new commissions and the promise of two old paintings minus their heavy gold-leaf frames. That suited him perfectly: he had no interest in the frames. He started on the first commission then and there. It was of a widow and her three children. And their small dog.

“I hate having that thing in the house,” the widow told him, gesturing to the old painting. She’d produced it from a dark cupboard. “My father-in-law gave it to us as a wedding present, and my husband was very proud of it. But me”—she grimaced—“I don’t like the reminder, and I want it out of my house.”

Reynard, sketching busily, nodded understandingly. “I hope you will be happy with my painting, madame.”

She snorted in amusement. “I will be happy just to have that one gone. I would have given it to you for nothing. I would have burned it, but I do like the gold frame. You’re not taking that, are you?”

“No. I will use it to frame the new painting.”

By late afternoon, Reynard had sketched in the widow and her children, aged twelve, ten and six, painted the dog and the background and took notes for Vita. The children were unable to stay still for long, and he could tell the widow was getting anxious about doing nothing for several hours. She ran both the farm and the household on her own, with the help of the children, so her work was really cut out for her. So after roughing in their poses on the canvas, he did a pencil sketch of each of them.

He didn’t know why, but for some reason he could draw faces quite well, but when it came to painting them…He shook his head. He would watch Vita when she did them and hope to pick up some of her techniques.

When he had done as much as he could, Reynard returned to the camp carrying, along with his easel, paints and other supplies, the rolled-up old canvas from the Gaudets, another gold-framed painting from a neighbor, and a warm rabbit pie. It smelled divine—the widow was a good cook.

The neighbor had marched into the widow’s yard, carrying the large painting and demanding Reynard paint him and his prize bull. He had just seen the portrait of Gaudet’s pig.

Delighted to oblige—especially after seeing the painting the man was offering in exchange—Reynard accepted the commission. He wrapped both framed paintings in an old cloth given to him by the widow. She hadn’t wanted her frame chipped or damaged.

When he walked into the camp laden with paintings, paint supplies, pie and more, the dog and Vita flew to meet him. “Good heavens, what have you got there?” she said, relieving him of the pie. “Is this from Madame Gaudet? Were they happy with the painting?”

“Ecstatic,” he said. “And no, the pie is from another woman, our next client. Down, Hamish, this pie is not for dogs!” he added to the dog in English. Hamish far from being wary and lugubrious, was now frolicking around him like a puppy.

Vita laughed. “He’s really coming out of his shell, isn’t he? Yesterday he seemed quite an elderly dog, but now, with several good feeds, a wash and some love and care, I’ve decided he’s much younger than we thought. Shall we eat this pie now while it’s still warm?”

Reynard set down his burdens and, laughing, gave the dog a good scruff around the head and neck. Then he took the wrapped framed paintings and Gaudet’s rolled-up canvas into the wagon, placed them carefully in the big cupboard and locked it.

She watched curiously, but didn’t comment or ask.

He headed for the campfire, running his hands together. “I’m parched.”

“Me, too. The water is boiling. I thought you’d want tea when you got back.” She’d placed the pie by the fire to keep warm. The teapot, tea caddy and mugs were set out ready, but she hung back, apparently waiting to let him make the tea.

He warmed the teapot. “Why didn’t you make some yourself?”

She made a self-deprecating sort of moue. “Tea is expensive. I didn’t like to presume.”

Shaking his head in wry amusement, Reynard made the tea. The girl was full of contradictions. She could paint over his painting without a by-your-leave, and yet she wouldn’t presume to make herself a cup of tea.

“I have two more commissions,” he told her as he poured the tea.

Her face lit up. “Oh, Reynard, that’s wonderful.”

He grinned. “You’ve brought me luck, Mademoiselle Vita-from-the-Latin. I started one painting today—it’s of a widow and her three children. And dog. I’ve roughed out most of it, but I thought you could work your magic on the woman and children.”

She beamed at him. “So you truly didn’t mind my interference, then? You weren’t just being polite? Of course, I’d be delighted to help.”

He sipped his tea. “We could do this permanently, you know—collaborate, I mean. I do the background and animals and you do the people.”

The sparkle in her eyes died. “It’s very kind of you, but I’m only here for a short time.”

He frowned. “You mean you’re still planning to go to Paris?”

She nodded.

He pursed his lips. It was one thing for her to think about going to the city when she’d just been sacked and learned her grandmother was dead and she had nowhere to go, but for the last few days things had been going so well. He’d been sure she was enjoying this life of his. She was an innocent from the country and had no idea that in Paris, she’d be taking herself into a den of lions. Worse.

“But you know no one in Paris. You have nowhere to go and nobody to help you. You don’t even have a job, and without a character reference you’re not likely to get one.” He shook his head and added, “No doubt you’ve formed some romantic image in your head of Paris, but it’s not like that, I promise you. The city is a jungle and full of dangers, especially for young women on their own.” Especially beautiful young women.

She lifted a shoulder. “Nevertheless, I am going.” She didn’t meet his eyes.

The strength of his desire to keep her with him shocked him a little. How could he persuade her? She was safe here with him. And they’d been happy, hadn’t they?

Ah well, there was still time to change her mind. “I thought you could come to the widow’s farm and paint her. You don’t have to. I made a few sketches of her and the children, but I thought it would be easier for you to see them in the flesh.”

She cut a large slice of the pie, slid it onto a plate and handed it to him. “You wouldn’t mind her knowing that I do some of the painting?”

He shook his head. “People’s opinions of me don’t matter. What counts is the quality of the final painting, and we both know that if you paint the people, it will be better. We’ll go to the farm after we’ve eaten.”

She glanced at the dog, who’d been watching every mouthful they took with a mournful gaze. “What about Hamish?”

“What about him?”

“Do we take him with us or leave him here?” She hesitated. “It’s just that this morning he was quite happy to stay here with me, but we don’t know how he is with children. Or other dogs. Or chickens or any other creature. And we don’t know whether the widow would mind us bringing him. But if we make him stay in camp, we’d probably have to tie him up, and after his experience of being chained—the sores around the poor fellow’s neck are starting to heal, but—”

“We won’t chain him or tie him up,” he said decisively. He glanced at the dog and said to it in English, “I don’t suppose you’ve been trained to stay, have you? Otherwise those villains wouldn’t have left you chained up.” Hamish gave him a doggy smile and thumped his tail.

“Look, he knows you’re talking to him,” she exclaimed. “Even though you’re talking in English. Who’s a clever boy, then?”

The tail thumped faster, and she broke off a piece of piecrust and gave it to him. He took it from her gently and swallowed it in a gulp.

“You shouldn’t feed him at the table.”

She gave him a sardonic look, and gestured to her surroundings, which were conspicuously lacking in a table.

He ignored that. “We’ll just have to see how it goes. I’ll tell him to stay and guard the camp, and”—he made a helpless gesture—“hope for the best.”

Zo? spent the rest of the day painting Madame LeBlanc and her three children. The lady had, at first, demurred about letting Zo? paint her. Whether it was a question of preferring a male painter or worries about Zo?’s competence, she wasn’t sure, but all objections vanished when Zo? did a quick pencil sketch of her little girl.

The minute Reynard had strolled off, heading for the property of their next client, the widow had bombarded her with questions: about Reynard, about herself and particularly about their relationship.

As agreed, Zo? said she was Reynard’s cousin, who he was escorting to the next town.

“Cousin?” the woman said suspiciously. “But he is English, surely, and you are French, yes?”

“Yes, but I am half-English, too. The family is split between two countries.”

Madame LeBlanc nodded understandingly. “The war?”

Zo? nodded. “His wife is French, too,” she added recklessly, having no idea whether the wife—or the three he claimed—were real, let alone their nationality.

The widow’s brow cleared at the mention of a wife and she quickly settled down to accept Zo? and let her paint her and the children.

A short time after she’d started painting, the children started smiling and nudging one another. She glanced around and tensed. Hamish stood a few yards away. The LeBlanc dog, a stubby, tough-looking creature, was walking toward him, growling and stiff-legged, his back bristles raised.

Hamish just stood there, looking unperturbed, his plumed tail gently swishing.

She was about to rush up and—do what? She didn’t know, but she wasn’t going to let them fight. But before she could move, the LeBlanc dog lowered its bristles, and the two dogs started sniffing each other’s behinds. And two tails, one stumpy, one long and ragged, started wagging.

They weren’t going to fight after all. She heaved a sigh of relief.

“Hamish!” she exclaimed. “I’m sorry, madame, we thought he would stay at the camp, but— No, don’t touch him!” she added as the littlest child ran eagerly toward him. She lunged forward and grabbed Hamish by the scruff of fur at his neck just as the little girl reached him.

Hamish merely thumped his tail and licked the child’s hand gently. Zo? breathed again as he endured the enthusiastic attentions of the little girl.

The widow laughed. “You cannot keep that child away from any dog. One day some dog will bite her and teach her to be more cautious, but it obviously won’t be today,” she added as Hamish rolled over to have his tummy scratched. One of the boys whistled, and the LeBlanc dog gave one last sniff and trotted back to his young master.

“It’s all right, mademoiselle, I know this dog. It lives over there.” The little girl waved a vague arm, pointing.

The widow snorted. “Those people…” She shook her head. “They left, and good riddance to them. So, you bought their dog, eh?”

Zo? nodded. There was no point telling the woman how Reynard had found the dog chained up and left to starve to death. She smiled at the sight of the gentle animal patiently enduring having his ears affectionately pulled by the little girl. “He’s a beautiful animal.”

“Beautiful?” The woman snorted with laughter. “They say it’s in the eye of the beholder, but I wouldn’t call that one anything like a beauty. And it’s too big. It’s going to cost you a lot to keep it fed.”

Zo? also decided not to tell her how Hamish had already found and dispatched several rabbits. She hoped he was too full—and hopefully too well mannered—to be interested in the hens that peacefully scratched and clucked around their feet.

The afternoon flew.

“If only you and your cousin had come past three years ago.” Madame LeBlanc sighed. “We would have had my husband in the painting, and we would have his face to look on.”

“I’m sorry…” Zo? began.

“Take no notice of me, my chick,” she said. “I don’t need a painting to remember my Henri. All I have to do is look at that one.” She gestured to her eldest boy. “Every day he grows more and more like his papa. And just now he looks exactly like Henri did at that age. We were neighbors, you see, my Henri and me, and knew each other all our lives.”

She sighed and added, “No, I would have liked a painting of him so the children would remember their father.”

“But we do remember him, Maman,” the oldest boy said.

“Yes, we will never forget Papa,” the middle one added.

The little girl looked up from where she was fondling Hamish. She opened her mouth as if to disagree, but her brother shook his head at her and she subsided.

Zo? painted on. The little girl would have been three when her father died and would have few memories.

“Did you always know you would marry?” she asked the widow.

The woman laughed. “Well, our parents planned our wedding almost from the day we were born. Our farms were next to each other, and so of course they wanted the extra land—I was my parents’ only child. But Henri and I, we had different ideas.” She chuckled reminiscently. “For many years we did not like each other one little bit.”

“Because you felt you were being pushed into marriage?”

She nodded. “Partly, I suppose. But I thought him an arrogant fellow. He was the best-looking boy in the district”—she nudged her eldest—“just like this one, and didn’t he know it?”

“Papa used to say you were the prettiest girl for miles,” the oldest boy said, grinning.

The widow blushed. “And so I was.” To Zo? she said, “It wasn’t until I was nearly sixteen that my feelings about him changed. And his must have changed, too, for soon he came courting.”

“He brought you your fur,” the little girl prompted. It was obviously a well-loved family story.

Madame LeBlanc nodded. “He had trapped rabbits all through the winter, when their fur was thickest and softest—of course his mother cooked them up for their dinner—but my Henri, he cured the skins himself and stitched them together to make me a beautiful fur tippet. I still have it.”

“I’ll fetch it for you, Maman.” The little girl ran into the house and a few moments later emerged with a long glossy tippet.

“Merci, petite.” The widow draped the tippet around her neck, then pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. “Sorry for the tears, mademoiselle, but these are happy memories, you understand, not sad ones.”

Zo? nodded, working fast to capture that elusive faraway look in the woman’s eyes.

This—this!—was why she preferred to paint people, rather than scenery or still life. Or even animals. People had such stories in them, and if she could get them talking, with luck, she could capture the moment, the fleeting yet telling expression.

Once she had the salient details down, she let the widow and her children go about their daily business. She had it all in her head. Now all she had to do was to get it down in paint. Zo? painted furiously.

By the time the sun was low in the sky and the shadows were starting to creep across the land, she’d made real progress on the painting. The faces had come up beautifully. She was quite happy with them. There were still a few details to touch up, but she could do that in the morning, back in the camp.

She was just packing up her things when Hamish scrambled to his feet and galloped off somewhere. A few minutes later Reynard strolled into view, the dog frisking about him. Her mouth dried as she watched his long, easy stride. Shabby as his clothes might be, he outshone every other man she’d ever met. His blue, blue eyes lit up as they met hers, and he smiled a small, intimate smile just for her. Her heart beat faster.

He greeted the LeBlancs and strolled over to look at her painting, but she stopped him, saying, “It’s not finished.” She quickly draped a cloth over it.

He gave her a lazy grin. “Precious, are we?”

“Yes.” She knew she was a perfectionist and refused to apologize for it. As it was, she’d painted faster than she usually did. Or maybe she was just getting more confident.

They strolled back to camp, Zo? carrying the painting— she didn’t like to leave it where the children might knock it. Reynard carried a large canvas holdall, with his painting paraphernalia on his back. Madame had offered them food, but Zo? had refused, saying they had plenty that needed to be eaten back at their camp. “Besides,” she added, “I’m still full from that delicious soup you fed me earlier.”

“I didn’t get any of that delicious soup,” Reynard said plaintively once they were out of sight of the farm.

“We have plenty of food, and that woman is struggling to stay afloat, with a farm to run by herself and three children to support,” Zo? began, then stopped when she saw from his expression he was teasing her. “I suppose you had an enormous meal at wherever you were.”

“Enormous, and also delicious,” he agreed.

“How did your painting go? A bull, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, a big ugly brute of a thing, with evil little eyes. Oh, you meant the bull, did you? I assumed you meant the farmer, seeing as you prefer painting people. No, the bull was quite handsome.”

She chuckled. The soft evening light slowly dimmed, wrapping around them as they walked. They talked about their day and about their paintings and the people. The dog zigzagged ahead, sniffing various fascinating scents and christening them, until he paused, ears pricked, and darted off into the scrub, presumably in search of his evening meal.

It felt like coming home. But she was supposed to be leaving soon.

She told Reynard about the widow LeBlanc and the stories she told. “It was sad, bittersweet, and yet so romantic. I couldn’t paint her late husband in, of course, but I did include the tippet he made for her. It’s not quite glossy enough. I’ll fix that tomorrow.”

“So it’s finished, then?”

“No. I’ll need another day at least.” And then she would leave.

She glanced at the large canvas bag he was carrying. It looked heavy. “Is that more paintings?”

He nodded. “Yes, I’m collecting them before the owners change their mind.” He gave her a quick grin. “Striking while the iron is hot. Besides, it will be easier if I frame them all in one go rather than bit by bit.”

When they got into camp, Reynard went to lock the old paintings in the big cupboard in the wagon while Zo? busied herself getting the fire going. Reynard had shown her how to set a fire and where to find the best wood to gather to keep it going, and she was quite proud of her new skill.

She was really starting to enjoy this life. Oh, there were inconveniences, to be sure—washing in the cold stream, having to fetch and heat water and so on, but she had memories of her childhood in the slums of London, when she and Maman had had no means of heating water or cooking and no place to wash except with a basin in their one room with cold water fetched from the neighborhood pump. And everywhere—except their own room—it was dirty, whereas here, out in nature, there was dirt all around them, but somehow it was clean dirt.

Clean dirt. She smiled to herself at that little piece of nonsense.

Even at the orphanage, she’d washed in cold water in a basin. The first ever proper bath she’d had—almost fully immersed, with warm water and delicious-smelling soap—was at Lady Scattergood’s home. The old lady loved her baths and wallowed in her large bathtub for an hour or more most days.

The first time Zo? had climbed into the bath, oh, it was heavenly. Betty, the maid, had even scrubbed her back for her, and afterward she felt so wonderfully clean from her head to her toes. Yes, she would miss baths, that was certain. But it was a small thing to miss.

She hung the small pot over the fire to heat, then fetched the rug and spread it out. The best part of the day was the evening, eating supper, drinking tea, or wine if they had it, and sitting by the fire with Reynard.

They talked—oh, of nothing special, really, but it was pleasant, and it flowed easily without her having to think up ways to make conversation, the way she so often did with strangers. He was no longer a stranger. Not quite a week they’d been together, but it felt almost as though she’d known him forever.

Which was foolish, because she still didn’t know very much about him. Even so, when she was with him, it felt as though she had a small bubble of happiness inside her.

Sometimes he told a funny story, often about his time in the army. He never referred to the grim times, and listening to his tales, one would be forgiven for thinking the war had been nothing but a series of entertaining japes. Though having been enlisted at sixteen and staying in the army until after Waterloo, and having been in “a dozen or so battles” and receiving what he’d called “a few scratches,” she knew full well that there must have been some utterly horrific times for a young boy.

And there were times during these quiet, companionable evening sessions when they hardly talked at all, and yet it wasn’t the slightest bit awkward, as silences could be. She would sit, gazing into the dancing flames and the glowing coals, and all that she could hear was the wind soughing through the leaves and the fire crackling and, in the distance, the call of a bird or some wild creature. She’d feel no obligation to break the peace of that silence. And neither would he.

But the thought of those three wives and the children ate at her. One night she asked him again, straight out. “Did you really marry three different women?”

He turned his head and looked at her. “No, of course I didn’t.” There was no twinkle in his eyes. His voice was quiet and matter-of-fact and sincere.

She was inclined to believe him.

“Then why…?”

He shrugged. “Strange as it sounds, there is an occasional woman who will go to extreme lengths to lure me into marriage. Saying I have three wives and a handful of children tends to discourage them.”

“So you didn’t marry three women?” She had to be sure.

“No.” He glanced at her and added, “My word of honor on it. Not even one woman.”

She blinked. “You’re not married at all ?”

“No, not at all. I’m entirely single and fancy-free.” It was a flat statement of fact.

She believed him. He wasn’t just saying it to allay her qualms. After all, he’d made no attempt to seduce her. His treatment of her had, from the very beginning, been that of a gentleman, letting her sleep in safety in his wagon while he slept on the ground outside. He’d even stepped back from that kiss, when she had been more than willing to continue. They weren’t the actions of a seducer, or those of the kind of man who would deceive a woman into a bigamous marriage.

It was a weight off her mind. But now, knowing that he wasn’t married at all, and that the three wives story was a bit of nonsense he’d initially used to keep her at a distance, it became even more difficult to resist him.

Sometimes she would find herself gazing at Reynard staring into the fire, lost in thought, and she’d watch the way the firelight gilded his face, the bold nose, the shadows beneath his cheekbones, the mobile, sensitive mouth, the strong throat. A man of light and shadow.

And sometimes he’d catch her watching him and give her a quick, intimate smile, a gleam of white in the darkness, and she’d swallow and look away, her throat suddenly thick and dry.

He was too handsome, too charming for her own good.

She was too strongly attracted to him, and to this life. The idea that she could join him, as he’d suggested, enticed her. They could travel leisurely through the countryside, painting together, sitting by the fire at night, talking and laughing and…dreaming.

But it was just that, she told herself firmly: a dream.

Had she been the Zo? Beno?t who’d simply left the orphanage at the age of sixteen and never met Clarissa and Izzy Studley or Lucy or Lady Scattergood or Lady Tarrant—that Zo? might have been able to take up the wandering life of an artist with a handsome, laughing man. But she wasn’t that girl anymore.

Clarissa and Izzy had taken her into their family and their hearts, even before they’d known for sure that they shared a father. Old Lady Scattergood, taking her on trust, had given her a home and had even made her—what had she called it?—oh yes, her “artist in residence.” And Lucy and her husband, Gerald, had brought her to Paris, where for the last two and a bit years Lucy had taught Zo? to speak and act like a lady, and she and Zo? had studied painting together.

So many people who’d offered her so much, and all they wanted of her in return was for her to be able to enter their world as a lady. Maman would have wanted that, too, she knew. No doubt they also expected her to find a husband, someone rich and gentlemanly.

Not a kind, shabby, handsome, charming vagabond who lived in a wagon. No, even knowing he was single and free, for her, it was— he was—simply not possible.

Even if his kisses swept her away. And featured in her dreams on a nightly basis.

She’d been given so much in the last three years, and none of it was for their benefit. It was all for her, and she couldn’t, she just couldn’t let them down. She loved them.

She lay in bed at night, restless and torn, her thoughts swirling like leaves caught in a whirlpool. She wanted him—and she was sure he wanted her, too, so why didn’t he act? Was he just being honorable?

The nights were getting chillier.

The following day Zo? returned to the LeBlanc farm and worked on the painting. Hamish accompanied her, and much to the disgust of the LeBlancs’ dog, allowed himself to be pampered and spoiled by the LeBlanc children, and even their mother, who produced a bone for him to gnaw on.

The little girl had found a pink ribbon and used it to tie the straggly locks that half hid Hamish’s face into a topknot. He wore it with dignity all day…until they were on their way home and out of sight of the farm, when he sat and vigorously scratched, then walked on, leaving the ribbon in the dust. Zo? picked it up. She didn’t want the little girl to see it lying in the road.

More and more she found herself wishing it were possible to live this life, traveling with Reynard, painting by day, sitting around the fire talking by night. She was enjoying every part of it: meeting the people, the subjects of their paintings, and listening to their stories. They were poor and lived hard lives, and yet they rarely complained. And they’d been so generous toward her and Reynard; they’d been fed—and fed well—almost every night. Since that first day, Zo? hadn’t had to break into her small cache of money hidden in the pouch around her waist.

But it wasn’t just the life she wanted: it was the man. Without Reynard, much of the magic would be gone. He fascinated her. He was intelligent and witty, and his conversation was always far ranging and interesting and often unexpected. It was probably how he managed to get so many commissions: people liked him.

She liked him, too. A little too much. A lot too much.

That kiss…

It had been just that once, and yet she hadn’t been able to get it out of her mind. Afterward he’d acted as if it had never happened, and because of that she had decided it was safer to put the kiss right out of her mind. But it was not so easy. At night, lying in his bed, knowing he was lying beneath her outside on the ground, so near and yet so far, she relived it over and over.

It wasn’t as though she’d never been kissed before. She had, a number of times by a number of different men. It was natural to be curious, after all. And though those kisses had mostly been quite pleasant, none of them had moved her the way that Reynard’s had.

Nor had any man’s touch affected her the way his did. Even the slightest brush of his skin against hers, accidental or not, sent a frisson of deep awareness shivering through her.

It was not to be…but the thought occurred to her that she could invite him into the wagon one night. And then…

It was risky. She was a virgin, but she wasn’t innocent. Living where she had in the slums as a child, she’d picked up things. She’d heard how women could prevent a pregnancy. Something about a small sea-sponge soaked in vinegar. But what did you do with it? And where would she get a sea sponge? They were miles from the sea. She wished she’d taken more notice at the time.

One night for love. It was such a strong temptation. And then she’d return to London and enter society as her sisters’ long-lost French cousin. And make an appropriate marriage.

An appropriate marriage. The thought did not appeal. They wouldn’t make her marry, she knew. But she’d always wanted a family—her own family, with children to love. And since visiting Maman’s chateau and thinking about what had been lost, she wanted a family of her own even more.

The birds outside cheeped and twittered excitedly, welcoming the dawn. Zo? lay in bed, pondering the future. She would finish the LeBlanc portrait today. Without false modesty, she knew it was good. They would be happy with it, and that pleased her.

She’d really grown to like them: Madame LeBlanc worked like fury to keep the farm going until her sons were able to take it over, and the two boys, still children in some ways, worked just as hard. Even the little girl worked.

Just a few little touches and the painting would be done. Reynard had lined up several more commissions and was expecting her to paint the people.

But it wasn’t thoughts of the painting that had disturbed her sleep and woken her so early. The time had flown. On Thursday morning the miller’s son would take his wagon to Nantes, and the diligence would leave at noon.

Would she go or would she stay?

She ought to go, she knew. The longer she stayed the harder it would be to leave him.

They hadn’t made love. But the more she thought about it, the more she wanted to, and hang the consequences. She’d heard an old lady say once that at the end of her life, it wasn’t the things she’d done that she most regretted, but the things she hadn’t done.

Love was always a risk, was it not?

Besides, she’d only just finished her courses, and she knew from Lucy’s long campaign to conceive that the middle time between her courses was the most likely. And if she did conceive, well, she would deal with that if it happened.

Did she have to leave on Thursday?

Once she left here she’d never see Reynard again, never see his smile, hear that deep voice and that irresistible chuckle. Or gaze into those eyes, those sparkling Mediterranean-blue eyes.

She’d be introduced to dozens of eligible young men and was expected to choose one for a husband. She owed it to everyone who’d helped her and who hoped for so much for her. And loved her.

But she couldn’t imagine feeling for those polite, pleasant, well-dressed young gentlemen anything like what she felt for Reynard.

One night for love. It wasn’t much to ask.

But would it be enough? What if she stayed for another week? She could. There was nothing urgent requiring her return.

She could write to Lucy and Gerald and tell them she was extending her stay. She could get a letter to the miller’s son today and he could post it in Nantes tomorrow in time for delivery to Paris by the diligence . Then they wouldn’t worry.

Yes, that’s what she would do. She sat down immediately and wrote to Lucy, explaining that she was going to be away another week, but not to worry, that she was safe and having a wonderful time.

She folded and sealed the letter. She would take it to the miller’s son before she went to the LeBlanc farm. And then she’d finish the painting.

And tonight she would invite Reynard into the wagon. A shiver of anticipation ran through her. She couldn’t wait.

“There,” Zo? said a couple of hours later. “It’s finished. You can look now, but don’t touch—the paint is still wet.” Madame LeBlanc and the children clustered excitedly around.

“ Mon Dieu , do I really look like that?” Madame LeBlanc exclaimed.

Zo? gave her a sharp look, but by her expression the woman was pleased.

“You make me look almost pretty. So flattering.”

Zo? shook her head. “I paint what I see, madame. There is no flattery.” It was true. She admired this woman, battling on, keeping the farm going on her own while raising three children, and if that admiration was reflected in her painting, it was her truth she portrayed.

“ Oui , Maman,” the little girl piped up. “Tu es très jolie, et moi aussi.” She jiggled happily up and down. The boys, too, seemed pleased with the portrait, but were much gruffer in their praise.

Madame LeBlanc laughed and hugged the little girl. She gazed at the painting for a long time, then wiped her eyes on her apron. “My Henri might be dead, but I can see him in my boys’ faces, so I have them all here for me now, all my family. And my little one can see what her papa looked like as a boy. Merci , mademoiselle, a thousand times. I shall treasure this painting forever.”

Zo? was touched by the woman’s sincerity and was delighted by her pleasure in the painting. “I’ll take it back to camp and when it’s dry—which might take a day or two—Reynard will frame it.”

Madame LeBlanc nodded. “Yes, he has my frame already. You will bring it, yes? I don’t need to come?”

Zo? smiled at her eagerness. “Yes, I will.” Because she was staying another week.

Later that afternoon, Reynard strolled into camp with his easel on his back and his large canvas holdall bulging, Hamish at his heels. “I’ve finished the LeBlanc painting,” she told him.

“Excellent. May I look now?”

“Of course.” She brought it out and gave it to him. He took it into the best light and examined it carefully, taking such a long time, she started to get quite nervous. Then he ran a hand through his thick, glossy hair and shook his head. “I don’t know how you do it. This is marvelous, Vita. You are so talented.”

She blushed, relieved and delighted by his praise.

He put it in the wagon. “I’ll be able to frame it as soon as it’s dry, along with the other paintings we’ve done. Tomorrow I’ll string up a canvas to work under and remove the old paintings. I framed Gaudet’s, but that was so he could show it to his friends, and thus drum up customers for us. But in general I prefer to frame them all in one go, rather than one at a time over a series of days. That’s why I’ve collected the frames.”

“You have?” She hadn’t really taken much notice.

“Yes, I have half a dozen now, safely locked in the wagon, not to mention these.” He patted the canvas holdall.

It seemed odd that so many people had old paintings they wished to have replaced, but Zo? didn’t question it. Reynard obviously knew his market. He’d been doing this for quite some time, whereas until she’d met him, she had only ever painted people she knew, friends who could afford to have new frames specially made for their paintings. Poor people let nothing go to waste and reused everything.

In any case, her mind was not on work at the moment. Tonight she was going to invite Reynard to her bed. Earlier she’d bathed in the stream—she was almost down to the last of Clarissa’s lovely soap—and washed her hair. The dinner was a chicken and vegetable stew, warming by the fire, and she’d opened a bottle of wine.

Her nerves were jumpy, skittering from one thought to another and back, but in a different part of her brain, deep down, she was calm. She’d made up her mind. Tonight she would invite Reynard into the wagon.

Soon she would have to return to London, leave this life and do her duty in England, but she would have this, another week with Reynard, a time to look back on and remember, something to keep her warm through cold English nights and possibly a cold English marriage. Something just for her, done without any feeling of obligation, just joy, her own private and personal joy.

She sat by the fire as he put the contents of the holdall in the large cupboard in the wagon and packed his painting things away. When he emerged, he stopped and gave her a long, thoughtful look.

“Is everything all right? You seem a little… distraite .”

She felt herself blushing. “No, I’m fine. I, er, I bathed in the stream and washed my hair.” She groaned to herself. Why did she have to tell him that?

He nodded and gave her a slow, intimate smile. “Then I suppose I should do the same.” He reached into the wagon, pulled out soap, a towel and some fresh clothes. “Be back shortly. Keep an eye on that stew, will you?” A short time later she could hear splashing.

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Soon; it would be soon, she hoped.

Hamish, who hadn’t followed him to the stream, sniffed hopefully at the pot with the stew in it. “No, Hamish, not for you, sweetheart,” she told him, and placed the lid on the pot. He gave a lugubrious sigh and slumped dolefully to the ground. A moment later he sat up with his ears pricked and bounded away into the scrub. His dinner sorted.

Zo? moved the pot away from the fire. As if she could think of stew, knowing Reynard was a few yards away, naked in the stream. She sat, poking sticks into the fire, stirring sparks and wondering how she was going to say it.

“Dear Reynard, would you like to go to bed with me?” No, too blunt.

What about “I’ve noticed that the nights have been getting colder”? No, too much like farmer talk, discussing the weather.

What about “Reynard, I like you very much and I think we should—”

“Yeeeks!” she squeaked as two hands dropped lightly on her shoulders from behind, shattering her silent reverie.

“Sorry,” he said, laughing. “I didn’t mean to give you a fright.”

“You startled me, that’s all. I was miles away.” The warmth from his hands soaked into her.

“So I see.” He crouched down behind her, his hands still on her shoulders, and buried his nose in her hair. “Mm, your hair smells delicious. I did bathe, but I fear I won’t be able to match that.” He lifted her hair and feathered kisses along her nape, and she found herself arching back against him as tiny shivers of heat ran through her

“I did, however, manage a kind of shave, though without hot water, it’s not very good.”

She turned her head and looked back at him. “I don’t mind,” she said softly, and lightly rubbed her palm along his jawline, enjoying the faint texture of his bristles, the freshness of his skin. His hair smelled clean and damp. He rose, and she rose with him, turned in the circle of his arms and raised her face to his.