Page 22 of The Secret Daughter
“Oh yes, difficult as she is, I’m quite fond of her. And she takes charge of things while I’m away.”
“Which makes it easier for you to go away?”
“Correct.”
“What about the other wives?”
“Oh, they never mind if I’m away—they leave it all up to her. Oh, you mean what are they like? Well, wife number two”—he rolled his eyes—“makes endless demands on behalf of herself and her two daughters. Never-endingdemands. She’s never satisfied and she makes sure I—and the rest of the world—are fully informed of my deficiencies.”
“I see.” That fact that he referred to “her” daughters, not “our” daughters, was outrageous. Honestly, men were the limit, sometimes. But she was a stranger and in no position to criticize. The relationship between him and his wives was none of her business. Though she was very curious.
“And the third wife? Presumably she’s the youngest.”
“Yes, she’s the one who’s just had a baby—at least I suppose she’s had it by now and that all went well. With two boys already, she was hoping for a girl.”
Zoë gave him a searching sidelong look. It didn’t seem to have occurred to him that things might not have gone to plan with the birth, and he seemed quite indifferent as to the sex of the new child. “You haven’t written to find out?”
“No. I’ll find out eventually.”
The farm came into sight, and Zoë was left with her thoughts as Gaudet came to greet Reynard, and there was an exchange of masculine chat from which she was more or less excluded.
Those wives of his, what a strange and shocking arrangement it was. Presumably, if she acted on her attraction to him, he would carelessly add her to his collection of wives and treat any children she gave birth to with the same callous indifference he showed to the other five.
It was an absolute disgrace and she would never be part of that kind of arrangement. Never!
Chapter Five
When they arrived at the farm, Reynard introduced her as his cousin. Monsieur Gaudet nodded indifferently, but Madame Gaudet was a different kettle of fish. Arms akimbo, she took one long look at Zoë, then gave a loud, skeptical sniff.
She didn’t even give Zoë a chance to visit Le Duc de Gaudet in his pen, just bustled her into the kitchen and set her to work, washing dishes, peeling potatoes, podding peas, peeling and slicing apples for a tart, kneading bread, sweeping the floor and doing all manner of household chores, all the while popping out for short breaks to pose for Reynard’s painting. Each time she returned to the kitchen, she inspected Zoë’s work and shot questions at her about Reynard, his family and their so-called relationship.
It was exhausting, but at least Zoë proved relatively competent at the various tasks, thanks to her training in the orphanage and the time she’d spent helping in the kitchen at Lady Scattergood’s. She managed to evade a lot ofquestions about him by saying she’d grown up in a different part of the country, and hadn’t known him well.
Finally, in desperation, she borrowed Marie’s story about the lecherous son of the house and being dismissed, saying that upon finding Reynard in the district, she’d taken shelter with him and would be returning to the family in Paris as soon as they reached Nantes, where she would catch thediligence.
At that, madame’s attitude changed—Vita was a good girl; it was a disgrace the way those aristos thought they were entitled to whatever took their fancy and thought nothing of ruining a decent girl for a moment’s pleasure.
Zoë thought of the violence done to her family and to Maman’s home and shivered. The resentment might be old, but it was still there.
But when Zoë told her what she’d done to discourage Monsieur Etienne, the woman laughed until tears ran down her cheeks. After that, though she kept Zoë working just as hard, the atmosphere in the kitchen was much more pleasant, and at the end of the day, she sent her home with an apple tart, a large container of soup and a loaf of fresh bread.
Zoë and Reynard walked back to the camp. “Well, that’s done,” he said. “The painting is finished.”
“That was quick,” she said in surprise. “I thought it would have taken much longer.” Her own paintings certainly did.
“Yes, I told you I’m fast. But once it’s dry, I’ll frame it in Monsieur Gaudet’s frame.” His hands were full of the painting—still wet—and all his painting supplies, and Zoë’s were full carrying food from Madame Gaudet. “He has an old painting he doesn’t want, so I’ll frame mine in that one. It’s gold leaf and very ornate, and madame is very proud of it. And Gaudet will like a painting of him and his precious pig much more than the old painting—have you ever seen such an enormous porker?”
“No, never.” In fact she hadn’t often seen a living pig. They weren’t common in the city. She was looking forward to seeing the finished painting. He was carrying it carefully with a protective cloth over it.
“And what did you get up to? I hardly even saw you,” he added.
She described her day of nonstop labor and interrogation and he laughed and laughed. “But you finally convinced her that you weren’t a scarlet woman traveling with a shiftless vagabond?”
“As you see.” She indicated the pile of food she was laden with. “And I earned every pound.”
“Gram,” he corrected her. “It’s all grams and kilograms in France now, don’t forget.”
When they got back to the camp, he took the painting into the wagon for it to dry away from the evening dew, and then set about lighting the fire, seeing to his horse and fetching water. Zoë put the soup from Madame Gaudet into the small pot, hung it over the fire to heat and sliced some of the bread and cheese.
