Page 23 of The Secret Daughter
It had only been a few days, but she was getting very used to the outdoor life. And, unexpectedly, she was enjoying every minute of it. In fact, she thought as she stirred the soup in the pot, she could happily live like this, traveling from place to place, painting for a living. Making meals together, sitting around the fire in the evening, talking and telling stories by firelight, while overhead the stars twinkled and the moon shone benignly down.
The faint evening breeze changed direction and suddenly her eyes and lungs were full of smoke. Coughing and rubbing her eyes, she moved to a different position. It wasn’t this life that she was thinking of—she was romanticizing there. They’d been lucky with the weather, but in winter it would be cold and wet and unpleasant. And she was already tired of washing in the chilly water of the stream. Oh, for a hot bath, with some of Clarissa’s bath oils.
She glanced at the tall man vigorously grooming the ancient horse, taking as much care as if Rocinante were a thoroughbred. It wasn’t the carefree outdoor life she was dreaming of; it was life with Reynard.
But that was ridiculous. She hardly knew the man—not even his real name—and he didn’t know hers. He was full of contradictions and mystery, and she would be a fool to throw in her lot with a man who claimed to have three wives and who knew how many children, no matter how charming and apparently chivalrous he seemed.
Besides, she had another life waiting for her in England, and people who loved her, who’d given her so much. She owed it to them to live the life they’d made possible for her. It was the life Maman would want for her, too.
“I’m off to the village,” Reynard said the next morning after breakfast. They’d lingered over scrambled eggs and several cups of tea. “I might be gone awhile. I’m planning to walk into town and see if I can get any more commissions.” He grinned. “Apparently Gaudet has been boasting about getting a portrait of his pig done. With any luck, more people will want one.”
She laughed.
“Will you be all right here on your own?”
“Of course. Besides, I have Rocinante for company.”
“Good. Just watch out for the man-eating foxes, then.” He strolled away.
Zoë was dying to see the finished painting. It had been too dark in the wagon to see it the previous night, so after she’d cleaned up the breakfast things, she climbed into the wagon and brought the painting into the light. And stared, frowning.
The pig was certainly the star of the portrait—it was so vibrant and lifelike that one could almost imagine it stepping out of the picture. But the people…
They were…flat, not quite two-dimensional. Both Madame Gaudet and her husband would be quite disappointed, she was sure, though Gaudet might not care, because the pig was magnificent.
She set up the easel and examined the painting more closely.
What kind of painter could paint a brilliantly lifelike pig and yet fail with people? Oh, you could tell who they were—the features were accurate enough, and the clothing, but somehow, they just didn’t look real.
Reynard had said it was finished.
But it wasn’t.
She glanced at the road he’d disappeared down.
She could fix it. She poured herself some tea from the leftovers in the pot. It was lukewarm and bitter, but she didn’t like to make herself a fresh pot.
She looked at the painting again. The basic appearance of the farmer and his wife, their poses and the shapes of their bodies were fine, but the eyes were…wrong. And so was Madame Gaudet’s expression. And her husband’s mouth. All it would take would be…
No, she couldn’t. It wasn’t right for one artist to interfere with another’s work. Especially not without permission.
But Madame Gaudet had been, beneath her brisk bossiness, kind. And Zoë wanted her to look her best. If Gaudet had been boasting around the village about his portrait, how would madame feel when it looked as though she was of less importance than the pig?
Zoë nibbled a slice of the apple tart and decided. She would do it. And risk Reynard’s wrath. He might not even notice. She would just fix the eyes.
She fetched his paint and brushes and started to paint. She’d only intended to make a couple of tiny adjustments, but one tiny brushstroke was followed by another, then another, and gradually, as Zoë’s brushes flew, Madame Gaudet and her husband came to life: madame with theskeptical expression that seemed so much part of her, but also showing the kindness underneath. And the pride that Gaudet had in his pig shining from his eyes.
It was early afternoon when she finished and stood back to examine the painting. She nodded, satisfied. Yes, it all worked. Now the pigandthe people were equally vividly portrayed. The Gaudets would be happy, she was sure.
She cleaned the brushes, put everything away and picked up the painting, ready to put it back in the wagon. She took one last, long look, and slowly the pleasure in her work died.
What had she done? How would Reynard react? Would he be furious? She would be if someone had interfered with one of her paintings unasked. What on earth had she been thinking? She’d been arrogant, thinking she could do better—and she had, but she should never have done it.
Guilt curdled in her stomach. But it was too late to undo what she had done. She would have to take the consequences. Reynard would be back soon.
She waited.
It was late afternoon when Reynard strolled into the campsite, carrying several large, heavy paintings, wrapped carefully in a cloth. It had been a mixed day, and he was glad to be back in his camp.
