Page 27 of The Secret Daughter
The mystery of her deepened. He sipped his soup.
From the edge of the clearing came the sound ofcrunching bones. A few minutes later he heard splashing, then Hamish stepped into the firelight, his ragged, plumy tail swishing gently. His muzzle was wet and dripping, his expression content.
He went straight to Vita and nuzzled her shoulder with his damp muzzle. She laughed, exclaiming, “Ugh, you’re all wet!” But she happily put aside her soup and scritched around his ears. “You clever boy, you didn’t leave us after all, did you? I was so worried that I’d never see you again.” The moment she stopped, the dog nudged her shoulder again then glanced at Reynard with a smug look.
“At least we know he can feed himself.” At her quizzical look, he explained, “Unless I miss my guess, Hamish has just caught and eaten a rabbit. Didn’t you hear all the crunching and munching earlier?”
“No, I didn’t.” She pulled back and regarded the dog with a severe expression. “I don’t suppose I can blame you,” she told him. “Just don’t let me see you doing it, all right?”
The dog gave her an imperious nudge, and she sighed and resumed her attentions.
The following day was a Sunday, and Reynard had told her to sleep in. “Most people around here will be at church in the morning. I should have asked—do you want to go to church?”
She shook her head. Maman had been a regular churchgoer when she first came to England, and whenever she could, she lit candles for her parents and brother. But when she’d learned, some years later, that they’d been guillotined, she’d lost her faith, she told Zoë.
They’d still gone into a church from time to time to light a candle for their souls or to ask for intervention from one of the saints—Maman was bit vague about that—but though Zoë had been christened, she’d never been confirmed.
Later, after Maman died and Zoë was taken to the orphanage, church attendance had been compulsory, but the church was a different sort, with no friendly saints to turn to, and where, she was told by the matron of the orphanage, lighting a candle for the souls of the dead was a heathenish, popish practice and not to be thought of.
So Zoë had never had much faith to lose. And since Reynard said he’d never had any to lose in the first place, they spent the morning tidying the campsite and doing a bit of washing.
And trying not to think about that kiss.
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 realpeople. 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.”
