Page 15 of The Secret Daughter
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 theother. 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 avagabond. 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 thediligencestopped.
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 wouldhaveto 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.
