Page 16 of The Secret Daughter
Silence fell as they ate. “This is delicious,” she commented. “You cook very well.” The ham was tender and her egg was perfect, with a firm white and a runny yolk.
“For a man, do you mean?” He grinned at her sheepish expression. “I like to eat, and thus I learned to cook.” He used his bread to mop up some egg yolk. “I’ll make some tea in a moment.”
If he was going to do it, Zoë decided that she could also mop up her yolk with bread. It was not what a lady would do, but she wasn’t a lady, was she? At least not yet.
“You really slept all right?” she asked him between mouthfuls.
He gave her a quizzical look. “Yes, as I said. I always do.”
“But what about the…the wild animal?”
“What wild animal?”
“I heard it—or them—several times. A terrible kind of scream. At first I thought it was a woman in trouble, but then I realized it was some kind of beast.”
He grinned. “A kind of scream? A fox, then.”
“Afox? But it sounded…I thought…”
“You thought it was some dreadful beast?” He sounded amused.
“Yes,” she muttered, feeling foolish.
“I thought you were a country girl.”
“There were no foxes at the orphanage.” Not in the heart of London, anyway.
“No, the nuns wouldn’t allow them,” he agreed solemnly. “And in the great house where you worked? No foxes on the estate?”
“I didn’t go outside much. We were kept too busy.”
“Yes, of course.” He set his empty plate to one side and set about making tea. Three heaped spoonfuls, just like yesterday, she noted. So lavish—for a vagabond.
“Did your business prosper?” she asked, changing the subject.
“Yes, most excellently. I have a commission from a farmer. That’s where I got the eggs and ham and also”—he held up a small ceramic jar sealed with a cork—“some fresh milk, just for mademoiselle.”
“Lovely, thank you. So, what was this commission, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Not at all. He wants a painting of himself and his prize pig.”
“A painting? You’re an artist?” She was stunned.
“Of sorts.” He poured the tea, added sugar and milk to her mug and passed it to her.
She drank it thoughtfully. He was a painter. It put a whole new light on things. She could see some sense nowin his wandering lifestyle. Though how he could make a living from portraits of country farmers and livestock, she had no idea.
“It means I won’t be moving on today. The farmer lives just over that hill, and I’ll be working there.”
“Yes, of course,” she murmured. He was an artist! Like her.
“The next village is about three or four miles—no idea what that is in kilometres; I still don’t have the hang of them yet—but it should only take an hour or two to walk there. Or”—he shot her a quick glance—“you could stay here until I’ve finished the painting. I’m quick; two days, three at the most, and then you could travel on to the village with me. You’d be most welcome.”
“Thank you.” She should move on, she knew, but her blisters were still sore. And though she’d been lucky in finding a safe ride with him, her previous nasty experience had eroded her confidence. Besides, Reynard, for all his mystery, was easy and pleasant company. And he was an artist, which had aroused her curiosity. Being one herself, she really wanted to see his work.
He climbed into the wagon and brought out a large rectangular canvas holdall. His artist’s equipment? “And while you’re thinking about it, since the farmer—or rather, his good wife—has offered to provide us with all the food we’ll need, you need not worry about that kind of thing.”
She nodded. Did he actuallywanther to stay?
