Page 19 of The Secret Daughter
“What made you decide to become a painter?” she asked him later. He’d packed up his things, and they were sitting beside the fire, talking as they finished off the last of the wine.
The fire was burning low. Reynard leaned forward and poked the coals with a stick. Sparks flew, twirling and dancing up into the velvety dark sky.
“I’ve always wanted to paint,” he said. “Ever since I was a boy. I don’t really know why. My father, of course, was appalled.”
“Why?”
He gave her a searching look. “You really want to know?”
“Yes, of course. I’m interested. So why was your father appalled?”
He made a careless gesture. “Oh, proper men don’t waste time on effete and frivolous nonsense like painting—certainly not the men of our family. He tried to thrash it out of me when I was a boy, but the beatings didn’t take. I’m quite stubborn, you see.” He grimaced. “I was the second son, so my disgrace was not as dire as it would have been had I been his firstborn; nevertheless, it was bad enough. So he decided to enlist me in the army—make a proper man of me, you see.”
“And did he?”
“Oh yes. On my sixteenth birthday. He would have sent me to war as a twelve-year-old drummer boy if he could have.”
“Twelve?” She was shocked. “Surely not?”
“Yes, well, we were at war with—” He stopped, suddenly realizing they had been at war with her country. “With, um, Napoleon by then, you see—but my motherkicked up a terrible fuss. So he shoved me into a really strict school, where he hoped I’d have the painting nonsense beaten out of me—they tried, but didn’t succeed—and then on my sixteenth birthday, he had me enlisted and shipped to the war on the Iberian Peninsula.”
“And did that put an end to your artistic aspirations?”
He gave a short dry laugh. “Far from it. Contrary to Papa’s expectations—and mine, for that matter—in between battles I learned to draw and paint. I also saw all kinds of wonderful paintings, far better than anything I’d seen at home—despite so many being looted by Napoleon’s forces, only some of which were returned after the war. But it was an education in itself. And there were other fellows in the army who also painted. So, though I’ve never studied art—not properly—I managed to pick up a few techniques here and there.”
“How fascinating. I would never have thought of painters in the army. I suppose we only ever think of soldiers fighting.”
“Oh, we did our share of that, believe me. But there is a lot of waiting around in war, as well as fighting. And while a good deal of that time we spent foraging—”
“Foraging?” she said, startled.
“Oh yes, army rations were, apart from being endlessly dreary, often in short supply, so we learned to hunt and trap and forage—and cook.” He grinned. “Which is why I was able to serve you that delicious rabbit stew the other evening. Compliments of my army experience.”
“I see.”
“After Waterloo, I decided I didn’t want to settle down. I decided to become a vagabond artist, and so I began my travels.”
She was silent a moment, thinking about those supposed three wives—each in their own house. There must have been some settling down, even for a short while.
“But then my brother, Ralph, died.”
“I’m sorry—” she began, but he didn’t appear to hear her.
“He was my older brother, and so”—he contemplated the glowing coals, and leaned forward and stirred them again, sending a spiral of dancing sparks into the night—“I had to go back to England. My father had a seizure—shock, I suppose—when he heard the news. And rage. I was the one who was supposed to be killed, you see, but instead I went through a dozen battles with only a few scratches here and there while Ralph died of a small cut that was left untended.” He gave her an ironic look. “Real men don’t fuss over little cuts, you see. But it turned septic and he died of it.”
“I’m so sorry.”
He sighed. “It was all so stupid and unnecessary. I’d always looked up to him—my big brother, you know—but to die for such a small, stupid thing.” He shook his head. “He was the apple of everyone’s eye—mine, too. He’d been trained from birth for the family business, you see. And then a few days after he heard the news, my father died. My mother had died years before—not long after I’d gone to war—and so everything was left in the hands of my maternal grandmother.”
A long silence stretched, broken only by the gentle hiss and crack of the fire. He stared into the fire, and she gazed at his strong profile, limned by firelight, but otherwise cast in shadows. Even in silhouette, he was a beautiful man.
“So I had no choice but to go home and pick up the reins,” he said eventually, his tone light.
Zoë was silent. He clearly wasn’t home now, so what had he done? And what was the family business? He surely hadn’t left his grandmother to run it. But something in his demeanor made her reluctant to ask.
“Ah well, I’m for bed,” Reynard said, standing and stretching. He held out his hand to help her to rise, and when she placed her hand in his, she once again felt thatunsettling frisson. He drew her lightly to her feet and paused, looking down at her, her hands still clasped in his. His thumbs caressed them gently. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get so maudlin. The wine must be stronger than I thought. You must have been bored to tears.”
“I wasn’t bored at all,” she murmured. They were standing so close their bodies were almost touching, but somehow she couldn’t make herself move. She couldn’t see his expression: his face was in shadow. But she could feel his gaze on her, like a warm caress.
