Page 30 of The Secret Daughter
“If only you and your cousin had come past three years ago.” Madame LeBlanc sighed. “We would have had my husband in the painting, and we would have his face to look on.”
“I’m sorry…” Zoë began.
“Take no notice of me, my chick,” she said. “I don’t need a painting to remember my Henri. All I have to do is look at that one.” She gestured to her eldest boy. “Every day he grows more and more like his papa. And just now he looks exactly like Henri did at that age. We were neighbors, you see, my Henri and me, and knew each other all our lives.”
She sighed and added, “No, I would have liked a painting of him so the children would remember their father.”
“But we do remember him, Maman,” the oldest boy said.
“Yes, we will never forget Papa,” the middle one added.
The little girl looked up from where she was fondling Hamish. She opened her mouth as if to disagree, but her brother shook his head at her and she subsided.
Zoë painted on. The little girl would have been three when her father died and would have few memories.
“Did you always know you would marry?” she asked the widow.
The woman laughed. “Well, our parents planned our wedding almost from the day we were born. Our farms were next to each other, and so of course they wanted the extra land—I was my parents’ only child. But Henri and I, we had different ideas.” She chuckled reminiscently. “For many years we did not like each other one little bit.”
“Because you felt you were being pushed into marriage?”
She nodded. “Partly, I suppose. But I thought him an arrogant fellow. He was the best-looking boy in the district”—she nudged her eldest—“just like this one, and didn’t he know it?”
“Papa used to say you were the prettiest girl for miles,” the oldest boy said, grinning.
The widow blushed. “And so I was.” To Zoë she said, “It wasn’t until I was nearly sixteen that my feelings about him changed. And his must have changed, too, for soon he came courting.”
“He brought you your fur,” the little girl prompted. It was obviously a well-loved family story.
Madame LeBlanc nodded. “He had trapped rabbits all through the winter, when their fur was thickest and softest—of course his mother cooked them up for their dinner—but my Henri, he cured the skins himself and stitched them together to make me a beautiful fur tippet. I still have it.”
“I’ll fetch it for you, Maman.” The little girl ran into the house and a few moments later emerged with a long glossy tippet.
“Merci, petite.”The widow draped the tippet aroundher neck, then pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. “Sorry for the tears, mademoiselle, but these are happy memories, you understand, not sad ones.”
Zoë nodded, working fast to capture that elusive faraway look in the woman’s eyes.
This—this!—was why she preferred to paint people, rather than scenery or still life. Or even animals. People had such stories in them, and if she could get them talking, with luck, she could capture the moment, the fleeting yet telling expression.
Once she had the salient details down, she let the widow and her children go about their daily business. She had it all in her head. Now all she had to do was to get it down in paint. Zoë painted furiously.
By the time the sun was low in the sky and the shadows were starting to creep across the land, she’d made real progress on the painting. The faces had come up beautifully. She was quite happy with them. There were still a few details to touch up, but she could do that in the morning, back in the camp.
She was just packing up her things when Hamish scrambled to his feet and galloped off somewhere. A few minutes later Reynard strolled into view, the dog frisking about him. Her mouth dried as she watched his long, easy stride. Shabby as his clothes might be, he outshone every other man she’d ever met. His blue, blue eyes lit up as they met hers, and he smiled a small, intimate smile just for her. Her heart beat faster.
He greeted the LeBlancs and strolled over to look at her painting, but she stopped him, saying, “It’s not finished.” She quickly draped a cloth over it.
He gave her a lazy grin. “Precious, are we?”
“Yes.” She knew she was a perfectionist and refused to apologize for it. As it was, she’d painted faster than she usually did. Or maybe she was just getting more confident.
They strolled back to camp, Zoë carrying the painting—she didn’t like to leave it where the children might knock it. Reynard carried a large canvas holdall, with his painting paraphernalia on his back. Madame had offered them food, but Zoë had refused, saying they had plenty that needed to be eaten back at their camp. “Besides,” she added, “I’m still full from that delicious soup you fed me earlier.”
“I didn’t get any of that delicious soup,” Reynard said plaintively once they were out of sight of the farm.
“We have plenty of food, and that woman is struggling to stay afloat, with a farm to run by herself and three children to support,” Zoë began, then stopped when she saw from his expression he was teasing her. “I suppose you had an enormous meal at wherever you were.”
“Enormous, and also delicious,” he agreed.
