Dawn Song (12 page)

the tear-stains, she was glad
madame
couldn't see her face.

Madame de Brissot laughed. 'Oh,
la'
There was a wealth of fondness in her

tone. 'He is incorrigible, that one. He loves to tease. So like his grandfather

in so many ways, as well as being his namesake,' she added with a swift sigh.

'But, of course, he means no harm. You must believe that. And after all to

meet like that—thrown together by a storm—is almost romantic, don't you

think?'

Meg bent her head. 'I was really too terrified to notice,' she returned.

'But you weren't harmed, thank God. And certainly thanks to Jerome.'

Madame
relinquished her hand gently. 'The Chinese,' she remarked, almost

inconsequentially, 'believe that if you save someone's life you are

responsible for that life forever after.'

'God forbid,' Meg forced a smile. 'I can take care of myself. And that's what

you should be doing,' she added. 'I thought this was your rest period.'

'It's not easy for me to relax today.' Tante pulled a little face. 'To have you

here with me—and my dear Jerome—under this roof. Such happiness.' She

gave a little sigh. 'My mind is everywhere.'

'Would you like me to read to you?' Meg volunteered. 'The paper hasn't

come yet, but I found the most wonderful book of poetry in the library.'

'You did?' Tante sounded almost startled. 'May I have it?'

Meg put the book in her hands, and watched as the thin fingers touched the

covers and binding very gently.

She said, 'There is a poem that begins "Ma
doulce amour, ma plaisance

cherie.'
Can you find that, my dear?'

She lay back, closing her eyes, as Meg began to read, a little awkwardly at

first, her tongue stumbling over some of the archaic words and phrases. As

she finished one poem, she went on to the next, letting her voice sink lower

and lower, until Marguerite de Brissot's gentle breathing announced that she

was asleep.

Meg let the book drop into her lap, and sat for a moment studying the

patrician face now in repose.
Madame'
s bone-structure had defied time, she

thought. There was no doubt that once she'd been very beautiful. She saw

too the trace of a solitary tear on her cheek.

She glanced down at the book, wondering if it was the mention of her late

husband, and the reminder of her own loss, which had caused the reaction.

Maybe the book had belonged to him. Vaguely intrigued, she glanced at the

flyleaf. There was an inscription, faded, but still legible.

'To Marguerite,' it said simply. 'My whole heart. J.'

Meg stared down at the initial. 'J', she thought. But Monsieur de Brissot's

name had been Henri.

She closed the book with the uneasy feeling that she'd intruded into some

very private domain. The book indeed had a special meaning for Tante still,

but certainly not in the way she'd imagined, she thought wrily. Judging by

what the older woman had told her, she seemed to have been left to her own

devices a great deal. Had Henri de Brissot neglected his English wife in the

same way as he'd disregarded his house?

His English wife...

'Anglaise'
Octavien's voice, harsh with dismissal—with rejection—came

back to her suddenly. Octavien who'd worked for the other—the

first—Jerome Moncourt until he'd left the
mas
never to return.

She swallowed, as she remembered some of the words of passion and loss

she'd just read aloud. Was that what had happened? she asked herself in

astonishment. Had Jerome's grandfather fallen in love with his neighbour's

beautiful lonely wife, only to renounce her at some point, and cut himself off

forever from all his old ties? She wasn't sure what the implications of such

an entanglement would have been, but there'd have been no easy divorce,

that was certain.

Was this why the first Jerome de Moncourt had been forced to make a new

life for himself in the city? And was this the reason for Octavien's bitter

resentment of all things English—that the master he loved had been driven

away because of his involvement with an
Anglaise!

It all made a lot of ghastly sense, she told herself broodingly. And it

explained Madame de Brissot's trust and affection for the present-day

Jerome.

'Like the son she never had'. Philippine's words came back to her. Her heart

missed a beat. And she, of course, was the almost forgotten goddaughter. Or

so
madame
supposed, at least. A girl summoned out of the blue to this

particular place, at this particular time. But for what reason?

'I want you to be friends. It is important to me'.

Meg swallowed. Perhaps she was being over- imaginative, but could there

be a deeper purpose behind
madame's
invitation than even Margot had

figured out?The son she'd never had, and the girl she'd lost touch with

brought together under one roof—as Tante had just exulted. Thrown

deliberately into each other's company for four long weeks under the hot sun

of Languedoc. Was this
madame's
secret plan—a romantic dream to

re-create the past, and ensure that the heritage of Haut Arignac continued

into another generation?

If so, it was total madness—doomed to failure for any number of reasons,

the primary one, of course, being Meg's already deeply regretted imposture.

And another was the 'old friend' who'd phoned him at the
mas.
There'd been

no mistaking the warmth in his voice. There was clearly a deep bond of

affection tying him to this other woman.

But how much did Jerome himself know of Tante's scheme—if indeed it

existed outside her imagination? And, if he knew, was he really prepared to

accept an arranged marriage to a stranger in order to become master of Haut

Arignac? Having first cold-bloodedly swept her off her feet into love with

him, she reminded herself shakily.

Yet what did she really know about him? From the very beginning, he'd

been an enigma—a dark figure conjured up out of the storm, and with the

same destructive elemental power.

She'd always expected that love, if and when it came to her, would be a

gentle thing, born from friendship, nurtured by shared interests—not this

sweeping, headlong torment of heartache and desire, which he, God help

her, didn't even share. That was the bitter truth she had to hang on to, at all

costs, regardless of any other considerations.

His kisses—his caresses—had not been for her at all, but 'Margot Trant'.

And while she remembered that she could keep herself safe.

Quietly, she put the book back down on the table beside the bed, and tiptoed

from the room.

MEG finished her coffee and polished off the last few crumbs of the

citron
-flavoured biscuit served with it. It had been pleasant to sit here in the

shade of the awning provided by the street cafe, and watch the world go by,

but now it was time to move on, and meet Jerome, as arranged, outside the

south door of the cathedral.

She stifled a sigh, feeling a flutter of nervous excitement deep inside her.

There had been no way to avoid his company today. She had put in a bid for

independence at dinner the previous night, but Madame de Brissot had been

adamant that he should accompany her to Albi—'For this first occasion, my

dear.'

And Jerome had enjoyed her discomfiture. Immediately after dinner, he had

bidden them goodnight, and departed, and Meg had carefully not allowed

herself to speculate where he might be, or in whose company, during the

oddly quiet evening which followed.

She had still been seething as she took the road from Arignac earlier that

morning, operating the elderly but beautifully kept Citroen with punctilious

correctness.

Eventually, Jerome had said with dangerous politeness, 'If you wish to reach

Albi today,
ma belle,
I suggest you stop behaving as if I were your

moniteur—
and drive.'

The transaction over the hire car had been quickly and amiably completed,

with Meg even being congratulated on her fortunate escape.

What escape? she thought grimly. Out of the frying-pan, into a roaring fire.

During the course of a restless night, she'd debated whether her best plan

might not be to bring the whole charade out into the open, before more harm

was done.

But the thought of the inevitable repercussions deterred her. She had to keep

silent for Nanny's sake—and also for Madame de Brissot's, because Tante

would be deeply offended to discover that her own god-daughter had

actually blackmailed someone else into keeping her company, and hurt too.

And there was enough sadness in her face already.

She wouldn't want to learn either that the real Margot was a mercenary

self-seeking little bitch, in love with a married man, and that was the reason

for the imposture. Much better to let Tante keep her illusions, as far as

possible, she thought. Except where her own future with Jerome was

concerned. Those plans would have to be knocked on the head

without-delay. Unless she was just imagining it all— leaping to absurd

conclusions.

But somehow I don't think so, she told herself restively. She glanced at her

watch, and signalled for the bill. Before she set off for their rendezvous at

the cathedral, she had a phone call to make from the booth in the cafe. Tante

had asked her the previous evening with a hint of reproach whether she'd

managed to contact her home yet. She'd been directed to the phone in the

salon,
tensely aware that Tante could hear every word of a potentially

awkward conversation, but to her relief the line had been engaged yet again.

As it was once more this morning, she found. How odd, she thought. Iris

disliked the phone, and was anyway too cost-conscious to make prolonged

use of it. She dialled again, this time to Nanny's number, and here there was

no reply, either.

Well, she'd tried, Meg thought with a mental shrug, as she hung up. She'd

have to make another attempt at the chateau, while Tante was resting,

maybe.

Probably because of its stormy past, the cathedral had more the look of an

armed fortress than a house of prayer. Jerome was already waiting for her

under the ornate white stone porch on the south side of the building.

'Am I late?' Meg asked with a touch of constraint as she joined him.

'Admirably punctual.' He glanced at the huge red-brick building behind

them. 'Do you wish to see the famous fresco of the Last Judgement, or would

you prefer Toulouse-Lautrec?'

Meg was taken aback. 'I thought we'd be going straight back to the chateau.'

'Why?' His brows lifted. 'This is a beautiful city.'

'I'm sure it is,' Meg said stiltedly. 'But this isn't how—either of us would

choose to spend the day.'

He was silent for a moment. 'Shall we declare another truce, Marguerite?

While I show you the city?'

He had not, she thought, denied what she'd said. She looked at him

uncertainly—saw the dark eyes alive and dancing, the smile that twisted his

mouth, and felt the excitement inside her uncurl into recklessness.

She said,
'Soit.
So be it. But I'd rather skip the Last Judgement.'

'You don't think your sins would bear inspection?' There was a faint edge to

his voice.

She said lightly, 'Perhaps I'm more of a Cathar— one of the Perfect Ones.'

She saw his mouth compress in slight wryness. He said, 'Then I'll take you to

see another kind of perfection.'

The Toulouse-Lautrec collection was housed in the Palais de la Berbie, the

old bishops' palace.

'It's almost like meeting old friends,' Meg said as she gazed at the famous

Moulin Rouge posters of Jane Avril and La Gouloue.

'You like them?' he asked.

She nodded. 'Yes, maybe because they're so familiar. But if I'm honest I

prefer those we saw earlier—-the ones of his family and friends. They're so

much—quieter—and more affectionate, somehow.' She sighed. 'I wonder

what his life would have been like if he hadn't been crippled by brittle

bones?'

'He

would

probably

have

led

a

more

conventional

existence—married—looked after his estates. Some of the passion and

intensity of his work might have been diluted by domesticity.'

'It would be good to think of him being happy,' Meg said, rather wistfully.

'But happy endings are not always possible. Haven't you learned that yet?'

No, she thought, as they emerged once more into the sunshine. But I'm

getting there.

He took her to the old part of the town, and she explored it with open delight,

as they traversed the narrow streets with their overhanging timbered houses.