Dawn Song (14 page)

preoccupied. And who can wonder? Meg asked herself bitterly. She wanted

to say, Weren't you expecting company? And did she give you a hard time,

when she saw you drive up with me? But pride kept her silent. Better for him

not to know she'd seen his guest at all, let alone that she cared she was there.

That would be altogether too much of a betrayal.

No wonder Octavien was so unwelcoming, she thought, her throat

tightening. Presumably he approves of the lady waiting in the bedroom, and

doesn't want anything—or anyone—to make waves. Least of all me.

Well, he doesn't have to worry. Because I know now, beyond all doubt, that

I have nothing to hope for from Jerome. That I never did.

And she felt more desolate and alone than she'd ever been in her life before.

THE atmosphere in the car was loaded—charged with tension.

Jerome, lost in thought, made no attempt to initiate any immediate

conversation, and Meg was thankful for it. It gave her time to pull herself

together, recover at least the appearance of composure.

How quickly things could change, she thought shakily. Only an hour or so

before they'd been companions, almost friends. Now the truce was over, and

the swords were out again.

She stole a glance at him. There was tautness in every line of his face. If he

was thinking about the woman at the
mas,
his train of thought didn't seem to

be providing him with any particular pleasure. She could sense that hidden

anger in him, like some volcano waiting to erupt.

Perhaps her appearance at the
mas
had caused some serious breach between

them which couldn't be simply shrugged off. But that was hardly her fault.

'What were you saying to Octavien?' His voice broke abruptly across her

troubled reverie.

'A touch of reassurance, which didn't work.' She paused, adding carefully,

'Octavien doesn't want any re-creation of the past either.'

Jerome too was silent for a moment. Then he said, 'You must forgive him.

He was totally devoted to my grandfather from the time they roamed these

hills together as boys. He saw only a future of companionship and hard

work, bringing the
mas
back to life, extending the vineyard—seeing their

children grow up together in turn.' He sighed sharply. 'Disappointment has

made him bitter.'

Meg said slowly, 'And he blames Tante for—all of it. That isn't fair.'

'Why do you say that?'

'She was married. Your grandfather was a single man. Maybe he should

have held back—thought twice before becoming involved. He had less to

lose.'

'An interesting viewpoint,' he said softly. 'Yet the marriage was over before

his intervention. He was not breaking up a relationship. Now that—
that, ma

belle,
would be truly unforgivable. Don't you think?'

She said quietly, 'Perhaps none of us is qualified to pass judgement—at this

distance.'

'Well, Octavien thinks otherwise. He feels that your godmother should have

remembered her marriage vows, even if her husband did not.' He shook his

head. 'Perhaps some of the old Cathar morality still "lingers in the earth and

stones of the Languedoc.'

Meg was silent for a moment. She said, 'But once she'd—broken her vows,

why didn't she leave- walk out on the marriage once and for all? She could

have made a whole new life with your grandfather. There was no need to

make them both miserable.'

'It was not so simple. Perhaps it never is.' His voice was heavy. 'Henri de

Brissot made it clear he would never willingly let her go, and that divorce

was out of the question. Family pride was at stake, and he was prepared to

use all the power of Church and State to force Marguerite to stay in the

marriage.

'She had discovered, you see, that she was pregnant.' His mouth curled. 'And

Henri had decided the child was his.'

Meg stared ahead of her. 'Was that—possible?'

Jerome lifted a shoulder. 'He still insisted on his conjugal rights,' he said

flatly.

'How could she bear it?'

'She had little choice in the matter. And each time Henri reappeared he was

full of repentance—determined to put their relationship on a new footing,

and make it work. She felt it was her duty to stay with him—and try again.

Grandfather could not persuade her to change her mind. He was prepared to

risk anything—any scandal—to have her with him. But her prime

consideration was—had to be— the child.

'Because Henri could just have been right. That was what haunted

her—what swayed the balance in the end.'

Meg touched the tip of her tongue to her dry lips. 'But—there was no child.'

'As it turned out, no. There was an accident— the ultimate irony. She slipped

on the stairs one day, when she was alone in the house. It almost cost herher

life as well as the baby's.' He was quiet for a moment. 'Henri, of course,

never forgave her. That was the end of any hope for the marriage. She had

sacrificed herself and her happiness in vain.'

'But what about your grandfather?'

'He swore if he left it would be forever, and he meant it, although he didn't

blame Marguerite for the choice she'd made.'

He paused again. 'So he went to Paris first, then abroad, to manage a

property in Martinique that had belonged to his mother's side of the family.

While he was on leave, he met my grandmother, and made a new life for

himself.'

'Were they happy?'

'They were certainly profoundly content. Perhaps that is a safer basis for a

relationship that must last a lifetime.'

Perhaps, Meg thought, with a catch in her throat. But it sounded very much

like second best to her— a thought which occupied her in silence until they

reached Haut Arignac.

Jerome, she learned, had decided to establish his temporary office in the

library.

She looked round her. Suddenly the dark, book- lined walls seemed hostile,

as if they were closing in on her, holding her prisoner. As maybe they were.

She Looked with loathing at the sleek electronic typewriter with the built-in

screen, which he'd brought in from the car and placed in the centre of the big

table.

And that, of course, was to be her instrument of torture in this dungeon, she

thought, her lips twisting.

'I've never used this particular model before,' she said, watching Jerome plug

it into the power supply. Or anything remotely like it, she added silently.

The typewriter at the bookshop, which she'd used occasionally for

correspondence and invoices, had been a portable, manual machine of

roughly the same vintage as many of the books, but at least she'd felt in

control.

Whereas this thing had a memory, and presumably also a mind of its own ...

'It has all the standard features. There should be no problem.' He stood up,

dusting his hands, then took a folder from his briefcase. There were pages of

notes inside, in his crisp, incisive handwriting. Reams of the stuff, Meg

thought glumly.

'If you could make three copies?' He glanced at his watch. 'I'll come back in

an hour to see how you're getting on.'

Well, at least that was better than having him standing over her, watching

her fumble her way to disaster, Meg decided as the door closed behind him.

Wasn't there a fairy-story about a girl who'd been locked into a tower, and

ordered to spin straw into gold, on pain of some ghastly fate?

I know how she felt, Meg told herself, as she assembled paper and carbons.

But no magical power was going to perform any miracles to save her, she

soon realised, as the waste basket began to fill up with spoiled sheets. When

Jerome returned, she was still going to be surrounded by straw.

Gritting her teeth, she battled to master a keyboard which required only a

feather touch, apparently, to race away in all directions at once, with herself

in fruitless pursuit.

The pile of completed pages was still pitifully small when she heard the door

behind her open. She made herself concentrate on what she was doing, as he

bent over her. There was no actual, physical contact, yet she was sharply

aware of the warmth of his body close to hers, his breath fanning her hair.

Swallowing past her dry throat, Meg risked a swift upward glance, and saw

his brows lift. 'Is this all you've done?' His voice was expressionless.

'I'm afraid so.' She gave him an ultra-bright smile, determined to brazen it

out. 'I told you I wasn't used to this type of machine.'

'Or any other, it would seem.' There was bite in his tone.

'And I couldn't find a rubber—or any correcting fluid either.'

'Because they're not necessary,' Jerome said with restraint. 'The machine has

a built-in correcting tape. You operate it like this.' He demonstrated briefly.

'Oh.' Meg's tone was hollow. 'I see.'

'I hope so.' He paused, reading through one of the pages. 'Your employer is

easily pleased, it seems,'-he commented grimly.

Meg bit her lip. 'He doesn't complain,' she countered uncomfortably. 'And

I—I warned you I wasn't a typist.'

His smile was brief and humourless. 'Clearly your other talents must

outweigh your lack of practical skills.' He put the sheet he was scanning

down again, holding her gaze with his. He said softly, 'One day,
ma belle,

you must tell me exactly what duties you do perform to deserve your salary.'

She said huskily, 'I don't think that's any of your business.'

'Unless I choose to make it so.' There was sudden harshness in his voice.

'What are you doing, Marguerite, wasting your life in this way? I don't

understand you. I could swear you were capable of so much more...'

Meg pushed her chair back, again tautly conscious of his proximity as she

got to her feet. She said, 'I'm sorry if I haven't lived up to your expectations.'

'Ah, but this is only the beginning,' Jerome said gently. He put out a hand,

and smoothed a strand of hair back from her damp forehead. It was done

lightly—even impersonally, but she felt the stroke of his fingers shiver

through her bones.

He smiled at her. 'Perhaps tomorrow I can hope for better things.' The words

seemed to linger in the air between them, ambiguous, tantalising, offering all

kinds of possibilities. Exactly as he intended...

She felt her pulse beat flutter like a bird, with excitement and a kind of

absurd hope. But simply recognising the absurdity was her salvation.

Swallowing, she stepped back mentally from some brink. She said, quietly,

'Will you excuse me, please? Tante may need me.'

'At least you fulfil her requirements adequately,' Jerome observed drily.

'That's what I'm here for,' Meg returned, lifting her chin.

'Is it?' The dark eyes flashed at her. 'I hope so, Marguerite. Believe me, I

hope so.'

'And what exactly does that mean?' she demanded.

He shrugged. 'I don't want
madame
to suffer any kind of disillusionment.'

She said unevenly, 'She—means a great deal to you, doesn't she?'

'Yes,' he said. 'And not just because of the past, either. I would do a great

deal to protect her from distress of any kind.' He paused. 'So be very careful,

Marguerite.'

She shook her head. 'I'm not going to hurt her.' She managed a little laugh.

'Incredible as it may seem, I—I care about her too.'

And I envy her, she thought desolately as she went past him, out of the room.

At least, when she loved, she was loved in return. I envy her with all my

heart.

She spent the time until dinner reading Tante's correspondence to her,

helping draft replies, and then writing the letters themselves for Madame de

Brissot's signature. She felt a slight awkwardness at being plunged into the

deep end of
madame'
s personal affairs like this, but the older woman was

entirely matter-of-fact about it, assuring her that it was one of the duties that

the absent Madame Aljou took for granted.

But Meg felt miserably guilty as she changed for dinner. It was one thing for

madame's
own goddaughter to be allowed such a penetrating glimpse of her

circumstances, but she herself was a stranger, which made one hell of a

difference.

But she now knew for a certainty that none of Margot's optimistic comments

about a possible inheritance had any foundation in fact.
Madame'
s income

was barely enough for her needs, and her only real asset was the chateau

itself. And where the cash was coming from for all the restoration work

heaven only knew. Jerome might have spoken of a labour of love, but the

carpenters, electricians, plumbers and masons who'd be needed would

hardly regard it in the same light. They'd want to be paid.

But it wasn't her business, let alone her problem, she reminded herself with

decision, as she reviewed the selection of clothes in her wardrobe. By the

time work started, if it ever did, she'd be long gone and far away.