Finding Margo (28 page)

“But how can you leave everything just like that?” Margo stammered. “The farm and the livestock – who is going to look after them? François?”

Jacques let go of her hands and laughed ironically. “
Ah, oui, c’est ça
. François is going to turn into a farmer. That would be an interesting sight.” He shook his head. “No. I’ve spent the last few hours sorting everything out, and I think it’s all under control. I’m leaving the two Lithuanian boys to run the place for now. They are very good and know exactly what to do. And I’ll ask the farm manager from the neighbouring property to help out with the sales. That takes care of the farm for the moment. François will have to find someone to take over eventually of course, but things will be ticking over for a while. He’ll have to look after the house and grounds himself, though. Then he’ll find out what happens when the roof falls in.”

“What about the horses?”

“I’m taking them to the French equestrian team headquarters in Saumur. They’re looking for good horses and will give me a fair price. I’m leaving old Sophie here, but the farm hands will make sure she’s OK.”

“So everything is under control, then,” Margo said bitterly. “You have it all sewn up beautifully, and now you can just go off into the world and do your own thing, is that it?”

“More or less, yes,” Jacques said looking puzzled. “What’s wrong with that?”

“But what about me?” Margo asked, feeling tears well up in her eyes. “What about us? Don’t I mean anything to you? Are you so angry with me you don’t want to see me again?”

“Of course not.” Jacques stepped forward and took her hands again, looking at her sadly. “I don’t know how I feel about you,” he mumbled. “I don’t know how I feel about anything at the moment. But I do know I have to get away, to start again. This is all I know right now.”

“You said you loved me,” Margo whispered.

“I meant it. Then. I was blown away by your beauty, by your charm and gentleness. And if we’d had a little more time—”

“It’s my fault you’re leaving,” Margo said. “If I hadn’t said anything about the paintings, this would not be happening.”

“I think it was a good thing you did,” Jacques said. “I know I lost my temper last night, and I lashed out at you, which was very unfair. But now I realise you did me a favour. I needed something to push me out of here. So I’m really grateful to you, Marguerite. But I have to put some distance between us for now. Please tell me you understand. Tell me you’ll wait.”

Margo didn’t know what to say. She was afraid to speak in case she would say something to frighten him away. He looked suddenly so fragile, so unsure of himself, and she realised that his confidence and belief in himself had been seriously damaged by whatever had been said between him and François.

“Go then,” she said gently. “I wish you luck, I really do. You deserve it.”

Jacques held her hands tight again. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean you any harm. I would never want to hurt you. We’ll be together again when the time is right.”

“Maybe,” Margo said, fighting to stay calm. “But right now you need space and time to start over.”

“Thank you,” he said, letting go of her hands. He leaned forward and touched her lips with his in a kiss as light as a butterfly. “Thank you for understanding, Marguerite.” He stood for a moment looking at her. “
Au revoir
,” he said softly before turning around and walking down the path out of sight toward the stables.

Margo wrapped her arms tightly around herself. She felt too sad to move or even cry. “Come back to me,” she whispered. “Please, come back.”

***

“H
e’s gone,” Milady said, sitting in her bed with her untouched breakfast tray on her lap. “Jacques has left. And it’s all my fault.”

Margo was packing the last of the dresses into the biggest of the suitcases, but she stopped in her tracks and stared at Milady. “Your fault? Why?”

“I was too angry. Too unforgiving. I wouldn’t speak to him, even when he came to say ‘goodbye’.”

Margo stood up and walked to the bed. She took Milady’s hand and gently stroked the back of it. “But he must have understood how upset you were. What a shock it was to find out about the paintings. Your husband’s art collection that he must have been so proud of.”

“Oh yes,” Milady said, a bitter little note in her voice. “He was more proud of that than of his own children. He would spend so much time going to auctions and art galleries, trying to find the best paintings, the best investments. And when he was here, he would go around looking at them, showing them off to his friends. He used to travel to museums all over the world when they were on loan, just to see the sign that said, ‘on loan from the Coligny collection’. He would say that it was his legacy, something the family would be proud of when he was gone. ‘The Coligny collection will be famous all over the world for centuries’, he used to say.” Milady sighed deeply. “I believed him. I was proud of it too. It was my security, part of my image. But now it’s gone, ruined, because of what Jacques did.”

“He did it to save the house,” Margo said, still rubbing Milady’s hand. “What good would the collection be if the house had fallen down?”

Milady looked up at Margo, her eyes clouded with sorrow. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, you’re right. And what do a few paintings matter, after all? Why could I not have told him that just now? Maybe he wouldn’t have left if—”

Margo sank down on the bed. “He had to leave,” she said. “He has to go away and find himself, to stand on his own and not lean on anybody. He has to grow up at last,” she ended a little nervously.

“I don’t understand,” Milady said in an aggrieved voice. “Why does he have to go away from me, his mother? He knows I love him and that I need him to be here, by my side. To run the property, to keep up the standards we have always maintained. François understands it, why doesn’t Jacques?”

Margo looked at the older woman and felt a strong urge to tell her how preposterous it was for her to expect her sons to live only for her and not have their own lives, but Milady looked so sad and tired, Margo decided against it. What would be the point? Milady was convinced that her children owed her this kind of servility and nothing Margo said would convince her otherwise. “Jacques will come back,” she soothed. “He won’t stay away for ever. And when he returns, he’ll be much stronger and happier.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I know he will.” Margo got up from the bed. “Now let’s get organised,” she said in a cheery voice that belied her own mood. “I’ll finish the packing while you have your breakfast. And then I’ll draw you a bath, and when you’re dressed, we’ll be ready to leave for Paris.” She walked to the wardrobe and took out the last of the clothes. “These summer dresses—”

Milady looked up. “Yes?”

“Do you have to take them back to Paris? I mean it will be autumn soon, and you won’t need summer clothes.”

“Pack everything,” Milady ordered, her voice resuming its imperious tone. “I might go on a cruise in the Caribbean in January.”

“Oh really? That will be nice.”

“Yes,” Milady said, sounding happier, “and Jacques will have returned by then. And he’ll take up his old job, and everything will be back to normal again.”

***

“
Au revoir
, Agnès,” Margo said as she stuck her head in the kitchen door. “We’re off to Paris in a few minutes.”

Agnès looked up from a big pile of laundry. “Oh, Marguerite,” she said, rushing up to Margo and taking her hand in both of her own. “
Au revoir,
and thank you for all your help.” Agnes looked at Margo with affection in her brown eyes. “I don’t know how I could have managed without you,” she continued. “Or how
they
would have managed either.” She squeezed Margo’s hand and gave it a little shake. “Look after yourself now. And be careful.”

“Careful?” Margo said with a little laugh. “What do you mean?”

“Paris is a very dangerous place. I don’t know why anyone would want to live there.”

“It’s no worse than any big city,” Margo said.

“Murderers, thieves, rapists,” Agnès declared. “The whole city is full of them. It’s all those immigrants, you know. I don’t know why the government lets them into our country.” She shook her head disapprovingly.

“I’ll be careful,” Margo promised. “And I hope I’ll see you again very soon.”

“You’ll be coming for the weekends with Madame, I suppose?”

“That’s right.”

“Oh, good. The weekends in the autumn are very nice. Much calmer than the summer season. Not too many parties, just suppers with family and friends. You’ll see, it will be very pleasant.”

“I’m looking forward to that.”

“I’d better start the ironing. Goodbye again,” Agnès said, “and
bon voyage.”

“Marguerite,” François said, walking into the kitchen, nearly bumping into Agnès as she left. “There you are.”

“Yes, I was just saying ‘goodbye’ to Agnès, and now I’m ready to leave.”

“But that was what I came in here to tell you.” François looked both annoyed and oddly deflated. “I can’t leave just yet. I have to stay here for a bit and sort some things out. I’m afraid I’m going to have to put you and my mother on the train. She won’t like it, but I have no choice.”

“What’s happened?”

“It’s Jacques. He’s gone. He’s left for good.”

“I know,” Margo said dully.

“You knew? But why didn’t you—?” François stopped. “Never mind. It’s not your fault. It’s mine.” He looked at her for a moment as if he was trying to decide what to say next. Then he took a deep breath. “You might as well know,” he continued. “Jacques stole the paintings.”

“I know that too.”

“How?”

“He told me,” Margo said, feeling suddenly annoyed as she looked at François’ immaculate appearance: his smooth hair, his perfectly pressed linen jacket, white shirt, and blue silk tie, the spotless beige chinos, and gleaming Italian shoes. She folded her arms across her chest and kept looking at François, her annoyance turning into blazing anger. “He told me everything.”

“Everything?” François asked, looking slightly unsure of himself.

“Yes.”

“I see.”

“You’re a miserable, spoiled little wimp, do you know that?”

“What?” He flinched, looking every bit as stunned as if she had hit him in the face with a frying pan.

“You heard.” Margo dug her nails into her arms, barely feeling the pain. “You think you own everybody, don’t you? You think that you’re so superior, that everyone in this world owes you a living. You think that you should be allowed to go through life without having to make an effort and you can just snap your fingers and everything is done for you. Snap—” Margo clicked her fingers in the air. “The farm is taken care of and snap—“ She clicked her fingers again. “The roof is fixed and all the dry rot gone and snap—”

“Yes, yes, I get the picture,” François said, taking her hand. “Stop doing that, you’re making me nervous.”

“Oh, I’m
so
sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you.” Margo took a deep breath, trying to still her anger, but failed. “Jesus
Christ
,” she almost shouted. “How can you treat someone like that? Your own brother!”

“Like what?” François stammered.

“Like a bloody servant! Jacques has worked his heart out for you, don’t you see that? He has been looking after this place, this lovely house, the grounds, the land, everything, knowing he wouldn’t get anything in return. Simply because he loved it and thought he had a part in it. And when he found about his real father, he
still
went on working as before. And all for you.”

“For me? How do you mean?”

“Yes, you, his brother. And his mother. He felt you were still a family, that he should do all he could to make sure you could continue your lovely, privileged lifestyle as before. And, by the way, you lied to me,” Margo added, wanting to heap everything that she had been annoyed about on top of him while she was at it. “You told me you were in real financial trouble.”

“I know,” François muttered, looking guilty. “You’re absolutely right, of course.”

“You would have to sell—” Margo stopped. “What?”

François pulled out a char and sat down at the table. “You’re right,” he repeated, pushing his hand through his hair.

Her anger suddenly dissipated, Margo sank down on a chair opposite him. “I am?”

“Of course.” François nodded. “I’m not stupid. And I’m not the ogre you take me for. I know this whole mess is my fault. I know Jacques did what he did to save the château. I should have listened to him when he asked me to come down. I should have taken over the responsibility of the house and looked at all the quotes he sent me. But I was too caught up in something else. It was also my mother. She needed me. Her secretary had just left suddenly, and the winter season was in full swing with all the parties and so on.”

“Parties,” Margo snorted.

“I know. It sounds so trite. But it’s my mother’s life. Without her social circle, she has nothing. You, more than anyone, must know that.”

“I suppose,” Margo muttered.

“It’s the way she was brought up, the way she has lived all her life.”

“But it seems so useless, somehow,” Margo said.

“Of course it is. Completely useless. But it makes her happy and keeps her out of my hair.”

Margo looked at him, feeling a little puzzled. “I see. But why do you have to keep her out of your hair at all? I’ve been asking myself this all along. Why do you still live with your mother at your age?”

“
It’s not really like that,” François protested. “She is living with
me
. The apartment belongs to me, you see, and the château too, of course. I could have told her to leave, to get her own apartment, but it didn’t seem necessary. In any case, I’m planning to modernise the apartment and split it into two. I have had the plans drawn up and some builders lined up, but—”

“You haven’t got around to it yet?” Margo said ironically.

“I’m going to do up the room in the attic,” François said, sounding suddenly angry. “I’m going to turn it into a studio and sell it. That could be done very quickly. And my mother might be able to do without a secretary if she cuts down on her social obligations.”