Dawn Song (11 page)

she retorted.

'I don't think so.' Jerome shook his head. 'Or has your reading about the

destruction of the Cathars taught you so little?'

'Ugh.' She couldn't suppress the shudder that ran through her. 'I skipped a

few pages after the surrender of Montsegur.'

'No one could blame you for that.' He paused. 'What pages are you skipping

now?'

'Very few.' She certainly wasn't going to tell him she was hunting for his

aubade.
She gestured around her. 'This is paradise. I wonder if
madame

realises how valuable some of these books are?'

His brows lifted mockingly. 'Calculating the assets,
ma belle?'

She felt as if he'd slapped her across the face. She said bitingly, 'My interest

is professional rather than personal, I assure you,
monsieur.'

'You continue to astound me, my dear Margot,' he drawled. 'The

Cathars—politics—and now rare books. Is there no limit to your expertise?'

'I'm no expert,' she muttered, her face flaming with guilty colour as she

realised how nearly she'd given herself away. 'I had a—friend who dealt in

antiquarian books. I helped out sometimes.'

'What a fascinating life you lead,' Jerome said softly. 'And what can I

possibly offer to compensate you for the loss of it—temporarily, of course?'

He was still smiling, but there was an underlying hardness about his mouth,

and his eyes were hooded again, their expression impossible to read. Meg

was aware of a shiver of unease. She needed to get out of the room—to

escape from this dangerous proximity. Only he was blocking the

doorway—quite deliberately, she was certain.

'You don't need to offer anything,' she said steadily. 'I told you—I'm content

in my own company. Besides this—month is for
madame—
for Tante.'

'What admirable devotion to duty.' His voice was harsh, flicking her like a

whip. 'I hope you're a good actress,
ma belle,
because you'll need to be, I

promise you.'

'Actress?' Meg felt swift colour flood guiltily into her face. 'What do you

mean?'

Had that stupid slip over the books alerted him? she thought, desperately.

Could he have guessed that she was an impostor? And, if so, what was he

going to do about it?

His hand captured her chin without gentleness, turning her face up to his

scrutiny. 'Such blushing innocence.' His tone was derisive. 'But we both

know that's only a facade, don't we,
cherie?'
His voice quietened almost to a

whisper. 'What are you doing here, Margot? What has lured you away from

your work—your high-flying career—your many friends—to live in such

rural seclusion for four long weeks?'

'Madame
sent for me,' she defended.

'And you abandoned everything and everyone immediately.' He gave a soft

laugh. 'One would almost think you were running away. From a situation

you can no longer control, perhaps.'

'All that's running away is your imagination,
monsieur.'
Meg took a step

backwards, freeing herself from his grasp. 'Nor do I see why I should have to

submit to this kind of speculation,' she added with spirit. 'It's really none of

your business.'

'You're wrong,' he said. 'Anything that affects Madame Marguerite is my

concern, so be warned.'

Meg's laugh was almost brittle. 'Good heavens,
monsieur.'
She tried to copy

Margot's insouciance. 'First your man Octavien gives me the hard word, and

now you do the same. I'm beginning to regret that I ever came here. Now if

you'll excuse me I need some fresh air.'

She headed for the French windows, praying they wouldn't be locked, but

the handle turned easily in her grasp.

'I also have regrets.' Jerome's voice followed her harshly. 'I wish with all my

heart,
ma belle,
that I had never met you. But it's too late now.'

Meg didn't look back, but his words seemed to re-echo in her head as she

went into the sunshine. Too late, she thought. Far too late for her, when the

wish of her own heart was centred irrevocably and eternally on Jerome

Moncourt—who seemed only to despise her.

It was shatteringly hot. Not even the faintest breeze stirred the air as Meg

went down the terrace steps to the garden. Even though she needed to be

alone, perhaps this wasn't the best place to come in the heat of the day, she

thought as she followed a ragged gravelled walk, searching for shade.

The garden had been allowed to decay in much the same way as the house,

she realised sadly, pushing her way past overhanging shrubs and bushes. It

would need a small army to restore it to order. She rounded a corner and

stopped with a small sigh of pleasure as she saw where her path had led her.

In a corner of the garden by a crumbling wall someone long ago had planted

roses, some of the old, exquisite varieties she remembered from childhood.

Rosa Alba, she thought, with a pang, Belle de Crecy, Ispahan, Rosa Mundi,

and so many others. The roses her father had grown and loved in his own

garden, nurturing them like delicate children.

Meg lifted her face, breathing in the warm scent with nostalgia. After her

husband's death, Iris Langtry had rooted up all the old roses, and replaced

them with scentless, disease-resistant hybrids. 'Far less trouble,' had been

her brisk response to her stepdaughter's protests.

Meg sank down on the cracked stone bench. After years of being a widower,

her father had met Iris and married her within a matter of weeks, showering

her with passionate single-minded devotion that apparently saw no fault. He

was lonely, she thought sadly, or else he might not have let himself fall for

her so hard and so fast. And there was a lesson in that which she should take

to heart in the current situation.

I'm lonely, too, she thought, and Jerome Moncourt is the first man to pay me

any serious attention. But he's just amusing himself, and I must never forget

that. Because I've seen how disastrous a whirlwind romance can be.

Admittedly, Iris had made her father happy for the last years of his life, and

Meg could only be grateful for that. Her behaviour once she was his widow,

with control over his estate, had been a different matter entirely, and

Nanny's cottage was only one example of the way Iris had ignored or

reinterpreted his known wishes.

Oh, Daddy, she thought sadly, why didn't you put it all in writing, instead of

trusting her so completely? Because if you had I wouldn't be here today, on

the edge of breaking my heart. I'd be safe...

The roses blurred suddenly into a mass of glittering colour, and she covered

her face with her hands and wept the kind of shaking, scalding tears she

hadn't allowed herself for years, the pain of loss commingling with her

turmoil of emotion over Jerome.

'Marguerite.'

Because she'd been thinking about him, for a moment his voice seemed just

another figment of her imagination. But the light touch on her shoulder was

all too real, and she looked up with a gasp to see him, dark in the sunlight

above her.

'What do you want?'

'Madame
asked me to find you.' He studied her frowningly. 'What is wrong?

Have you had bad news from home?'

She'd forgotten about her abortive phone call. She moved restively,

dislodging his hand.

'It's nothing.'

'No one cries like this for nothing.' He took an immaculately folded

handkerchief from his pocket and gave it to her, watching as she blotted the

moisture from her face. The faint familiar musk of his cologne assailed her

senses, and she fought back another sob, tautly aware of his regard.

He said softly, 'I don't think you have been wholly honest with me,
ma belle?

Her heart missed a beat. 'What do you mean?'

'You said there was no one in your life back in your own country. But that

was a lie.' His voice hardened. 'Because those tears are for a man, aren't

they? Answer me, Margot. Tell me the truth this time.'

Words of angry denial rose to her lips, but she suppressed them. If he

thought she was in love with someone else, it would provide her with a

shield to shelter behind—the excuse she desperately needed to hold him at

arm's length.

She shook her hair back from her face defiantly, and looked at him. She said

clearly, 'Yes—I'm crying because of a man. Someone I love. I admit it.' It

was only the truth after all. If Jerome chose to interpret it in his own way,

that was his business. 'Are you satisfied now?' Her tone was a challenge.

'Because I have made you confirm what I already knew?' His mouth twisted.

'There is, I suppose, a certain satisfaction in that.'

'So now will you leave me alone?'

He shook his head. 'That is impossible,' he said. 'And we both know it.' He

picked up the book of poetry which had fallen to the grass beside her,

andhanded it to her. '
Madame
suggests, by the way, that we should go to

Albi tomorrow to settle the business over the car.'

Meg said tautly, 'Thank you, but I can make my own way. I don't need an

escort.'

His brows lifted. 'How do you propose to get there?'

'I suppose there's public transport?'

'There is a bus,' he agreed. 'But not tomorrow.'

Meg bit her lip. 'Then I'll use
madame'
s own car. Acting as her chauffeur

was one of the reasons for coming here.'

'Yes, it was,' he said evenly. 'But I wish to assure myself that you are capable

of handling her car safely.'

'How dare you?' Meg got to her feet. 'You know I can drive. I was driving

when we met.'

'No,' he said. 'You were sitting in a st ' nary car,
ma belle,
waiting for a tree to

fall on you. Not the same thing at all. So tomorrow your godmother wishes

me to accompany you—to ensure that all is well. And now she is waiting for

you. Unless you wish to continue this pointless argument, you are free to go.'

As she went from him, Meg heard his voice add softly, 'This time.'

The shutters had been partly drawn in Madame de Brissot's room, and Meg

was glad of the extra protection the ensuing dimness afforded.
Madame
was

lying on the bed, propped up by pillows, her legs covered by a silk shawl.

Her dark glasses had been discarded, and her face looked tired.

She greeted Meg with a faint smile. 'Come and sit by me,
petite.'
She held

out her hand, closing it firmly round Meg's fingers. 'It is good to have you

here. To give us both this chance to become friends. Do you agree?'

'Yes—yes, of course.' Meg felt like Judas.

'That makes me happy.' She was silent for a moment. 'Jerome, of course, had

doubts. Your lifestyle in England—the gap in our ages. He felt I should have

consulted him before inviting you.'

'Monsieur Moncourt,' Meg said steadily, 'seems to have things very much

his own way here.'

'His family and ours were always neighbours,' Tante said, after another

pause. 'I was—very glad when he returned to live at the
mas.
It has been too

long without a master. And, of course, his arrival was a godsend to me

because it meant I could make real plans, using his expertise, to renovate this

house—to make good the neglect of past years.' She smiled. 'It has almost

rejuvenated me too.' The clouded eyes peered at Meg. 'You are wondering,

perhaps, why things have been allowed to slip so far—why there has been no

proper maintenance?'

'It has occurred to me,' Meg admitted.

'It was not my wish,' Tante said slowly. 'But my husband would allow little

or no money to be spent on the upkeep of the house. When he realised we

would have no children—that he would be the last of his line—he seemed to

lose all concern for the place. It was as if he wished it to crumble away.

There was nothing I could say or do to persuade him otherwise.'

'That's a shame,' Meg said warmly. 'How could he bear to treat it like that?'

Tante gave a slight shrug. 'I think, like Madame de Pompadour it was a case

of, "
Apres nous le deluge,"'
she said drily. 'Henri's interests lay elsewhere.'

'But it's such a beautiful place—or it could be.'

'It will be.' Tante spoke forcefully. 'Jerome is an expert at restoration. He

will make Haut Arignac bloom again. You'll see.'

'I hope so,' Meg said with reserve.

'You don't sound too sure,
ma chere.'
Tante's lips curved. 'Yet you must trust

him. I want you to be friends. It is important to me.' There was sudden

urgency in her tone.

Meg said quietly, 'I—really don't know whether that's possible.'

'Oh, dear, is it that bad?' Tante's fingers tightened on hers. 'Your footsteps as

you came along the corridor sounded flustered, I thought, and your hand is

shaking a little. Has Jerome been tormenting you,
le mechant?'

Meg bit her lip. 'You—could say that.' Although she'd removed the worst of