Dawn Song (15 page)

She dressed with care for dinner, deliberately passing over the

honey-coloured dress and the disturbing memories it evoked for the

simplicity of a black skirt, teamed with a white silk blouse, high- necked and

long-sleeved.

She'd expected
madame
might be down before her, but she found the
salon

empty. Now might be a good chance to call Iris again, she thought restively,

picking up the phone and dialling the code for Britain. And this time, with a

certain amount of relief, she heard the number ringing out.

'Yes?' Her stepmother's voice was clear but querulous. 'Who is it? What do

you want?'

'It's—Margot.' Meg hesitated over the name.

'Margot?' Iris's voice almost squeaked. 'Oh, thank God. I've been nearly

going mad. Where are you, darling?'

'Why, France, of course,' Meg said slowly, all her warning antennae on red

alert suddenly. 'Madame de Brissot wanted me to let you know I'd arrived

safely.'

'Madame de...?' Iris sounded bewildered for a. moment. 'You mean it's you,

Meg? Why the hell didn't you say so, instead of pretending?'

'Because that would be difficult in the circumstances,' Meg returned drily.

'What's happened? What's wrong?'

'You may well ask. It's that damned woman- Steven Curtess's wife.' Iris

sounded like the messenger in a Greek tragedy. 'She's left him, for God's

sake. Just gone off into the blue, abandoning her children, and making all

kinds of damaging statements to the Press,' she added with a little sob of

pure indignation.

'I've had the most ghastly people from tabloid newspapers ringing up,

wanting to talk to Margot. I had to take the phone off the hook, just for some

peace. There've been photographs, headlines about love triangles. It's been a

nightmare.

'Margot's had to go into hiding, poor child. And Steven Curtess seems to

have had some kind of
brainstorm—lost all sense of proportion.' Iris laughed

angrily. 'Do you know he had the almighty nerve to come here to this house,

bringing his children, insisting that Margot look after them, because there

was no one else? Those beastly reporters had an absolute field day over that.

'I told him she wasn't here, but he left them just the same, saying he had to go

and look for his wife.' Iris's voice was pure outrage. 'And the children

wouldn't stop screaming. I was at my wits' end, until I thought of Nanny

Truman. I told her it was an emergency, and she came at once.'

Meg sat down shakily on the arm of the sofa. 'You mean you've still got

them?'

'No, no, Nanny took them down to her cottage, thank heaven. But he'll have

to make other arrangements. I can't be expected... It's not as if I knew where

Margot was, or when she's coming back. Especially after the awful things

Corinne Curtess has said about her in the Press. I'm sure half of them are

libellous.'

'I doubt that very much,' Meg said wearily.

'That's what my solicitor said when I spoke to him.' Iris gave another sob. 'I'll

never be able to hold my head up again after this. And I'm here quite alone,

having to bear it all. It was totally selfish of Margot to disappear like this,

especially when she must have known what would happen.' She paused.

'You've got to come home, Meg, right away. I need you, to answer the door

and telephone, if nothing else.'

'I'm sorry,' Meg said levelly, 'but that's quite impossible. I'm also needed

here, and this is where I'm staying. These other problems are none of my

making, and I don't want to get involved.'

Iris gasped. 'How can y oPul en

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u come back this minute.

of it was for Corinne Curtess. Although she didn't altogether sound as if she

needed it, she thought with a tinge of amusement. Mrs Curtess would

undoubtedly be devastated by her husband's adultery, yet launching a

pre-emptive strike through the tabloids, and transferring responsibility for

the children on to her erring husband and his mistress, was more of a

masterstroke than a bid for compassion.

But how typical of Margot to vanish once the going got tough, she thought,

her lip curling, although Nanny, kind, sensible and comforting, would be in

her element, of course.

'Bonsoir.'
Jerome was standing, framed in the open French windows, glass

of whisky in hand.

So he'd been on the terrace all the time, Meg thought in swift panic. How

much had he heard— and what had she said to give herself away? She

forced a brief smile as she got to her feet. 'I didn't know you were there.'

'Clearly,' he said laconically, strolling into the room, his dark eyes making a

mocking assimilation of her appearance. 'What modesty and discretion,' he

commented softly. 'Dare I offer you a drink before you leave for the

convent?'

She nodded jerkily. 'Thank you. I'll have a white vermouth.'

'You look as if you need something stronger.' His gaze became more

searching. 'I hope there's been— no bad news?'

'On the contrary,' she said, with an attempt at lightness. 'Things couldn't be

better.'

And maybe it was true, she thought, as Jerome poured her drink. Perhaps

Steven Curtess would come to his senses about his marriage, at last, and

Margot be taught a much needed lesson. And soon there'd be some new

scandal or sensation, and life would return to something like normality

again.

Although it was doubtful if Iris would ever forgive her, she decided, with a

mental shrug. But it was time she moved on anyway. From now on, she'd

spend every free moment she had in the library, until she'd mastered that

monster machine sufficiently to apply for an office job when she got back to

Britain. That was the way forward. The only way, she added in silent

emphasis, watching Jerome with sudden hopeless hunger as he walked

towards her, drink in hand.

She turned away, staring at the glow of the evening sun falling in pools

across the terrace flags, terrified that he would read the self-betrayal in her

eyes. As he came to her side, she took the glass from him with a murmur of

thanks from her taut throat.

'Sante.'
He lifted his own drink in salute, leaning a shoulder indolently

against the frame of the window. Meg, aware of his scrutiny, felt the colour

rise in her face, and heard him laugh. 'Again, that incredible blush.'

She couldn't think of a single answer to that, so she continued to stare rigidly

in front of her. He was close enough to touch, she realised. If she turned, her

arm would brush against him.

'I didn't know grass could be so fascinating,' the tormenting voice went on.

Meg bit her lip. 'I was—thinking about something,' she said lamely.

'But not happy thoughts,' Jerome observed.

He saw far too much, Meg thought bitterly. She hunched a shoulder. 'It's just

so quiet here.' She made herself sound faintly resentful. 'And I'm used to city

life—things happening all the time.'

'Ah, yes,' he said meditatively. 'Then we shall have to arrange some

excitement for you here.'

She tried to ignore the undercurrent of laughter, teasing in his voice. She

swallowed some of her vermouth. 'Oh, yes, typing estimates for new roof

timbers, no doubt,' she retorted, her tone brittle.

Jerome laughed. 'But even those could be interesting,' he said, 'if you use

your imagination to visualise how the house will look when everything is

done.'

'Yes, I suppose so,' Meg said slowly, thinking back to the letters she'd

written earlier.

Jerome gave her an interrogative glance. 'Is something wrong?'

'No,' she said. 'At least—I just don't understand
why.
Why now, after all this

time?' She took a breath, hurrying on, as his brows rose. 'I mean, restoring a

house this size is going to cost a small fortune, and what's it all for? There

isn't a child— or anyone else to inherit.'

'You think Haut Arignac should just be left to die in peace?'

'No.' Meg hesitated. 'Well, perhaps. After all, who can really afford a home

like this any more? And besides, I don't think Tante has that kind of money.'

'And what she has could be put to better use?' There was irony in his voice.

She met his gaze squarely. 'Yes, probably. It's very isolated here, after all,

and there must be a lot of sad memories. She could get away—travel...'

'And forget?'

She moved a hand rather helplessly. 'Well—why not?'

'I don't think it's that simple. Love is not always transient—so easily

dismissed.'

'After all these years?'

'When the love is real,' Jerome said quietly, 'time ceases to matter. An hour

or a lifetime become the time.'

Meg's hand tightened round her glass. She said constrictedly, 'And if it turns

out to be the wrong person at the wrong time in the wrong place?'

He said harshly, 'Then it's a tragedy. But it doesn't change a thing,
ma belle
,

believe me. The ground's as deep, and the scar is eternal. 'And you won't get

Madame Marguerite away from here,' he went on after a pause. 'She's spent

o much of her life here. In fact, Haut Arignac has become her life, and her

love. Now she wishes pour into it all the accumulated passion of all these

sterile years. Would you deny her?'

'No,' Meg acknowledged with a sigh. 'Certainly not when you put it like

that.'

'Or are you considering your own interests, perhaps?' His tone of polite

interest deceived her at first. But as Meg absorbed the implication in his

words her head came round sharply.

'What do you mean?' she demanded.

'Madame
is frail and lonely,' he said with a shrug. 'Sylvie Aljou, her usual

companion, is a good woman, but she has no claim on her affection. Yet

already Marguerite is fond of you.'

Meg tensed. 'I already told you,' she said. 'I don't want anything from her.'

His voice hardened derisively. 'I know what you said. But anyone can

change their mind. And, in a month, you could achieve a great deal. Even

persuade
madame
to divert what resources she has totally in your direction.

An old dying house, or a young, lovely woman. I'd say the scales were

weighted in your favour,
ma chere
Margot.'

Furiously, her hand swung up, but before she could make contact Jerome

seized her wrist in a grip of iron.

'Ah, non,'
he said softly, and coldly. 'Not now. Not ever.' He jerked her

forward, smothering her swift cry of pain with his mouth. He was angry, out

of control as never before, his lips parting hers with merciless force,

devouring her—ravishing her. And her rage and need matched his, her own

demand suddenly as hot, blind and seeking. Hands locked behind his head,

Meg gave herself up to the dark, stinging rapture of the moment. Jerome. His

name seemed to sing through her veins. Dear God,
Jerome!

Oblivious to everything, they swayed in each other's arms as if rocked by

some high wind, their bodies moulded—welded together.

And then, as suddenly, as violently as it had begun, it was over. Jerome

released her, pushing her from him almost with revulsion. He said hoarsely,

raggedly, 'Ah,
Dieu,
no. Damn you, Margot, what have you done to me?'

He kicked the fallen whisky glass out of his path, and strode across the
salon

to the door, slamming it behind him.

There was broken glass on the carpet. It was important—imperative that she

should clear it up, she thought dazedly. She knelt carefully, gathering the

slivers into her handkerchief, wincing as one lacerated her flesh.

She looked down at the bright bead of blood. The wound is deep, she

thought, the scarring eternal. And tasted the saltiness of her tears on her

bruised mouth.

THE illuminated dial on her bedside clock said two a.m. Meg stared at it,

muttered, 'Oh, hell,' then turned it face downwards.

It had been, she thought, quite the worst evening of her life. She had only

just managed to pull herself together, and clear up the mess on the carpet

when
madame,
regal in lavender silk, had entered the
salon.

'So there you are,
petite
.' Fortunately oblivious to Meg's over-bright eyes,

and tear-stained cheeks, she seated herself in her usual chair, peering round.