Dawn Song (19 page)

her robe on the table. That would have to wait, she thought grimly. She was

crossing the hall on the way to the stairs when the front door swung open,

filling the hall with sunlight. And in the midst of it was Jerome.

He looked preoccupied, his face tired and drawn, and in spite of everything

Meg's heart turned over at the sight of him. You stupid fool, she adjured

herself with contempt.

He checked at the sight of her. 'I hoped I would see you,' he said quietly. 'We

need to talk.'

'I couldn't agree more,' Meg's voice bit. 'I suggest somewhere we won't be

overheard.'

He saw the document wallet, and his face hardened. 'I came to fetch that.

What are you doing with it?'

'Let's discuss it in private.' Meg led the way into the dining-room and closed

the heavy door. She took out the two sets of papers and slapped them down,

side by side, on the gleaming surface of the big table. 'And what percentage

do you get, Monsieur de Moncourt?'

His brows lifted in hauteur. 'What do you mean?'

'I mean swindling an elderly woman out of money she can't afford anyway,'

she flung at him. 'Tante thinks the sun and moon shines out of you, Jerome,

and you're taking her for a ride—fiddling her rotten—you and these others.'

Her voice rose passionately. 'And you
dare
talk to me about deceit.'

His mouth tightened. He took a step towards the table. 'Have you shown her

those estimates?'

'Not yet.' Meg put herself between him and the precious papers.

He halted, his expression faintly derisive as he studied her defiant stance.

'Thank God for that at least.'

She stared at him. 'Is that all you have to say?'

'You're waiting for me to make some excuse- to defend myself?' He shook

his head, smiling crookedly. 'No,
ma belle.
Think what you choose.'

'And if I take these to
madame?'

'I can't stop you,' he said. 'But I hope that you won't. It would cause

me—problems.'

'You deserve to have problems.' Her voice shook. 'You deserve to go to gaol

for the rest of your life.
Madame
trusted you because of your grandfather,

and you—you traded on that—wormed your way into her confidence—her

affection. You're despicable.'

'Have you finished?' He was very pale, and a tiny muscle jerked beside his

mouth.

'I've barely started. How could you do it, Jerome? How could you treat her

like this? You can't need the money.' She spread out her hands beseechingly.

'Make me understand.'

His voice was quiet ice. 'I think that is impossible. And why should you want

to, anyway?'

Because I love you, her heart cried out to him. Because this contradicts

everything I believed about you. Because my dream is broken, and I want it

mended.

Slowly, she bent her head. 'There's no reason.'

'Then may I have my papers, together with a guarantee that you won't

meddle in this matter?'

Something inside her seemed to die. She said dully, 'To use your own

words—I can't stop you. But I won't keep quiet.
Madame
has treated me

with nothing but kindness, and I won't repay her by allowing her to be

defrauded like this.'

'Go to her, then. See if she believes you.'

Meg bit her lip. 'But I don't want her to be hurt either, and she would

be—desperately.' She paused. 'There is an alternative.'

'How enterprising of you,
ma chere.'
The hooded eyes were coldly sardonic.

'Are you going to tell me about it?'

She said, 'I want you to give up the project. Make some excuse to
madame
,

and let her find someone else—another architect.'

'And what happens to me? Do I simply disappear—retreat back to Paris like

my grandfather?' He shook his head. 'No, I don't think Octavien could

survive another defection.'

'You'll think of something. But in future it might be best—kinder to

madame—
if you kept away from the chateau altogether.'

'You have it all worked out.' His mouth curled. 'But I'm afraid your plan

won't work. Because I have no intention of shunning Haut Arignac, now or

at any time to come. Nor would
madame
wish me to.'

'Not if she knew the truth about you?'

'Point the finger,' he said. 'Tell her your suspicions. She may be a little upset,

but it won't last.'

She said thickly, 'Your arrogance is unspeakable.'

He shrugged. 'She has more faith in me than you do,
ma belle,
that's all. But

at least we have no illusions about each other, you and I.'

He walked past her, swept the papers together, and replaced them in the

wallet. 'With my compliments,' he said, and put it into her hands with a little

bow.

She stared up at him, her wide eyes enormous in her pale face. 'Is—that all?'

'Except for this,' said Jerome, and took her in his arms. His kiss was deep,

and without mercy, as if he was trying to burn his way into her

consciousness forever. Somehow, she found the strength to endure it—and,

when it was over, to watch him walk away without a backward glance.

'Was that Jerome's car I heard a little while ago?' Madame de Brissot asked

when, her packing done, Meg eventually joined her on the terrace.

'Yes.' Meg's voice was constrained. She might have no more illusions, as

he'd said, she thought wretchedly, but how did she begin to tell this woman

who loved him like a son that he was little better than a common thief?

She sat down on one of the wicker chairs and put the incriminating wallet on

the small table between them.

'He must have been in a great hurry,' Tante mused. 'He brought you some

more typing, perhaps.' She laughed gently. 'He is even keener than I am to

see this work started, but that's understandable.'

'It's not more typing.' Meg took tentative hold of the bull's horns. 'It's some

of the estimates for the restoration. I thought maybe you should see them.'

'Well, that is thoughtful.' Tante sounded surprised. 'But Jerome has already

discussed them with me.' She smiled. 'He brought up my breakfast tray this

morning, as he often does when he spends the night here, and went through

the figures then.'

'He did?' Meg swallowed. 'But he left them with me, or I thought...' She

paused, then plunged on. 'Were they—satisfactory?'

'Far better than I'd dared to hope.'
Madame
delved into the tapestry bag

hanging from the arm of her chair, and produced a folded paper. She handed

it to Meg. 'See for yourself,
petite.'

Meg saw. The figures listed in Jerome's unmistakable writing were all the

lower ones.

'You're—sure these are right?' she asked hesitantly.

'Yes, Jerome offered to show me the actual quotations, but I begged him to

spare me.' She leaned back against her cushions contentedly. 'When my

share of the restoration is paid for, I shall be quite comfortably off. I shan't

know myself.'

'Your share?' Meg's voice was hollow. 'I don't quite understand. You mean

you're not paying for this renovation?' She caught herself. 'I'm sorry. I

shouldn't be asking this. It's—it's none of my business.'

Madame
shrugged. 'But why should I mind?' she said. 'It isn't really a secret,

and you are almost family after all. I'm paying a proportion of the cost,
mon

enfant.
Jerome didn't want me to pay anything at all, but I insisted. In fact, I

made it a condition of the sale.'

'Sale?' Meg echoed, her head reeling.

Madame
nodded. 'The papers will be signed at the end of the week. And

Haut Arignac will finally belong to Jerome.' She smiled. 'My first dream

come true.'

Meg smiled back weakly. No dream for her, she thought, but an actual living

nightmare in full Technicolor with stereophonic sound.

She'd jumped to all kinds of conclusions, accused Jerome quite falsely, said

terrible things— unforgivable things—to him. And he hadn't bothered to

defend himself. He could have corrected all her misapprehensions so easily,

but he hadn't cared sufficiently to do so. Because her opinion of him didn't

matter. That was the sombre truth of it all. It was immaterial to Jerome

whether she loved him or loathed him, and he could have given her no more

positive proof of his total indifference, she thought miserably.

Madame
leaned forward and patted her hand. 'And I still have other hopes,'

she said.

Meg looked down at her tightly clasped hands. 'I'm afraid they're doomed to

disappointment,' she said quietly.

Madame
pursed her lips. 'I thought dear Jerome was quite
distrait
when he

visited me this morning. I hope you two haven't been quarrelling?' She

peered at Meg. 'Are you wearing your brooch today?'

Meg glanced down at her simple cotton shirt. 'Not with these clothes.' She

hesitated. 'Tante—
madame—
there's something you should know...'

'What is it,
ma chere?'

Meg took a deep breath, nerving herself, only to be interrupted by the

sudden arrival of Philippine pattering on to the terrace.

'Pardon, madame—mademoiselle--
' her rosy face was unusually solemn as

she looked from one to the other '—but a visitor has called.'

'I was expecting no one.' Madame de Brissot paused. 'Has this visitor a

name?'

'Oui, madame
.' Philippine's worried expression deepened, and her eyes

flickered towards Meg in obvious embarrassment. 'She says she is

Mademoiselle Trant—Mademoiselle Margot Trant.'

THE silence was deafening. Meg, flushing to the roots of her hair, tried

desperately to think of something to say, and failed miserably.

'But how interesting,'
madame
commented. 'Please ask her to join us,

Philippine, and bring coffee.'

As Philippine disappeared on her errand, Meg said urgently,

'Madame—
you've got to let me explain...'

'Later,
mon enfant: Madame
adjusted her dark glasses and turned her face

towards the French windows.

A moment later, Margot appeared through them, and stood, framed

dramatically. She looked incredibly confident and glamorous in crisp white

trousers with a matching shirt in heavy silk. A bronze leather belt circled her

slim waist, and her sandals and capacious shoulder-bag were in the same

colour.

Clearly, Meg thought drily, in spite of her state of shock"' Margot had

forgotten she'd just be a blur and gone for effect.

'Tante.' Margot came gracefully up to the chair and dropped a kiss a few

millimetres to the left of
madame's
cheek. 'Oh, this is wonderful. Had you

quite given me up?' She looked round inhaling ecstatically. 'Blissful fresh

air. How anyone can prefer cities...' Her gaze came to rest on her frozen

stepsister. 'Hi, Meg.' She dropped prettily on to one knee beside
madame'
s

chair. 'I hope you didn't mind Meg filling in for a few days for me. Such a

nuisance, my leave of absence being delayed like that. I hope she explained

it all to you?'

'Is that how it was?'
madame
asked. 'I see.'

'You mean she didn't tell you?' Margot turned a shocked look on Meg.

'Darling, you are dreadful. What on earth were you thinking about? Not that

it matters, I suppose. I'm here now.' She took another sweeping look round.

'So who precisely is this other young woman I've had the pleasure of

entertaining?' There was a note of chilled steel in
madame'
s voice.

Meg got to her feet. She said quietly, 'I'm Margaret Langtry,
madame,

Margot's stepsister.'

'Meg's out of work, so I thought a break in France might do her good,'

Margot added brightly. 'But she's desperate to go off and look for bits of

dead Cathar or something, aren't you, sweetie?' She turned back to
madame.

'Meg's last job was in an old bookshop, so she's heavily into mouldering

remnants of history.'

'Which is possibly why she's fitted in here so well,'
madame
said drily.

'Well, I'm glad she's made herself useful.' Margot lowered her voice

conspiratorially. 'In the beginning, she wasn't at all keen to come, you know.'

'You amaze me,' said
madame.
'Ah, here is the coffee. Perhaps—Meg, is

it?—would like to perform one last duty as my companion, and pour it for

us.'

Meg, stunned at first, but growing angrier by the second, would have

preferred to up-end the coffeepot and its contents over Margot's exquisitely

windblown blonde head, but she complied in brittle silence. Her stepsister

was deliberately making her sound like some indigent poor relation, she

realised furiously—and as if assuming her identity had been some private

idea of her own.