Finding Margo (16 page)

There was no reply. Jacques just stood there looking puzzled. “What are you going on about?” he demanded. “I’m tired and hot, and I really don’t need an argument right now.” He looked at her plate. “Is there any more of that beef?”

Margo sipped her wine. She looked at the glass thoughtfully, studying the ruby liquid and the streaks of glycerine on the sides of the glass.

“There was,” she said. “Rather a big piece, actually.”

“Good, maybe then—”

“But I gave it to the cat.” She put down her glass and looked at him innocently. “He loved it. Fillet of beef, you see. Very juicy.”

“
Merde
,” Jacques said under his breath.

“Oh, were you hungry?” Margo purred. “How terrible for you. I mean, it would be all right for me, a lowly servant to have nothing to eat all day but not for the master. Not for Monsieur Jacques, oh no, not at all.
That
would be a scandal.”

“I still don’t know what you’re going on about,” Jacques said in an aggrieved voice, running his fingers through his thick, black hair. “I have been out breaking my arse all day and had to come back to feed the horses, and—”

“Oh, so you feed
them
, do you?” Margo lifted one eyebrow. “Interesting. And I’m really impressed with your knowledge of the vulgar forms of English. Actually, you sound very much like a friend of mine, or acquaintance, I should say.”

He didn’t reply but took a chair and straddling it, his arms across the back, studied her intently. “And what have you been doing all day?” he asked.

“Me?” Margo asked.

His smiled broadened, and she glanced down, feeling a sudden urge to check that all the buttons on her dress were done up.

“Yes, you, Mademoiselle Marguerite,” he said. “I would like to know how you spent your day.”

“Well...” Margo thought for a moment, trying to return Jacques’ gaze without blushing, “first I had a shower, and then I went downstairs,” she started. “And I had my breakfast,” she ended feebly, thinking it was a good thing he hadn’t been there to witness her outbreak.

“Oh? And after breakfast?” Jacques asked as if her every movement that day was of intense interest to him.

“I walked around for a bit,” Margo said.

“You walked. Where? In the garden?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“And then?” Jacques enquired. “No, let me guess. You went for a swim, yes? I would have.”

“Yes, I did.”

“And when you had finished swimming?”

“Then I—” Margo’s thoughts returned to the afternoon. “I’m afraid I looked around a little,” Margo said. “All over the house, actually.”

“Everywhere?”

“Well yes, I suppose.”

“Shit.”

“What?”

“I did not tidy my room.”

“I didn’t go into any of the bedrooms,” she protested. “I just explored all the rooms on the ground floor. There are some amazing antiques and paintings here.”

“You like old things?”

“Oh yes, I do.” Margo began to feel a little sheepish at her earlier outburst. “I love old houses like this that haven’t been touched by the modern world. It’s as if time has stood still for hundreds of years here. It’s very...” she paused, trying to find words to describe her feelings, “very reassuring, somehow,” she ended, drinking the last of the wine in her glass, letting it rest in her mouth for a while to savour the rich flavour. “This wine is delicious,” she murmured as it slid down her throat like velvet.

“It should be. It’s a
grand cru classé
. Reserved for visiting royalty. And English staff, of course,” he added with a throaty laugh.

“Oh,” Margo said. “I see. Well, in that case, I forgive you all.”

“Good. Does this mean you’d be willing to cook me what’s left of the fillet steak? You didn’t really give it to the cat, did you?”

“No. But I—” Margo didn’t know quite what to say.

“
Allez
,” he urged. “I know you can swim. Let’s see if you can cook.”

***

I
t was a little cooler when she came back to the terrace with the steak. “I hope this is all right,” she said, putting the plate in front of Jacques.” I thought you might like it rare.”

“You are very astute, Mademoiselle Marguerite,” Jacques said and dug into the steak with the enthusiasm of a starving man. “Before you sit down, could you get another bottle of wine from the dining room?”

“No.”

He looked up. “What?”

“It’s my day off.” She started to walk away.

Jacques put down his knife and fork. “All right,” he said, “I’ll get it. Sit down and stop being difficult. It’s a lovely evening, and I’m too tired to argue.”

Despite her renewed irritation, Margo sat down again. She didn’t feel like going back to the loneliness of her room.

“I was wondering,” she said when Jacques came back with the bottle and a glass.

“Yes?” He poured himself some wine and resumed eating his steak.

“That painting in the library? The one over the fireplace. It’s of a very beautiful woman in a blue dress. I was intrigued by her. Who is she?”

“That woman?” Jacques said, looking at Margo over the rim of his glass with a strange look in his eyes. “That’s the first Comtesse Coligny de la Bourdonnière. Née Mademoiselle Louise de la Bourdonnière.”

“Really? But how come...” Margo paused. “How come she was née de la—”

“Bourdonnière? Well, back then the Colignys were not aristocrats.”

“They weren’t? But how did they get their title, then?”

“From Napoleon. You see, he was deeply grateful to the Coligny family. It was thanks to them that there was anything left of La Grande Armée after the retreat from Moscow.”

“Why was that?”

“Because of the sausage.”

“I’m sorry?” Margo said, startled. “What did you say?”

“The Coligny sausage,” Jacques said. “The Colignys were butchers, and they supplied the army with this special sausage that was so nutritious and so well preserved that it could keep a man alive for months. An army marches on its stomach – you must have heard that saying. Even the Emperor himself survived on it when there was nothing else to eat.”

“Really? How interesting.”

“Oh yes. It would have been the end of Napoleon but for the sausage. Anyway, when he came back from Moscow,” Jacques continued, “he made Edgar Coligny, the then head of the family, a count. He also suggested he marry Louise de la Bourdonnière and add her name to his. She was the daughter of a count of the
ancien régime
, the owner of this castle. A very old and illustrious family. This castle was built by them sometime in the Middle Ages. And the last count, Louise’s father, was beheaded during the Revolution.”

“Oh, that was very sad.”

“Oh, yes. Very sad. But she knew how to survive. She was one of the ladies in the coterie around Madame Tallien. They were a very fast crowd and Louise was one of the most popular of the
grandes horizontales
.” Jacques smiled at Margo. “That means—”

“I know what it means.”

“Really? You are very well educated, Mademoiselle Marguerite. Anyway, Louise, who had been rumoured to have slept with Napoleon himself, did not mind marrying the handsome Edgar, especially as she was with child.”

“With child? You mean by—”

Jacques lifted one eyebrow. “Who knows? Maybe by the Emperor himself?”

“You’re joking.”

“No, I’m not. It’s absolutely true,” Jacques declared with an innocent air. “It all happened exactly as I’ve told you. Louise and Edgar moved into the castle, and Edgar used some of his vast fortune to restore it. Louise gave birth to a son, and after that, they had seven more children.”

“I see.”

“So now you know the story of this family. And this house.”

“Fascinating.” Margo looked at him thoughtfully.

“It is, isn’t it?” he said, sounding very proud.

“Yes. The most fascinating load of rubbish I’ve ever heard.”

Jacques looked stunned. Then he threw back his head and laughed. “How did you know?”

“Well, first of all, the lady in the painting is wearing a dress in the style of Napoleon III. That style of dress was made fashionable by the Empress Eugenie around 1850 or so. And this château is not medieval. Built in the beginning of the nineteenth century, I think. And apart from all that, the whole story seemed so off the wall it just couldn’t be true. The first part was bad enough but when you started telling me about the sausage.” Margo snorted

Jacques shrugged and smiled ruefully. “What a pity. Girls are usually fascinated by the history of my family.”

“I’m not a girl.”

“No, you’re a woman.”

“Yes,”

“Even if you are—”

“What?” She stared at him.

“Never mind.” He looked at her with an innocent air. “Just a thought that floated into my mind.”

“What kind of thought?”

“Forget it. But back to my story. The idea that there is a little bit of Napoleon in me turns women on, I have found,” he added.

“Maybe there is a little bit of Napoleon in all men.”

“What a very profound observation,” he said, nodding slowly in mock admiration. “I begin to realise that you are not just a pretty face.”

“I should hope not.”

Jacques sipped his wine without taking his eyes off her face.

Margo ran her finger around the rim of her glass. “Tell me,” she said to break the silence that was threatening to become a little heavy. “What’s the real story of your family?”

“Oh,” Jacques shrugged. “It’s all very dull. Edgar Coligny was a court official. Napoleon gave him the title of count, and he added on the name la Bourdonnière when he decided to build the château here because that is the name of the village.”

“And Louise?”

“The daughter of a businessman who became rich from trading in the West Indies. Not beautiful at all, but I suppose the money made up for that.”

“And the lady in the portrait?”

Jacques smiled. “Nobody knows. My father bought that painting to add to his art collection years ago.”

“Lovely painting. He must have been a good judge of fine art.”

“He was.” Jacques poured himself some more wine.

“It must be difficult to keep a big house like this. I mean, maintaining it,” Margo continued.

“Yes. And it is very difficult to get people to do the work.”

“I can imagine.”

“Yes, especially in the stables. I had your girlfriend, the one with the strange name, lined up to take a job there, but you intervened.”

Margo stiffened. “She is not my girlfriend. I only met her when she gave me a lift to Paris.”

“And she told you to look up my mother?”

“No, I mean – it was an accident and—” Margo desperately tried to think of a way to lead the conversation back onto its earlier path. “So you have to do the upkeep and the farm as well as running your yard?”

“Well, my brother is supposed to help me with the house, but—” Jacques stopped, looking glum.

“But he doesn’t?”

“He is never around when he is needed. He spends very little time here, really. He says that I’m doing such a good job, and he doesn’t really have the same touch or some nonsense like that. He’s just lazy. And I don’t think he loves it like—”

“Like you do?” Margo asked softly, touched by the expression in his eyes.

“Yes,” Jacques said. “Even though he owns the land, the house, and everything in it.” He shrugged, and there was a bitter line around his mouth.

As the shadows deepened and the terrace grew darker, Margo got up and started to tidy away the remnants of her meal.

“Where are you going?” Jacques asked.

“It’s late. I’m just going to clean the dishes.”

“No. Let me do that. After all, it is your day off.”

“
Et voilá
,” Agnès said, wiping her brow. “That’s it for today, thank goodness. Thirty people for lunch on such a hot day is hard work, I have to say.”

“I agree,” Margo said as she put the last of the serving dishes into the sideboard in the dining room. “I can’t understand how they managed to eat all that food in this weather.”

“
C’est vrai
.” Agnès sighed. “It was thirty degrees at ten o’clock this morning, and now it must be at least thirty-five. Well, I’m taking the rest of the day off and so should you, Marguerite.”

“Are you sure that’s all right?”

“Yes, of course.” Agnès nodded. “Most of the guests have gone except for one or two who are cooling off in the pool. The Comtesse is gone to her room for her siesta and will not appear until later, and then she is going out for the evening.”

“I suppose I can relax, then,” Margo said. “And I’ll keep my mobile switched on in case she wants anything.” She walked out of the room toward the kitchen and the back stairs. “Have a nice rest,” she said to Agnès.

“And you. Come down to supper around eight.”

“Very well,” Margo said. More boiled food, she thought as she slowly walked up the long flight of stairs to her room.

It was nearly two weeks since that first Sunday that had ended in such a strange way. She hadn’t seen Jacques since, except for the odd, brief encounter when she was with Milady or helping out at a party. She liked him, but she decided to avoid him as much as possible. There was little time to worry about anything at all, as Milady kept her very busy. House guests came and went, replaced by more guests. There were lunch parties, dinners, poolside drinks, afternoon teas, and other occasions when people just seemed to drop in and require attention. Margo was expected to do anything from serving drinks to making up beds, working side by side with Agnès as well as doing various secretarial duties for Milady.

“You’re looking a little tired,” Jacques had said one evening as he came into the kitchen. “My mother is very demanding sometimes. Don’t let her take over your personal life.”

“That’s not possible,” Margo had replied levelly, “I haven’t got one.”

She found that, once she accepted her place as a member of staff – which included the pool being off-limits, she enjoyed most of the work. She liked being part of the life of the château and this family and mixing with the people of the region: other château owners and family members who made up what she supposed was the cream of society in these parts. She found it fascinating to study the way they dressed and spoke, the way they were trying to cling to a way of life that was dying out very fast, and how they valiantly carried on with their social engagements despite the searing heat, trying their best not to show a drop of sweat or a red face.