Finding Margo (24 page)

“I suppose he didn’t want to upset his children,” Margo suggested.

“He had no children. In his marriage, I mean. He did have a son, but he didn’t know about him until tonight.”

“Oh? How come?”

“Because I told him.” Milady clapped her hand to her mouth and tears started to course down her cheeks. “I hadn’t seen Jean-Jacques for nearly twenty years,” she sobbed. “Twenty long years since he told me we couldn’t go on seeing each other and that he would never leave his wife. I didn’t know he would be there tonight and, when our eyes met, I thought I was going to faint. Then I saw his wife. That cow! I was furious, both with him and her. I had never told him about the baby, you see. The baby that was born as a result of our love affair. I thought I should leave well enough alone, not upset anyone. But then, tonight, when we met on the terrace, I wanted—I felt so angry with him, so I told him everything. We had a terrible argument and then—oh God, he just sank down in front of me. His face – it was contorted with shock and rage. Then that woman rushed to his side and—” Milady covered her face with her hands. “He died. Right there in front of me – died hating me, in the arms of his wife.” Milady’s shoulders shook. “I closed his eyelids and whispered, ‘
adieu, mon amour’
in his ear, but he was already gone. I can’t get it out of my head,” she wept. “The scene is playing in my mind like a film, over and over again.”

Horrified, Margo stared at Milady. “Oh, you poor thing,” she murmured and sat down on the edge of the bed, putting her arms around the weeping woman. “I am so sorry. So terribly, terribly sorry.”

Milady suddenly clutched Margo’s hands and looked up at her with mournful eyes. “Look after him,” she begged. “Promise me you will.”

“Who?” Margo asked.

“Jacques. Look after Jacques.”

“M
ademoiselle Marguerite?”

“
Oui
?” Margo said, standing by the phone on the small table in the hall. “Who is this?”

“I’m sorry to call so late.” The woman’s voice was slightly hoarse and her English heavily accented and very affected. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“No, not really. But if you were hoping to speak to the Comtesse, I’m afraid she is not available at the moment.”

“How is dear Marie-Jo? Not too shaken after what happened yesterday?”

“Yes she was, actually. Very shaken. She has been resting all day and now I think, I hope, she’s asleep.”

“Of course. It was horrible. Quite, quite horrible’

“If you give me your name, I’ll tell her to call you tomorrow?”

“No. Yes.” The woman hesitated. “I really called to speak to
you
, Mademoiselle.”

“Me?” Margo said, mystified.

“Let me explain. My name is Rose du Jardin. We have met several times. Last time when you accompanied the Comtesse to that garden party, and—”

“Yes, I remember you,” Margo interrupted, the image of a heavily made-up overweight woman springing into her mind. “Used to be a call girl,” Milady had whispered in Margo’s ear. “Married to that vulgar Georges du Jardin.
Bought
his château and thinks he can buy his way into society as well. She sells information to the gossip columns of those awful magazines. Don’t know how she managed to get invited.”

“I just wondered,” the woman continued, “if dear Marie-Jo has said anything to you about what happened. Or about her long – ahem – friendship with the late president?”

“No.”

“I would be very grateful if you could give me any kind of information. I might consider a generous reward for—”

“Madame du Jardin,” Margo interrupted, “what makes you think I would betray the confidence of my employer to you? That I would tell you even if I did know anything? Which I don’t,” she added.

“Not even for fifteen hundred euros?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“All right, make it two thousand, but that is my final offer. A little more if you had photographs. I’m sure there would be some of the two of them together. They might be lying around in the house somewhere. And letters, or—”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Margo snapped.

“I think you should consider it,” Madame du Jardin insisted. “You don’t have to make up your mind right now. You could call me back later.”

“My mind is made up,” Margo said. “And the answer is ‘no’.”

“You’ll find my number on the Minitel if you change your mind.”

“Goodbye.” Margo banged the phone down. It rang again almost immediately.

Margo picked up the receiver. “The answer is still no,” she said.

“No to what, pet?”

“Gráinne! Is that you?”

“Sure is, love.”

“Where are you? Why are you calling this number?”

“I’m in Ireland. I was trying to get in touch with Jacques. Is he around?”

“No. I haven’t seen him since—” Since he stormed out of his mother’s bedroom last night, Margo thought.

“Well, could you give him this message then?”

“I’ll do my best. What’s the message?”

“My boss wants to know if he still wants to buy that horse. Someone else has his eye on him, and if Jacques could make up his mind, we could do a deal, one way or another.” Gráinne drew breath.

“OK. I’ll tell him.”

“Yeah, and sooner rather than later.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Thanks, love. Seeya. Bye.”

Margo hung up, smiling to herself. It always cheered her up to hear Gráinne’s voice. She started to walk across the hall and bumped into someone coming the other way.

“Oops,” Margo laughed. “Sorry.” The smile died on her lips as she looked at François. “Oh, it’s you,” she said. “You look awful. No sleep?”

He stood there gazing at her for a while. He looked serious and his eyes bleak. “Who was that on the phone?”

“It was Gráinne,” Margo said. “Asking about a horse. Jacques has to let them know—” She stopped.

François took her hand. “Marguerite. Could I ask you to do something for me?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Could you talk to Jacques?”

“About what?”

“Could you tell him that, well, that things haven’t really changed. That he’s still my brother, and I want him to stay and carry on like before.”

“Why can’t you tell him yourself?”

“I have tried, I really have. But he wouldn’t listen to me. He won’t even open his door. I’m sure if you—” François paused, looking slightly uncomfortable. He cleared his throat. “Marguerite, I know it’s not fair to drag you into our family business like this, but you’re my only hope. If Jacques leaves, we’re finished.”

“How do you mean?” Margo asked, alarmed.

“I mean us, this family, the château, the property. This has been a disastrous year for farming all over France because of the weather – the drought, I mean. Farmers are killing their cattle because they can’t feed them. You must have seen how bad it was when you went on that train journey. Most of the farmland around here is like a desert.”

“Yes, I did see that.”

“But Jacques has done much better than most farmers. The cattle seem to be surviving thanks to whatever it is that Jacques is doing. We will be able to sell good-quality cattle at the end of this year and make a handsome profit. If Jacques stays, that is. But if he decides to leave...” François’ voice trailed away. “I won’t know what to do, nor will anyone else. It will mean the end of the farm and that very important income. I might even have to sell.”

“The château?” Margo said, horrified.

“Well, not the house, some of the land. And we will have to tighten our belts considerably. Auction off some of the art and furniture. And our lifestyle will be seriously compromised. My mother will no longer be able to afford
haut couture
. We might even have to open the house to the public eventually.”

“Oh God, no,” Margo whispered, imagining Milady serving tea to tourists wearing chain-store clothes. The image made her laugh suddenly.

“You find this amusing?” François asked, looking appalled.

“No, I’m sorry. Just nerves, I suppose.”

“It would mean that your job would go too, of course.”

“I realised that,” Margo said, even though this was just dawning on her.

“So,” François said, “will you do this for us? For me? Talk to Jacques. Explain what I just said? Try to make him stay?”

“I don’t think I have the slightest chance. But OK, I’ll have a go.”

“Thank you. I’m sure Jacques will listen to you. Sometimes an outsider can be better than a family member in this kind of situation. No emotional involvement, if you see what I mean.”

“No emotional involvement,” Margo repeated. “Of course.”

***

J
acques’ room was in the tower opposite Margo’s. As she walked up the two flights of stairs, she repeated the words to herself like a mantra,
No emotional involvement. Don’t get involved, don’t get carried away, don’t even think about letting him touch you again. Just deliver the message, then leave.
OK, she thought as she stood in front of the door, this is it. She took a deep breath and tried to still the butterflies in her stomach. Another deep breath, and she lifted her hand and knocked on the door. There was no reply. She knocked again, harder this time. Again, no reply, no footsteps on the other side of the door, no voice asking who it was, just silence and the thumping of her heartbeat in her ears.

“Jacques?” Margo called. “Are you there?”

No reply. He must be out, Margo thought, turning the handle and pushing the door, expecting it to be locked. But it swung silently open.

“Jacques?” Margo said, peering in. “Are you there?”

She walked into the empty room and looked around. So this is his room, she thought. His own private space. It was simply furnished, a huge bed, a tall bookcase crammed with books, a leather armchair, and a worn Indian carpet on the floor. There was a desk near the window, with a pile of papers and a laptop computer. It was a nice room, a room for relaxing and reading, a room for getting away from the rest of the house. Margo glanced out the window. The view was only slightly different to the one from her own room. From here, she could see the stables and the horses in the paddock, the dogs walking around and just glimpse the woods, the stream, and the river beyond. She walked away from the window, across the carpet to the bookcase. She looked at the titles, wondering what sort of books Jacques liked to read. Among the paperback titles of detective stories, political thrillers, and biographies were a number of books about horses and wildlife. She took one out and flicked through it, admiring the stunning photographs.

“What are you doing here?”

Margo twirled around and dropped the book. “Oh. It’s you,” she stammered.

“Who else did you expect?” Jacques closed the door behind him. “This is my room, after all.”

“I know.”

He stood for a moment looking at her, puzzled. “Why are you here? And don’t tell me it’s because you wanted to borrow a book.”

Margo picked up the book and put it back on the shelf. “No,” she said, “I came because François asked me.”

“Why? What did he want you to do?” Jacques gestured toward the leather chair. “Sit down.”

Margo sank down on the chair, and Jacques walked to the bed and sat down too, all the while looking at her with curiosity.

“Go on,” he said. “Tell me what you were asked to say.”

“François wants you to stay,” Margo said, grateful for the distance between them. “He wants everything to be the way it was before. Before the, well, you know what. Before last night.”

“Last night?”

“When you found out about your mother and your father. The real one, I mean.”

“I see.”

“I came to tell you that François is worried that you’ll leave, you see, and he won’t know how to run the farm, and he’ll lose a lot of money. And then he’ll have to sell the land and the furniture and open the château to the public,” Margo babbled on. “And your mother will have to wear cheap cardigans and serve tea to Japanese tourists, and—” She stopped for breath, realising that she had probably blown it. She looked at Jacques, who was still sitting there, now looking very angry.

Margo got up. “Sorry. I didn’t put that very well.”

“Oh no, you put it exceptionally well,” Jacques said, slowly getting off the bed.

“And Gráinne wants to know if you’re buying that horse from Ireland,” Margo added and quickly walked to the door. “That was all I came to say.” She struggled with the door handle but Jacques put a hand on hers to stop her. “Are you leaving already?” he said softly into her ear.

“Yes, I have to go now.” Margo tried to pull her hand out of his grip.

“Marguerite, don’t go,” Jacques said, pulling her across the room toward the bed. “Stay here with me for a while.”

“All right,” Margo sighed, sitting down awkwardly on the bed. “But only for a minute. And it would be a great help if you didn’t touch me.”

Jacques laughed and held up his hands. “All right. No touching.”

“Good.” They looked at each other and at that moment, Margo regretted her last request. There was deep despair in his eyes that belied the light-hearted tone in his voice, and every fibre in her cried out to touch him, to put her arms around him, and comfort him.

“I like your room,” she said.

“And I like you,” he said. “I really like you, Marguerite.” There was a kind of hunger in his eyes that had nothing to do with sex. He took both her hands in his and kept looking at her. Then he put his arms around her. “I’m sorry,” he said, holding her close, “I know I promised not to, but this is what I want to do right now – just hold you like this.” He seemed to draw comfort from their physical contact, and he held her close for a long time without speaking or moving.

“I’m so sorry,” Margo whispered. “It must be so hard for you.”

“Not really,” Jacques said gently, his cheek against her hair. “It’s something I have suspected for a long time. Now I that know, it’s a kind of relief.” He pulled back and looked at her with a faraway look in his eyes. “I didn’t want to believe it, but the doubt was always there.”

“Why?” Margo asked, looking into his troubled eyes. “Was it her husband? Wasn’t he kind to you?”