“Yes, you are. And Alan is really desperate. He’s so lonely without you. I can really feel it when he’s talking about you.”
“He’s got a strange way of showing it, I must say.”
“He’s just trying everything he can to get you back.”
“I bet. Look, Fiona, I don’t want to even think about this at the moment. I want to be left alone. I want to just have some space, I suppose. So you can tell Alan from me that I’m not coming back for the moment. I’m not going to talk to him until I’m ready.”
“All this because of a silly little row?” Fiona said. “I find this very strange to be honest. I mean, Marcus can be a real shit sometimes but, well, I don’t usually take it seriously.”
“It wasn’t really because of one row,” Margo said. “That incident on the motorway was the last straw because of the way he’s been speaking to me for quite a long time now. Every time he loses his temper, every time something doesn’t go his way, he treats me the way no man should treat a woman. Or a dog,” she added. “It hurts to be treated like that.”
“So that’s it, then? You’re not going back? That’s your answer?”
“Yes.”
They looked at each other in silence for a moment until, with a little sob, Fiona stumbled to the door. “Alan still has the police looking for you, you know,” she said. She pulled the door open and left as suddenly as she had arrived.
Margo stared at the door that had just slammed shut. What was going on? Was Fiona heading for some kind of breakdown? She had always been very tense, but now she was positively unhinged. She seemed to have got the message all the same, and with a bit of luck she wouldn’t appear again. I’m on my own, Margo thought and for the first time since her escape from Alan, felt it was true. She shivered, suddenly a little frightened.
My possessions, she thought, our lovely house in Chelsea; the drawing room with the blue silk curtains and regency furniture, the cosy kitchen and the little courtyard outside with my herb garden; my Flora Danica dinner service, my Georgian silver, and the Venetian glass chandelier. I wonder if Alan has remembered to water the plants, she thought, the yucca in the hall and the big azalea in the conservatory. Bits of memories flashed through Margo’s mind as she sat there in the hot little room: memories of her marriage – good times and bad, everyday things, scenes, arguments. It was all so wonderful at first, she thought, when we lived in that small flat near the hospital and we came back to it after work and cooked dinner in the tiny kitchen, drank wine, and made love. And then we bought the house, that gorgeous old house, and we spent the weekends painting it. And little by little, Alan started to make money, and we could afford to buy beautiful antiques and Persian rugs and silk curtains.
What happened to us, she wondered. When did that sour note creep in? Did we become too busy to enjoy it, too used to being able to buy whatever we wanted, taking it all for granted? We were so happy in the early days, Margo thought, when having success and money was only a dream. Before Alan became the big-shot consultant, before we knew there would be no babies, and long before he started taking out his frustrations on me. She heard Alan’s voice in her head, asking questions, demanding, insisting, controlling. Suddenly overcome with a feeling of sadness, tears welled up in Margo’s eyes, and she lay down on the bed, staring at the window, without really seeing the view. Outside, the sparrows took off, one after the other, and she followed their flight over the rooftops until they were tiny specks against the darkening sky.
***
“Shoes,” Milady said the following morning as they stood on the hot pavement beside the Jaguar ready to board for the trip to the country. “I don’t think I have all my shoes.”
“But I packed all the ones on the list,” Margo said. “And put shoe trees in every one and wrapped them in tissue paper and put them into the shoe bags.”
“Even the black evening sandals?”
“Yes,” Margo said, beginning to feel frustrated. She looked at François for help, but he sat in the driver’s seat, with the door open, reading the morning paper with an air of resignation.
“And the red sling-backs?” Milady continued.
“Yes,” Margo said, unable to stop herself sighing.
“And my gardening gloves and walking shoes?”
“What?” Margo stared at her. “But they weren’t on the list.”
“Weren’t they?” Milady glared at Margo. “But you should have known. One simply cannot go to the country without those things. I thought you would know that, being English and everything.”
There was a strange sound from François. Margo glanced at him, but he was turning the page of the newspaper, his face expressionless.
“You have to go back up and get them,” Milady ordered. “They’re in the hall cupboard.”
“Is there anything else?” Margo asked. “I could get that at the same time.”
“No. Go on,” Milady urged. “Hurry up. We have to get out of Paris before eleven o’clock, or we’ll get caught in the worst of the traffic.”
Margo had to go back up to the apartment three times for assorted items that Milady had neglected to put on her list, and it was ten to twelve by the time François started the engine and pulled the heavily loaded car into the busy traffic. Milady sat in the passenger seat, smoking and giving François instructions on which route to take in order to avoid the worst of the traffic jams. Margo leaned her head against the back window, exhausted. Milou crawled from his cushion and settled his body across Margo’s legs. She tried to push him back onto the cushion, but he growled menacingly.
“He likes to sit on someone’s lap in the car,” Milady announced as she glanced back at Margo. “Try not to move too much, or he’ll be sick.”
Margo squirmed, her thighs sticking to the leather upholstery and tried to get used to Milou’s hot body. She regretted her decision to wear black trousers as she knew they would be covered in white dog hairs in no time at all. Oh well, Margo thought, what did it matter? Who would notice how she looked? She put her arms around Milou and closed her eyes as the motion of the car made her feel a little sleepy. For the next hour or so, she listened idly to snatches of conversation in French from the front seat, a good-natured discussion about politics, something about family matters, and a slight argument about where they would stop for lunch.
“Chartres,” Milady said. “We should stop there. “There’s a very good restaurant just off the main square.”
“But that’s a huge detour,” François protested. “We won’t arrive until late, and I’ll miss the evening news on television. Why can’t we have a sandwich in one of the motorway stations?”
“A sandwich?” Milady asked as if François had suggested she take a dose of strychnine. “In one of those, those—places? How could you possibly suggest such a thing?”
“Sorry, Maman,” François mumbled.
“And we could pop into the cathedral afterwards,” Milady suggested, sounding satisfied. “I love walking around in that peaceful place. The windows are superb.” She turned her head and looked at Margo. “Have you ever been to the cathedral in Chartres, Marguerite?”
“No, I haven’t,” Margo mumbled.
“There,” Milady said to François. “See? We have to show it to Marguerite.”
“Very well,” François said with a resigned little sigh and turned the car into the exit for Chartres.
The little restaurant in the town was lovely, and Margo enjoyed sitting there, admiring the décor and the view of the street from their table. Milady took a very long time to pour over the menu and finally ordered omelettes for all of them, despite François muttering that not everyone was on a diet. “And a bottle of this excellent Bordeaux,” she added, pointing at the menu.
“I hope you realise that you and Marguerite will have to drink that wine by yourselves,” François said, as the waiter came back with a bottle. “As you know, I never drink and drive.”
“You really are such a sissy,” Milady said. “A glass o
f wine never harmed anyone. It’s not as if I’m asking you to drink alcohol, is it?”
“My mother,” François said conspiratorially to Margo, “does not think wine contains any alcohol at all. ‘Alcohol’ to her means hard liquor. Wine is like mother’s milk.”
Margo laughed, but Milady shrugged and sipped her wine that had just been served. “Your generation is just too soft,” she remarked. “This wine is superb. Try it, Marguerite.”
Margo sipped the wine and had to agree it was indeed excellent. By the time the food arrived, she was a little tipsy, but Milady, who had already had two glasses, appeared perfectly sober.
“I think we’ll have to go and visit the cathedral now if you want to arrive before midnight,” François remarked.
“As you wish,” Milady sighed and waved at the waiter who almost ran up to their table. “Trois cafés et l’addition, s’il vous plait,” she said in her haughty French.
“Tout de suite, Madame.”
***
They entered the cathedral and Margo wandered around in the cool, dark interior for a while wondering why this was supposed to be such a marvel, until she looked up. She nearly stopped breathing as she saw the pillars soaring above her and the huge stained glass windows, glowing like hundreds of jewels in all the colours of the rainbow. The beams of light shimmered through the darkness, illuminating the cathedral in an eerie, iridescent glow.
“Twelfth century,” François whispered. “Amazing, no?”
“Oh, yes,” Margo whispered back. “Absolutely breathtaking.” At once, she felt dizzy, awestruck, and very small. She craned her neck and could not take her eyes off the wonderful sight. The air smelled of incense and candles, and she felt as if she had suddenly been transported hundreds of years back in time. Nine hundred years, she thought and shivered suddenly, tightening her cardigan around her shoulders.
“Cold?” François asked.
“No, just someone walking over my grave.”
“I know the feeling,” François murmured. “But now, we have to get back on the road. I’m going to the car to make sure we don’t end up with a parking ticket. Could you find my mother and tell her?”
“Of course.” Margo nodded. “I’ll see you in a minute.”
The cathedral was so dark, it was difficult to see anyone from afar, and Margo walked slowly around, peering at tourists looking up at the windows, but Milady was not among them. Margo continued up one of the side aisles and finally spotted her in a little side chapel devoted to the Virgin Mary. Margo stared at the slim figure of the Comtesse kneeling at the altar, deep in prayer and backed away, not wanting to intrude. Milady suddenly turned around, and Margo was startled by the expression of immense sadness in her eyes.
“Oh,” Milady mumbled and made the sign of the cross. “Time to go.” She rose, straightened her shoulders as if to shake off her sorrows, and walked down the aisle with her usual confident stride.
***
It was nearly nine o’clock in the evening when the car swept through the tall, black gates and drove up the long tree-lined avenue that led to Château la Bourdonnière. With a feeling of relief, Margo stared out through the window at the fields and paddocks where horses wandered through the lush, green grass under huge oaks. It had been a very long day. A journey which, according to Margo’s calculations, should have taken around four hours, had stretched into nearly eight. As the car neared the château, Margo could see a low, long building that must be the stables and a big stone-faced barn. Absorbed by the view through the window, she only half listened to the exchange in French between Milady and François.
“I hope Jacques is ready to dine,” Milady said. “It is such a bore having to wait until he has fed the horses and done all those chores.”
“I rang yesterday,” François said from the driver’s seat. “He said he was looking forward to seeing us for dinner, and then he will show us all the things he has done during the winter months.”
“I should really have been here earlier in the year,” Milady said. “But there was so much going on in Paris.”
“And I have been so busy at the ministry,” François filled in, “I haven’t had a chance to come down for a long time. But the place looks quite nice, I have to say. He must have managed to sort out all the problems he was complaining about last winter without all the money he said it was going to cost. Marguerite,” he continued, “we’re coming up to the main building now. Look at the setting sun to the west, over those hills. It shines straight into the drawing room windows, and it always looks as if the whole place is on fire.”
Margo turned her head to look. There it was. Château la Bourdonnière: a tall, early nineteenth-century castle built of sandstone with a tower at each end. The sunset was indeed reflected in the many windows on the side facing the park, and it really did look as if the ground floor of the château was in flames.
“It’s magnificent,” she said and suddenly realised she had been here before. The towers of the castle, the hills behind it, and the stream... It had to be the place she had been to with Gráinne that night. Why hadn’t she realised it from the start? Of course. That letter must have been—
“And there is Jacques,” Milady exclaimed.
Margo looked up at the figure standing at the top of the steps.
CHAPTER 9
Those eyes. Margo saw them in her mind’s eye as she went to sleep. A tall man with wide shoulders. Black hair that fell onto his forehead, a rather big nose that looked as if it had been broken at some stage, a wide mouth with slightly uneven, very white teeth, dark stubble on a square chin. He wore his faded jeans and worn polo shirt with a casual elegance that made the perfect grooming of his older brother seem faintly over the top. And the eyes. Blue, not like Alan’s watery blue that turned to ice when he was annoyed or irritated, but a deep, azure blue under black brows and lashes. She had taken it all in as she looked up from the back seat of the car: Milou scrabbling to get out, Milady opening the door on her side, calling to Jacques to help her, François pulling the handbrake and then the sudden commotion as two enormous black dogs rushed toward Milou who had escaped from Margo’s grip and jumped out of the half-open window.
The ensuing growling and barking was suddenly silenced by a loud command from the man on the steps, and the dogs suddenly stopped and slunk behind their master. Milou continued to bark from the safety of Milady’s arms but changed to a whimper as she told him to be quiet.
Feeling slightly wobbly, Margo slowly got out of the car as Milady climbed the steps and greeted her son.
François started to take the luggage out of the boot. “Here is your bag,” he said and handed Margo the tote bag. “Was that all you had?”
“That’s it, thanks,” she said, taking the bag. She hadn’t brought much, as the clothes in her room in Paris weren’t really suitable for the country – just the T-shirt and linen trousers she was wearing, a swimsuit, a pair of jeans, and two cotton summer dresses she had picked up at the market.
“My personal assistant,” she could hear Milady say. “We call her Marguerite.”
“Oh,” the man said and glanced at Margo from above. “Bonsoir.” Their eyes met for a second, and Margo thought she saw a flash of recognition in those blue eyes.
“Bonsoir,” she replied, not knowing quite what to do. Should she go up the steps and shake his hand? His disinterest in her was bordering on rude, making her think she had imagined that brief flash of interest, and she stood there holding her bag, looking at him as he turned his broad back to her and resumed talking to his mother.
“Chéri,” she could hear Milady say, “everything looks marvellous. And you had the roof done.” She turned to François. “Look, darling Jacques had the roof repaired. And you said it would cost a fortune.”
Margo turned around as she heard steps on the gravel. A stocky, grey-haired man wearing a blue apron had just appeared.
“Bonsoir, Monsieur le Comte,” he said, picking up two of the suitcases and, as an afterthou
ght, “Bonsoir, Mademoiselle.”
“Bonsoir, Bernard,” François replied. “This is Marguerite, my mother’s—”
“I know,” the man grunted. “Monsieur Jacques told me.” He started to put the luggage on a handcart.
“Marguerite,” François said, “this is Bernard. Our butler, gardener, caretaker – well, everything really. His wife Agnès is our housekeeper.”
“Oh. Bonsoir, Bernard,” Margo mumbled, holding out her hand but drawing it back when she realised that Bernard was not going to shake it.
“Go with Bernard,” François said. “He’ll introduce you to Agnès, and she will show you to your room. Have a nice evening, and I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Oh, eh, right,” Margo said, suddenly feeling her stomach rumble. What about dinner, she wondered, cursing Milady’s decision to have a very light lunch earlier. But François seemed to have forgotten her existence as he bounded up the steps and shook hands with his brother, and they all disappeared into the château through heavy oak doors.
Margo trudged after Bernard who was pulling the hand-cart with the suitcases across the gravel, around the corner, through an archway into a cobbled courtyard and stopped in front of a door.
“In there, Mademoiselle,” he said, opening the door. “My wife will take care of you.”
Margo stepped into a small room which looked like an old scullery, through a second door into a huge kitchen, where a diminutive black-haired woman was taking a leg of lamb out of an Aga cooker. There was a delicious smell of roast lamb, rosemary, and garlic. Margo felt her stomach rumble so loudly, she was sure it was echoing around the kitchen.
The woman turned around. “Oh,” she exclaimed. “I thought it was Bernard. You must be the new girl.” She put the roasting tin on the big pine table, wiped her hand on her apron, and held it out to Margo. “I’m Agnès,” she said. “The wife of Bernard.”
“My name is Marguerite.” Margo shook the small strong hand.
Finding Margo Page 11
