Finding Margo

by Susanne O'Leary

  “I want them closed. I want all the shutters in the whole house closed. As a sign of mourning. Of respect.”

  “Of course. I’ll tell François.”

  “Good. But don’t go yet. Sit here with me for a little while.”

  “All right.” Margo sat down on a small armchair beside the bed.

  “Hold my hand.”

  Margo took the thin, cold hand in hers. The skin felt as fragile as tissue paper. “There. All right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Try to sleep,” Margo said softly.

  “Yes,” Milady muttered. “Sleep. I will dream of him. I will pretend we are together.”

  ***

  Je vous salue, Marie, pleine de grace...

  Margo woke slowly from an uneasy sleep. She sat up in the chair and straightened her stiff back. The murmuring continued, accompanied by a soft clicking noise. In the faint light of the bedside lamp, Margo peered at the dim figure in the bed. The prayer continued as Milady’s hand moved the beads of the rosary. The sound was oddly soothing, like a mantra, the words repeated over and over again, until Margo knew it by heart and started to join in. As she recited the ancient prayer, she felt a calm come over her, and she had an odd feeling that they were not alone, that there was something or someone watching over them. It was a comforting and, at the same time, very calming thought somehow. Finally, Milady stopped praying and still clutching the rosary, turned her head toward Margo.

  “Marguerite?”

  “Yes, Milady.”

  “You are still here? What time is it?”

  “I don’t know. Late. It’s still dark.” Margo rose from the chair. “If you feel a little better, maybe I could—”

  “No!’ The voice was full of despair. “Don’t go. I don’t want to be alone.”

  “But maybe François or Jacques could—”

  “No, don’t disturb them. They need their sleep, poor boys.”

  Margo sat down again. “OK. I’ll stay for a while longer.”

  “Thank you.” Milady sighed and shifted in the bed. “I’m wide awake now. Whatever the doctor gave me has worn off. I need something stronger. Could you call him?”

  “But it’s the middle of the—”

  “He’s a doctor. It’s his job to look after me. Even in the middle of the night.”

  “Yes, but—” Margo didn’t feel like calling the doctor. Milady didn’t seem that bad. Sad, yes, but not as badly shaken as earlier. “I’ll get you a drink,” she said. “Some hot milk with a little whiskey. I have always found that very good.”

  “Well, we could try.” Milady didn’t sound too convinced.

  When Margo came back with the hot milk into which she had splashed a considerable amount of Scotch, Milady was sitting up in bed, looking at a photograph in a silver frame. She showed it to Margo.

  “This is the only picture I have. Look, wasn’t he handsome?”

  Margo put the steaming mug on the bedside table and took the photograph. In the dim light, she peered at the attractive man smiling broadly into the camera and thought he looked just a little too conceited for her taste. He also seemed vaguely familiar. Someone she knew looked a little like this, but she couldn’t think of who it was. She looked at the man again, at his white teeth and thick, dark hair. Too sure of his good looks and effect on women, she thought and handed the picture back.

  “Very handsome,” she agreed.

  “Yes.” Milady sighed. “And he loved me. Only me.”

  “Yes, of course he did,” Margo soothed. “Drink your milk now.”

  Milady slowly sipped the milk. “Tastes odd. Bitter and sweet at the same time. Like my life.” She drained the last drops, gave the mug to Margo, and lay back against the pillows again. “Sit with me for a while.”

  Margo sat down on the hard chair again.

  “I feel,” Milady said, “as if I’m trapped in some kind of nightmare. As if I will wake up any minute and everything will be as it was before. But then I look around the room and all the things in it, and I know I’m not dreaming. I look at you and your tired face, and everything comes rushing back.”

  “It must be so horrible,” Margo said.

  “It is.” Milady was quiet for a while. She looked at Margo. “Have you ever been through this kind of thing? Have you ever lost someone you loved more than your own life?”

  “No,” Margo said, suddenly realising it was true. She had never loved anyone like that.

  “But you lost your father.”

  “My father? Yes, he died about five years ago. Of course I was sad, but we were never really close.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  Margo felt as if a cold hand clutched at her stomach. “He was strict,” she said, as memories she had tried to force out of her mind came flooding back. “Distant,” she added. “And critical. I never felt I quite measured up to his expectations. I remember thinking, when I was very young, that he didn’t really love me.”

  “I’m sure you were wrong,” Milady murmured. “I’m sure he must have loved you in his own way.”

  “Maybe he did. He just never showed it. And he didn’t really give me any praise or tell me he was proud of me. He only complained about my bad behaviour and poor marks at school. I sometimes lied and said I was at the top of my class, but when he found me out, he was furious. And then I really made an effort and eventually got very good results in the end, but by then he had lost interest. He was only pleased with me once in my entire life.”

  “When was that?”

  “When I got married. He was very proud of the fact that I married such a successful man.”

  “Maybe he thought it would make you happy.”

  “No, he thought it would be good for business.”

  “You sound bitter.”

  “Do I?” Margo shrugged. “What does it matter now? He is dead.”

  “What about your marriage?” Milady asked with more interest. “Is it over?”

  “I don’t know. It depends. Maybe we just need to be away from each other for a while.”

  “But there is nobody else, is there? No other man in your life?”

  Margo was grateful for the dim light. “No,” she said.

  “Good. That would cloud the issue. Make you feel confused, I mean. You have to make up your mind about your marriage first. There is nothing worse than being torn between two men.”

  “Like you?”

  “Me? No, I wasn’t torn at all. I only ever loved one man.” Milady sighed deeply. “Only him. We were lovers for many years. Then we broke up, and we didn’t see each other for a long time. Years. But then we met again, about twenty years ago, and we started seeing each other. My husband had just died. Jacques was fourteen and François twenty-two and going to university. I thought that we would eventually marry, now that my husband was dead and Jean-Jacques’ political career was coming to an end, but he couldn’t leave his wife. She had the money, you see. And she threatened to expose him if he left. He wanted to protect his image as this charismatic man with a big heart and a happy marriage.”

  “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.”

  CHAPTER 17

  “Mademoiselle 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.”

  ***

  Jacques’ 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.”