Margo finished her packing and looked around the room, thinking how much she was going to miss it and the château. It’s like a time warp here, she thought. Like going back in time. A place of peace and tranquillity in a sea of noise and confusion that is the modern world. How lucky they are to have this place. But all was not well tonight, she said to herself, laughing suddenly as she remembered the scene in the dining room earlier. It had been a little ridiculous, she thought, remembering François’ and Milady’s faces, frozen in shock. She had regretted her words as soon as they came out of her mouth. But she had, in all fairness, been convinced that they knew that it had been part of some insurance ploy.
Margo sighed as she closed her bag. Why did I have to go and tell them, she asked herself for the thousandth time.
The door suddenly flew open. Startled, Margo looked up from her task as Jacques burst into the room.
“So, here you are,” he snapped.
“Jacques,” Margo said as her whole body flooded with happiness. She walked over to embrace him but recoiled as she saw the look on his face. “What’s the matter?”
“How can you ask?” Jacques looked at her so coldly, Margo felt the colour drain from her face.
“What do you mean?” she demanded. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Why did you have to tell them? Why did you have to open your big mouth?”
“About what?”
“What do you think? The paintings, of course.”
“The paintings?” Margo looked at him in confusion. Then it suddenly dawned on her what he was talking about, and her knees oddly weak, she sank down on the bed. “Oh no,” she mumbled. “Oh God. It was you. You stole them. But why?”
Jacques walked to the window and stared out at the park below. “I’m not a thief,” he said. “I want you to know that. I didn’t really steal them. Well, perhaps, in a way but for a very good cause.”
“What kind of cause?”
“This place.” Jacques turned and looked at Margo. “Last winter, there was a terrible storm and half the roof fell in. It had to be replaced in a hurry, or the rain would have destroyed the house. I got a builder to come and have a look and give me a quote. When he finally arrived, he had a look at the rest of the house and found a lot of other problems that needed to be dealt with as well. Dry rot in the cellar, wood worm in the rafters, and so on. The quote came to over a million euros.”
“My God.”
“So I called François and asked him if I could have some money from the special account. But he said he couldn’t believe the problem was that big and he would come down and see for himself. But he never came, and the rain started again. I didn’t know what to do,” Jacques sighed.
“So what happened?” Margo asked.
“I have a friend in Amsterdam who is an art dealer. I asked him if he could sell one or two of the paintings. He came here and had a look. He said that he could take care of it in such a way that nobody would know. And nobody would have if you hadn’t stuck your nose where it doesn’t belong. Those copies are excellent and, of course, had to be paid for too.”
“Yes, but you must have got a small fortune for those paintings,” Margo said. “That Holbein is worth well over a million, for a start.”
“You don’t get the full price when you sell them in that way, you must know that.”
“Yes, of course.”
“I was only going to sell one, but then the bills started to come in, and little by little, they all went.”
“And the money was used only to fix the château?”
“Most of it, yes.”
“Most of it?”
“I bought a couple of horses. But I knew I would get that money back, because I was going to sell them on as soon as I had schooled them.”
“I see,” Margo said.
“It was so easy,” Jacques said, looking at her with pain in his eyes. “I couldn’t see that anyone would suffer. Nobody noticed and the house was saved. François was so pleased. He didn’t even ask where I got the money. Everyone was happy. Until you had to go and show off about being such an art expert.”
Margo jumped up from the bed. She took his hands and squeezed them hard. “Oh Jacques, I’m so sorry. I really didn’t know. I just made an idle remark. I thought everyone knew those paintings were fakes. I thought they had been copied to protect against theft or something. I had no idea. If I had I wouldn’t have...” Her voice trailed away.
“I see.” Jacques pulled away from her. “Well, whatever you meant to do, the damage is done. I have never seen François angry but tonight, believe me, he was. Not screaming and raging but ice cold, as cold as only a real Coligny can be. I’ve seen my father – I mean the man I though was my father – like that only once. And then I was so frightened, I ran away and hid in the woods for two days. I was only seven years old, but I’ll never forget it.” Jacques looked at Margo, his eyes full of pain. “He hates me,” he said, his voice a rasping sob. “My own brother hates me. My mother won’t speak to me. And that is all your fault.”
“No,” Margo said, suddenly furious. “That is not my fault. You did it. You stole the paintings, you tried to cover it up, and now you’re in the shit because of all that. If I hadn’t said anything, someone else would have, sooner or later. Don’t blame me for what’s happening to you! You’re responsible for your own actions, nobody else.” Margo drew breath and looked at him, daring him to argue.
They stared at each other in silence for a long time. Jacques looked at her as if he expected her to say something.
Margo shook her head. “I’m not going to say I’m sorry if that’s what you’re waiting for,” she said defiantly. “Because I’m not.”
“But I am.” Jacques clenched his jaw. “I’m sorry I met you,” he said bitterly. “I’m sorry you came here and started stirring up trouble. And I’m sorry I thought you were different from the rest.”
“And I’m sorry we’re standing here like this, hating each other,” Margo whispered.
“Yes, well, you should have thought of that before you tried to be clever,” Jacques muttered. Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked to the door. Poised to leave, he looked at Margo with such anger in his eyes, she shivered. Then he walked out, slamming the door shut behind him.
***
Even though the nights were cooler as the summer faded, Margo only managed to get a few hours’ sleep. When the pale light of dawn brightened the sky, she left her bed and walked outside to seek relief from the stuffiness of her room. The weir, she thought. Cool water on my hot skin. One last swim before the summer is over.
The garden was shrouded in mist as Margo made her way down the gravel path. The idea of sinking into the silky water was so tempting, and she walked faster, her sandals making a crunching sound on the gravel. Margo jumped as an owl suddenly screeched nearby, and a flutter of wings swept past. It’s six o’clock in the morning, she said to herself. Nobody is up yet. She suddenly thought of Gráinne as she reached the spot where the tent had been pitched that night and smiled to herself as she remembered the last evening at the café. What a night, she thought, what a summer it’s been. She felt a stab of sadness as she thought of Jacques and wondered where he was, what he was doing. He’ll never want to speak to me again, she thought. And Gráinne, will I ever see her again?
As Margo walked on, she could hear the gurgle of the stream and see the dark water falling over the edge of the weir. With a sigh of pleasure she stripped off her top and jeans and sank into the water, swimming slowly across to the other side and turning to float on her back. She looked up at the sky, where a weak sun was beginning to penetrate the mist. It was going to be another warm day. Margo felt a pang of regret at having to leave. She suddenly understood Jacques and his love for this beautiful, peaceful place and the devastation he must feel now. It’s all my fault, she thought. If it hadn’t been for me, everything would be all right. How he must hate me. Tears pricked her eyes as she swam towards th
e shore. She fleetingly wondered how it would feel to just give up, to sink to the bottom of the weir and disappear, not to have to worry about anything anymore, just slip away into the next world. But as her feet touched the bottom, she pushed the thoughts away and told herself not to be so morbid.
As the sun rose higher, so did Margo’s spirits, and walking back toward the château, she started to feel better. I have to move on, she thought. Leave this place, this family. Sort out my life and start again. But oh, Jacques—
CHAPTER 19
“I’m leaving.”
“What?” Margo whispered, staring at Jacques, who had just appeared before her in the courtyard outside the kitchen like a ghost or a shadowy figure in a dream. “Leaving? Why?” She looked into his eyes, ready for the anger and pain that had been there last night. But his eyes were calm, determined, and sad.
“I had another row with François,” Jacques said. “I went back and tried to reason with him, but he was still so angry. He said some things. That I was a bastard, that I didn’t belong here.”
“Oh God, how horrible. But I’m sure he didn’t mean it.”
“He tried to take it all back when he realised what I was going to do, but I couldn’t just forget it all, and anyway, it made me think. Made me realise that I can’t stay and be his servant anymore. I have to go.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to sell the horses, and then I will look for something else, something I can do that will be just for me and nobody else.” He took her hand. “I’m sorry,” he said softly, kissing her fingers, “I didn’t mean all the things I said last night.”
“It’s all right,” Margo said, afraid to move in case she broke the spell. “You were upset.”
“I’ve had time to think since then. I’ve spent all night thinking.” Jacques took her hands in both of his, holding them so tight it hurt.
“And?” Margo whispered.
“I’m going. As soon as I have packed the things I want to take with me.”
“But how can you leave everything just like that?” Margo stammered. “The farm and the livestock – who is going to look after them? François?”
Jacques let go of her hands and laughed ironically. “Ah, oui, c’est ça. François is going to turn into a farmer. That would be an interesting sight.” He shook his head. “No. I’ve spent the last few hours sorting everything out, and I think it’s all under control. I’m leaving the two Lithuanian boys to run the place for now. They are very good and know exactly what to do. And I’ll ask the farm manager from the neighbouring property to help out with the sales. That takes care of the farm for the moment. François will have to find someone to take over eventually of course, but things will be ticking over for a while. He’ll have to look after the house and grounds himself, though. Then he’ll find out what happens when the roof falls in.”
“What about the horses?”
“I’m taking them to the French equestrian team headquarters in Saumur. They’re looking for good horses and will give me a fair price. I’m leaving old Sophie here, but the farm hands will make sure she’s OK.”
“So everything is under control, then,” Margo said bitterly. “You have it all sewn up beautifully, and now you can just go off into the world and do your own thing, is that it?”
“More or less, yes,” Jacques said looking puzzled. “What’s wrong with that?”
“But what about me?” Margo asked, feeling tears well up in her eyes. “What about us? Don’t I mean anything to you? Are you so angry with me you don’t want to see me again?”
“Of course not.” Jacques stepped forward and took her hands again, looking at her sadly. “I don’t know how I feel about you,” he mumbled. “I don’t know how I feel about anything at the moment. But I do know I have to get away, to start again. This is all I know right now.”
“You said you loved me,” Margo whispered.
“I meant it. Then. I was blown away by your beauty, by your charm and gentleness. And if we’d had a little more time—”
“It’s my fault you’re leaving,” Margo said. “If I hadn’t said anything about the paintings, this would not be happening.”
“I think it was a good thing you did,” Jacques said. “I know I lost my temper last night, and I lashed out at you, which was very unfair. But now I realise you did me a favour. I needed something to push me out of here. So I’m really grateful to you, Marguerite. But I have to put some distance between us for now. Please tell me you understand. Tell me you’ll wait.”
Margo didn’t know what to say. She was afraid to speak in case she would say something to frighten him away. He looked suddenly so fragile, so unsure of himself, and she realised that his confidence and belief in himself had been seriously damaged by whatever had been said between him and François.
“Go then,” she said gently. “I wish you luck, I really do. You deserve it.”
Jacques held her hands tight again. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean you any harm. I would never want to hurt you. We’ll be together again when the time is right.”
“Maybe,” Margo said, fighting to stay calm. “But right now you need space and time to start over.”
“Thank you,” he said, letting go of her hands. He leaned forward and touched her lips with his in a kiss as light as a butterfly. “Thank you for understanding, Marguerite.” He stood for a moment looking at her. “Au revoir,” he said softly before turning around and walking down the path out of sight toward the stables.
Margo wrapped her arms tightly around herself. She felt too sad to move or even cry. “Come back to me,” she whispered. “Please, come back.”
***
“He’s gone,” Milady said, sitting in her bed with her untouched breakfast tray on her lap. “Jacques has left. And it’s all my fault.”
Margo was packing the last of the dresses into the biggest of the suitcases, but she stopped in her tracks and stared at Milady. “Your fault? Why?”
“I was too angry. Too unforgiving. I wouldn’t speak to him, even when he came to say ‘goodbye’.”
Margo stood up and walked to the bed. She took Milady’s hand and gently stroked the back of it. “But he must have understood how upset you were. What a shock it was to find out about the paintings. Your husband’s art collection that he must have been so proud of.”
“Oh yes,” Milady said, a bitter little note in her voice. “He was more proud of that than of his own children. He would spend so much time going to auctions and art galleries, trying to find the best paintings, the best investments. And when he was here, he would go around looking at them, showing them off to his friends. He used to travel to museums all over the world when they were on loan, just to see the sign that said, ‘on loan from the Coligny collection’. He would say that it was his legacy, something the family would be proud of when he was gone. ‘The Coligny collection will be famous all over the world for centuries’, he used to say.” Milady sighed deeply. “I believed him. I was proud of it too. It was my security, part of my image. But now it’s gone, ruined, because of what Jacques did.”
“He did it to save the house,” Margo said, still rubbing Milady’s hand. “What good would the collection be if the house had fallen down?”
Milady looked up at Margo, her eyes clouded with sorrow. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, you’re right. And what do a few paintings matter, after all? Why could I not have told him that just now? Maybe he wouldn’t have left if—”
Margo sank down on the bed. “He had to leave,” she said. “He has to go away and find himself, to stand on his own and not lean on anybody. He has to grow up at last,” she ended a little nervously.
“I don’t understand,” Milady said in an aggrieved voice. “Why does he have to go away from me, his mother? He knows I love him and that I need him to be here, by my side. To run the property, to keep up the standards we have always maintained. François understands it, why doesn’t Jacques?”
Margo looke
d at the older woman and felt a strong urge to tell her how preposterous it was for her to expect her sons to live only for her and not have their own lives, but Milady looked so sad and tired, Margo decided against it. What would be the point? Milady was convinced that her children owed her this kind of servility and nothing Margo said would convince her otherwise. “Jacques will come back,” she soothed. “He won’t stay away for ever. And when he returns, he’ll be much stronger and happier.”
“Do you really think so?”
“I know he will.” Margo got up from the bed. “Now let’s get organised,” she said in a cheery voice that belied her own mood. “I’ll finish the packing while you have your breakfast. And then I’ll draw you a bath, and when you’re dressed, we’ll be ready to leave for Paris.” She walked to the wardrobe and took out the last of the clothes. “These summer dresses—”
Milady looked up. “Yes?”
“Do you have to take them back to Paris? I mean it will be autumn soon, and you won’t need summer clothes.”
“Pack everything,” Milady ordered, her voice resuming its imperious tone. “I might go on a cruise in the Caribbean in January.”
“Oh really? That will be nice.”
“Yes,” Milady said, sounding happier, “and Jacques will have returned by then. And he’ll take up his old job, and everything will be back to normal again.”
***
“Au revoir, Agnès,” Margo said as she stuck her head in the kitchen door. “We’re off to Paris in a few minutes.”
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