Dawn Song (13 page)

The buildings which spilled down to the edge of the river were all of

rose-red stone, including the great cathedral.

'The city, of course, gave its name to the Albigensian crusade against the

Cathars,' Jerome told her. 'And traces of Catharism lingered on here even

after the massacre at Montsegur.'

'Yet there's no sadness here,' she said thoughtfully. 'Albi seems to be a place

that's come to terms with its past.'

'Everything passes, in time,' he said.

Yes, she thought. And, given time, this senseless—destructive—infatuation

will be forgotten too. It has to be.

'And now lunch,' he went on briskly.

'Have we got tune for that?' Meg bit her lip. 'Shouldn't we be getting back?'

'At this time of day?' Jerome parodied horror. 'You must learn to think like a

Frenchwoman,
ma belle:

His hand was under her arm as he guided her through the groups of tourists

lingering on thepavement, sending an unwanted tingle of awareness through

her body.

She said steadily, 'I don't think that's necessary— for the short time I'll be in

France.'

'But perhaps,' he said, 'we can persuade you to stay longer.'

She shook her head, not looking at him. 'I don't think so.'

'You say that now, but who knows what the fates have in store for any of us?'

Meg decided to ignore that, and hung back. 'Anyway, I'm really not hungry.'

'Well, I am,' he said promptly. 'You can sit and watch me.' His hand took

hers, pulling her along gently but firmly, giving her no choice but to go with

him.

He took her to a small restaurant in a narrow side-street, already steadily

filling up with customers. Meg found herself installed on a banquette with

Jerome beside her, his lean thigh altogether too close to her own for comfort,

as they scanned the various choices on the hand-written
carte.

Meg had seriously intended to stay aloof from the proceedings, but the

aromas drifting through from the kitchen became increasingly irresistible.

Under Jerome's guidance, she found herself confronted by a dish of tiny,

delicate ravioli made with anchovies, followed by a platter of succulent

lamb, pink in the middle and flavoured with garlic and rosemary.

'I seem to do nothing but eat,' she said faintly, as eventually she put down her

knife and fork.

'You could do with some extra weight,' he said, the dark eyes smiling at her

under their heavy fringe of lashes. 'Not too much, of course.'

She felt herself flush, and to cover her confusion drank some of the rose

wine, served with their meal in a little jug.

'How easily you blush,' Jerome remarked. 'I had not expected that.'

Perhaps the wine had given her Dutch courage, because she said, 'What did

you expect?'

He was silent for a moment. 'How can I say? It's certainly true that some of

madame's
recollections of you had caused me—concern. I did not wish her

to hope for too much from this reunion.'

'You thought she'd be disappointed?'

Jerome shrugged. 'It was a possibility. After all, she had last seen you as a

young child, and her impressions then had been—mixed.'

'Oh, dear.' Meg kept her tone light. 'Did I do something frightful?'

He

shrugged.

'She

remembered

that

you

were

spoiled—precocious—seeking to be the centre of attention, demanding your

own way at all times.'

'In other words, a complete brat,' Meg said wrily. 'But I suppose it's a phase

all children go through.' And some of them don't change, she thought,

recalling Margot's ruthless self-will. 'Surely you don't condemn me for that?'

She lifted her chin, her eyes searching his face. 'Or was there something

else?'

His expression told her nothing. 'But what else could there be?' he said, after

a pause. 'My sole wish is to protect Madame Marguerite. She has had

enough unhappiness in her life.'

Meg stared down at the immaculate white tablecloth. 'Did you know her

husband?'

He shook his head. 'Only by reputation. He has been dead for many years.'

His tone seemed to signify that the passing of the late Henri de Brissot had

been no great loss.

'I gather it wasn't a very successful marriage,' Meg said carefully.

'It was a disaster,' he said grimly. 'A brief infatuation which flared up and

died within a year, leaving them tied to each other. Henri disliked living in

the country, so he left Marguerite alone at the chateau to manage his

inheritance, while he spent his life at racecourses and casinos. He returned

only when he was short of money. Sometimes there would be brief

reconciliations, then he would become bored and restless again, and leave.'

'Did she tell you all this?' Meg asked with faint surprise.

Jerome hesitated. 'No,' he said shortly. 'Not all of it.'

Meg drank some of her coffee. Her conclusions hadn't been so far-fetched

after all, she thought soberly. Where else could Jerome have learned the sad

details of Tante's marriage but from his grandfather?

She said, 'Tante explained to me why the chateau was in such disrepair.

It's—good that she's decided to do something about it.'

'Excellent.' His tone was dry.

'I wonder why she's waited until now?'

Jerome shrugged again. 'I suggest you ask her.' His tone was not

encouraging.

Her fingertip traced the pattern on her saucer. She said a little breathlessly,

'I—get the idea that Tante's trying to—re-create the past in the present to

some extent.' She swallowed. 'Do you know— do you understand what I'm

talking about?'

'I think so.' The dark face gave nothing away, so she ploughed on.

'I thought you would.' Her mouth felt suddenly dry. 'I—must tell you that

what Tante wants is— totally impossible. It can never happen.' She

swallowed. 'I thought I'd better make that clear.'

'There's no need.' Jerome summoned the waiter with the bill.

'I think there is. The whole idea is—was—quite absurd.'

His smile was brief and impersonal. 'Completely ridiculous,
ma belle.
Don't

trouble yourself about it any more.'

She said, 'But I had to mention it—because if I have to—work for

you—we'll be obliged to spend a lot of time together.'

'As you say.' Jerome counted out notes from his wallet, and added a tip.

'Starting this afternoon,' he added silkily.

Meg's heart sank like a stone, but she rallied. 'So, I want to establish a—a

totally professional relationship from now on.'

'As you have with your employer?'

She bit her lip again. 'Of—course.'

'Vraiment
? You tell me, that in all the time you have worked for this

man—this young, good- looking, high-powered man—you have not asked

yourself what he would be like as a lover? That hehas not seen the way your

body moves under the so-demure clothes, or tried to awaken the sleeping

fire in you?'

'Believe what you want,' Meg said shakily. 'What I'm trying to say is that I

don't—I'm not prepared to be harassed in any way while I'm working for

you, and if you won't agree, then the deal's off. And I shall tell Tante why.'

His mouth twisted. 'You think she would be outraged? I wonder. In view of

her—foolish dreams about the pair of us, perhaps it would please her to

know that I wanted to make love to you.' The dark eyes held hers. 'The past

re-creating the present—isn't that your apt phrase?'

She said crisply, 'But she might not appreciate the fact that you were simply

amusing yourself— especially if I told her we both had—other

commitments.'

He was silent for a moment, the firm mouth hardening. But he didn't deny

what she'd said. 'And you
ma belle,'
he said at last. 'Are you so sure that

you'll be able to maintain this—professional distance during the hours we'll

be alone together?'

'Yes.' She could feel the thud of her heart against her ribcage. She thought

achingly, I've no choice. Oh, God, I've got to...

He laughed. 'How certain you are.' His eyes swept her mockingly. 'Yet I

guarantee,
ma douce,
that you will be the first to break this—restraint you

have imposed.' His voice sank almost to a whisper. 'You will come to me,

Margot, because you cannot help yourself. You know it, and so do I.'

He'd got to his feet. Meg rose too, facing him. She said huskily, 'I accept

your challenge,
monsieur.
And I warn you, I shall fight—every inch of the

way.'

'So the truce is over.' His voice was soft. 'So be it.' He took her hand and

lifted it to his mouth. She felt, with a jolt, his teeth graze her soft fingertips in

a swift, sensuous caress.

He said, 'Now let us go back to Haut Arignac, and test your resolve.'

And led the way back to his car.

She sat beside him, prey to a total confusion of thought and conflict of

emotion, out of which only one thing seemed clear—that her relationship

with Jerome was not merely a question of self-control, but self-preservation.

Obsessed as she was with her predicament, she didn't notice at first that

they'd turned off the Arignac road.

It was only when they reached the track leading down to the
mas
that

comprehension dawned, and she sat up sharply.

'Where are we going?'

'To fetch my typewriter. There isn't one at the chateau. Madame Marguerite

still prefers her correspondence to be hand-written.'

It sounded a reasonable explanation, but Meg stiffened.

'Do we have to begin today? Can't you bring it over in the morning?'

He sent her a brief, mocking smile. 'Tonight I shall be staying at the chateau.

I have a room there. I'm sure Philippine has mentioned it.' He paused.

'Besides, the sooner our professional relationship begins, the better. I'm sure

you agree,
ma belle.'

He brought the car to a halt in front of the
mas,
and opened his door. 'Would

you prefer to wait for me here?' There was amusement in his voice.

She said curtly, 'Fine.'

As he reached to door of the
mas,
Octavien emerged, and they stood talking

for a moment. It had to be some urgent topic, because Octavien was

gesticulating forcefully, his wrinkled face frowning with concern. And after

a moment she saw Jerome swing round and send a swift, equally grim look

back at the car.

She thought, They're talking about me. And a groundswell of resentment

rose inside her. She opened the passenger door and got out, making a wide

and pointed detour away from them, around the side of the house, where the

terraces of vines clothed the side of the valley, and stood, staring out over

the neat rows, listening to the whirr of the unseen cicadas in the

undergrowth.

She heard a stone rattle on the track behind her, and turned to see Octavien

coming towards her, a hoe on his shoulder. His face was set grimly, the dark

eyes suspicious and openly hostile under the jutting brows. His reply to her

quiet,
'Bonjour,'
was a curt nod.

She said, 'Maitre Octavien, it was your
patron's
idea to bring me here today,

not mine. But you need not worry.' She lifted her chin. 'I—I know what you

fear, and I want to tell you that—it won't be like before. Not as it was with

Monsieur Jerome's grandfather.'

She paused, but he said nothing, his expression not encouraging. She went

on with a touch of desperation, 'I won't be coming back here—to the

mas—
again. And at the end of the month I'll be returning to England

anyway, for good.' She tried a small, wintry smile. 'This Monsieur Jerome

won't be driven away from here—at least, not by me.'

There was no softening in his face. He said in his hoarse
patois,
'Whether he

goes or stays, you bring unhappiness with you,
Anglaise.
I know that, me. I

hear, and I see.' He nodded. 'You have no business here, and Monsieur

Jerome should not concern himself with you—or the suffering you have

caused.' His fist clenched, punching the empty air. 'Always unhappiness,' he

muttered. He gave her a last fulminating look, then went on to the vines.

Well, I tried, Meg consoled herself, as she turned away. She looked up at the

mas,
at the big picture window on the upper floor, from which she would

never now see the dawn, and stopped dead.

There was someone there, she thought. Someone looking down, and then

moving away quickly as if they didn't want to be seen. She'd only caught the

briefest glimpse, but she knew it was a woman. And not Berthe.

Her heart was thudding, leaden against her ribs. Well, what did she expect,

after all? As she'd said herself, they both had—other commitments. But to

say it was one thing. To face up to it in reality quite another.

When she reached the car, Jerome was closing the boot, his face set and