Dawn Song. Sara Craven
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with him, on a visit to the Imperial War Museum.
Meg had enjoyed the museum more than she’d anticipated, but Tim, devoted only son of a widowed mother, would never be more than a casual friend. He still lived at home, and Meg pitied any girl who might fall in love with him, because Mrs Hansby was grimly determined to preserve the status quo.
Whereas her companion today didn’t look as if he could be tied to any woman’s apron strings. But appearances could be deceptive. He might well have a shrewd-eyed wife, and a brood of children, and tonight, over dinner, he’d tell them how he’d rescued a lone English tourist from the storm, making it amusing—minimising their narrow escape.
And later, his wife would ask when they were alone, ‘What was she like—this English girl?’ and he’d smile and say,
‘Ordinary—I barely noticed her…’
As he glanced towards her, Meg realised she’d allowed a tiny sigh to escape her, and hurried into speech.
‘Is it much further to the auberge?’
‘About a kilometre. Do you find the journey tedious?’
‘Oh, no,’ she denied hurriedly. ‘But I realise that you must have things to do—other plans. I feel I’m being a nuisance.’
‘You are wrong. It is my pleasure to do this for you. Besides, by taking this road, I pass the auberge anyway, so it works out well for us both.’ He paused again. ‘My name is Jerome Moncourt,’ he added with a touch of formality. ‘May I know yours in return?’
Her lips parted to say Meg Langtry, but she hesitated, the words unspoken. She’d come here to be Margot, after all, she thought guiltily, and she’d almost forgotten. But, she supposed, the deception had to start somewhere. So why not practise her new identity on this stranger? After all, she was never going to see him again. Yet, at the same time, she was reluctant to tell a downright lie. I’m not the stuff conspirators are made from, she thought with a stifled sigh.
She forced a smile. ‘Let’s just say—Marguerite,’ she temporised. It was a half-truth, after all, and, with luck, it might be all she’d need.
‘The name of a flower,’ he said softly. ‘And of a famous French queen. You’ve heard, perhaps of La Reine Margot who was born Marguerite de Valois and married Henri of Navarre? She held court at Nerac in Gascony, and was one of the famous beauties of her age. She was what they used to call une dame galante.’
‘Meaning?’ Meg had moved with slight restiveness when she heard the name. Margot, she thought. Of course, it would be. She couldn’t get away from it.
Jerome Moncourt shrugged again. ‘That she enjoyed adventures—particularly with men other than her husband,’ he returned. ‘Her affaires were notorious.’
‘Then she couldn’t have been very happy with this Henri of Navarre.’
He laughed. ‘Oh, he was not faultless, either. Maybe that is why he is one of the kings that France remembers with affection. Un vrai brave homme.’
‘And of course in those days all marriages were arranged,’ Meg said thoughtfully. ‘I suppose they could be forgiven for straying if they were tied to someone they didn’t care about.’
‘But what if the marriage had been for this thing we call love?’ His voice was cynical.
‘Then there’d have been no excuse,’ Meg said firmly.
‘I am surprised to hear you say so.’
‘Why?’ Meg found herself bristling slightly.
Jerome Moncourt hesitated momentarily, then lifted a shoulder. ‘Oh—because that is no longer a fashionable point of view. Easy marriage, easy divorce. That is the modern creed.’
Meg shook her head. ‘I don’t believe that,’ she said. ‘Divorce is never easy. Someone’s always hurt—left behind, especially when there are children.’
He flicked her a swift sideways glance. ‘I did not expect to meet with an idealist.’
‘But then,’ Meg said sedately, ‘you didn’t expect to meet me at all.’
‘No?’ He was smiling again. She felt his charm touch her like a caressing hand. ‘You don’t think it was fate rather than the storm which brought us together?’
Meg, uneasily aware of an unfamiliar trembling in the pit of her stomach, managed a laugh. ‘I’m English, monsieur. I tend to blame the weather for everything.’
He laughed too. ‘And in France, mademoiselle, we say that the marguerite always turns to the sun. Remember that.’ He paused. ‘And there just ahead of us is the auberge.’
A sudden surge of disappointment rose up inside her, and was ruthlessly crushed. Was she out of her mind, letting a complete stranger get to her like this? He’d rescued her, and she’d always be grateful for that, but she wasn’t even sure she liked him, for heaven’s sake. He was an unknown quantity, and she had enough problems ahead of her without taking him into the reckoning.
It was probably second nature to him to flirt with every girl he came across, she thought. She just wasn’t used to his kind of man, or any other for that matter.
The Auberge du Source du Beron was a comfortable rambling building, probably a converted farmhouse, set at the rear of an enclosed courtyard.
Jerome Moncourt drove under an arched gateway into the courtyard, and stopped. Meg straightened her shoulders, and held out a hand, with a determined smile. ‘Well, thank you again, and goodbye.’
‘You are very eager to be rid of me,’ he commented, his mouth twisting sardonically.
‘Oh, it’s not that,’ she said hurriedly. ‘But I’ve taken up too much of your time already.’
‘You must allow me to judge for myself.’ Jerome Moncourt left the car, and walked round to the passenger door to assist Meg to alight. ‘Go and see if they have a room,’ he directed, smiling faintly. ‘I will bring your cases.’
Wide glass doors flanked by tubs of brilliant flowers opened on to a tiled reception area, where the patronne gave Meg a pleasant if harassed welcome.
Yes, there was a room, which she would be happy to show mademoiselle, but there was also a problem. Because of that devil’s storm, there was no electricity. Until the supply could be restored, there would only be lamps or candles. As for the dining-room—madame made a gesture of despair.
‘That doesn’t matter,’ Jerome Moncourt said over Meg’s shoulder. ‘Mademoiselle is dining with me.’
Meg felt sudden swift colour invade her face, as madame, putting her troubles aside for a moment, lifted her eyebrows in a roguish and wholly approving assessment of the situation in general and Jerome Moncourt in particular. She then became brisk again. If monsieur would be so good as to transport the luggage to mademoiselle’s room—Millot, whose task this was, being totally engaged in filling lamps—she would be forever grateful.
‘D’accord.’ Jerome smiled at her. ‘But first I must ask if the storm spared the telephone. We need to report an accident.’
The phone system apparently was in full working order. Jerome lifted an eyebrow at Meg. ‘Do you wish me to contact the authorities—deal with the formalities for you? It would perhaps be easier, no matter how good your French…’
Meg said a shy ‘Thank you’ and allowed madame to conduct her up the wide wooden staircase to a room at the back. The ceiling was low, and the floor uneven, but the furniture gleamed with polish, and the wide bed was made up with snowy linen and a duvet like a drift of thistledown. In one corner, a door opened on to an immaculate shower-room hardly bigger than a cupboard.
The small square window set deep in the thick stone wall stood open to admit