Margo picked up the book and put it back on the shelf. “No,” she said, “I came because François asked me.”
“Why? What did he want you to do?” Jacques gestured toward the leather chair. “Sit down.”
Margo sank down on the chair, and Jacques walked to the bed and sat down too, all the while looking at her with curiosity.
“Go on,” he said. “Tell me what you were asked to say.”
“François wants you to stay,” Margo said, grateful for the distance between them. “He wants everything to be the way it was before. Before the, well, you know what. Before last night.”
“Last night?”
“When you found out about your mother and your father. The real one, I mean.”
“I see.”
“I came to tell you that François is worried that you’ll leave, you see, and he won’t know how to run the farm, and he’ll lose a lot of money. And then he’ll have to sell the land and the furniture and open the château to the public,” Margo babbled on. “And your mother will have to wear cheap cardigans and serve tea to Japanese tourists, and—” She stopped for breath, realising that she had probably blown it. She looked at Jacques, who was still sitting there, now looking very angry.
Margo got up. “Sorry. I didn’t put that very well.”
“Oh no, you put it exceptionally well,” Jacques said, slowly getting off the bed.
“And Gráinne wants to know if you’re buying that horse from Ireland,” Margo added and quickly walked to the door. “That was all I came to say.” She struggled with the door handle but Jacques put a hand on hers to stop her. “Are you leaving already?” he said softly into her ear.
“Yes, I have to go now.” Margo tried to pull her hand out of his grip.
“Marguerite, don’t go,” Jacques said, pulling her across the room toward the bed. “Stay here with me for a while.”
“All right,” Margo sighed, sitting down awkwardly on the bed. “But only for a minute. And it would be a great help if you didn’t touch me.”
Jacques laughed and held up his hands. “All right. No touching.”
“Good.” They looked at each other and at that moment, Margo regretted her last request. There was deep despair in his eyes that belied the light-hearted tone in his voice, and every fibre in her cried out to touch him, to put her arms around him, and comfort him.
“I like your room,” she said.
“And I like you,” he said. “I really like you, Marguerite.” There was a kind of hunger in his eyes that had nothing to do with sex. He took both her hands in his and kept looking at her. Then he put his arms around her. “I’m sorry,” he said, holding her close, “I know I promised not to, but this is what I want to do right now – just hold you like this.” He seemed to draw comfort from their physical contact, and he held her close for a long time without speaking or moving.
“I’m so sorry,” Margo whispered. “It must be so hard for you.”
“Not really,” Jacques said gently, his cheek against her hair. “It’s something I have suspected for a long time. Now I that know, it’s a kind of relief.” He pulled back and looked at her with a faraway look in his eyes. “I didn’t want to believe it, but the doubt was always there.”
“Why?” Margo asked, looking into his troubled eyes. “Was it her husband? Wasn’t he kind to you?”
Jacques let her go and just sat on the bed, his shoulders slumped. “He wasn’t anything. He didn’t really have any contact with his children, neither François nor me. Of course, he was a lot older than my mother. At least twenty years. I didn’t think much about it when I was a small boy. It was when I was a teenager that I started thinking, wondering.”
“That must have been terrible for you,” Margo said, putting her hand on his shoulder. Jacques pulled away from Margo and lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. “I seemed so different, you know? Like a square peg trying to fit into a round hole. I have always loved animals, horses especially. I love living in the country, can’t stand cities. François is the complete opposite, so like my father—I mean his father. Elegant, intellectual. And, of course, looking at us, any fool would know we aren’t brothers. I look like my real father. I must have been blind not to notice. He had the same build and the same eyes. Great horseman too.” Jacques sighed and turned his head to look at Margo. “Why didn’t she tell me?”
“Maybe she was afraid you would be hurt,” Margo said softly. “Maybe she thought it would be best to leave well enough alone, if you were happy. She must have been so unhappy herself all these years. She really loved your father, you know. He was the love of her life. And she was his.”
“How do you know this?”
“She told me. I have been sitting with her all night.”
“You sat all night in her room?”
“Yes, she was so upset. I couldn’t leave her.”
“Oh. That must have been exhausting.”
“I was happy to help in some small way. It helped her to talk, I think. She told me how hard it was, how she loved him all these years, even though they didn’t meet for many years.”
“But Marguerite,” Jacques said, sounding like a child, “if they loved each other so much, why didn’t they do something about it? Why didn’t they run away together or something?”
“I don’t know,” Margo replied. “Maybe they didn’t have the courage?”
“She would have,” Jacques said with feeling. “But he wouldn’t. What a wimp. I’m sorry he is my father. I feel ashamed.” Jacques sighed and wrapped his arms around his chest as if he was trying to stop himself from feeling the pain. “Can you understand,” he asked, “what it’s been like for me? To work here at this château, thinking it was somehow mine, that I had a part of it? I love this place,” he said passionately. “I knew of course, that it belonged to François, the eldest son, but he has no real interest in it, other than coming here for a holiday. He has left it all to me for the past ten years. All the problems, the upkeep, the farm, everything. I thought—I was hoping he would let me have it one day or that we would come to some kind of agreement. But now, now that I know who I am, what I am—” He paused.
“But François doesn’t want you to leave, I just told you that. He can’t run the place like you do. And he’s worried that it will all go if you leave.”
“That’s not true and he knows it,” Jacques exclaimed. “He just doesn’t want to get his hands dirty. There’s enough money to keep this property going for quite a few years.”
“But why did he—?”
“He’s very stingy, you know. Last winter, when there was a problem with the roof and a lot of other things too, I asked him to let me have some money from the trust fund my father – I mean his father – set up for the running of the château. But he let it drag on until I had to raise the money in another way. He is just so lazy, and he wants me to go on doing everything so that he can carry on with his precious lifestyle.”
“So there is no problem then?”
“No, not with money in any case. Or with me. I don’t want to leave. I love this place. It has been my home all my life, and despite what I have just found out, I still want to work here. I can’t think of anything I’d rather do. So you can stop worrying about my mother.”
“Good. I think it would kill her if she had to change her life.”
“No, it wouldn’t,” Jacques murmured bitterly. “She would survive anything. I think it would serve her right if she lost all her money. But she would get used to it and turn it to her own advantage somehow. It would suddenly be chic to wear polyester and work in the tourist industry.”
“I know what you mean,” Margo said with a little laugh.
“My mother,” Jacques said bitterly, “has no feelings.”
“Is that why you’re so angry with her all the time?”
“That’s right. I keep trying to get a reaction out of her, to get her to feel something. But she just sits there, smoking her cigarettes.”
Ma
rgo started to laugh. “She’s really brave, I have to say.”
Jacques looked at her for a moment. Then he suddenly joined in her laughter. “It’s a game, you know,” he said. “A silly game between the two of us.”
“Pretty violent, though,” Margo said.
Jacques eased down on the bed until he was sitting beside her again. “Oh God, Marguerite, I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For involving you in all this.”
“I don’t mind. If it helps you to talk about it.”
He reached out and gently touched her hair. “You’re so lovely,” he whispered. “Like a flower.”
She took his hand and held it, then turned it and stroked his palm, running her finger along the calluses.
“Rough hands,” she murmured, suddenly not daring to look at him.
Gently, he put his hand under her chin and turned her face up. She met his gaze, feeling shy and uncertain. Then she sighed and closed her eyes, not wanting to look into his eyes anymore. She knew what he wanted, and she wanted it too, but she felt afraid. She had only ever slept with one man in her life and that man was her husband. Even though she now knew her love for him was dead, she still felt it would be a kind of betrayal to sleep with someone else. And she also worried about what sex with Jacques would be like, what he would want from her. He had had so many women, done all kinds of things, whereas she and Alan, like most married couples, had got into a routine in their lovemaking and settled into a cosy and comfortable relationship even if the sex had lately turned into something quite joyless.
“It’s all right,” Jacques said softly.
She opened her eyes and looked into his that were now so tender. “I know,” she said, “but I just don’t know what to do. Or say, or...” Her voice trailed away.
“We’re just two people. A man and a woman.”
“No,” Margo said in a small voice, pulling away from him. “It’s too late. Too late for me. We met at the wrong time.” Tears stung her eyes as she tried to get a grip on her feelings.
“I don’t agree,” Jacques said hotly. “What’s in your past doesn’t matter. Or mine. There is only now and you and me.” He took her hand. “But if you feel that you can’t—” He stopped.
Touched by the look in his eyes, Margo leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips. “I’m sorry,” she said. She was going to pull back and get off the bed. She wanted to walk away and leave the room, but he pulled her close to him as if he could sense a longing in her that had not been there before.
“Marguerite,” he whispered. “Do not be afraid. I would never hurt you.”
“I’m not afraid of you,” Margo murmured into his chest. “It’s me.”
“Shh. Don’t talk.”
She gave up the struggle. What was the use, anyway? Alan was far away. She would not, could not, go back to him, and their formal parting was only a matter of time. This was real now, much more real than her feelings for Alan. Jacques was here beside her, wanting her, making her feel special and beautiful and loved.
“Marguerite?” he whispered, starting to touch her in her most private places. “Mon amour, may I—can we?”
“Yes,” she whispered back, feeling all her inhibitions and doubts disappear. “Yes, please.”
***
“What’s the matter with you?” Gráinne said, looking searchingly at Margo. “You look strange. Spaced out.” They were sitting on the terrace of the café yet again, drinking beer and looking at the ducks swimming past on the still black water of the river. Gráinne had arrived in the horse truck that morning, bringing with her the horse Jacques had bought from her boss in Ireland. “Has something happened while I was away?” she asked.
Margo sighed and picked up her glass. “Yes. No. I don’t want to talk about it.” She didn’t feel like discussing what had happened with anyone. It was her secret, hers and Jacques’.
***
“Marguerite,” he had said as he was getting ready to go out to the farm early the following morning. “What happened between us last night was so special, so precious to me. But I feel that you—that there is something you have to work out before we can go any further. Am I right?”
“Yes,” she mumbled, pulling the sheet up to her chin, a little shy under his probing gaze. Jacques sat down on the bed. He pulled the sheet away from her hands.
“Please,” he said, “don’t be shy. I have seen every inch of you. Why do you feel you have to hide now?” He ran his hand down her body from her neck to her hip. “So lovely,” he whispered.
“Oh, Jacques.” Margo put her arms around his neck and pressed her breasts against his bare chest that was peeping out through his half-buttoned shirt.
“Marguerite, mon trésor,” he mumbled. “Je t’aime.” As if surprised by his own words, he pulled back and looked into her eyes. “My God, that’s the first time I’ve—”
“What?” Margo said incredulously. “You never told any girl you loved her?”
“Oh, I’ve said it,” he laughed. “I always say it. That’s what women want to hear. But I’ve never meant it. But this time I do, I really do. I want you to believe that.”
“Oh Jacques, I don’t know,” Margo said, feeling suddenly frightened by the intensity in his voice. “Love is such a big word. I don’t know if I want to say things like that yet. I don’t want to even think about it.”
“All right.” He kissed her on the mouth. “We’ll take it nice and slow. No pressure.”
“Thank you.” She sighed, relieved.
Jacques looked at Margo, and she could see a touch of sadness in his eyes. “I have had a lot of affairs, I’m sure you know that.”
“Yes,” she said softly. “I know.”
“But it has always ended in tears. Theirs, not mine,” he added wryly. “Not because I’m heartless or mean, or—” He stopped and looked away. “I seemed to be looking for something. Someone.” He looked back at her again, and now there was a veiled look in his blue eyes. “It never worked out, and I have always been left with a feeling of having been let down. My fault, probably. I’m not telling you this because I’m looking for pity. I just didn’t want you to be put off by my past.”
“Oh, I don’t care about all that,” Margo said. “It has nothing to do with me. It all happened before we met. But—” She paused, wondering how to go on.
“But what?”
“It’s that temper of yours. I find it very frightening. You see I—” Now it was Margo’s turn to hesitate. “I once lived with a very abusive man,” she murmured against Jacques’ chest.
He pulled away and looked at her. “Abusive? You mean he hit you?”
“No. He wasn’t abusive physically, only verbally. He called me names. Told me I was stupid and—” Margo looked away, tears pricking her eyes. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”
Jacques was quiet for a long time while he stroked her hair. “What a bastard,” he said finally. “But a lot of men are like that. Angry when they can’t control people or the world. I’m not. I just blow up from time to time, and well, it’s mostly with my mother. I was so angry with her. I’ve told you all that. But I’m not angry with her anymore. And I feel more at peace, now that it’s all out in the open. Please, my darling Marguerite, do not be afraid of me. Even when I blow off steam. It’s just the way I am.”
“OK.” Margo sighed, trying her best to believe him. “At least you’re aware of it.”
“Yes, of course. But I’m sorry, my darling,” Jacques continued, getting up from the bed, “I have to go and see to the farm and the horses.”
“I know. And I have to get up and get your mother’s breakfast and see what else there is to be done.”
“But it’s only six o’clock. Why don’t you stay and rest here for a while? We didn’t get much sleep last night,” he said, grinning at her.
“No, we didn’t.” Margo smiled back, remembering the night. “Every muscle in my body feels tender.”
“I shoul
d be the one to complain,” Jacques said. “You were like a wild thing. I didn’t expect such passion from a prim English girl.”
“You turned me on,” Margo said, lying back against the pillows, looking at him as he moved around the room. She loved watching him. He moved with such grace, surprising for a big man. And the way he had made love to her – Margo smiled. She had known he would be an accomplished lover, but she had been amazed by his generosity and the fact that he seemed more concerned about her pleasure than his own. She had surprised herself with the intensity of her own passion and how she had not felt the slightest embarrassment with him.
Jacques walked softly to the door, opened it a crack and peered out. “Nobody there,” he said and walked through. “Got to go. A bientôt, mon amour.”
***
“Is it Jacques?” Gráinne asked sharply.
“Is what Jacques?” Margo said, startled out of her thoughts.
“That half-witted look on your face. Is it because of him? Has he made a pass at you?”
“Never mind.” Margo looked at the ducks.
“He did, didn’t he? Oh Jesus, I knew it. What did you do? I hope you told him where to get off.”
“I haven’t seen Jacques for over a week,” Margo said. “So could you please get off my case?”
“Hmm.” Gráinne looked thoughtfully at Margo. “Not for a week, you said?”
“That’s right. He has been very busy with the farm, and then he had to go to this showjumping thing in Lyon.”
“You seem to know a lot about his movements.”
“Not really.”
“He’s coming back tomorrow, did you know that? He’ll have to take care of the horse I brought, see?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“Is it the brother, then? I thought you really fancied him. Is he the one that has you looking like a—”
“François? Good God, no.” Margo drank some beer. “I’m really annoyed with him, to tell you the truth. He’s been a little dishonest with me. He’s not the gentleman I thought he was. And in any case, he has a girlfriend.”
Finding Margo Page 20