Dawn Song

‘It sounds—good.’

‘I think it was, for a time. Unhappily, even the simple life can become complicated, and eventually he returned to Paris.’

‘And do you—lead the simple life too?’

‘When I can.’ He slanted a smile at her. ‘But most of the time I’m an architect. I used to work in Paris, but our business expanded quite remarkably, and now I am based in Toulouse.’

‘Back to your roots.’

‘As you say. I work mainly as a consultant, advising on the preservation and restoration of old buildings—houses, usually, which have been allowed to become derelict during the drift from the land to the cities, but which are now in demand again.’

‘Actually, I think that’s quite as romantic as poetry,’ Meg said thoughtfully. ‘Repairing the fabric of history.’

His smile widened. ‘And actually I agree with you, but I don’t tell my clients, or they would expect me to work for love and not for money.’

‘Are you working on a project at the moment?’

‘In a way, although I’m officially on leave.’ He didn’t seem to want to enlarge on the subject, so Meg left it there.

‘Do you miss Paris?’ she asked, after a pause.

He shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t miss any city,’ he said flatly. ‘My family chose to live there. I did not.’

‘Were they from this part of the country originally?’

‘Yes. Our roots have always been here. My grandfather was the first to move away completely, in fact.’

‘Was he never tempted to return?’

Jerome shrugged. ‘My grandmother was a Parisienne,’ he said tonelessly. ‘She had no taste for the country.’

‘But you’ve come back.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘To the country of my heart. The place where I belong.’

It must be good to have such certainty, Meg thought rather wistfully. She wasn’t sure where she stood in the scheme of things. She still lived at her late father’s house, but it had been totally transformed to Iris Langtry’s taste, and Meg felt like an outsider there most of the time. And she no longer had a job to hold her. So, she supposed, the world was her oyster now. Maybe it was time she found where she belonged. Put down some roots of her own.

In the meantime, she was beginning to wonder where they were going. She’d presumed he was taking her to some local restaurant where the electricity was still functioning, but they were still travelling purposefully, the Citroën eating up the kilometres. She wished she’d been watching the signposts, so that she could have followed their route on the map she had in her bag.

‘You would like some music?’ He seemed to have noticed her slight restiveness.

‘No,’ she denied quickly. ‘I like to watch the scenery, and talk. But you must stop me if I ask too many questions.’

‘You’re unlikely to ask anything I won’t wish to answer.’ The dark eyes flickered towards her, then returned to the road. ‘Can you say the same, Marguerite?’

‘Of course,’ she said stoutly, crossing her fingers metaphorically. ‘I’ve nothing to hide.’

‘A woman without secrets,’ he said musingly. ‘Unbelievable.’

She laughed. ‘No, I just lead an uncomplicated and rather boring life.’ Or I did, she thought.

‘Yet you travel alone through choice, and have a deeper interest in this region than the average tourist. That is hardly dull. I think you have hidden depths, Marguerite.’

There was a note in his voice which made her heart leap in sudden ridiculous excitement. She said rather breathlessly, ‘But then they say that everyone’s more interesting on holiday.’ There was a brief silence.

‘Tell me,’ he said softly, ‘why you were so reluctant to answer when I asked you to dine with me? There is a man in England, perhaps, who might cause—complications?’

Meg stared ahead of her. Tim Hansby? she thought with a kind of desperate amusement. She said shortly, ‘There’s no one.’

‘Vraiment?’ Jerome Moncourt sounded sceptical. ‘I cannot believe there is no one you care about.’

She shrugged, pride making her reluctant to admit that up to now she’d occupied a fairly undistinguished place on the shelf—that there were only two people she really cared about, she realised with a pang. A retired second-hand bookseller, and the elderly woman who’d taken the place of her mother, and given her the affection and comfort that her father, dazed with grief at the loss of his young wife, had been unable to bestow. For whose sake she was here in the first place. She swallowed. Not a lot to show for her twenty years, she thought. Although this was not the time to start feeling sorry for herself.

And what the hell? she argued inwardly. It’s nothing to do with him if I prevaricate a little. Although why she should wish to appear marginally more interesting than actual reality was something she didn’t want to examine too closely, she thought, biting her lip.

‘Does it make any difference?’ she challenged. ‘An invitation to dinner hardly constitutes a major breach of faith.’

She took a breath. ‘For all I know, you could be married.’

‘Would it matter if I was?’ he tossed back at her.

That sounded like hedging. Her heart plummeted in a dismay as acute as it was absurd.

‘I think it might matter a hell of a lot to your wife,’ she said curtly.

‘Then it is fortunate she does not yet exist.’ There was a note of mockery in his voice, mingled with something else less easy to decipher.

‘Fortunate for her, anyway,’ she muttered, self-disgust at the relief flooding over her making her churlish.

He clicked his tongue reprovingly. ‘That’s not kind. You don’t think I’d make a good husband?’

‘I can’t possibly tell on so brief an acquaintance.’ Meg kept her tone short. She knew he was laughing at her, even though his expression was serious, almost frowning.

‘But you have an ideal? What qualities should he possess? Would you require him to be faithful?’

Meg twisted the strap of her bag in her fingers. ‘I’d want him to love me, and only me, as I’d love him,’ she said at last. ‘I suppose that takes care of most things.’

‘It is certainly sweeping,’ Jerome said, after another pause. ‘And if, in spite of that love, another woman intervened—tried to take this paragon away from you—what would you do then? Make the sacrifice? Let him go?’

‘No,’ she said, fiercely. ‘I’d fight for him with everything I had.’

‘You would be ruthless?’ his voice probed softly. ‘Use any weapon?’

‘Of course.’ She hesitated uncertainly. ‘Why do you ask me all this?’

‘Because I wish to know, ma petite,’ he said softly. ‘It is part of that journey of discovery I mentioned—to find that you would fight like a tigress for love.’

Again that odd note in his voice. Meg felt herself shiver. He noticed at once. ‘You are cold?’

‘Oh, no.’ She forced a smile. ‘Hungry, perhaps.’ She thought of her picnic lunch, crushed in the car.

‘You’ve been patient long enough. Now you shall be fed.’ He turned the car suddenly off the road, and on to a track leading downhill. Meg braced herself as the Citroën swayed and jolted over stones and deep ruts.

‘There’s actually a restaurant down here?’ she gasped. ‘I hope there’s another road out, or people’s meals won’t stay down for long.’

‘Not a restaurant.’ Ahead of them, bathed rose-pink in the sunset, there was a straggle of buildings, a chimney from which smoke uncoiled lazily in the still evening air.

‘Then where are we?’ They seemed to be in the middle of nowhere, she realised with alarm. And isolated too. There were no other cars around that she could see, so it couldn’t be a very popular establishment.

‘This is my house.’ The mockery was back, full force. ‘The family mas I was telling you about.’

He paused. ‘I decided, ma belle, that we would dine at home tonight. Enjoy our mutual discoveries in private.’ He let that sink in, then added silkily, ‘I hope you approve?’

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