was not a pleasant journey, although it had stopped raining and the storm had rumbled its way into some far distance, allowing a watery sun to make an apologetic appearance.
Her companion was quiet, Meg found, if not positively taciturn, but that was probably because he had to concentrate so hard on driving. It was perilous stuff. The road was littered with fallen debris, and several times they even had to stop the car to move rocks and tree branches which were actually blocking the road.
‘Is it always as bad as this?’ she asked, as he came back to the car, dusting his hands on his jeans.
‘I have known worse.’ He glanced sideways at her as he restarted the car. ‘It has been alarming, your introduction to France?’
‘How did you know that? That it’s my first time here?’ Meg pulled a face. ‘From my bad French, I suppose.’
He shrugged. ‘It was just a guess. I didn’t know it at all. And your French is very good,’ he added drily. ‘Remarkably so.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because so many of your countrymen do not bother with our language,’ he said, after a slight pause. ‘They assume that if they shout loudly enough and slowly enough we will understand them.’
Meg gave a rueful nod. She’d heard much the same from her night-school teacher, a Frenchwoman married to a Brit. ‘I think it’s to do with being an island race, and not feeling part of Europe. Maybe things will improve once the Channel Tunnel is open.’
‘Perhaps.’
There was a further silence. He drove well, Meg thought, using the powerful capacity of the car without flourish, the lean brown hands in effortless control of the wheel.
He was simply dressed, but his denim jeans bore a designer label, and the plain white shirt, its cuffs turned back to reveal sinewy forearms, had an expensive silky sheen. His only adornment was a classic gold wrist-watch with a brown leather strap.
It was difficult to know what to make of him, Meg thought, observing him under her lashes. He didn’t slot into any obvious category, either social or professional. But then, she was no expert, she reminded herself wrily. Her experience of men was minimal, unless you counted Mr Otway, or Tim Hansby who collected books on military history, and who’d invited her once to London 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
