loves to tease. So like his grandfather
in so many ways, as well as being his namesake,' she added with a swift sigh.
'But, of course, he means no harm. You must believe that. And after all to
meet like that—thrown together by a storm—is almost romantic, don't you
think?'
Meg bent her head. 'I was really too terrified to notice,' she returned.
'But you weren't harmed, thank God. And certainly thanks to Jerome.'
Madame relinquished her hand gently. 'The Chinese,' she remarked, almost
inconsequentially, 'believe that if you save someone's life you are
responsible for that life forever after.'
'God forbid,' Meg forced a smile. 'I can take care of myself. And that's what
you should be doing,' she added. 'I thought this was your rest period.'
'It's not easy for me to relax today.' Tante pulled a little face. 'To have you
here with me—and my dear Jerome—under this roof. Such happiness.' She
gave a little sigh. 'My mind is everywhere.'
'Would you like me to read to you?' Meg volunteered. 'The paper hasn't
come yet, but I found the most wonderful book of poetry in the library.'
'You did?' Tante sounded almost startled. 'May I have it?'
Meg put the book in her hands, and watched as the thin fingers touched the
covers and binding very gently.
She said, 'There is a poem that begins "Ma doulce amour, ma plaisance
cherie.' Can you find that, my dear?'
She lay back, closing her eyes, as Meg began to read, a little awkwardly at
first, her tongue stumbling over some of the archaic words and phrases. As
she finished one poem, she went on to the next, letting her voice sink lower
and lower, until Marguerite de Brissot's gentle breathing announced that she
was asleep.
Meg let the book drop into her lap, and sat for a moment studying the
patrician face now in repose. Madame' s bone-structure had defied time, she
thought. There was no doubt that once she'd been very beautiful. She saw
too the trace of a solitary tear on her cheek.
She glanced down at the book, wondering if it was the mention of her late
husband, and the reminder of her own loss, which had caused the reaction.
Maybe the book had belonged to him. Vaguely intrigued, she glanced at the
flyleaf. There was an inscription, faded, but still legible.
'To Marguerite,' it said simply. 'My whole heart. J.'
Meg stared down at the initial. 'J', she thought. But Monsieur de Brissot's
name had been Henri.
She closed the book with the uneasy feeling that she'd intruded into some
very private domain. The book indeed had a special meaning for Tante still,
but certainly not in the way she'd imagined, she thought wrily. Judging by
what the older woman had told her, she seemed to have been left to her own
devices a great deal. Had Henri de Brissot neglected his English wife in the
same way as he'd disregarded his house?
His English wife...
'Anglaise' Octavien's voice, harsh with dismissal—with rejection—came
back to her suddenly. Octavien who'd worked for the other—the
first—Jerome Moncourt until he'd left the mas never to return.
She swallowed, as she remembered some of the words of passion and loss
she'd just read aloud. Was that what had happened? she asked herself in
astonishment. Had Jerome's grandfather fallen in love with his neighbour's
beautiful lonely wife, only to renounce her at some point, and cut himself off
forever from all his old ties? She wasn't sure what the implications of such
an entanglement would have been, but there'd have been no easy divorce,
that was certain.
Was this why the first Jerome de Moncourt had been forced to make a new
life for himself in the city? And was this the reason for Octavien's bitter
resentment of all things English—that the master he loved had been driven
away because of his involvement with an Anglaise!
It all made a lot of ghastly sense, she told herself broodingly. And it
explained Madame de Brissot's trust and affection for the present-day
Jerome.
'Like the son she
in so many ways, as well as being his namesake,' she added with a swift sigh.
'But, of course, he means no harm. You must believe that. And after all to
meet like that—thrown together by a storm—is almost romantic, don't you
think?'
Meg bent her head. 'I was really too terrified to notice,' she returned.
'But you weren't harmed, thank God. And certainly thanks to Jerome.'
Madame relinquished her hand gently. 'The Chinese,' she remarked, almost
inconsequentially, 'believe that if you save someone's life you are
responsible for that life forever after.'
'God forbid,' Meg forced a smile. 'I can take care of myself. And that's what
you should be doing,' she added. 'I thought this was your rest period.'
'It's not easy for me to relax today.' Tante pulled a little face. 'To have you
here with me—and my dear Jerome—under this roof. Such happiness.' She
gave a little sigh. 'My mind is everywhere.'
'Would you like me to read to you?' Meg volunteered. 'The paper hasn't
come yet, but I found the most wonderful book of poetry in the library.'
'You did?' Tante sounded almost startled. 'May I have it?'
Meg put the book in her hands, and watched as the thin fingers touched the
covers and binding very gently.
She said, 'There is a poem that begins "Ma doulce amour, ma plaisance
cherie.' Can you find that, my dear?'
She lay back, closing her eyes, as Meg began to read, a little awkwardly at
first, her tongue stumbling over some of the archaic words and phrases. As
she finished one poem, she went on to the next, letting her voice sink lower
and lower, until Marguerite de Brissot's gentle breathing announced that she
was asleep.
Meg let the book drop into her lap, and sat for a moment studying the
patrician face now in repose. Madame' s bone-structure had defied time, she
thought. There was no doubt that once she'd been very beautiful. She saw
too the trace of a solitary tear on her cheek.
She glanced down at the book, wondering if it was the mention of her late
husband, and the reminder of her own loss, which had caused the reaction.
Maybe the book had belonged to him. Vaguely intrigued, she glanced at the
flyleaf. There was an inscription, faded, but still legible.
'To Marguerite,' it said simply. 'My whole heart. J.'
Meg stared down at the initial. 'J', she thought. But Monsieur de Brissot's
name had been Henri.
She closed the book with the uneasy feeling that she'd intruded into some
very private domain. The book indeed had a special meaning for Tante still,
but certainly not in the way she'd imagined, she thought wrily. Judging by
what the older woman had told her, she seemed to have been left to her own
devices a great deal. Had Henri de Brissot neglected his English wife in the
same way as he'd disregarded his house?
His English wife...
'Anglaise' Octavien's voice, harsh with dismissal—with rejection—came
back to her suddenly. Octavien who'd worked for the other—the
first—Jerome Moncourt until he'd left the mas never to return.
She swallowed, as she remembered some of the words of passion and loss
she'd just read aloud. Was that what had happened? she asked herself in
astonishment. Had Jerome's grandfather fallen in love with his neighbour's
beautiful lonely wife, only to renounce her at some point, and cut himself off
forever from all his old ties? She wasn't sure what the implications of such
an entanglement would have been, but there'd have been no easy divorce,
that was certain.
Was this why the first Jerome de Moncourt had been forced to make a new
life for himself in the city? And was this the reason for Octavien's bitter
resentment of all things English—that the master he loved had been driven
away because of his involvement with an Anglaise!
It all made a lot of ghastly sense, she told herself broodingly. And it
explained Madame de Brissot's trust and affection for the present-day
Jerome.
'Like the son she
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