Finding Margo (27 page)

There was a sudden, stunned silence. Milady turned very pale.

“I beg your pardon?” François said, staring at her, his eyes huge with shock. “Are you saying that some of these paintings are fake?”

“No,” Margo put down her wine glass. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Of course not,” Milady said, the colour coming back to her cheeks.

“Not
some
of the paintings,” Margo said, gesturing with her fork around the room. “They all are.”

A
t first, Margo tried her best to smooth over her enormous faux pas as Milady and François stared at each other in wordless horror. “But they are excellent copies,” she said. “Nobody would guess, really.”

“
You
did,” François muttered.

“Yes, but I know what to look for. My brother is a renowned art expert, and—” She paused, thinking about how her brother had been so pleased with the way she had been able to pick up even the slightest flaws. “These copies must have been done by the very best,” she continued with an encouraging smile. “I mean, some of the paintings are actually
better
than the original. You know how Rembrandt couldn’t do hands? But in that little study of the old lady, the hands are—” She paused again when there was no reply. Nobody seemed to have heard her feeble attempt at looking on the bright side.

“
Mon Dieu
,” Milady whispered, staring at François, “what are we going to do?”

“Nothing for the moment,” François said, switching to French, his voice icily determined. “Until we find out who has been—” He paused. “I have a feeling we don’t have to look too far.”

“You mean—” Milady said.

“Yes,” François said. “I think it’s quite obvious, don’t you?”

“But—” Milady’s shoulders slumped. “Yes, you’re right. There can’t be any other explanation.” She suddenly started to sob. “The shame,” she wept. “The embarrassment. What will people say?”

“Nothing,” François soothed, putting an arm around her shoulders. “Nobody will find out, I’ll make sure of that. We’ll carry on as before.”

“We will? But how? We have to tell the police, the insurance company.”

“Not at all,” he assured her. “We won’t say anything to anyone. Except,” he continued, his voice cold, “I have a few things to say to—” He stopped and glanced at Margo as if he had only then realised she was there but wished she wasn’t.

She rose from her chair. “
Excusez- moi
,” she mumbled, but they didn’t seem to hear her and continued to talk to each other in a near whisper as she silently left the room.

***

M
argo was packing her few items of clothing into her tote bag and generally tidying up her room. It was late, and although she was very tired, she was looking forward to seeing Jacques again. He had written her a note, telling her how much he was longing to be with her and would try to finish with the vet and the horses so they could spend this last night together.
It’s sad to part, but we’ll have the weekends,
he had written
. I’m looking forward to showing you how lovely the park and the woods are in the autumn.

As soon as I go back to Paris, I will try to get in touch with Alan, Margo thought as she packed. I’ll tell him it’s all over, and we’ll have to get the divorce proceedings going. She froze, suddenly frightened by the word ‘divorce’. She had never really thought of it like that before, never said the word to herself even in her thoughts, as if it was something that didn’t really apply to her but something that happened to other people. Being ‘separated’ didn’t seem so bad, it wasn’t final; it left the door open. She felt a sense of guilt about her affair with Jacques, and she knew she wouldn’t be thinking like this if it wasn’t for him, but he had given her the final push to close the chapter with Alan. She also knew she would have to tell Jacques about her marriage. They had agreed that their individual pasts weren’t really important, but a marriage of ten years wasn’t something you could airbrush out of your life. I have no idea at all where I’m going with Jacques, she thought. It might just end in tears, probably mine. But right now, it’s so lovely. And I will tell him about Alan. Soon.

Margo finished her packing and looked around the room, thinking how much she was going to miss it and the château. It’s like a time warp here, she thought. Like going back in time. A place of peace and tranquillity in a sea of noise and confusion that is the modern world. How lucky they are to have this place. But all was not well tonight, she said to herself, laughing suddenly as she remembered the scene in the dining room earlier. It had been a little ridiculous, she thought, remembering François’ and Milady’s faces, frozen in shock. She had regretted her words as soon as they came out of her mouth. But she had, in all fairness, been convinced that they knew that it had been part of some insurance ploy.

Margo sighed as she closed her bag. Why did I have to go and tell them, she asked herself for the thousandth time.

The door suddenly flew open. Startled, Margo looked up from her task as Jacques burst into the room.

“So, here you are,” he snapped.

“Jacques,” Margo said as her whole body flooded with happiness. She walked over to embrace him but recoiled as she saw the look on his face. “What’s the matter?”

“How can you ask?” Jacques looked at her so coldly, Margo felt the colour drain from her face.

“What do you mean?” she demanded. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Why did you have to tell them? Why did you have to open your big mouth?”

“About what?”

“What do you think? The paintings, of course.”

“The paintings?” Margo looked at him in confusion. Then it suddenly dawned on her what he was talking about, and her knees oddly weak, she sank down on the bed. “Oh no,” she mumbled. “Oh God. It was you.
You
stole them. But why?”

Jacques walked to the window and stared out at the park below. “I’m not a thief,” he said. “I want you to know that. I didn’t really steal them. Well, perhaps, in a way but for a very good cause.”

“What kind of cause?”

“This place.” Jacques turned and looked at Margo. “Last winter, there was a terrible storm and half the roof fell in. It had to be replaced in a hurry, or the rain would have destroyed the house. I got a builder to come and have a look and give me a quote. When he finally arrived, he had a look at the rest of the house and found a lot of other problems that needed to be dealt with as well. Dry rot in the cellar, wood worm in the rafters, and so on. The quote came to over a million euros.”

“My God.”

“So I called François and asked him if I could have some money from the special account. But he said he couldn’t believe the problem was that big and he would come down and see for himself. But he never came, and the rain started again. I didn’t know what to do,” Jacques sighed.

“So what happened?” Margo asked.

“I have a friend in Amsterdam who is an art dealer. I asked him if he could sell one or two of the paintings. He came here and had a look. He said that he could take care of it in such a way that nobody would know. And nobody would have if you hadn’t stuck your nose where it doesn’t belong. Those copies are excellent and, of course, had to be paid for too.”

“Yes, but you must have got a small fortune for those paintings,” Margo said. “That Holbein is worth well over a million, for a start.”

“You don’t get the full price when you sell them in that way, you must know that.”

“Yes, of course.”

“I was only going to sell one, but then the bills started to come in, and little by little, they all went.”

“And the money was used only to fix the château?”

“Most of it, yes.”

“Most of it?”

“I bought a couple of horses. But I knew I would get that money back, because I was going to sell them on as soon as I had schooled them.”

“I see,” Margo said.

“It was so easy,” Jacques said, looking at her with pain in his eyes. “I couldn’t see that anyone would suffer. Nobody noticed and the house was saved. François was so pleased. He didn’t even ask where I got the money. Everyone was happy. Until you had to go and show off about being such an art expert.”

Margo jumped up from the bed. She took his hands and squeezed them hard. “Oh Jacques, I’m so sorry. I really didn’t know. I just made an idle remark. I thought everyone knew those paintings were fakes. I thought they had been copied to protect against theft or something. I had no idea. If I had I wouldn’t have...” Her voice trailed away.

“I see.” Jacques pulled away from her. “Well, whatever you meant to do, the damage is done. I have never seen François angry but tonight, believe me, he was. Not screaming and raging but ice cold, as cold as only a real Coligny can be. I’ve seen my father – I mean the man I though was my father – like that only once. And then I was so frightened, I ran away and hid in the woods for two days. I was only seven years old, but I’ll never forget it.” Jacques looked at Margo, his eyes full of pain. “He hates me,” he said, his voice a rasping sob. “My own brother hates me. My mother won’t speak to me. And that is all your fault.”

“No,” Margo said, suddenly furious. “That is
not
my fault.
You
did it.
You
stole the paintings,
you
tried to cover it up, and now you’re in the shit because of all that. If I hadn’t said anything, someone else would have, sooner or later. Don’t blame me for what’s happening to you! You’re responsible for your own actions, nobody else.” Margo drew breath and looked at him, daring him to argue.

They stared at each other in silence for a long time. Jacques looked at her as if he expected her to say something.

Margo shook her head. “I’m not going to say I’m sorry if that’s what you’re waiting for,” she said defiantly. “Because I’m not.”

“But I am.” Jacques clenched his jaw. “I’m sorry I met you,” he said bitterly. “I’m sorry you came here and started stirring up trouble. And I’m sorry I thought you were different from the rest.”

“And I’m sorry we’re standing here like this, hating each other,” Margo whispered.

“Yes, well, you should have thought of that before you tried to be clever,” Jacques muttered. Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked to the door. Poised to leave, he looked at Margo with such anger in his eyes, she shivered. Then he walked out, slamming the door shut behind him.

***

E
ven though the nights were cooler as the summer faded, Margo only managed to get a few hours’ sleep. When the pale light of dawn brightened the sky, she left her bed and walked outside to seek relief from the stuffiness of her room. The weir, she thought. Cool water on my hot skin. One last swim before the summer is over.

The garden was shrouded in mist as Margo made her way down the gravel path. The idea of sinking into the silky water was so tempting, and she walked faster, her sandals making a crunching sound on the gravel. Margo jumped as an owl suddenly screeched nearby, and a flutter of wings swept past. It’s six o’clock in the morning, she said to herself. Nobody is up yet. She suddenly thought of Gráinne as she reached the spot where the tent had been pitched that night and smiled to herself as she remembered the last evening at the café. What a night, she thought, what a summer it’s been. She felt a stab of sadness as she thought of Jacques and wondered where he was, what he was doing. He’ll never want to speak to me again, she thought. And Gráinne, will I ever see her again?

As Margo walked on, she could hear the gurgle of the stream and see the dark water falling over the edge of the weir. With a sigh of pleasure she stripped off her top and jeans and sank into the water, swimming slowly across to the other side and turning to float on her back. She looked up at the sky, where a weak sun was beginning to penetrate the mist. It was going to be another warm day. Margo felt a pang of regret at having to leave. She suddenly understood Jacques and his love for this beautiful, peaceful place and the devastation he must feel now. It’s all my fault, she thought. If it hadn’t been for me, everything would be all right. How he must hate me. Tears pricked her eyes as she swam towards the shore. She fleetingly wondered how it would feel to just give up, to sink to the bottom of the weir and disappear, not to have to worry about anything anymore, just slip away into the next world. But as her feet touched the bottom, she pushed the thoughts away and told herself not to be so morbid.

As the sun rose higher, so did Margo’s spirits, and walking back toward the château, she started to feel better. I have to move on, she thought. Leave this place, this family. Sort out my life and start again. But oh, Jacques—

“I
’m leaving.”

“What?” Margo whispered, staring at Jacques, who had just appeared before her in the courtyard outside the kitchen like a ghost or a shadowy figure in a dream. “Leaving? Why?” She looked into his eyes, ready for the anger and pain that had been there last night. But his eyes were calm, determined, and sad.

“I had another row with François,” Jacques said. “I went back and tried to reason with him, but he was still so angry. He said some things. That I was a bastard, that I didn’t belong here.”

“Oh God, how horrible. But I’m sure he didn’t mean it.”

“He tried to take it all back when he realised what I was going to do, but I couldn’t just forget it all, and anyway, it made me think. Made me realise that I can’t stay and be his servant anymore. I have to go.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to sell the horses, and then I will look for something else, something I can do that will be just for me and nobody else.” He took her hand. “I’m sorry,” he said softly, kissing her fingers, “I didn’t mean all the things I said last night.”

“It’s all right,” Margo said, afraid to move in case she broke the spell. “You were upset.”

“I’ve had time to think since then. I’ve spent all night thinking.” Jacques took her hands in both of his, holding them so tight it hurt.

“And?” Margo whispered.

“I’m going. As soon as I have packed the things I want to take with me.”