Dawn Song. Sara Craven
b3203545-3782-5fe8-8fa4-392683dd0617">
Dawn Song
Sara Craven
Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
‘IT’S THE PERFECT SOLUTION. You can go in my place.’
Margot Trant’s airy remark was followed by a silence that could have been cut by a knife.
Meg Langtry cleared her throat. ‘Let me get this straight,’ she said slowly. ‘You want me to go to the south of France next month and stay at your godmother’s château, pretending to be you.’ She paused, giving her stepsister a long, steady look. ‘Those are the basic elements of the scenario?’
‘Well, what’s wrong with that?’ Margot demanded. ‘The old bag wants someone to keep her company for four weeks while her regular slave has a well-deserved break. As long as someone turns up claiming to be Margot Trant, what problem can there possibly be?’
‘Oh, none of course,’ Meg returned with terrible irony. ‘The fact that we don’t even look alike is quite immaterial.’
Margot shrugged. ‘I’m blonde—you’re brunette.’ She gave Meg’s simply styled fall of brown hair a disparaging look. ‘That can be easily fixed. As for the rest—Tante’s practically blind—that’s why she needs a companion. You’ll just be a blur.’
‘Always my ultimate ambition,’ Meg murmured.
Margot leaned forward. ‘Oh, come on, Meg.’ Her voice sharpened. ‘You could do it easily. You’ll have no job to worry about once that grotty second-hand bookshop you work for closes at the end of the week. And I can’t possibly get away. You must see that.’
‘Why not?’ Meg countered. ‘I thought Parliament “rose” in the summer. Surely Steven would give you leave.’
‘Probably, if I asked him.’ Margot’s pretty face was suddenly intense. ‘But he’s just on the point of asking Corinne for a divorce. I simply can’t afford to be away at this juncture.’
‘I see,’ Meg murmured drily. However distasteful she might personally find it, this was what her stepsister had been working towards, ever since she’d got the job as secretary to Steven Curtess MP, the young back-bencher who was being tipped for junior ministerial rank in the next government.
‘And Godmother has no right to summon me like this—right out of the blue,’ Margot went on petulantly. ‘Good God, I haven’t seen her since I was nine.’
‘I wondered why I’d never heard of her.’
Margot hunched a shoulder. ‘She’s my great-aunt, actually—Dad was her favourite nephew, and I was named for her. So we’re all three of us called Margaret,’ she added triumphantly. ‘Isn’t that convenient?’
‘Amazing.’ Meg shook her head. ‘But irrelevant. Wouldn’t it be simpler just to write and tell her that you can’t get away?’
‘No, it would be extremely stupid,’ Margot snapped. ‘She has no children, and no other living relative as far as I know. And a château in the Languedoc isn’t to be sneezed at as an inheritance. It’s imperative I keep on the right side of her.’ She gave Meg a suddenly limpid smile. ‘Or that you do, on my behalf.’
‘No way.’ Meg bit her lip. ‘Ethical considerations aside, we’d never get away with it.’
‘Of course we would. Margot Trant is sent for. Margot Trant, presumably, turns up on the appointed day. And you’re far better suited to running round after some dreary old lady than I’d ever be. Keep her sweet for me, and I’ll be eternally grateful.’
‘That’s just the incentive I need, of course,’ Meg said levelly. She pushed back her chair. ‘You’re the total limit, Margot. Do your own dirty work.’
‘Oh, are you going?’ Margot inspected a fleck on her fingernail. ‘I thought the bookshop closed on Wednesdays.’
‘It does. I’m spending the day with Nanny Turner, as I usually do.’
‘Of course, in that sweet little cottage of hers—or should I say ours?’
There was a pause. Meg’s eyes narrowed. ‘Brydons Cottage is Nanny’s for life,’ she said. ‘My father made that clear before he died.’
‘Yes, but not in writing, sweetie. There’s nothing legally binding. Oddly enough, Mummy was looking into it all the other day. Some friends of hers, the Nestors, are looking for a weekend place, and Brydons would be ideal.’
Meg stared at her. ‘You’re not serious? Nanny adores that cottage.’
‘I bet she does,’ Margot said acidly. ‘It’s a very desirable property.’
‘But she’d have nowhere else to go.’
Margot’s face was a mask of malice. ‘There’s always Sandstead House. Mummy has friends on the Social Services Committee. I’m sure they could pull a few strings.’
Meg drew a shaken breath. ‘It would kill her to be in a home. She’s terrific—firing on all cylinders. She can look after herself.’
‘Then the choice is yours.’ Margot spoke with cool finality. ‘Go to the Languedoc in my place, and I’ll persuade Mummy that it would be a betrayal of your father’s memory to turn Nanny out.’
‘That would make a difference?’ Meg asked wrily.
‘Oh, yes, she was awfully fond of him, even if she didn’t go a bundle on Nanny and her bossy ways,’ Margot said with insouciance. ‘Besides, I’m the blue-eyed girl at the moment, and I know I can talk her round if I want. Mummy’s dying to have a son-in-law in the government.’
And to hell with Corinne Curtess and the children, presumably, Meg thought grimly.
‘I’ll