Dawn Song. Sara Craven
‘If I do this,’ Meg said icily, ‘it will be for Nanny’s sake—not to further your affair with a married man.’
‘Oh, don’t be so bloody pompous.’ Margot stretched luxuriously. ‘You’ll be getting a whole month abroad in France, all expenses paid, at the height of the season. What more could you want?’ She sent Meg a complacent smile. ‘I’ll even lend you my car to drive over to Nanny’s. You’ll need to practise your driving for France.’
Meg set her teeth. ‘I haven’t said I’m going yet.’
Margot’s smile became almost cat-like. ‘But you will,’ she said. ‘Or poor old Nanny becomes homeless. It’s up to you.’
A fortnight later, Meg, much against her better judgement, was on her way.
She’d intended to stick to her guns, but seeing Nanny Turner bustling round her cosy home, happily oblivious to the threat posed by Iris Langtry’s friends, had made her rethink her position.
Iris herself was not too pleased with the bargain that had been struck, but accepted it grudgingly.
‘Margot deserves a chance of happiness,’ she sighed. ‘And Steven is such a fine man. His wife’s one of these very domestic women, I understand. He needs someone to work alongside him, and boost his political career.’
If that was how he saw Margot, it was little wonder the country was in such a hell of a state, Meg thought uncharitably, as she made her unwilling preparations for the trip. Certainly no one could ever have described her stepsister as ‘domestic’. She could barely boil water.
One unexpected bonus was the acquisition of some new clothes, which Iris insisted on paying for.
‘You’re supposed to be my daughter,’ she cut short Meg’s protests. ‘You can’t go looking as if you’ve dressed at War on Want.’
The new hair colour, too, had been an unexpected success. Meg’s own natural shade had been softened to a dark blonde, and subtly highlighted.
She was almost too busy to mourn properly over the closure of the bookshop where she’d worked for the past eighteen months, following the proprietor’s retirement, or to worry about where she’d work once her French escapade was safely behind her. For the moment, she had enough problems to contend with.
To her surprise, her employer, Mr Otway, had nodded approvingly over her trip. ‘Ah, the Languedoc. Land of the troubadours. And of the Cathars,’ he added.
‘Cathars?’ Meg questioned.
‘Religious sect in medieval times. Believed all life was basically evil, and a constant search for the light. Condemned, naturally, as heretics by the established church who launched the Albigensian Crusade against them.’
Mr Otway sniffed. ‘Not just a holy war, of course. The whole of the Languedoc was made up of rich states, independent of the King of France. He hated Raymond of Toulouse, the greatest of the southern lords, envied him his wealth, and the beauty and culture of southern life. Decided to use the Cathars as an excuse to move against him, and grab his possessions, all in the name of religion.
‘But you’ll love the Languedoc,’ he went on more cheerfully. ‘It’s a passionate land—a place of extreme contrasts. Warm laughter, and bitter tears. Faithful love and implacable hatred.’ He paused. ‘Fierce sun and violent storms. The full force of nature unleashed.’ He grinned maliciously at the look of apprehension on Meg’s face. ‘It will do you good,’ he said with severity. ‘Shake you out of a rut you’re far too young to occupy.’
‘But I’ve been happy,’ Meg protested.
‘No, you’ve been content—a very different thing. But I guarantee, child, you won’t be the same person when you return from the Languedoc.’ He gave a dry chuckle. ‘No, not the same person at all.’ He patted her on the shoulder. ‘I predict you’ll never settle for mere contentment again. And drink “a beaker full of the warm south” for me,’ he added.
‘Warm south’ was putting it mildly, Meg thought, as she sat in a traffic jam outside Toulouse airport, feeling the perspiration trickling down between her breasts.
The car she’d hired was like an oven already, and she was only at the start of her journey to Haut Arignac. She’d arrived in France two days earlier than she was actually expected, with the intention of doing some sightseeing before joining the De Brissot household as Madame’s dame de compagnie.
It would also give her a chance to practise her French. She’d been the star pupil at school, and gone on to improve her fluency at evening classes. But there’d be no opportunity to try out her skill at the Château Haut Arignac, as Margaret de Brissot had been told during the preliminary correspondence that ‘Margot’ spoke no French.
‘Quite useful really,’ her stepsister had commented offhandedly when Meg protested at the arbitrary decision. ‘If anyone asks awkward questions, you can just play dumb.’
‘I don’t want to play anything,’ Meg said bitterly.
She felt wretchedly guilty about the charade she was undertaking. She was setting out to deceive an elderly, nearly blind woman, and for what? To further her stepsister’s ruthless determination to break up her lover’s marriage. And to hurt some unknown and presumably unsuspecting woman and her children along the way.
Even the knowledge that Nanny’s occupancy of Brydons Cottage would be secure couldn’t alleviate her profound misgivings about the whole affair, and her unwilling role in it. Damn Margot and her sordid affair, she thought, drumming her fingers on the steering-wheel.
Then, as if a drain had been unblocked somewhere, the traffic moved off, and Meg realised she was on her way. She proceeded with a certain amount of care, at first, accustoming herself to the unfamiliar road conditions, as well as the novelty of having a vehicle totally at her own disposal. But it didn’t take her long to realise she was on good roads, with far less volume of traffic to contend with than in England, and she began to relax.
The sky above her was brilliant blue, but as she drove east she could see clouds building over the high ground in the far distance, fluffy and unthreatening at first, but increasing in mass and density with alarming suddenness.
By the time she stopped to buy food for lunch, the skies were a lowering grey, and she cast an anxious glance upwards as she made her way back to the car from the alimentation, with her baguette, sliced ham, demi-kilo of peaches and sedate bottle of mineral water.
She’d planned to have a picnic in some quiet spot. She’d deliberately chosen a route away from the main thoroughfares, so that she could travel at her own pace—discover, she hoped, the real France.
Now it looked as if she might be about to discover some real French weather as well, although it was still very warm, if not downright clammy, and those threatening clouds might yet blow over.
But as a smattering of rain hit the windscreen she decided reluctantly to shelve her plans for an alfresco meal, and concentrate on finding somewhere to stay that night. A helpful girl at the syndicat d’initiative in the last town she’d passed through had recommended a small auberge at the head of the Gorge du Beron, and even marked it on Meg’s map.
She found herself following a winding road into a valley flanked by steep rocky banks which soon grew high enough to call themselves cliffs. The road ran alongside a river, relatively shallow, but flowing fast over its stony gravel bed. Presumably this was the Beron, at whose source she would find the auberge.
And the sooner the better, she thought with dismay, as more water arrived suddenly, descending like an impenetrable curtain from the sky, its arrival announced by a flash of lightning and a resoundingly ominous crack of thunder.
Meg swore under her breath, turning her windscreen-wipers full on, but it was wasted effort. They couldn’t cope with the sheer force of the rain flinging itself at the car. And she dared not drive blind on such a tortuous road, she