Authors: Susanne O'Leary
Finding Margo (38 page)
When they were standing on the busy street, Margo looked around for his car. “Where is it?” she said. “Where’s your car?”
“There,” he said. “Right in front of you.”
“What? Where? I can’t see it, just that big, horrible van.”
“That’s it,” Jacques said. “Don’t you recognise it?”
Margo looked at it again. “It’s the van from the château. The one you use when you go to competitions.”
“That’s right. And it’s my home now.”
“What? You live in this, this—”
“Yes. All my stuff is in the back, and I sleep on one of the bunks. Quite comfortable, really. There’s plenty of room for you. But don’t just stand there. Get in.” He opened the door to the passenger seat.
Margo stared at him. “Is this it?” she asked incredulously. “This is what you meant when you said you had nothing to offer but your love? You expected me to live in a truck?”
“Why not?” Jacques said, lifting one eyebrow. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Everything,” Margo said and walked away.
“Where are you going?” Jacques asked.
“To get a taxi.”
“But I’ll drive you. I said I would. Come on, Marguerite, I was only joking. Did you really think I was going to ask you to live with me in this? Don’t you trust me?”
“No,” Margo said and came back to climb into the passenger seat. “I said ‘I love you’, nothing about trusting you.”
“You’re such a realist, my darling,” Jacques said and, after having put Margo’s bags in the back, lowered himself into the driver’s seat. He turned the key and drove the van expertly into the busy traffic.
“Where are you going after you’ve left me at the station?” Margo asked.
“To Normandy,” Jacques said, turning the van down a narrow lane. “A shortcut,” he said, swerving to avoid a motorbike.
“What are you going to do there?”
Jacques shrugged. “I was going to look at this property. But I’m not sure I can afford to buy it. I’m just having a look really. Maybe in a few years I can buy something like it.”
“But I thought you sold the horses?”
“I did, and got a very good deal. Enough to buy a small place somewhere. So, my darling, once we have decided where we want to live, we can buy a small flat or maybe even a little cottage.”
“Good.” Margo sighed, feeling suddenly tired. She put her head on his shoulder and yawned. “But let’s not worry about that yet.”
“
Merde
, we’re stuck,” Jacques muttered as the traffic came to a grinding halt.
“But we have plenty of time, and we’re quite near the station.” Margo said. “So,” she continued, “where is this house you’re looking at? The one you can’t afford?”
“At the coast. Near Deauville. Nice place. If I could raise the money to buy it, I would set up a yard for event horses there. But it’s only a dream.”
“Let’s dream for a while,” Margo said sleepily. “Tell me more about this place.”
“It’s very nice. An old Normandy farmhouse. Beautiful, with beams and the original fireplaces. It’s recently been done up, and it’s very cosy inside with lovely views of the sea.”
“Sounds really wonderful.” Margo yawned again. She suddenly caught sight of the parcel on the floor and bent down to pick it up. “I might as well open this,” she said, undoing the string.
“What?”
“The present François gave me.” Margo struggled with the wrapping. “He wrapped it up so well, I can’t... there, I’ve got it.” Margo took away the last of the brown paper. “How nice,” she said. “That’s so sweet. A lovely memento.”
“What is it?” Jacques said, putting the van into gear and rolling slowly forward as the traffic started to move again.
“A painting.”
“One he painted himself?”
“No,” Margo murmured, looking at the picture. “It’s one of the paintings from the dining room in the château. A copy, of course but lovely all the same.”
“Oh? Which one?” Jacques pressed his foot on the accelerator as the traffic started to flow faster.
“The Holbein,” Margo said. “Portrait of Christina, duchess of Milan. Jacques!’ she exclaimed, as the van suddenly swerved. “What are you doing?”
The van came to a screeching halt at the curb, accompanied by loud hooting from the cars behind them. “Show me that,” Jacques breathed and snatched the painting from Margo. He peered at it, his face pale with emotion. “Oh yes, he whispered, “it is. It’s the Holbein, all right.”
“I know.” Margo sighed. “What a nice gesture. And that one was the best of the whole lot. You can hardly believe it’s a copy.”
“That,
mon amour
,” Jacques said softly, “is because it isn’t.”
T
he battered camper van travelled along the motorway. Margo looked idly at the countryside gliding past the windows, the rough bouncing of the van preventing her from sleeping.
“
Ça va
?” Jacques asked, putting a hand on her knee.
She turned her head and looked at him as he drove through the heavy traffic. “I’m fine,” she said. She was still holding the painting on her lap, and she looked at it again, trying to take in what they had discovered only an hour earlier.
***
“A
re you sure?” she had asked incredulously as they sat in the van staring at the painting.
“Of course I’m sure,” Jacques had said. “That art dealer wouldn’t take that one. He said it was too difficult to copy and impossible to sell unless it was purchased legally. He wouldn’t touch it.”
“Did François know that?”
Jacques shrugged. “I have no idea. I’d say he thought it was a fake. Why else would he have given it to you?”
“I think it was very nice of him all the same,” Margo murmured as she looked at the painting again, lifting it up to see it properly. “It was painted in 1538, you know,” she continued. “In Milan. The Duchess Christina was one of Henry VIII’s prospective brides, and Holbein was sent to paint her.”
“How come you know so much about it?” Jacques asked.
“I read about it in an art book while I was at the château. I was so taken with this painting, and I wanted to find out who this woman was.” Margo peered at her face. “Have you noticed how she seems to move towards you as you look at her? Her face is so alive. I wonder if Holbein wasn’t a little bit in love with her. It’s a beautiful portrait,” Margo continued. “Really exquisite. But I suppose I’ll have to give it back.” Something fluttered to the floor of the van as she turned the painting. “Look,” she said, bending to pick it up. “There’s something here. An envelope.” Margo opened it and unfolded the stiff pages. “Looks like some sort of document. The French is very difficult. I can’t quite make it out.”
“A certificate of ownership,” Jacques said, peering over her shoulder. “Signed by François and witnessed by a lawyer. My God, he knew it was the real thing.”
“And the owner is...” Margo looked at the letters, trying to understand the legal terms in French.
“Madame Margo Hunter,” Jacques read. “Who’s that?
“Me, you dummy,” Margo said. “He’s given it to me.”
“
Mon Dieu
,
c’est incroyable!
He’s given it to
you
?”
“Yes. This is what he was talking about when he said he was preparing a gift.” Margo looked at the painting again, unable to understand the full impact of it.
“What’s in the other envelope?”
“Which one?”
“That one on the floor.” Jacques picked it up. “It was attached to the other one. Here, you read it.”
Margo opened the envelope. “It’s a card.” She opened it. “
Dear Marguerite
,” she read out loud.
Hope you like my little gift. I thought you both deserved a memento from the family. All my love and best wishes for the future.
It’s signed
Paquita
,” Margo said, “and dated two weeks ago. How sweet. He must have planned this a while ago. He must have guessed you would come back for me.” She looked down at the painting again. “If I sell this, it will be a considerable nest egg. But I don’t think I could bear to be parted from it now it’s mine.”
“Even if you don’t sell it, it could be excellent collateral for a loan,” Jacques said casually.
“Really?” Margo said, lifting one of her eyebrows.
Jacques laughed. “You looked just like my mother when you said that. But we better get going,” he said and started the engine again. “You’ll miss your train at this rate.”
“I think I’ve already missed it,” Margo said, looking at her watch.
“I’m sorry. What are you going to do now? Do you want me to take you to the station and try and get the next one?”
“No,” Margo said. “I have a better idea. Take me to Le Havre. I can get on a ferry there. And it’s near Deauville, so—”
“What?”
“Well, it wouldn’t hurt just to look,” Margo suggested.
***
“W
e should be at the exit soon,” Jacques said.
“Yes, I think so,” Margo said dreamily.
“You sound sleepy.”
“Yes, I am.” Margo suppressed a yawn. “It was a rough night.”
“There’s a motorway station up ahead. Do you want to stop for coffee?”
“No! I
really
don’t,” Margo said, a hint of panic in her voice. “I
hate
those motorway stations.”
“All right. We’ll keep going then. But I’d like you to try and wake up and have a look at the map. I’m not sure which exit to take.”
“Just keep going for a while,” Margo said. “There’s quite a bit to go yet.”
“All right.” Jacques turned his attention to the road, and Margo relaxed again, looking at the view and thinking about the past few months. “You know,” she mumbled, “I was thinking that if the baby is a girl, I might call her Gráinne – as a middle name of course,” she added hurriedly when she saw the look on Jacques’ face.
“Hmm,” he muttered.
“She’d love it.” Margo suddenly smiled. “And God, how she’d laugh if she had been there last night. I can’t wait to tell her who was spying on us when—” Margo stopped. “No, maybe not.”
“I should think not,” Jacques murmured. “Look, it says Caen over there. That can’t be right.”
Margo picked up the map. “No,” she said, “it isn’t. We’ve gone wrong somewhere.”
“What?” Jacques demanded. “We’ve gone
wrong
?”
“Yup, that’s it.”
“
Merde.”
“Couldn’t agree with you more.”
“Shit,” Jacques snapped. “Don’t you know how to read a map?” He glanced at her sideways, his mouth pinched into an angry line.
Margo looked thoughtfully at him, then down at the map. “No,” she said. “As a matter of fact, I don’t.” On an impulse, she picked up the map and began to tear it deliberately into small pieces.
“What are you doing?” Jacques exclaimed.
“Getting rid of this.” Margo wound down the window and scattered the pieces like confetti behind the van. “Find your own way. I’m going to sleep.” She closed the window, leaned her head against the back of the seat and closed her eyes. “Wake me up when we arrive,” she muttered sleepily.
There was no response from Jacques. Margo half opened her eyes and met his glance. “What?” she said.
Jacques’ smile was tender. Then he started to laugh. “Nothing. “Just
je t’aime, mon amour.”
THE END
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I
hope you enjoyed my book. Since this one was published, I have written ten books in this genre. You might like my Kerry series, set on the west coast of Ireland. You can find them here:
http://www.susanne-oleary.co.uk/thekerryromanceseries/
Or, if you want to stay in France, I’d recommend my Rivera romance series, which I am now completing, the first of which is ‘Selling Dreams', the second ‘Borrowed Dreams’. All of my books can be found on my website:
www.susanne-oleary.co.uk
My Facebook page:
https://www.facebook.com/authoroleary
A review on Amazon, Goodreads and any other site would be highly appreciated !
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