Sara Craven - Dawn Song

The phone system apparently was in full working order. Jerome lifted an eyebrow at Meg. ‘Do you wish me to contact the authorities—deal with the formalities for you? It would perhaps be easier, no matter how good your French…’

Meg said a shy ‘Thank you’ and allowed madame to conduct her up the wide wooden staircase to a room at the back. The ceiling was low, and the floor uneven, but the furniture gleamed with polish, and the wide bed was made up with snowy linen and a duvet like a drift of thistledown. In one corner, a door opened on to an immaculate shower-room hardly bigger than a cupboard.

The small square window set deep in the thick stone wall stood open to admit the return of the sun, and the air, still cool after the rain, was heavy with the scent of lavender. Meg drew one deep enraptured breath. Madame gave a satisfied nod, and returned to her duties downstairs, closing the door behind her.

Meg stayed at the window. It had been quite a day, and it wasn’t over yet—unless, of course, she wanted it to be. And she wasn’t sure how she felt about that.

Things like this don’t happen to me, she thought with bewilderment. But then I’m not myself any more. I’m supposed to be Margot. Perhaps I’ve taken over her life as well as her name. But can I carry it off?

She heard the door open, and Jerome enter with her luggage. Her heart began to thud, and her mouth went dry.

‘Another car will be delivered to you in the morning,’ he said, hoisting her cases on to the slatted wooden rack provided for the purpose. ‘You will have to complete an accident report, but you have me as a witness, so there should be no difficulty.’

She kept her back towards him, moistening her lips with the tip of her tongue. ‘I—I’m very grateful.’

‘Grateful enough to be my guest at dinner tonight?’ He was standing behind her, so close that she could feel the warmth from his body.

She stared at the view as if she was trying to memorise it. Behind the auberge ’s small walled garden, the ground rose sharply. It was a wild and rocky landscape, studded with clumps of trees. A stream, presumably from some underground spring, had forced itself between two of the largest boulders, splashing down in a miniature waterfall, its passage marked by the sombre green of ferns.

‘The source of the Beron,’ Jerome said at her shoulder. She nodded jerkily, and after a pause he said, ‘You do not, of course, have to accept my invitation.’

She knew that. Knew, too, that it would be safer—much safer to refuse politely, and, with sudden exhilaration, that she had no such intention.

As she turned to answer him, she caught a glimpse of his reflection in one of the window-panes, his face dark and watchful, his mouth grimly set. She gasped, and her head came round sharply. But it must have been some trick of the light, because he looked back at her casually, even with faint amusement.

He said softly, ‘Put me out of my misery, Marguerite. May I return for you here at eight?’

She said, ‘Yes—I’d like that.’

And wondered, once she was alone, whether that was really true.

MEG TOOK A LONG, luxurious shower, then spent some considerable time deciding what to wear that evening. In the end she fixed on a simple honey-coloured cotton dress in a full-skirted wrap-around style. She fastened gold hoops into her ears, and sprayed on some of her favourite Nina Ricci scent.

She studied her appearance frowningly in the cheval mirror, from the shining tumble of hair, framing a slightly flushed face, and hazel eyes strangely wider and brighter than usual, down to her slender feet in the strappy bronze sandals, then shook her head.

I feel like the old woman in the nursery rhyme, she thought—’Lawks-a-mercy, this be none of I.’

It was daunting to realise that if Jerome Moncourt had come strolling into Mr Otway’s bookshop during the past eighteen months he probably wouldn’t have given her a second look. She still wasn’t sure why she’d agreed to have dinner with him. It wasn’t the wisest move she’d ever made. After all, she knew nothing about him but his name, and that could well be an invention.

Oh, stop being paranoid, she admonished herself impatiently. Just because you’re playing a part, it doesn’t mean everyone else is too. And she could not deny that he’d fallen over himself to be helpful, but there could well be another side to him, she thought, remembering that unnerving, frozen glimpse she’d caught of his reflection, and that other moment, earlier in the day, when she’d felt his anger in the car reach out to her like a tangible thing.

Perhaps he was one of those people whose moods changed in seconds, or, more likely, maybe she was just imagining things. I just don’t know any more, she thought, turning away from the mirror. But the invitation had been made in madame ’s presence which seemed to suggest it was above-board. And at least she wouldn’t dine alone on her first evening in the Languedoc. She felt a swift glow of excitement.

She caught up her bag, and the book on the history of the Cathars that Mr Otway had given her on parting, and went downstairs to wait for him. In Reception, madame was conducting a full-blooded argument by telephone, illustrated by gestures, with some hapless representative of the electricity company, but she smiled at Meg and motioned her to go through to the courtyard.

The sun was back in full force, bathing the whole area in syrupy golden light, and Meg sat at one of the small wrought-iron tables which had been placed outside, sipping a pastis , and reading.

It was difficult to comprehend on this beautiful evening, and rather depressing too, that the Cathars had believed the world to be the devil’s creation, and man and all his works intrinsically evil. To escape damnation they had pursued a strict regime of prayer and abstinence, including vegetarianism, and the leaders of the cult, known as the Perfect Ones, also advocated celibacy in marriage.

Presumably the majority of their followers had decided to be not quite so perfect, otherwise Catharism would have died out in a generation, Meg thought.

From a modern viewpoint, their creed seemed eccentric rather than dangerous, yet armies had been sent to wipe them off the face of the earth. A bit like taking a sledgehammer to swat a fly.

Probably, as Mr Otway had said, it was greed for the riches of the South which had sent the Crusaders south, ravaging the vineyards and looting the cities, and religion was just the excuse.

She knew, before his shadow fell across the open page, that Jerome had arrived. She’d become aware of the stir at the adjoining tables, of the raised eyebrows and murmured asides as women turned their heads to watch him cross the courtyard.

‘Bonsoir.’ This evening, he was wearing well-cut cream trousers and a chestnut-brown shirt, open at the neck, while the mane of dark hair had been controlled, but not tamed.

Perhaps that was a clue to his personality, she found herself thinking as she shyly returned his smile of greeting. That under the expensive clothes and civilised manners there was a streak of wildness, waiting to explode. She wondered if he was an artist, perhaps. If so, he was a very successful one. The watch, the car, everything about him spelled out serious money.