Finding Margo by Susanne O'Leary Page A

to crumple up the paper and put it in the ashtray when she realised what it was – Gráinne’s mobile phone number. I’ll call her, Margo said to herself. The thought of hearing a friendly voice was suddenly very comforting. She might still be in the country. She might even have an idea of what I should do next. Margo took out her own mobile, dialled the number and listened while the dial tone rang and rang. While she waited for Gráinne to answer, she turned the piece of paper around and started to read what was on the other side.
    Dear Miss O’Sullivan . I am writing to you to enquire if you would be able to spend a few months at our estate. I have bought five horses for the French event team, and we are very short of staff. I need someone to help out until the horses are fit and ready to be transferred to the team headquarters. If you are available, please contact me at the château or at the Paris address above before the end of the month.
    The letter was dated July 2 and signed ‘J. Coligny de la Bourdonnière’.
    Margo stared at the letter as the dialling tone suddenly stopped. “The number you are calling,” a tinny voice said, “is temporarily out of range. Please try again later.”
    ***
    “ Oui ?” the old woman said. She was wearing a white apron over a blue housecoat and her steel grey hair was tied back in a severe knot. She stood squarely in the hallway, looking as if she was poised to close the heavy front door in Margo’s face.
    “Do you speak English?”
    “ Non.”
    Margo breathed in deeply. “OK. Well, Eh, bonjour ,” she said. “I’m looking for a Monsieur—” She consulted the letter. “Monsieur Coligny de la—”
    “ Comte Coligny de la Bourdonnière,” the old woman corrected.
    “That’s right. Comte Coligny de la Bourdonnière—”
    “He’s not here.” The woman started to close the door.
    “Oh. When will he be home?” Margo said and put a hand on the door. “I could come back later.”
    “What is it about?” The woman tugged on the door, but Margo was stronger.
    “A job. He offered me a job a while ago,” Margo said, waving the piece of paper in the air. “I have the letter right here.”
    “What kind of job?”
    “Looking after horses at the château. I know I should have gone there but I happened to be in Paris visiting a friend, and—” Margo paused and looked at the woman. “I thought I would call in and see—”
    “What’s your name?” the woman demanded.
    “My name? It’s Gráinne,” Margo said. “Gráinne O’Sullivan.”
    “That’s a strange name. Never heard it before.”
    “It’s Irish.”
    “You’re Irish?”
    “That’s right,” Margo replied, looking back at the stern face with what she hoped was confidence.
    “Hmm.” The old woman seemed a little less hostile. “Madame is in,” she announced. “I’ll ask her if she’ll see you.”
    “Madame?”
    “Yes, Madame la Comtesse, of course.”
    “Of course.”
    “Stay here.” The old woman closed the door, leaving Margo standing on the dark landing. A few minutes later, the door opened again. “Madame la Comtesse will see you in the small salon ,” the old woman announced. She led the way through the huge hall, down a long corridor, and into a room full of antique furniture. Louis XV, Margo thought automatically. “Wait here,” the old woman ordered and left the room.
    Margo sat down gingerly on a gilt chair with an exquisite embroidered seat. The room was silent except for the ticking of a small ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. There was a faint smell of dried rose petals, and the room seemed far removed from the hustle and bustle of the street below. Feeling suddenly tired, Margo rested her head against the back of the chair and closed her eyes.
    “Mademoiselle O’Sullivan?” The voice was imperious.
    Margo gave a start and jumped to her feet. “ Oui .” She stared at the elegant, straight-backed woman who, as if from nowhere, had just materialised before her. The