Finding Margo by Susanne O'Leary Page B

woman was in her late fifties or early sixties. Her features were classic, and she was as slim as a pencil. Her beauty was ageless, and Margo felt she would probably still be stunning at eighty. She was dressed in a cream linen dress and her dark hair, gleaming like polished ebony, was cut in a perfect bob. “I am Comtesse Coligny de la Bourdonnière,” the woman said, holding out a hand.
    Margo shook it limply. “Good afternoon.”
    “Please, do sit down.” The Comtesse’s English was correct but heavily accented.
    Margo sat down again, and the Comtesse sat on another of the guilt chairs. She studied Margo for a moment with a penetrating look in her almond-shaped, hazel eyes. “So, you are looking for work?”
    “That’s right,” Margo replied, “I received a letter from a Mr. J. Col—I mean, Count...”
    “My son. He manages our château.
    “Oh. I see. Well, I have this letter offering me work at the château for a few months. With the horses. I know I should have contacted him there, but I was in Paris, and I thought he might be in town and I could talk to him.” Margo paused.
    “You have experience with horses?”
    “Well yes, of course.”
    “How did my son hear of you?”
    “We’ve met many times at horse trials,” Margo lied. “And when I was in Grenoble...”
    One of the Comtesse’s eyebrows shot up. “Grenoble? You met him in Grenoble?”
    “Yes. About a week ago.”
    “How strange.”
    “Why?”
    The almond eyes were now colder than a Norwegian mountain lake. “Because, Mademoiselle, my son wasn’t in Grenoble this year.”
    “Oh.” Shit, Margo thought. “I mean, somebody gave me this letter from him while I was there,” she said, trying to sound confident.
    “I see.”
    Margo squirmed under the frosty stare. There was a long pause. Then the Comtesse spoke again. “You’re not Irish,” she said sternly. “Nobody in Ireland speaks with that accent. Except for those dreadful Anglo-Irish. You’re not one of them, are you?”
    “Well, no.”
    “Of course not.” The Comtesse looked at her with more interest. “In that case, you can’t be this... this Gray...what was that name again?”
    “Gráinne,” Margo mumbled. “Rhymes with ‘saw’,” she added automatically, “then ‘nya’.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “Never mind.”
    “Very well.”
    They looked at each other during what Margo thought giddily to herself was a very pregnant pause. The game is up, she realised. I might as well just tell the woman the truth and get out. “No, I’m not,” she said. “Her, I mean. Gráinne.”
    The Comtesse stared at her incomprehensibly, then shook her head as if to clear her mind. “Tell me then,” she demanded. “Who are you? And why are you here?”
    “It’s a long story.”
    The Comtesse opened a lacquered box on the inlayed coffee table, took out a cigarette, and put it in a long black holder. “ Racontez- moi ,” she ordered, crossing her long slim legs and lighting the cigarette with a Dunhill lighter. “I’m sure it’s very interesting.”
    Margo looked on, fascinated, as the Comtesse blew out a thin stream of smoke through her perfect nostrils. The pungent smell of the French cigarette reminded her of something or someone but she couldn’t quite remember what or who.
    “Well,” she started, “I was on holiday, you see. But I had a bit of bad luck with...with the tour bus I was on.”
    “Tour bus?” One of the perfectly shaped eyebrows shot up again.
    “Yes. It was going to Cannes.”
    “A tour bus? To Cannes? Vraiment ?” The Comtesse looked at Margo incredulously. “I had no idea that sort of thing went to places like Cannes.”
    “Well yes, they do, but I never got there because—because—” Margo didn’t quite know how to continue, how to make her lie more convincing. “The bus stopped to refuel at a motorway station. I got off to—to powder my nose, and when I came out again, the bus had left.”
    “The bus had left? How very