The Woman From Paris (26 page)

“Only because you’re a pretty guru. If you were a big hairy
man
guru I’d decline. But you’re pretty and wise, so yes, please, share your wisdom and make me a better man.”

That night they sat around the fire playing cards. Phaedra had cooked pasta with George’s favorite tomato sauce. The boys had eaten two helpings each, and Tom had resorted to scraping the bottom of the pan with a spatula. None of them consumed wine, and Tom didn’t ask for any. He had sweated out so much alcohol in the steam room, he had promised himself he would never drink another drop. With Phaedra’s support he was convinced he could do it.

The whistle of the train echoed across the valley, and David caught Phaedra’s eye. She blushed as she recalled their conversation the night before. He didn’t look away, and the longing in his gaze touched her deeply, because she felt it, too. For a long moment they stared at each other, wordlessly confessing their desire, until Phaedra found the strength to avert her eyes.

She could accept George’s death, and she could accept that she now had to get on with her life. But she couldn’t bear the thought of accepting that David was a man she could never love. George had put him forever out of her reach.

*   *   *

Back at Fairfield, Antoinette and Rosamunde returned home after a couple of days in London, shopping for spring clothes. They had enjoyed lunch with friends at Lucio’s on the Fulham Road, and trawled the racks in Harvey Nichols and Harrods until their legs grew so tired they had to stop for a cup of Earl Grey in the Harrods tearoom. Rosamunde wasn’t very interested in fashion, but the thought of bumping into Dr. Heyworth inspired her to buy a new blouse in a pretty floral pattern and a pair of slacks to match. Antoinette had no one to dress for, but she returned home with a boot full of carrier bags and felt infinitely better for them.

“We should do that more often,” she said to Rosamunde as they sipped cups of tea in the drawing room. “I feel rejuvenated.”

“So do I,” Rosamunde agreed. “Frightfully extravagant buying that silk blouse, but I’m rather looking forward to wearing it. Silk isn’t a fabric I’d usually buy.”

“One never regrets what one does, only what one doesn’t do. Do you think that applies to shopping?”

“I think so.”

“I’m going to start spending more time in town,” Antoinette declared. “I can’t mope about here all day, and it’s good to leave home every now and then—it makes one appreciate it so much more.” She smiled, pausing her little teacup before her lips. “Maybe Phaedra and I can have lunch. Do you think she might accept an invitation from me?”

“I don’t see why not. She made it very clear that she likes you.”

“It would be nice, don’t you think? Perhaps we could nip into Peter Jones and she could advise me on makeup. She’s jolly pretty.”

“You look fine just the way you are.” Rosamunde thought a little rouge was all a woman needed to enhance her looks.

“She might advise me on my hair.”

“What’s wrong with your hair?”

“Oh, nothing’s wrong. I’m just rather bored with it, that’s all.”

“You’ve had it like that for thirty years, why change it now?”

“I don’t know. I’m just being silly, really.” She put down her cup and sat back into the sofa. “George is gone; my life has taken an unexpected turn. I feel I want to change with it.”

“And change is good. But I like your hair. It’s you,” Rosamunde insisted.

“But who am I?”

“What do you mean, who are you? You’re Antoinette Frampton.” Rosamunde looked confused.

“Yes, I’m Antoinette Frampton. I’ve been Antoinette Frampton for over thirty years. But who is Antoinette?”

Now Rosamunde looked worried. “I’m not sure what you mean. Do you think Harris could dig out some of Mrs. Gunice’s shortbread biscuits?”

“Of course.” Antoinette got up and pulled a tasseled cord to the right of the fireplace. A moment later Harris appeared in the doorway. “Ah Harris, would you bring us some of Mrs. Gunice’s shortbreads?”

“Certainly, Lady Frampton,” he replied.

Rosamunde smiled in anticipation. “They really are delish!” she enthused.

“What were we talking about?” Antoinette asked.

“You were looking for Antoinette,” Rosamunde replied ironically.

“Yes, Phaedra got me thinking. I’ve been a wife and mother for so long I’ve lost myself along the way. I know it sounds silly, but I’m a people pleaser. I always have been. I’ve always sacrificed my own desires to put George first. Now he’s not here, it’s like the scaffolding’s come down and I’m left with nothing but me. What do
I
want? I’m not sure I know.”

“I think you do.”

“No, Rosamunde, you don’t understand. I really don’t. I wake up in the morning, and I don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t know what the day is going to hold. When George was alive, I knew where I stood. I could plan. Now I have no structure. No one to tell me when we’re having dinner, or when we’re going to the ballet, or when I’m expected to be in London for a cocktail party. I’m not filling the
house with his friends on weekends, or taking his suits to the cleaners. I’m free, but my freedom makes me feel lost. Do you see?”

“Yes, I think I do.”

“I can’t drift forever.”

“You’ll sort yourself out.”

“I’ve got to do something constructive.”

“Like what?”

“Exactly.” Antoinette looked defeated. “Like what?”

At that moment Harris entered with a tray of shortbread biscuits. He bent down and offered them to Rosamunde first, for he had noticed the way she had polished off the lot during the meeting with Julius Beecher. Rosamunde took a bite. The sweet, buttery taste melted on her tongue, and she let out a little moan. “Oh, these really are terribly good. Thank you, Harris. You can leave the plate here.” He put it down on the coffee table and left the room.

Rosamunde’s shoulders dropped, and she no longer felt so tense. Antoinette was simply reacting in the way all recently widowed women react when suddenly faced with an uncertain future. “Why don’t you learn to play bridge?”

“Gracious, no. George tried to teach me to play bridge, but I never got it. I don’t like it, either.”

“You could get involved in charity.”

“I already support charities, but if you mean sitting on committees, think again. I’m not suited to it. I’m too reserved. Charities are full of women like Margaret.”

“I do see.” Rosamunde reached for another biscuit. “They need dynamic, formidable women to doggedly raise funds. You are very well connected, though.”

“I’d rather give discreetly and not pester my friends.” Antoinette smiled wistfully. “When I was young, I wanted to have a boutique.”

“My dear, you can’t be a shopkeeper. You’re a lady.”

“Isn’t it every little girl’s dream to have a shop?”

“You’re no longer a little girl. And yes, it’s an old cliché.” Rosamunde laughed. “What would you sell in your shop?”

“I don’t know. It’s just fantasy.”

“You could get involved in the church.”

“Margaret is already there. I could redecorate the house,” she suggested, brightening.

“That would send Margaret to an early grave, wouldn’t it?”

“A house is for living in. It’s not a museum.”

“Try telling that to your mother-in-law.”

Antoinette shrugged helplessly. “Then I don’t know what to do with myself.”

“Give it time,” said Rosamunde. “And have a biscuit. They’re marvelous.”

The following day, Rosamunde returned home to Dorset to see her dogs. Antoinette put on her boots and coat and took Bertie and Wooster out into the garden. The days were longer now, the sunshine warm upon her face and so bright she needed to wear sunglasses. The light uplifted her, and she inhaled the sweet scent of regeneration that rose up from the compost in the herbaceous border along with awakening shrubs and emerging bulbs. Puddles of blue windflowers glistened beneath the chestnut trees, and daffodils lifted their yellow skirts to the sun. Blue tits flew in and out of the bushes, and the trees were ringing with birdsong. The earth was reawakening, and she hadn’t even noticed.

She found Barry pottering around the borders. “Good morning, Lady Frampton,” he said. Beneath his cap, his head was a mass of tight white curls, like a sheep.

“Barry, I’m sorry I’ve been very disinterested in the garden lately . . .”

“That’s understandable, Lady Frampton.”

“I know, but the garden is a healing place. It will do me good to spend more time in it.” She smiled at the unassuming man who had looked after the grounds for as long as she had lived at Fairfield, and felt a sudden impulse to get her hands dirty as she had in the early days when she’d been young and full of enthusiasm. “Let’s walk around and you can show me what you’re doing. Now spring is here I’d like to be involved.”

“Very good, ma’am,” he replied jovially, unable to conceal his
delight. “Well, let’s start in the walled garden, then. You won’t be wanting for greens this summer. Oh no, I’m planning a bumper harvest.” And he accompanied her across the grounds to the vegetable garden, contained within an ancient red-brick wall. The weather-beaten oak gate opened with a groan, and they stepped beneath the archway into a low maze of neatly trimmed plots and gravel pathways bordered with lavender or box. In the center was a circular stone shelter to sit in and admire the garden, but Antoinette had never had time for that. It looked peaceful and tempting in the sunshine.

Barry proudly showed her around each section, pointing to the first signs of emerging asparagus and artichoke; the neatly planted rows of beetroots, carrots, and beans; and the heaped mounds where the potatoes would appear before long. There were iron frames arching over the pathways where sweet peas would bloom, later scrambling up the climbing roses and clematis. “I know deep purple is your favorite sweet pea,” he told her with a grin. “I’ll make sure we have plenty of them this summer.”

As Barry chatted on, Antoinette’s enthusiasm began to grow. When George was alive, she had been so busy in the house that she hadn’t had the time to take much of an interest in the gardens. Barry, with the help of his small band of local lads, kept the estate looking beautiful, and visitors had always admired the immaculate borders and potted plants, but Antoinette had never presumed to take credit for any of it. Barry had been head gardener for over forty years and knew better than anyone how best to look after the grounds.

When she’d moved in as the young Mrs. George Frampton, the gardens had been the only part of Fairfield she’d been able to affect. She’d taken such pleasure in planting with Barry. They’d gone to the garden center together and bought hundreds of tulips, then spent an entire week pressing them into the ground either side of the lime walk. When they’d shot up that first spring, she felt she’d performed a miracle. It looked like the parting of the Red Sea. She smiled now at the memory. How quickly her life had changed. The children had
arrived, George had grown more demanding, and somehow the gardens had been forgotten, along with that almost divine sense of joy.

“Let’s go to the garden center, Barry,” she said, riding the sudden wave of excitement.

“Right now?”

“Yes. No time to lose.”

“What do you want to buy?”

“I don’t know. Anything, everything, whatever catches my eye.”

“Very good.”

“Oh, do you remember the fun we had, Barry?”

“I do, indeed, ma’am.”

“I want to do it again. I want to get my hands dirty and watch things grow.” She laughed at the sight of his bewildered face. “I must sound very silly, Barry. I’m not a young woman anymore. But I think the gardens are going to make me feel very happy.”

“Oh, they’ll do that all right,” he replied.

“I’m not treading on your toes, am I?” she asked, at once apprehensive. “I don’t want you to think I’m going to take over.”

He chuckled. “Treading on my toes, Lady Frampton? Why, I’ve waited years for you to come home,” he added softly.

17

T
he following day Rosamunde returned to Fairfield to find her sister on her knees in the orchard, planting new fruit trees. It had taken a full fifteen minutes to find her, shouting at the top of her lungs until the dogs had rushed out through the hedge and barked as if she were an intruder.

“Good gracious, Antoinette! What on earth are you doing?” Rosamunde exclaimed when she saw her sister’s muddy knees and ruddy cheeks.

“I’m planting,” Antoinette replied proudly. “Barry and I went off to the garden center, not the small one in Fairfield, but the really big one at Bristlemere. They had to deliver because we bought too much to fit into the car. Look at this darling peach tree. Can you imagine, Rosamunde, we’re going to have peaches!”

“Does Barry need an extra pair of hands? I thought he had an army of young men to help him!”

Antoinette laughed. “I
want
to do it, silly.”

“Look at the state of you! You’re covered in mud.”

Antoinette grinned up at her. “You should see your face.”

“I’m just surprised, that’s all.”

“I haven’t had so much fun in years!” Antoinette picked up the young tree and pulled it gently out of its pot. “In it goes.” Rosamunde watched as she loosened the roots then placed it carefully in the hole she had dug. “There, a nice new home for you, Mr. Peach Tree.” She sat back on her haunches and wiped her brow with the back of her hand, smearing a streak of mud across her skin. “Do you remember, when we were children, planting pots of hyacinths with Mother?”

“Of course. I love hyacinths.”

“And you’d always dig up the garden and come in top to toe in mud.”

“Yes, and you were always very prissy and clean, if I remember rightly.”

“Well, I think you had more fun than I did.”

“Most certainly. Children love playing in mud.”

“So I’m making up for lost time. Barry’s gone off to fetch another one. They’re all lined up at the back of the house. Ten of them.”

“All peaches?”

“No, we have two plums, two apples, two pears, two cherries, and of course, two peaches.”

“If it wasn’t for my stiff hip, I’d get down on my knees and help you.”