The Woman From Paris (27 page)

“I know you would. But you can talk to me, instead, and keep me company. Isn’t it a glorious day? Listen to the birds. Why is it that I can hear them in the trees but I can’t see them? Have you ever wondered why? Listen! The branches are alive with them,
hundreds
of them, yet can you spot a single bird?”

Rosamunde laughed, because it was so uplifting to see her sister happy again. “Perhaps Barry can bring me a chair when he comes back.”

“Yes, one of the garden chairs, it’s about time they came out again and shook off the winter cobwebs. By the way, guess who’s coming for dinner tonight?”

“Margaret.”

“No, not Margaret, though I daresay we’ll be seeing her sometime today.” She grinned up at Rosamunde. “You can wear your new blouse and trousers.”

Rosamunde’s face lit up. “Oh, Dr. Heyworth.”

“Yes, I thought it would be nice to see him and thank him for harboring me in his garden not once but twice, when I was hiding from Margaret.”

“Quite right, he’s a knight in shining armor.”

“I thought you’d be pleased.”

“I’m just enjoying a mild flirtation. Really, it’s nothing more than that.”

“Are you sure you’re telling the truth? It’s me you’re talking to, remember.”

“Good gracious, I’m too old for anything more—and set in my ways, too. But a little flirting is good for one’s morale.”

Antoinette began to fill the hole with a mixture of earth and compost. “It’s been over thirty years since I last enjoyed a flirtation. I wouldn’t know how to do it.”

“Isn’t it like riding a bicycle?”

“I’m not sure I could do that, either.” She flattened the earth with her hands. “I can’t imagine ever being with anyone but George.”

“You’re still young.”

“
Widow
is a horrid word, I think.”

“You don’t have to remain single for the rest of your life.”

Antoinette stood up and stretched her legs. “Look at me, Rosamunde. I’m not fit for anyone.”

“Well, not with a splodge of mud on your face.”

“And I’m not sure I’ll ever
want
anyone.”

“Oh, that may change in the years to come.”

“No, Rosamunde,” Antoinette insisted firmly. “I’ll always belong to George.”

By the end of the day Antoinette had successfully planted all ten fruit trees. Barry had dug the holes, and she had done the rest. Rosamunde had sat on a garden chair and kept her sister company, while the sun moved slowly above them in a cloudless sky and Bertie and Wooster slept lazily at her feet.

Antoinette bathed and changed for dinner. She felt lighter in her heart, and she hummed as she moved about the bedroom, choosing her clothes and drying her hair. The garden had restored her spirit and given her cheeks a healthy radiance. Gone was the gray pallor in her skin, and her eyes sparkled with happiness—she never thought she’d feel happy ever again. She had assumed George had taken it with him; after all, hadn’t her happiness been tied into his?

Today she had tasted freedom—freedom from cares, from schedules, from plans and commitments. Today she had ambled about the gardens, savoring the wind that stirred her hair and brushed her face with gentle fingers, the delightful clamor of birds and the warm sunshine that was so full of love it penetrated her disconsolate heart and filled it up until it was ready to burst. Nature had restored her faith in her own abilities. Today she realized she’d manage on her own after all.

Antoinette went downstairs to find Rosamunde already in the drawing room sitting in one of the armchairs, doing her needlepoint. She was wearing her new slacks and floral silk blouse tied at the neck in a loose bow. “You look lovely,” said Antoinette.

“And you look a lot better without that muddy smear across your face.”

Antoinette smiled broadly. “I had such a nice day today. Really, it was a
perfect
day.”

“And no sight of Margaret. Very unusual not to get a visit.”

“I hope she’s all right.”

“Of course she’s all right.”

“It’s just rather strange not to see her. She tends to come up daily. And she did have that strange turn the other day.”

“Do you want to call her?”

Antoinette brushed her worries aside. “No, I’ll call her tomorrow. Dr. Heyworth will be here any minute.”

Harris appeared in the doorway. “Can I get you a drink, Lady Frampton?”

“Yes, that would be very nice. I’ll have a vodka tonic, thank you.”

“A vodka tonic?” Rosamunde repeated in surprise.

“I’m living dangerously,” Antoinette replied.

“You certainly are. Well, if you’re going to have one, then so will I.” Harris walked across the room to the drinks table. George had always insisted it should be well stocked, with all the spirits in pretty crystal decanters, each clearly labeled with a little chained dog tag. “It’s been years since I had a cocktail.”

“I never liked vodka,” said Antoinette.

“Then why are you having some now?”

“Because I’m a new person, Rosamunde.”

By the time Dr. Heyworth arrived, both women were halfway through their cocktails. Harris opened the door and showed the doctor into the hall, taking his coat and hanging it over his arm before accompanying him into the drawing room. “Lady Frampton, Dr. Heyworth is here.” Antoinette stood up to greet him as Bertie and Wooster rushed over, nearly knocking him down in the doorway.

“What an enthusiastic welcome,” said Dr. Heyworth, patting Wooster’s head.

“Dogs like you, Dr. Heyworth,” said Rosamunde, striding across the carpet to rescue him. “You know, that says a great deal about you.”

“All good, I hope,” he replied, shaking Rosamunde’s hand. She pulled the dogs off him, and the doctor managed to squeeze past them into the room. He turned his attention to Antoinette, who remained by the armchair, and his face broke into a wide smile. “You look well, Lady Frampton.”

“I feel very well today,” she replied. “I’ve been in the garden all day, planting trees.”

“It’s done you a lot of good. You’ve got your color back.”

“That could be the cocktail.” She arched an eyebrow.

He laughed. “Ah yes, that might have something to do with it.”

“What would you like to drink, Dr. Heyworth?” she asked, as Harris returned, having put the doctor’s coat away.

“I’d love a glass of wine.”

“White or red?”

“White would be nice.” Harris nodded and walked across the rugs to fetch a bottle from the drinks fridge, hidden behind a concealed door built into the bookcase at the far end of the room.

“Isn’t red better for you?” Rosamunde asked.

“Yes, but I’m off duty, and besides, I believe the odd small vice is essential for one’s good health.”

“Lovely,” Antoinette sighed, sinking back into the armchair. “You’re my kind of doctor.”

The three of them sat around the fire, which Harris had lit every
evening since Lord Frampton had died because the house had felt so cold. Antoinette and Rosamunde drained their glasses; Dr. Heyworth sipped his wine more abstemiously. “What is your Christian name?” asked Rosamunde. “Dr. Heyworth does seem very formal, considering we’re all friends having dinner together.” Antoinette frowned. She wasn’t sure she wanted to be on first-name terms with her doctor.

“William,” he replied, looking a little embarrassed.

“William,” Rosamunde repeated, as if the name was sweeter than any other. “Now you must call me Rosamunde, William. Doesn’t that sound better?”

He took another sip of wine. Antoinette thought she could detect the hint of a light blush on his cheeks.

“You know David, Tom, and Phaedra have all gone to Murenburg together,” she said, changing the subject.

“How is it going?” he asked.

“I haven’t heard a squeak. I hope it’s going well. I always think no news is good news.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“Do you ski, William?” Rosamunde asked. The vodka had made her feel wonderfully confident.

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Well, neither do I. Isn’t that grand?”

“It looks great fun, but sadly my parents were not sporty types,” he continued.

“Was your father a doctor, too?” Antoinette asked.

“Yes, he was. He’s retired now.”

“How old is he?”

“Eighty-nine, and my mother is eighty-three. They are both very healthy, thank God.”

“Lovely to reach old age in one piece,” Rosamunde agreed. “I hope you’ve inherited their genes, William.”

“So do I,” he replied. “All one needs in life is good health and good luck.”

“Neither of which is in our hands,” said Antoinette.

“Which is why we have to seize the day.” He smiled at her. “Like you did today, Lady Frampton.”

She smiled back. “I certainly did, Dr. Heyworth, and I am so much the better for it.” She noticed Harris at the door again. “Dinner is ready. Shall we go through?”

Harris had set a round table in the small sitting room the other side of the hall. There was a fire in the grate and a pot of blue hyacinths in the middle of the table. The room was cozy, with hand-painted floral wallpaper in purple and green, Persian rugs spread over the carpet, and one entire wall completely lined with antiquarian books. The curtains were closed, and the scented candles that were arranged on the sofa table flickered hospitably. It was a friendlier room than the big drawing room, and the three of them settled down to tuck into the dinner of homemade watercress soup followed by duck
à l’orange
. Rosamunde buttered a large whole-grain roll and took a bite, chewing in wonder at Mrs. Gunice’s culinary talents. The bread was always home baked; the vegetables were fresh and seasonal, straight out of the garden; and the meat was always tender and well hung by the butcher in Fairfield. She hoped the time to move back home would never come.

Harris poured a light Sauvignon to start, followed by a Bordeaux to accompany the duck. Antoinette had felt a little light-headed after the vodka, so she took care not to drink too much wine and asked Harris to refill her water glass for the second time. Rosamunde, however, was far too excited by the presence of Dr. Heyworth to notice that the wine was now going to her head. She drank heartily and savored every morsel of red cabbage, new Jersey potato, and tender duck breast. The small sitting room had an air of informality, and the three of them laughed and talked, at ease in one another’s company.

Rosamunde discovered that she and William had much in common. Besides not skiing, they both loved gardening, although Rosamunde was unable to be actively involved any more in the planting. Antoinette praised the doctor’s garden enthusiastically and told Rosamunde about the sweet-smelling
Daphne odora
that had quite literally stopped her in her tracks the first time she had sneaked into his
garden. He also liked horses and used to ride as a young man. Rosamunde took great pleasure in telling him how she had competed as a girl and hunted with the Beaufort. “Antoinette can’t go near horses because of an allergy to them,” she said. “But I lived and breathed them for years, until my hip started to give me trouble. There’s nothing like the feeling of galloping at high speed with the wind in your face and the sight of rolling green fields in front of you. I do miss it.” She sighed and scraped the last bit of duck onto her fork. “Gracious, Mrs. Gunice is a wonder. This is as good a meal as I’ve ever had!”

For pudding Mrs. Gunice had made the lightest, sweetest, stickiest chocolate mousse Rosamunde had ever tasted. Her senses heightened by the wine, she rolled the first spoonful around her tongue, relishing the slight tang of orange. The taste was so sensual she felt herself swell with the pleasure it gave her. Antoinette noticed her sister’s cheeks flush the color of raspberry jam and her eyes sparkle like a dreamy teenager. She wanted to move her wineglass away but felt it would be humiliating to do so in front of Dr. Heyworth, and there was no way she could do it without being seen. Instead, she could only watch helplessly as Rosamunde became as loose as a slackly wound ball of wool. She laughed with her jaw lax and her body floppy, and her usually stiff posture slouched over her mousse so that her generous bosom rested on the table like a parcel wrapped in silk and tied with a bow.

When she began to slur her words, Antoinette decided it was time to adjourn to the drawing room for coffee. Perhaps the more formal atmosphere in there would sober her sister up a little. They walked out into the hall, where Harris waited with a tray of tea and coffee. “We’ll have it in the drawing room, Harris,” said Antoinette.

“I think I’ll go up and powder my snose,” Rosamunde giggled. “I mean my
nose
.” And she set off up the stairs.

Antoinette and Dr. Heyworth’s conversation was abruptly halted as they watched Rosamunde reach halfway then falter. She teetered on the step for what felt like a dreadfully long moment, struggling to regain her balance. She waved her arms, shifted her weight, and wobbled alarmingly but to no avail. Very slowly, as if the world
had suddenly gone into slow motion, she fell backwards. By some miracle, she managed to turn her body around to fall on her bottom, rather than her back, and rolled down the stairs like a barrel. Dr. Heyworth hurried to catch her as she tumbled onto the floor. Antoinette gasped in horror and found herself unable to move for terror.

Rosamunde groaned as the pain shot up her left leg and into her lower back. She blinked up at Dr. Heyworth. “God, am I alive?” she mumbled. The room was spinning around her.

“You’re going to be fine,” he said in a reassuring voice. “Now lie still while I make sure that everything is where it should be.”

“My left leg hurts,” she murmured. “And . . . well . . . I think I hurt all over.”

Gently, he removed her shoes and touched her toes. “Can you feel your toes, Rosamunde?”

She wiggled them. “Yes.”

“Can you see them moving?”

“I can see
hundreds
of toes moving. They’re very busy.”

“Can you feel your legs?” She was able to move them, too.

Antoinette stepped closer. “Is anything broken?” she asked in a small voice. She watched the doctor test Rosamunde’s shoulders, arms, and neck.

“You’ve given yourself a terrible shock and some serious bruising. Let’s get you up to bed,” he said at last.