The Woman From Paris (49 page)

“William,” Antoinette ventured, her heart suddenly beating wildly.

“Yes?”

“I think I’ve mastered ‘Sunset.’”

He smiled, pleased. “I’d love to hear you play it.”

“Would you?”

“Very much.”

“I’d be happy to play it for you. I’ve played it a lot recently. I think I know it quite well.”

At that moment Reverend Morley opened the front door of the house and stepped out. “The gates of heaven are not ready to open for the Dowager Lady Frampton,” he said heartily, making for his car.

“She might outlive us all,” said Dr. Heyworth.

“Now
that
would be a miracle,” Antoinette added, feeling her pulse slow down. Her attempt to encourage Dr. Heyworth had stalled before it had begun. Maybe it was too soon after George’s death. Perhaps she wasn’t ready. Of course, there was the possibility that Dr. Heyworth did not reciprocate her feelings and that he had only ever wanted friendship—a possibility that left her feeling a little foolish. She watched him climb into his car and waved him off. Then she went back into the house to check on Margaret, her heart surprisingly heavy.

*   *   *

David took a train to London and from there the Eurostar to Paris. He carried a small overnight bag with the bare essentials. He did not expect to stay long. If Phaedra wasn’t at home, he’d come back and tell his grandmother that he had done his best.

He sat in the first-class carriage and watched the English countryside rush past the window; then, as the train whizzed into the tunnel and the glass went black, he suddenly realized that he was no longer staring outside but at his own anguished reflection. He gazed at it in horror. He hadn’t noticed how disheveled he had become. His gaunt face and hollow eyes looked as if they belonged to someone else, and he ran a hand pensively over the thick stubble on his chin. What would Phaedra think? Would she recognize him? She
certainly wouldn’t find him attractive—perhaps she never had. He wished he had taken more care of himself. At the very least he could have shaved.

As the train neared Paris he began to get nervous. He hadn’t managed to read more than a few pages of his book, for his thoughts kept interrupting and replaying scenes from the past like a broken DVD stuck on a favorite movie scene. He should have worn out his memories, considering the amount of times he had rerun them in his head, but they still shone bright with the same power to hurt.

He cast his eyes around the carriage at the businessmen and -women in suits and at an elegantly dressed mother with young children. None of them seemed to have a worry in the world; the adults sat reading magazines or newspapers, and the children played quietly on their computer games. It felt surreal, as if David were the only man in the world to nurse a broken heart.

At last the train drew into the station, and he descended. He moved through the throng in a daze, eyes on the ground, going through every possible scenario again.

He climbed into a taxi and asked to be taken to rue de Longchamps. The car pulled out onto the road, and his stomach knotted into a tight ball. He wasn’t sure whether the nausea rising in his stomach was due to his nerves or to the taxi jerking to a stop at a red light. It was early evening. Paris was bathed in a soft amber light as the sun sank slowly in the sky, painting the water of the Seine with bright strokes of red and gold. Electric lights glowed in shop windows and streetlamps lit up a cascade of brown leaves as they were carried on the wind before collecting in clusters on the damp pavements and gutters. As he let his gaze wander over the town houses, with their elegantly curved gray roofs, peeping dormer windows, and pretty iron balconies, he knew why Phaedra loved Paris so much. It still had the charm of a bygone age.

Phaedra’s apartment was in the center of the city. He hadn’t expected to arrive so quickly. He didn’t feel he was prepared. So he paid the cabbie and found a nearby café where he could have a cup of coffee and work out what he was going to say. He sat by the window at
a small table and stared into the street, half hoping, half terrified that Phaedra might pass by.

The wind picked up, people came and went, but David remained with his empty coffee cup, gazing anxiously out into the dark. He tried to devise a dialogue, but nothing sounded natural. He started by explaining that Margaret had suffered a stroke, but ended up babbling and sounding confused—and it was only a rehearsal played out in his head. Finally, he realized he’d just have to face Phaedra and see what happened. There was always the chance the words would come to him in the heat of the moment. There was always the chance she wouldn’t be there at all. He paid the bill, leaving a tip, even though the waiter had been typically grumpy.

He stood up to leave. The café was crowded now. He hadn’t noticed. He began to push past the tables and the people standing, waiting to be seated. Then his eyes were drawn to the other end of the room, where a weary-looking blond woman was staring at him, unblinking, her pale-gray eyes large and fearful. He stopped and looked more intently. At first he didn’t recognize her. She was thinner now, her skin white against the black of her shirt, her hair pulled into a tight ponytail. A waiter obscured his view for a moment, and David tried to see round him. Was it or wasn’t it? The waiter moved on; she was still there against the wall, gazing back at him.

David caught his breath. It was Phaedra. He felt his chest grow tight as he began to make his way towards her, but the people in his path made his struggle all the more difficult, like wading through a rough sea: one step forward, one step back. She stood up, and for a terrible moment she disappeared behind a trio of grungy teenagers. David searched the crowd for her, his eyes frantically jumping from face to face, until at last she came steadily towards him, like a gull propelled on a wave.

It no longer mattered what he was going to say, because the longing in her eyes confirmed that she felt as wretched as he did. His heart quickened, his spirits soared, and the knot in his stomach unraveled as she held out her hand and he took it, pulling her the final few steps towards him until they were reunited at last, body to body,
chest to chest, saying more in that kiss than they could ever say in words.

*   *   *

Back at Fairfield Park, Antoinette sat at the piano, fingers moving deftly over the keys because by now she knew the piece by heart. The dogs lay on the rugs, the fire smoldered in the grate, the house was still. She thought of Dr. Heyworth and cringed when she recalled her clumsy attempt to give him encouragement, as Margaret had advised her to do. She wished she hadn’t said it because it had sounded unnatural. She hoped Dr. Heyworth hadn’t been put off by it. How presumptuous to have thought he might be attracted to her. She began to play the piece more vigorously.

The telephone interrupted her playing. She sighed and got up to answer it. “Hello,” she said.

“It’s William,” he replied.

“Oh, William.” Her voice brightened. “What a surprise.”

“I was wondering whether I could come over and listen to you playing the piano.”

“Now?”

“Well, if it’s not too late.”

“No, of course not.”

“Good. I’ll ring the bell.”

No sooner had Antoinette put the telephone down than the doorbell rang. She frowned. He couldn’t possibly have got there that quickly. Her heartbeat quickened with fear. Who would come calling so late? Suddenly, she wished she wasn’t alone in such a big house. Harris was in the cottage at the bottom of the drive, David across the lake; if she screamed, no one would hear her. For a moment she froze, unable to move. The bell rang again, this time more insistently. The dogs awoke from their sleep and jumped to their feet.

Accompanied by the Danes, she found the courage to walk across the room to the hall, then stood wringing her hands. “Who is it?” she called out.

“Me!”

Bertie began to bark.

“William?” She wanted to cry with relief. “What are you doing there?”

“I said I’d ring the bell.”

She hurried forward to open the door. “But you got here so quickly.”

His smiling face appeared on the doorstep. “I was already here,” he replied. Then his face fell at the sight of her. “Did I frighten you?”

“A little,” she confessed.

“My darling Antoinette, I’m so sorry.” Then he gazed at her solemnly. “All right, I’ll come clean. I didn’t come here to listen to your piano playing.”

“You didn’t?”

He shook his head. “No. I came here . . .” He hesitated. For a second he looked embarrassed. Antoinette smiled softly, which was all the encouragement he needed. He cupped her face in his hands, bent down, and kissed her.

32

T
he following morning Antoinette walked around the gardens with a lighter heart than she had had since George died. Dr. Heyworth had driven off well after midnight, and she had remained alone in the house, but without the ache of loneliness. She had gone to bed and lain awake, replaying the kiss and the subsequent few hours they had enjoyed together in the drawing room. He had listened to her playing the piano, leaning on the top, gazing lovingly into her face as if the music came from her lips and not from her fingers. Then they had sat side by side and played a spontaneous duet, laughing as their improvisation declined into tuneless chords and clashing disharmony.

Her love for William was different from her love for George. In spite of her husband’s infidelity, she still loved him. She didn’t condone his betrayal, but she had found a way to forgive him by trying to understand why. In Phaedra he had encountered a companion who shared his passion for adventure. She was a free spirit, as happy in remote places as he was, with the courage that Antoinette lacked. Phaedra skied, climbed, and was undoubtedly just as much at home in a tent on the mountainside as in a warm hotel bed. Antoinette had fulfilled his need for a domestic partner, but had left a gaping breach in the other part of his life—the part that was almost more important to him. He had spent so much time alone in the mountains, it was easy to understand how he should fall for a beautiful young woman who was willing to share his enthusiasm for nature’s wildest places. But during the time he was infatuated with Phaedra, he had never treated Antoinette any differently. He had been just as affectionate, just as attentive. Their life together hadn’t changed in
any way, and she was reassured that his heart had remained constant, even though his infatuation had for a time clouded his judgment. Antoinette chose to believe that, as with all of George’s crushes, he eventually would have tired of Phaedra.

Where George had craved adventure, William was content just to be. With him she felt safe, but also valuable. There were no mountains to lure him away and no panoramas to steal his heart. Antoinette was his passion, and she was sure of it. With George she had shared the children, Fairfield, and his deepest thoughts. With William she shared the gardens, music, and
her
deepest thoughts. He gave her his time and his full attention, and she never felt his focus pulled in another direction. There was something very steady about her love for William; it was as warm and gentle as a summer meadow.

With these thoughts she wandered through the orchard. Fat, rosy apples caused the branches of the apple trees to droop; a few of the fruit lay on the grass, nibbled by wasps. The trees she had planted with Barry were thriving, their leaves beginning to turn brown as autumn blew in on an easterly wind. She looked at those dying leaves and realized that human beings were a little like trees: that in spite of such loss, their spirits had the strength to live through winter and find happiness again in the spring of new opportunities. She believed that in William she had found spring after a winter of grief. Perhaps now she’d accept the loss of Phaedra, too.

When she went inside, she telephoned Margaret to see how she was. Jenny answered and informed her that her mother-in-law was resting. When Antoinette suggested she come over, Jenny was quick to tell her that Margaret was, in fact, asleep and that it would be best not to wake her. She reassured her that, apart from a little tiredness, Margaret was quite well. Antoinette hung up, feeling a little uneasy. Something wasn’t right, but she couldn’t work out what it was.

At midday Dr. Heyworth arrived with his car boot full of shrubs. “I thought we could plant these down by the lake,” he said, kissing her tenderly. “What do you think?”

“You’re so thoughtful, thank you,” she replied happily. “How lovely that we have the whole afternoon ahead of us.”

“I’ve been thinking: we should go away together.”

“Where to?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Anywhere but here. Paris, Vienna, Rome, wherever you like. When was the last time you went away?”

“Gosh,” she sighed; it was a long way back. “A year ago at least.”

“Then it’s about time you left Fairfield.” His face brightened. “Have you ever been to India?”

“No.”

“Neither have I. We can discover it together.”

She hesitated. “But what about Margaret?”

“She’ll be all right on her own. David’s here.”

“You know, I called this morning, and Jenny said she was resting. Then she said she was asleep. She sounded nervous to me, as if she was lying.”

“Why would she lie?”

“Because Margaret would have asked her to.”

“Oh. Would you like to go and see her?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t want to disturb her if she
is
sleeping . . .”

At that moment Harris appeared on the porch. “Lady Frampton, the Dowager Lady Frampton has just called.”

“You see, I knew something was wrong!” Antoinette exclaimed, hurrying back into the house. “What did she say, Harris?”

“She wants you to meet her at the folly right away.”

“The folly? What’s she doing up there? I thought she was resting!”

“She says it’s important,” said Harris.

Antoinette turned to Dr. Heyworth. “You have to come with me, William. I sense something’s going on, but I don’t know what. Yesterday she was dying, and today she’s up at the folly, demanding that I go and join her. What’s it all about?”