The Woman From Paris (6 page)

“I’d be happier if you went together,” she said to her sons. “Perhaps Josh will join you.”

“Roberta won’t let him off the lead,” said Tom disdainfully. “And we’re absolutely not having
her
!”

“It would be nice to ask him, just the same,” their mother insisted.

“I have no reservations about telling him that we won’t tolerate his wife,” said David. “It’s about time he stood up to her.”

“I don’t think she’d want to go, anyway,” interjected Rosamunde. “Doesn’t she prefer to ski in Gstaad?”

“That’s because she can’t ski,” said Tom. “Serious skiers don’t go to Gstaad!”

“And because Murenburg isn’t glamorous enough for her,” David added. “No designer shops or celebrities.”

“It’s understandable that she should want to carve her own niche. Murenburg is very much Frampton territory. I don’t blame her for that,” said Antoinette, trying hard to keep the family united.

“But Josh is a serious skier; he must be bored rigid in Gstaad,” Tom mused. Then he laughed mischievously. “But then again, he must be bored rigid being married to Roberta.” David laughed with him while Antoinette and Rosamunde tried not to look amused.

“Shame on you, boys, you’re too much!” Rosamunde exclaimed, her mouth twitching at the corners. She caught her sister’s eye. “But really, Antoinette, we do need something to laugh about!” Antoinette’s face broke into a smile. She glanced at the head of
the table and discovered that it was possible to laugh and cry at the same time.

After dinner, David walked across the garden to his house, positioned on the other side of the large ornamental lake his father had built for floating his collection of miniature boats. It was a pretty red-brick lodge, built in the same Jacobean style as the main house. Inside, the walls were lined with bookshelves, but many books lay piled on the floor for lack of space, and magazines were strewn across the surfaces. David loved to read, especially history, and spent many evenings in front of the fire with his dog, devouring books he had ordered on Amazon.

He opened the door, and Rufus, his golden Labrador, bounded out of the kitchen to greet him. Trevor, the farm manager, had taken him off for the day, returning him home after a long walk at six. Rufus loved Trevor, who had two mongrels and a garden full of chickens, but he loved David most of all, and jumped up in his excitement to see him.

David let him out to stretch his legs, and the two of them walked briskly around the lake. The moon was bright, lighting up the water so that it shone like hematite. The air was damp and sweet with the smell of regeneration. He heard the mournful hooting of a tawny owl calling to its mate, followed by the tinny cough of a pheasant as it was awoken by Rufus and driven into the sky in alarm. David loved the mystery of the night. He looked about him, at the thick shrubs and bushes, and wondered how many eyes were quietly watching him through the darkness. He enjoyed walking through their secret world and forgetting himself.

As he strode on, his mind wandered to Phaedra and the embarrassed look on her face when Julius had brought up the subject of his father’s will. She was clearly aware she might appear moneygrubbing and keen to show that she wasn’t. Julius, on the other hand, had no shame. As executor of the will, he was concerned only with making sure that George’s wishes were carried out. David wondered whether Phaedra would show up for the meeting—or indeed for the weekend his mother intended to invite her to stay. She had scurried out of the
library like a frightened rabbit. He knew there was a good chance he’d never see her again.

He returned home and made himself a cup of tea. Content in his routine, Rufus curled up on his blankets in the corner of David’s bedroom, closed his eyes, and fell asleep instantly. David showered then climbed into bed to read his book. But his gaze meandered, and he lost track more than once. It was no good. He was unable to concentrate. He put his book on the bedside table and turned off the light. A wave of apprehension washed over him. The world seemed so much bigger without his father in it.

*   *   *

On Monday morning Antoinette telephoned Julius to arrange the reading of the will. She told him to invite Phaedra, which seemed to make Julius very happy. “You’re doing the right thing, Lady Frampton,” he said cheerfully. “Lord Frampton would be very pleased.” When she put down the telephone, she felt an unexpected happiness fill her chest with the warm feeling of doing something good. She gazed out of the study window to where Barry the gardener was cutting the winter grass into bright green stripes with his little tractor. There was something reassuring about the rumbling noise it made, and she realized that in spite of such a monumental change, life at Fairfield would continue as it always had.

She remained a moment at the window. She noticed the phosphorescent color of the new grass and the promise of red tulips peeping through the earth in the lime walk. A pair of blue tits played about the viburnum. Spring had found her stride once more, and the sun shone with a bright new radiance. Antoinette inhaled deeply and realized that she’d forgotten how soothing it was to observe the wondrous work of Nature.

Barry waved as he motored by. She waved back and smiled wistfully. It had been so long since she’d taken an interest in the gardens. Barry was always coming in to ask her this or that, but her response was always the same:
Whatever you think, Barry
. She knew she disappointed him, because his feelings showed all over his face. But she
hadn’t had any surplus energy to put into the gardens. George had been very demanding, requiring her to be in London when he wasn’t traveling, to entertain friends at the ballet or the opera or just for dinner, and at weekends the house had always been full. She gazed out onto the world with new eyes and couldn’t help feeling that, in the ever-increasing whirl of her life, she’d overlooked something vitally important.

She moved away and turned her thoughts back to Phaedra. She was surprised by the strength of her desire to see her again. The girl was a hidden part of George, something else he had left behind besides the family she knew. In a strange way she felt Phaedra was a gift, set aside to ease the shock of his departure, and she was eager to spend time with her—as if in some way it would enable her to hold on to George for a little longer.

“Antoinette, Dr. Heyworth is in the hall,” Rosamunde hissed, peering around the door. “Did you know he was coming?”

Antoinette’s hand shot to her mouth. “God, I forgot!” she exclaimed, flushing. “I asked him to come and see me yesterday, at the funeral.”

“Why? Are you sick?”

“No, I just wanted to talk to someone.”

“You can talk to me,” said Rosamunde, put out.

“You’re my sister. I wanted to talk to someone
outside
the family.”

Rosamunde pursed her lips. “Very well,” she said tightly. “There’s a nice fire in the drawing room. I’ll ask Harris to bring you both some tea.”

“Make that
three
cups of tea.”

Pleased to be included, Rosamunde smiled gratefully. “Take your time, Antoinette. Leave everything to me. I’ll entertain him.” She grinned and lowered her voice. “He’s very attractive.”

“Oh really, Rosamunde!”

“I might be old, but I can still admire.”

“He’s been our family doctor for thirty years. I’d never look at him in that way.”

“Then don’t deny me the pleasure.”

“He’s all yours. Unmarried in his sixties: I’m not sure he’s a very good bet, Rosamunde.”

“I’m unmarried at fifty-nine. I’m not a very good bet, either. I’ll show him into the drawing room.” Rosamunde closed the door behind her.

The thought of Rosamunde flirting with Dr. Heyworth made Antoinette smile. Rosamunde was an unlikely candidate for the handsome doctor. She was a sturdy, unfeminine woman who thought face cream and hair dye were unnecessary indulgences. Consequently, her skin was carved with lines and marred with fine threads of broken veins embedded in her cheeks like minor roads on a map, and her gray hair was pulled back into a severe bun. As a younger woman she had devoted her time to horses and ridden out in all weather, but hip trouble had stopped her enjoying the sport she loved the most, so now she only watched it on the television and as a spectator at the races. Unlike Antoinette, who loved beautiful clothes, Rosamunde was happier in slacks, sensible shoes, and cotton blouses, on her knees in the herbaceous border, or striding across the fields in gumboots with her pack of four energetic dogs. Antoinette had never asked her if she regretted not marrying and having children; she had always just assumed she hadn’t desired either. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she had heard her sister comment on a man’s good looks. It was very out of character.

When she walked into the drawing room, she found Dr. Heyworth in the armchair beside the fire and Rosamunde settled contentedly into the sofa opposite, sipping cups of Earl Grey tea. Bertie lay sleeping at her sister’s feet, while Wooster sat with his back straight, eyeballing Dr. Heyworth, who tentatively patted his big head. When he saw Antoinette, he stood up to greet her. “Hello, Dr. Heyworth. Please don’t get up,” she insisted. “Wooster, leave the poor man alone!” Wooster didn’t flinch, and Dr. Heyworth sat down again and resumed his hesitant patting.

“I think he likes you,” said Rosamunde.

“Oh yes, Wooster and I are old friends,” he replied.

Antoinette sat on the club fender near her sister. A hearty fire
crackled in the grate as the flames lapped the logs with greedy tongues. “Isn’t this nice,” she said, feeling the heat on her back. “A big house like this is hard to keep warm. Sometimes we even light fires in the summer.”

“It doesn’t feel cold to me,” said Dr. Heyworth.

“Me, neither,” added Rosamunde. “In fact, I’d go as far as saying I’m rather warm.”

“Then it must be my thin skin,” Antoinette declared, wrapping her cardigan tightly around her body.

Dr. Heyworth smiled at her sympathetically, which made Antoinette’s eyes well with tears. “It’s perfectly natural to feel the chill, Lady Frampton. Nothing at all to worry about.”

Antoinette had never really noticed how handsome Dr. Heyworth was. If she had, she would have been a reluctant patient, unable to discuss intimate medical matters without embarrassment. But now her sister had mentioned the unmentionable, she realized that, in spite of his glasses, he was indeed handsome. His face was long and kind, with intelligent green eyes and a strong nose that gave him an air of authority. His hair, which had once been dark, was now gray and thinning, but the generous shape of his head and the warm color of his skin ensured that baldness would not diminish him. Although his visit was an informal one—he was now semiretired and saw only private patients occasionally—he looked dignified and proper in a tweed jacket and tie.

“Thank you for coming to the funeral,” said Antoinette, wringing her hands to warm them.

“It was a beautiful service,” he replied. “Lord Frampton was well loved and highly respected in the community. We shall all miss him.”

Antoinette felt the familiar tightening of her throat and the uncontrollable wobbling of her lower lip as her heart heaved with grief. She was grateful Margaret wasn’t there to witness her crying in front of the doctor. “I can’t say I remember a great deal about the service. I was . . .” When Antoinette’s words trailed off, Rosamunde intervened to save her sister any embarrassment.

“The flowers were very pretty,” she said. “You know Antoinette chose them all herself. The smell filled the whole church.”

“Indeed it did,” Dr. Heyworth agreed. Then he settled his kind eyes on Antoinette. “Did you get any sleep last night?” he asked softly, and the concern in his voice released a sob that Antoinette stifled with her handkerchief.

“A little,” she murmured.

“Would you like me to prescribe you some sleeping pills?”

“That would be nice, thank you.”

“Sleeping pills?” Rosamunde interjected as the doctor lifted his bag onto his knee to make out a prescription in small, illegible writing. “Do you really need sleeping pills, Antoinette?” She turned to Dr. Heyworth. “Aren’t they terribly bad for her?”

“They’re very mild,” the doctor explained patiently. “And it’s only for a while. You see,” he continued, turning back to his patient and speaking in a slow, reassuring manner, “if you are tired, your heart cannot heal because all your energy goes into getting you through the day and not into tackling the core of the trouble. So you need to rest, eat well, take long walks in the country air, surround yourself with loved ones, and give that battered heart of yours a chance to recover. If sleeping pills help you rest, then I can see no harm in taking them for a short period.” Antoinette listened attentively, wiping her eyes in an attempt to stem the flow of tears. It was very unusual that a doctor should talk about her emotional health with such understanding. For a moment she felt that he was a wise old friend and not a doctor at all. “It’s all right to cry, Lady Frampton,” he said. “Tears are nature’s way of healing.”

“Yes, Antoinette,” Rosamunde added. “You must cry it all out; that’s what our Mama would have said. It’ll make you feel much better.”

Dr. Heyworth handed Antoinette the prescription. “It might be that your heart never completely heals, but that a patch metaphorically covers the wound to stave off the pain and enables you to pick yourself up, dust yourself down, and go on. You have suffered a terrible shock, and so you have to give yourself time and space to grieve.
And you mustn’t feel guilty or that you are a burden to your family and friends, because if you don’t let it all out, it will bury down deep and never go away. It will only find a moment later on in your life to come back and manifest as physical pain.” For a moment his eyes darkened, but he seemed to push through the sudden wave of sadness and continue with a compassionate smile. “You must talk about it as much as you can, Lady Frampton. One day you’ll discover that it doesn’t hurt anything like as much as it does now.”

“Antoinette is certainly no burden to me, Dr. Heyworth,” said Rosamunde firmly.