A Good Woman

by Danielle Steel

  In February, she hospitalized the son of one of her patients. The boy was only twelve and had a severe case of pneumonia. Annabelle visited him at the hospital twice a day, and was gravely worried about him at one point, but the boy pulled through, and his mother was forever grateful. Annabelle had tried some new techniques they had used at the hospital at Villers-Cotterêts with the soldiers, and she was always creative about mixing new methods with old ones. She still read and studied devotedly at night to learn about new research. Her openness to new ideas stood her in good stead, and she read about everything in all the medical journals. She stayed up reading them late at night, often while cuddling Consuelo in her bed, who had begun saying she wanted to be a doctor too. Other little girls wanted to be nurses, but in Annabelle’s family they set a high standard. Annabelle couldn’t help asking herself at times what her mother would have thought of it. She knew it wasn’t what she had wanted for her, but she hoped she would have been proud of her anyway. She knew how devastated Consuelo would have been about Josiah divorcing her, and she wondered if he would have, if her mother hadn’t died. But it was all water over the dam now. And what good would it have been to stay married to him if he was in love with Henry all his life? She had never had a chance. She wasn’t bitter about it, but she was sad. Whenever she thought of it, it pained her with a dull ache she suspected she would carry all her life.

  The one thing that never made her sad was Consuelo. She was the happiest, sunniest, funniest child, and she adored her mother. She thought the sun rose and set on her, and Annabelle had created a fantasy father for her, so the little girl didn’t feel deprived. She told her that her father had been English, a wonderful person, from a lovely family, and that he had died as a very brave war hero before she was born. It never seemed to occur to the child to ask why she didn’t see her father’s family. She knew that all her mother’s relatives were dead, but Annabelle had never said that Harry’s were. Consuelo never mentioned it, she only listened with interest, and then one day Consuelo turned to her over lunch and asked if her “other” grandmother could visit her sometime, the one from England. Annabelle stared at her across the table as though a bomb had exploded, and didn’t know what to tell her. It had never dawned on Annabelle that this day might come, and she wasn’t prepared for it. Consuelo was six, and her friends in the park all had grandmothers. So why couldn’t hers visit too?

  “I…uh…well, she’s in England. And I haven’t talked to her in a long time…well, actually”—she hated lying to her child—“ever…I never met her. Your daddy and I fell in love and married during the war, and then he died, so I never knew them.” She was fumbling with her words as Consuelo watched her.

  “Doesn’t she want to see me?” Consuelo looked disappointed, and Annabelle felt her heart sink. She had created her own mess, and other than telling her daughter that her grandparents didn’t know she existed, she had no idea what to say. But she didn’t want to be forced into contact with them either. It was a terrible dilemma for her.

  “I’m sure she would want to meet you, if she can…that is, if she’s not sick or anything… she might be very old.” And then with a sigh and a heavy heart, Annabelle promised, “I’ll write to her, and we’ll see what she says.”

  “Good.” Consuelo beamed at her across the table, and as Annabelle went back to her office she was cursing Harry Winshire as she hadn’t in years.

  Chapter 21

  True to her promise to Consuelo, Annabelle sat down to write Lady Winshire a letter. She had no idea what to say or how to introduce the subject. The truth that her son had raped her, and she’d later had an illegitimate daughter, hardly seemed like an appealing introduction, and wasn’t likely to be to Lady Winshire either. But she didn’t want to lie to her. In the end, she wrote an extremely pareddown and simplified, sanitized version. She really didn’t want to see Lady Winshire, or even to have Consuelo meet her, but at least she wanted to tell the child she had tried.

  She wrote to her that she and Harry had met during the war at Villers-Cotterêts, at a hospital where she had been working. That much was true at least, although saying that he had knocked her down on some stone steps and raped her would have been more accurate. She then said that they did not know each other well and were not friends, which was also true, and that an unfortunate incident had happened, extremely true, as a result of which, she had had a child, a little girl, six years before. She said that she had not contacted them until then because she wanted nothing from them. She explained that she was American, had come over as a volunteer, and her encounter with Harry, and the pregnancy that had resulted from it, was one of those extremely unhappy outcomes of war, but that her daughter was a wonderful little human being and had recently inquired about her paternal grandmother, which was extremely difficult for Annabelle too. She said she didn’t want to flat-out lie any more than she already had. She said the child believed that her parents had been married, which was not the case. And Annabelle then suggested that if Lady Winshire was so inclined, perhaps a letter or a short note to Consuelo, maybe even with a photograph, would do. They could let it go at that. She signed the letter “Dr. Annabelle Worthington” so the woman would know at least that she was a respectable person, not that it really mattered. It was her son who had been anything but respectable and should have been put in prison, but instead he had fathered the most enchanting child on earth, and Annabelle couldn’t hate him for it. In her own way, she was grateful to him forever, but he was not a happy memory for her.

  After she mailed the letter, Annabelle put it out of her mind. She had a busy month of May, with her waiting room constantly full. She’d had no answer from Lady Winshire, and for the moment, Consuelo seemed to have forgotten about it. She had started school that winter and went there every day, which gave Brigitte time to help them in the office.

  Annabelle had just come back from seeing a patient in the hospital when Hélène told her there was a woman waiting for her. She had been there for two hours and refused to say what it was about. Annabelle assumed she probably had some kind of embarrassing problem. She put her white coat on, sat down at her desk, and told Hélène to let her in.

  Two minutes later, Hélène was escorting in a dowager of impressive proportions. She was a large woman with a big voice, wearing an enormous hat, about six long strands of huge pearls, and she was carrying a silver cane. She looked as though she were going to hit someone with it as she marched into the office. Annabelle stood up to greet her, and had to force herself not to smile. The woman ignored Annabelle’s extended hand and stood glaring at her. She did not look sick and Annabelle had no idea what she was doing there. She got right to the point.

  “What is all this nonsense about a granddaughter?” she barked at Annabelle in English. “My son had no children, no encumbrances, no important women in his life when he died. And if you’re claiming that you had a child by him, why exactly have you waited six years to write to me about it?” As she said it, she sat down in the chair at the other side of Annabelle’s desk and glared at her some more. She was as pleasant as her son, and Annabelle was not amused once she realized what this was about, and that instead of responding to her letter, his mother had just shown up and barged in.

  “I waited six years to contact you,” Annabelle said coldly, “because I didn’t want to contact you at all.” She could be just as blunt as Lady Winshire was herself. She looked to be about seventy years old, which seemed roughly the right age, since Harry would have been in his early thirties by then. She had guessed him to be about her own age the night that she was raped. “I wrote to you because my daughter was upset about not having a grandmother. She couldn’t understand why we’d never met you. And I said her father and I were married for a short time, at the front, and then he was killed. So you and I never had time to meet. This is very awkward for me too.”

  “Were you married to my son?” Lady Winshire looked appalled.

  Annabelle quietly shook her head. “No, we were no
t. I only met him once.” Saying that gave his mother a very poor impression of her, but she didn’t think that the woman, however disagreeable, needed to know that her son was a rapist. It seemed to Annabelle that she and Consuelo both deserved to keep their illusions, so she was leaving Lady Winshire’s intact, at her own expense. “I’d rather my daughter continue to believe that we were married. I’d like to at least give her that.”

  “Were you a doctor then?” Lady Winshire asked with sudden interest.

  Annabelle shook her head again. “No, I wasn’t. I was a medic, attached to the ambulance corps.”

  “How did you meet him?” Something in her eyes softened. She’d lost both her sons in the war and was no stranger to loss or pain.

  “It’s not important,” Annabelle answered quietly, wishing she hadn’t come. “We never really knew each other. My daughter was an accident.”

  “What kind of accident?” She was like a dog with a bone. And Annabelle was the bone.

  Annabelle sighed before she answered, trying to figure out how much to say. Surely not the truth. “He had a lot to drink.”

  Lady Winshire didn’t look surprised. “He always did. Harry always drank too much, and did a lot of stupid things when he did.” Her eyes bored into Annabelle’s. “How stupid was he with you?”

  Annabelle smiled, wondering if his mother thought she was trying to blackmail her, and decided to reassure her again. “I don’t want anything from you.”

  “That’s not the point. If that’s the case, then I have a right to know how badly my son behaved.”

  “Why? What difference does it make?” Annabelle spoke with quiet dignity.

  “You’re a very generous woman,” Lady Winshire said calmly, sitting back in the chair. She looked like she was there to stay, until she had the truth. “But I also knew my son. My son Edward was nearly a saint. Harry was the devil in our lives. Adorable as a child, and badly behaved as a man. Sometimes very badly behaved. It didn’t improve when he drank. I think I know most of the stories about him.” She sighed then. “I wanted to come and see you, because no one has ever said to me that there was a child. I was very suspicious of you when I read your letter. I thought you wanted something. I can see now that you’re an honest woman, and you’re as suspicious of me now, as I was of you.” The old woman smiled a wintry smile and ran a hand down her many pearls. “I hesitated to come,” she admitted. “I didn’t want to get embroiled with some dreadful vulgar woman, who has some gutter brat she pretends was spawned by my son. But clearly, that’s not the case with you, and I have the strong feeling that your entire encounter with my son was unpleasant, or worse, and I don’t want to be a reminder of that for you.”

  “Thank you,” Annabelle said, appreciating everything she’d just heard. And then Lady Winshire stunned her with what she said.

  “Did he rape you?” she asked bluntly. Apparently, she knew her son well. There was an endless hesitation in the room, and finally Annabelle nodded, sorry to tell her the truth.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry,” the older woman said more gently. “It’s not the first time I’ve heard that,” she continued, with motherly regret. “I don’t know what went wrong.” Her eyes were filled with sorrow as she and Annabelle looked at each other. “What do we do now? I have to admit, I was afraid of what I would find here, but I also couldn’t resist seeing my own grandchild, if there truly was one. Both my sons are dead. My husband died of pneumonia last spring. And neither of my sons ever married, nor had children. Until you.” There were tears in her eyes, as Annabelle looked at her with compassion.

  “Would you like to meet Consuelo?” She warned her then, though it didn’t matter, since she was making no claims on his estate, “She doesn’t look like him. She looks like me.”

  “I’d say that could prove to be a great blessing,” the old woman said, smiling. She stood up with some difficulty and used her cane.

  Annabelle rose too, came around her desk, and led Lady Winshire out of the office, after telling Hélène where they were going. Fortunately, she had a break in her scheduled patients. The two women walked through the courtyard toward the main part of the house. She knew that Consuelo would be home from school by then, and she let herself in with her key, still wearing her doctor’s coat. Lady Winshire marched up the steps, outside the house, and stood looking around the front hall as they walked in.

  “You have a very pretty home,” she said politely. She was impressed by everything she saw. Annabelle had good taste, and an obvious history with fine things.

  “Thank you,” Annabelle said, and led her into the main living room. She then ran up the stairs to get her daughter. She told her they had a guest and she wanted her to say hello. But she didn’t want to say more.

  As Annabelle and Consuelo came down the stairs, they were chatting animatedly with each other, and holding hands. At the bottom Consuelo stopped, smiled shyly at their guest, curtsied, and went to shake her hand. The child was obviously extremely polite and well behaved, and Lady Winshire glanced approvingly at Annabelle over Consuelo’s head.

  “How do you do, Consuelo,” she said, as the child took in the huge hat and many strands of pearls.

  “Your hat is very pretty,” the little girl said, staring at it as the older woman smiled.

  “That’s a very nice thing to say. It’s a bit of a silly old hat, but I like it. And you’re a very pretty girl.” She had never had a grandchild before, and hadn’t spoken to a child in years. “I came all the way from England to see you,” she went on as Consuelo stared. “Do you know who I am?” she asked gently, and Consuelo shook her head. “I’m the grandma you’ve never met. I’m your father’s mother.” Consuelo’s eyes grew wide as she looked over her shoulder at her mother and then back at her grandmother. “I’m sorry we’ve never met before. That won’t happen anymore,” Lady Winshire said solemnly. She had never seen such an enchanting child, and her manners were exquisite. “I brought some photographs with me of your father when he was a little boy. Would you like to see them?” Consuelo nodded and sat down next to her on the couch, as Lady Winshire took a stack of faded photographs out of her bag, while Annabelle quietly went to ask Brigitte to make tea.

  Lady Winshire stayed with them for over an hour, and when Consuelo went back upstairs with Brigitte, she congratulated Annabelle for having such a lovely child.

  “She’s a wonderful little girl,” her mother agreed.

  “My son didn’t know how lucky he was to run into someone like you, and leave such a sweet little girl in the world.” She was looking at Annabelle with gratitude and compassion. She had fallen in love with Consuelo at first sight. It would have been hard not to, and for the first time Annabelle was glad she’d come, instead of just writing back. It had been a lovely gift for Consuelo too. “I’m sorry he was so bad to you. There was a sweet side of him. I’m sorry you never knew it. This must have been very hard for you at first.”

  Annabelle nodded. “I stayed at the hospital as long as I could, and then I went to Antibes. Consuelo was born there.”

  “And your family is in the States?” It seemed odd to her that Annabelle was practicing medicine in Paris instead of at home, although the child had obviously complicated things for her.

  “My family is gone,” Annabelle said simply. “They all died before I came here. It’s just Consuelo and I.” Lady Winshire was alone in the world now too. And in an odd way, now they had each other.

  She finally stood up, and took Annabelle’s hand in her own. “Thank you for this most extraordinary gift,” she said with tears in her eyes. “It’s a little piece of Harry I can hang on to, and Consuelo is a very special child on her own.” And with that, she hugged Annabelle and kissed her on the cheek. Annabelle helped her down the stairs to the car and driver waiting for her outside. She suddenly looked even older than she had when she arrived. And she smiled at Annabelle again before she left, and gently slipped something into her hand. “This is for you, my dear. You’ve e
arned it. It’s a very small thing.” Annabelle tried to resist, without even looking at it, but Lady Winshire insisted. The two women hugged again, and Annabelle felt as though they had a new friend, a kind of wonderful old eccentric aunt. She was glad she’d written to her now. It had been the right thing to do, for them all.

  She waved as Lady Winshire drove away, and only after she had left did Annabelle look at the object in the palm of her hand. She had sensed that it was a ring, but she was in no way prepared for the kind of ring it was. It was a beautiful old emerald of enormous proportions, in an antique diamond setting. Annabelle was stunned. It looked like the rings her own grandmother had worn, which were still in the vault at the bank in New York. But she slipped the ring on her finger with the wedding ring she had bought herself. She was deeply touched by the gesture. She would give it to Consuelo one day, but in the meantime she was going to wear it. And as she walked back into her office she thought to herself that they had a grandmother now. She and Consuelo were no longer alone in the world.