She sniffed and wiped her nose with a Kleenex. Julius Beecher, George’s lawyer, who sat beside her, patted her knee. “You okay?” he whispered. She nodded. “Nervous?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.”
“I’m not sure this is the right day to drop the bombshell, Julius,” she hissed, as music began to fill the church.
“I’m afraid there’s no avoiding it. They’re going to find out sooner or later, and besides, you wanted to be here.”
“I know. You’re right. I wanted to be here very much. But I wish I didn’t have to meet his family.”
The choir walked slowly down the aisle singing Mozart’s “Lacrimosa.” Their angelic voices echoed off the stone walls and reverberated into the vaulted ceiling as they rose in a rousing crescendo. The candle flames wavered at the sudden motion that stirred the air, and an unexpected beam of sunlight shone in through the stained-glass windows and fell upon the coffin as it followed slowly behind.
Antoinette could barely contain her emotions; it was as if her heart would burst with grief. She glanced down the pew to where George’s aunts Molly and Hester, one as thin as the other was fat, stood with the same icy poise as the Dowager Lady Frampton. Even Mozart was unable to penetrate their steely armor of self-control. Antoinette was grateful for her sister, Rosamunde, who howled with middle-class vigor in the pew behind.
Antoinette felt a sob catch in her chest. It was impossible to imagine that her vital, active husband was contained within those narrow oaken walls. That soon he’d be buried in the cold earth, all alone without anyone to comfort him, and that she’d never again feel the warmth of his skin and the tenderness of his touch. At that unbearable thought, the tears broke free. She glanced into the pew to see the flint-hard profile of her mother-in-law. But she no longer cared what the old woman thought of her. She had toed the line for George, but now that he was gone, she’d cry her heart out if she wanted to.
When the service was over, the congregation stood while the family filed out. Antoinette walked with Tom, leaning heavily on his arm, while David escorted his grandmother. He passed the pew where the mysterious blonde was dabbing her eyes, but he didn’t allow his gaze to linger. He desperately hoped she’d be coming back for tea.
Outside, the fog had lifted, and patches of blue sky shone with renewed optimism. The grass glistened in fleeting pools of sunlight, and birds chirped once again in the treetops.
“Who’s the blonde?” asked Tom, sidling up to David.
“What blonde?” David replied nonchalantly.
Tom chuckled. “The really hot blonde you couldn’t have failed to noticed about six pews behind. Very foxy. The day is suddenly looking up.”
“Come on, darling. Let’s not linger outside the church,” said Antoinette, longing for the privacy of the car. The two brothers glanced behind them, but the congregation was slow to come out.
Margaret sniffed her impatience. “Take me to the car, David,” she commanded. “I will greet people back at the house.” She strode forward, and David was left no alternative but to escort her down the path. As she carefully lowered her large bottom onto the rear seat, David’s eyes strayed back to the church where the congregation was now spilling out onto the grass. He searched in vain for the white curls in the sea of black. “Come, come, don’t dawdle. Good, here are Joshua and Roberta. Tell them to hurry up. I need a drink.”
“Beautiful service,” said Roberta, climbing in beside Margaret.
“Lovely,” Margaret agreed. “Though Reverend Morley does go on, doesn’t he?”
“They all love the sound of their own voices,” said Joshua.
“That’s why they’re vicars,” Roberta added.
“I thought what he said about Dad being every man’s friend was spot-on,” Joshua continued, getting into the front seat. “He loved people.”
Roberta nodded. “Oh, he was terrifically genial.”
“We certainly gave him a good send-off, didn’t we, Grandma?”
“Yes, he would have enjoyed that,” said Margaret quietly, turning her face to the window.
David returned to Fairfield Park with his mother and Tom. The house was restored to its former splendor now that the sun had burnt away the fog. Bertie and Wooster, the Great Danes, were waiting for them on the steps. It seemed that the sun had lifted their spirits, too, for they leapt down to the car, wagging their tails.
Harris opened the door, and Mary, who cleaned for Lady Frampton, stood in the hall with her daughter, Jane, bearing trays of wine. The fire had warmed the place at last, and sunlight tumbled in through the large latticed windows. The house felt very different from the one they had left a couple of hours before, as if it had accepted its master’s passing and was ready to embrace the new order.
David and Tom stood by the drawing room fire. David had helped himself to a whiskey while Tom sipped a glass of Burgundy and smoked a sneaky cigarette—his mother and grandmother abhorred smoking inside, probably one of the only opinions they had in common. Little by little the room filled with guests, and the air grew hot and stuffy. At first the atmosphere was heavy, but after a glass or two of wine the conversations moved on from George and his untimely death, and they began to laugh again.
Both brothers looked out for the mysterious blonde. David had the advantage of being tall, so he could see over the herd, but, more dutiful than his brother, he found himself trapped in conversation first with Great Aunt Hester and then with Reverend Morley. Tom had thrown his cigarette butt into the fire and leaned against the mantelpiece, rudely looking over Great Aunt Molly’s shoulder as she tried to ask him about the nightclub he ran in London.
At last the mystery guest drifted into view, like a swan among moorhens. Tom left Molly in mid conversation; David did his best to concentrate on Reverend Morley’s long-winded story, while anxiously trying to extricate himself.
Phaedra suddenly felt very nervous. She took a big gulp of wine and stepped into the crowd. Julius cupped her elbow, determined not to lose her, and gently pushed her deeper into the throng. She swept her eyes about the room. What she could see of it was very beautiful. The ceilings were high, with grand moldings and an impressive crystal chandelier that dominated the room and glittered like thousands of teardrops. Paintings hung on silk-lined walls in gilded frames, and expensive-looking objects clustered on tables. Tasseled shades glowed softly above Chinese porcelain lamps, and a magnificent display of purple orchids sat on the grand piano among family photographs in silver frames. It looked as if generations of Framptons had collected beautiful things from all over the world and laid them down regardless of color or theme. The floor was a patchwork of rugs, cushions were heaped on sofas, pictures hung in tight collages, a library of books reached as high as the ceiling, and glass-topped cabinets containing collections of enamel pots and ivory combs gave the room a Victorian feel. Nothing matched, and yet everything blended in harmony. George’s life had been here, with his family, and she hadn’t been a part of it. Just as she was about to cry again, Tom’s grinning face appeared before her like the Cheshire cat.
“Hello, I’m Tom,” he said, extending his hand. His eyes twinkled at her flirtatiously. “I’ve been wondering who you are.”
She smiled, grateful for his friendliness. “I’m Phaedra Chancellor,” she replied.
“American,” he said, raising an eyebrow in surprise.
“Canadian, actually.”
“Ah, Canadian.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“No, I like Canadians, actually.”
She laughed at the languid way he dragged his vowels. “That’s lucky.”
“Hello, Tom,” interrupted Julius. The two men shook hands. “Lovely service,” he said.
“Yes, it really was, very lovely,” Phaedra agreed. Tom didn’t think he had ever seen such startlingly beautiful eyes. They were a clear gray-blue, almost turquoise, framed by thick lashes and set wide apart, giving her face a charming innocence.
“So how did you know my father?” he asked.
Phaedra glanced anxiously at Julius. “Well . . .” she began.
Just as she was about to answer, David appeared, and her words caught in her throat. “Ah, there you are, Tom,” said David, but his eyes fell on Phaedra, and he smiled casually, as if he had chanced upon bumping into her. “I’m David,” he said. His gaze lingered at last, drinking in her beauty as if it were ambrosia.
“Phaedra Chancellor,” she replied, putting out her hand. He took it, enjoying for an extended moment the warmth of her skin.
“Hello, David,” interrupted Julius, and reluctantly David let go of her hand. “Where’s Lady Frampton?”
“Oh, hello, Julius. I didn’t see you there.”
“Well, I am here,” said Julius testily; he was very sensitive about being five feet seven and three-quarter inches short. “I need to speak to her. You’re tall, David. See if you can spot her from your lofty height.”
David looked down at Julius’s shiny bald head and red, sweating brow, and thought how Dickensian he looked in his black suit and tie. “She’s not in here. Perhaps she’s in the hall.”
“Then let’s go and find her. I want her to meet Phaedra.”
Tom and David both wished Julius would go and find their mother on his own, but the portly lawyer put his arm around Phaedra’s waist and escorted her out into the hall. Curious and furious, the two brothers followed after.
They finally found Antoinette in the library with her elder sister, Rosamunde. Wineglasses in hand, they were standing by George’s desk, talking in low voices. “Ah, you’ve found me hiding,” said Antoinette, composing herself. It was clear that she had been crying again.
“We came in here for a little peace. It’s very busy out there,” Rosamunde explained in her deep, strident voice, hoping they’d take the hint and go away.
Antoinette saw the stranger in their midst and stiffened. “Hello,” she said, dabbing her eyes. “Have we met before?”
“No, we haven’t,” Phaedra replied.
“Phaedra Chancellor,” David cut in, dazed by the force of her allure.
“Oh.” Antoinette smiled politely. “And how . . .” She frowned, not wanting to be rude.
Julius seized the moment. “My dear Lady Frampton, I wasn’t sure that this was the right time to introduce you. But I know that Lord Frampton was very keen that you should meet. In fact, he was planning it when . . . well . . .” He cleared his throat. “I know this is what he’d want.”
“I don’t understand.” Antoinette looked bewildered. “How is Miss Chancellor connected to my husband?”
Phaedra looked to Julius for guidance. He nodded discreetly. She took a breath, knowing instinctively that her answer would be neither expected, nor welcomed. But she thought of her beloved George and plunged in.
“I’m his daughter,” she said, fighting the impulse to flee. “George was my father.”
2
Antoinette stared in horror at the strange blond girl who stood before her, claiming to be her stepdaughter. Her first thought was how young she looked, possibly younger than David, which would mean that George had been unfaithful early on in their marriage. She wrung her hands anxiously but was too shocked to cry.
“I really don’t think this is the time or place—” Rosamunde began, taking off her glasses, but Antoinette stopped her.
“How old are you, Phaedra?” she asked.
“I’m thirty-one,” the girl replied, dropping her eyes. She didn’t look much older than twenty-one.
“I need to sit down.” Antoinette grabbed her sister’s hand. The relief that George hadn’t been unfaithful was overwhelming.
Rosamunde guided her to an armchair in front of the fire while Tom remained staring at his new sister with a mixture of surprise and amusement. David felt as if the world had just spun away from him. How could it be that a few simple words had put her forever out of his reach? “Are you sure you’re my father’s daughter?” he asked, hoping there might be some mistake.
“Absolutely sure,” Julius replied firmly. “Lord Frampton and Phaedra had their DNA tested before Lord Frampton changed his will.”
They all stared at him in astonishment. “George changed his will?” Antoinette gasped. Rosamunde gave a disapproving snort. “But he never told me anything about it.”
“He wanted to include his daughter, Lady Frampton.”
“But surely he would have told me.”
Tom strode over to the club fender and took his mother’s hand. “This is all very sudden. Was it really necessary to tell us the day of Dad’s funeral? Can’t you see Mother’s upset?”
“Tom is right. I think it’s unbelievably tactless to barge in like this,” Rosamunde agreed, putting her hands on her sturdy hips. “I think you should go away and come back another time, when Lady Frampton is better disposed to speak to you.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve been very thoughtless . . .” Phaedra began, looking pained. She caught David’s eyes but looked away sharply, as if she saw the longing in them and was afraid.
“Lord Frampton wanted Phaedra to become part of the family,” Julius explained with an air of authority. “We talked about it at length. Phaedra has a right to be here today, but it would have been odd not to have introduced you, and natural for you to have wondered who she is and how she is connected to Lord Frampton. We were left with no choice but to tell you the truth.”
Antoinette gazed into the fire, fighting her distress. “George always wanted a daughter.”
“How long have you known that George is your father, Phaedra?” Rosamunde demanded.
“About eighteen months,” the girl replied.
“Eighteen months?” Tom echoed. “Dad kept you quiet that long?”
Phaedra sighed, finding it hard to explain. “About two years ago the man who was my father for the first ten years of my life died. My mom decided then to tell me that he wasn’t my biological father, as I had thought, and that my real father was George Frampton. So I decided to track him down, not knowing whether he’d want to meet me. I came to the U.K. and found him. At first he didn’t believe me. It was a little awkward, to say the least. I left him my details and returned to Paris, where I was living, thinking I’d never hear from him again. About three months later he called me back. We agreed to meet, and, well, the rest is history.”
“I find it hard to believe that George kept such a big secret from me,” said Antoinette. “And for so long. We had no secrets, or so I thought.”
Phaedra smiled, and the sweetness in her face seemed to soften the tension in the room. “He kept me secret because he was so frightened of hurting you. He was devoted to you.”
“Well, his fears were founded,” said Rosamunde.
Antoinette bit her bottom lip. “Did your mother love him, too?”
“He was the love of her life.” Phaedra flushed and lowered her eyes. “But she was not his.”
At that moment the door opened and Margaret strode in. “I’m going home,” she announced, ignoring the fact that she might be interrupting. She swept her imperious gaze over the solemn faces and sucked in her cheeks. “My goodness, has someone else died?”
“I think I’ll go,” said Phaedra.
“Let me escort you out,” David suggested.
“I’ll go with you,” interjected Julius.
“No, really, I can find my own way out. Thank you.” She turned to Antoinette. “I’m sorry to have barged in like this. It’s been very nice meeting you all, finally. I just want you to know that I loved him, too.” With that she strode past Margaret and disappeared down the corridor.
“Who was that rude girl?” Margaret demanded.
“Your granddaughter,” Antoinette replied.
It was Margaret’s turn to sink into the sofa. David handed her a glass of sherry, and Tom opened a window. “It’s not true!”
“He was going to tell us, apparently,” said Antoinette numbly.
“It’s
absurd. A daughter we never knew about.”
“She’s from America,” said Rosamunde.
“From Canada, actually,” Tom corrected.
Margaret looked horrified. “She’s American? Good God, I have an American granddaughter?” Her face hardened. “I simply don’t believe it.”
“It’s been proven,” said Antoinette. “Ask Mr. Beecher.”
“Indeed it has, Lady Frampton,” Julius confirmed. “A DNA test verified that Phaedra is Lord Frampton’s biological daughter.”
“He’s included her in his will,” Antoinette added.
“He’s changed his will? Did you know about this?” Margaret rounded on her daughter-in-law.
“No one but Lord Frampton and I knew about the will,” interjected Julius pompously. “As his lawyer it was my job to arrange it. Phaedra had no idea he was including her until I informed her at the time I informed her of his death.”
“So she lives in England, does she?” Margaret sniffed.
“For the time being she’s staying at a friend’s house in London,” Julius replied. “Though I understand she’ll be returning to Paris shortly.”
“What does she do?”
“She’s a photographer.”
“Doesn’t she have a proper job?” Margaret snapped.
“Photography is a proper job, Grandma,” David interrupted.
“Does it make her any money?” Margaret persisted. “Or was my son keeping her?”
Julius hesitated.
Antoinette looked worried. “Mr. Beecher?”
“Lord Frampton was very keen to be a father to Phaedra,” he replied carefully. “But it is fair to say that the girl is very independent. She never asked anything of him besides friendship.”
“Really, this is all very odd,” Margaret declared, taking a large swig of sherry.
“What are we going to do?” Antoinette asked.
“Do?” Margaret retorted. “Why do we have to do anything?”
The Woman from Paris Page 2