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 agree
d. 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.
“Good. Do you live nearby?”
“In Dorset, about an hour away. But I’ll stay here for as long as she wants me to.”
The doctor nodded his approval. “I’m very pleased to hear it.”
By now Wooster had slid to the floor in a happy slumber, with his head resting on Dr. Heyworth’s feet. Dr. Heyworth bent down and stroked his ear. It twitched with pleasure. “How are the boys?” he asked Antoinette.
She took a deep breath, calmer now. “David is dealing with it in his own quiet way. Tom comes across as not really caring very much, but I know he’s dreadfully sad. As you’ll appreciate, he’s not very good at coping with problems. So he puts his head under the carpet and pretends that everything is all right. I’d rather that than the alternative.”
“He’s avoiding alcohol?”
Antoinette picked at the ragged cuticle on her thumb. “He drank at the funeral, as one would expect. But generally he’s being very careful. This is a testing time for him, but he’s being very strong.”
“And Joshua?”
“He’s so uncomfortable with emotion, he’d rather move on as swiftly as possible and get on with his life.”
“This has been very tough on you all. When death happens so unexpectedly, there’s no time to prepare for it. It’s a great shock. And an accident like Lord Frampton’s seems unnecessary. It’s natural to feel angry, too, Lady Frampton.”
Antoinette’s face livened as the doctor articulated what she was too ashamed to admit: that she resented her husband’s lack of caution as he had selfishly sought pleasure without any apparent concern for those who loved him.
Dr. Heyworth knew he had touched a nerve. He stood up. “You can come to see me any time,” he said to Antoinette. “Sometimes it helps to talk to someone who is not in the family. I’m always here for you, Lady Frampton.”
Antoinette saw the sympathy in his eyes and knew that he meant it. In fact, he seemed to understand why she was cold all the time and how hard she was trying to act normally, when she just wanted to curl up into a ball and cry. He hadn’t said a great deal, but she could sense in his expression the words left unspoken, and was grateful. “I’d like that very much,” she replied.
“I’m not at my practice anymore, but you’re welcome to come to my home. I occasionally see patients there, and it works very well. I’ve looked after your family for over thirty years. I hope you consider me a friend as well as a doctor. You can call me any time.”
He bade good-bye to Rosamunde, and Antoinette walked him through the hall. Harris helped the doctor into his coat and opened the door. “Thank you so much for coming,” she said, folding her arms against the cold although the sun shone bright and warm. He waved and climbed into his Volvo.
As he departed she saw the formidable figure of her mother-in-law striding purposefully across the field beyond the drive with Basil, her Yorkshire terrier, scurrying around in the grass like a large mouse. Margaret was wearing a long olive-green coat, headscarf, and boots, and carrying a stick, although at the rate she was moving she clearly didn’t need it for support. Antoinette dashed back inside to wipe her face and compose herself, but she knew there was no point running to hide. Margaret always knew where to find her.
4
Batten down the hatches, the Grand High Witch is coming to pay us a visit!” Antoinette announced, hurrying back into the drawing room. “Oh, for some special Mouse-Maker to drop into her tea!”
“And a cat to catch her!” added Rosamunde. “Roald Dahl was a genius!”
“Shame it’s only fiction.”
“You could always put some sleeping pills in her sherry.”
“You are devious, Rosamunde!”
“Nothing fictitious about them.”
“But she’s indestructible, like a cockroach,” Antoinette replied. “I don’t think she’d notice even a packet of sleeping pills.”
“How does poor Dr. Heyworth cope with having her as a patient?”
“She’s one of those rare people who are never ill. I don’t think she’s been to a doctor since she gave birth, back in the Dark Ages. And even then, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if George just popped out between her cocktail and dinner. But I must tell you that men love her.”
“Men have always been a mystery to me!” Rosamunde exclaimed.
“Yes, she’s a man’s woman, and men think she’s marvelous.” Antoinette sighed heavily. “No one thought her more marvelous than George.”
At that moment a cold gust of wind swept through the hall and into the drawing room. Bertie and Wooster pricked their ears. The sound of little paws clattered across the marble floor as Harris closed the door with a loud bang, and Basil shot into the drawing room like a missile. The Great Danes jumped clumsily to their feet and chased him around the room before heading back into the hall and up the front stairs.
“Be off with you!” resounded through the house, then a few seconds later the large black-clad figure of the Dowager Lady Frampton filled the doorway like a docking ocean liner. She floated there a moment, catching her breath. “Good, you’re here,” she said to Antoinette. “I need to talk to you urgently.”
“You look out of breath.”
“I’ve marched across the field.”
“Why don’t you come and sit down. Would you like a glass of sherry?”
“Harris is going to bring me one.” She marched across the carpet and lowered herself gently into the armchair where Dr. Heyworth had sat only minutes before. “I have
n’t slept a wink for thinking of George’s illegitimate daughter.”
“A sleeping pill might help,” Rosamunde suggested, sucking in her cheeks.
“Good Lord, I don’t need medicine. I need peace of mind.” Rosamunde caught her sister’s eye but looked away instantly for fear of making her smile.
“I’ve been thinking about her, too,” Antoinette agreed.
“Good, I’m pleased you have come to your senses,” Margaret replied. “You see, I’m not about to open my arms to some random girl who claims to be my granddaughter. My son is dead, so there is absolutely no proof that she is who she says she is.”
Antoinette frowned. “Mr. Beecher supervised the DNA test.”
“DNA test, indeed! Have you seen it? Were you there when it was done? Codswallop, if you ask me!”
“She’s your flesh and blood, Margaret, whether you like it or not.”
“She was conceived outside wedlock, brought up in Canada—I don’t think a little bit of shared blood makes any difference at all. And I refuse to believe it. My son would have told me if he had fathered a child. I know he would. He told me everything.”
“Not if he was ashamed,” Antoinette offered.
“He had no reason to be ashamed. He was a very handsome man with a title and a large estate. It is clear to me that some ambitious girl seduced him and tried to extort money from him. Maybe she even wanted to marry him. Who knows? What we do know, however, is that George accepted his daughter only very recently. Why didn’t he accept her when she was a baby?” Margaret sniffed her satisfaction. “Because he probably wasn’t sure the child was his. Or because he didn’t want any further dealings with her mother. He must have decided to change his will in a moment of madness, or guilt. You know how generous he was. When will it be read? I’d like to know how much he has given her.”
The Woman from Paris Page 5