“You look fine just the way you are.” Rosamunde thought a little rouge was all a woman needed to enhance her looks.
“She might advise me on my hair.”
“What’s wrong with your hair?”
“Oh, nothing’s wrong. I’m just rather bored with it, that’s all.”
“You’ve had it like that for thirty years, why change it now?”
“I don’t know. I’m just being silly, really.” She put down her cup and sat back into the sofa. “George is gone; my life has taken an unexpected turn. I feel I want to change with it.”
“And change is good. But I like your hair. It’s you,” Rosamunde insisted.
“But who am I?”
“What do you mean, who are you? You’re Antoinette Frampton.” Rosamunde looked confused.
“Yes, I’m Antoinette Frampton. I’ve been Antoinette Frampton for over thirty years. But who is Antoinette?”
Now Rosamunde looked worried. “I’m not sure what you mean. Do you think Harris could dig out some of Mrs. Gunice’s shortbread biscuits?”
“Of course.” Antoinette got up and pulled a tasseled cord to the right of the fireplace. A moment later Harris appeared in the doorway. “Ah Harris, would you bring us some of Mrs. Gunice’s shortbreads?”
“Certainly, Lady Frampton,” he replied.
Rosamunde smiled in anticipation. “They really are delish!” she enthused.
“What were we talking about?” Antoinette asked.
“You were looking for Antoinette,” Rosamunde replied ironically.
“Yes, Phaedra got me thinking. I’ve been a wife and mother for so long I’ve lost myself along the way. I know it sounds silly, but I’m a people pleaser. I always have been. I’ve always sacrificed my own desires to put George first. Now he’s not here, it’s like the scaffolding’s come down and I’m left with nothing but me. What do I want? I’m not sure I know.”
“I think you do.”
“No, Rosamunde, you don’t understand. I really don’t. I wake up in the morning, and I don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t know what the day is going to hold. When George was alive, I knew where I stood. I could plan. Now I have no structure. No one to tell me when we’re having dinner, or when we’re going to the ballet, or when I’m expected to be in London for a cocktail party. I’m not filling the house with his friends on weekends, or taking his suits to the cleaners. I’m free, but my freedom makes me feel lost. Do you see?”
“Yes, I think I do.”
“I can’t drift forever.”
“You’ll sort yourself out.”
“I’ve got to do something constructive.”
“Like what?”
“Exactly.” Antoinette looked defeated. “Like what?”
At that moment Harris entered with a tray of shortbread biscuits. He bent down and offered them to Rosamunde first, for he had noticed the way she had polished off the lot during the meeting with Julius Beecher. Rosamunde took a bite. The sweet, buttery taste melted on her tongue, and she let out a little moan. “Oh, these really are terribly good. Thank you, Harris. You can leave the plate here.” He put it down on the coffee table and left the room.
Rosamunde’s shoulders dropped, and she no longer felt so tense. Antoinette was simply reacting in the way all recently widowed women react when suddenly faced with an uncertain future. “Why don’t you learn to play bridge?”
“Gracious, no. George tried to teach me to play bridge, but I never got it. I don’t like it, either.”
“You could get involved in charity.”
“I already support charities, but if you mean sitting on committees, think again. I’m not suited to it. I’m too reserved. Charities are full of women like Margaret.”
“I do see.” Rosamunde reached for another biscuit. “They need dynamic, formidable women to doggedly raise funds. You are very well connected, though.”
“I’d rather give discreetly and not pester my friends.” Antoinette smiled wistfully. “When I was young, I wanted to have a boutique.”
“My dear, you can’t be a shopkeeper. You’re a lady.”
“Isn’t it every little girl’s dream to have a shop?”
“You’re no longer a little girl. And yes, it’s an old cliché.” Rosamunde laughed. “What would you sell in your shop?”
“I don’t know. It’s just fantasy.”
“You could get involved in the church.”
“Margaret is already there. I could redecorate the house,” she suggested, brightening.
“That would send Margaret to an early grave, wouldn’t it?”
“A house is for living in. It’s not a museum.”
“Try telling that to your mother-in-law.”
Antoinette shrugged helplessly. “Then I don’t know what to do with myself.”
“Give it time,” said Rosamunde. “And have a biscuit. They’re marvelous.”
The following day, Rosamunde returned home to Dorset to see her dogs. Antoinette put on her boots and coat and took Bertie and Wooster out into the garden. The days were longer now, the sunshine warm upon her face and so bright she needed to wear sunglasses. The light uplifted her, and she inhaled the sweet scent of regeneration that rose up from the compost in the herbaceous border along with awakening shrubs and emerging bulbs. Puddles of blue windflowers glistened beneath the chestnut trees, and daffodils lifted their yellow skirts to the sun. Blue tits flew in and out of the bushes, and the trees were ringing with birdsong. The earth was reawakening, and she hadn’t even noticed.
She found Barry pottering around the borders. “Good morning, Lady Frampton,” he said. Beneath his cap, his head was a mass of tight white curls, like a sheep.
“Barry, I’m sorry I’ve been very disinterested in the garden lately . . .”
“That’s understandable, Lady Frampton.”
“I know, but the garden is a healing place. It will do me good to spend more time in it.” She smiled at the unassuming man who had looked after the grounds for as long as she had lived at Fairfield, and felt a sudden impulse to get her hands dirty as she had in the early days when she’d been young and full of enthusiasm. “Let’s walk around and you can show me what you’re doing. Now spring is here I’d like to be involved.”
“Very good, ma’am,” he replied jovially, unable to conceal his delight. “Well, let’s start in the walled garden, then. You won’t be wanting for greens this summer. Oh no, I’m planning a bumper harvest.” And he accompanied her across the grounds to the vegetable garden, contained within an ancient red-brick wall. The weather-beaten oak gate opened with a groan, and they stepped beneath the archway into a low maze of neatly trimmed plots and gravel pathways bordered with lavender or box. In the center was a circular stone shelter to sit in and admire the garden, but Antoinette had never had time for that. It looked peaceful and tempting in the sunshine.
Barry proudly showed her around each section, pointing to the first signs of emerging asparagus and artichoke; the neatly planted rows of beetroots, carrots, and beans; and the heaped mounds where the potatoes would appear before long. There were iron frames arching over the pathways where sweet peas would bloom, later scrambling up the climbing roses and clematis. “I know deep purple is your favorite sweet pea,” he told her with a grin. “I’ll make sure we have plenty of them this summer.”
As Barry chatted on, Antoinette’s enthusiasm began to grow. When George was alive, she had been so busy in the house that she hadn’t had the time to take much of an interest in the gardens. Barry, with the help of his small band of local lads, kept the estate looking beautiful, and visitors had always admired the immaculate borders and potted plants, but Antoinette had never presumed to take credit for any of it. Barry had been head gardener for over forty years and knew better than anyone how best to look after the grounds.
When she’d moved in as the young Mrs. George Frampton, the gardens had been the only part of Fairfield she’d been able to affect. She’d taken such pleasure in p
lanting with Barry. They’d gone to the garden center together and bought hundreds of tulips, then spent an entire week pressing them into the ground either side of the lime walk. When they’d shot up that first spring, she felt she’d performed a miracle. It looked like the parting of the Red Sea. She smiled now at the memory. How quickly her life had changed. The children had arrived, George had grown more demanding, and somehow the gardens had been forgotten, along with that almost divine sense of joy.
“Let’s go to the garden center, Barry,” she said, riding the sudden wave of excitement.
“Right now?”
“Yes. No time to lose.”
“What do you want to buy?”
“I don’t know. Anything, everything, whatever catches my eye.”
“Very good.”
“Oh, do you remember the fun we had, Barry?”
“I do, indeed, ma’am.”
“I want to do it again. I want to get my hands dirty and watch things grow.” She laughed at the sight of his bewildered face. “I must sound very silly, Barry. I’m not a young woman anymore. But I think the gardens are going to make me feel very happy.”
“Oh, they’ll do that all right,” he replied.
“I’m not treading on your toes, am I?” she asked, at once apprehensive. “I don’t want you to think I’m going to take over.”
He chuckled. “Treading on my toes, Lady Frampton? Why, I’ve waited years for you to come home,” he added softly.
17
The following day Rosamunde returned to Fairfield to find her sister on her knees in the orchard, planting new fruit trees. It had taken a full fifteen minutes to find her, shouting at the top of her lungs until the dogs had rushed out through the hedge and barked as if she were an intruder.
“Good gracious, Antoinette! What on earth are you doing?” Rosamunde exclaimed when she saw her sister’s muddy knees and ruddy cheeks.
“I’m planting,” Antoinette replied proudly. “Barry and I went off to the garden center, not the small one in Fairfield, but the really big one at Bristlemere. They had to deliver because we bought too much to fit into the car. Look at this darling peach tree. Can you imagine, Rosamunde, we’re going to have peaches!”
“Does Barry need an extra pair of hands? I thought he had an army of young men to help him!”
Antoinette laughed. “I want to do it, silly.”
“Look at the state of you! You’re covered in mud.”
Antoinette grinned up at her. “You should see your face.”
“I’m just surprised, that’s all.”
“I haven’t had so much fun in years!” Antoinette picked up the young tree and pulled it gently out of its pot. “In it goes.” Rosamunde watched as she loosened the roots then placed it carefully in the hole she had dug. “There, a nice new home for you, Mr. Peach Tree.” She sat back on her haunches and wiped her brow with the back of her hand, smearing a streak of mud across her skin. “Do you remember, when we were children, planting pots of hyacinths with Mother?”
“Of course. I love hyacinths.”
“And you’d always dig up the garden and come in top to toe in mud.”
“Yes, and you were always very prissy and clean, if I remember rightly.”
“Well, I think you had more fun than I did.”
“Most certainly. Children love playing in mud.”
“So I’m making up for lost time. Barry’s gone off to fetch another one. They’re all lined up at the back of the house. Ten of them.”
“All peaches?”
“No, we have two plums, two apples, two pears, two cherries, and of course, two peaches.”
“If it wasn’t for my stiff hip, I’d get down on my knees and help you.”
“I know you would. But you can talk to me, instead, and keep me company. Isn’t it a glorious day? Listen to the birds. Why is it that I can hear them in the trees but I can’t see them? Have you ever wondered why? Listen! The branches are alive with them, hundreds of them, yet can you spot a single bird?”
Rosamunde laughed, because it was so uplifting to see her sister happy again. “Perhaps Barry can bring me a chair when he comes back.”
“Yes, one of the garden chairs, it’s about time they came out again and shook off the winter cobwebs. By the way, guess who’s coming for dinner tonight?”
“Margaret.”
“No, not Margaret, though I daresay we’ll be seeing her sometime today.” She grinned up at Rosamunde. “You can wear your new blouse and trousers.”
Rosamunde’s face lit up. “Oh, Dr. Heyworth.”
“Yes, I thought it would be nice to see him and thank him for harboring me in his garden not once but twice, when I was hiding from Margaret.”
“Quite right, he’s a knight in shining armor.”
“I thought you’d be pleased.”
“I’m just enjoying a mild flirtation. Really, it’s nothing more than that.”
“Are you sure you’re telling the truth? It’s me you’re talking to, remember.”
“Good gracious, I’m too old for anything more—and set in my ways, too. But a little flirting is good for one’s morale.”
Antoinette began to fill the hole with a mixture of earth and compost. “It’s been over thirty years since I last enjoyed a flirtation. I wouldn’t know how to do it.”
“Isn’t it like riding a bicycle?”
“I’m not sure I could do that, either.” She flattened the earth with her hands. “I can’t imagine ever being with anyone but George.”
“You’re still young.”
“Widow is a horrid word, I think.”
“You don’t have to remain single for the rest of your life.”
Antoinette stood up and stretched her legs. “Look at me, Rosamunde. I’m not fit for anyone.”
“Well, not with a splodge of mud on your face.”
“And I’m not sure I’ll ever want anyone.”
“Oh, that may change in the years to come.”
“No, Rosamunde,” Antoinette insisted firmly. “I’ll always belong to George.”
By the end of the day Antoinette had successfully planted all ten fruit trees. Barry had dug the holes, and she had done the rest. Rosamunde had sat on a garden chair and kept her sister company, while the sun moved slowly above them in a cloudless sky and Bertie and Wooster slept lazily at her feet.
Antoinette bathed and changed for dinner. She felt lighter in her heart, and she hummed as she moved about the bedroom, choosing her clothes and drying her hair. The garden had restored her spirit and given her cheeks a healthy radiance. Gone was the gray pallor in her skin, and her eyes sparkled with happiness—she never thought she’d feel happy ever again. She had assumed George had taken it with him; after all, hadn’t her happiness been tied into his?
Today she had tasted freedom—freedom from cares, from schedules, from plans and commitments. Today she had ambled about the gardens, savoring the wind that stirred her hair and brushed her face with gentle fingers, the delightful clamor of birds and the warm sunshine that was so full of love it penetrated her disconsolate heart and filled it up until it was ready to burst. Nature had restored her faith in her own abilities. Today she realized she’d manage on her own after all.
Antoinette went downstairs to find Rosamunde already in the drawing room sitting in one of the armchairs, doing her needlepoint. She was wearing her new slacks and floral silk blouse tied at the neck in a loose bow. “You look lovely,” said Antoinette.
“And you look a lot better without that muddy smear across your face.”
Antoinette smiled broadly. “I had such a nice day today. Really, it was a perfect day.”
“And no sight of Margaret. Very unusual not to get a visit.”
“I hope she’s all right.”
“Of course she’s all right.”
“It’s just rather strange not to see her. She tends to come up daily. And she did have that strange turn the other day.”
“Do you want to call
her?”
Antoinette brushed her worries aside. “No, I’ll call her tomorrow. Dr. Heyworth will be here any minute.”
Harris appeared in the doorway. “Can I get you a drink, Lady Frampton?”
“Yes, that would be very nice. I’ll have a vodka tonic, thank you.”
“A vodka tonic?” Rosamunde repeated in surprise.
“I’m living dangerously,” Antoinette replied.
“You certainly are. Well, if you’re going to have one, then so will I.” Harris walked across the room to the drinks table. George had always insisted it should be well stocked, with all the spirits in pretty crystal decanters, each clearly labeled with a little chained dog tag. “It’s been years since I had a cocktail.”
“I never liked vodka,” said Antoinette.
“Then why are you having some now?”
“Because I’m a new person, Rosamunde.”
By the time Dr. Heyworth arrived, both women were halfway through their cocktails. Harris opened the door and showed the doctor into the hall, taking his coat and hanging it over his arm before accompanying him into the drawing room. “Lady Frampton, Dr. Heyworth is here.” Antoinette stood up to greet him as Bertie and Wooster rushed over, nearly knocking him down in the doorway.
“What an enthusiastic welcome,” said Dr. Heyworth, patting Wooster’s head.
“Dogs like you, Dr. Heyworth,” said Rosamunde, striding across the carpet to rescue him. “You know, that says a great deal about you.”
“All good, I hope,” he replied, shaking Rosamunde’s hand. She pulled the dogs off him, and the doctor managed to squeeze past them into the room. He turned his attention to Antoinette, who remained by the armchair, and his face broke into a wide smile. “You look well, Lady Frampton.”
“I feel very well today,” she replied. “I’ve been in the garden all day, planting trees.”
“It’s done you a lot of good. You’ve got your color back.”
“That could be the cocktail.” She arched an eyebrow.
He laughed. “Ah yes, that might have something to do with it.”
“What would you like to drink, Dr. Heyworth?” she asked, as Harris returned, having put the doctor’s coat away.
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