The Woman from Paris

by Santa Montefiore

  “I’d love a glass of wine.”

  “White or red?”

  “White would be nice.” Harris nodded and walked across the rugs to fetch a bottle from the drinks fridge, hidden behind a concealed door built into the bookcase at the far end of the room.

  “Isn’t red better for you?” Rosamunde asked.

  “Yes, but I’m off duty, and besides, I believe the odd small vice is essential for one’s good health.”

  “Lovely,” Antoinette sighed, sinking back into the armchair. “You’re my kind of doctor.”

  The three of them sat around the fire, which Harris had lit every evening since Lord Frampton had died because the house had felt so cold. Antoinette and Rosamunde drained their glasses; Dr. Heyworth sipped his wine more abstemiously. “What is your Christian name?” asked Rosamunde. “Dr. Heyworth does seem very formal, considering we’re all friends having dinner together.” Antoinette frowned. She wasn’t sure she wanted to be on first-name terms with her doctor.

  “William,” he replied, looking a little embarrassed.

  “William,” Rosamunde repeated, as if the name was sweeter than any other. “Now you must call me Rosamunde, William. Doesn’t that sound better?”

  He took another sip of wine. Antoinette thought she could detect the hint of a light blush on his cheeks.

  “You know David, Tom, and Phaedra have all gone to Murenburg together,” she said, changing the subject.

  “How is it going?” he asked.

  “I haven’t heard a squeak. I hope it’s going well. I always think no news is good news.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.”

  “Do you ski, William?” Rosamunde asked. The vodka had made her feel wonderfully confident.

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “Well, neither do I. Isn’t that grand?”

  “It looks great fun, but sadly my parents were not sporty types,” he continued.

  “Was your father a doctor, too?” Antoinette asked.

  “Yes, he was. He’s retired now.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Eighty-nine, and my mother is eighty-three. They are both very healthy, thank God.”

  “Lovely to reach old age in one piece,” Rosamunde agreed. “I hope you’ve inherited their genes, William.”

  “So do I,” he replied. “All one needs in life is good health and good luck.”

  “Neither of which is in our hands,” said Antoinette.

  “Which is why we have to seize the day.” He smiled at her. “Like you did today, Lady Frampton.”

  She smiled back. “I certainly did, Dr. Heyworth, and I am so much the better for it.” She noticed Harris at the door again. “Dinner is ready. Shall we go through?”

  Harris had set a round table in the small sitting room the other side of the hall. There was a fire in the grate and a pot of blue hyacinths in the middle of the table. The room was cozy, with hand-painted floral wallpaper in purple and green, Persian rugs spread over the carpet, and one entire wall completely lined with antiquarian books. The curtains were closed, and the scented candles that were arranged on the sofa table flickered hospitably. It was a friendlier room than the big drawing room, and the three of them settled down to tuck into the dinner of homemade watercress soup followed by duck à l’orange. Rosamunde buttered a large whole-grain roll and took a bite, chewing in wonder at Mrs. Gunice’s culinary talents. The bread was always home baked; the vegetables were fresh and seasonal, straight out of the garden; and the meat was always tender and well hung by the butcher in Fairfield. She hoped the time to move back home would never come.

  Harris poured a light Sauvignon to start, followed by a Bordeaux to accompany the duck. Antoinette had felt a little light-headed after the vodka, so she took care not to drink too much wine and asked Harris to refill her water glass for the second time. Rosamunde, however, was far too excited by the presence of Dr. Heyworth to notice that the wine was now going to her head. She drank heartily and savored every morsel of red cabbage, new Jersey potato, and tender duck breast. The small sitting room had an air of informality, and the three of them laughed and talked, at ease in one another’s company.

  Rosamunde discovered that she and William had much in common. Besides not skiing, they both loved gardening, although Rosamunde was unable to be actively involved any more in the planting. Antoinette praised the doctor’s garden enthusiastically and told Rosamunde about the sweet-smelling Daphne odora that had quite literally stopped her in her tracks the first time she had sneaked into his garden. He also liked horses and used to ride as a young man. Rosamunde took great pleasure in telling him how she had competed as a girl and hunted with the Beaufort. “Antoinette can’t go near horses because of an allergy to them,” she said. “But I lived and breathed them for years, until my hip started to give me trouble. There’s nothing like the feeling of galloping at high speed with the wind in your face and the sight of rolling green fields in front of you. I do miss it.” She sighed and scraped the last bit of duck onto her fork. “Gracious, Mrs. Gunice is a wonder. This is as good a meal as I’ve ever had!”

  For pudding Mrs. Gunice had made the lightest, sweetest, stickiest chocolate mousse Rosamunde had ever tasted. Her senses heightened by the wine, she rolled the first spoonful around her tongue, relishing the slight tang of orange. The taste was so sensual she felt herself swell with the pleasure it gave her. Antoinette noticed her sister’s cheeks flush the color of raspberry jam and her eyes sparkle like a dreamy teenager. She wanted to move her wineglass away but felt it would be humiliating to do so in front of Dr. Heyworth, and there was no way she could do it without being seen. Instead, she could only watch helplessly as Rosamunde became as loose as a slackly wound ball of wool. She laughed with her jaw lax and her body floppy, and her usually stiff posture slouched over her mousse so that her generous bosom rested on the table like a parcel wrapped in silk and tied with a bow.

  When she began to slur her words, Antoinette decided it was time to adjourn to the drawing room for coffee. Perhaps the more formal atmosphere in there would sober her sister up a little. They walked out into the hall, where Harris waited with a tray of tea and coffee. “We’ll have it in the drawing room, Harris,” said Antoinette.

  “I think I’ll go up and powder my snose,” Rosamunde giggled. “I mean my nose.” And she set off up the stairs.

  Antoinette and Dr. Heyworth’s conversation was abruptly halted as they watched Rosamunde reach halfway then falter. She teetered on the step for what felt like a dreadfully long moment, struggling to regain her balance. She waved her arms, shifted her weight, and wobbled alarmingly but to no avail. Very slowly, as if the world had suddenly gone into slow motion, she fell backwards. By some miracle, she managed to turn her body around to fall on her bottom, rather than her back, and rolled down the stairs like a barrel. Dr. Heyworth hurried to catch her as she tumbled onto the floor. Antoinette gasped in horror and found herself unable to move for terror.

  Rosamunde groaned as the pain shot up her left leg and into her lower back. She blinked up at Dr. Heyworth. “God, am I alive?” she mumbled. The room was spinning around her.

  “You’re going to be fine,” he said in a reassuring voice. “Now lie still while I make sure that everything is where it should be.”

  “My left leg hurts,” she murmured. “And . . . well . . . I think I hurt all over.”

  Gently, he removed her shoes and touched her toes. “Can you feel your toes, Rosamunde?”

  She wiggled them. “Yes.”

  “Can you see them moving?”

  “I can see hundreds of toes moving. They’re very busy.”

  “Can you feel your legs?” She was able to move them, too.

  Antoinette stepped closer. “Is anything broken?” she asked in a small voice. She watched the doctor test Rosamunde’s shoulders, arms, and neck.

  “You’ve given yourself a terrible shock and some serious bruising. Let’s get you up to bed,” he said at last.

&
nbsp; Rosamunde was surprised that she could get up so easily. Her body hurt but nothing like as badly as she had imagined. “You were very floppy when you fell, which is why you haven’t sustained any serious damage,” Dr. Heyworth continued as he helped her climb the stairs.

  “I think I drank too much.” She began to tremble all over in shock. “I feel very unsteady.”

  “You’ll feel better when you’re lying down,” he reassured her.

  “Shall I bring some painkillers?” Antoinette asked, wanting to be useful.

  “Yes, please, and some arnica,” the doctor replied, and Antoinette hurried past them to look in the bathroom cabinet. She returned a moment later armed with half the contents of her medicine cupboard.

  Together they settled Rosamunde into bed. She felt very foolish. The evening had started off so well, but now her body was hurt and her pride dented. She let the doctor tuck her in and closed her eyes, hoping the painkillers would kick in soon, but before she could dwell any further on her bruises, or on the dizzy sensation of spinning, the voices receded and the world went dark. She sank deep into that comforting darkness until she was no longer aware of herself.

  “She’ll be very black and blue in the morning,” said Dr. Heyworth, softly closing the door to Rosamunde’s bedroom.

  “In spite of all that arnica?”

  “I’m afraid she’s taken a nasty bang to her side. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if it’s the color of the worst sort of English sky tomorrow.”

  “Oh dear, poor Rosamunde.”

  “How long is she staying with you?”

  “As long as I need her.”

  “Well, she’s going to need you now. I don’t think she’ll be able to go home for at least a week.”

  “Really, that long?”

  “She’ll need looking after. The older we get, the longer we take to heal. I’d hate to think of her having to go out and buy the groceries. Here, she’ll be taken care of and she can rest. That’s the only thing I can prescribe: a lot of rest.”

  “If you say so, Doctor.”

  “I do.”

  “Oh dear, what a drama. I do apologize.”

  “What for? I’m glad I was here.”

  “I’m not sure it would have happened if you hadn’t been here,” she said, sighing heavily. “Let’s go and have some coffee. I wonder whether Mrs. Gunice has any fudge. I think I need a lump of fudge.”

  They sat in the drawing room once again while Harris filled their cups with coffee then went off to the kitchen in search of fudge. “I’ll come up tomorrow to check on your sister, Lady Frampton.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to go to such trouble.”

  “I’d like to, if you don’t mind. I’d like to make sure that she’s all right and perhaps bring some ointment for the bruising. She might need some stronger painkillers.”

  “Well, if you don’t mind. I know Rosamunde would be very grateful.”

  “If it’s a nice day, maybe you’d show me your planting.”

  Antoinette’s face opened into an enthusiastic smile. “I’d love to. It’s my new thing, gardening. It was heavenly to be out in the sunshine today, with my hands in the soil, listening to the birdsong. It made me feel so good. Barry says there’s so much to do at the moment, what with all the tidying up in preparation for summer. He says he could do with the extra pair of hands.”

  “I’m sure he’s very grateful for your help.”

  “I think he’s just indulging me, to be honest. After all, he’s managed without me for years! But I’m just happy to be outside. Everything is coming up now, and the green is such a pretty shade.”

  “You must have quite a magnificent vegetable garden, judging by dinner.”

  “We do. In fact, Barry and I were discussing it just this morning. All the things we’re going to plant once it gets a little bit warmer. We have the space to feed an army, but it’s only David and me here now, and Josh and Tom when they come for weekends. When George was alive, we used to fill the house with guests every weekend. He loved to entertain. He never stopped, even on bank holidays! It’s rather quiet now, by comparison, but I’m enjoying it. I can hear myself think. I have time, suddenly. What a luxury time is, don’t you think?”

  “One of the greatest luxuries of all, if you know how to use it.”

  “What do you do in your spare time besides gardening, Dr. Heyworth?”

  “I play the piano.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, I find it very relaxing.”

  “Will you play something for me now?” He appeared to be reluctant. “Don’t, if you’d rather not. I’d hate to put you under pressure.”

  “Of course I will. What do you like, classical? Jazz?”

  “Whatever you feel like playing.”

  He got up and went over to the grand piano. “It’s a Steinway,” he said, impressed. He sat on the stool and opened the lid.

  “I dabble,” said Antoinette, remaining in the armchair. “I was a good player as a child. While Rosamunde gallivanted about the countryside on her horse, I was made to practice the piano. How I resented it. Now, of course, I wish I’d practiced a little more. It’s a lovely thing to do, creating music. You start whenever you’re ready, and I’ll shut up.”

  “I’ll play you my favorite piece,” he said, and rested his fingers above the keys.

  He began to play, and Antoinette sat quietly and listened. She had never heard the piece before. It was lovely, evoking a sense of tranquility and wonder. She imagined geese flying through a pale-pink sky on their way to roost beside a limpid river. She thought of evening, the melancholy of the dying day and the sense of transience that always comes when individuals are faced with something beautiful. She thought of George’s grave in that quiet spot in the churchyard, and then she thought of his spirit, free and unencumbered by the heavy weight of his physical body; her mind turned to Phaedra and her unwavering belief in life after death. The music touched her deeply and unexpectedly. As Dr. Heyworth played, she felt an awareness opening inside her mind, like the unwrapping of a crocus in the glare of the sun. She closed her eyes and let the music fill her.

  As he touched the final note, Antoinette opened her eyes and smiled at him. “That was beautiful,” she said. “What is it?”

  “My mother wrote it.”

  “Your mother is a composer?”

  “An amateur composer. She makes light of it, but I think she writes very well.”

  “I think she writes more than well. I’m astonished. It transported me.”

  “It makes me think of the end of the day,” he said, closing the lid of the piano.

  “Me, too. That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

  He laughed, pleased. “You were supposed to. It’s called ‘Sunset.’”

  “How amazing that a piece of music can make us all think of the same thing.”

  “It has a wonderful serenity to it and a sense of winding down. It’s a very sad piece, really.”

  “‘Sunset’ is sad, because it’s so magnificent and so fleeting.” She watched him walk back to the sofa. “You play beautifully, Dr. Heyworth.”

  “I’m glad you liked it.”

  “Will you play again sometime?”

  “On one condition.”

  “What might that be?”

  “That you give me a guided tour of your garden tomorrow.”

  She smiled. “That’s a good deal. And you’ve inspired me. It’s been years since I’ve touched those keys. I’m going to take it up again.”

  “That’s a very good idea.”

  “Will you recommend me something to play?”

  “I’ll bring some sheet music tomorrow when I come for the tour and to visit your sister.”

  “Will you bring me ‘Sunset’? Would your mother mind?”

  “She’d be honored, Lady Frampton, and so would I.”

  Antoinette sat back in the armchair and smiled at Dr. Heyworth. She wasn’t sure if it was her day in the garden, the wine, or the lovel
y piece of music she had just heard, but her heart felt full of optimism, as if the future were a bright, alluring place full of wondrous possibilities. If it hadn’t been for Rosamunde’s fall, it would have been a perfect ending to a perfect day.

  18

  The following morning Rosamunde awoke with a throbbing headache and a dull pain down her left side. She got up to use the bathroom and staggered painfully across the carpet. When she lifted her nightie and saw the extent of the bruising, she was horrified. Her left thigh looked like a hunk of raw meat. She couldn’t possibly let William see her like this.

  Antoinette had left the packet of painkillers on her bedside table with a glass of water. She took four and climbed back into bed. She must have drifted off to sleep again because when she next opened her eyes, her sister was standing over her.

  “Good morning, Rosamunde,” Antoinette said, smiling sympathetically. “How are you feeling?”

  Rosamunde blinked up at her and mentally assessed her body. The headache had passed, or been killed by the pills, and her thigh hurt only if she moved it. “Terrible,” she replied. “Just terrible. What happened last night? I don’t remember a thing.”

  “You fell down the stairs.”

  “Oh yes. I do remember that, now you come to mention it. What a bump it was. I can barely move without pain.”

  “Dr. Heyworth is here to see you.”

  Rosamunde blanched. “Here? Now? How do I look? I haven’t even brushed my teeth. Tell him to wait. I’m not ready to see him just yet.”

  “I’m not sure you should get out of bed,” Antoinette muttered as Rosamunde threw back the bedclothes and hobbled into the bathroom, groaning with each step. Antoinette heard the sound of the toothbrush and the running of the tap. Conscious that the doctor was waiting outside the door, she opened it a crack and spoke through it. “She won’t be a minute, Dr. Heyworth.”

  “That’s all right,” he replied. “I’m in no hurry.”

  A moment later Rosamunde was back in bed, and Dr. Heyworth was admitted to her bedside. “How’s the patient this morning?” he asked, putting his bag on the floor. Rosamunde immediately felt reassured; he had a very comforting voice and a kind manner. She felt foolish that she had baulked at the thought of showing him her bruises. He must have seen far worse in his time.