The Woman from Paris

by Santa Montefiore

  She had barely pressed the Send button when a reply alighted on her screen. Woof woof! But you’re not staying with Margaret!

  Phaedra laughed out loud. A pair of Chelsea pensioners peered over their glasses and grinned at her.

  Phaedra:

  I’m too scared to decline.

  David:

  Leave it to me; my bite is mightier than my bark . . .

  Phaedra:

  You look more like a big, soppy dog, Rufus.

  David:

  Don’t you believe it! I’m only soppy in the company of pretty girls.

  Phaedra:

  Is that a compliment, coming from a dog?

  David:

  My boss agrees with me, but he’s too shy to tell you . . .

  Phaedra:

  Then it’ll be our secret . . .

  David:

  I’m not very good at keeping secrets from him, but I’ll do my best . . . oh, here he comes now . . .

  Phaedra:

  You’d better go, Rufus, and so must I. I have to work on my book . . .

  David:

  Woof woof . . .

  Phaedra laughed all the way down the road. George had had a good sense of humor, but he hadn’t had a playful sense of humor like David.

  So she was going to stay another weekend at Fairfield. The thought of returning to that beautiful place made her spirits soar. She’d just have to keep her feelings in check. Surely it could be done. It must be done. Keeping her distance from David would inevitably cut her off from Fairfield and the rest of his family—which would be devastating because she was drawn down there like a world-weary traveler to a warm, homely hearth. There was something irresistibly alluring about it, and as much as her head shouted at her not to go, her heart begged her to—and Phaedra was a girl who always put her heart before her head.

  20

  Antoinette stood in front of the stone folly in a boiler suit and cap she’d bought from the agricultural store in Winchester, wielding a thick garden broom. “I’ll start on the inside,” she told Barry. “You see what you can do on the outside.”

  “Cutting back,” he said, scratching his chin.

  “I think we should plant some pretty things here. Clematis that will climb up the walls and sweet-smelling shrubs where all these nettles have taken over. What do you think?”

  He looked up at the sun. “I think clematis would thrive here.”

  “Good.”

  “I know a man who can restore those chairs,” he said, pointing to a pair of pretty iron chairs set at a matching table beneath the pediment.

  “Do you know who built it?”

  He shook his head. “No idea.”

  “It’s very romantic. There’s bound to be a story behind it, don’t you think?”

  “Oh yes, there’s sure to be,” said Barry. He began to pull out the nettles and toss them into the cart he’d pulled up behind one of the farm tractors. “It’s a mystery, ma’am.”

  Antoinette disappeared inside and set about sweeping away the dust and the tangled spiderwebs that hung down from the corners of the folly like dirty pieces of gauze. There were dead moths on the windowsills and the rotting carcass of a bird on the floor. She noticed one of the windowpanes was broken, giving the poor bird an entrance into his tomb, but not an exit. Piled up against the back wall was a heap of furniture stored beneath a big white dust sheet. She’d need Barry’s help to take it all outside.

  Dr. Heyworth had said he’d come at five. Although she didn’t want to intrude on his flowering friendship with her sister, she was keen to tell him how she had played his mother’s piece of music and been transported into a beautiful sunset. She wanted to show him the folly, too, since they had come up with the idea together of restoring it. She looked at her watch and wished she’d asked Mrs. Gunice to make them sandwiches for lunch. It seemed a waste of time to return to the house to eat.

  Little by little, the folly was freed from the forest’s tentacles. There was much to do, but by lunchtime Barry had pulled out all the nettles and cut back some of the shrubs that had begun to lay claim to the building. Plants had seeded themselves and hazel bushes had grown into each other, creating a thick tangle of wood and foliage. They stood and appraised their work, wiping sweaty brows with dirty hands. “This is a good start,” said Antoinette.

  “You don’t realize how much there is to do until you get going,” Barry replied.

  “I’ll get David to help me at the weekend.”

  “He can do the heavy work. All that furniture will need to come out so you can clean properly.”

  “I’m so pleased we’re resurrecting it, Barry. I never had time to do this sort of thing while George was alive.” She brushed a fly off her face. “Life goes on, doesn’t it? I mean, you think it won’t. You can’t imagine how it can. But it does.”

  “It’s like a river, Lady Frampton. If it comes up against an obstacle, it will always find a way around it and continue on its path.”

  “It’s carrying me with it.”

  “You have to keep looking ahead. Not down. Like a tightrope walker.”

  “I know.” She smiled at him. “Are you hungry?”

  “Very.”

  “Then let’s go and get something to eat. We workers need fortification.”

  “I have my sandwiches in the greenhouse.”

  “Does your wife make them for you?”

  “She’s made them for me for forty years.”

  “Have you really been married that long?”

  “It’ll be forty-three this autumn.”

  “That’s quite something, Barry.”

  He gave a heavy sigh and grinned mischievously. “It’s a lifetime, Lady Frampton.”

  They walked down the hill together, leaving the tractor by the folly for later. As Antoinette walked across the lawn David was striding towards her. “I need to talk to you,” he said gravely.

  Antoinette waved Barry off, and the old man left the two of them alone. “What’s happened?” Her thoughts immediately turned to Tom, and she felt the familiar sinking of her spirits.

  “It’s Grandma.”

  “Oh.” She sighed with relief.

  “She’s invited Phaedra to stay the weekend.”

  “Good.”

  “With her.”

  “Oh, not so good, then. Have you spoken to Phaedra?”

  “She can’t do anything about it. She won’t be rude. But over my dead body is she going to stay with Grandma. She might never wake up in the morning.”

  “I do see. You’re not expecting me to say anything, are you?”

  “Someone’s got to say something.”

  “It has to be you, David.”

  “What’s my reason?” He shrugged helplessly.

  “That Josh and Tom are coming and so it’ll be more fun for her in the house.”

  “They’d better come, then.”

  “I’m sure once they know Phaedra’s coming, they’ll all be down like a shot!”

  “And Roberta!” He pulled a face.

  “Roberta’s just being overprotective. She’ll come round in the end.”

  He grinned. “I hope you’re right. I’ll go and see Grandma right away.”

  Antoinette hurried into the house to tell Rosamunde. The thought of Phaedra in Margaret’s steely clutches was more than she could bear. She found her sister in the sitting room, doing her needlepoint while listening to a story on the radio. “Can I talk?” she asked, aware that she was interrupting.

  “It’s not a very good story,” said Rosamunde. “I’d rather watch the golf. Would you see if it’s on?”

  Antoinette pressed the switch on the television, mildly irritated that Rosamunde couldn’t do it herself. Her sister picked up the control. “Now, remind me how to use Sky?”

  “Really, Rosamunde, it’s not rocket science.”

  “It is to me. Do you think lunch is ready? I’m famished.”

  “No point watching Sky, then, if you’re going to have lunch.”<
br />
  “I thought I might get up and sit at the table today.”

  “Good.”

  “Yes, I’m feeling a little better.”

  “Has the bruising gone down?”

  “Considerably, but I think Dr. Heyworth should still come and have a look at it.”

  “I don’t think he’s coming to check out your bruising, Rosamunde.”

  Her sister’s face flushed. “You don’t think . . . ?”

  “I do.” Antoinette switched off the television and sat down. “I think he’s using it as an excuse to come and see you.”

  “What will he do when I’m better?”

  “Declare himself, I suppose; otherwise, how is he going to see you?”

  Rosamunde shivered with anxiety. “Oh really? I don’t know . . . gosh, that makes me a little nervous. It really is too ridiculous!”

  Antoinette smiled. “He’s coming for tea, isn’t he?”

  “Oh yes, I think he said five.”

  “Then I shall leave you alone.”

  “Oh no. Don’t do that!” Rosamunde looked a little alarmed.

  “I insist. I have so much to do up at the folly. In fact, let me go and wash my hands. I’m covered in dust.”

  “Should I change my blouse for tea?”

  “Yes, I think you should wear the blue one. Blue suits you, and why don’t you wear your hair down for a change?”

  “I haven’t worn it down in thirty years!”

  “Then now’s a good time to start. By the way, we have a little problem.”

  “Oh? What’s that, then?”

  “Margaret has asked Phaedra to stay with her this weekend.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “David’s gone to talk to her, but I suspect she’ll be storming over to see me as soon as he’s gone.”

  Rosamunde got up from the sofa with care. Her thigh was still tender, but she was able to walk without pain. At least the horrid red color had subsided somewhat. It reminded her of a hunting accident she had had in her twenties, except that the recovery had been so much quicker then.

  She was getting old, that was the trouble. Was it very silly to be flirting at her age? Was she making a fool of herself? Wasn’t she too set in her ways to embark on a relationship? Was she ready for one? She made her way over to the table and sat down gently. It was fun receiving the attentions of an attractive man. She couldn’t remember the last time a man had made her feel special. It was hard to believe it, but there it was, so she might as well enjoy it instead of questioning whether or not she was ready. If she wasn’t ready at her great age, she never would be. She’d take her sister’s advice and wear her hair down. She wasn’t pretty like Antoinette, but she could certainly improve on what God had given her. She sighed mournfully: God hadn’t been very generous in that department.

  * * *

  David drew up outside the dower house. It was a pretty, harmoniously proportioned Queen Anne building, with a steep tiled roof upon which four tall chimneys stood to attention like rigid sentries. Purple wisteria crept up the red-brick facade, breaking into leaf and surreptitiously stealing in through the open windows, only to be thwarted by Margaret and her secateurs. Pigeons roosted in the tangle of branches and frolicked among the leaves, and in May the flowers hung like grapes, giving off a sweet scent that filled all the rooms in the house.

  David had always admired his grandmother’s home. He didn’t remember having been born there, nor the first few years of his life before his parents had moved into the big house. But he had happy memories of playing there as a young boy. His grandmother had had a game called the Milkman, with tiny white milk bottles and miniature slabs of butter and cheese. He had disappeared into that world for hours, spreading it out on the carpet behind the sofa in the sitting room. And her house had two staircases, one at the front and one at the back, which made it the perfect place for Cocky Ollie—a game of hide-and-seek that the whole family would play together after Sunday lunch. Sometimes, when his parents had traveled together, he and his brothers had stayed at the dower house and stolen biscuits from the larder to eat beneath their beds in the middle of the night. Once, their grandfather had caught them. Unlike his wife, who was short-tempered and impatient, their grandfather had been a softhearted man with a readiness to laugh. He had tried to be cross, pursing his lips and putting his hands on his hips, but Tom had giggled, and that small act of defiance had set the old man off into hearty guffaws. He had made them clear up the crumbs and promise never to steal again or their grandmother would give them a good tongue-lashing. They were well acquainted with her scolding and were grateful to their grandfather for his protection.

  As he pulled up in front of the house David remembered that, in spite of her temper, Margaret had laughed a lot with Arthur. He was the only one who could really make her laugh; without his lightness, life had grown very heavy for his grandmother.

  David noticed that his wasn’t the only car parked on the gravel. An old Morris Minor sat in the shade of the yew hedge. David wondered to whom it belonged. He let Rufus out and watched him trot over to the strange car and immediately cock a leg against the front tire. David wandered into the house through the front door. He didn’t bother to knock, because he never had. His grandmother’s house was as familiar as his own, and she would have found it very strange had he rung the bell.

  As he stepped into the hall he heard voices coming from the sitting room. At first the words were a low hum, like a big bee, but as he got nearer he could make out that it was a man’s voice—and that it was talking about love. He stopped at the door, which had been left ajar, and deliberated whether or not to go in. He hadn’t imagined his grandmother would have a suitor. He had rather assumed she’d be too old for that sort of thing—and too irritable. But here she was, in her sitting room, listening to a man speaking about love. His blood froze, and he backed away, suddenly aware that he might be walking into a secret tryst. But as he crept back towards the front door, Basil scampered out of the sitting room, making loud snorting noises. David was left no option but to plunge in and hope he’d be forgiven for interrupting.

  Margaret was startled to see him and withdrew her hand from Reverend Morley’s. David was sure that she was blushing. “Hi, Grandma,” he said in his most jovial tone, trying to pretend that he wasn’t shocked by the sight of his grandmother with the vicar. “Hello, Reverend Morley.”

  “Hello, David.” Reverend Morley didn’t look at all embarrassed.

  “David, what are you doing here?” Margaret demanded.

  “I just came to pay you a visit.”

  “Nonsense. No one ever comes ‘just to pay me a visit.’” She smiled at the vicar. “They always want something!” she added drily.

  “I can come back another time.” He began to back away.

  “Now is as good as any,” she insisted.

  “I really should be leaving,” Reverend Morley began.

  “No, you shouldn’t,” Margaret retorted, putting a hand on his arm to stop his getting up. “Why don’t you sit down, David. Now you’re here, you might as well stay.”

  “All right.” He sat in his grandfather’s old armchair and remembered the green bucket of cheddar biscuits that always used to sit on the side table, replenished daily by Moira, their Irish cook.

  “You’ve come to speak to me about Phaedra, haven’t you?” asked Margaret.

  There was no point in pretending otherwise. “Among other things,” he replied airily.

  “She’s staying with me this weekend.”

  “You don’t think it’ll be more fun for her at Mother’s house?”

  “Certainly not! I want to give her her inheritance, for a start, and we have a lot to talk about, she and I.” She turned to the vicar. “She’s a delightful girl.” Reverend Morley nodded, not knowing who they were talking about. “You can’t have her all to yourself, David. You have to share her. Besides, she was perfectly happy when I extended the invitation. I’ve never known anyone leap at an offer like she d
id.”

  David knew there was no point arguing with her. Margaret always got her way. “Well, that’s settled, then.”

  “Good.”

  There was a long pause. Reverend Morley tried to loosen his dog collar. It was hot in Margaret’s sitting room. “Might I suggest you include some of us for dinner?” David said at last.

  Margaret sucked in her cheeks. “If you’re very good, I might have you all over for dinner on Saturday night.” David wondered anxiously about Friday. “I’m asking her in order to get to know her, you see. If I have to fight for her attention with the rest of my family, I’ll never get a look-in.”

  “I can’t imagine that’s true,” said Reverend Morley.

  “Oh, you’d be surprised, Reverend. We Framptons are a pretty feisty lot.”

  A little later David managed to leave with the excuse of having to get back to the farm. He stepped into the sunshine, dazed and a little angry. Rufus and Basil were charging around the garden, falling over each other on the grass. He whistled, and Rufus bounded into the front seat while Basil yapped in annoyance. David was tempted to drive straight to his mother’s to tell her about Margaret and the vicar, but he was more concerned about having failed Phaedra. She was stuck with his grandmother—their grandmother—and there was nothing he could do about it. He felt angry that Margaret had stepped in and asked Phaedra before either he or his mother had had a chance. Couldn’t she see that a weekend with her would be torture for poor Phaedra? He couldn’t bear to text her to tell her the bad news. Perhaps his grandmother would see sense by the end of the week.

  He telephoned Tom instead, who was so appalled that he called Joshua. Joshua managed to get hold of his mother as she was on the point of returning to the folly after lunch. Antoinette felt as if her own daughter had been snatched from her arms and rushed into the little sitting room to tell Rosamunde. Rosamunde, in turn, was suitably outraged and confided in Dr. Heyworth when he visited at five for Mrs. Gunice’s shortbread and tea.

  “The arrogance of the woman to think that a young girl like Phaedra is going to enjoy staying the weekend with an old lady. I mean, it’s preposterous!” She took a sip of Earl Grey.