The Woman From Paris (45 page)

He hadn’t bothered to shave. His face was dark with bristles and restless shadows beneath his eyes. He had never loved a woman as much as he loved Phaedra. He had invested every fiber of his heart into her. Now it felt as if those fibers had been ripped from his chest and hung torn and bleeding. Her betrayal was total and devastating. He didn’t think he’d ever recover, and yet at the very bottom of his battered heart was the faint hope that somehow there might be a way for her to redeem herself: a small window of light through which he could leap to forgive her.

He made himself a strong cup of coffee. Rufus lay on the floor, watching him with sad eyes. Once or twice he sighed, as if he knew the situation and felt as sorry as his master. David’s thoughts moved from Phaedra to Julius Beecher. Was it possible that he sent the DVD without having watched it? Or had he seen it and exposed Phaedra on purpose? Either way,
he
was now ruined for having lied about the DNA test. Why would he ruin himself, unless the satisfaction of ruining
her
was greater than his will to survive? Why would he wish her such misfortune—unless perhaps they were in it together and she had betrayed him in some way?

David remembered Roberta saying that she had seen them having dinner together at Le Caprice, and how much like a couple they had looked. His body stiffened with fury. As far as he was concerned, they were welcome to each other.

*   *   *

When Antoinette returned to the house with Margaret and Basil, Dr. Heyworth’s car was parked on the gravel. “You have a visitor,” said Margaret.

“A
surprise
visitor, unless I’m losing my mind.” Antoinette looked at her watch. “It’s eight a.m., I can’t imagine what’s brought him here so early.”

“Brought whom, my dear?”

“Dr. Heyworth. That’s his car.”

“Really? Dr. Heyworth.” She smiled slyly. “Well, well, well. I wonder why he’s come calling.”

They stepped into the hall to find the whole family in a huddle, explaining the details of the night before to Dr. Heyworth, who was patiently trying to listen to four people all speaking at the same time. When they saw Antoinette, they rushed at her like a herd of cattle.

“What’s going on?” she inquired, alarmed.

“I was so worried when you weren’t in your bed that I called Dr. Heyworth,” said Rosamunde importantly. “I thought you might have done something silly.”

“What, like go and throw myself off the roof or something? Really, Rosamunde, you know me better than that.”

“I think everyone should calm down and stop making a mountain out of a molehill,” said Margaret, pushing through the throng. “Nice to see you, Dr. Heyworth. While you’re here you can write me out a prescription for sleeping pills.”

“I didn’t think you took them,” said Antoinette, following her into the drawing room.

“I’ve surprised myself a lot recently. This is just another surprise. No reason to panic. I am quite myself, I assure you.”

Joshua, Roberta, Tom, Rosamunde, and Dr. Heyworth settled themselves on the sofas and chairs. “Where did you go, Mum?” asked Tom, who was still in his pajamas, dressing gown, and slippers, his hair sticking up in tufts.

“I went to the folly,” she replied.

“Where she found
me
,” Margaret added.

“What were
you
doing there so early?” Roberta asked, holding Amber tightly in her arms so she wouldn’t wriggle away.

“Goodness me, it’s the Fairfield Inquisition. I was trying to forgive Arthur,” she stated with a sigh.

“For what?” Roberta inquired.

Margaret rolled her eyes. “Really, Phaedra was far too good at keeping secrets for her own good. I was rather hoping she’d tell
David, who’d tell Antoinette, who’d tell the rest of you, then I wouldn’t have to expend my breath.” Harris appeared in the doorway. “Ah, you’re a paragon of discretion, Harris.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he replied gravely.

“We’ve left the remains of breakfast up at the folly. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, ma’am. I’ll go and fetch it later.”

“So all the while we’ve been panicking, Harris knew where you were?” asked Joshua wearily.

“I told him not to tell you. Your mother and I needed time to talk.” Margaret addressed Harris. “I think strong coffee for everyone.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, and left the room.

“Well, you worried the hell out of us,” Joshua said crossly.

“How nice to know you care,” said Margaret with a grin. “No one would have sent a search party out for me, I don’t imagine.”

“We would if we knew you’d gone missing,” said Roberta kindly.

“Thank you, Roberta. You’ve always batted on my side.”

They remained in the drawing room, and Harris brought in tea and coffee on a tray. Margaret told the story of Arthur’s affair, and the strangest thing happened. The more she talked about it, the less it caused her pain. In fact, by the third recounting of the story, it seemed a rather silly thing to have got all worked up about. “So,
dear
Arthur built the folly for me, and I never bothered to go up and look at it,” she continued nonchalantly. “I mean, I did, of course, once or twice, but I didn’t want to let him off the hook. It gave me satisfaction to dangle my forgiveness in front of him like a carrot on a string. Poor Arthur was always on the back foot, and he did love me. I know he did. I just never let him know how much I loved him.”

“That’s a very sad story,” said Roberta.

“Indeed,” Dr. Heyworth agreed.

“Well, I don’t suppose he cares very much about my forgiveness now, but I need to do it for my soul. I doubt I’ll get to heaven without it.” She turned to Antoinette. “And we do all want to get to heaven, don’t we?”

“I’m not sure, if George is there,” Antoinette muttered.

“After the way he’s behaved I imagine he’s still rattling those pearly gates,” commented Tom loyally.

“It’s
your
soul you want to concentrate on now,” Margaret advised. “Now, Dr. Heyworth, how about that prescription?”

At the end of the weekend Joshua, Roberta, and Tom returned to London, and Rosamunde drove reluctantly back to Dorset and the frightful prospect of joining the WI. Margaret wandered into the yellow spare room, where Phaedra had stayed, and ran her hands over the ornamental clock on the mantelpiece, ashamed that she had ever accused the girl of trying to steal it. She knew in her heart that Phaedra was a good person; only a good person could have seen through the sourpuss.

Antoinette was alone once more and lonelier than ever. She felt bereft all over again, as if Phaedra had died. The girl had lightened the burden of George’s death and brought sunshine into the shadowy corners of Antoinette’s heart, but now she’d discovered that the sunshine was phony and George hadn’t been the man she thought he was. It was as if she had woken up to find that everything she believed to be real was, in fact, made of ether. She felt angry and let down but above all humiliated. They had taken advantage of her trusting nature and stolen her joy. She wondered whether she’d ever feel joy again or whether, as she rather suspected, it would be lost forever.

She played the piano to ease the hurt, and during those moments she did feel some relief. The music took the pressure off her heart and gave her the means to vent her misery. Dr. Heyworth’s “Sunset” was especially helpful because it reached the part where her pain was greatest and alleviated it a little, like balm to a wound.

29

P
haedra sat on the Eurostar on her way to Paris. There was nothing left for her now in England. She’d spent all night pacing the floor and packing her suitcase, then left the house on Cheyne Row forever. It had never felt like home anyway.

She sat numbly and watched the countryside rush past her window. She wanted to put as much distance between Fairfield and herself as possible. Every thought of the Framptons was like a knife to her heart. Her conscience twisted with guilt, and she hated herself for what she had done to David. She should have walked away at the very beginning when she’d had the chance. She could have been the illegitimate daughter they met once and never saw again, but she had allowed herself to be seduced by the family—and to fall in love with David.

She tore the blade from her heart and tried to think of her future. She’d return to Paris and the life she had lived before she met George. It must still be there, somewhere, beneath the wreckage. She’d dig it up and rebuild. The pain would drive her deeper, she told herself. It would make her a better person, a more compassionate person—a
stronger
person.

She alighted onto the platform and stood a moment, forlorn, as the other passengers hurried past her to their husbands and wives, their jobs and their lives. She had no one. She was more alone than she had ever been because she had known what it was like to be part of a family.

Slowly, she dragged her suitcases up the platform, through the busy station hall to the taxi rank beyond. She’d return to her flat and finish her book and let time heal. Perhaps time would even help
her forget. Right now she hated George for the devastation he had caused. He had broken her heart all over again—through his son.

It began to rain. She stood in her summer dress and denim jacket and let it wash over her. Then she began to cry. The other people in the queue pretended they hadn’t noticed. A child pulled his mother’s hand and pointed. When she finally reached the front, she was wet through to her skin. A kindly taxi driver put her cases in the boot of his car and opened the door for her. He smiled at her sympathetically. “Are you all right, miss?” he asked in French.

“Homesick,” she replied, then cried even harder at the thought of what she had left behind.

*   *   *

The week following the revelation was the bleakest of David’s life. The hours empty, the nights soulless, the countryside rendered powerless because his heart was too heavy to glory in its beauty. He churned memories of Phaedra around and around in his head, and they fluctuated from rose-colored to jet-black as each one led back to her deception.

He wondered whether she was still in London, or whether she had fled to Paris. He had thought about texting her many times and found himself staring at his telephone in the hope that she might contact him, but she never did. In spite of his anger he missed her dreadfully, so much so that he was unable to concentrate on anything else but his own unhappiness. The more he thought about her, the lower he sank. He loved her—how he wished he could turn love off like a tap.

What maddened him the most was the part that Julius Beecher had played in the scam. Were they a couple as Roberta had suggested, or had Phaedra been the victim of Julius’s selfish plotting? He
had
to know, and finally, after days of no contact, he realized that there was only one way to put an end to his miserable conjecture. He’d have to call her and ask.

As he expected, Phaedra’s telephone number was no longer in service. She had probably thrown her iPhone into the Thames. So he
drove up to London. He knew there was a chance that she wouldn’t be at home. That she’d have fled to Paris, or farther, back to Canada. He gripped the steering wheel and turned off the Embankment onto Oakley Street. At last he drew onto Cheyne Row and parked outside her small house. He peered at the windows. It didn’t look as if anyone was in. The panes were dark. A pile of letters was wedged into the letter box, too big to make it through. His heart lurched at the realization that she hadn’t been there for a while, days perhaps. He climbed out of the car and pulled the letters from the letter box, then looked through the gap. The hall was dim. There was nothing on the round table by the spiral staircase. More correspondence lay on the mat. She had gone.

For the first time since he was a boy, David cried. He slumped down on the pavement and put his head in his hands. His sobs didn’t get stuck in his throat, as he no longer had the strength to suppress them. He relaxed his chest and gave vent to his misery with abandon. Judging by the mail, she hadn’t left a forwarding address. He felt helpless. She could have gone anywhere—Geneva, Paris, America, Canada . . . Tibet . . . the possibilities were endless. She had no roots for him to trace.

Suddenly, his quest wasn’t about finding out whether or not Julius and Phaedra had been lovers, but about finding Phaedra. There on the pavement outside her house, a small window of light materialized for him to leap through and forgive her. He simply couldn’t live without her—that was all there was to it. However grave her crime, he couldn’t remain angry with her forever. She had been deceived, the same as his mother. If anyone was to blame, it was his father.

But how could David find her when she had left no trail? There was only one person who might know. He lifted his head out of his hands, and his face hardened: Julius Beecher.

*   *   *

Julius’s office was in an elegant Georgian building off Berkeley Square in London’s smart West End. When David announced his name, the receptionist paled. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Lord
Frampton. I’ll let Mr. Beecher know you’re here,” she said, and picked up her telephone. A moment later Julius was in the hall, his arms outstretched, a disingenuous smile broadening his pink face. David noticed that his eyes remained as cold as concrete. He had never liked his father’s lawyer. Now he liked him even less.

“My dear David. What a nice surprise.” He extended his hand, and David shook it without returning his smile. “Come into my office. Mrs. Carrington will get you a cup of tea, or would you prefer coffee?”

“Nothing, thank you,” David replied. “This won’t take long.” He followed Julius down the carpeted corridor into an airy room on the left. The windows faced directly onto the little garden in the center of Berkeley Square. Julius’s desk was vast, piled high with neatly organized papers in leather trays and two computer screens. There was a sofa and a pair of armchairs arranged around a coffee table laden with Christie’s catalogues and glossy volumes on English country houses. The mahogany bookcase was full of antiquarian books and the latest history and biography prizewinners in hardback. A few silver trophies took pride of place in the middle, above the flat-screen television. David wondered what they were for. He doubted the portly little man had ever won anything. Perhaps they had belonged to his father.