The Woman From Paris (18 page)

“Thank you.”

“No, you inherited them from me, of course.” Margaret smiled, and Phaedra laughed, more out of relief than joy.

“Are you feeling better?” she asked.

“I just needed to lie down. I suppose Antoinette thought I was dying.”

“Well, she was very worried.”

“Sometimes I think she’d rather like me out of the way.”

“I’m sure she wouldn’t, not in her heart.”

“Oh, I’m an irritation, you know. When George was alive, I used to come over all the time. He was my only child, and we were very close. My husband died a long time ago, so for years it was just George and me. But now he’s gone, I find I still need that diversion. Fairfield Park has been my home for most of my life, you see. It’s a frightful bore for Antoinette as I pop in daily. I’m a bit like a homing pigeon. I came for George, but now . . . I don’t know.” She looked confused, and her voice trailed off. “I’m drawn here . . .”

“This is a very pretty room,” Phaedra mused, sweeping her eyes over the blue floral wallpaper and bedspread.

“I like the color blue. It’s very restful, don’t you think?”

“Blue can be a cold color, but it feels warm in here. Not cold at all.”

“This house is a nuisance to keep warm because it’s so big. I didn’t feel the cold when I lived here. When George was a boy, he used to run about in short sleeves even in winter. But I feel the cold now. It’s age, I’m afraid. One can’t fight it. I don’t think I have the energy to fight anything anymore.” She sighed, and for a moment she looked a little lost, as if her mind were being pulled in an unfamiliar direction.

“Resistance only brings unhappiness,” Phaedra said wisely. “It’s through acceptance and letting go that one finds peace.” Margaret’s gaze fell away. “I miss George terribly, all the time, but I have to let him go, because holding on to pain will only make me miserable, and it won’t bring him back.” Phaedra noticed the old woman’s mouth twitch, like the minute cracking of a great dam. “I went to his grave today, and we laid daffodils. I know he’s not in there, but it felt good to pay my respects and to feel I was
doing
something. I don’t need to visit his grave to feel close to him. He’s around us all the time, I’m sure. But I needed to see where his body was laid to rest, for my own peace of mind, and to give me a sense of closure. I have to accept that he’s gone—and to let him go.”

The twitching of Margaret’s mouth grew more intense. Suddenly, she grabbed Phaedra’s arm and stared at her with large, frightened eyes. “It’s my heart again. I think I’m having a heart attack,” she gasped. But the fire that had once again started in the pit of her belly rose past her heart and into her throat, where it rolled about as if desperately trying to find a way out. Margaret resisted, tightening the muscles there, holding it in for fear of what might happen if she let it escape. Phaedra stared back in alarm as Margaret’s face turned the color of a pepper. Then, just as she was about to leap up and raise the alarm, Margaret let out a loud wail and her whole body heaved as her grief was ejected in one giant sob.

Phaedra recognized her anguish and put her arms around her. Margaret didn’t pull away. The crack in the dam was now a gaping hole, and the old woman’s grief poured out like water. She sobbed and sighed, and tears tumbled down the lines in her skin. She looked appalled, as if such a release of emotion was an unwelcome novelty, and quite horrifying. “It’s okay to cry,” said Phaedra, feeling the tears stinging her own eyes. “You’re going to set me off, too. But it’s okay. We’ll cry together.” She smiled as Margaret slowly calmed down, leaving her body trembling with the aftershock. Phaedra pulled away but kept a reassuring hand on her arm.

“Good God!” Margaret exclaimed, finding a space between shuddering breaths. “I don’t know what’s come over me today.”

“Lady Frampton . . .”

“After that shameful display I think you should call me Margaret.”

“Margaret, you mustn’t be ashamed. You’re a mother who has lost her only child. I know it’s very British to hold it all in, but it’s unhealthy. And it’s not natural. We’re given tears and the ability to cry for a reason. It releases the tension and allows us to heal. How can we possibly heal if we don’t acknowledge we’re hurt?”

Margaret stared at Phaedra in surprise. “My dear child, I don’t know from whom you inherited your wisdom, because George was never wise like you.”

“I’m not wise, Margaret, I just know a little about unhappiness.”

Margaret narrowed her eyes. “You know, I feel I can confide in
you, Phaedra.” Her face tightened, and she dropped her gaze into her hands. “I saw George’s grave today for the first time. I hadn’t dared go before. I couldn’t bear to see it. I couldn’t face the loose ground and the thought of his coffin . . . it was all too much.”

“It’s good that you went. You said good-bye. You can now take the first step out of your grief.”

“It cuts me to the quick.” She put her hand on her heart.

“I know it does.”

“Antoinette cries all the time. It makes me so cross because I can’t.”

“You can now,” Phaedra replied, watching the knotted woman slowly untangle and feeling a sense of pride that she had helped her do it.

“Tell me, Phaedra, do you have a grandmother?”

“No. I have no one.”

“What about your mama?”

“She’s in Canada. We’re not close.”

“So George was the only family you had?”

“You can imagine how happy I was to find him and that we got along so well.” Margaret smiled as Phaedra’s face lit up. “He gave me such wonderful opportunities. I wouldn’t have had the courage to do my book if he hadn’t taken me trekking with him.”

“Yes, you’re a photographer, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I love to photograph life from a distance—you know, observing it the way it is, without manipulating it. I started photographing families and children, mostly, because that paid the bills. But then I decided to do something more adventurous. George inspired the idea.”

“Did he?”

“I’d like to take your photograph, if you’ll let me.”

Margaret pulled a face. “I’m not photogenic, though in my day the camera loved me.”

“You have a strong face. Such an interesting face, full of contradiction. I think you’ll take a very good photograph.”

“Well, if you insist, although at my age there’s no point in being vain, one would be so disappointed.”

Phaedra laughed. “You’re not so old, Margaret, and you’re plump,
that
makes you look a lot younger than your years. Skinny old ladies look half dead, if you ask me.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It was certainly meant that way.”

“Well, I suppose we should go downstairs. If I keep you much longer, they’ll think I’ve eaten you for lunch!” Margaret threw back the bedclothes. “You’re a good girl, Phaedra. I’m happy you found us. Though I don’t like that Julius Beecher one bit. Frightfully arrogant man, up to no good, I fancy. I always told George to watch out for him, but he wouldn’t hear a word against him. I suppose Julius did a good job, running George’s businesses while he was off somewhere, pleasing himself. So you be careful, Phaedra. He’s not a man to be trusted.”

“Julius has been very good to me.”

“I’m sure he has, my dear. But as your grandmother, I feel I must warn you. He’s not an honorable man, and money is his god.”

“I’ll take your advice on board.”

“Now, I’m going to freshen up. Why don’t you go downstairs and show them that you’re still in one piece. I know I can trust you to keep our conversation private.”

“What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas,” Phaedra replied.

Margaret frowned. “I suppose that’s how they say ‘yes’ in America.”

Phaedra wandered downstairs, feeling a little light-headed. One thing life had taught her was that mean people are unhappy people. She had yet to find a genuinely contented person who was unkind. So according to that rule, Margaret was simply miserable. She walked across the hall where Bertie and Wooster lay sleeping on the rugs with Basil, a warm sense of achievement giving her step a gentle bounce. It felt wonderful to have done something good.

“Ah, Phaedra!” Rosamunde exclaimed when she saw her.

“Are you okay?” Antoinette asked, pleased to see that she was smiling.

“Margaret’s feeling better,” Phaedra announced.

“How are
you
feeling?” Tom asked from the club fender.

“Fine, thank you. She’s a lovely woman.”

They all stared at her in astonishment. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same person?” asked David.

“Look, I don’t know her like you do, but she was very charming to me.” She went and sat down beside David on the sofa.

“They make a lot of fuss,” said Roberta. “Personally, I find she has a very soft center.”

“She’s just unhappy,” Phaedra continued. “Anyway, she’s coming down, so you can see for yourselves. She’s perfectly well.”

“I
am
relieved,” said Antoinette.

“I suggest we all go for a walk,” said Joshua. “Are you going to get Amber up?” he asked his wife, glancing at his watch.

“You can take her on your back,” said Roberta.

“Great, let’s escape before Grandma comes down,” said Tom, jumping to his feet.

“Really, darling, I think that’s a little unkind,” Antoinette reproached him, but she smiled as if his face was made of sunshine.

When Margaret appeared, she still looked pale, but her fighting spirit was restored. “Joshua, will you drive me home? I’m not feeling strong enough to walk.”

“Are you rested?” Antoinette asked.

“Phaedra has cheered me up enormously.” She turned to her newly found granddaughter and smiled warmly, which was a revelation to Antoinette.

“I’m so pleased,” Phaedra replied, feeling the eyes of the whole room upon her.

“I hope you will make this your home,” Margaret continued. “You are certainly very welcome at the dower house whenever you need a break from London.” Roberta felt a stab of jealousy; she and Margaret had always had a special relationship.

“Thank you so much. I’d love to see it,” Phaedra replied.

“Then you shall. David will bring you tomorrow morning, and I will show you photographs of George as a little boy. He was very dear. Now I’d like to go home. Joshua?”

“We’ll wait for you,” said Roberta.

“Don’t fret, my dear, I shan’t keep him.” And she left the room, calling for Basil.

When Joshua returned, the family set off up the farm track that led to the woods. The sky had clouded over, and it looked as if it might rain. A chilly wind blew through the trees where birds frolicked in the branches and squirrels chased their own tails. Bertie, Wooster, and Rufus ran free now that the shooting season was over, and the odd fat pheasant flew out of the undergrowth, his wings creaking like rusty hinges as he took to the skies.

Phaedra walked beside David. She liked him very much. He didn’t look like his father, but he had the same charisma that filled the space around him and made her feel invigorated. She was drawn to him, like a chilly traveler to a hotel fire. As with George, David made her feel safe.

After a while she recognized the landscape and knew that David’s house was near. “Are we going to bake a cake this afternoon?” she asked him.

“Isn’t that a bit like hard work?” he replied, grinning down at her.

“It’s not hard work for me, I love baking. All you have to do is taste the mixture. If you’re very good, you can lick the bowl.”

“And eat the cake.”

“We’ll share it with the rest of your family. I bet Tom likes chocolate cake.” She called back to Tom, who walked between Rosamunde and his mother. “Tom, do you like chocolate cake?”

“Does anyone
not
like chocolate cake?” he called back.

“I don’t,” said Roberta, who walked beside her husband with Amber strapped into a harness on his back.

“Then we’ll make you a lemon cupcake,” said Phaedra.

“Oh, don’t worry about me,” said Roberta.

“But you do like lemon cupcakes?” Phaedra asked.

“Yes, I do.”

“Do you think she looks like a woman who eats cake?” David hissed.

Phaedra ignored him. “Then we won’t leave you out, will we, David?”

“No, we won’t leave Roberta out,” David replied dutifully.

“You can share it with Amber,” Phaedra suggested. Roberta forced a smile.

“She’s trying to be nice,” said Joshua, lowering his voice. “Give her a break, darling.”

“I don’t want her cake!” Roberta huffed. Joshua shook his head wearily.

“Can I please lick the lemon mix bowl as well?” David asked Phaedra.

Phaedra smiled up at him. “Yes, David, you most certainly can.” It felt good to be part of his family.

Once back in David’s kitchen, Phaedra set about clearing the kitchen table. She laid out scales, bowls, a spatula, two wooden spoons, a teaspoon for David, and the ingredients Harris had brought down from the main house in the car: eggs, extra butter, flour, cocoa, and baking powder—things that David would never have in his store cupboard. David sat at the table with a cup of tea, watching her bustle about as if she had always cooked in his kitchen. She wore his mother’s green apron and a purposeful expression on her face. He decided that women must all think alike, for his mother had arranged his cutlery, utensils, and crockery, and Phaedra seemed to know instinctively where she had put everything.

She had tied her hair back into a ponytail so now he could see her face more clearly. Her beauty was arresting, especially as the balls of her cheeks blushed like sweet plums. A part of him was elated that she had walked into his life and set it aflame with her enthusiasm and joy, but the other part lamented the fact that he could never have her. He realized that, in spite of all the obstacles, he was falling in love with her.

“Instead of staring at me as if I’m an alien, why don’t you mix some butter and icing sugar together for the filling?” She passed him a bowl and wooden spoon. “And no licking until I give you permission.”

“You’re not an alien, Phaedra,” he replied seriously. “You’re a beautiful woman. I still can’t quite get my head around the fact that you’re my half sister.”