The Woman From Paris (2 page)

“Perish the thought of having to chat to Dad’s dreadful aunts and all the boring relatives we’ve spent years avoiding,” David interjected. “I’m not in the mood for a party.”

“It’s not a party, darling,” his mother corrected. “People just want to show their respect.”

David stared miserably out of the window. He could barely see the hedgerows as they drove down the lane towards the town of Fairfield. “Can’t everyone just bugger off and go home afterwards?”

“Absolutely not. It’s polite to ask your father’s friends and relatives home after the funeral. It’ll cheer us all up.”

“Great,” David muttered glumly. “I can’t think of a better way of getting over Dad’s death than having a knees-up with a bunch of old codgers.”

His mother began to cry again. “Don’t make this any harder for me, David.”

David peered around the seat and softened. “I’m sorry, Mum. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just don’t feel like playing the glad game, that’s all.”

“None of us do, darling.”

“Right now, I just want to be alone to wallow in my sorrow.”

“I could kill for a cigarette,” said Tom. “Do you think I have time for a quick one round the back?”

The car drew up outside St. Peter’s medieval church. The chauffeur opened the passenger door, and Antoinette waited for Tom to come round to help her out. Her legs felt weak and unsure. She could see her mother-in-law walking up the stony path towards the entrance of the church where two of George’s cousins greeted her solemnly.
She
would never cry in public, Antoinette thought bitterly. Antoinette doubted whether she had ever cried in private. Margaret considered it very middle-class to show one’s feelings and turned up her aristocratic nose at the generation of young people for whom it was normal to whine, shed tears, and moan about their lot. She condemned them for their sense of entitlement and took great pleasure in telling her grandchildren that in her day people had had more dignity. Antoinette knew Margaret despised her for continuously sobbing, but she was unable to stop, even to satisfy her mother-in-law. But she dried her eyes before stepping out of the car and took a deep breath; the Dowager Lady Frampton had no patience with public displays of emotion.

Antoinette walked up the path between her two sons and thought how proud George would be of his boys. Tom, who was so handsome and wild, with his father’s thick blond hair and clear denim eyes, and David, who didn’t look like his father at all, but was tall and magnetic
and more than capable of bearing his title and running the estate. Up ahead, Joshua disappeared into the church with Roberta. Their middle son was clever and ambitious, making a name for himself in the City, as well as a great deal of money. George had respected his drive, even if he hadn’t understood his unadventurous choice of career. George had been a man who loved natural, untamable landscapes; the concrete terrain of the Square Mile had turned his spirit to salt.

She swept her eyes over the flint walls of the church and remembered the many happy occasions they had enjoyed here. The boys’ christenings, Joshua’s marriage, his daughter Amber’s christening only a year before—she hadn’t expected to come for
this
. Not for at least another thirty years, anyway. George had been only fifty-eight.

She greeted George’s cousins and, as she was the last to arrive, followed them into the church. Inside, the air was thick with body heat and perfume. Candles flickered on the wide window ledges, and lavish arrangements of spring flowers infused the church with the scent of lilies, freesias, and narcissi. Reverend Morley greeted her with a sympathetic smile. He sandwiched her hand between his soft, doughy ones, and muttered words of consolation, although Antoinette didn’t hear for the nerves buzzing in her ears like badly played violins. She blinked away tears and cast her mind back to his visit to the house just after she had heard the terrible news. If only she could rewind to before . . .

It seemed that every moment of the last ten days had been leading up to this point. There had been so much to do. David and Tom had flown out to Switzerland to bring back their father’s body. Joshua and Roberta had taken care of the funeral arrangements. Antoinette had organized the flowers herself, not trusting her daughter-in-law to know the difference between a lilac and a lily, being a Londoner, and her sister, Rosamunde, had helped choose the hymns. Now the day was upon them Antoinette felt as if she were stepping into a different life, a life without George. She gripped Tom’s arm and walked unsteadily up the aisle. She heard the congregation hush as she moved past and dared not catch anyone’s eye for fear that their compassion would set her off again.

While Tom greeted their father’s aunts, David settled his mother into the front pew. He glanced around the congregation. He recognized most of the faces—relations and friends dressed in black and looking uniformly sad. Then amidst all the gray, pallid faces, one bright, dewy one stood out like a ripe peach on a winter tree. She was staring straight at him, her astonishing gray eyes full of empathy. Transfixed, he gazed back. He took in the unruly cascade of blond curls that tumbled over her shoulders, and the soft, creamy texture of her skin, and his heart stalled. It was as if a light had been switched on in the darkness of his soul. It didn’t seem appropriate to smile, but David wanted to, very much. So he pulled a resigned smile, and she did the same, silently imparting sympathy for his loss.

As David left the church again with his brothers and cousins to bear the coffin, he glanced back at the mystery blonde and wondered how she fitted into his father’s life. Why had they never met before? He couldn’t help the buoyant feeling that lifted him out of the quagmire of grief into a radiant and happy place. Was this what people called “love at first sight”? Of all the days it should happen, his father’s funeral was the most inappropriate.

Phaedra Chancellor knew who David Frampton was, for she had done her research. The eldest of three sons, he was twenty-nine, unmarried, and lived in a house on the Fairfield estate where he managed the farm. He had studied at Cirencester Agricultural College, for while his father had found the life of a country squire unexciting, David was as comfortable in the land as a potato.

Phaedra had only seen photographs of George’s sons. Tom was without doubt the most handsome. He had inherited his father’s blue eyes and the mischievous curl of his lips. But David was better looking in the flesh than she had imagined. He was less polished than Tom, with scruffy brown hair, dark eyes and a large aquiline nose that did not photograph well. In fact, his features were irregular and quirky, and yet, somehow, together they were attractive—and he had inherited his father’s charisma, that intangible magnetism that drew the eye. Joshua, on the other hand, was more conventional
looking, with a face that was generically handsome and consequently easy to forget.

She looked down at the service sheet, and her vision blurred at the sight of George’s face imprinted on the cover. He had been more beautiful than all his sons put together. She blinked away painful memories and stared at the man she had grown to love. She could see Tom and Joshua reflected in his features, but she couldn’t see David; he looked like his mother.

She sniffed and wiped her nose with a Kleenex. Julius Beecher, George’s lawyer, who sat beside her, patted her knee. “You okay?” he whispered. She nodded. “Nervous?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.”

“I’m not sure this is the right day to drop the bombshell, Julius,” she hissed, as music began to fill the church.

“I’m afraid there’s no avoiding it. They’re going to find out sooner or later, and besides, you wanted to be here.”

“I know. You’re right. I wanted to be here very much. But I wish I didn’t have to meet his family.”

The choir walked slowly down the aisle singing Mozart’s “Lacrimosa.” Their angelic voices echoed off the stone walls and reverberated into the vaulted ceiling as they rose in a rousing crescendo. The candle flames wavered at the sudden motion that stirred the air, and an unexpected beam of sunlight shone in through the stained-glass windows and fell upon the coffin as it followed slowly behind.

Antoinette could barely contain her emotions; it was as if her heart would burst with grief. She glanced down the pew to where George’s aunts Molly and Hester, one as thin as the other was fat, stood with the same icy poise as the Dowager Lady Frampton. Even Mozart was unable to penetrate their steely armor of self-control. Antoinette was grateful for her sister, Rosamunde, who howled with middle-class vigor in the pew behind.

Antoinette felt a sob catch in her chest. It was impossible to imagine that her vital, active husband was contained within those
narrow oaken walls. That soon he’d be buried in the cold earth, all alone without anyone to comfort him, and that she’d never again feel the warmth of his skin and the tenderness of his touch. At that unbearable thought, the tears broke free. She glanced into the pew to see the flint-hard profile of her mother-in-law. But she no longer cared what the old woman thought of her. She had toed the line for George, but now that he was gone, she’d cry her heart out if she wanted to.

When the service was over, the congregation stood while the family filed out. Antoinette walked with Tom, leaning heavily on his arm, while David escorted his grandmother. He passed the pew where the mysterious blonde was dabbing her eyes, but he didn’t allow his gaze to linger. He desperately hoped she’d be coming back for tea.

Outside, the fog had lifted, and patches of blue sky shone with renewed optimism. The grass glistened in fleeting pools of sunlight, and birds chirped once again in the treetops.

“Who’s the blonde?” asked Tom, sidling up to David.

“What blonde?” David replied nonchalantly.

Tom chuckled. “The really hot blonde you couldn’t have failed to noticed about six pews behind. Very foxy. The day is suddenly looking up.”

“Come on, darling. Let’s not linger outside the church,” said Antoinette, longing for the privacy of the car. The two brothers glanced behind them, but the congregation was slow to come out.

Margaret sniffed her impatience. “Take me to the car, David,” she commanded. “I will greet people back at the house.” She strode forward, and David was left no alternative but to escort her down the path. As she carefully lowered her large bottom onto the rear seat, David’s eyes strayed back to the church where the congregation was now spilling out onto the grass. He searched in vain for the white curls in the sea of black. “Come, come, don’t dawdle. Good, here are Joshua and Roberta. Tell them to hurry up. I need a drink.”

“Beautiful service,” said Roberta, climbing in beside Margaret.

“Lovely,” Margaret agreed. “Though Reverend Morley does go on, doesn’t he?”

“They all love the sound of their own voices,” said Joshua.

“That’s why they’re vicars,” Roberta added.

“I thought what he said about Dad being every man’s friend was spot-on,” Joshua continued, getting into the front seat. “He loved people.”

Roberta nodded. “Oh, he was terrifically genial.”

“We certainly gave him a good send-off, didn’t we, Grandma?”

“Yes, he would have enjoyed that,” said Margaret quietly, turning her face to the window.

David returned to Fairfield Park with his mother and Tom. The house was restored to its former splendor now that the sun had burnt away the fog. Bertie and Wooster, the Great Danes, were waiting for them on the steps. It seemed that the sun had lifted their spirits, too, for they leapt down to the car, wagging their tails.

Harris opened the door, and Mary, who cleaned for Lady Frampton, stood in the hall with her daughter, Jane, bearing trays of wine. The fire had warmed the place at last, and sunlight tumbled in through the large latticed windows. The house felt very different from the one they had left a couple of hours before, as if it had accepted its master’s passing and was ready to embrace the new order.

David and Tom stood by the drawing room fire. David had helped himself to a whiskey while Tom sipped a glass of Burgundy and smoked a sneaky cigarette—his mother and grandmother abhorred smoking inside, probably one of the only opinions they had in common. Little by little the room filled with guests, and the air grew hot and stuffy. At first the atmosphere was heavy, but after a glass or two of wine the conversations moved on from George and his untimely death, and they began to laugh again.

Both brothers looked out for the mysterious blonde. David had the advantage of being tall, so he could see over the herd, but, more dutiful than his brother, he found himself trapped in conversation first with Great Aunt Hester and then with Reverend Morley. Tom had thrown his cigarette butt into the fire and leaned against the mantelpiece, rudely looking over Great Aunt Molly’s shoulder as she tried to ask him about the nightclub he ran in London.

At last the mystery guest drifted into view, like a swan among moorhens. Tom left Molly in mid conversation; David did his best to concentrate on Reverend Morley’s long-winded story, while anxiously trying to extricate himself.

Phaedra suddenly felt very nervous. She took a big gulp of wine and stepped into the crowd. Julius cupped her elbow, determined not to lose her, and gently pushed her deeper into the throng. She swept her eyes about the room. What she could see of it was very beautiful. The ceilings were high, with grand moldings and an impressive crystal chandelier that dominated the room and glittered like thousands of teardrops. Paintings hung on silk-lined walls in gilded frames, and expensive-looking objects clustered on tables. Tasseled shades glowed softly above Chinese porcelain lamps, and a magnificent display of purple orchids sat on the grand piano among family photographs in silver frames. It looked as if generations of Framptons had collected beautiful things from all over the world and laid them down regardless of color or theme. The floor was a patchwork of rugs, cushions were heaped on sofas, pictures hung in tight collages, a library of books reached as high as the ceiling, and glass-topped cabinets containing collections of enamel pots and ivory combs gave the room a Victorian feel. Nothing matched, and yet everything blended in harmony. George’s life had been here, with his family, and she hadn’t been a part of it. Just as she was about to cry again, Tom’s grinning face appeared before her like the Cheshire cat.