The Woman From Paris (31 page)

She showered and dressed, then went to have breakfast and read the papers at Caffè Nero on the King’s Road. It was a gloriously sunny morning. She couldn’t help but wish she was at Fairfield, where there were no concrete pavements, just rolling fields and thick woodland.

She sat on one of the sofas and gazed out of the window at the people passing by. Everyone seemed to have put away their winter clothes and walked with a bounce in their step. She, too, had a bounce in hers. She chuckled every time she thought of Rufus asking her to stay the weekend. But she had made up her mind. She had to say no. It was the right thing to do.

She looked down at her mobile telephone and hesitated before replying to David. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings. She wished she could explain. Biting her bottom lip, she knew that she could
never
explain—not ever.

At that moment it rang, displaying a number she recognized only because of the area code. It was Fairfield. With a stab of anxiety she answered it.

“Is that Phaedra?”

Phaedra recognized Margaret’s voice immediately. “Yes, it is.”

“Good. It’s Margaret Frampton. I’m calling about this coming weekend.”

“Oh.”

“I know you stayed with David last time, but I really don’t like to think of you languishing in his funny little cottage. I’d like you to stay with me.”

“Oh, well . . . I . . .” Phaedra didn’t know what to say. Margaret’s invitation was totally unexpected.

“Good, that’s settled, then. I know Antoinette might not be happy, but she’s got her hands full with poor old Rosamunde, who’s had the most ghastly accident.”

“What happened?”

“She fell all the way down the stairs and has a bruise the color of a butcher’s display.”

“Is she okay?”

“Well, nothing’s broken, thank the Lord. But she’s been told to rest for a whole week, and Dr. Heyworth is coming daily to check on her. So it must be serious. I think it would be too much for Antoinette to have you in the house.”

“Do you think?”

“Yes, my dear. I know I’m right. You stay with me and give Antoinette a little space.”

Whether she liked it or not, Phaedra was going to Fairfield for the weekend. “Okay, that would be lovely, thank you, Margaret.”

“No ‘thank you’ necessary. It’s a pleasure. Come down on Friday night if you can, then you can enjoy the whole weekend. You and I have some serious talking to do.”

“Oh? Do we?”

But before Phaedra could dwell on the sudden pang of anxiety that had cramped her stomach, Margaret explained. “Yes, I have a favor to ask you—but it can wait for now. See you Friday.”

“Yes, see you Friday.”

Margaret hung up, and Phaedra was left bewildered but excited. Margaret hadn’t even tried to persuade her to go for the weekend. As far as she was concerned Phaedra was part of the family and belonged at Fairfield; there was no question of her not going.

With her heart aflutter she sent a text to David.
Dear Rufus, how can I refuse such an irresistible invitation? I’d love to come for the weekend, but I’m afraid David’s grandmother has insisted I stay with her. Can I come over and make you pancakes nonetheless? Phaedra

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 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

A
ntoinette 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.”

“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.