The Woman From Paris (42 page)

They drove down to the house and lunched outside on the terrace for the first time that year. Barry had begun to put out the potted plants, now there was no fear of frost, and fat bees buzzed around the lilac and lavender bushes. A cuckoo called out from the top of the garden, and pigeons cooed on the roof of the house. Swallows dived, and thrushes ate from the feeders Barry kept full for them. Dr. Heyworth and Antoinette sat in the shade of the umbrella and enjoyed the sounds of summer. “May is my favorite month,” said Antoinette. “Everything looks so lush but so tidy. By August it’s a losing battle in the garden.”

“Especially if we get a lot of rain,” Dr. Heyworth agreed.

“Have you always loved gardening? You’re very good at it.”

“My wife was the gardener, not me.”

Antoinette was stunned and almost dropped her fork. “Your wife?”

Dr. Heyworth smiled at her reaction. “Yes, I had a wife once. She died young.”

“I’m so sorry.” She stared at him for signs of grief, but he simply looked resigned. “How long were you married?”

“Eight years.”

“How did she die? If you don’t mind my asking,” she added quickly.

“Breast cancer. Nowadays women have a better chance.”

“What was her name?”

“June. She was a very sweet girl.”

“You didn’t have children?”

“No, sadly not. Some things aren’t meant to be.”

She gazed at him steadily, her heart flooding with sympathy. “So when you advised me to talk about my loss, you were speaking from experience?”

“Yes, I know what happens when you bottle things up. I bottled June up for twenty years until it made me sick. I only began to get better when I started to talk about her.”

“Who did you talk to?”

“I paid a professional,” he replied sheepishly.

“There’s no shame in that, Dr. Heyworth.”

He frowned and put down his knife and fork. “Lady Frampton, might I be presumptuous in supposing us friends?”

“Of course,” she answered.

“Then might I ask that you call me William?”

Antoinette felt the color rush to her cheeks. “William it is, then; you must call me Antoinette.” It seemed silly that he should have to ask, but she’d never thought of calling him anything but Dr. Heyworth. “You know you can’t be my doctor now, don’t you?”

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t call my doctor by his Christian name; it doesn’t feel right.”

“Then I will find you another doctor. I’m too old, and anyway, I’d much rather I was your friend.”

Antoinette laughed and noticed a little flutter in her stomach, as if she’d swallowed one of those fat bumblebees by mistake. “So would I,” she replied, and her blush deepened.

“By the way, I haven’t seen your sister today,” Dr. Heyworth said, picking up his knife and fork again and tucking into the leg of cold chicken.

“She went home. I’m afraid she had to get back to her dogs and her life. I’d asked a great deal of her: it was only fair that I let her go.”

“Are you all right on your own?” he asked, concerned.

“Of course. I’m fine. David’s just down the track, and Margaret is always close by. Rosamunde will come and stay the odd weekend.”

“Good. I trust her hip is better.”

“Yes, I think she’s well now. Well enough to take her dogs walking over the hills, in any case. I spoke to her last night. I’ve asked her to stay this weekend. She says she might have to bring her dogs, all four of them. Imagine!” She sighed, and a shadow passed across her face.

“George’s lawyer sent me a DVD of footage taken in Switzerland the week before he died. I haven’t watched it yet. I thought I’d wait until the whole family were down and we can watch it together. There’s strength in numbers, and I think I’ll need it.”

“I’m glad you’re waiting. It would be tough to watch that on your own.”

She smiled. It felt good to share her anxieties. “I’m afraid it’ll set me back. I’m beginning to find myself again and feel better about my life.”

“The trouble is, Antoinette, it’s now in your possession. It’s unrealistic to think you can keep it but not watch it. You’re only human.”

“You don’t think it’ll set me back?”

“It might be a good thing. If you see him enjoying himself, it might reassure you that he died doing what he loved. It might be good to see that his last days were happy ones.”

“You’re right. It might help me move on.” She allowed her eyes to seek comfort in his. “You moved on in the end, didn’t you?”

“Everyone does, in their own time. It’s not healthy to hold on to the past. In my experience, it’s best to remember the good times and consider them a blessing. But you have years ahead of you; it’s your choice how you live them. I chose to live mine without allowing the past to cast a shadow over them. It all happened long ago now. I’m grateful that I have those wonderful memories, and I accept the eight years we had together as part of the bigger plan. So was George’s death. Now you must look after yourself. To do that you have to let him go when you feel ready, and look to the future.” His smile was encouraging. “You have such a full life, Antoinette. And you’re a deep and sensitive woman. You’re already flowering as you take pleasure in your family, the garden, and the folly. Allow those simple things to sustain you. We don’t really need a great deal more.”

“You’re so right, William.” She blushed again at the sound of his name. She thought of Rosamunde and how bravely she had fought her disappointment. “Thank you for being a friend.”

“I have always been your friend, Antoinette. You just didn’t know it.”

That night, Antoinette played classical music in the small sitting room. Harris had lit a fire before going home to his cottage at the end of the drive by the gate. It was heartening to think of him there. She put a box of George’s letters on the coffee table and began to go through them slowly, taking care to read every one, for she hadn’t had
the time before, when she’d been busy sorting. There were postcards from friends and old letters from the boys at school. He had kept notes on speeches he had to write and the odd diary he had begun but never finished. George was good at beginning things, but not so good at seeing them through. He had always been keen to start the next project.

She remained on the sofa until well after midnight. The DVD beckoned seductively to her from the desk in her study, but she knew it would be a mistake to watch it alone. She pulled out the photographs instead and carefully flicked though them. Shortly, she came upon the ones she’d found with Phaedra, of the ruined castle in Jordan. She gazed into her husband’s smiling face. He was striking a playful pose, showing off to whoever was taking the photograph. Then she noticed a shadow on the sand at the bottom of the picture. She hadn’t seen it before. Now she stared at it more closely. It was a woman, clearly, her skirt blowing in the desert wind, standing on a dune to take his picture. Her shadow was long, so it must have been evening. She frowned uneasily and wondered who she was. Antoinette hadn’t even known he’d gone to Jordan, let alone that he’d gone with a woman.

She hastily reassured herself that he probably had gone with a group, so naturally there’d be women present. However, the jokey pose made her skin go cold. There was something intimate about it and something carefree and informal about his smile—
it was the sort of smile a man would give to someone he loved.

She put the photograph down as if it had grown too hot to hold. What if, while she was at home being a trusting wife and mother, George was gallivanting across the globe with another woman? She took a deep breath. It was unthinkable. It was totally out of character. He loved his family and his home; she was certain he’d never have done anything to jeopardize them. But as logical as her arguments sounded, her intuition told her different. He had gone away so much, it would have been easy to lead a double life.

She thought of the shadow on the sand and her imagination did the rest, until the shadow had materialized into a beautiful temptress, snaking her way into her husband’s heart and turning it black.

27

O
n Friday morning Phaedra drove down to Hampshire with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She was excited at the prospect of seeing David, but she was afraid of getting herself into deeper trouble. She hadn’t heard a word from Julius, which should have been a relief, but his silence made her uneasy. She sensed he was plotting some terrible revenge on her for rebuffing him and feared what he might do. She had found a family at last; the thought of losing it was unbearable.

She kept her eyes on the road as she motored past the church. She didn’t want to think of George. It was because of him that she was denied his son. She was ashamed of the little nugget of resentment that had begun to grow in her heart so soon after his death. He could not have foreseen this. He wasn’t entirely to blame. But still her heart turned hard when she thought of him now.

She motored through the iron gates and up the track to David’s house. The blood began to throb in her temples as she approached. Sunshine bathed the countryside in a bright, uplifting light, and yet she sensed a barrage of gray cloud edging in over the horizon to steal her light away.

She drew up outside David’s house, and Rufus bounded out, barking. David’s Land Rover was parked by the hedge, the windows down, the windscreen covered in dust, suggesting that he’d just driven back from the farm. She glanced at her watch. It was midday: she was right on time.

A second later he was striding through the door in faded jeans and a blue shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. The sight of his wide smile was enough to loosen the knot in her stomach and quiet her
thumping heart. He walked up to the car as she parked it next to his and switched off the engine. He threw open the door and almost pulled her out. She laughed as he enfolded her in his arms and gave her a big hug. “You smell good.”

“Your bluebells inspired me to buy a new scent,” she replied.

“I’m glad you came.”

“So am I.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll stand between you and Roberta like a loyal dog!”

She wrapped her arms around his middle and relaxed against him, sighing contentedly. It felt like home in his embrace, as if she had always been there. “I want to show you the folly,” he said, releasing her. “Mother’s finished it, with the help of Dr. Heyworth, whom she now calls William.” He raised an eyebrow suggestively.

Phaedra laughed. “It’s nice they’ve become friends.”

“I think Mum likes him a bit more than that.”

“She deserves to have someone in her life.”

“It’s a bit soon, isn’t it?”

“I’m sure she wouldn’t rush into anything. But don’t you think it’s nice that she has a suitor? Dr. Heyworth is a real gentleman.”

*   *   *

David drew up in front of the folly and turned off the engine. The little building gleamed in the sunshine. It no longer looked neglected. Antoinette had planted clematis to grow up one side in place of the ivy, and big terra-cotta pots of topiary balls stood on either side of the door. It looked inviting, and David and Phaedra wandered in curiously. “She’s put all the furniture back,” said Phaedra, sweeping her eyes over the armchairs, the tables, and the big Persian rug that almost covered the entire floor. “It looks like a home now.” David flopped down onto the sofa, stretching out his long legs. “Very comfortable.”

Phaedra sat in the armchair beside the fireplace. “Imagine, your grandfather built this for your grandmother in a bid to win her forgiveness, which she never gave him. It’s so sad.”

He looked at her awry. “And Mother and Dr. Heyworth have lovingly restored it. What do you make of that?”

She laughed. “Interesting.”

“It should be called Love’s Folly.”

“That’s a good double entendre. Love is madness.” She lowered her eyes, knowing he was gazing at her meaningfully.

“Don’t you have work to do, Lord Frampton?” she said, changing the subject.

“I have loads of work to do, but you’re a little distracting, Phaedra.”

She laughed and stood up. “Come on. Show me what you get up to while I’m in London.”

So they left the folly and drove up to the farm, where David exchanged the Land Rover for his red tractor. Phaedra sat behind him in the cab, and David turned on the engine. The tractor rattled noisily. Slowly but contentedly, David drove back to the fields.

*   *   *

That evening Tom, Joshua, and Roberta arrived for the weekend. Antoinette had managed to put her fears aside and welcomed them excitedly, taking little Amber in her arms and carrying her into the drawing room.

Rosamunde drove up a little later, having persuaded Marjorie to look after the beagles for the weekend, agreeing in return to sign up to the WI and join the cookery course that was commencing the following week. Rosamunde couldn’t think of anything worse than joining the WI, but Marjorie was too shy to go on her own and had long wanted to learn how to cook. It was a small price to pay for the pleasure of another weekend at Fairfield. Rosamunde would have agreed to anything.

It was a warm evening, but Harris had lit a fire because the room was large and prone to feeling chilly, even in summer. David and Phaedra drove over for dinner, and the party atmosphere that had prevailed the weekend before now continued in the same spirit. Roberta had arranged for a DNA test to be conducted on Phaedra’s
hair, comparing it with a strand of Joshua’s. The results were due the following week. She smiled genially, like a wily crocodile, but neither Phaedra nor David was taken in by her saccharine sweetness. Margaret was unable to come, which surprised everyone. “I think she’s being courted by the vicar,” said David, grinning mischievously.

“Or rather, she’s courting the vicar,” Tom added with a guffaw.

“Really, boys, you’re so bad,” Antoinette chided, but she laughed, too. A romance between Margaret and the vicar had crossed her mind as well.

“I’m afraid to disappoint you all,” Phaedra cut in. “She’s being courted by God.”

They all stared at her in astonishment. “God?” Joshua repeated. “What do you mean?”

“I didn’t think Margaret had much time for Him,” said Rosamunde.