The Woman from Paris
When Lord Frampton dies in a skiing accident, a beautiful young woman named Phaedra appears at his funeral, claiming to be his illegitimate daughter. Lord Frampton has left the priceless Frampton suite of sapphires to this interloper, confirming her claim and outraging his three adult sons and widow. Eventually, however, Phaedra’s sweet nature thaws these frosty relationships. She becomes the daughter that Antoinette Frampton never had and a wise and compassionate granddaughter to the formidable Dowager Lady Frampton. But an attraction grows between Phaedra and the eldest son, David. It seems an impossible love, blocked by their blood connection—and by the fury of one family member who is determined to expose Phaedra as a fraud.
Filled with the luscious scenery and enchanting characters her fans adore, Santa Montefiore’s The Woman from Paris confirms the remarkable power of love to heal broken families and tender hearts.
“Santa Montefiore really knows these people inside and out. I couldn’t put this book down.”
—Julian Fellowes, creator of Downton Abbey
“The joy Montefiore infuses into her work shines throughout . . . a feel-good story, full of exuberance and passion and threaded with hope.”
—Seattle Post-Intelligencer
Available wherever books are sold or at www.simonandschuster.com
1
Hampshire, 2012
The beginning of March had been glorious. The earth had shaken off the early-morning frosts, and little buds had emerged through the hardened bark to reveal lime-green shoots and pale-pink blossoms. Daffodils had pushed their way up through the thawing ground to open into bright-yellow trumpets, and the sun had shone with renewed radiance. Birdsong filled the air, and the branches were once again aquiver with the busy bustle of nest building. It had been a triumphant start to spring.
Fairfield Park had never looked more beautiful. Built on swathes of fertile farmland, the Jacobean mansion was surrounded by sweeping lawns, ancient bluebell woods, and fields of thriving crops and buttercups. There was a large ornamental lake where frogs made their homes among the bulrushes and goldfish swam about the lily pads. Towering beech trees protected the house from hostile winds in winter and gave shelter to hundreds of narcissi in spring. A nest of barn owls had set up residence in the hollow of an apple tree and fed off the mice and rats that dwelt on the farm and in the log barn, and high on the hill, surveying it all with the patience of a wise old man, a neglected stone folly was hidden away like a forgotten treasure.
Abandoned to the corrosion of time and weather, the pretty little folly remained benignly observant, confident that one day a great need would surely draw people to it as light to lost souls. Yet today, no one below could even see those honey-colored walls and fine, sturdy pillars, for the estate was submerged beneath a heavy mist that had settled upon it in a shroud of mourning. Today, even the birds were subdued. It was as if spring had suddenly lost her will.
The cause of this melancholy was the shiny black hearse that waited on the gravel in front of the house. Inside, the corpse of Lord Frampton, the house’s patriarch, lay cold and vacant in a simple oak coffin. The fog swirled around the car like the greedy tentacles of death, impatient to pull his redundant body into the earth, and on the steps that led down from the entrance his two Great Danes lay as solemn and still as a pair of stone statues, their heads resting dolefully on their paws, their sad eyes fixed on the coffin; they knew intuitively that their master would not be coming home.
Inside the house, Lady Frampton stood before the hall mirror and placed a large black hat on her head. She sighed at her reflection, and her heart, already heavy with bereavement, grew heavier still at the sight of the eyes that stared back with the weary acquiescence of an old woman. Her face was blotchy where tears had fallen without respite ever since she had learned of her husband’s sudden death in the Swiss Alps ten days before. The shock had blanched her skin and stolen her appetite so that her cheeks looked gaunt, even if her voluptuous body did not. She had been used to his absences while he had indulged his passion for climbing the great mountains of the world, but now the house reverberated with a different kind of silence: a loud, uncomfortable silence that echoed through the large rooms with a foreboding sense of permanence.
She straightened her coat as her eldest son, now the new Lord Frampton, stepped into the hall from the drawing room. “What are they doing in there, David?” she asked, trying to contain her grief, at least until she got to the church. “We’re going to be late.”
David gazed down at her sadly. “We can’t be late, Mum,” he said, his dark eyes full of the same pain. “Dad’s . . . you know . . .” He looked to the window.