A Mother's Love(27)

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.