Phaedra drove her sky-blue Fiat Uno into a lay-by and turned off the engine. She dropped her head onto the steering wheel and squeezed her eyes shut. She had wanted more than anything to go to George’s funeral, but she could see now that it had been a terrible mistake.
She winced as she recalled the look of horror on Antoinette’s face and the way she had sunk into the armchair, her hands visibly shaking; the reproachful twist to her sister Rosamunde’s mouth; the disbelief that had set the boys’ cheeks aflame. Only Julius had remained resolute, as if he relished having dominance over them. She wished she had had the power to keep her name out of the will. She wished she hadn’t come. If only she could now disappear in a puff of smoke.
The trouble was that George had died without giving her time to say good-bye. She would have told him she loved him. She would have told him she had forgiven him. He didn’t need to change his will to make it up to her. She didn’t want his money. She didn’t want his gifts. She wanted security of a different sort, and that he could no longer give her.
She had needed George, the man. The father figure of her early years had left her mother when Phaedra was ten and gone to live in New Zealand, eventually marrying again and starting a new family. Phaedra had been forgotten, or mislaid, in the murky past, and she never saw him again. From then on her mother had jumped from unsuitable man to unsuitable man like a frog in a pond of lily pads, hoping that the next landing would make her happy. She didn’t realize that with every hop she carried the source of her unhappiness within her, and she couldn’t run away from herself. She resented Phaedra, for she was a living reminder of her husband’s rejection and an unwanted responsibility. So, while her mother sank her sorrows into bottles of gin, Phaedra made her own way, relying on her friends and her dreams to carry her through the hard times. As soon as she was old enough she left home and her mother forever. She had no desire ever to go back. She had not only closed the chapter, but thrown away the book.
George had given her a lifeline that promised stability, permanence, and love. She had grabbed it with both hands and held on to it with all her might. But it had broken, and George had gone, leaving her alone and adrift once again. Nothing in this life is permanent, she mused—only love. That thought made her howl for her own sorry predicament and the future that had died with him.
After a while she calmed down and wiped her nose and eyes on the sleeve of her black coat. She glanced in the rearview mirror and recoiled. She had managed to put on a pretty good show at the funeral—she had wanted them all to see her looking her best. If they saw her now, with puffy red lizard eyes and blotchy skin, they’d be extremely underwhelmed.
She started the engine and turned on the radio. The music made her feel a little better. She wouldn’t worry about the future but would take every moment as it came, and as for the past—that lived only in her memory now, giving her pain whenever she dwelt on it. So she wouldn’t dwell on it. She looked about her as she motored up the lane, the fresh green buds reminding her of renewal. If they could reawaken after winter, then so could she.
When David returned to the drawing room, he found that most of the guests had gone. Only Molly and Hester remained with an old curmudgeonly cousin of his grandfather, drinking sherry out of small crystal glasses beside the fire. Julius had left; Antoinette had retired to her bedroom to lie down; and Rosamunde and Tom remained in the library with Joshua and Roberta, who had just been told the news.
“It’s unbelievable,” Roberta was saying from the sofa, her angular face ashen against her black jacket.
“I suppose they’ve told you about Dad changing his will,” said David as he entered the room with Bertie and Wooster. A deep loathing of his sister-in-law propelled him to provoke her.
“I can’t believe he’d do such a thing,” she continued, sitting back into the cushions and folding her arms. “I mean, he’s known her, what? A year and a half? Do you think she would have made an effort to be part of his life had he been a simple farmer?”
“Don’t judge her by your own standards, Roberta—and don’t presume she’s after his money. She might be wealthy in her own right, for all you know.” David made for the drinks tray. “Anyway, she only learned about the will after Dad had died.”
“You’re being naïve, David. Of course she’s after his money,” Roberta retorted, giving a little sniff. “To someone like her, an English lord is synonymous with a large fortune.”
“By that you mean someone American?” asked Tom, back on the club fender, smoking.