The Woman from Paris(10)

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.

“Yes.”

“Then you should be ashamed of yourself,” he reproached her. “She’s not from some haystack in Kansas, you know. She’s Canadian, anyway, which is very different. Canadians don’t like to be mistaken for Americans.”

“Is she pretty?” she asked.

David poured himself a glass of whiskey. “Extremely pretty,” he replied, to torment her.

“She’s hot,” Tom agreed, grinning. “Though a little too wholesome for my tastes.”

“Oh really, Tom. You fancy anything in a skirt!” Roberta retorted.

“I think I saw her,” said Joshua. “Long curly blond hair, with very pale gray eyes.”

Roberta rounded on him. “That’s a lot of detail, darling, for someone who thinks he saw her.”

“She was the only person in the congregation under thirty,” he explained.

“She’s thirty-one, actually,” David corrected.

“Blinded by her good looks: no wonder you boys can’t see through her. Takes a woman to understand a woman, don’t you think, Rosamunde?”

“I’m not sure I agree with you,” Rosamunde replied. She had always found Roberta a little overpowering.

“How much has he given her?” Roberta persisted.

“We don’t know,” said Tom.

“When do we find out? I mean, we have to contest it, surely.”

“Why?” David asked, flopping onto the sofa and stretching out his long legs.

“Because it’s not fair. The portion he gives her might be our daughter’s inheritance.”

“I think we have enough,” said Joshua quietly, wishing his wife wouldn’t make such a scene.

“That’s not the point, darling. It’s the principle,” she retorted.

“Antoinette has no intention of contesting it,” said Rosamunde authoritatively. “She’s tired and emotional. When she’s had some rest, she’ll change her mind,” Roberta assured her.