The Woman from Paris(12)

It is the custom in great houses for the husband and wife to inhabit separate bedrooms, so George’s dressing room was positioned on the other side of the adjoining bathroom from Antoinette’s. He had rarely slept in there—only when he had drunk too much or was coming home late—but all his clothes were kept there, along with sentimental trinkets and the customary ashtray full of loose change. He had always hated to throw anything away, so the drawers were packed with old theater tickets and ski passes, letters and postcards dating right back to before they married. The mantelpiece was adorned with trophies for ski-club races and tennis tournaments, and framed photographs of his school days. The biggest frame contained a black-and-white photograph of Antoinette as a young debutante in the early 1970s, with her dark hair drawn up into a beehive, her false eyelashes long and black. She had seldom entered that room, for she couldn’t abide the chaos, but now she didn’t dare because she was too scared. The appearance of George’s illegitimate daughter raised the possibility that he might have kept other secrets from her. She had never mistrusted him in life, but in death a shadow had been cast over his integrity.

She pondered the unexpected appearance of Phaedra. It didn’t surprise her that George had had girlfriends before he married—he had been a handsome, sharp-witted, and charming young man—but it did surprise her that he had never mentioned Phaedra’s mother. She thought she knew all the names that related to his past—at least, all the important ones. And if Phaedra was thirty-one, then she was only a year older than David. She and George had married the year before David was born, but they had courted for eight months before that. Was there a chance that George had been unfaithful during that time? She wished George were alive to answer her questions and defend his honor. She wished he were there to put her mind at rest and reassure her that he had loved her, and only her.

But Phaedra’s mother plagued her thoughts. In her imagination she conjured up a woman not unlike the daughter—slim and feminine, with pretty gray eyes and flawless skin—and envied her beauty. Antoinette was not beautiful. Her father had called her “comely,” which was the closest he had ever come to a compliment. Her mother had told her she had a “sweet face” that reflected her “gentle nature.” She knew that she had unusual navy eyes and that her dark hair was thick and lustrous, but there was nothing remarkable about her features. She had been beautiful in only George’s eyes, which was really all that mattered—but perhaps she hadn’t been beautiful enough. Had Phaedra’s mother caught his attention during their courtship and taken him to bed for one fateful night? Could her beloved George have betrayed her like that?

She must have drifted off to sleep, because when she woke up, Rosamunde was sitting on the armchair near the bed, doing her needlepoint. “I’m glad you’ve had a good rest. You look much better,” she said when Antoinette opened her eyes.

Antoinette sighed. “Waking up is hard. For a moment I think it’s all a horrid dream. Then I realize it’s not. He’s gone, hasn’t he?”

“Yes, Antoinette. He’s in a better place.”

“If you believe that. I’m not sure I do.”

“It’s a comfort.”

“I’d like it to be true. I hope there is a heaven and that he’s there. Goodness, to think he might be with our parents. I’m not sure Daddy wholly approved of George.”

“Only because he was suspicious of men who preferred to climb mountains rather than settle down to a proper job.”

“George was never going to be a banker or an accountant. He was an adventurer. He adored the wild unpredictability of nature and the challenge of those terrifyingly high peaks. God knows I hated his going off all the time, and I worried about his safety when he was incommunicado for weeks at a time, but I’d have loathed him to be chained to a desk. He’d have been miserable working in an office like Joshua. Anyway, he wasn’t just a mountaineer, he was an entrepreneur. Do you remember how he imported cigars from Havana? And all those rugs from Nepal! He liked to support the communities he visited. He was such a free spirit.”

“Daddy knew that, but he wasn’t flamboyant like George. I’m sure those things aren’t important where they are. What are you going to do about Phaedra?” Rosamunde asked, briefly halting her needlework. “Roberta’s adamant that you should contest the will.”

Antoinette sat up. “I bet she is, even though she doesn’t know yet what’s in it.”