Harris was ready to make her a cup of tea. His presence was reassuring, as was the fire he’d lit in the little sitting room. But she had the whole day before her. What was she going to do without Rosamunde to talk to? She couldn’t go outside; it was now raining hard—big, heavy drops like tropical rain. She could sit and do a crossword, or read a book. It didn’t feel right to watch television in the middle of the day.
The room felt empty in spite of the cozy fire. Rosamunde had spent so much time lying on the sofa it now reverberated with her absence, like the loud ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall that seemed so much noisier than normal.
Harris brought in a tray of tea and Mrs. Gunice’s biscuits, which only served to remind her even more of her sister’s departure. “I’ll take it upstairs, I think, Harris,” she said. “As it’s raining, I might as well go through George’s room. I’ve been putting it off, but I can’t put it off forever.” She wished Phaedra were there to help her. Her spirits lifted at the thought of that delightful girl, and she felt a little happier as she climbed the stairs. Perhaps she’d come down at the weekend and help her finish what they’d started together.
George’s room was silent. Harris put the tray on the table at the end of the bed. “Would you like me to help you, ma’am?” he offered.
“Oh, would you, Harris? That would be very kind.”
He smiled at her, and his sympathy made her eyes fill with tears. “I’ll go and get some more bin liners and boxes. I can see you’ve already made a good start.”
“There’s an awful lot to throw away. Though I hate to destroy anything that might be of sentimental value.”
“It’s only for you, ma’am,” Harris said gently. “Lord Frampton doesn’t need any of it now.”
“You’re right. Let’s just do it, Harris.” She took a shortbread biscuit and bit off the end. Rosamunde was right: they were extremely good biscuits.
That evening David and Margaret came for dinner. They ate one of Mrs. Gunice’s lasagnas in the kitchen. “I’ve been going through George’s room, Margaret,” Antoinette said once they’d helped themselves. “If there’s anything you’d like to keep, you must say. I’m being rather ruthless.”
Margaret thought about it a moment. “I don’t really need anything. I have photographs and a very good memory.”
“And you, David? I don’t want to throw things away that you might like to have to remember him. Obviously, I’m putting aside his cuff links for Tom and nice clothes and things, just in case. But there are so many medals and trophies and boxes of knickknacks. I don’t know what to do with them.”
“I’d put his medals and trophies in boxes, Mum, and we can store them in the attic.”
“Joshua and Tom are more his size, so they can choose which of his suits and jackets they’d like to have. I must say, it’s not an enviable task.” She sighed beneath the weight of it. “Margaret, what did you do when Arthur died?”
Margaret looked solemn for a moment, then she lifted her chin. “I gave most of it to charity.”
“Even the really good things?”
“I gave George his precious things; but the sentimental things . . . I’m afraid I did away with them. I’m not a sentimental woman.” Then her expression softened, and she added, almost wistfully: “I rather wish I hadn’t, now. Don’t be rash in your sorting, Antoinette. Better to have things in boxes upstairs than in the bin where you can’t ever get them back.”
“I’ll get Phaedra to help me when she comes down this weekend. You have asked her, haven’t you, David?”
David’s face suddenly opened into a smile. “I haven’t, Mum, but I will.”
Margaret also smiled. “What an uplifting girl she is. I must say, she’s like a window, letting in the sunshine. She certainly pepped me up this weekend. She’s tremendously good company.”
“I don’t think we’ve ever had such an enjoyable weekend all together, do you?” said Antoinette. “I think Phaedra’s infected us all.”
“We must thank George, wherever he is, for bringing her into our lives,” Margaret suggested, raising her glass. Antoinette and David raised their glasses, too, but David raised his higher than anyone.
26
After dinner David returned home and called Phaedra. He had tried to call her during the day, but she hadn’t answered. He hoped she wasn’t still worrying about Roberta.
Now it was dark and the park was silent but for the hooting of the owls in the wood and Boris screeching to his young in the tree outside David’s window. He gave Rufus a biscuit and watched him settle on his beanbag, then he lay on the bed and called Phaedra. It was half-past eleven, but she answered.