The Woman from Paris(134)
Had her marriage been a sham? Had George lied when he said he loved her? Had she been a naive idiot for trusting him? She had never before felt so wretched. Last night George had died for her all over again, yet one question lingered that would never be answered: Had she ever truly known him?
She showered and dressed. It was six a.m.; the rest of the family were fast asleep. Only David would be up because she knew that he would be as broken as she was. The mother in her wanted to rush to him and wrap her arms around him, to take the burden of loss away, but the woman in her knew that she hadn’t the strength to carry anyone else’s pain but her own, and even that was too great for her fragile shoulders.
Her heart yearned for solace. She paced the room, finding the memories of George too searing now. She’d throw all his old things into a bag and burn them. Reduce them and all their secrets to ash. They were stained with the dye of his duplicitous life, and she wanted nothing more to do with them. No wonder Phaedra had known about the ruins in Jordan—she had been there. She was the shadow in the photograph. George was posing for her. She remembered sitting on the floor of his bedroom with Phaedra and sharing her innermost thoughts, believing she had a daughter she could trust. At those memories her whole body began to shake with fury and hurt. She had to get out. She had to be anywhere but here.
It was cool in the garden. The grass was wet with dew; the sky a clear, watery blue. She walked swiftly across it in the direction of the folly, yearning for the quiet solitude of that little house on the hill.
As she left the garden and mansion behind she began to feel a little better. The wind swept through her hair and dried her damp cheeks. She could breathe again and took in great gulps of air. The patchwork of woolly fields and frothy hedgerows stretched out into the valley below her. From where she now walked, Fairfield looked small and insignificant.
At last she reached the folly. The sight of the warm yellow stone and the pots of topiary raised her spirits, and she reached for the door with a sense of relief. She opened it and stepped inside. To her surprise, Margaret was already in there, seated in the armchair, a blanket arranged over her knees, Basil lying bored across her lap.
The old woman looked up in surprise. “Oh, Antoinette, it’s you. I didn’t expect anyone to come up at this time of the morning.”
“What are you doing?” Antoinette asked, disappointed that she was not alone.
“I could ask you the same question.”
“I couldn’t sleep,” Antoinette replied.
“Me, neither. I’ve been up for hours,” Margaret complained.
“Are you all right?”
“I thought it was time I forgave Arthur. I can’t be a good Christian if I am unable to do that. But it’s proving much harder than I thought. I imagined here would be a good place to start. I must say, Antoinette, you’ve done a splendid job. It’s very comfortable.”
“Thank you.” Antoinette sank onto the sofa. “I’ve got some bad news for you, I’m afraid.”
“Oh no, not someone else to forgive, I hope.”
“I’m afraid so.”
Margaret sighed. “Oh dear. Well, I suppose I could do a job lot. Who is it this time?” Antoinette hesitated, not wanting to upset her mother-in-law. “Well, don’t dither! Tell me while I’m in good heart.”
“It’s Phaedra.”
Margaret blanched. “Is she all right?”
“She’s not George’s daughter.”
“She’s not?”
“I’m afraid she’s not a Frampton.”
“Not a Frampton! Then who the devil is she?”
Antoinette lowered her eyes. It was almost too painful to verbalize the truth. She dropped her head into her hand. “George’s mistress.”
Margaret’s face went from pale gray to bright red, and her mouth thinned into a furious line. She inhaled through dilated nostrils like a dragon. “It’s not true!” she gasped.
“I’m afraid it is. She confessed to us last night.”
“How?”
“Julius Beecher sent a DVD of George’s last days skiing before the avalanche. It contained footage of him talking to Phaedra on his mobile telephone.”
“What was he saying?”
Antoinette’s eyes filled with tears. “That he loved her.”
“Good Lord. Are you sure he wasn’t talking to you, dear?”
“Absolutely sure. He was asking forgiveness.”
“Whatever for?”
“For not telling Phaedra that he was married. You see, she pretended to be his daughter after he died because he included her in his will. She said it was the only way to protect me from finding out that he’d been unfaithful.”