The Woman from Paris(137)

“What’s going on?” she inquired, alarmed.

“I was so worried when you weren’t in your bed that I called Dr. Heyworth,” said Rosamunde importantly. “I thought you might have done something silly.”

“What, like go and throw myself off the roof or something? Really, Rosamunde, you know me better than that.”

“I think everyone should calm down and stop making a mountain out of a molehill,” said Margaret, pushing through the throng. “Nice to see you, Dr. Heyworth. While you’re here you can write me out a prescription for sleeping pills.”

“I didn’t think you took them,” said Antoinette, following her into the drawing room.

“I’ve surprised myself a lot recently. This is just another surprise. No reason to panic. I am quite myself, I assure you.”

Joshua, Roberta, Tom, Rosamunde, and Dr. Heyworth settled themselves on the sofas and chairs. “Where did you go, Mum?” asked Tom, who was still in his pajamas, dressing gown, and slippers, his hair sticking up in tufts.

“I went to the folly,” she replied.

“Where she found me,” Margaret added.

“What were you doing there so early?” Roberta asked, holding Amber tightly in her arms so she wouldn’t wriggle away.

“Goodness me, it’s the Fairfield Inquisition. I was trying to forgive Arthur,” she stated with a sigh.

“For what?” Roberta inquired.

Margaret rolled her eyes. “Really, Phaedra was far too good at keeping secrets for her own good. I was rather hoping she’d tell David, who’d tell Antoinette, who’d tell the rest of you, then I wouldn’t have to expend my breath.” Harris appeared in the doorway. “Ah, you’re a paragon of discretion, Harris.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he replied gravely.

“We’ve left the remains of breakfast up at the folly. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, ma’am. I’ll go and fetch it later.”

“So all the while we’ve been panicking, Harris knew where you were?” asked Joshua wearily.

“I told him not to tell you. Your mother and I needed time to talk.” Margaret addressed Harris. “I think strong coffee for everyone.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, and left the room.

“Well, you worried the hell out of us,” Joshua said crossly.

“How nice to know you care,” said Margaret with a grin. “No one would have sent a search party out for me, I don’t imagine.”

“We would if we knew you’d gone missing,” said Roberta kindly.

“Thank you, Roberta. You’ve always batted on my side.”

They remained in the drawing room, and Harris brought in tea and coffee on a tray. Margaret told the story of Arthur’s affair, and the strangest thing happened. The more she talked about it, the less it caused her pain. In fact, by the third recounting of the story, it seemed a rather silly thing to have got all worked up about. “So, dear Arthur built the folly for me, and I never bothered to go up and look at it,” she continued nonchalantly. “I mean, I did, of course, once or twice, but I didn’t want to let him off the hook. It gave me satisfaction to dangle my forgiveness in front of him like a carrot on a string. Poor Arthur was always on the back foot, and he did love me. I know he did. I just never let him know how much I loved him.”

“That’s a very sad story,” said Roberta.

“Indeed,” Dr. Heyworth agreed.

“Well, I don’t suppose he cares very much about my forgiveness now, but I need to do it for my soul. I doubt I’ll get to heaven without it.” She turned to Antoinette. “And we do all want to get to heaven, don’t we?”

“I’m not sure, if George is there,” Antoinette muttered.

“After the way he’s behaved I imagine he’s still rattling those pearly gates,” commented Tom loyally.

“It’s your soul you want to concentrate on now,” Margaret advised. “Now, Dr. Heyworth, how about that prescription?”

At the end of the weekend Joshua, Roberta, and Tom returned to London, and Rosamunde drove reluctantly back to Dorset and the frightful prospect of joining the WI. Margaret wandered into the yellow spare room, where Phaedra had stayed, and ran her hands over the ornamental clock on the mantelpiece, ashamed that she had ever accused the girl of trying to steal it. She knew in her heart that Phaedra was a good person; only a good person could have seen through the sourpuss.

Antoinette was alone once more and lonelier than ever. She felt bereft all over again, as if Phaedra had died. The girl had lightened the burden of George’s death and brought sunshine into the shadowy corners of Antoinette’s heart, but now she’d discovered that the sunshine was phony and George hadn’t been the man she thought he was. It was as if she had woken up to find that everything she believed to be real was, in fact, made of ether. She felt angry and let down but above all humiliated. They had taken advantage of her trusting nature and stolen her joy. She wondered whether she’d ever feel joy again or whether, as she rather suspected, it would be lost forever.