The Woman from Paris(14)
“I’m going to ask Phaedra to come and stay one weekend. I’d very much like you and Roberta to be here.”
He shrugged helplessly. “I’ll do my best, Mum.”
“I know you will. Drive carefully.” She watched him climb into the driver’s seat and start the engine with a roar. He waved solemnly and motored off into the dusk.
“Ridiculous woman,” said David, after they had gone.
“Ridiculous weak man,” Tom added mischievously.
“I agree with Tom,” said Rosamunde. “I blame Josh for letting her get away with that sort of spoilt behavior.”
“He should whip her into submission,” said Tom jovially.
“I wouldn’t go quite that far,” Rosamunde replied with a chortle. “But I do think she’s being very mean-spirited. If Antoinette is big enough to accept Phaedra, then Roberta should just toe the line and keep her opinions to herself. She shouldn’t forget she’s a married-in.”
“She’s never considered herself just that, Rosamunde,” Tom reminded her.
They settled down for supper in the kitchen, after which David would return to his house at the other side of the lake, and Tom would stay the night with his mother and leave for London in the morning. Rosamunde, being a spinster and having little to get home for besides her quartet of beagles, had set up residence with her sister for the foreseeable future. In her hometown in Dorset there was little on offer besides Bible groups, bridge nights, and the local Women’s Institute, where ladies met to sew, bake, and socialize. All to be avoided like measles, she thought resolutely. Here she felt needed and useful, two things she hadn’t felt in a very long time.
“I confess I’ve dreaded reading the will,” said Antoinette, taking out of the Aga the cottage pie that Mrs. Gunice had left for them. “I put it off. But now the funeral is over, I’m left no option but to face it.”
“It’s very final, isn’t it,” Rosamunde agreed sympathetically. “But you’ve got nothing to be afraid of. It’s only money.”
“I thought that if I avoided the whole thing, I could prevent it happening, somehow. I could pretend George was still here.” She put the pile of plates on top of the Aga and stood back to let everyone help themselves.
“Are you going to ask Phaedra to join us when we read the will?” David asked, digging the spoon into the steaming potato crust. Even the mention of Phaedra’s name gave him a forbidden thrill.
Antoinette looked at her sister. “I suppose I have to ask her, don’t I?”
“You don’t have to,” Rosamunde replied, sitting down at the table. “But I think you should. If she’s George’s daughter, it would be correct. I suspect Mr. Beecher will insist upon it.”
“Ah, the oleaginous Julius Beecher, keeper of all Dad’s secrets,” said Tom.
“If I’m not mistaken, Tom, there’s only one,” said Antoinette, indulging him with a smile. Tom had always been prone to exaggeration.
“I don’t know why Dad chose him to look after his affairs,” Tom continued. “He makes my skin crawl. Something about his greedy little eyes.”
“Yes, but he worshipped Dad,” said David. “He’d do anything for him. If you spend your time traveling, you want to be sure that the man looking after your businesses back at home is as loyal as a dog. Beecher is that dog.”
“He’s a good lawyer,” Antoinette defended him. “Your father trusted him with everything, and he never let him down. And don’t forget, your father was not an easy man to work for. He was so impulsive. One minute it was cigars, the next rugs, then herbal tea from Argentina, and God knows what else. Your father would get a crush on something and toss it at Julius, knowing that he’d do all the hard work while George set off to climb another peak. Most lawyers would have thrown up their hands in exasperation, but not Julius. He rose to the challenge. He was more than a lawyer: he was George’s right hand.”
“And I suspect he rather admired George’s flamboyance,” Rosamunde added.
“Oh, he did,” Antoinette agreed. “He thought the world of George.”
They began to eat, acutely aware of the empty seat at the head of the table.
“Mum, I want to go and spend some time out in Murenburg,” David began carefully. Antoinette’s face darkened as she was confronted once again with the gritty reality of her husband’s death. “I want to go to where it happened. I don’t think I can find peace until I’ve done that.”
“I’ll go with you,” Tom suggested.