The Woman from Paris(145)
“Good gracious, I never realized. Well, something must be done.”
“He won’t go looking for her. He thinks she doesn’t want him. In any case, he wouldn’t know where to start looking.”
Margaret narrowed her eyes. “Are you ready to forgive her, Antoinette?”
“I think I am,” Antoinette replied, a little anxiously. She realized now that, in spite of the charade, the girl’s extraordinary gift of transforming lives had been very real. “At least, if I suddenly found myself face-to-face, I don’t think I’d be able to resist her.” She sighed and pulled off her boots. “I’m not sure she’d want to see us, though. I have a dreadful feeling she’s gone, never to be found.”
That evening, when Antoinette broached the subject of lending Roberta the Frampton Sapphires, David shrugged noncommittally and changed the subject. His face was so dark and serious these days, falling into a scowl as if it were his natural repose, that she didn’t think it wise to persist. They dined together in the little sitting room, just the two of them, and Antoinette tried to draw him out of himself. She’d lost George and then Phaedra; with every day that passed misery took David a little further from her, too. Soon he’d be but the shell of a man. She was determined not to let that happen. But save finding Phaedra and bringing her back, there was nothing she could do. He didn’t want to go out and meet people; he had even withdrawn from his friends. His life was reduced to the farm and Rufus, and he seemed to have given up on joy. A long, bleak winter stretched out before them.
The second weekend in September, Rosamunde came to stay along with Joshua, Roberta, and Tom. Antoinette had asked Margaret for dinner, and the atmosphere, although more subdued than when Phaedra had been a part of the family, was lighter than before. Antoinette didn’t know why it was so. Perhaps it was simply time putting some distance between the horrendous events of spring and the beginning of autumn: a new season, a new chapter, a new beginning. She thought of the leaves on the trees turning brown and falling to the ground, and wondered whether they, as a family, could shed their pain and grow afresh again.
“How’s the Women’s Institute?” Margaret asked Rosamunde.
“Well, I didn’t really want to join, but you know Marjorie, my neighbor who looks after the dogs when I’m away, was very keen to take the cookery course. I couldn’t let her down and I owed her a great debt of thanks. So I’m keeping her company. She needs me, you see. I couldn’t say no.”
Antoinette noticed the excited light in her sister’s eyes. “Of course you couldn’t, Rosamunde. You’re very generous, considering how reluctant you were to join.”
“Well, it’s not really my sort of thing, but they need people like me on the charity side,” Rosamunde continued, fooling no one. “I’m tireless when it comes to raising money and I’m very good at organizing people.”
“Sounds just your thing,” said Tom, stuffing his mouth with a roast potato.
“I do like to be busy,” Rosamunde replied. “There’s nothing worse than being bored. The WI takes up all of my time, which is more than I intended, but they need me, and I’m not one to let people down.” Antoinette caught Margaret’s eye and noticed the old woman’s mouth twitching at the corners. She looked away in case Rosamunde saw them making fun of her.
“Roberta, do tell us about the dance you’re going to. Sounds frightfully grand,” said Margaret.
“Oh, it is, very grand. We went last year, and everyone who is anyone will be there!” she said excitedly.
“Then I can’t imagine why I haven’t been invited,” said Tom.
“That’s because you’re not anyone,” Joshua joked, not unkindly.
“There’s a lot of talk of the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge attending, but no one knows for sure. It’s very hush-hush,” Roberta informed them.
“Sounds very jolly,” Margaret enthused. “In my day I went to all the best parties, and my dance card was always full.”
“Grandma, we don’t have dance cards nowadays,” Tom laughed.
“Girls don’t play hard to get and men don’t open doors, either,” Margaret sighed. “I wouldn’t think I was so clever if I were you.”
Tom rolled his eyes melodramatically. “I hate girls who play hard to get.”
“The girl who wins you in the end will be the one you always felt was out of your reach, mark my words, Those are the girls with quality,” Margaret told him firmly. “Play around with sluts by all means, but marry a girl of quality, wouldn’t you agree, Antoinette?”