The Woman from Paris(15)

Antoinette lowered her eyes. “I don’t think I can ever go back,” she said quietly.

“Of course you can’t,” Rosamunde agreed. “It was never your cup of tea in the first place. George is home now. There’s absolutely no reason for you ever to return.”

“I never wanted to be in a position to say ‘I told you so,’” Antoinette added.

Tom noticed his mother’s shining eyes and reached across the table to touch her hand.

“Mum, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” he said.

Skiing had been one of George’s passions that Antoinette had never understood. It was one thing to ski gently down pistes, but quite another to descend parts of the mountain where even chamois dared not tread. She hadn’t grown up with the sport as he had, and she had found it hard to accept his infatuation and the risks it demanded. But George had laughed off her fears and told her that he was much more likely to die in a car on the M3 than on the mountain.

Soon after they married he had bought a chalet in Murenburg, a small, picturesque village a couple of hours from Zurich, where he had skied all his life. He passed his enthusiasm on to his sons, who had all been accomplished skiers by the age of ten. For Antoinette, besides enjoying the process of decorating a pretty home, skiing holidays were riddled with anxiety as she remained in the valley, gazing up at the mountains and trying not to imagine the worst.

At the end of the day they’d return with pink cheeks and sparkling eyes, wet clothes and cold noses, and Antoinette would hang everything over the radiators to dry and make them hot chocolate to drink in front of the fire. She’d listen to their stories without ever really understanding their language. It was impossible for her to appreciate the breathtaking views from the mountain peaks, where they stood alone with nature; the thin, clean air burning their lungs; and the bright snow glittering like a million diamonds, for she had little experience to draw on. They’d try to explain the thrill of hopping down narrow gullies where it was almost too tight to turn, and gliding over undulating meadows of untracked snow, but Antoinette had only ever skied on piste, and even that had terrified her.

“I’d be happier if you went together,” she said to her sons. “Perhaps Josh will join you.”

“Roberta won’t let him off the lead,” said Tom disdainfully. “And we’re absolutely not having her!”

“It would be nice to ask him, just the same,” their mother insisted.

“I have no reservations about telling him that we won’t tolerate his wife,” said David. “It’s about time he stood up to her.”

“I don’t think she’d want to go, anyway,” interjected Rosamunde. “Doesn’t she prefer to ski in Gstaad?”

“That’s because she can’t ski,” said Tom. “Serious skiers don’t go to Gstaad!”

“And because Murenburg isn’t glamorous enough for her,” David added. “No designer shops or celebrities.”

“It’s understandable that she should want to carve her own niche. Murenburg is very much Frampton territory. I don’t blame her for that,” said Antoinette, trying hard to keep the family united.

“But Josh is a serious skier; he must be bored rigid in Gstaad,” Tom mused. Then he laughed mischievously. “But then again, he must be bored rigid being married to Roberta.” David laughed with him while Antoinette and Rosamunde tried not to look amused.

“Shame on you, boys, you’re too much!” Rosamunde exclaimed, her mouth twitching at the corners. She caught her sister’s eye. “But really, Antoinette, we do need something to laugh about!” Antoinette’s face broke into a smile. She glanced at the head of the table and discovered that it was possible to laugh and cry at the same time.

After dinner, David walked across the garden to his house, positioned on the other side of the large ornamental lake his father had built for floating his collection of miniature boats. It was a pretty red-brick lodge, built in the same Jacobean style as the main house. Inside, the walls were lined with bookshelves, but many books lay piled on the floor for lack of space, and magazines were strewn across the surfaces. David loved to read, especially history, and spent many evenings in front of the fire with his dog, devouring books he had ordered on Amazon.

He opened the door, and Rufus, his golden Labrador, bounded out of the kitchen to greet him. Trevor, the farm manager, had taken him off for the day, returning him home after a long walk at six. Rufus loved Trevor, who had two mongrels and a garden full of chickens, but he loved David most of all, and jumped up in his excitement to see him.