The Woman from Paris(150)

David caught his breath. It was Phaedra. He felt his chest grow tight as he began to make his way towards her, but the people in his path made his struggle all the more difficult, like wading through a rough sea: one step forward, one step back. She stood up, and for a terrible moment she disappeared behind a trio of grungy teenagers. David searched the crowd for her, his eyes frantically jumping from face to face, until at last she came steadily towards him, like a gull propelled on a wave.

It no longer mattered what he was going to say, because the longing in her eyes confirmed that she felt as wretched as he did. His heart quickened, his spirits soared, and the knot in his stomach unraveled as she held out her hand and he took it, pulling her the final few steps towards him until they were reunited at last, body to body, chest to chest, saying more in that kiss than they could ever say in words.

* * *

Back at Fairfield Park, Antoinette sat at the piano, fingers moving deftly over the keys because by now she knew the piece by heart. The dogs lay on the rugs, the fire smoldered in the grate, the house was still. She thought of Dr. Heyworth and cringed when she recalled her clumsy attempt to give him encouragement, as Margaret had advised her to do. She wished she hadn’t said it because it had sounded unnatural. She hoped Dr. Heyworth hadn’t been put off by it. How presumptuous to have thought he might be attracted to her. She began to play the piece more vigorously.

The telephone interrupted her playing. She sighed and got up to answer it. “Hello,” she said.

“It’s William,” he replied.

“Oh, William.” Her voice brightened. “What a surprise.”

“I was wondering whether I could come over and listen to you playing the piano.”

“Now?”

“Well, if it’s not too late.”

“No, of course not.”

“Good. I’ll ring the bell.”

No sooner had Antoinette put the telephone down than the doorbell rang. She frowned. He couldn’t possibly have got there that quickly. Her heartbeat quickened with fear. Who would come calling so late? Suddenly, she wished she wasn’t alone in such a big house. Harris was in the cottage at the bottom of the drive, David across the lake; if she screamed, no one would hear her. For a moment she froze, unable to move. The bell rang again, this time more insistently. The dogs awoke from their sleep and jumped to their feet.

Accompanied by the Danes, she found the courage to walk across the room to the hall, then stood wringing her hands. “Who is it?” she called out.

“Me!”

Bertie began to bark.

“William?” She wanted to cry with relief. “What are you doing there?”

“I said I’d ring the bell.”

She hurried forward to open the door. “But you got here so quickly.”

His smiling face appeared on the doorstep. “I was already here,” he replied. Then his face fell at the sight of her. “Did I frighten you?”

“A little,” she confessed.

“My darling Antoinette, I’m so sorry.” Then he gazed at her solemnly. “All right, I’ll come clean. I didn’t come here to listen to your piano playing.”

“You didn’t?”

He shook his head. “No. I came here . . .” He hesitated. For a second he looked embarrassed. Antoinette smiled softly, which was all the encouragement he needed. He cupped her face in his hands, bent down, and kissed her.





32


The following morning Antoinette walked around the gardens with a lighter heart than she had had since George died. Dr. Heyworth had driven off well after midnight, and she had remained alone in the house, but without the ache of loneliness. She had gone to bed and lain awake, replaying the kiss and the subsequent few hours they had enjoyed together in the drawing room. He had listened to her playing the piano, leaning on the top, gazing lovingly into her face as if the music came from her lips and not from her fingers. Then they had sat side by side and played a spontaneous duet, laughing as their improvisation declined into tuneless chords and clashing disharmony.

Her love for William was different from her love for George. In spite of her husband’s infidelity, she still loved him. She didn’t condone his betrayal, but she had found a way to forgive him by trying to understand why. In Phaedra he had encountered a companion who shared his passion for adventure. She was a free spirit, as happy in remote places as he was, with the courage that Antoinette lacked. Phaedra skied, climbed, and was undoubtedly just as much at home in a tent on the mountainside as in a warm hotel bed. Antoinette had fulfilled his need for a domestic partner, but had left a gaping breach in the other part of his life—the part that was almost more important to him. He had spent so much time alone in the mountains, it was easy to understand how he should fall for a beautiful young woman who was willing to share his enthusiasm for nature’s wildest places. But during the time he was infatuated with Phaedra, he had never treated Antoinette any differently. He had been just as affectionate, just as attentive. Their life together hadn’t changed in any way, and she was reassured that his heart had remained constant, even though his infatuation had for a time clouded his judgment. Antoinette chose to believe that, as with all of George’s crushes, he eventually would have tired of Phaedra.