The Woman from Paris(151)

Where George had craved adventure, William was content just to be. With him she felt safe, but also valuable. There were no mountains to lure him away and no panoramas to steal his heart. Antoinette was his passion, and she was sure of it. With George she had shared the children, Fairfield, and his deepest thoughts. With William she shared the gardens, music, and her deepest thoughts. He gave her his time and his full attention, and she never felt his focus pulled in another direction. There was something very steady about her love for William; it was as warm and gentle as a summer meadow.

With these thoughts she wandered through the orchard. Fat, rosy apples caused the branches of the apple trees to droop; a few of the fruit lay on the grass, nibbled by wasps. The trees she had planted with Barry were thriving, their leaves beginning to turn brown as autumn blew in on an easterly wind. She looked at those dying leaves and realized that human beings were a little like trees: that in spite of such loss, their spirits had the strength to live through winter and find happiness again in the spring of new opportunities. She believed that in William she had found spring after a winter of grief. Perhaps now she’d accept the loss of Phaedra, too.

When she went inside, she telephoned Margaret to see how she was. Jenny answered and informed her that her mother-in-law was resting. When Antoinette suggested she come over, Jenny was quick to tell her that Margaret was, in fact, asleep and that it would be best not to wake her. She reassured her that, apart from a little tiredness, Margaret was quite well. Antoinette hung up, feeling a little uneasy. Something wasn’t right, but she couldn’t work out what it was.

At midday Dr. Heyworth arrived with his car boot full of shrubs. “I thought we could plant these down by the lake,” he said, kissing her tenderly. “What do you think?”

“You’re so thoughtful, thank you,” she replied happily. “How lovely that we have the whole afternoon ahead of us.”

“I’ve been thinking: we should go away together.”

“Where to?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Anywhere but here. Paris, Vienna, Rome, wherever you like. When was the last time you went away?”

“Gosh,” she sighed; it was a long way back. “A year ago at least.”

“Then it’s about time you left Fairfield.” His face brightened. “Have you ever been to India?”

“No.”

“Neither have I. We can discover it together.”

She hesitated. “But what about Margaret?”

“She’ll be all right on her own. David’s here.”

“You know, I called this morning, and Jenny said she was resting. Then she said she was asleep. She sounded nervous to me, as if she was lying.”

“Why would she lie?”

“Because Margaret would have asked her to.”

“Oh. Would you like to go and see her?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t want to disturb her if she is sleeping . . .”

At that moment Harris appeared on the porch. “Lady Frampton, the Dowager Lady Frampton has just called.”

“You see, I knew something was wrong!” Antoinette exclaimed, hurrying back into the house. “What did she say, Harris?”

“She wants you to meet her at the folly right away.”

“The folly? What’s she doing up there? I thought she was resting!”

“She says it’s important,” said Harris.

Antoinette turned to Dr. Heyworth. “You have to come with me, William. I sense something’s going on, but I don’t know what. Yesterday she was dying, and today she’s up at the folly, demanding that I go and join her. What’s it all about?”

Dr. Heyworth smiled knowingly, remembering what Margaret had told him the day before. “Let’s go and find out.”

They set off at a pace with Bertie and Wooster trotting ahead into the garden. Light-gray clouds hung heavily in the sky, but every now and then the heavens glowed as the sun tried to burn through. As they reached the top of the hill they spotted David’s Land Rover parked on the track. “Oh dear, it looks like she called David, too.” Antoinette turned to Dr. Heyworth in panic. “You don’t think she’s getting us all up here to say good-bye, do you? Oh, God, I hope she’s okay.”

“She’s as strong as an ox,” said Dr. Heyworth confidently.

“No, she isn’t. She just pretends she is. Inside, she’s as soft as the rest of us. I know it sounds odd, considering our troubled relationship, but since George died I’ve grown to like her. No, more than that, I’m fond of her, terribly fond of her.” She accelerated her pace.