The Woman from Paris(17)

Pleased to be included, Rosamunde smiled gratefully. “Take your time, Antoinette. Leave everything to me. I’ll entertain him.” She grinned and lowered her voice. “He’s very attractive.”

“Oh really, Rosamunde!”

“I might be old, but I can still admire.”

“He’s been our family doctor for thirty years. I’d never look at him in that way.”

“Then don’t deny me the pleasure.”

“He’s all yours. Unmarried in his sixties: I’m not sure he’s a very good bet, Rosamunde.”

“I’m unmarried at fifty-nine. I’m not a very good bet, either. I’ll show him into the drawing room.” Rosamunde closed the door behind her.

The thought of Rosamunde flirting with Dr. Heyworth made Antoinette smile. Rosamunde was an unlikely candidate for the handsome doctor. She was a sturdy, unfeminine woman who thought face cream and hair dye were unnecessary indulgences. Consequently, her skin was carved with lines and marred with fine threads of broken veins embedded in her cheeks like minor roads on a map, and her gray hair was pulled back into a severe bun. As a younger woman she had devoted her time to horses and ridden out in all weather, but hip trouble had stopped her enjoying the sport she loved the most, so now she only watched it on the television and as a spectator at the races. Unlike Antoinette, who loved beautiful clothes, Rosamunde was happier in slacks, sensible shoes, and cotton blouses, on her knees in the herbaceous border, or striding across the fields in gumboots with her pack of four energetic dogs. Antoinette had never asked her if she regretted not marrying and having children; she had always just assumed she hadn’t desired either. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she had heard her sister comment on a man’s good looks. It was very out of character.

When she walked into the drawing room, she found Dr. Heyworth in the armchair beside the fire and Rosamunde settled contentedly into the sofa opposite, sipping cups of Earl Grey tea. Bertie lay sleeping at her sister’s feet, while Wooster sat with his back straight, eyeballing Dr. Heyworth, who tentatively patted his big head. When he saw Antoinette, he stood up to greet her. “Hello, Dr. Heyworth. Please don’t get up,” she insisted. “Wooster, leave the poor man alone!” Wooster didn’t flinch, and Dr. Heyworth sat down again and resumed his hesitant patting.

“I think he likes you,” said Rosamunde.

“Oh yes, Wooster and I are old friends,” he replied.

Antoinette sat on the club fender near her sister. A hearty fire crackled in the grate as the flames lapped the logs with greedy tongues. “Isn’t this nice,” she said, feeling the heat on her back. “A big house like this is hard to keep warm. Sometimes we even light fires in the summer.”

“It doesn’t feel cold to me,” said Dr. Heyworth.

“Me, neither,” added Rosamunde. “In fact, I’d go as far as saying I’m rather warm.”

“Then it must be my thin skin,” Antoinette declared, wrapping her cardigan tightly around her body.

Dr. Heyworth smiled at her sympathetically, which made Antoinette’s eyes well with tears. “It’s perfectly natural to feel the chill, Lady Frampton. Nothing at all to worry about.”

Antoinette had never really noticed how handsome Dr. Heyworth was. If she had, she would have been a reluctant patient, unable to discuss intimate medical matters without embarrassment. But now her sister had mentioned the unmentionable, she realized that, in spite of his glasses, he was indeed handsome. His face was long and kind, with intelligent green eyes and a strong nose that gave him an air of authority. His hair, which had once been dark, was now gray and thinning, but the generous shape of his head and the warm color of his skin ensured that baldness would not diminish him. Although his visit was an informal one—he was now semiretired and saw only private patients occasionally—he looked dignified and proper in a tweed jacket and tie.

“Thank you for coming to the funeral,” said Antoinette, wringing her hands to warm them.

“It was a beautiful service,” he replied. “Lord Frampton was well loved and highly respected in the community. We shall all miss him.”

Antoinette felt the familiar tightening of her throat and the uncontrollable wobbling of her lower lip as her heart heaved with grief. She was grateful Margaret wasn’t there to witness her crying in front of the doctor. “I can’t say I remember a great deal about the service. I was . . .” When Antoinette’s words trailed off, Rosamunde intervened to save her sister any embarrassment.

“The flowers were very pretty,” she said. “You know Antoinette chose them all herself. The smell filled the whole church.”