“Mum would like us to be there, of course.”
“I thought so.”
“She’s my sister.”
“I’m not so sure. It’s all very contrived. I smell a rat.”
Joshua dropped his shoulders wearily. “You and your conspiracy theories. You read too much Patricia Cornwell.”
“Didn’t you notice the relish in Beecher’s voice when he declared that Phaedra had been left the Frampton Sapphires?”
“Not the bloody sapphires again!”
“It matters, Joshua, if your family’s being swindled. Antoinette is incredibly vulnerable at the moment. It’s very easy for George’s lawyer to pull the wool over her eyes.”
“Do we really have to talk about this all over again?”
He took the cheese and a tin of water biscuits to the table and sat down. “What do you think we should do, Roberta?”
She sat opposite and folded her arms on the table. “Firstly, I don’t think Phaedra should be rewarded for breaking the news that she was George’s illegitimate daughter on the day of his funeral, when his family was grieving. Secondly, I think it’s devious of your father to have withheld that information for nearly two years. Thirdly, I think it’s unforgivable to give her the Frampton Sapphires when they should be ours. Fourthly, he should have come clean and told Antoinette everything. She’s a good-natured woman; she was never going to kick up a fuss. He had no reason to doubt her.”
“That’s the same as number two, but go on . . .”
Roberta sighed impatiently. “Forget the numbers, Josh. It’s pretty clear to me that she’s trying to inveigle her way into your family. It’s a bit odd at her age. Doesn’t she have family of her own?”
“Perhaps they’re in Canada.”
“It’s the twenty-first century, and with the money she’s been given she can go back every week if she wishes!”
“Maybe she doesn’t have family, then. Perhaps we are the only family she has.”
“It’s still odd to adopt a family in your thirties. She should be concentrating on making a family of her own. You said she was pretty; funny she can’t find a man to marry her.”
Joshua shook his head wearily. “I don’t know, Roberta, and I don’t care. I’ll go down at the weekend and meet her for Mum’s sake. It would be nice if you came, too, with Amber, but if you’re going to make a scene, I’d rather you stayed behind.”
She grinned wickedly. “Oh no, I’m coming to observe, even though I gave Kathy the weekend off. I’ll happily look after Amber all by myself in order to witness what would be a marvelous black comedy if it wasn’t so tragic!”
The following afternoon Antoinette stood before her husband’s grave and placed a posy of spring flowers against the temporary wooden headstone Barry had made. The sight of the dates 1954–2012 brought on a surge of anguish, and she sank to her knees and put her head in her hands. It was hard to imagine that George lay buried beneath the ground, like the dogs buried at the top of their garden. Nothing remained of him but possessions, and they had no life without him. “I’m so unhappy, George,” she whispered. “I don’t know how to be on my own anymore. But more than that, I’m so cross. Yes, I’m furious with you for lying to me. Why didn’t you tell me about Phaedra, when I would have supported you without question? Did you doubt me? Is that why you kept her secret? Did you think I’d be angry? How could you, when I never complained that you abandoned me all the time? You always went off on your travels and I let you go, because I loved you and wanted you to be happy. But whenever did you put me first, like I always put you first? Your climbing came before me, and I didn’t complain; surely you knew that I would never have complained about Phaedra. You were everything to me, George, but I was not everything to you. I realize that now, and it makes me so cross. If I had been everything to you, you wouldn’t have taken such risks. You wouldn’t have died a young man and left me a widow. But you’ve abandoned me again, this time forever, and I can’t accept it. I just can’t.”
She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. The graveyard was littered with headstones, many inscribed with the Frampton name, dating back as far as the fourteenth century. Some were so old it was no longer possible to read the inscriptions on them. But each one of those graves bore witness to a life—a life that was once as vibrant as hers. One day she’d lie here beside George, and her vibrant life would be over, too. Things that had seemed important would be reduced to nothing. Her existence would end like this, in a cold graveyard, and the years that had seemed so long would be reduced to a couple of inanimate dates carved into stone. How short life was—for what purpose?