That evening she heaved her bag onto the backseat of her car and drove west out of London, stopping at a boutique on the King’s Road to buy Antoinette a small present. There was a lot of traffic on the Talgarth Road, but she listened to Capital Radio and soon she was driving down the M3, her small Fiat cruising smoothly at 70 miles per hour.
The skies were heavy with thick gray clouds, but to the west, where the sun was setting, the golden light was shining through and turning them pink. She began to get nervous when she came off the motorway and headed into the countryside. The hedgerows were already beginning to bud, and a green smoke appeared to be wafting through the woodlands as the branches revealed their first lime-colored leaves. Spring had lifted the land out of the bleak brownness of winter and breathed new life onto the fields, turning them a lively, phosphorescent green. She took pleasure in the little birds that darted in and out of the hedges, and opened the window to expel the city pollution from her lungs and inhale the fresh, clean air. She felt uplifted in spite of her apprehension.
At last she drove through the old market town of Fairfield. The high street was very wide and lined with cherry trees, yet to flower. She motored up the hill, admiring the color-washed rainbow of Georgian houses and little shops that she had been too nervous to notice when she came for the funeral. It was like stepping back in time to another age, and if it hadn’t been for the cars parked beneath the fruit trees, she could have imagined what it must have been like two hundred years before, when King George sat on the throne.
She slowed down when she drove past the church. Somewhere in that yard George lay buried, and for a moment she felt the urge to park the car and go and find his grave. But she didn’t want to be late, and it was already seven o’clock. So she drove on and up the narrow lane that led to Fairfield Park, situated a mile outside the town. She shuddered as she motored past the little white cottages and through the iron gates, remembering the last time she had been there and how desperate she was to leave. She recalled how she had vowed never to return, but here she was now, once again making her way up the drive beneath the plane trees.
Harris heard the car on the gravel and walked hastily to the drawing room to inform Lady Frampton. Antoinette hurried out into the hall with David, while Joshua and Roberta remained on the sofas with Rosamunde. Tom hadn’t yet arrived, which wasn’t unusual. As Antoinette prepared herself in the hall, anxious for everything to go smoothly and for Phaedra to like her, Roberta swept across the room to sneak a peek through the curtains. She saw the car draw up and halt. She saw the girl inside turn off the engine and open the door. Then she saw Phaedra climb out, and her body stiffened with jealousy, for even in the semidarkness she could see that the young woman was a beauty. Roberta withdrew as if the curtain had scalded her.
Harris descended the steps to help Phaedra with her suitcase. David followed after, a wide smile swallowing up his face. When Phaedra saw him, her shoulders relaxed, and she smiled back gratefully. He said he’d look after her, and he’d been true to his word. She felt a warm sense of relief just seeing him there.
“You got here in good time,” he said, bending down to kiss her cheek.
“There wasn’t much traffic. It was fine.”
He could tell she was nervous. “I thought you’d prefer to stay in my cottage,” he whispered in her ear. “Then you can leave when my family gets too much.”
She laughed, pleasantly surprised. “Was that your idea?”
“No, Mother’s actually.”
“That’s very thoughtful of her. May we go now?”
He looked at her askance. “That’s a joke, right?”
“Only half.”
He put his hand on the small of her back and led her up the steps. “Don’t worry, they don’t bite. And the one who does isn’t here,” he added, referring to his grandmother.
Antoinette was at the top of the steps, ready to welcome her. “Phaedra, I’m so pleased you agreed to come.”
“Hello, Lady Frampton.”
“Please, call me Antoinette. You’re my stepdaughter, after all.” She smiled warmly, and Phaedra’s fears began to slip away. “Don’t mind the dogs, they’re very friendly.”
“They’re big, aren’t they? I suppose they must eat you out of house and home.”
“They don’t eat as much as you’d imagine. Come on in. The others are in the drawing room. Tom hasn’t arrived yet, but that’s no surprise; he’s never on time for anything.”
Phaedra followed Antoinette through the hall. It looked so much larger now that it wasn’t full of people. A big fire danced boisterously in the grate, beneath a large black canopy to catch the smoke. She inhaled the smell of burning logs and sighed with pleasure; there was something very comforting about that woody scent. She stepped over the Persian rugs, noticing everything, from the vast display of lilies on the hall table to the line of silver trophies on the mantelpiece above the fire, presumably George’s. This was his home, his family, his intimate life—and she had never been a part of any of it.