“She’s doing her best,” Roberta added, a small smile momentarily brushing her face.
“Is she anything like George?”
“I think she’s her mother’s daughter,” said Roberta.
“You mean, she’s nothing like him at all?”
Rosamunde took it upon herself to rectify the situation. “She’s got George’s charisma.”
“Oh yes, he did have the most dazzling charisma. That he inherited from me.”
“She’s undoubtedly clever like you, too,” Rosamunde added, knowing how easily Margaret was taken in by flattery.
“Is she? How interesting.”
“And she’s very beautiful,” Joshua put in.
“In a chocolate-boxy way,” interjected Roberta meanly. “And she has an extraordinary sense of fashion—or should I say, she has no fashion sense at all!”
“I disagree,” said Rosamunde. “I love her quirky dressing, and she’s got the most unusual eyes. There’s nothing chocolate-boxy about her eyes at all. What I think you mean, Roberta, is that she’s blond and a little unconventional.”
“Like Tom,” said Margaret with a smile. “Beautiful, clever, and blond. That sounds like a Frampton to me. George had white-blond hair when he was a little boy. When are they coming back?”
“Not for a while,” Joshua replied hastily.
“Then you must drive me to David’s.”
“Now?”
“Of course now. You don’t expect me to walk all the way over there, do you?”
“Don’t worry, darling,” said Roberta. “I’ll take Amber out with Rosamunde.”
“You see,” said Margaret, getting up. “You’ve been let off the hook. Come on. Let’s go and find them.”
* * *
Antoinette and Phaedra walked slowly towards George’s grave. The churchyard was quiet but for a pair of blackbirds playing noisily on the grass. The sun shone merrily but seemed unable to penetrate the shadow of sadness that hung over the place. Antoinette and Phaedra stood in silence, staring at the rectangle of fresh earth that covered his coffin, buried deep down beneath. Barry’s wooden headstone was simple and understated, and the sight of it unleashed Phaedra’s sorrow so that tears spilled over her cheeks, dropping off her chin onto her shirt. “I can’t believe his life has been reduced to those few words and that sad group of numbers,” she said softly. Antoinette instinctively took the girl’s hand. “It’s the last four numbers that look so menacing. Don’t you think? It’s like a nightmare to see them there: 2012. It shouldn’t be. I expect to open my eyes and wake up to find it’s all a bad dream.”
Phaedra’s words struck a chord in Antoinette’s heart because she expected to wake up, too, but the wakening never came. “Every day is the same, Phaedra. I feel I’m masquerading because I can’t go on boring my family with my pain. I laugh and pretend I’m okay then cry when I’m alone in bed and no one can hear me.”
“Oh, Antoinette, that’s awful. You should be allowed to grieve.”
“I know, and I do, but I don’t want them to worry about me. It’s bad enough that they’ve lost their father.”
“They’ll heal and move on with their lives. Joshua with Roberta and Amber, Tom with his club and the possibility of a wife and family one day, David with the farm and the soul mate he hopes to meet. Their lives are opening like flowers, filled with all sorts of possibilities. But George was your life, and the flower of endless possibilities seems forever closed. I understand that, Antoinette. You see no future without George.”
Antoinette stared at Phaedra and through her tears she saw the compassion in her face. “For such a young woman you understand a great deal.”
Phaedra squeezed her hand. “It sounds silly, but George was my future, too.” She wiped her cheek on her sleeve. “Before him I belonged nowhere, and I had no one. I was drifting, trying to make sense of my life, trying to find a Phaedra-shaped place that I could slot into. George gave me that shape, and it fitted perfectly. He gave me a sense of belonging and a sense of purpose. Now he’s gone I feel I’m nothing.”
“You’re not nothing, Phaedra. I’m your stepmother, and you belong at Fairfield with us.”
Phaedra smiled. “You’re so generous, but I couldn’t possibly—”
“No, you don’t understand.” Antoinette felt a rush of adrenaline. “I need you.”
“You do?”
“Yes, you’re a part of George. A part of the man I loved.”