The Woman from Paris(53)

Margaret had turned on the bedside lamp, but the curtains were still closed. “Open them, will you? Then I can get a good look at you,” Margaret demanded, propping herself up with pillows. Phaedra did as she was told. The light spilled into the room, transmuting the heavy atmosphere into sunshine. She turned to the old woman in the bed. Margaret Frampton was round and ruffled like a fat hen on her nest. Grief pulled her mouth down at the corners and her pale-gray eyes were glassy and bloodshot. Phaedra was struck by an unexpected wave of compassion, for it was plain to see that George’s mother was a hard knot of unhappiness.

Margaret’s formidable gaze scrutinized her, but Phaedra didn’t avert her eyes. This small act of defiance won Margaret’s admiration, for she was used to people shrinking in her presence. “Ah, now that you have inherited from me,” she said triumphantly. “Come closer.” She patted the bed. Phaedra sat down. “Yes, I was a beauty in my day, just like you. It’s all in the eyes, you know. You have lovely eyes.”

“Thank you.”

“No, you inherited them from me, of course.” Margaret smiled, and Phaedra laughed, more out of relief than joy.

“Are you feeling better?” she asked.

“I just needed to lie down. I suppose Antoinette thought I was dying.”

“Well, she was very worried.”

“Sometimes I think she’d rather like me out of the way.”

“I’m sure she wouldn’t, not in her heart.”

“Oh, I’m an irritation, you know. When George was alive, I used to come over all the time. He was my only child, and we were very close. My husband died a long time ago, so for years it was just George and me. But now he’s gone, I find I still need that diversion. Fairfield Park has been my home for most of my life, you see. It’s a frightful bore for Antoinette as I pop in daily. I’m a bit like a homing pigeon. I came for George, but now . . . I don’t know.” She looked confused, and her voice trailed off. “I’m drawn here . . .”

“This is a very pretty room,” Phaedra mused, sweeping her eyes over the blue floral wallpaper and bedspread.

“I like the color blue. It’s very restful, don’t you think?”

“Blue can be a cold color, but it feels warm in here. Not cold at all.”

“This house is a nuisance to keep warm because it’s so big. I didn’t feel the cold when I lived here. When George was a boy, he used to run about in short sleeves even in winter. But I feel the cold now. It’s age, I’m afraid. One can’t fight it. I don’t think I have the energy to fight anything anymore.” She sighed, and for a moment she looked a little lost, as if her mind were being pulled in an unfamiliar direction.

“Resistance only brings unhappiness,” Phaedra said wisely. “It’s through acceptance and letting go that one finds peace.” Margaret’s gaze fell away. “I miss George terribly, all the time, but I have to let him go, because holding on to pain will only make me miserable, and it won’t bring him back.” Phaedra noticed the old woman’s mouth twitch, like the minute cracking of a great dam. “I went to his grave today, and we laid daffodils. I know he’s not in there, but it felt good to pay my respects and to feel I was doing something. I don’t need to visit his grave to feel close to him. He’s around us all the time, I’m sure. But I needed to see where his body was laid to rest, for my own peace of mind, and to give me a sense of closure. I have to accept that he’s gone—and to let him go.”

The twitching of Margaret’s mouth grew more intense. Suddenly, she grabbed Phaedra’s arm and stared at her with large, frightened eyes. “It’s my heart again. I think I’m having a heart attack,” she gasped. But the fire that had once again started in the pit of her belly rose past her heart and into her throat, where it rolled about as if desperately trying to find a way out. Margaret resisted, tightening the muscles there, holding it in for fear of what might happen if she let it escape. Phaedra stared back in alarm as Margaret’s face turned the color of a pepper. Then, just as she was about to leap up and raise the alarm, Margaret let out a loud wail and her whole body heaved as her grief was ejected in one giant sob.

Phaedra recognized her anguish and put her arms around her. Margaret didn’t pull away. The crack in the dam was now a gaping hole, and the old woman’s grief poured out like water. She sobbed and sighed, and tears tumbled down the lines in her skin. She looked appalled, as if such a release of emotion was an unwelcome novelty, and quite horrifying. “It’s okay to cry,” said Phaedra, feeling the tears stinging her own eyes. “You’re going to set me off, too. But it’s okay. We’ll cry together.” She smiled as Margaret slowly calmed down, leaving her body trembling with the aftershock. Phaedra pulled away but kept a reassuring hand on her arm.