The Woman from Paris(54)
“Good God!” Margaret exclaimed, finding a space between shuddering breaths. “I don’t know what’s come over me today.”
“Lady Frampton . . .”
“After that shameful display I think you should call me Margaret.”
“Margaret, you mustn’t be ashamed. You’re a mother who has lost her only child. I know it’s very British to hold it all in, but it’s unhealthy. And it’s not natural. We’re given tears and the ability to cry for a reason. It releases the tension and allows us to heal. How can we possibly heal if we don’t acknowledge we’re hurt?”
Margaret stared at Phaedra in surprise. “My dear child, I don’t know from whom you inherited your wisdom, because George was never wise like you.”
“I’m not wise, Margaret, I just know a little about unhappiness.”
Margaret narrowed her eyes. “You know, I feel I can confide in you, Phaedra.” Her face tightened, and she dropped her gaze into her hands. “I saw George’s grave today for the first time. I hadn’t dared go before. I couldn’t bear to see it. I couldn’t face the loose ground and the thought of his coffin . . . it was all too much.”
“It’s good that you went. You said good-bye. You can now take the first step out of your grief.”
“It cuts me to the quick.” She put her hand on her heart.
“I know it does.”
“Antoinette cries all the time. It makes me so cross because I can’t.”
“You can now,” Phaedra replied, watching the knotted woman slowly untangle and feeling a sense of pride that she had helped her do it.
“Tell me, Phaedra, do you have a grandmother?”
“No. I have no one.”
“What about your mama?”
“She’s in Canada. We’re not close.”
“So George was the only family you had?”
“You can imagine how happy I was to find him and that we got along so well.” Margaret smiled as Phaedra’s face lit up. “He gave me such wonderful opportunities. I wouldn’t have had the courage to do my book if he hadn’t taken me trekking with him.”
“Yes, you’re a photographer, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I love to photograph life from a distance—you know, observing it the way it is, without manipulating it. I started photographing families and children, mostly, because that paid the bills. But then I decided to do something more adventurous. George inspired the idea.”
“Did he?”
“I’d like to take your photograph, if you’ll let me.”
Margaret pulled a face. “I’m not photogenic, though in my day the camera loved me.”
“You have a strong face. Such an interesting face, full of contradiction. I think you’ll take a very good photograph.”
“Well, if you insist, although at my age there’s no point in being vain, one would be so disappointed.”
Phaedra laughed. “You’re not so old, Margaret, and you’re plump, that makes you look a lot younger than your years. Skinny old ladies look half dead, if you ask me.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It was certainly meant that way.”
“Well, I suppose we should go downstairs. If I keep you much longer, they’ll think I’ve eaten you for lunch!” Margaret threw back the bedclothes. “You’re a good girl, Phaedra. I’m happy you found us. Though I don’t like that Julius Beecher one bit. Frightfully arrogant man, up to no good, I fancy. I always told George to watch out for him, but he wouldn’t hear a word against him. I suppose Julius did a good job, running George’s businesses while he was off somewhere, pleasing himself. So you be careful, Phaedra. He’s not a man to be trusted.”
“Julius has been very good to me.”
“I’m sure he has, my dear. But as your grandmother, I feel I must warn you. He’s not an honorable man, and money is his god.”
“I’ll take your advice on board.”
“Now, I’m going to freshen up. Why don’t you go downstairs and show them that you’re still in one piece. I know I can trust you to keep our conversation private.”
“What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas,” Phaedra replied.
Margaret frowned. “I suppose that’s how they say ‘yes’ in America.”
Phaedra wandered downstairs, feeling a little light-headed. One thing life had taught her was that mean people are unhappy people. She had yet to find a genuinely contented person who was unkind. So according to that rule, Margaret was simply miserable. She walked across the hall where Bertie and Wooster lay sleeping on the rugs with Basil, a warm sense of achievement giving her step a gentle bounce. It felt wonderful to have done something good.