The Woman from Paris(7)

Rosamunde guided her to an armchair in front of the fire while Tom remained staring at his new sister with a mixture of surprise and amusement. David felt as if the world had just spun away from him. How could it be that a few simple words had put her forever out of his reach? “Are you sure you’re my father’s daughter?” he asked, hoping there might be some mistake.

“Absolutely sure,” Julius replied firmly. “Lord Frampton and Phaedra had their DNA tested before Lord Frampton changed his will.”

They all stared at him in astonishment. “George changed his will?” Antoinette gasped. Rosamunde gave a disapproving snort. “But he never told me anything about it.”

“He wanted to include his daughter, Lady Frampton.”

“But surely he would have told me.”

Tom strode over to the club fender and took his mother’s hand. “This is all very sudden. Was it really necessary to tell us the day of Dad’s funeral? Can’t you see Mother’s upset?”

“Tom is right. I think it’s unbelievably tactless to barge in like this,” Rosamunde agreed, putting her hands on her sturdy hips. “I think you should go away and come back another time, when Lady Frampton is better disposed to speak to you.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve been very thoughtless . . .” Phaedra began, looking pained. She caught David’s eyes but looked away sharply, as if she saw the longing in them and was afraid.

“Lord Frampton wanted Phaedra to become part of the family,” Julius explained with an air of authority. “We talked about it at length. Phaedra has a right to be here today, but it would have been odd not to have introduced you, and natural for you to have wondered who she is and how she is connected to Lord Frampton. We were left with no choice but to tell you the truth.”

Antoinette gazed into the fire, fighting her distress. “George always wanted a daughter.”

“How long have you known that George is your father, Phaedra?” Rosamunde demanded.

“About eighteen months,” the girl replied.

“Eighteen months?” Tom echoed. “Dad kept you quiet that long?”

Phaedra sighed, finding it hard to explain. “About two years ago the man who was my father for the first ten years of my life died. My mom decided then to tell me that he wasn’t my biological father, as I had thought, and that my real father was George Frampton. So I decided to track him down, not knowing whether he’d want to meet me. I came to the U.K. and found him. At first he didn’t believe me. It was a little awkward, to say the least. I left him my details and returned to Paris, where I was living, thinking I’d never hear from him again. About three months later he called me back. We agreed to meet, and, well, the rest is history.”

“I find it hard to believe that George kept such a big secret from me,” said Antoinette. “And for so long. We had no secrets, or so I thought.”

Phaedra smiled, and the sweetness in her face seemed to soften the tension in the room. “He kept me secret because he was so frightened of hurting you. He was devoted to you.”

“Well, his fears were founded,” said Rosamunde.

Antoinette bit her bottom lip. “Did your mother love him, too?”

“He was the love of her life.” Phaedra flushed and lowered her eyes. “But she was not his.”

At that moment the door opened and Margaret strode in. “I’m going home,” she announced, ignoring the fact that she might be interrupting. She swept her imperious gaze over the solemn faces and sucked in her cheeks. “My goodness, has someone else died?”

“I think I’ll go,” said Phaedra.

“Let me escort you out,” David suggested.

“I’ll go with you,” interjected Julius.

“No, really, I can find my own way out. Thank you.” She turned to Antoinette. “I’m sorry to have barged in like this. It’s been very nice meeting you all, finally. I just want you to know that I loved him, too.” With that she strode past Margaret and disappeared down the corridor.

“Who was that rude girl?” Margaret demanded.

“Your granddaughter,” Antoinette replied.

It was Margaret’s turn to sink into the sofa. David handed her a glass of sherry, and Tom opened a window. “It’s not true!”

“He was going to tell us, apparently,” said Antoinette numbly.

“It’s absurd. A daughter we never knew about.”

“She’s from America,” said Rosamunde.

“From Canada, actually,” Tom corrected.

Margaret looked horrified. “She’s American? Good God, I have an American granddaughter?” Her face hardened. “I simply don’t believe it.”