"It doesn't feel cold to me," said Dr. Heyworth.
"Me, neither," added Rosamunde. "In fact, I'd go as far as saying I'm rather warm."
"Then it must be my thin skin," Antoinette declared, wrapping her cardigan tightly around her body.
Dr. Heyworth smiled at her sympathetically, which made Antoinette's eyes well with tears. "It's perfectly natural to feel the chill, Lady Frampton. Nothing at all to worry about."
Antoinette had never really noticed how handsome Dr. Heyworth was. If she had, she would have been a reluctant patient, unable to discuss intimate medical matters without embarrassment. But now her sister had mentioned the unmentionable, she realized that, in spite of his glasses, he was indeed handsome. His face was long and kind, with intelligent green eyes and a strong nose that gave him an air of authority. His hair, which had once been dark, was now gray and thinning, but the generous shape of his head and the warm color of his skin ensured that baldness would not diminish him. Although his visit was an informal one-he was now semiretired and saw only private patients occasionally-he looked dignified and proper in a tweed jacket and tie.
"Thank you for coming to the funeral," said Antoinette, wringing her hands to warm them.
"It was a beautiful service," he replied. "Lord Frampton was well loved and highly respected in the community. We shall all miss him."
Antoinette felt the familiar tightening of her throat and the uncontrollable wobbling of her lower lip as her heart heaved with grief. She was grateful Margaret wasn't there to witness her crying in front of the doctor. "I can't say I remember a great deal about the service. I was . . ." When Antoinette's words trailed off, Rosamunde intervened to save her sister any embarrassment.
"The flowers were very pretty," she said. "You know Antoinette chose them all herself. The smell filled the whole church."
"Indeed it did," Dr. Heyworth agreed. Then he settled his kind eyes on Antoinette. "Did you get any sleep last night?" he asked softly, and the concern in his voice released a sob that Antoinette stifled with her handkerchief.
"A little," she murmured.
"Would you like me to prescribe you some sleeping pills?"
"That would be nice, thank you."
"Sleeping pills?" Rosamunde interjected as the doctor lifted his bag onto his knee to make out a prescription in small, illegible writing. "Do you really need sleeping pills, Antoinette?" She turned to Dr. Heyworth. "Aren't they terribly bad for her?"
"They're very mild," the doctor explained patiently. "And it's only for a while. You see," he continued, turning back to his patient and speaking in a slow, reassuring manner, "if you are tired, your heart cannot heal because all your energy goes into getting you through the day and not into tackling the core of the trouble. So you need to rest, eat well, take long walks in the country air, surround yourself with loved ones, and give that battered heart of yours a chance to recover. If sleeping pills help you rest, then I can see no harm in taking them for a short period." Antoinette listened attentively, wiping her eyes in an attempt to stem the flow of tears. It was very unusual that a doctor should talk about her emotional health with such understanding. For a moment she felt that he was a wise old friend and not a doctor at all. "It's all right to cry, Lady Frampton," he said. "Tears are nature's way of healing."
"Yes, Antoinette," Rosamunde added. "You must cry it all out; that's what our Mama would have said. It'll make you feel much better."
Dr. Heyworth handed Antoinette the prescription. "It might be that your heart never completely heals, but that a patch metaphorically covers the wound to stave off the pain and enables you to pick yourself up, dust yourself down, and go on. You have suffered a terrible shock, and so you have to give yourself time and space to grieve. And you mustn't feel guilty or that you are a burden to your family and friends, because if you don't let it all out, it will bury down deep and never go away. It will only find a moment later on in your life to come back and manifest as physical pain." For a moment his eyes darkened, but he seemed to push through the sudden wave of sadness and continue with a compassionate smile. "You must talk about it as much as you can, Lady Frampton. One day you'll discover that it doesn't hurt anything like as much as it does now."
"Antoinette is certainly no burden to me, Dr. Heyworth," said Rosamunde firmly.
"Good. Do you live nearby?"
"In Dorset, about an hour away. But I'll stay here for as long as she wants me to."
The doctor nodded his approval. "I'm very pleased to hear it."
By now Wooster had slid to the floor in a happy slumber, with his head resting on Dr. Heyworth's feet. Dr. Heyworth bent down and stroked his ear. It twitched with pleasure. "How are the boys?" he asked Antoinette.
She took a deep breath, calmer now. "David is dealing with it in his own quiet way. Tom comes across as not really caring very much, but I know he's dreadfully sad. As you'll appreciate, he's not very good at coping with problems. So he puts his head under the carpet and pretends that everything is all right. I'd rather that than the alternative."
"He's avoiding alcohol?"
Antoinette picked at the ragged cuticle on her thumb. "He drank at the funeral, as one would expect. But generally he's being very careful. This is a testing time for him, but he's being very strong."
"And Joshua?"
"He's so uncomfortable with emotion, he'd rather move on as swiftly as possible and get on with his life."
"This has been very tough on you all. When death happens so unexpectedly, there's no time to prepare for it. It's a great shock. And an accident like Lord Frampton's seems unnecessary. It's natural to feel angry, too, Lady Frampton."
Antoinette's face livened as the doctor articulated what she was too ashamed to admit: that she resented her husband's lack of caution as he had selfishly sought pleasure without any apparent concern for those who loved him.
Dr. Heyworth knew he had touched a nerve. He stood up. "You can come to see me any time," he said to Antoinette. "Sometimes it helps to talk to someone who is not in the family. I'm always here for you, Lady Frampton."
Antoinette saw the sympathy in his eyes and knew that he meant it. In fact, he seemed to understand why she was cold all the time and how hard she was trying to act normally, when she just wanted to curl up into a ball and cry. He hadn't said a great deal, but she could sense in his expression the words left unspoken, and was grateful. "I'd like that very much," she replied.
"I'm not at my practice anymore, but you're welcome to come to my home. I occasionally see patients there, and it works very well. I've looked after your family for over thirty years. I hope you consider me a friend as well as a doctor. You can call me any time."
He bade good-bye to Rosamunde, and Antoinette walked him through the hall. Harris helped the doctor into his coat and opened the door. "Thank you so much for coming," she said, folding her arms against the cold although the sun shone bright and warm. He waved and climbed into his Volvo.
As he departed she saw the formidable figure of her mother-in-law striding purposefully across the field beyond the drive with Basil, her Yorkshire terrier, scurrying around in the grass like a large mouse. Margaret was wearing a long olive-green coat, headscarf, and boots, and carrying a stick, although at the rate she was moving she clearly didn't need it for support. Antoinette dashed back inside to wipe her face and compose herself, but she knew there was no point running to hide. Margaret always knew where to find her.
4.
Batten down the hatches, the Grand High Witch is coming to pay us a visit!" Antoinette announced, hurrying back into the drawing room. "Oh, for some special Mouse-Maker to drop into her tea!"
"And a cat to catch her!" added Rosamunde. "Roald Dahl was a genius!"
"Shame it's only fiction."
"You could always put some sleeping pills in her sherry."
"You are devious, Rosamunde!"
"Nothing fictitious about them."
"But she's indestructible, like a cockroach," Antoinette replied. "I don't think she'd notice even a packet of sleeping pills."
"How does poor Dr. Heyworth cope with having her as a patient?"
"She's one of those rare people who are never ill. I don't think she's been to a doctor since she gave birth, back in the Dark Ages. And even then, I wouldn't be at all surprised if George just popped out between her cocktail and dinner. But I must tell you that men love her."
"Men have always been a mystery to me!" Rosamunde exclaimed.
"Yes, she's a man's woman, and men think she's marvelous." Antoinette sighed heavily. "No one thought her more marvelous than George."
At that moment a cold gust of wind swept through the hall and into the drawing room. Bertie and Wooster pricked their ears. The sound of little paws clattered across the marble floor as Harris closed the door with a loud bang, and Basil shot into the drawing room like a missile. The Great Danes jumped clumsily to their feet and chased him around the room before heading back into the hall and up the front stairs.
"Be off with you!" resounded through the house, then a few seconds later the large black-clad figure of the Dowager Lady Frampton filled the doorway like a docking ocean liner. She floated there a moment, catching her breath. "Good, you're here," she said to Antoinette. "I need to talk to you urgently."
"You look out of breath."
"I've marched across the field."
"Why don't you come and sit down. Would you like a glass of sherry?"
"Harris is going to bring me one." She marched across the carpet and lowered herself gently into the armchair where Dr. Heyworth had sat only minutes before. "I haven't slept a wink for thinking of George's illegitimate daughter."
"A sleeping pill might help," Rosamunde suggested, sucking in her cheeks.
"Good Lord, I don't need medicine. I need peace of mind." Rosamunde caught her sister's eye but looked away instantly for fear of making her smile.
"I've been thinking about her, too," Antoinette agreed.
"Good, I'm pleased you have come to your senses," Margaret replied. "You see, I'm not about to open my arms to some random girl who claims to be my granddaughter. My son is dead, so there is absolutely no proof that she is who she says she is."
Antoinette frowned. "Mr. Beecher supervised the DNA test."
"DNA test, indeed! Have you seen it? Were you there when it was done? Codswallop, if you ask me!"
"She's your flesh and blood, Margaret, whether you like it or not."
"She was conceived outside wedlock, brought up in Canada-I don't think a little bit of shared blood makes any difference at all. And I refuse to believe it. My son would have told me if he had fathered a child. I know he would. He told me everything."
"Not if he was ashamed," Antoinette offered.
"He had no reason to be ashamed. He was a very handsome man with a title and a large estate. It is clear to me that some ambitious girl seduced him and tried to extort money from him. Maybe she even wanted to marry him. Who knows? What we do know, however, is that George accepted his daughter only very recently. Why didn't he accept her when she was a baby?" Margaret sniffed her satisfaction. "Because he probably wasn't sure the child was his. Or because he didn't want any further dealings with her mother. He must have decided to change his will in a moment of madness, or guilt. You know how generous he was. When will it be read? I'd like to know how much he has given her."
Harris walked in with a glass of sherry on a silver tray. Margaret took it without so much as a word of gratitude. Sensitive to the people who worked for her, Antoinette thanked him on her mother-in-law's behalf, although Harris was well accustomed to the Dowager Lady Frampton and would have been surprised to the point of shock to have received thanks.
"Mr. Beecher is coming here tomorrow at midday," she informed Margaret.
"Good."
"I have invited Phaedra to come, too," Antoinette continued, in spite of the appalled expression on her mother-in-law's face. "It's what George wanted. She's his daughter, and he included her in his will. It's right that she should be here."
Margaret's jaw stiffened. "Then I most certainly won't attend."
"As you wish."
"I think you're very foolish, Antoinette."
Rosamunde leapt to her sister's defense. "Antoinette is simply honoring George's request."
"You know nothing about the girl."
"Except that my husband loved her."
This silenced Margaret. Her mouth twitched furiously, but there was nothing she could add. She took a long sip of sherry and swallowed with a loud gulp. "If she has any decency, she will decline," she said at last.
"I hope she won't," Antoinette replied.
Margaret put down her glass and stood up. "Well, as you're going to be unreasonable, I think I'll go home. If you change your mind, let me know, and I'll pay you a friendlier visit. But until then I want nothing to do with the girl, do you understand?"
"You've made that very clear."
"Good." She stopped at the door and turned back. "You can be very stubborn sometimes, Antoinette."
"What can I do, Margaret? George chose to include her in his will. I'm only carrying out his wishes."
"He didn't expect to die so young. He may well have thought better of it later. He has only one grandchild, but in the years to come there will be more."
"Are you expecting me to contest it?" Antoinette asked.
"Absolutely."
"On what grounds? He was hardly insane or coerced into changing it."
"There must be something you can do."
"Well, if there is, I'm afraid I won't do it. George was in perfectly sound mind when he changed his will. I never dreamed of going against his wishes when he was alive, and I most certainly won't now that he is dead." Antoinette's chin began to wobble, but she clenched her jaw, determined not to cry again in front of her mother-in-law.
Margaret's face had folded into a discontented ball like a walnut, and her thin lips were clamped together as if she were struggling to hold her tongue. She was not used to being defied. She sniffed irately and disappeared into the hall.
"Basil! Basil!" A thunderous clamor could be heard in the upstairs corridor, then the three dogs exploded onto the stairs in an avalanche of fur. "Bertie, Wooster! Enough! Come on, Basil, we're going home." A few moments later another gust of wind swept in from the hall as Harris opened the front door. The house seemed to shudder as the Dowager Lady Frampton stepped outside, followed by all three dogs. Then a peaceful silence descended as the door closed behind them.
"So, it's war," said Rosamunde, barely able to conceal the relish in her voice. Her life at home was so dreadfully dull, but here at Fairfield Park there was something new going on every minute.
Antoinette sighed and looked less pleased. "Yes, I suppose one could say that it's come to that. Though in all honesty, it's been a cold war for years!"
The following day Julius Beecher's car drew up on the gravel at midday. He was a man who took pride in arriving on time. He also took pride in his appearance: the navy-blue Savile Row suit, the black lace-up shoes from Churchill's, the brown leather briefcase from Swaine Adeney Brigg in St. James's, the Montblanc pen set that he still kept in its velvet-lined box. His black BMW was as polished as the Franck Muller watch that hung loosely on his wrist. He deplored people who didn't take care of their belongings. Everything attached to Julius Beecher was shiny, clean, and new. Working for Lord Frampton had afforded him great luxuries. One thing he didn't have, however, was a wife; he wasn't quite ready to share those hard-earned luxuries, unless his wife came with a fortune of her own.
Lady Frampton was waiting for him in the dining room. She was sitting at the long walnut table with her three sons, her daughter-in-law, and her sister, Rosamunde. They were drinking tea and coffee, but no one had touched the shortbread biscuits arranged in a spiral on a plate in the middle.
The rich red velvet curtains were tied back to let in the light, but it was still dim due to the old-fashioned decoration and heavy upholstery. It didn't look as if the room had been changed for hundreds of years. The walls were papered in a deep crimson-and-gold pattern of exotic birds; a large gilt mirror hung above the marble fireplace, its glass stained with black spots caused by damp; and gloomy faces of the Frampton family ancestors stared down from oil-coated canvases. The ceiling was high, surrounded by a heavy, elaborate cornice, and in the center a crystal chandelier dominated and glittered like diamonds. Julius Beecher found the atmosphere in the room as heavy as the upholstered chairs and carpeting.
"Good morning, Lady Frampton," he said. He noticed her face cloud with anxiety as she realized he had come on his own, and was quick to explain. "I'm afraid Miss Chancellor is unable to be with us today. I will act on her behalf."
Antoinette was surprised by the depth of her disappointment. "Did she say why?"
Julius took the chair left for him at the head of the table: the chair where George always used to sit. "She was very grateful for your invitation, but she didn't feel it necessary to come down personally." He opened his briefcase. "To be frank, Lady Frampton, I think she's embarrassed."
Roberta smirked and caught her husband's eye. David felt as disappointed as his mother did. He glanced at Tom, who simply pulled a face and shrugged. It didn't matter to his younger brother one way or the other. To David, however, it mattered very much. He could safely assume that she wouldn't accept the invitation to stay the weekend, either. He wondered despondently whether he'd ever see her again.
"So, shall we proceed?" said Julius, pulling out the folder and placing it neatly in front of him.
"Would you like a cup of coffee?" Antoinette offered.