The Woman From Paris (28 page)

Rosamunde was surprised that she could get up so easily. Her body hurt but nothing like as badly as she had imagined. “You were very floppy when you fell, which is why you haven’t sustained any serious damage,” Dr. Heyworth continued as he helped her climb the stairs.

“I think I drank too much.” She began to tremble all over in shock. “I feel very unsteady.”

“You’ll feel better when you’re lying down,” he reassured her.

“Shall I bring some painkillers?” Antoinette asked, wanting to be useful.

“Yes, please, and some arnica,” the doctor replied, and Antoinette hurried past them to look in the bathroom cabinet. She returned a
moment later armed with half the contents of her medicine cupboard.

Together they settled Rosamunde into bed. She felt very foolish. The evening had started off so well, but now her body was hurt and her pride dented. She let the doctor tuck her in and closed her eyes, hoping the painkillers would kick in soon, but before she could dwell any further on her bruises, or on the dizzy sensation of spinning, the voices receded and the world went dark. She sank deep into that comforting darkness until she was no longer aware of herself.

“She’ll be very black and blue in the morning,” said Dr. Heyworth, softly closing the door to Rosamunde’s bedroom.

“In spite of all that arnica?”

“I’m afraid she’s taken a nasty bang to her side. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if it’s the color of the worst sort of English sky tomorrow.”

“Oh dear, poor Rosamunde.”

“How long is she staying with you?”

“As long as I need her.”

“Well, she’s going to need
you
now. I don’t think she’ll be able to go home for at least a week.”

“Really, that long?”

“She’ll need looking after. The older we get, the longer we take to heal. I’d hate to think of her having to go out and buy the groceries. Here, she’ll be taken care of and she can rest. That’s the only thing I can prescribe: a lot of rest.”

“If you say so, Doctor.”

“I do.”

“Oh dear, what a drama. I do apologize.”

“What for? I’m glad I was here.”

“I’m not sure it would have happened if you hadn’t been here,” she said, sighing heavily. “Let’s go and have some coffee. I wonder whether Mrs. Gunice has any fudge. I think I need a lump of fudge.”

They sat in the drawing room once again while Harris filled their cups with coffee then went off to the kitchen in search of fudge. “I’ll come up tomorrow to check on your sister, Lady Frampton.”

“Oh, you don’t have to go to such trouble.”

“I’d like to, if you don’t mind. I’d like to make sure that she’s all right and perhaps bring some ointment for the bruising. She might need some stronger painkillers.”

“Well, if you don’t mind. I know Rosamunde would be very grateful.”

“If it’s a nice day, maybe you’d show me your planting.”

Antoinette’s face opened into an enthusiastic smile. “I’d love to. It’s my new thing, gardening. It was heavenly to be out in the sunshine today, with my hands in the soil, listening to the birdsong. It made me feel so good. Barry says there’s so much to do at the moment, what with all the tidying up in preparation for summer. He says he could do with the extra pair of hands.”

“I’m sure he’s very grateful for your help.”

“I think he’s just indulging me, to be honest. After all, he’s managed without me for years! But I’m just happy to be outside. Everything is coming up now, and the green is such a pretty shade.”

“You must have quite a magnificent vegetable garden, judging by dinner.”

“We do. In fact, Barry and I were discussing it just this morning. All the things we’re going to plant once it gets a little bit warmer. We have the space to feed an army, but it’s only David and me here now, and Josh and Tom when they come for weekends. When George was alive, we used to fill the house with guests every weekend. He loved to entertain. He never stopped, even on bank holidays! It’s rather quiet now, by comparison, but I’m enjoying it. I can hear myself think. I have time, suddenly. What a luxury time is, don’t you think?”

“One of the greatest luxuries of all, if you know how to use it.”

“What do you do in your spare time besides gardening, Dr. Heyworth?”

“I play the piano.”

“Really?”

“Yes, I find it very relaxing.”

“Will you play something for me now?” He appeared to be reluctant. “Don’t, if you’d rather not. I’d hate to put you under pressure.”

“Of course I will. What do you like, classical? Jazz?”

“Whatever you feel like playing.”

He got up and went over to the grand piano. “It’s a Steinway,” he said, impressed. He sat on the stool and opened the lid.

“I dabble,” said Antoinette, remaining in the armchair. “I was a good player as a child. While Rosamunde gallivanted about the countryside on her horse, I was made to practice the piano. How I resented it. Now, of course, I wish I’d practiced a little more. It’s a lovely thing to do, creating music. You start whenever you’re ready, and I’ll shut up.”

“I’ll play you my favorite piece,” he said, and rested his fingers above the keys.

He began to play, and Antoinette sat quietly and listened. She had never heard the piece before. It was lovely, evoking a sense of tranquility and wonder. She imagined geese flying through a pale-pink sky on their way to roost beside a limpid river. She thought of evening, the melancholy of the dying day and the sense of transience that always comes when individuals are faced with something beautiful. She thought of George’s grave in that quiet spot in the churchyard, and then she thought of his spirit, free and unencumbered by the heavy weight of his physical body; her mind turned to Phaedra and her unwavering belief in life after death. The music touched her deeply and unexpectedly. As Dr. Heyworth played, she felt an awareness opening inside her mind, like the unwrapping of a crocus in the glare of the sun. She closed her eyes and let the music fill her.

As he touched the final note, Antoinette opened her eyes and smiled at him. “That was beautiful,” she said. “What is it?”

“My mother wrote it.”

“Your mother is a composer?”

“An
amateur
composer. She makes light of it, but I think she writes very well.”

“I think she writes
more
than well. I’m astonished. It transported me.”

“It makes me think of the end of the day,” he said, closing the lid of the piano.

“Me, too. That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

He laughed, pleased. “You were supposed to. It’s called ‘Sunset.’”

“How amazing that a piece of music can make us all think of the same thing.”

“It has a wonderful serenity to it and a sense of winding down. It’s a very sad piece, really.”

“‘Sunset’ is sad, because it’s so magnificent and so fleeting.” She watched him walk back to the sofa. “You play beautifully, Dr. Heyworth.”

“I’m glad you liked it.”

“Will you play again sometime?”

“On one condition.”

“What might that be?”

“That you give me a guided tour of your garden tomorrow.”

She smiled. “That’s a good deal. And you’ve inspired me. It’s been years since I’ve touched those keys. I’m going to take it up again.”

“That’s a very good idea.”

“Will you recommend me something to play?”

“I’ll bring some sheet music tomorrow when I come for the tour and to visit your sister.”

“Will you bring me ‘Sunset’? Would your mother mind?”

“She’d be honored, Lady Frampton, and so would I.”

Antoinette sat back in the armchair and smiled at Dr. Heyworth. She wasn’t sure if it was her day in the garden, the wine, or the lovely piece of music she had just heard, but her heart felt full of optimism, as if the future were a bright, alluring place full of wondrous possibilities. If it hadn’t been for Rosamunde’s fall, it would have been a perfect ending to a perfect day.

18

T
he following morning Rosamunde awoke with a throbbing headache and a dull pain down her left side. She got up to use the bathroom and staggered painfully across the carpet. When she lifted her nightie and saw the extent of the bruising, she was horrified. Her left thigh looked like a hunk of raw meat. She couldn’t possibly let William see her like this.

Antoinette had left the packet of painkillers on her bedside table with a glass of water. She took four and climbed back into bed. She must have drifted off to sleep again because when she next opened her eyes, her sister was standing over her.

“Good morning, Rosamunde,” Antoinette said, smiling sympathetically. “How are you feeling?”

Rosamunde blinked up at her and mentally assessed her body. The headache had passed, or been killed by the pills, and her thigh hurt only if she moved it. “Terrible,” she replied. “Just terrible. What happened last night? I don’t remember a thing.”

“You fell down the stairs.”

“Oh yes. I do remember that, now you come to mention it. What a bump it was. I can barely move without pain.”

“Dr. Heyworth is here to see you.”

Rosamunde blanched. “Here? Now? How do I look? I haven’t even brushed my teeth. Tell him to wait. I’m not ready to see him just yet.”

“I’m not sure you should get out of bed,” Antoinette muttered as Rosamunde threw back the bedclothes and hobbled into the bathroom, groaning with each step. Antoinette heard the sound of the toothbrush and the running of the tap. Conscious that the
doctor was waiting outside the door, she opened it a crack and spoke through it. “She won’t be a minute, Dr. Heyworth.”

“That’s all right,” he replied. “I’m in no hurry.”

A moment later Rosamunde was back in bed, and Dr. Heyworth was admitted to her bedside. “How’s the patient this morning?” he asked, putting his bag on the floor. Rosamunde immediately felt reassured; he had a very comforting voice and a kind manner. She felt foolish that she had baulked at the thought of showing him her bruises. He must have seen far worse in his time.

“I had a horrible headache when I awoke this morning, so I took four pills and went back to sleep again.”

He frowned. “Now that’s a little excessive, Rosamunde.”

“It hurt very much. I didn’t think two would do the job.”

“I’ve brought you something a little stronger, but you must take only two at a time, all right?”

“As long as they do the trick.”

“How’s your leg?”

“It looks very ugly.”

“May I see it?”

“If you have to. It’s not a sight for sore eyes.”

“My eyes are perfectly well this morning.” He lifted her nightdress to reveal her purple hip and thigh. “Yes, I thought you’d sustain a little bruising. Don’t worry, Rosamunde, it’s perfectly natural. You took quite a fall. I have some ointment to put on it and some pills for you to take. However, I’m afraid we must leave the healing to rest and Mother Nature.”

“What a bore. I hate sitting in bed.”

“I’m sure Lady Frampton can bring you up a few books from her wonderful library.”

“I’m not a reader, William. I suppose I shall finish my needlepoint now.” She sighed heavily. “May I sit downstairs and watch the television?”

“Of course, but I suggest you get some help walking down the stairs. We don’t want another fall.”

“Gracious, no. I shall go very carefully.” She was cheered by the
thought of spending a restful week in the sitting room in front of the fire, watching television and sewing.

“I’ll pop in tomorrow to see how you’re recovering.”

“That would be very kind, thank you.” She noticed his green eyes smiling down at her compassionately. They were a very gentle green, like aventurine.

“Lady Frampton has promised me a tour of the gardens,” he told her.

“I suppose she’ll be rolling up her sleeves again today.”

“It’s doing her the world of good.”

“I know. I’m beginning to wonder whether George didn’t diminish her in many ways.”

“Now she’s discovering there’s a life for her after all.”

“It’s a good thing, too. She’s given more than thirty years to her children and her husband. I’m very pleased she’s finding time for herself at last.”

“There is always a silver lining.”

“One can’t always see it at the time. When God closes one door, He opens another.” Dr. Heyworth left the room, and Rosamunde grinned at the thought of the silver lining to her own bad luck—William was going to pop by and see her again, perhaps every day for an entire week. The thought was enough to put her on the fast track to recovery.

Dr. Heyworth found Antoinette waiting for him in the drawing room. He had brought some music scores for her to play and his mother’s own composition, “Sunset.” She was overjoyed and placed them on the piano, ready. “Thank you so much,” she exclaimed happily. “This is all so thrilling. I never thought I’d play the piano again.”

“You can do anything you want once you set your mind to it,” Dr. Heyworth replied.

“Then come and see the gardens. I have so many ideas. Barry and I are cooking up some wonderful plans.”

Dr. Heyworth followed her out into the light. The morning mist had now evaporated in the warm spring sunshine, and the sky was a serene blue. A fine haze still lingered here and there, but it wouldn’t
be long before that, too, was burnt away, leaving the heavens clear and bright. Were it not for the budding trees it could almost have been summer.

They wandered across the lawn to the walled vegetable garden, and Antoinette explained what grew there and what was yet to be planted. Dr. Heyworth pulled off a sprig of rosemary and pressed it to his nose. “I love the smell of herbs, don’t you?” he said.

“I do, very much,” Antoinette replied. “Thyme is my favorite. In the summer all these little paths are covered with it, and the smell is just delicious as you tread.”

“It reminds me of Italy.”

“Does it? Well, that’s nice. Italy is beautiful.” They walked through to the orchard, where Antoinette had planted the fruit trees the day before. As she opened the gate they disturbed a flock of pigeons who took to the sky, flapping their creaking wings loudly. “They’re so fat, it’s a wonder they take off,” she said.

“Do you feed them?”