A Mother's Love: An Exclusive Short Story Page 12
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.
“Yes, please. Black, no sugar.” He opened the velvet-lined box and lifted out one of two Montblanc pens, then, closing it carefully, moved it to one side so that it lay exactly parallel to the folder. Julius Beecher liked everything to be orderly. As Antoinette pushed the cup and saucer across the table, he turned to the first page of the document. “Dated March 5, 2012,” he read. “This is Lord Frampton’s last will and testament, witnessed by Mr. Richard Headley of No. 8 Chester Square, London.” Julius raised his eyes and swept them over the expectant faces. “He states he has a wife, Antoinette, and three children: David, Joshua, and Thomas.” Antoinette nodded; Roberta frowned. Why hadn’t he mentioned his daughter? “And one granddaughter, Amber Rose Elizabeth,” Julius continued. He inhaled through dilated nostrils and paused a moment while he ran his eyes over the words that were already familiar to him.
“Please go on, Mr. Beecher,” said Antoinette, keen for the whole business to be over as soon as possible.
“In the event that he is outlived by his wife, he leaves Fairfield House and the estate to you, Lady Frampton, to be managed by your son David, who will inherit it upon your death.” There was no surprise about that. Everyone nodded their agreement. “No. 5 Eaton Place shall remain yours, Lady Frampton, until Joshua inherits it upon your death. He leaves Chalet Marmot in Murenburg to Thomas.”
Tom registered Roberta’s displeasure and smiled at her across the table. “Why would you want Chalet Marmot, Roberta, when you and Josh never go there?”
Roberta blushed. “You’re quite wrong, Tom. It’s right that you should have it,” she said in a tight voice, disguising her jealousy. “Josh and I have so many friends in Gstaad, it would be wasted on us.”
Julius cleared his throat and continued. “Now, he has left his share portfolio to you, Lady Frampton, with the wish that it should be distributed evenly among his three children in the event of your death.”
“What about Phaedra?” Roberta gasped. “I thought she was his daughter? Doesn’t she get a share?”
Julius ignored Roberta; only the subtle raising of one eyebrow betrayed his irritation. “Until that time, he leaves a considerable annuity to all three of his children.”
“All three
children!” Roberta echoed. “Surely he had four children?” She turned to Joshua. “Why, if he went to the trouble of changing his will, did he not give his daughter equal status to his sons?”
Joshua lowered his voice. “I don’t know, darling. Let’s just listen to the rest of the will.”
Julius pushed on. “A yearly income of the net sum of five hundred and fifty thousand pounds. To Miss Chancellor he leaves a yearly income of the same.”
Roberta was too shocked that George had settled the same amount of money on his illegitimate daughter to absorb the fact that she had just inherited a fortune. “Has he provided for his granddaughter? What about the Frampton Sapphires? George made it very clear at Amber’s christening that he was going to leave them to us.”
“No, darling, Dad said he looked forward to seeing Amber wear them on her twenty-first birthday.”
“The same thing,” Roberta hissed.
“I was just coming to that,” Julius replied testily. “Lord Frampton has left the Frampton Sapphires to Miss Chancellor.”
A shocked silence fell upon the room. Roberta’s eyes filled with tears of indignation. Joshua looked uncomfortable. David and Tom raised eyebrows, while Antoinette seemed to crumple beneath the weight of her daughter-in-law’s disappointment. Rosamunde took a shortbread biscuit.
Julius inhaled importantly. “We both felt that, as Lord Frampton had only one granddaughter at the time of making his will, he should provide for his wife and children only, leaving you to provide for your own children.”
“I think he has been generous enough,” Antoinette muttered.
“Extremely generous,” Rosamunde echoed.
“I just can’t believe he has given Phaedra the Sapphires,” Roberta wailed. “They were meant to be ours.” She turned to her husband. “Joshua, your father specifically said he’d leave them to you.”
Joshua looked uncomfortable. “Dad changed his mind, obviously. There is precious little we can do about it.”
Roberta sat back in her chair with a huff and folded her arms.
“Shall we continue?” said Julius, clearing his throat and turning the page with deliberation.
“Yes, please, Mr. Beecher,” Antoinette replied, embarrassed.
“Right, now where was I . . . ?”
Half an hour later Julius sped off in his BMW, but not before Bertie had cocked his leg on one of the tires. Antoinette watched Julius go and hugged her body as a cold wind swept up the steps to chill her. She felt deeply disappointed that Phaedra hadn’t turned up. She wanted to telephone her personally to tell her that George had provided for her in the same way as he had provided for his sons. She paced the steps awhile, deliberating what to do. If Phaedra hadn’t appeared for the reading of the will, what were the chances of her coming to stay the weekend? They hadn’t been very friendly. Perhaps she never wanted to see any of them again.
As she closed the front door behind her, she heard them all talking in the drawing room. Instead of returning to join them, she went upstairs to seek the solitude of her bedroom. She crept inside and leaned back against the door. Roberta’s behavior had severely upset her, but her son’s inability to control his wife worried her more. Margaret’s frequent visits were no consolation. George had held them all together; now he was dead, what was to become of them?
She sighed and wandered over to the window. The sun streamed through the glass, oblivious to the misery of her small world. How unimportant were the petty struggles of human beings when viewed from the great heights of heaven. She wondered whether George was up there somewhere, basking in the light, free from such cares.
Galvanized by the sudden, overpowering desire to bring her husband back, she telephoned Julius’s office and asked the secretary for Phaedra’s number. The young girl was keen to please and swiftly found two: a mobile telephone and a landline. Antoinette dialed the mobile and waited. It seemed to ring for an achingly long time. She could almost hear her heart beating as she waited anxiously for the girl to respond. Finally, the gentle voice of her stepdaughter answered. “Hello, Phaedra, it’s Antoinette Frampton—” She was just about to explain who she was when Phaedra cut in.
“Oh, Lady Frampton. What a surprise. I wasn’t expecting you to call.”
“Well, I wanted to apologize for the other day.”
“Listen, it’s okay. I understand it must have come as a big shock. Please don’t apologize. It is I who should apologize to you.”
“Well, that’s very kind of you. I’m sorry you couldn’t make the reading of the will today. I just wanted to let you know that George has—”
“Please,” Phaedra interrupted swiftly. “I really don’t wish to know. It’s all highly embarrassing.”
“Don’t you want to know that he’s taken care of you?”
“I’m trying not to think about him at all. It’s simply too painful.”
Antoinette heard a sniff down the line, and her heart swelled with compassion. “I know how you feel, my dear. I’m drowning in memories, too, all around me, all the time; I can barely breathe. I would love you to come and stay. Please don’t say no. I know it’s what George would have wanted. You’re a Frampton, after all.” There was a lengthy pause. Antoinette began to chew her thumb where the skin was already raw. “Maybe you need time to consider?”
“No, I don’t need time,” Phaedra replied softly. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I really can’t. Thank you for calling, Lady Frampton, it means a great deal to me.” And she hung up.
Antoinette was stunned. She remained on the bed, holding the receiver to her ear, unable to accept that the girl had refused her. If Antoinette had desired to see her before, she now longed with all her heart. It was as if Phaedra was a link to George, that if she could reach her, she’d reclaim a little of her husband. But she couldn’t reach her; the more she stretched out, the further Phaedra pulled away. She replaced the receiver and put her head in her hands. What on earth was she to do now?
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