The Woman From Paris by Santa Montefiore

the ever-increasing whirl of her life, she’d overlooked something vitally important.
    She moved away and turned her thoughts back to Phaedra. She was surprised by the strength of her desire to see her again. The girl was a hidden part of George, something else he had left behind besides the family she knew. In a strange way she felt Phaedra was a gift, set aside to ease the shock of his departure, and she was eager to spend time with her—as if in some way it would enable her to hold on to George for a little longer.
    “Antoinette, Dr. Heyworth is in the hall,” Rosamunde hissed, peering around the door. “Did you know he was coming?”
    Antoinette’s hand shot to her mouth. “God, I forgot!” she exclaimed, flushing. “I asked him to come and see me yesterday, at the funeral.”
    “Why? Are you sick?”
    “No, I just wanted to talk to someone.”
    “You can talk to me,” said Rosamunde, put out.
    “You’re my sister. I wanted to talk to someone outside the family.”
    Rosamunde pursed her lips. “Very well,” she said tightly. “There’s a nice fire in the drawing room. I’ll ask Harris to bring you both some tea.”
    “Make that three cups of tea.”
    Pleased to be included, Rosamunde smiled gratefully. “Take your time, Antoinette. Leave everything to me. I’ll entertain him.” She grinned and lowered her voice. “He’s very attractive.”
    “Oh really, Rosamunde!”
    “I might be old, but I can still admire.”
    “He’s been our family doctor for thirty years. I’d never look at him in that way.”
    “Then don’t deny me the pleasure.”
    “He’s all yours. Unmarried in his sixties: I’m not sure he’s a very good bet, Rosamunde.”
    “I’m unmarried at fifty-nine. I’m not a very good bet, either. I’ll show him into the drawing room.” Rosamunde closed the door behind her.
    The thought of Rosamunde flirting with Dr. Heyworth made Antoinette smile. Rosamunde was an unlikely candidate for the handsome doctor. She was a sturdy, unfeminine woman who thought face cream and hair dye were unnecessary indulgences. Consequently, her skin was carved with lines and marred with fine threads of broken veins embedded in her cheeks like minor roads on a map, and her gray hair was pulled back into a severe bun. As a younger woman she had devoted her time to horses and ridden out in all weather, but hip trouble had stopped her enjoying the sport she loved the most, so now she only watched it on the television and as a spectator at the races. Unlike Antoinette, who loved beautiful clothes, Rosamunde was happier in slacks, sensible shoes, and cotton blouses, on her knees in the herbaceous border, or striding across the fields in gumboots with her pack of four energetic dogs. Antoinette had never asked her if she regretted not marrying and having children; she had always just assumed she hadn’t desired either. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she had heard her sister comment on a man’s good looks. It was very out of character.
    When she walked into the drawing room, she found Dr. Heyworth in the armchair beside the fire and Rosamunde settled contentedly into the sofa opposite, sipping cups of Earl Grey tea. Bertie lay sleeping at her sister’s feet, while Wooster sat with his back straight, eyeballing Dr. Heyworth, who tentatively patted his big head. When he saw Antoinette, he stood up to greet her. “Hello, Dr. Heyworth. Please don’t get up,” she insisted. “Wooster, leave the poor man alone!” Wooster didn’t flinch, and Dr. Heyworth sat down again and resumed his hesitant patting.
    “I think he likes you,” said Rosamunde.
    “Oh yes, Wooster and I are old friends,” he replied.
    Antoinette sat on the club fender near her sister. A hearty firecrackled in the grate as the flames lapped the logs with greedy tongues. “Isn’t this nice,” she said, feeling the heat on her back. “A big house like this is hard to keep warm. Sometimes we even light fires in the