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1
Hampshire, 2012
T
he beginning of March had been glorious. e earth had
shaken off the early-morning frosts, and little buds had
emerged through the hardened bark to reveal lime-green shoots and
pale-pink blossoms. Daffodils had pushed their way up through the
thawing ground to open into bright-yellow trumpets, and the sun
had shone with renewed radiance. Birdsong filled the air, and the
branches were once again aquiver with the busy bustle of nest build-
ing. It had been a triumphant start to spring.
Fairfield Park had never looked more beautiful. Built on swathes
of fertile farmland, the Jacobean mansion was surrounded by sweep-
ing lawns, ancient bluebell woods, and fields of thriving crops and
buttercups. ere was a large ornamental lake where frogs made
their homes among the bulrushes and goldfish swam about the lily
pads. Towering beech trees protected the house from hostile winds
in winter and gave shelter to hundreds of narcissi in spring. A nest of
barn owls had set up residence in the hollow of an apple tree and fed
off the mice and rats that dwelt on the farm and in the log barn, and
high on the hill, surveying it all with the patience of a wise old man,
a neglected stone folly was hidden away like a forgotten treasure.
Abandoned to the corrosion of time and weather, the pretty little
folly remained benignly observant, confident that one day a great
need would surely draw people to it as light to lost souls. Yet today,
no one below could even see those honey-colored walls and fine,
sturdy pillars, for the estate was submerged beneath a heavy mist that
 S M
had settled upon it in a shroud of mourning. Today, even the birds
were subdued. It was as if spring had suddenly lost her will.
e cause of this melancholy was the shiny black hearse that
waited on the gravel in front of the house. Inside, the corpse of Lord
Frampton, the house’s patriarch, lay cold and vacant in a simple
oak coffin. e fog swirled around the car like the greedy tentacles
of death, impatient to pull his redundant body into the earth, and
on the steps that led down from the entrance his two Great Danes
lay as solemn and still as a pair of stone statues, their heads resting
dolefully on their paws, their sad eyes fixed on the coffin; they knew
intuitively that their master would not be coming home.
Inside the house, Lady Frampton stood before the hall mirror and
placed a large black hat on her head. She sighed at her reflection,
and her heart, already heavy with bereavement, grew heavier still at
the sight of the eyes that stared back with the weary acquiescence of
an old woman. Her face was blotchy where tears had fallen without
respite ever since she had learned of her husband’s sudden death in
the Swiss Alps ten days before. e shock had blanched her skin
and stolen her appetite so that her cheeks looked gaunt, even if her
voluptuous body did not. She had been used to his absences while
he had indulged his passion for climbing the great mountains of
the world, but now the house reverberated with a different kind of
silence: a loud, uncomfortable silence that echoed through the large
rooms with a foreboding sense of permanence.
She straightened her coat as her eldest son, now the new Lord
Frampton, stepped into the hall from the drawing room. “What are
they doing in there, David?” she asked, trying to contain her grief, at
least until she got to the church. “We’re going to be late.”
David gazed down at her sadly. “We can’t be late, Mum,” he said,
his dark eyes full of the same pain. “Dad’s... you know. ..” He
looked to the window.
“No, you’re right, of course.” She thought of George in the hearse
outside and felt her throat constrict. She turned back to the mirror
and began to fiddle with her hat again. “Still, everyone will be wait-
ing, and it’s frightfully cold.”
The Woman from Paris 
A moment later her middle son, Joshua, emerged from the draw-
ing room with his chilly wife, Roberta. “You okay, Mum?” he asked,
finding the emotion of such an occasion embarrassing.
“Just keen to get on with it,” David interjected impatiently. Joshua
thrust his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders. e
house felt cold. He went to stand by the hall fire, where large logs
entwined with ivy crackled in the grate.
“What are they doing in there?” his mother asked again, glanc-
ing towards the drawing room. She could hear the low voice of her
youngest son, Tom, and her mother-in-law’s formidable consonants
as she held forth, as usual unchallenged.
“Grandma’s demanding that Tom show her how to use the mobile
telephone he gave her,” Joshua replied.
“Now? Can’t it wait till later?” Her chin trembled with anguish.
“ey’re finishing their drinks, Antoinette,” said Roberta with a
disapproving sniff. “ough I’m not sure Tom should be drinking
with his history, should he?”
Antoinette bristled and walked over to the window. “I think
today, of all days, Tom is entitled to consume anything he wants,”
she retorted tightly. Roberta pursed her lips and rolled her eyes at
her husband, a gesture she wrongly assumed her mother-in-law
couldn’t see. Antoinette watched her arrange her pretentious feather
fascinator in front of the mirror and wondered why her son had
chosen to marry a woman whose cheekbones were sharp enough
to slice through slate.
At last Tom sauntered into the hall with his grandmother, who
was tucking the telephone into her handbag and clipping it shut. He
smiled tenderly at his mother, and Antoinette immediately felt a lit-
tle better. Her youngest had always had the power to lift her high or
pull her low, depending on his mood or state of health. A small glass
of wine had left him none the worse, and she ignored the niggling
of her better judgment that knew he shouldn’t consume any alcohol
at all. Her thoughts sprang back to her husband, and she recalled the
time he had managed to telephone her from the Annapurna base
camp just to find out how Tom was after a particularly bad week
 S M
following a breakup. She felt her eyes welling with tears again and
pulled her handkerchief out of her pocket. George had been a very
good man.
“You haven’t turned the heating off, have you?” exclaimed the
Dowager Lady Frampton accusingly. “I never let it get so frightfully
cold!” In her long black dress, wide black hat, and mink stole Mar-
garet Frampton looked as if she were off to crash a Halloween party
rather than attend her only son’s funeral. Around her neck and wrist
and dripping from her ears like elaborate icicles was the exquisite
Frampton sapphire suite, acquired in India in 1868 by the first Lord
Frampton for his wife, eodora, and passed down through the gen-
erations to George, who had loaned it to his mother because his wife
refused to wear such an extravagant display of wealth. e Dowager
Lady Frampton had no such reservations and wore the jewels when-
ever a suitable occasion arose. Antoinette wasn’t sure Margaret’s son’s
funeral was quite such an occasion.
“e heating is on, Margaret, and the fires are all lit. I think the
house is in mourning, too,” she replied.
“What a ridiculous idea,” Margaret muttered.
“I think Mum’s right,” interjected Tom, casting his gaze out of the
window. “Look at the fog. I think the whole estate is in mourning.”
“I’ve lost more people than I can count,” said Margaret, strid-
ing past Antoinette. “But there’s nothing worse than losing a son.
An only son. I don’t think I’ll ever get over it. At the very least, one
would expect the house to be warm!”
Harris, the old butler who had worked for the family for more
than thirty years, opened the front door, and the Dowager Lady
Frampton stepped out into the mist, pulling her stole tighter across
her chest. “Goodness me, are we going to be able to get to church?”
She stood at the top of the stone stair and surveyed the scene. “It’s as
thick as porridge.”
“Of course we will, Grandma,” Tom reassured her, taking her arm
to guide her down. e Great Danes remained frozen beneath the
weight of their sadness. Margaret settled her gaze on the coffin and
thought how terribly lonely it looked through the glass of the hearse.
The Woman from Paris 
For a moment the taut muscles in her jaw weakened, and her chin
trembled. She lifted her shoulders and stiffened, tearing her eyes
away. Pain wasn’t something one shared with other people.
e chauffeur stood to attention as Tom helped his grandmother
into one of the Bentleys. Roberta followed dutifully after, but Antoi-
nette hung back. “You go, Josh,” she said. “Tom and David will come
with me.”
Joshua climbed into the front seat. One might have thought that
his father’s death would unite the two women, but it seemed they
were still as hostile as ever. He listened to his wife and grandmother
chatting in the back and wondered why his mother couldn’t get
along with Margaret as well as Roberta did.
“at woman is so trying,” Antoinette complained, dabbing her
eyes carefully as the cars followed the hearse down the drive and
through the iron gates adorned with the family crest of lion and rose.
“Do I look awfully blotchy?” she asked Tom.
“You look fine, Mum. It wouldn’t be appropriate to look polished
today.”
“I suppose not. Still, everyone’s going to be there.”
“And everyone is going to be coming back,” grumbled David from
the front seat. He didn’t relish the idea of having to socialize.
“I think we’ll all need a stiff drink.” She patted Tom’s hand, wish-
ing she hadn’t referred to alcohol. “Even you. Today of all days.”
Tom laughed. “Mum, you’ve got to stop worrying about me. A few
drinks aren’t going to kill me.”
“I know. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have mentioned it. I wonder who’s
come,” she said, changing the subject.
“Perish the thought of having to chat to Dad’s dreadful aunts and
all the boring relatives we’ve spent years avoiding,” David interjected.
“I’m not in the mood for a party.”
“It’s not a party, darling,” his mother corrected. “People just want
to show their respect.”
David stared miserably out of the window. He could barely see the
hedgerows as they drove down the lane towards the town of Fair-
field. “Can’t everyone just bugger off and go home afterwards?”
 S M
“Absolutely not. It’s polite to ask your father’s friends and relatives
home after the funeral. It’ll cheer us all up.”
“Great,” David muttered glumly. “I can’t think of a better way of
getting over Dad’s death than having a knees-up with a bunch of old
codgers.”
His mother began to cry again. “Don’t make this any harder for
me, David.”
David peered around the seat and softened. “I’m sorry, Mum. I
didn’t mean to upset you. I just don’t feel like playing the glad game,
that’s all.”
“None of us do, darling.”
“Right now, I just want to be alone to wallow in my sorrow.”
“I could kill for a cigarette,” said Tom. “Do you think I have time
for a quick one round the back?”
e car drew up outside St. Peter’s medieval church. e chauf-
feur opened the passenger door, and Antoinette waited for Tom
to come round to help her out. Her legs felt weak and unsure. She
could see her mother-in-law walking up the stony path towards the
entrance of the church where two of George’s cousins greeted her
solemnly. She would never cry in public, Antoinette thought bitterly.
Antoinette doubted whether she had ever cried in private. Margaret
considered it very middle-class to show one’s feelings and turned up
her aristocratic nose at the generation of young people for whom it
was normal to whine, shed tears, and moan about their lot. She con-
demned them for their sense of entitlement and took great pleasure
in telling her grandchildren that in her day people had had more
dignity. Antoinette knew Margaret despised her for continuously
sobbing, but she was unable to stop, even to satisfy her mother-in-
law. But she dried her eyes before stepping out of the car and took
a deep breath; the Dowager Lady Frampton had no patience with
public displays of emotion.
Antoinette walked up the path between her two sons and thought
how proud George would be of his boys. Tom, who was so handsome
and wild, with his father’s thick blond hair and clear denim eyes, and
David, who didn’t look like his father at all, but was tall and magnetic
The Woman from Paris 
and more than capable of bearing his title and running the estate. Up
ahead, Joshua disappeared into the church with Roberta. eir mid-
dle son was clever and ambitious, making a name for himself in the
City, as well as a great deal of money. George had respected his drive,
even if he hadn’t understood his unadventurous choice of career.
George had been a man who loved natural, untamable landscapes;
the concrete terrain of the Square Mile had turned his spirit to salt.
She swept her eyes over the flint walls of the church and remem-
bered the many happy occasions they had enjoyed here. e boys’
christenings, Joshua’s marriage, his daughter Amber’s christening
only a year before—she hadn’t expected to come for this. Not for at
least another thirty years, anyway. George had been only fifty-eight.
She greeted George’s cousins and, as she was the last to arrive,
followed them into the church. Inside, the air was thick with body
heat and perfume. Candles flickered on the wide window ledges,
and lavish arrangements of spring flowers infused the church with
the scent of lilies, freesias, and narcissi. Reverend Morley greeted her
with a sympathetic smile. He sandwiched her hand between his soft,
doughy ones, and muttered words of consolation, although Antoi-
nette didn’t hear for the nerves buzzing in her ears like badly played
violins. She blinked away tears and cast her mind back to his visit to
the house just after she had heard the terrible news. If only she could
rewind to before...
It seemed that every moment of the last ten days had been leading
up to this point. ere had been so much to do. David and Tom had
flown out to Switzerland to bring back their father’s body. Joshua
and Roberta had taken care of the funeral arrangements. Antoinette
had organized the flowers herself, not trusting her daughter-in-law
to know the difference between a lilac and a lily, being a Londoner,
and her sister, Rosamunde, had helped choose the hymns. Now the
day was upon them Antoinette felt as if she were stepping into a
different life, a life without George. She gripped Tom’s arm and
walked unsteadily up the aisle. She heard the congregation hush as
she moved past and dared not catch anyone’s eye for fear that their
compassion would set her off again.
 S M
While Tom greeted their father’s aunts, David settled his mother
into the front pew. He glanced around the congregation. He recog-
nized most of the faces—relations and friends dressed in black and
looking uniformly sad. en amidst all the gray, pallid faces, one
bright, dewy one stood out like a ripe peach on a winter tree. She
was staring straight at him, her astonishing gray eyes full of empathy.
Transfixed, he gazed back. He took in the unruly cascade of blond
curls that tumbled over her shoulders, and the soft, creamy texture of
her skin, and his heart stalled. It was as if a light had been switched
on in the darkness of his soul. It didn’t seem appropriate to smile, but
David wanted to, very much. So he pulled a resigned smile, and she
did the same, silently imparting sympathy for his loss.
As David left the church again with his brothers and cousins to
bear the coffin, he glanced back at the mystery blonde and wondered
how she fitted into his father’s life. Why had they never met before?
He couldn’t help the buoyant feeling that lifted him out of the quag-
mire of grief into a radiant and happy place. Was this what people
called “love at first sight”? Of all the days it should happen, his fa-
ther’s funeral was the most inappropriate.
Phaedra Chancellor knew who David Frampton was, for she had
done her research. e eldest of three sons, he was twenty-nine, un-
married, and lived in a house on the Fairfield estate where he man-
aged the farm. He had studied at Cirencester Agricultural College,
for while his father had found the life of a country squire unexciting,
David was as comfortable in the land as a potato.
Phaedra had only seen photographs of George’s sons. Tom was
without doubt the most handsome. He had inherited his father’s
blue eyes and the mischievous curl of his lips. But David was better
looking in the flesh than she had imagined. He was less polished
than Tom, with scruffy brown hair, dark eyes and a large aquiline
nose that did not photograph well. In fact, his features were irregular
and quirky, and yet, somehow, together they were attractive—and
he had inherited his father’s charisma, that intangible magnetism
that drew the eye. Joshua, on the other hand, was more conventional
The Woman from Paris 
looking, with a face that was generically handsome and consequently
easy to forget.
She looked down at the service sheet, and her vision blurred at
the sight of George’s face imprinted on the cover. He had been more
beautiful than all his sons put together. She blinked away painful
memories and stared at the man she had grown to love. She could
see Tom and Joshua reflected in his features, but she couldn’t see
David; he looked like his mother.
She sniffed and wiped her nose with a Kleenex. Julius Beecher,
George’s lawyer, who sat beside her, patted her knee. “You okay?” he
whispered. She nodded. “Nervous?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.”
“I’m not sure this is the right day to drop the bombshell, Julius,”
she hissed, as music began to fill the church.
“I’m afraid there’s no avoiding it. ey’re going to find out sooner
or later, and besides, you wanted to be here.”
“I know. You’re right. I wanted to be here very much. But I wish I
didn’t have to meet his family.”
e choir walked slowly down the aisle singing Mozart’s “Lacri-
mosa.” eir angelic voices echoed off the stone walls and reverber-
ated into the vaulted ceiling as they rose in a rousing crescendo. e
candle flames wavered at the sudden motion that stirred the air, and
an unexpected beam of sunlight shone in through the stained-glass
windows and fell upon the coffin as it followed slowly behind.
Antoinette could barely contain her emotions; it was as if her
heart would burst with grief. She glanced down the pew to where
George’s aunts Molly and Hester, one as thin as the other was fat,
stood with the same icy poise as the Dowager Lady Frampton. Even
Mozart was unable to penetrate their steely armor of self-control.
Antoinette was grateful for her sister, Rosamunde, who howled with
middle-class vigor in the pew behind.
Antoinette felt a sob catch in her chest. It was impossible to
imagine that her vital, active husband was contained within those
 S M
narrow oaken walls. at soon he’d be buried in the cold earth, all
alone without anyone to comfort him, and that she’d never again
feel the warmth of his skin and the tenderness of his touch. At that
unbearable thought, the tears broke free. She glanced into the pew
to see the flint-hard profile of her mother-in-law. But she no longer
cared what the old woman thought of her. She had toed the line
for George, but now that he was gone, she’d cry her heart out if she
wanted to.
When the service was over, the congregation stood while the fam-
ily filed out. Antoinette walked with Tom, leaning heavily on his arm,
while David escorted his grandmother. He passed the pew where the
mysterious blonde was dabbing her eyes, but he didn’t allow his gaze
to linger. He desperately hoped she’d be coming back for tea.
Outside, the fog had lifted, and patches of blue sky shone with
renewed optimism. e grass glistened in fleeting pools of sunlight,
and birds chirped once again in the treetops.
“Who’s the blonde?” asked Tom, sidling up to David.
“What blonde?” David replied nonchalantly.
Tom chuckled. “e really hot blonde you couldn’t have failed to
noticed about six pews behind. Very foxy. e day is suddenly look-
ing up.”
“Come on, darling. Let’s not linger outside the church,” said An-
toinette, longing for the privacy of the car. e two brothers glanced
behind them, but the congregation was slow to come out.
Margaret sniffed her impatience. “Take me to the car, David,” she
commanded. “I will greet people back at the house.” She strode for-
ward, and David was left no alternative but to escort her down the
path. As she carefully lowered her large bottom onto the rear seat,
David’s eyes strayed back to the church where the congregation was
now spilling out onto the grass. He searched in vain for the white
curls in the sea of black. “Come, come, don’t dawdle. Good, here are
Joshua and Roberta. Tell them to hurry up. I need a drink.”
“Beautiful service,” said Roberta, climbing in beside Margaret.
“Lovely,” Margaret agreed. “ough Reverend Morley does go on,
doesn’t he?”
The Woman from Paris 
“ey all love the sound of their own voices,” said Joshua.
“at’s why they’re vicars,” Roberta added.
“I thought what he said about Dad being every man’s friend was
spot-on,” Joshua continued, getting into the front seat. “He loved
people.”
Roberta nodded. “Oh, he was terrifically genial.”
“We certainly gave him a good send-off, didn’t we, Grandma?”
“Yes, he would have enjoyed that,” said Margaret quietly, turning
her face to the window.
David returned to Fairfield Park with his mother and Tom. e
house was restored to its former splendor now that the sun had burnt
away the fog. Bertie and Wooster, the Great Danes, were waiting for
them on the steps. It seemed that the sun had lifted their spirits, too,
for they leapt down to the car, wagging their tails.
Harris opened the door, and Mary, who cleaned for Lady Framp-
ton, stood in the hall with her daughter, Jane, bearing trays of wine.
e fire had warmed the place at last, and sunlight tumbled in
through the large latticed windows. e house felt very different
from the one they had left a couple of hours before, as if it had ac-
cepted its master’s passing and was ready to embrace the new order.
David and Tom stood by the drawing room fire. David had helped
himself to a whiskey while Tom sipped a glass of Burgundy and
smoked a sneaky cigarette—his mother and grandmother abhorred
smoking inside, probably one of the only opinions they had in com-
mon. Little by little the room filled with guests, and the air grew hot
and stuffy. At first the atmosphere was heavy, but after a glass or two
of wine the conversations moved on from George and his untimely
death, and they began to laugh again.
Both brothers looked out for the mysterious blonde. David had
the advantage of being tall, so he could see over the herd, but, more
dutiful than his brother, he found himself trapped in conversation
first with Great Aunt Hester and then with Reverend Morley. Tom
had thrown his cigarette butt into the fire and leaned against the
mantelpiece, rudely looking over Great Aunt Molly’s shoulder as she
tried to ask him about the nightclub he ran in London.
 S M
At last the mystery guest drifted into view, like a swan among
moorhens. Tom left Molly in mid conversation; David did his best
to concentrate on Reverend Morley’s long-winded story, while anx-
iously trying to extricate himself.
Phaedra suddenly felt very nervous. She took a big gulp of wine
and stepped into the crowd. Julius cupped her elbow, determined not
to lose her, and gently pushed her deeper into the throng. She swept
her eyes about the room. What she could see of it was very beautiful.
e ceilings were high, with grand moldings and an impressive crys-
tal chandelier that dominated the room and glittered like thousands
of teardrops. Paintings hung on silk-lined walls in gilded frames,
and expensive-looking objects clustered on tables. Tasseled shades
glowed softly above Chinese porcelain lamps, and a magnificent
display of purple orchids sat on the grand piano among family pho-
tographs in silver frames. It looked as if generations of Framptons
had collected beautiful things from all over the world and laid them
down regardless of color or theme. e floor was a patchwork of
rugs, cushions were heaped on sofas, pictures hung in tight collages,
a library of books reached as high as the ceiling, and glass-topped
cabinets containing collections of enamel pots and ivory combs gave
the room a Victorian feel. Nothing matched, and yet everything
blended in harmony. George’s life had been here, with his family, and
she hadn’t been a part of it. Just as she was about to cry again, Tom’s
grinning face appeared before her like the Cheshire cat.
“Hello, I’m Tom,” he said, extending his hand. His eyes twinkled
at her flirtatiously. “I’ve been wondering who you are.”
She smiled, grateful for his friendliness. “I’m Phaedra Chancellor,”
she replied.
“American,” he said, raising an eyebrow in surprise.
“Canadian, actually.”
“Ah, Canadian.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“No, I like Canadians, actually.”
She laughed at the languid way he dragged his vowels. “at’s
lucky.”