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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