The Runaway Bridesmaid (11 page)

‘You know, it’s becoming harder every year to keep the shop and tearooms open. There’s plenty of trade over the summer months from the weekend tourists and the guests from Brampton Manor Hotel and Spa which thankfully throws its doors open next weekend. But it’s hard physical work, and without your aunt’s support and her friendly face, I might consider taking Lucy and Jack up on their offer and emigrate to Brisbane.

‘Mrs Campbell-Wright, that’s the owner of Brampton Manor, was only saying yesterday when she was in the shop how much she wishes they didn’t have to open up their home and welcome in paying guests to make ends meet. God knows, it must cost a fortune to run that house and its splendid grounds. If she decides not to though, I think that will be my cue to move on. Fate has a way of lighting up life’s path.’

Susan raised her ample buttocks from the wooden chair and deposited her tea cup in the Belfast sink. ‘Thanks for the tea, Rosie. It’s a real shame you won’t be staying with us a little longer. Tell me, are you sleeping in the same bedroom as you did last summer?’

‘Ye…es.’ Rosie scrutinised Susan’s tired face for an explanation behind such an unusual question.

‘Maybe you could get started on boxing up your aunt’s personal things before you leave.’ Susan threw Rosie a strange look and patted her hand, still clenched around her own cup. ‘Bernice adored you, Rosie.’ She smiled, dimples appearing around her feathery lips like commas, and she quietly let herself out of the cottage that was as familiar to her as her own home.

Rosie heaved herself from the pine table and dropped her own teacup into the sink, pausing to stare out at the back garden. Despite the tangled chaos of the plants and shrubs, Bernice’s spirit still lingered amongst the marigolds and snapdragons. Rosie was grateful her aunt had enjoyed a steadfast friendship with Susan to share her life and secrets with; glad that her aunt had found comfort and joy and a sense of belonging with friends in the local community.

Emily was her own steadfast friend in this village community and, like her aunt, Rosie knew the right thing to do was to listen to her advice. She snuggled into the over-stuffed chintz sofa with an intense feeling of nostalgia for the nights she had spent curled up in that very chair bemoaning her loss of Carlos to the sympathetic audience of her aunt. Should she stay a little longer? After all, she had nothing to go chasing back to Manhattan for now.

She couldn’t settle. Why had Susan asked her which room she was sleeping in? It was a strange enquiry to make, even for someone accustomed to extracting the minutiae of people’s lives. She unfurled her long legs from the sofa and padded up the stairs.

Dusk had splayed a medley of apricot, ivory and mauve tendrils across the evening sky and the last embers of the sun melted into the horizon. She pushed open her bedroom door and switched on the light. Her eyes fell on the old oak toy box that had been such a part of her childhood. It was where her aunt had stowed her books and games, and an old porcelain doll with a wonky eye, for when she came to visit Bernice before her parents emigrated to America.

Her heart rammed against her ribcage as she approached the symbol of her early years she had spent there at Thornleigh Lodge. This was
her
wooden chest, no one else’s. Freya had been born after the family arrived in Connecticut. Nerves tingled at her fingertips as she tossed her Burberry holdall onto her bed and lifted the lid.

Chapter Fourteen

The faint whiff of lavender, mingled with dried straw, permeated the musty air. Rosie experienced a sense of anticipation for what secrets the chest would hold, but as her eyes flicked into the corners of the scarred wooden box, she saw only a small, brown leather suitcase sealed by rust-blistered buckles.

A further perfunctory rummage revealed just a pair of sixties-inspired curtains covering the bottom, so she grabbed the case and removed her head from the trunk, grateful to be avoiding the possibility of coming face-to-face with a pair of beady eyes. Never a fan of errant spiders, Rosie shivered involuntarily and shook her tousled curls; her skin prickled at the thought of a hairy, eight-legged friend mistaking her hair for a golden-webbed home.

She returned to the lounge, pausing to draw the curtains on the darkness pressing against the window panes. She set the case on the coffee table, unfastened the recalcitrant buckles and raised the lid to reveal the faded Liberty-print lining and a jumble of leather-bound journals, their ribbon bookmarks protruding from the pages like lizards’ tongues.

She selected one of the largest and peeled back the cover to reveal an artist’s sketch pad. Each sheet was separated by a flimsy leaf of translucent paper that crinkled as she turned the pages in wonderment. Each illustration sprang from the page when Rosie released them from slumber in their artist’s folio. The depictions were skilfully true-to-life, yet the artist’s style had an undeniable flair that added character and life to each page. Her heartbeat accelerated as she encountered the individual stems of blossom and flowering herbs, each sprig as vibrant as the day they were drawn, especially the lavender – she could literally smell it. The illustrator had been a true virtuoso with a pencil and brush.

The botanical sketches were an artist’s interpretation of the residents of Bernice’s garden – a portfolio of more than thirty exquisitely detailed specimens. But the biggest surprise was that each sketch was accompanied by her aunt’s familiar green-ink scrawl setting out a recipe which included the herb or plant or fruit depicted as its essential ingredient.

Rosie lingered on the illustration of a strawberry plant, its runners framing a recipe for strawberry tarts. But the recipe title confused her. She flicked back to the journal’s title page and a smile burst onto her lips.

‘
Bake Yourself Better!
’ her aunt had printed in her familiar green ink scrawl. The three capital letters had been enlarged and illustrated with implements from the world of baking – a whisk, a spatula, a rolling pin, a cookie cutter, even a tiny pastry brush. The title page was a work of art in itself. Her aunt had always said that the wooden spoon was mightier than the psychiatrist’s pen when it came to mental health, and here was the evidence that she intended to share her wisdom.

The remaining three sketch pads in the case contained drafts of the illustrations Bernice had been commissioned to sketch for the children’s books she had illustrated and even to Rosie’s untrained eye they were superb.

She lay the last of the artists’ pads aside and removed the final tome – a journal, smaller than its cousins, bound in scarlet leather, and inscribed on the front in gold-embossed lettering,
DIARY 2012
.

Oh!

Rosie replaced the diary in the trunk. She couldn’t contemplate peeling back the pages. Reading its contents would surely constitute a flagrant invasion of her aunt’s privacy. She berated herself for her next thought as she leaned back from the coffee table, her feet sparkling with pins and needles. Dedicated to her garden, her WI meetings and her artistic pursuits, Bernice had been a spinster of the parish of Brampton, North Devon. What could possibly offend her aunt if her beloved niece took a quick peek?

And how could those tightly-packed pages contain anything particularly private? The diary was that year’s. Hadn’t her aunt been ill? She checked the contents of the trunk again and found no other diary, only the Marshall family Bible.

Tucking the diary under her arm and removing the illustrated recipe journal, Rosie refastened the trunk, placing it behind the rose-and-fern chintz sofa. She wondered, as she mounted the stairs, whether Bernice should maybe have chosen to
live
her life rather than record the passage of its trials and tribulations. After placing the diary on her bedside table, she stared out of the window on the scene below, its beauty pixelated by droplets of rain journeying towards the window sill.

She made a decision. She would read what her aunt had written. And she now understood why Susan had made that strange reference to her sleeping arrangements. Her aunt had wanted her to find it!

She settled back against the pillows and peeled open the first page. Her heart performed an unexpected somersault. There, between the cover and the first page, was a cream vellum envelope with her name,
Roseannah Bernice Hamilton
, emblazoned on the front in emerald ink. With trembling fingers, she removed the missive and placed the diary on her bedside table.

Rosie stared at the letter, weighing it in her hands as she waited for her heartbeat to return to normal. She slid her finger under the flap and withdrew the thick sheet of writing paper, not surprised to find a hand-drawn illustration of a sprig of lavender, her aunt’s favourite flower, coupled with a detailed drawing of a pale pink rose. Even before Rosie began to read the words, tears blurred her vision.

My darling Rosie,

If you are reading this letter, once again I have my life-long friend Susan to thank for her love, support and friendship. She has been a beacon of joy and the guardian of my sanity these last few years.

You will know by now that I have left you my beloved Thornleigh Lodge and its treasured garden. I truly hope that you will spend time here whenever you need to reassess what is important in life.

Rosie, I love you as the daughter I never had and it caused me such pain to watch you suppress your own pursuit of happiness in favour of Freya. Yes, she needed your love and attention when she was a child, but not any more! You will never be able to achieve a loving relationship of your own until you start focusing on your own needs. First you must find happiness within yourself, only then will you be able to form the life-long bond with the soul mate you crave.

Rosie, don’t waste your life in the quest of the unattainable, whether in your career or in matters of the heart – for I have loved a man my whole life who could not be mine. Please don’t scold Emily for sharing the details of your relationship with Giles with me, for its knowledge has enabled me to reveal my own secret to you, my love, in the hope that, unlike me, you will choose the right path, not the easiest.

Life is precious; every second should be exploited. Don’t delay like I did – be more like your mum and go for it! She adored Jack and we are all enriched for having her in our lives, even if it was to be for such a short time. What you must never do, Rosie my darling, is to give up on love, to settle for second best or the most convenient. Remember, you have to kiss a lot of frogs before your prince arrives.

Your loving aunt,

Bernice.

XXX

PS. I have also left you the unfinished manuscript of my last project. My Bake Yourself Better journal is the merger of three loves in my life – illustrating, gardening and baking. It’s not only a recipe book, Rosie, it’s a study of the therapeutic aspects culinary creativity can play in enhancing everyone’s lives. Perhaps you could read it, try out some of the recipes, dare I suggest that you even consider writing a foreword?

Rosie folded the precious missive and slotted it back into its envelope. Her heart ached for the fact that her aunt had not felt able to share her confidences with her during her lifetime, especially when they had grown so close last summer when she had believed they’d developed a bond of mutual sharing. But her aunt had retained her deepest secret and, it seemed, taken it with her to her grave, still in love with the man who, for whatever reason, could not be hers. Was he married? No, her aunt would never cause such heartache to a fellow human being. Rosie was upset that Bernice had lived with such emotional pain whilst her sister had enjoyed a short but happy life with a man she adored, having two beautiful daughters before being stolen from them at the age of forty-six.

As always, her aunt’s heartfelt wisdom was perfect and straight-to-the-point when she had beseeched her to find her own happiness and not to leave it too late. The only way she was going to do that was by getting out there and dating. Bernice had directed her not to end up a lonely old spinster and to grab some happiness like her mother had. Right! She intended to follow that advice by starting to date as soon as she got back to New York and her aunt’s words cemented her resolve to get out there, ‘to kiss a few frogs’ as she advocated.

To her surprise, a fully-formed image of Austin Meadows floated across her mind and the familiar frisson of attraction tickled at her chest. Now he was someone she could envisage kissing without any difficulty. Bernice’s letter had made her wishes clear, too. That she assumed Rosie would keep Thornleigh Lodge, ‘to spend time here whenever you need to reassess what is important in life’, not to sell it. How could she have had such an aberration of judgement?

She would stay! Wasn’t that what her aunt had wanted her to do? At least for a few months whilst she tidied up the garden. Do her aunt proud, just as Emily had suggested. Maybe she would even experiment with a few of the recipes her aunt had been working on. The artwork at least was too incredible to end up languishing in an old toy chest. Had her aunt once again offered her posthumous guidance by way of her recipe journal? She’d referred to ‘the therapeutic aspects of the art of baking’. Would indulging in a frenzy in the kitchen enhance her life as Bernice had suggested? Could she ‘Bake Herself Better’?

What was there waiting for her back in Manhattan? Maybe she
would
follow her advice to give love a chance, too. When she rang Austin the next day to inform him she was staying for a while, she would conjure up the courage to enquire as to his relationship status. She could think of no more ideal a candidate for her new mission to find love.

Nightfall deepened the crimson streaks across the sky to a rich magenta, and Rosie adjusted the curtains to block out the encroaching gloom. As she glanced across the front garden to the end of the path, she caught another glimpse of the obtrusive advertising board loitering in the falling light. Its presence did seem to represent a two-fingered insult to her aunt’s passing.