The Runaway Bridesmaid (15 page)

He saw Rosie watching him and averted his eyes back to the kitchen table’s surface. ‘I know it sounds lame but give me a garden full of vibrant violets over a room full of painted pansies any time.’ He saw Rosie’s face and rushed on. ‘Sorry, you don’t want to hear me drone on. Will you be requiring my services over the summer, Rosie? At least until the lodge is sold?’

‘Gosh, Ollie, yes please. Sundays, you say? Great by me.’ Witnessing the smile of delight that spread across Ollie’s face, Rosie knew she had made the right decision.

‘Thanks, Rosie. I’ll work hard to get Miss Marshall’s garden back to its former glory.’

She watched him ramble to the garden gate, settle his tweed cap on his head, sling his corduroy-clad leg over his bicycle seat and meander off down the road, his knees jutting out sideways as he pedalled.

That evening, as dusk wreathed the sinking sun, Rosie soaked her aching muscles in the rose-pink ceramic bathtub. Her nails were splintered, her hands shrivelled dry from their daily manicure of mud and water. She wrapped her aunt’s robe around her naked body, appreciating the soft welcoming embrace it offered in place of the cool, sleek silk of her own.

She glanced out of her bedroom window to the now-delineated skeleton of the herb garden below. She experienced a surge of satisfaction at the progress she had made and affection for her aunt’s passion for gardening, her tenacious cause to amass knowledge and expertise and to pass it on. And not only in the realm of horticulture but, as she cast her thoughts to her
Bake Yourself Better
journal, in the arena of baking too. What had Ollie said were his favourite? Lavender macaroons? She trotted down the stairs and searched the tome for the recipe, flicking quickly through the pages before landing on:

Lavender Macaroons for Lazy Afternoons

Of course you will know, Rosie, that lavender is my favourite plant as it grows in profusion in all four corners of my garden and graces every vase in my home. Lavender has been used for centuries as a herbal remedy to reduce stress and anxiety, and as an aid to insomnia which I know bites at your heels. So please fill the cottage with sprigs of my beloved lavender and maybe jump off the treadmill of life to relax and try out this recipe before taking a seat under the cherry tree to smell those beautiful flowers you and your mother were named after.

Rosie studied her wrinkled hands and her fingernails, her cuticles outlined with circles of stubborn soil and smiled. It had felt good to get her hands dirty. The physical exercise and intense concentration along with her meeting with Ollie had ensured her mind had not lingered once on the torrent of misfortune that had befallen her fate; her internal dialogue for once was silent, almost meditative.

Maybe her aunt had a point. Maybe Thornleigh Lodge could heal her wounds again.

Chapter Eighteen

Rosie awoke to the May sky producing a cascade of rivulets down the window pane and a rhythmic concerto on the thatched roof. But she was paralysed. Her limbs refused to respond to her brain’s insistent requests to move. She rolled onto her right side and her neck and shoulders screamed their objection.

Realisation dawned as she hobbled like an old crone to the bathroom. She negotiated the stairs as a novice mountaineer would, sideways, clinging onto the banister as every stretched muscle complained of its extreme treatment during the horticultural workout the previous day.

She set the kettle to boil and went to survey the damage in the hallway mirror. Apart from her golden hair – more haystack than slick-back – she wondered if she was becoming a younger version of her aunt.
I really must go shopping for clothes
, she thought. What did she have to wear on her date with Austin? Her choice was her DKNY jeans, fresh from a day in the garden, or the black Armani suit she had worn for her aunt’s funeral. Of course, there was always something vintage from her aunt’s wardrobe. Lauren would positively encourage that avenue of sartorial elegance – but she didn’t have the eye her friend had, nor her gift with accessories.

No gardening today. Thank God. The bulbous grey clouds spilled their contents determinedly, inundating the garden with random puddles, their surface reflecting the leaves and branches and the silver sky backdrop. Each leaf of the rhododendron bush and the magnolia tree had been decorated with a slick aquatic sheen. She knew mud was beneficial for the skin, but she didn’t need to take a bath in it. The sky as far as the horizon was laden with an iron-heavy mist and the oppressive meteorological pressure had dulled her spirits, so the decision was made that today she would tackle the unpalatable task of sorting through her aunt’s personal possessions.

As the ceaseless drizzle continued, Rosie spent the morning in Bernice’s rose-chintz bedroom. The downpour matched her emotions as she recalled how her aunt had seemed so vibrant and alive when Rosie was a child, full of energy and passion for her children’s book illustrations and her garden. When she glanced through the rain Rosie knew her aunt’s spirit lingered on amongst the laburnum arbour.

Rummaging deep into her aunt’s huge oak wardrobe, she came across several floral printed silk Jean Muir tea dresses. She emailed photographs to Lauren for her opinion on whether to donate to the local thrift shop or haul them back to the US for Lauren’s delectation. Of course, she regretted the spontaneity of her request for advice, as, had she thought about it in any detail, Lauren’s immediate response would have been predictable. She demanded Rosie retain every item. Rosie smiled, imagining her friend’s joy at the opportunity to spend a rainy morning delving into the treasure in that bedroom, rather than her own current infusion of sadness.

As midday approached she glanced around the room at the five black plastic sacks stuffed and ready to be collected by Emily for the trip to Oxfam, accompanied by one cracked brown leather suitcase containing Lauren’s minimum must-have selection. She didn’t want to linger on the potential excess baggage charge the airline was bound to insist on.

Her final task was her aunt’s mother-of-pearl jewellery box resting on an embroidered lace mat on her dressing table. Rosie vividly recalled this treasure chest from her childhood when she had been allowed to listen to the musical box, enthralled by the tiny pirouetting ballerina who appeared when the lid was raised. This gem most certainly would be making the journey back to the US irrespective of the cost.

To the tune of Lara’s Theme from
Dr Zhivago
, Rosie withdrew her aunt’s slender gold cocktail watch and dangled it from her own wrist next to her mother’s, allowing her tears to roll unchecked. As she replaced the timepiece in its compartment, her eyes caught on an unexpected item – a gentleman’s Omega watch. She withdrew the timepiece and inspected it. The lens was scratched and the dial had faint discolouration but otherwise it was in good condition. Its white face recorded each quarter hour with a gold number and its black leather strap held evidence of a great deal of wear. She turned the watch over in her hand – it looked old and expensive.

As she went to replace it next to Bernice’s Rolex, she noticed the engraving on the back –
John James Peter Aubrey, 1900-1944
.

Rosie crinkled her nose in puzzlement. Her grandfather’s name had been George Edward Marshall, and anyway, he had died in 1980, the same year she had been born. Perhaps it had belonged to her grandmother’s father, but no, her grandmother’s maiden name had been Webster. The date of death was 1944; that would have been during the Second World War. Rosie wondered what the story was behind its scarred white face.

Drained, she decided to take a break from nostalgia to grab a cheese sandwich and replenish her mug of Earl Grey. Rain continued to lash down on the little cottage and the willowy grasses and tall ferns in the garden bowed to its continual onslaught. Today was a day to spend indoors and she knew exactly what she intended to do. She opened her aunt’s journal at the page she had been studying since Austin had asked her out.

Sweet Basil Biscuits for New Love Interests

One of the meanings of the herb basil is love and I know we can all do with an extra sprinkle of that in our lives! It is written in some folklore that a young man who accepts sweet basil from a woman will fall in love with her. I love that story so I had to include this recipe for you, Rosie, especially as I have grown basil in my garden since I bought the lodge. Be careful who you select as a sampler, darling! We wouldn’t want to tempt the fates, would we?

As she scoured the kitchen cupboards, still stocked with dry goods, extracting each of the listed ingredients, she felt like a teenager mixing up a love potion with which to secure the undying love of the boy in 7B. The essential ingredient, fresh basil, grew in abundance in her aunt’s outdoor larder and was one she was already acquainted with. Was this the component that piqued the ‘love interest’?

Once again her aunt had decorated the recipe border with sprigs of basil, their leaves such a vibrant colour of green that they zinged from the page.

She baked as if her life depended on it. Soon the kitchen was filled with chaotic activity and the deliciously sweet aroma of baking biscuits. Rosie’s stomach grumbled in support of the soon-to-be-finished product.

The oven door exhaled a balloon of smoke as she removed the first batch. The front three biscuits were burnt to a crisp, the back three underdone, but the middle six looked presentable. The infernal Aga had not been as tame as she had hoped. How on earth had her aunt struggled on with the monstrosity of a cooker at her age!

She slid the second tray into the oven and checked the clock – the recipe suggested twelve minutes only. As she lowered the clip to close the oven, she surveyed the kitchen – it looked like a flour bomb had exploded. Her frantic lifestyle in Manhattan had meant she’d had no opportunity to acquire the skills needed to produce baked goods with the minimum of effort or mess.

There was a rap on the back door. Rosie brushed the flour from the cuffs of her pink shirt, dragged her voluminous hair behind her ears, but overlooked the fact she was wearing her aunt’s frilly apron. She couldn’t wait to offer Emily one of her own creations and elicit her honest opinion.

‘Hi.’ It wasn’t Emily.

‘Hi, there. Oh, you’ve got a little flour...’ He held up his index finger and brushed a smudge of dust from her nose. ‘What a heavenly smell, tinged though it is with a soupçon of caramelisation, if I may add? What gastronomic delight is the subject of your exploitation today, then?’ he enquired. ‘Erm, do you think I could come in, or would you prefer I remain in this downpour so my white cotton shirt becomes even more transparent and you can ogle me and my rippling six-pack, like a specimen straight from the pages of a Jane Austen novel?’

Rosie took in his dripping ebony curls, the mischievous turn of his lips producing cute dimples, his amused eyes the colour of polished coal, and stepped aside to allow Charlie to enter her home.

‘Nice pinny, by the way. My gran’s got one just like that.’ He removed his soaking Barbour jacket, draped it on a chair next to the Aga where it produced wisps of vapour, and strode over to the kitchen table. ‘Wouldn’t mind a cuppa and one of those burnt biscuits? You need to turn the tray halfway through the baking process if you are reliant on an Aga. Practice maketh the expert,’ explained Charlie

‘Why are you so wet?’

‘In case you hadn’t noticed, it’s raining outside.’

‘Yes, I had noticed, but you’re drenched.’

‘Oh, I cycled down from the Manor. Sorry, I’ll dry out – especially next to this beauty.’ He perched his buttocks on the towel rail running the full width of the Aga. Steam rose from his damp clothes and, disconcertingly, Rosie found her desire spiral with it. But, she reminded herself, Charlie, with his dark sultry good looks and cheeky ripostes, was not her type. They had nothing in common; she, a corporate financial executive, he, a sometime-helper in the kitchen up at the Spa Hotel who, it seemed, couldn’t even afford to run a car.

She immediately quashed that patronising thought and berated herself for her imagined superiority. Who did she think she was? She was no longer a corporate employee and had a personal life resembling a barren wilderness strewn with the debris of disappointment. And what was more, her own means of transport was her aunt’s prehistoric bicycle. She smiled at Charlie as she set down the huge brown teapot and three of the better biscuits on a Wedgwood china dessert plate.

Charlie relinquished his seat at the Aga and slumped down at the table. He eased off his green Hunter Wellington boots and curled his fingers around his mug of tea, elbows on the table.

‘Wow! These are stunning. Someone is a very talented artist.’ His eyes met Rosie’s with an enquiry.

‘Oh, yes, well, they’re not mine. They’re my Aunt Bernice’s. She was engaged as a children’s book illustrator before she passed away. These are some of the drawings she scribbled of the contents of the garden she adored, for her own pleasure.’ Rosie tried to slide the journal away from Charlie’s grasp, but he held on tight.

‘Mm, and recipes accompany each one of the herbs and plants she depicted?’ He bit into the rock-hard biscuit, crumbs drifting down his darkening chin, but his eyes filled with amusement.

To her excruciating horror, Rosie realised he had seen the title of her baking experiment. A hot flush seeped across her cheeks and she cringed at what conclusion Charlie must have drawn. No doubt he was painting a mental picture in his mind of a witch stirring her cauldron as she concocted a potion to make the local handsome solicitor fall in love with her. Oh God! And Charlie had eaten one of the biscuits! She tried again to remove her aunt’s journal away from his gaze.

‘The flavour of these biscuits is exquisite, despite the over-bake,’ he smirked as he helped himself to a second.

‘Oh, and
you
would know, would you?’ She sipped her tea, glancing at his tanned fingers laced around the mug – his thumb caressing its handle rhythmically. ‘Actually, yes. I told you I work up at the Manor. I know about baking.’