The Runaway Bridesmaid (23 page)

Rosie adored books. They provided a portal into another world and the library at Brampton Manor presented a cornucopia of brightly-coloured gems just waiting to be explored, to be freed from their prison on the shelf and their contents brought to life in the reader’s mind’s eye. She itched to ripple her fingertips across the protruding spines like the keys on a piano. Each book was a nugget of hidden treasure, promising an insight into new, undiscovered worlds.

‘I see, like me, you appreciate this magnificent cathedral of literature, Miss Hamilton. Charles is a lucky boy. I’m Jasper Cosgrove, pleased to meet you.’ Jasper had risen from a well-used, leather wing-backed chair by the fireside, his hand outstretched to welcome Rosie.

‘It’s good to meet you too, Mr Cosgrove.’

‘Oh, call me Jasper. I’m not one to stand on ceremony – Charles will tell you that!’

Jasper was not what Rosie had imagined at all. With a shock of auburn hair, teased into artfully-gelled spikes, tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses and a sharply-cut charcoal-grey suit, he looked more like a smooth television executive than a guy from the rarefied echelons of the literary world. He indicated the three chairs surrounding a gleaming mahogany table by the window, a tower of identical cookery books perched in the middle with an impressive ink pen on top.

‘Shall we take a seat whilst we wait for our host to arrive?’

‘Where is Charlie?’

‘He was called to the kitchen by his mother, I think. Anyway, can I just tell you that my team are singing the praises of your aunt’s
Bake Yourself Better
cookery manual? I adore the concept! It’s so fresh and up-to-the-minute. It will appeal to a multiple readership, not only cookery enthusiasts but self-help literature addicts too, and the illustrations are masterful. I predict great things, and if the book does half as well as Charles’ new release, well, we’ll be onto another winner.’

‘Erm, sorry? Hang on a minute, Jasper. I’m a little confused here.’ Confused? That was an understatement. Bewildered, perplexed, baffled. So many questions had flown into her brain when he’d uttered the last sentence that she didn’t know which one to ask first.

‘I know entering the publishing world can be a little daunting at first, Rosie, but I’m here to guide you. And so is Charles. He’s been through the process many times so if you have any reservations I’m certain he will be able to answer them to your satisfaction. Mead House Publishing is world renowned for the publication of a plethora of very successful books in the culinary field.’

Jasper shoved his spectacles up to the bridge of his nose and peered at Rosie, clearly under the impression that her bewilderment meant she didn’t believe him.

‘Here, look.’ Jasper grabbed one of the brand new tomes from the pile on the table, flipped it over to the back cover and slid it in front of a gob-smacked Rosie. He tapped his elegant fingertip on a sharply-focused image of Charlie, decked out in chef’s whites and smiling that devastating smile of his straight into the camera lens.

Wow, thought Rosie, he scrubs up well! The camera loved his boldly-drawn, Mediterranean features more usually at home on a black-and-white movie screen, as he lounged confidently behind a kitchen work bench, his chef’s jacket loose at the collar, his curls neatly coiffed for once. Her heart contracted and her body suffused with heat before the cogs of Rosie’s viciously-assaulted brain ground to a snail’s pace. She couldn’t begin to interpret what her eyes were seeing. She raised her eyes to Jasper as increasingly bizarre questions chased her sanity. What on earth was Charlie doing dressed up in a starched chef’s jacket on the back of a cookery book? Why was there a pile of them, pristine and glossy, on the table in the library at the Manor? And where was he?

‘Why is a photograph of Charlie on the back of this book?’ she blurted, unable to stop herself, cringing with embarrassment at how trite her question sounded.

‘Well, he’s known to his millions of fans as Charles Campbell-Wright, isn’t he?’ Jasper laughed.

Noticing Rosie had exhibited no sign of recognition at the mention of this name, Jasper scooted forward in his chair, watching her closely as he continued to speak as if to a very young child. ‘Charles Campbell-Wright? The celebrity chef, TV presenter and cookery book writer? No?’

Rosie shook her head.

The horror was slow to dawn, but dawn it did. Her jaw slackened, and then gawped. So he wasn’t the Manor’s part-time chef he had led her to believe after all? Shame spread across her chest as she recalled her attitude towards Charlie over the last few weeks, even to the extent of dissing his choice of profession and his complete lack of ambition to press on in the world.

Jasper continued to watch the increasing realisation spread across Rosie’s face, his pale-blue eyes crinkled in bafflement by her lack of knowledge of Charlie’s identity.

‘So, Charlie wrote this book?’

‘And several others, but this is hot off the press. I need him to sign a batch for a fayre I’m attending in Germany tomorrow.’

Then her mind spun to a snippet from earlier in her conversation with Jasper.

‘Did you say Charlie was called to the kitchen
by his mother
?’

‘Still don’t know who your Charlie is, do you?’

‘Well, you just told me…’

‘As in the son of Lucinda and Ralph Campbell-Wright?’

‘Their son?’

Charlie lived here? This was his home? A fresh wave of horror swept through her heart and she struggled to draw oxygen into her lungs.

‘Sorry about that, but I see you’ve started to get acquainted without me. Rosie, you look wonderful, as always.’ Charlie leaned over to peck her on the cheek, the citrusy tang of his aftershave floating to her nostrils. He spun the remaining chair round and sat astride it. ‘So, what do you think, Rosie? Don’t you think Jasper is the best publisher for your aunt’s journal?’

‘Erm, yes, yes of course.’

If she hadn’t been so immobilised by shock she would have swooned. This wasn’t the Charlie, prince of the black jeans-and-tee-shirt-brigade she knew. He wore perfectly-pressed black dress pants and a crisp pink shirt that she saw from the embroidered logo was Ralph Lauren. Since when did Charlie go in for designer-chic? But boy, did he suit the new attire – straight from the pages of a glossy magazine.

Jasper’s eyes ricocheted from Charlie to Rosie and back to Charlie. Even the most elephant-skinned onlooker could have felt the ripples of electricity flowing between them, but Jasper’s face was suffused with anxiety – clearly he didn’t want to be there when the fuse was lit.

‘So, it’s a deal then?’ he asked swiftly, anxious to conclude the meeting.

‘Sure, and thanks Jasper,’ croaked Rosie, her throat dry and ragged.

Jasper shoved the chair back and withdrew a sheaf of paper from his leather briefcase. ‘I’ll leave this for you to read at your leisure, Rosie. It’s been wonderful to meet you. And Charles, dear boy, perhaps you should bring our newest colleague up to speed with… well, the
reality of the situation
?’

Charlie’s eyes widened as his gaze fell on the cookery book on the table, and then transferred slowly to Rosie’s pale, frozen expression.

‘Bye!’ Jasper almost sprinted for the door.

‘You lied to me.’

‘I didn’t lie as such, I just…’

‘You told me you were a part-time chef here, not that your parents owned the place!’

‘I
am
a part-time chef here, Rosie.’

‘But you are a Campbell-Wright. One day all this will be yours! Oh, my God, that’s why the meeting was here,
in your library
, not as a favour to a loyal employee.’ Nausea threatened and Rosie pushed a balled-up fist into her abdomen. She needed to hear the truth before she crumbled under the onslaught of pain that had spliced into her heart as the full realisation of Charlie’s deception dawned. ‘Oh, God, I’m an idiot! A complete fool. Was that your
sister
who showed me into the library just now? I thought she looked familiar.’

‘Look, Rosie, I know this has come as a shock, but if you let me explain…’

‘But that’s not all, is it? Not only are you a local celebrity, you are an
internationally
renowned author of multiple cookery books! Oh, how you must have been laughing at my attempts to bake my aunt’s recipes.’ Her heart thrummed against her ribcage as she looked into Charlie’s handsome face, yet realised everything she thought she knew about him was false.

‘I thought you were my friend, Charlie. I thought, at last, I had found someone I could trust, someone who I could lean on as I learned to shrug off my obsession with putting others first.’

‘I am your friend, Rosie. More than that. Please, will you let me explain?’

‘Do I have a choice?’ She felt deflated, all the fight had left her and she hunched her shoulders as she prepared for the next blow to fall.

‘As Jasper has obviously told you, yes, I have published a few cookery books. It’s my favourite part of this whole manic circus that has become my life. Five years ago I was offered an audition for a slot on a Saturday morning TV show,
The Baking Bazaar
, and the craziness just took off. That’s why I come down here in the summer – to escape the hordes of fans that camp outside my door in Pimlico.’

‘You have fans? There are gastronomic groupies?’

‘Yes, and you wouldn’t believe what some girls will do to get to meet me!’

‘Okay, let’s say I can understand that you didn’t want your fame to follow you to Brampton, why didn’t you tell me you lived here, instead of letting me believe you were some kind of kitchen helper and garden herb gatherer?’

Charlie tossed his curls from his forehead and it was the first time Rosie had noticed a nervous shake of his hand.

‘I told you about my ex-wife, didn’t I? And I remember you asking me why she went through with the wedding when she was in a relationship with someone else. Well, it was because she fancied herself as mistress of the Manor one day. My TV celebrity and my family’s inheritance blinded her to what should be the only reason to get married. Love – that elusive, painful emotion.’

Charlie’s eyes reached deep into Rosie’s soul as he took a deep, steadying breath. ‘Ever since I saw you chucking those scones into the grass at the back of the tent at the village fair, your golden hair flying in the breeze, clad in that ridiculous Barbour, I knew you were special. You had no idea who I was, yet your eyes spoke of an instant attraction. You may not know it, Rosie, but you’re unlike any other girl I’ve ever had the privilege of meeting. I hoped we could have a future, but I’ve been burned before, as you know, and I needed to be sure you wanted the real me, not the famous Charles Campbell-Wright.’

‘I don’t know the real you, Charlie – or should I say Charles. How can I? You’ve lied to me, concealed your true identity. For all I know you have a bevy of girlfriends waiting for you with open-arms in London, Paris and Berlin. I thought I could trust you and you betrayed me. But never mind, you’re just someone else to add to that lengthening list.’

Charlie stood up from his chair and walked to the fireplace. ‘Everything I did was with the best of intentions, Rosie. You may not believe me, but I never wanted to hurt you. Unlike some people around here.’

‘What do you mean, “some people”?’ She swivelled in her chair to look at his face, distress written clearly across his features.

‘Heard you had a date with Austin last Saturday night? Law Society Ball, no less! Have fun?’

‘Yes, surprisingly, I did.’ For God’s sake, how did Charlie seem to know everything that went on in her life? And why was she so upset that he knew about her night out with Austin, now that she knew what sort of person Charlie really was.

‘Why don’t you ditch that creep, Rosie? I’ve made some discreet enquiries about this Brian Dixon, too – your prospective purchaser of Thornleigh Lodge? Did you, for instance, know that he is a property developer? That he built a block of eight apartments in Tiverton two years ago.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He purchased a splendid old Georgian house on a large plot of land from an old lady for a song, then went ahead and demolished it despite local objection, and erected the apartment block in the grounds, “accidentally” chopping down two ancient oak trees with Tree Preservation Orders – an action for which he was fined, but of course that’s not the point; doesn’t bring the trees back, does it?’

‘No, it doesn’t – but why are you telling me this?’ Rosie’s irritation with Charlie’s constant interference ballooned.

‘Well, I’m worried, that’s all. Austin only seems to be interested in making money and moving up in the world. I’m concerned about his motives for wining and dining you.’

‘You complete…! How dare you. You don’t know Austin at all. And it’s my decision whom I date and, for your information, I’ve chosen to date Austin. Austin has treated me with nothing but respect. In fact he warned me you were hiding something, and he was right wasn’t he? I have no intention of listening to anything else you have to say.’ Her voice had raised an octave.

‘I just wanted us to get to know each other without…’

‘Without being totally truthful with each other? That isn’t how it works, Charlie. If you’re not completely honest, how do you know if anything is real?’

‘That’s a very good question, Rosie. Very insightful. Perhaps you can think on that. And when you have, I’ll be here waiting for you.’

‘I’m not going to think on anything, Charlie.’ With difficulty Rosie extracted herself from her seat and strode to the library door. She turned and glared at him.

‘Who do you think you are? The Director of my destiny?’

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Everything was set up for the sale of Thornleigh Lodge. All the paperwork had been signed, ready for the contracts to be exchanged, with the transfer to the new buyer agreed for Thursday the thirty-first of October – only four days away.

Rosie set to work packing the remaining boxes to ship across the Atlantic, with separate tea chests for Emily and for Susan. Finally, the rest of her aunt’s belongings were packed into black refuse sacks for the local Oxfam shop. She didn’t want to see any of her aunt’s possessions end up in landfill. Rosie paused in her work. She had never thought she would hear herself say such a thing. Recycling and reusing was Lauren’s mantra, not hers, but having spent time in England where recycling was a way of life she realised its benefits. It thumped home to her just how careless she had been in Manhattan. Yet another thing she intended to change.