The Runaway Bridesmaid (26 page)

Charlie leapt down from the podium, slinging the microphone away from his lapel and cutting his way through the avid audience.

‘Rosie! Wait!’

She ignored him, dashed from the marquee and started to run up the lawn towards where she had ditched her bicycle, but her boots hampered swift progress. She didn’t want to do this now, in front of a tent full of TV production crew.

‘Rosie…’

Her hair flew wild like an untidy sheaf of corn, and her old, tattered Barbour hung from her shoulders completing the impression of a bedraggled scarecrow, whilst Charlie stood before her, immaculate in a pristine chef’s jacket and checked trousers, his ebony curls artfully tousled, his hand-made Italian leather loafers glazed to a shine.

As Charlie’s hand touched her arm, a volcano of desire erupted. He grinned at her, tossing his curls from his eyes, refusing to lessen his grip on her hand.

‘What’s so funny?’ she asked.

‘Roseannah Bernice Hamilton?’

She looked deep into his serious, coal-black eyes, unaware of the audience and lone cameraman creeping up the lawn in the shadow of Brampton Manor, Charlie’s ancestral home.

‘Yes?’ Her stomach lurched to her knees and back again.

‘I love you!’

She stared at him, flicking her hair away from her face, still holding his gaze in hers.

‘What did you say?’

‘I said, I love you, you crazy girl. Have done since I found you lurking behind the marquee at the village fair.’

The production crew had now completely surrounded the couple, straining their ears, silent so as not to break the charm of the unfolding drama.

Then, as Lucinda and Ralph Campbell-Wright stepped down the stone steps onto the lawn, their arms draped around Amelia, and in front of an audience of thirty strangers, Charlie lowered himself onto one knee and grabbed both her hands in his.

‘Rosie Hamilton, spinster of this parish, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?’

His gaze held her tear-streaked eyes, a glint of the familiar mischief reflected in their depths, but she knew he had never been so serious in his life, and that she loved him too, would gladly spend the rest of her life loving him – with all her heart and soul.

‘Yes,’ she whispered, kneeling down in front of him, ‘I will.’

As their lips touched, thunderous applause erupted from the gathering they hadn’t realised was there.

Epilogue

Brampton Manor, wreathed in the sun’s golden rays, projected all its Georgian splendour into its buzzing grounds and the countryside beyond. It was the weekend before the Campbell-Wrights were due to fling the doors open to the public for the summer; one year to the day that Charlie and Rosie had stumbled upon each other skulking behind the Baking marquee at the village fair.

‘Ready, darling?’ Jack’s face glowed with pride for his eldest daughter.

‘Yes, Dad, I am.’

‘You are gorgeous, Roseannah. Just like your mother was on her wedding day,’ he swallowed down hard on his emotions.

‘I know Dad, I know. I miss her too. But she walks with us in our hearts, especially today.’ Rosie smoothed her palm over her wedding veil, its scattered crystals sparkling in the midday sun streaming through the French doors of the Manor’s drawing room, and hugged her father.

Rosie had very nearly broken her promise not to cry on her wedding day when Emily had presented her with a hand-tied bridal bouquet containing a sprig of every herb in her aunt’s garden, put together by Ollie and Susan! To say Susan glowed with satisfaction at being one half of a loving partnership was an understatement. Rosie had ditched her posy of pink roses and grasped the fragrant bouquet with honour. It was a fitting memory of her aunt’s continuing presence in her life, especially on her wedding day.

The only cloud on Rosie’s otherwise perfect day was the absence of Lauren and Brett. But her heart had ballooned when she’d received the best wedding present a girl could wish for. The previous weekend Lauren had given birth to twins, a boy and a girl, and she and Brett were in thrall of the little miracles. Lauren had agreed to Brett’s request to take early maternity leave, pleading exhaustion and a high-risk pregnancy and – fearing any complications would place Harlow Fenton’s reputation on the line – George Harlow had willing concurred. Lauren had since confided in Rosie that, like Rosie, she had no intention of returning to the financial boiler room. Now motherhood had arrived, she wanted to savour every moment of her and Brett’s blessing.

Lauren had expected Rosie to rejoice at the news that Giles’ brother’s house and garage in Hoboken had been destroyed at the behest of Hurricane Sandy; the whole property had been wiped from the face of the earth with a flick of its vociferous tail and the basement inundated with raw sewerage rendering it uninhabitable. Even now, six months on, New Jersey residents were struggling to get their lives back on track. Giles had lost everything he owned.

However, Rosie had been too insulated by her own whirlwind of love for Charlie to even register Giles’ misfortune on her sympathy scale. In fact, if she searched her heart for any feelings towards him it was pity. His behaviour had ensured that he’d wound up with no home and no partner, the two most important things in life and she empathised with how that felt. She hoped his experience had taught him a least
one
of life’s lessons, if not all.

But one person she had worked hard to forgive was Austin. She’d decided not to carry out her threat to report him to the Solicitors Regulation Authority when she had heard of his family’s struggle to care for his severely disabled mother who suffered from Multiple Sclerosis. She understood the devastating impact such an affliction could have on a family and recognised Austin’s craving to work his butt off to provide for his family’s needs, which in his case had included a specially-adapted bungalow for his mother.

He had written Rosie and Charlie a short note accompanied by a watercolour of Brampton Manor his mother had purchased years ago from the Foot and Mouth Painting Artists, as a wedding present. He thanked Rosie for her discretion, doubting he deserved such forgiveness, and apologised for his lapse in integrity, explaining that his mother had passed away peacefully at Christmas.

Dragging her mind back to the present, Rosie’s eyes widened as she saw Emily still standing at the drawing room door, hopping from one stiletto to the other in a very agitated state.

‘What’s wrong, Emily? What trauma has Star bestowed upon his poor mother’s shoulders this time?’ Rosie smiled as she thought of her gorgeous, blond-haired nephew, now six weeks old and demanding everyone’s undivided attention, grabbing the baton from his mother. Spoilt to within an inch of his tiny Ralph Lauren-clad toes by his besotted mother and Jacob, it seemed Star already understood how to wrap the bedazzled pair around his little finger.

Freya and Jacob had bought their mansion in Stonington Beach so Freya could continue to help out at the store two days a week, where Star was the main attraction and had even boosted his grandfather’s trade. Freya and Jacob wanted Star to grow up in a close-knit and loving community, spending time with his grandpa. Jack had been able to engage an additional member of staff when Jacob had insisted on sharing his wealth and good fortune with his son’s grandfather. The store now proudly reflected a new coat of sky-blue paint and upgraded technology so that goods could be ordered online, via the store’s brand new website – Freya’s idea and responsibility.

‘I’m so sorry, Rosie.’

‘What’s the matter? Spit it out for heaven’s sake, Em!’ Jack clenched Rosie’s hand as they faced the frantic, twisting face of Emily.

‘It’s the vicar from St Peter’s Parish Church – the Reverend Paul Hartley. He’s been taken ill with food poisoning – been rushed to A&E this morning. His wife’s frantic!’

‘Sooo, what exactly does that mean?’ Rosie refused to panic. Despite the centuries-old splendour as the backdrop to her wedding ceremony, all the effort Charlie’s parents had gone to in making their wedding day special and the assembled congregation on the lawns, Rosie knew that whatever happened, she would still love Charlie and he would still love her – he was her soul mate; so what if their marriage had to be postponed.

‘It’s okay, it’s okay. The church is sending the minister from the next parish, but there’ll be a thirty-minute delay,’ Emily explained, more stressed out than the bride by the unfortunate turn of events on the morning of the wedding.

Rosie smiled. She’d waited thirty-three years to find her lifelong partner and to meet him at the altar, she could wait another half an hour. She lowered her Sarah Burton-clad buttocks onto a proffered Louis XIV dining chair and allowed her happiness to swirl through her entire being as she thought back to the day when Charlie had dropped down onto one knee at the precise place they would be exchanging their vows a little later today than expected.

Charles Campbell-Wright, heir to Brampton Manor and sometime TV presenter and celebrity chef. During the winter months, they had spent their time up at his apartment in Pimlico, but now that summer was around the corner they had debunked back down to Devon to the family’s west wing of Brampton Manor Hotel and Spa to muck in with any task that required attention to ensure the smooth running of the luxury country house hotel.

But the best news of all had been that Charlie’s publisher, Jasper Cosgrove – the same publisher who handled all of Charlie’s wildly successful cookery books – had, the previous evening, presented them with a final proof copy of
Bake Yourself Better
by Bernice Marshall, with its foreword written by Rosie and Charlie together, and the final page marking their final recipe:

Charlie and Rosie’s Wedding Tower for a Happily Ever After

A five-tier work of culinary art made and decorated by Charlie’s own fair hands. Covered in white fondant icing, with a cascade of delicate pink roses spilling from top to bottom, and liberally sprinkled with edible pink glitter. It’s Rosie’s perfect wedding cake.

Everyone knows that planning a wedding is one of the most stressful of life’s events, but baking your own wedding cake can deliver a surge of feel-good emotions and wellbeing. Spending an afternoon together weighing, mixing, stirring and tasting delivers a surge of happiness in not only the process but also the wonderful outcome - a cake to offer to your special guests that you have made yourselves, with a stir of affection, a dollop of delight and a sprinkle of love.

The book was propped up on an artist’s easel in pride of place in the reception hall of the Manor for guests to enjoy and as a physical reminder of her aunt’s and her mother’s continuing presence in her life and in today’s special celebrations – a celebration that Rosie was saddened her aunt had never had the opportunity to enjoy with the love of
her
life.

‘Come on, come on,’ called Emily, the skirt of her bridesmaid’s dress lifted as high as her podgy knees as she trotted towards the front terrace to begin the procession to the wedding gazebo. ‘The minister has arrived and your handsome groom awaits!’

Freya rushed forward to peck her sister on the cheek. ‘Good luck, Sis. I love you!’

The wedding procession commenced from the French doors of the drawing room to the wide terrace and down the stone steps onto the red carpet, spread like a ribbon across the smooth emerald velvet of the sweeping lawns, as the assembled guests smiled their welcome.

The melody of the wedding anthem floated from the string quartet on the late April sunshine, with the additional accompaniment of the spring birdsong, and Rosie felt her heart swell with emotion and love. Her eyes met Charlie’s as her father passed her hand to his and they moved in unison to face the minister, suffused with mutual adoration and pride.

The minister smiled at the attractive young couple before him, his faded blue eyes sparkling with what looked to Rosie suspiciously like unshed tears.

‘Ladies and Gentlemen…’ The minister paused as all eyes rested on his serene face. ‘I’m Reverend Gordon Aubrey, and we are gathered here today to celebrate the joining of Roseannah Bernice Hamilton and Charles Richard Campbell-Wright…’

Glossary

Aunt Bernice’s Bake Yourself Better Recipes

Strawberry Tarts for Broken Hearts

Strawberries are often referred to as the fruit of love. When the strawberries in this recipe are sliced as directed they appear heart-shaped, bursting with sweetness and zinging with a luscious rich red, the colour of love and passion. They are nutrient-rich and packed with healthy antioxidants, especially if grown in your own garden! Some believe they possess healing qualities and can alleviate melancholy. And if that isn’t enough to tempt you, darling Rosie, the strawberry plant is part of the rose family.

Ingredients

For the filling:

1 tub of mascarpone

50ml of double cream

One vanilla pod

For the topping:

2 punnets of strawberries

4 tbsps strawberry jam

Instructions

Make a batch of sweet pastry and chill in the fridge. Whisk the double cream and vanilla together. Add to the mascarpone and stir. Rinse and dry the strawberries, cut out the stalks, and slice them in half. Remove the pastry from the fridge and roll. Cut into circles to fit the tin and press into each hole. Prick the bottom several times and bake them for 12-15 minutes (gas mark 6/200°C) until golden-brown. Leave them to cool on a wire rack.

Once cool, brush the pastry cases with a little of the strawberry jam and melt the rest in a pan. Spoon in the mascarpone and level. Place the strawberries in a circular pattern, face down on the cream and then brush with the cooled jam glaze using a pastry brush.

Cherry Scones for Aching Bones

I hope you love this twist on the traditional English scone, Rosie. I’ve added cherries because I know how much you loved sitting under the cherry tree last year whilst we doodled on the sketch pads and put your heart back together again. Scones are a staple of afternoon teas across not only Devon but the rest of the country. They are best eaten fresh from the oven and slightly warm. Always serve with a fine blend of tea with milk, preferably from a teapot in a bone china cup with saucer. Especially enjoyable after a day’s hard toil in the garden with lashings of fresh butter or clotted cream whilst you relax with your feet up to survey the results of your horticultural labour.