The Runaway Bridesmaid (8 page)

‘Hi, Rosie. I’m so sorry to hear about your Aunt Bernice.’ Emily dragged Rosie into a hug. ‘God, you are skinny! I can feel your bones. Is this Manhattan chic or lack of time to eat? Just as well I stopped by at Susan’s on the way over.’ Her visitor raised a white paper bag and a pint of milk in a glass bottle and made herself busy at the kettle.

‘It’s great to see you too, Emily. And thanks for the insight into my weight issues!’ Rosie smiled wryly. Despite the occasional offence caused, she loved Emily’s brand of delivering the truth as she saw it. ‘How are the boys?’

‘Nick’s away at some electronics conference in France, lucky sod. What I wouldn’t give for a trip to Paris, but all I’ve heard from him are moans and complaints.’ Emily’s chestnut bob swung across her cheeks as she brewed their tea in Bernice’s huge brown teapot and sliced the freshly baked scones, whilst turning her face over her shoulder to where Rosie had slumped at the kitchen table engulfed by a sudden wave of exhaustion.

Rosie had managed to grab only a couple of hours’ sleep on her overnight flight to Heathrow. She had never got the hang of sleeping on a plane, nor had she dared to nap on the train from Paddington to Tiverton Station – fearful of missing her stop. So, all in all, she had every right to feel jaded, physically and emotionally.

‘Ethan’s taken up tennis at the village club. Five years old but apparently that’s quite late! And Lorcan has just hit the terrible twos.’ Emily’s father had died around the same time as Rosie’s mother and this devastating fact had served to reignite their childhood friendship when Rosie had stayed with Bernice last summer. Their mutual amity had endured despite their physical distance with the assistance of regular communications of email, Skype and Facebook posts. Some weeks Rosie enjoyed more social contact with Emily than she did with Lauren!

Their wavelengths were attuned on so many levels, except the reality of caring for two young boys. They compared notes on the tribulations of growing up with a much younger sister. In Emily’s case, her half-sister, Juliette, who had been born when Emily’s mother had married her step-father, Roger, whose dreams of having his daughter follow in his footsteps and become a dentist like himself had been dashed that summer. He was horrified and more than a little puzzled at Juliette’s persistence in her obsession for all things green and muddy and the pursuit of her dream to become a viticulturist.

‘Juliette has been accepted on a horticultural course at Exeter University and has even found a placement for the summer holidays at Tiverton Meadows Garden Centre. I think this is what finally got the message through to Roger that his little girl cannot be swayed into rummaging around in a procession of strangers’ ulcerated mouths for the rest of her life.’

Emily planted a huge mug of thick, dark tea, liberally doused with sugar, and a Devonshire scone, piled with clotted cream and strawberry jam in front of Rosie, a challenge fixed firmly in her mahogany eyes.

‘What is it with the English?’ Rosie sighed. ‘Tea to soothe the soul!’ But she had to admit its medicinal properties had had the desired effect last time and it was one habit she’d stuck with after her visit to the UK, and one which Lauren had bought into, too.

‘Shall we take these out to the garden?’ Emily wrapped her scarlet pashmina around her neck and slotted the ends into the loop. She sauntered out of the kitchen’s stable door onto the silver-bleached decking which overlooked the tragic scene of the once-manicured herb garden now presenting a bouquet of gnarled stems and crumpled leaves.

They draped tea towels over the ancient patio chairs and hugged their steaming mugs into their palms. Their eyes met and the compassion Rosie saw in Emily’s eyes caused her to crumble into hot tears as the one and only question that had been playing on her mind burst from her lips.

‘Why did Aunt Bernice have to die alone, Em? I wish I’d asked the lawyer for more details but I was so shocked to get that call, I didn’t think to ask any questions.’

Emily stroked her friend’s skeletal but beautifully-manicured hand with her own cracked, reddened specimen more accustomed to washing up and wiping mouths and bottoms than Manhattan manicures.

‘It’s heart-breaking, Rosie, but you can stop torturing yourself. I saw Susan when I collected these delicious scones. She assures me that Bernice was ready to go, that she had put her affairs in order and passed away peacefully. So not the nightmare scenario you have swirling around your head, darling. Bernice’s WI friends rallied around in the final days, too.’

Rosie drew out a fresh tissue to mop away her tears. ‘Thanks, Em. You always were able to say the right thing to soothe away my rampant anxiety. Will you and Nick come to the funeral on Wednesday with me? When is Nick due back?’

‘He’s back tomorrow evening, so yes, we’ll both be there. Juliette is staying over with us until at least Thursday night so she can get Ethan to school and babysit Lorcan. Who arranged the funeral, did you say?’

‘Bernice’s solicitor at Richmond Morton. I’ve an appointment with him in Tavistock on Thursday for a reading of the will and to sort out the paperwork. Bernice never married and she had no children. My mother was her only relative when she was alive, so I’m not sure what’s going to happen to the lodge. I don’t suppose there’ll be much else to decide; the legal side of things should be straightforward. I’ve got a return flight booked to JFK on Friday morning.’

She saw the flash of disappointment streak across Emily’s face. ‘Sorry I can’t stay longer, Em. Got some things to sort out back home.’

‘Yes, I got your text about Giles and Freya. I’m so sorry, darling.’ And, having breached the dam once, Rosie succumbed to another fresh wave of tears.

Emily gave her the time she needed to sob her heart out, patting her hand and pouring more strong tea, heaping in the sustenance sugar provided, as the delicious scones went untouched. After Lauren, Emily was Rosie’s best friend. It had sometimes been easier to empty her heart into their exchanged emails than divulge her pain to Lauren’s concerned face. Under usual circumstances, Emily was a full-time gossiper, unmatched in the art of the extraction of trivial but essential details. She possessed an encyclopaedic memory for the village chit-chat and a theatrical talent for its repeat. She had thrown her energies into every attempted escapade in her life thus far, from stage school to karate, from studying to dating, and was currently starring in the role of motherhood to Ethan and Lorcan.

But Rosie feared her next social experiment would be her, so she plastered a wide smile on her lips, inhaled a lavender-tinged breath and prepared to dish the sanitised details. When she had emptied her cranium’s coffers she turned to stare at the beauty of the English country garden surrounding them, leaves glistening in the sunshine, soothing despite its unruly appearance; life struggled on regardless of neglect and humiliation, flowers continued to bloom, fruit still matured. Clouds scudded across the cobalt sky, whipping up a stiff April breeze, and Rosie realised she was freezing – a sudden bout of shivering overwhelmed her. Her life over the last few days had been no pretty cottage garden, more like a scene from a stage farce to whose premiere she had been press-ganged as an unwilling front-row spectator.

‘Come and stay with us tonight, Rosie. There’s plenty of room. You can have the sofa-bed in the lounge. I can’t let you stay in the lodge alone.’ Emily shot a look at the cottage crouched behind them amidst an air of genteel dilapidation.

Rosie smiled at her friend’s concern, but recalled her numerous sessions on Skype with Emily as two bouncing boys screamed and frolicked in the background and politely declined. Solitude was what she craved at the moment, not the comforting arms of a loud, boisterous family.

She waved Emily away in her navy Mini, the Union Jack flag sprayed on its roof, and, her spirits flagging under the onslaught of jetlag, she retired to Bernice’s chintzy spare room – the sanctuary she had used to escape the wreckage of her personal life the last time her world had imploded.

Would the cottage produce the same magic recovery this time?

Chapter Eleven

St. Peter’s Parish Church had presided over the village of Brampton for the last five hundred years. Shortly before eleven a.m. on a Wednesday morning in late April, as a golden wreath of sunlight hugged the silhouette of the church’s stone spire, mourners meandered towards the arched wooden entrance gates; some alone, some in pairs, others in solemn groups.

Rosie doubted she had the strength to enter those doors, even with the staunch support of Emily and Nick at each elbow. But as the only representative of the Marshall family in attendance, she swung her legs from the black limousine in the cortège, straightened her specially-selected Armani skirt, clenched her fists and jaw and summoned every last ounce of courage she possessed to force her steps through the churchyard and through the heavy doors. The heels of her stilettos, their height the source of many teasing comments from her aunt, clacked on the flagstone floor of the vestibule and, as she made her way down the aisle sewn with a tapestry of tombstones, drew curious looks.

She took her place on the front pew, bracketed between Nick and Emily, and resumed the habitual twisting of her pearl earring. Emily gently removed her fingers and held her hand in hers, not daring to meet her eyes for fear of puncturing the bubble of restrained tears.

The congregation waited in verbal silence, the calm drone of unidentifiable organ music softening its harshness. Rosie’s soul was saturated with guilt and remorse, yet she knew these emotions were common when a life ended.

At last, when Rosie thought she could restrain her tears no longer, the minister appeared through the rear door and the service of thanksgiving for her Aunt Bernice’s life began.

Rosie could recall little of the sermon delivered by the Reverend Paul Hartley. Bernice had not been a regular worshipper at St Peter’s, and Rev. Hartley was a relative newcomer to the parish, having replaced the previous incumbent when the popular village priest, Reverend Aubrey, had taken a mission to Uganda. However, several of his quietly delivered words lingered on in Rosie’s disorientated mind.

‘Our faith manifests itself in all that we do, all that we love and all that we create. It is through those creations that we live on in the hearts and minds of those with whom we shared our lives and our loves. Our sister, Miss Bernice Catherine Marshall, was a talented artist and illustrator of children’s books and gave joy to every child and adult who had the good fortune to encounter one of those colourful gems of learning. Under her hand, their vibrant contents sprang to life from the page, and it is in those pictures and in our hearts that her memory will live on.’

The congregation shuffled from the church, awaiting their turn to clasp Rosie’s fingers, to find the words to express their sorrow and offer their condolences at her aunt’s passing, thanking the Reverend for his comforting words or commenting on his chosen reading from the Bible. Some stalwart attendees asked after the previous Reverend and his presumed success in his missionary work.

As Rosie made her way back to the waiting limousine, she was probably not intended to overhear the crisp clear tones of Rev. Hartley, more used to preaching from a pulpit than whispering in ears, that sadly the Reverend Aubrey had suffered some recent ill health and was returning from Uganda to see out his ecclesiastical time in the adjoining parish of Carnleigh, should they wish to resume their acquaintance. The march of time favoured no one, even those closer to the director of our destiny.

Susan had insisted they held Bernice’s wake in the village tearoom adjacent to her shop, newly opened to the summer trade but closed that day as a mark of respect to her best friend. She had been as devastated as Rosie at the loss of her long-time confidante; their friendship having spanned more than fifty years. The spread she provided, with the help of Bernice’s friends from the WI, could have graced any movie set depicting an English garden tea party.

The mood in the quaint little café was not as sombre as Rosie had expected, calm but with a low buzz of conversation as mourners shared anecdotes of her aunt’s life with Rosie as she thanked them for attending.

‘It was her beloved garden your aunt worried about the most, Rosie, dear. You saw it when you were over from America last year – manicured to French polish standards. But her arthritis had played up dreadfully over this last severe winter we’ve had in Devon and she had to cut down on her weeding routine,’ said Mrs Parsons.

‘It’s sad to see the garden so neglected, but you know, your aunt had the assistance of a lovely old gentleman, Ollie Bradshaw, who works part-time over at Tiverton Meadows Garden Centre, every other weekend over the spring and summer months. I’m sure he would be willing to continue the arrangement for you.’ Susan struggled to rein in her emotions. ‘Extra funds are always welcomed by the retired these days, but he
is
an expert and will guide you in identifying which plants are flowers and which are weeds, if you need that help, Rosie?’

‘Thanks, Susan.’ Rosie laid her palm on the older women’s arm and smiled into her lived-in face. Her hair, the colour of autumn mist, was drawn into a neat bun at the nape of her neck and her matronly figure seemed more at home bustling around the tables collecting empty teacups than remaining inactive. Her gentle presence reminded Rosie of her aunt and she knew Susan would be hurt that her visit was to be curtailed. ‘But I don’t intend on staying over here in Devon for long. Bernice’s will is being read tomorrow. I’m uncertain what assets my aunt owned or what her wishes were. I hope to leave all the formalities in the hands of her solicitors. I’m flying back to New York on Friday. But if you could keep an eye on the lodge, Susan, I’d be grateful? I’ll drop over the key on my way back to the airport. Ridiculous leaving it under a terracotta chimney pot.’

‘Ah, it’s not the New York metropolis here, my love. We can still leave our doors and windows open in Brampton, thank the Lord. We are proud to have a thriving community of people who look out for each other.’