by Daisy James
Her response to this question would affect her whole future; her relationship not only with Freya but with her father. Jack idolised his youngest daughter, doted on her in an effort to make up for the loss of her mother at such a tender age. After all, Rosie had been about to turn eighteen when Rose had succumbed to the march of breast cancer, whilst Freya had been only eight.
‘No, it would destroy his sepia-tinted image of Freya and I couldn’t do that to either of them.’
Her heart flipped over for loading such pain on her friend’s shoulders when she had enough to think about with her IVF appointment only a few days away. Why should Lauren have to suffer for Giles’ despicable behaviour? She, on the other hand, deserved it. After all, she’d succumbed to a relationship with her boss. Heartache was the inevitable result.
And why should Lauren have been bullied into the role of bridesmaid for a girl she barely knew and had no respect for? Rosie’s fault again. Her inability to stand up for herself, especially in any matter pertaining to her sister, had led to another undeserved trauma. The realisation swayed Rosie’s balance and she was grateful she was sat down.
‘Rosie, I’m so sorry. But you don’t have to resign. In fact, that was the second thing I rang to tell you.’
‘Oh God, Lauren, I don’t think I can take any more shocks.’
‘It’s about the Baker-Colt deal you’ve just closed. At the finance meeting with George Harlow that took place immediately after you tendered your resignation, Giles tried to take the credit for your research and the purchase of those shares in the Wyoming Explorative Mining Company on their behalf.’
‘But how could he? He was always on his soapbox in the office about the ethics of investing in companies that engage in “ecologically questionable activities”. The company is currently engaged in a hydraulic fracking operation in Colorado in the hope of finding shale gas deposits.’
‘Well, it seems his environmental conscience doesn’t extend to situations where his monthly bonus is at stake. Giles only meets his monthly targets when he applies our figures to his own ledger, you know that.’
‘When he can get away with it,’ Rosie murmured.
‘That’s what I wanted to tell you. Toby was so furious after your resignation that he made sure George Harlow was in no doubt whatsoever that the Baker-Colt Trust was your deal and there had been no input, even supervisory, from Giles. He warned Giles that if he persisted in taking credit where none was due he would expose all his previous transgressions where the accounts were concerned.’
Rosie smiled as she conjured up a picture of Toby in full flow, squaring up to Giles, taking him to task for his misdemeanours. She knew Giles didn’t frighten him. In his frequently-expressed opinion, managers of meagre talents tended to belittle and denigrate others they recognised possessed superior ability. He saw Giles as a typical NYC shark, almost a cliché, and he’d no need, nor desire, to impress him. However, out of respect for Rosie, he had recently chosen to maintain his counsel on the subject of their boss. Like any close-knit family, her work colleagues knew when to steer a wide berth, when their support was required and when to turn up with a vanilla-spiced latte.
And Toby often offered her advice on the issue of love. ‘Don’t worry, Rosie. Logic dictates you’ve got to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your prince, especially now William is taken. But don’t despair, Harry is still available, if you like carrot tops! Sadly, your particular frog is of the Poison Dart variety, and I can assure you it will not have a happy outcome.’ Well, he had been right there, hadn’t he?
Whilst Rosie was grateful to Lauren and Toby for sticking up for her professional abilities, she was horrified at the extent of Giles’ contempt for her. Giles Phillips, someone she thought respected her professionally, had even been prepared to trample all over her dreams of promotion to line his own coffers. Not only did he hold her in such low esteem in their personal relationship but, it seemed, in their professional one too.
Clarity hit her like a sledgehammer. She had done the right thing. Now all she had to figure out was what she should do next.
Chapter Ten
She whipped back the lemon gingham curtains and flung open the window to the rear garden, allowing fragmented sunlight to filter its rays into the room. The view over the Belfast sink to the garden beyond was impressive but Rosie was alarmed at the state of its neglect. Her aunt was usually to be found on her knees, buttocks high in the air, tending her precious herb garden to the left of the kitchen window adjacent to the wooden decking, and the plants bemoaned her absence. An essential component had been erased from the intricate green canvas.
However, despite the horticultural chaos, there, at the bottom of the garden by the drystone wall marking the lodge’s boundary with Brampton Manor, rose the cherry tree in full candy-pink blossom. As the end of April approached, its burst of botanical joy seemed at odds with the dilapidation of the rest of the garden which was a veritable tangle of weeds – evidence, if Rosie should need it, that after death life continued to bloom and good things could still happen.
She fought down a rising lump in her throat as she recalled the evening when, after a few glasses of the local scrumpy cider, she and Bernice had danced under the confetti-like rain of the tree’s velvety pink petals. Again, the scene lacked its central character: her aunt resting in her deckchair, artist’s sketch pad in hand, picking out the stamen of a tulip with her pencil. Bernice had continued to pursue her love of illustration after her formal retirement as a children’s book illustrator and had graduated to the depiction of the herbs, flowers and plants growing in her Devonshire garden which she occasionally opened to the public.
No technique was spared as Bernice had tutored Rosie in a less-defined depiction of the sumptuous garden and its myriad gems in watercolours or pastels. Those afternoons spent together in companionable artistic silence had been some of the best of Rosie’s life and once again, as she filled the kettle and set it to boil, she was wrapped in a wave of melancholy at the apparent neglect of not only her aunt’s beloved garden and cottage but also of her aunt herself.
Those careless words uttered by her aunt’s solicitor floated back to her. Her aunt had died alone. Rosie knew her aunt had been discovered by Susan Moorfield, her best friend and the owner of the village shop and adjacent tearoom she had passed earlier. Had her aunt known that she was ill? That she had only a short time left? If so, why hadn’t she said anything?
As the kettle clicked off, there was a knock on the front door. Perfect timing – Rosie knew who her first visitor would be. Her spirits leapt and a smile stretched her plump lips as she grabbed her mane of golden hair and slung it over her shoulder – no requirement for its obsessive taming here in Devon.
‘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 jade
d, 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.
&
nbsp; 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.
