by Daisy James
She had a great deal of apologising to do. Would he forgive her? But there was something else she needed to tell him too. She loved him, with every fibre of her body, and she couldn’t wait to shout it from the rooftops.
A sudden vibration from her jacket pocket stopped her in her tracks. She drew out her iPhone to check the caller ID. It was Lauren!
‘Lauren! Hi, is everything okay? It’s just I’m…’
‘Rosie, that’s what I’m called to tell you. We’re both safe.’
‘What do you mean?’ Why shouldn’t she be safe?
‘I knew you’d be worried. We’ve escaped up-state to Brett’s brother’s farm. But I’m so worried for all those left behind to sit it out, especially along the New Jersey’s shoreline and Hudson Bay area.’
‘Hang on, Lauren. What’s going on?’
‘Hurricane Sandy! Haven’t you heard?’
‘No, no, I…’
‘Anyway, that’s not the main reason I’m calling. Are you sitting down?’
‘Lauren. I have a meeting …’
‘Sit down, Rosie.’
Rosie glanced around the wide expanse of lawn, the colour of Irish clover, and decided to lie. ‘Okay, I’m sat down.’
‘I’ll keep it brief, but I’ll email you a copy of the report when it comes through. The office is closed until Hurricane Sandy passes. Remember the company you bought those shares in for Baker-Colt? The company involved in the exploration for oil and gas?’
‘Lauren, can we do this some other time? There’s somewhere I need to be.’
‘Just listen, Rosie. You won’t believe this!’
‘What?’ Rosie glanced with impatience towards to marquee, edging closer to its entrance, anxious to terminate Lauren’s call so she could get inside and start apologising to Charlie.
‘Well, as you know, the company have been undertaking an unpopular fracking operation in the Wyoming desert. Yesterday, they announced that they’ve located a huge reserve of natural gas. They’ve struck gold, Rosie!’
‘Struck gold?’
‘Yes!’
‘Right.’
‘So, you know what that means don’t you?’
‘Well,’ Rosie’s eyes landed on a snaking tangle of coils, bisecting the deep grass around the rear of the marquee and connected to a throbbing generator.
‘Rosie, are you listening? On disclosure of the discovery of the gas deposits their share price has rocketed. The investment you purchased for the trust fund is now estimated to be worth in excess of eight hundred million dollars. They are ecstatic! The clients are demanding to speak to you personally. They’ve nicknamed you Miss Midas!’
Rosie knees buckled and she sunk down onto to the damp grass, her jaw hung loose.
‘It’s all thanks to you. Of course, the board’s appreciation of this turn of events means that they want to reinstate you at Harlow Fenton as VP! The firm’s commission on the deal is one of the largest ever collected. George Harlow is praising your foresight, shrewd financial acumen and gut instinct as qualities Harlow Fenton nurtures in all their employees. His wife is already shopping for a new yacht and a villa in the south of France!’
‘Lauren, I don’t think I want to pick up where I left off…’ Rosie muttered.
‘But that’s not the best bit of news in my book, Rosie.’
God, thought Rosie, can I take any more shocks today? Her knees were soaked through as she knelt on the grassy slope and all intelligent thought had seeped from her brain to her boots. She knew she should be whooping for joy that everyone was rich now and therefore prepared to overlook the reasons she had resigned.
‘What else, Lauren?’
‘George’s daughter found out about Giles dating you whilst she was in Paris. She’s ditched him. Turns out she’s seeing her golf instructor and was waiting for the opportunity to dump the sleazeball. He’s moved in with his brother in Hoboken, sleeping on his couch and storing all his worldly possessions in their garage. So, Rosie, when are you coming home? Your position is restored with immediate effect until your promotion can be ratified by the board.’
‘God, Lauren, if you had told me all this a few weeks ago I would have leapt on the next plane back, donned my best pair of Jimmy Choos and stormed back to the office with my head held high. But so much has happened since yesterday. I can’t begin to explain it all over the phone, but I’ve got this meeting to attend and I’m already late.’
‘Before you go, Rosie.’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m pregnant.’
And Rosie’s spirits soared.
Chapter Thirty
Did she want to return to her old life in Manhattan where some people’s principles were firmly held until casually brushed to one side when the spectre of immense wealth materialised? Could she return to embrace the same manic hours, the same paucity of human contact unless it was a high speed superficial acknowledgement, each day donning her battle dress of designer business suit and killer heels to prop up her sagging confidence?
Or would she choose to embrace the slower, more humble pace of life she had experienced over the past few months when she’d had the time, the opportunity and the inclination to form lasting relationships and become a valued part of the community? Even if Charlie didn’t forgive her, she could perhaps stay on in Devon, steer through the publication of her aunt’s journal and have a detailed discussion with Susan as to the whereabouts of Gordon. It wouldn’t be a wealthy life, but it would be a rich one.
She imagined Charlie’s dark eyes gazing at her from beneath those spidery lashes, his moist lips curled into his familiar mischievous smile, and recognised the beginnings of the fiery desire Charlie’s presence had always instilled in her heart.
The answer to her dilemma was clear. She was in love with him! She loved his quirky sense of humour, his self-deprecating manner, his scruffy appearance and his absolute lack of concern for other people’s opinions of him. She realised he was one of the good guys and she was ashamed at having shunted him to the side-lines as not worthy in preference of the designer-suited traitor that was Austin Meadows.
She lifted the marquee’s entrance flap and the shock hit her square in the face. The cavernous inside milled with people: slender, important-looking, glamorous women with clipboards, huddles of bearded, middle-aged men gesticulating wildly towards the back of the marquee. Her confused gaze followed the route of the coils of cable connecting to three television cameras trained on a mock-up kitchen built on a raised wooden dais. The burble of conversation continued as Rosie skirted the tent’s left-hand-side wall, taking up position next to one of the TV monitors.
‘Quiet, please! Cameras one and three rolling! Take five – mark.’ The marquee plunged into well-practiced silence.
Rosie crouched down, fearing she had blundered onto a live TV set, and attempted to remain as unobtrusive as possible. The viewfinder on the monitor at her elbow remained focused on the mocked-up kitchen podium.
Suddenly, the image switched to another camera angle and, in the centre of the screen appeared Charlie, decked out in his chef’s whites smiling that devastating smile of his straight onto the screen.
Wow, thought Rosie, as she watched him laughing with a woman wearing headphones around her neck and discussing the sheet on her clipboard.
She was unceremoniously shoved into the side of the marquee. ‘Oh, sorry, am I in your way?’
The guy ignored her and settled his large backside into the seat in front of the camera monitor screen. ‘Why don’t you take your seat, we’ll be filming in a few minutes. You shouldn’t be hanging around here. You do know how lucky you are to be invited to the recording, don’t you? Thousands of young girls would lynch you for your ticket to this gig!’
‘Ticket?’
‘You do have a ticket, Miss…?’
‘Oh, I…’
Why had she thought Charlie would be down here alone? That they would have the place to themselves as she carefully selected the right words to explain t
o him that she loved him. Mortified at her naivety, exhausted by everything that had happened that day, she hunched forward at her waist, forcing her clenched knuckles into her mouth whilst the camera guy gawped at her in abject terror lest she would throw up on his precious equipment.
She had to get out of there; the white canvas walls had started to close in. She would do this another time when she’d calmed down, had a chance to work through her speech.
Those guests nearest to her turned to stare as she stumbled in her Wellington boots towards the exit flap of the marquee, dragging one of the cables with her. As the camera operator called after her, the whole audience swung their gaze to her retreating presence and she paused like a deer caught in a flashlight. She turned towards them and her eyes met Charlie’s, their connection a moment suspended in time. Her frazzled emotions swung a full pendulum, from horror to desire.
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 t
o 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.
