—
When the service had ended, Emilia stood just outside the church door and greeted each member of the congregation as they emerged, blinking, from the dark of the church into the bright afternoon sunshine.
It took forever. Every person had a story about her father, and each one of them smiled as they spoke about him. So many anecdotes, so many memories. So many familiar faces, yet also people she had never met whose lives Julius had touched. She felt so grateful to them all for their kind words and their good wishes.
—
Sarah stood in the queue. She couldn’t slip away. It would be the height of rudeness and disrespect. She kept her head down and avoided eye contact with anyone she knew, which was difficult, because she knew almost everyone here, if only by sight. Darling Julius. The service had nearly unraveled her. Her head throbbed with the stress of trying not to cry, and all she wanted to do was drive home and curl up in a corner. Though that would be impossible. Large though Peasebrook Manor was, someone would track her down and ask her opinion on something.
And then it was her turn, and she was taking Emilia’s hand. She wanted to pull the girl into her arms, tell her how proud Julius would have been of her, how his eyes always shone when he spoke about her, how very much she was loved. But she couldn’t. As far as Emilia knew, Sarah and Julius were only acquaintances who brushed up against each other from time to time.
“You played beautifully,” said Sarah.
“Thank you,” said Emilia. “And thank you so much for coming. It would have meant a lot to my father.”
Sarah knew Emilia had probably said this to everyone, that she wasn’t considered in any way special. Seeing his daughter reminded her even more of him: they were alike in so many ways. Emilia, she realized, was the closest she was ever going to get to him again. An image of their last good-bye came into her mind: brave, wonderful Julius in his hospital bed. Their final embrace. Her eyes began to fill. She mustn’t break down. She had done so well.
She squeezed Emilia’s hand and left as quickly as she could. Emilia was already smiling at the next person in the queue. Sarah put her head down, stumbling slightly over the cobbled pathway, blinded by hot, unwanted tears. Thomasina was hurrying out of the churchyard, through the toppled gravestones. She wanted to get back to her class as quickly as she could. They were doing batter this week—Yorkshire puddings. The instructions she had left were simple—the stand-in teacher would only have to supervise—but she wanted to see how they had all got on. Her students’ joy at their achievements gave her great pleasure, and there was nothing more satisfying than a tin of puffy, golden Yorkshire puddings. She looked at her watch to check the time and felt a hand on her arm. She turned, and saw Jem smiling at her.
“That was a really great reading,” he told her. “I wish I’d had the nerve. But there aren’t many readings about cheese, and that’s all we had in common.” He made a lugubrious face, but it was obvious he was joking.
Thomasina laughed.
“Thank you. I was really nervous.”
“You didn’t look it.”
“Really?” Thomasina was surprised. She’d thought her fear would have been apparent.
“No. You sounded really confident. My mum loved those books, by the way. Thank you . . .”
“I’m really pleased.” They stood for a moment, the autumn leaves scuttling around their feet, looking at each other.
“Do you fancy a coffee?” asked Jem.
Thomasina’s face fell. “I’ve got to go,” said Thomasina. “I’ve got a class waiting.”
“Oh.” He looked disappointed. He held up a hand. “Well, never mind. I should probably get back to work anyway. See you.” He strode off down the path toward the town, and Thomasina watched him go, feeling as if she should have said more—but what more could she have said?
She turned to go back to her car. As she got to the car park and put her hand on the door handle, she stopped.
Why had she said no? No one at school knew what time the memorial service was going to end. She had arranged cover for the rest of the afternoon, just in case. It was only her own conscience making her go back. Why was she such a wimp? If she’d had any gumption, she would have said “Yes—why not?” and now she would be sitting with Jem in a café, choosing what to have, making idle conversation. The idea of it made her feel warm inside.
No one had ever asked her for a cup of coffee before. She’d never been on a date with a boy or a man or anyone. Why hadn’t she said yes? Jem didn’t scare her. For some reason she felt comfortable with him. It was her own stupid sense of duty that had stopped her. She had put her students and the school first, and she knew no one would actually notice if she came back or not.
She turned and ran through the churchyard to find Jem, pushing her way through the throngs. But he was gone. She looked up the high street, to see if she could spot his bright blond curls. There was no sign of him. Thomasina stood at the entrance to the church, hands by her sides, fists clenched, cursing herself for her cowardice. Her first, her only opportunity—probably her last as well—and she’d let it slip through her fingers.
—
After the last mourner had gone, Emilia busied herself in the vestry with putting away her cello. She was glad to have something to occupy her. It had all been so perfect, and all she could think of was how much her father would have enjoyed everyone’s contributions. She reminded herself she would have to send everyone a thank-you letter.
“You nailed it.”
She jumped, and turned.
There was Marlowe, smiling. “You see? I told you. Practice makes perfect.”
“I don’t know about perfect.”
“It was at least a merit.”
She pretended to pout. “I got a distinction when I did it. For grade six, I think.”
“Good. Because there’s something I want to ask you.”
He looked a bit awkward. Emilia felt her cheeks go slightly pink. Was he going to ask her out? Surely not, just after her father’s memorial service? But a little bit of her hoped he might. She could do with a drink, she liked Marlowe, and her father had thought a lot of him. He was interesting and fun and he smelled divine—that tummy-flipping scent overriding the dusty stale air in the vestry—and he looked gorgeous in that dark suit, his wild curls down to the collar—
“I wondered if you’d take your father’s place in the quartet.”
“What?” This wasn’t what Emilia had been expecting.
“Poor old Felicity is so limited with what she can do now, and I don’t want to put her under pressure. If you join, Delphine can go back to second violin, which will make her happy.” He gave a rueful grin. “Which makes my life easier, I can tell you.”
Delphine. Of course. She had played at the service today. How on earth had Emilia thought Marlowe might be interested in her?
Emilia shook her head. “No way am I good enough. Look how long it took me just to get one piece right.”
“No way would I be asking you if I thought you weren’t up to it. It’s my reputation at stake. I wouldn’t risk it.”
“I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know how long I’ll be around. I don’t know what I’m doing with the shop.” She was gabbling excuses, talking nonsense, rambling because she was panicking.
“Rubbish. You’re here for a while yet.”
Emilia opened her mouth and shut it again, flummoxed.
“At least join till the end of the year—see how you get on. It’s quiet for us, except for a few carol concerts. And Alice Basildon’s wedding.” He was looking at her, his brown eyes beseeching. “I can give you some lessons. Get you up to speed.”
Emilia could feel herself weakening. Of course she wanted to join the quartet. But it was daunting.
“I don’t want to let you down.”
“We’ll just be doing ca
rols, and the usual wedding repertoire. No Prokofiev or anything too fiddly.”
She looked at him. How could she resist that disarming smile? Being in the quartet would be the perfect distraction from the stress of the shop and all the decisions she had to make. Most importantly, Julius would be so proud and pleased to think she had taken his place. She remembered his patience as he had taught her to pick out her first notes, shown her how to hold the bow correctly. They had played duets together, and Emilia remembered being transported by the music, the joy of being in sync with someone else. She missed that feeling. The quartet would give that to her.
“Promise me that if I’m not up to it, you’ll say.”
“I promise,” said Marlowe. “But you’ll be fine. Is that a yes?”
Emilia thought for a moment, and then nodded. “It’s a yes.”
Marlowe looked delighted. “Your dad would be so proud. You know that, don’t you?”
He hugged Emilia, and she felt a warm glow.
She told herself it was the pleasure of doing something she knew her father would have wanted.
“Are you ready to go, chéri?” A brisk voice made them both jump apart.
In the doorway stood Delphine, in a black velvet dress slashed to the thigh on either side.
“Thank you so much for playing today. The Elgar was perfect. My father’s favorite . . .”
Delphine’s eyes rested upon her, and her dark red lips parted in a smile.
“It was nothing. It was . . . a privilege. He was a wonderful man.”
Somehow her words sounded disingenuous. Spoken out of duty. “Thank you.”
“Emilia’s agreed to join the quartet. To take Julius’s place.”
For a second, something flashed in Delphine’s eyes. She glanced at Marlowe, then at Emilia, and it was clear she was thrown by the announcement.
“Oh,” she said.
“You can go back to violin.”
“I’ll only join if everyone’s happy about it,” said Emilia.
“Everyone will be happy,” said Marlowe. “More than happy.”
Emilia saw Delphine’s perfectly groomed eyebrow twitch, but she didn’t dare disagree.
“There you are! I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” Andrea swished into the vestry past Delphine, toweringly tall in black Louboutins and a red coat with a black fur collar. “Come on. Let’s go for a drink. I’ve got us two sofas at the Peasebrook Arms.”
Emilia picked up her cello. “The shop—”
“The shop will look after itself. We need champagne. The very best champagne.”
“Hear, hear,” said Marlowe. “Julius loved any excuse for a glass of bubbly.”
“Do join us if you like,” said Andrea, eyeing up Marlowe.
“No,” said Delphine. “Thank you, but we don’t want to intrude.” She took Marlowe by the arm.
“You won’t be,” said Andrea. “It’s the least we can do to say thank you for a beautiful performance.”
“We have a previous engagement.”
“We do?” Marlowe frowned.
“Yes,” said Delphine. “And the car’s on a double yellow line. If we don’t go now, we’ll get a ticket.”
And she led him away. Andrea looked at Emilia. She winked.
“Well,” she said. “How about you and Wolfgang?”
“Wolfgang?”
“Peasebrook’s answer to Mozart? He is drop dead.”
“As is Delphine. I don’t stand a chance!”
Andrea sniffed. “She’s all smoke and mirrors. She’s got no personality—any fool can see that.”
“I don’t suppose he minds about personality when her legs are wrapped round his head.”
“Sex isn’t everything,” said Andrea.
Emilia smiled, and followed her friend. Andrea was so positive. It was endearing, really.
—
Sarah drove back to Peasebrook Manor feeling dry-eyed and hollowed out, numb with the effort of trying not to feel. She had suppressed her emotions so ferociously she thought she might never feel anything ever again. A wave of gloom hit her as she turned into the drive. Oh God, Friday night fish pie and false smiles. That was what the evening held. She prayed she could make it through to bedtime, to the relative respite of sleep.
8
That evening, Dillon stopped off at the White Horse. He always dropped in on a Friday. He and a few mates met for a pint of Honeycote Ale, a bag of cheese and onion crisps, and a chat about how their week had gone, before they all drifted off home for a shower and their dinner. Some of them had wives and girlfriends to go home to; some of them came back later, for a few more beers and maybe a game of darts or pool.
The White Horse was the perfect country pub. Perched on the river just outside Peasebrook, on the road to Maybury, it was rough and ready but charming. There was a small restaurant with wobbly wooden tables and benches, serving hearty rustic cuisine: game terrine with pickled baby onions and homemade Scotch eggs and thick chewy bread and pots of pale butter studded with sea salt. The bar had a stone floor, a huge inglenook fireplace, and a collection of bold paintings by a young local artist depicting stags and hares and pheasants. It was frequented by locals and weekenders alike, and you could turn up in jeans or jewels: it didn’t much matter.
Dillon had been coming here ever since he could remember. His dad used to bring him and his brothers in on a Sunday while his mum cooked lunch, and it had become part of his life now. There was always someone he knew at the bar.
That evening Alice was in there with Hugh and a horde of their friends. Dillon immediately felt tense.
Dillon could tell how difficult Hugh found it to treat him with politeness. He knew that if Hugh had his way, Dillon would never be allowed to speak to any of the Basildons and would bow and scrape and tug his forelock all day long. But that wasn’t how the Basildons worked, and whenever Alice saw Dillon, she threw her arms round him and chattered away, teasing him in a manner some might consider flirtatious but that Dillon knew was just Alice.
Hugh would just barely manage to acknowledge him with a nod and a smile that didn’t go anywhere near his eyes, and would draw Alice away at the first opportunity. It was all Dillon could do not to put two fingers up to Hugh’s retreating back.
Once, Sarah had asked him what he thought of Hugh. He wanted to say what he thought, but on balance he decided that what Sarah wanted was reassurance, not Dillon’s true opinion, so he muttered something noncommittal.
Of course Hugh wanted to marry Alice. She had social standing, which Hugh didn’t, and was due to inherit quite the prettiest manor house in the county. She would be a wonderful wife, and a wonderful mother. Dillon could imagine a clutch of sturdy blond-haired moppets stomping around Peasebrook in their wellies, with puppies and ponies galore.
Yet Dillon couldn’t help wondering what was in it for Alice. Good genes? Hugh was pretty good-looking, if you liked that minor-royalty-polo-player sort of look: thick hair and a year-round tan. Was it money? He was wealthy, certainly, but Dillon didn’t think Alice was that superficial. Maybe Hugh was a demon in bed? Maybe it was a combination of all three?
His main objection was that Hugh didn’t seem terribly kind, which was a shame because all the Basildons were: even useless Ralph was imbued with a certain benevolence. Dillon felt that everything Hugh did was for his own end. He told himself he was jealous, because he, a mere underling on a paltry salary with no power or influence, would never have Hugh’s allure.
Dillon and Alice got along splendidly when they were alone at Peasebrook Manor, but he felt awkward when she was out with her gang. They were spoiled and loud and drank too much and drove too fast.
“They’re all really lovely,” Alice would protest.
“I’m sure they are,” said Dillon. “But when they’re in a big crowd, they come across as tossers.”
Alice looked wounded. Dillon knew he had to be careful. There was a limit to how horrible you could be about someone’s friends without it being a reflection on them.
So he tried to slink up to the bar and get a pint without her seeing him, but she did. She leaped out of her chair and came to give him a big hug.
“Hello, Dillon! We’re all a bit sloshed. We’ve been to the races.” She beamed and pointed over to a crowd of her friends around a big table in the window. “Come and join us.”
Dillon declined, as politely as he could. “Got to see a man about a ferret.”
This wasn’t a lie. He had a pair of ferrets at home, and the jill had just had a litter of kittens. He wanted to get rid of them before too long. A mate of his was interested.
Alice wouldn’t give up. “Come on. Come and meet everyone. I bet they’d all love a ferret. How many are there?”
Dillon sighed. Alice just didn’t understand, God bless her. Her friends were no more interested in him than he was in them. They had absolutely nothing in common except Alice. And they certainly wouldn’t want a ferret.
Alice was a little sunbeam who loved everybody, saw the bad in no one, and treated everyone the same. To her, life was one long party. She fizzed with fun and bonhomie, and that was why she was so good at her job. She understood what her clients wanted and did her utmost to get it for them. But she was shrewd underneath it. She knew how to get the best price for everything, and how to get the effect her clients wanted without paying over the odds.
That was how Dillon had really got to know her. She had become tired of paying astronomical sums for flower arrangements. After every wedding she looked at the florists’ handiwork and sighed. And she came to Dillon and asked him to plant her a cutting garden.
“I’m going to do the flowers myself from now on,” she declared. “Everything has to be grown at Peasebrook. That’s our selling point. If they don’t like it, they can go somewhere else.”
How to Find Love in a Bookshop Page 13
