Page 23 of The Runaway Bridesmaid

‘Yes, I think so.’

Would herBake Yourself Betterrecipe be the same? She had no idea.

‘Bernice made the best scones in the whole of the Cotswolds. She’d bring a fresh batch every day for the tearoom, all throughout the summer from May until September when we closed up for the winter. Regularly won best in show in the baking tent, did our Bernice. Why not carry on the Marshall tradition, Rosie? Enter yours?’

‘Good grief, no way! I’m just making a polite contribution.’

Rosie was surprised by the flash of horror Susan’s suggestion had engendered. After all, it was just a baking competition at a local village fair. What was she worried about when she regularly swam with the sharks in corporate Manhattan’s choppy waters?

‘Here, dear. These are the ingredients you’ll need. Off you go. Make your aunt proud.’

Susan shooed Rosie out of the door, already in the process of greeting her next customer with a smile and an enquiry after her husband’s health.

Once back at the cottage, Rosie scrutinised the recipe journal once again. ‘Cherry Scones for Aching Bones’– the perfect antidote to a day spent toiling in the garden. Around the edges of the recipe was the most beautiful sketch of the cherry tree in full bloom that presided over the bottom of the garden, each illustrated blossom an accurate depiction of the pale pink flowers that adorned the branches in spring. It was exquisite, a true work of art worthy of a gilt frame, and testament to her aunt’s skill as an artist.

She memorised the ingredients then emptied out the carrier bag to inspect what Susan had supplied. Everything was there. Enough for two batches, in fact. So that was what she would do. She just hoped she made a better job of them than the strawberry tarts fiasco. Clearly her heart wasn’t ready to mend just yet, but she could certainly do with some relief to her aching bones!

Following the recipe to the letter, she managed to produce a passable scone mixture, cut out a dozen or so rounds, then slotted the baking trays into the oven. Over the next ten minutes, the kitchen exuded a mouth-watering aroma, but she was disappointed when the resulting produce was more akin to cookies than scones; flat and wide. If only she could bottle the aroma, rather than display the source.

When Emily arrived to collect her, she took one glimpse at the Wedgwood plate of offerings and burst into laughter. Ethan and Lorcan shot forward and, being connoisseurs of taste rather than aesthetics, they grabbed one each and crammed them into their drooling mouths.

‘Hi, Aunt Rosie, these cookies are super yummy, thanks,’ and they shot off into the jungle of a garden, its chaos so enticing to young buccaneers in search of a horticultural adventure.

‘Nick’s had to go into the office today, so it’s just me, you, and the boys. Are you ready to go? Oh, I’m loving the beat-up old Barbour jacket look – very countryside chic. However, I’m not sure it works with those stilettos, Rosie. The fair is being held in a farmer’s field, for heaven’s sake, the one next to St Peter’s Parish Church! Four-inch heels and muddy meadows don’t mix, in my experience.’

‘Well, it’s either these or the matching old Hunter wellies that belonged to Bernice.’

Rosie screwed up her nose at the thought of appearing in public in the boots.

‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Come on. Chop, chop!’

Rosie leapt up into the passenger seat of Nick’s battered old silver Range Rover for the short trip to the field that Rob Thompson, the local farmer, had lent to the village organising committee, which was situated on the other side of the elegant grounds of Somersby Manor Country Hotel and Spa.

As Emily drove past the commanding wrought-iron entrance gates – sandwiched between pillars of sandstone, each crowned with a winged boar – Rosie gazed up the ribbon of tarmac snaking its way between the gnarled oak trees that edged its route. Magnificently manicured lawns swept down to a pristine croquet pitch, separated from the road by a drystone wall which meandered all the way round to the back of Willowbrook Lodge’s garden. Peaceful and serene against its Turner-esque backdrop, Somersby Manor was the epitome of rural utopia.

‘Gorgeous, isn’t it?’ said Emily.

‘Stunning.’

The mansion’s sandstone façade was flanked by two elegant wings presented in perfect symmetry. Steep stone steps fringed with balustrades led from the lawns up to the front terrace andonwards to the towering oak front door. Wide bay windows, with their ochre-varnished frames, hugged each side of the vast entrance like the bulging cheekbones of a charming debutante, creating a majestic outlook for those fortunate enough to stay there.

‘It’s the only five-star hotel and spa in the area and, sadly, only accepts adult guests. I would love to take Ethan and Lorcan there to use the swimming pool and Jacuzzis. The Campbell-Wright family still live there, sixth generation now apparently, and the building dates back more than three hundred years.’

‘How long has it been a hotel?’

‘Five years, but it only opens for guests between May and September which is just enough to pay for the building’s upkeep. Must be astronomical to maintain and run such a large house. There are six gardeners employed full-time, so Ollie told Bernice. Nick and I dined there for our anniversary last summer and the food was heavenly.’

A few minutes later, they drew into the designated parking area of the farmer’s field, and Emily expressed her relief that the Range Rover had four-wheel drive. Immediately, Rosie was grateful that, at the last minute, she had relented and grabbed her aunt’s wellington boots because everywhere she looked there was churning mud and straw. Anyway, who would she know here to sneer at her lack of sartorial elegance in the footwear department?

Half a dozen huge white marquees crouched in an adjacent field like overblown meringues, each one bedecked with polka dot and gingham bunting dancing in the breeze, and all six milling with local residents and curious tourists. Large hand-made signs swung from the entrance flaps of each tent – Refreshments; Flower Arrangements; Produce; Arts and Crafts; Beer, Wine and Champagne. The last and grandest of themarquees was entitled “The Cotswolds Baking Bazaar” and was the venue attracting the most attention.

‘It’s theGreat British Bake Offripple effect,’ explained Emily, as she hooked her wicker basket crammed with baked goodies over her arm, grabbed a boy’s hand in each of hers and trudged across the muddy field making a beeline for the popular tent. ‘Come on, boys! We’ll just pop our offerings on the table and scarper. It’s the taking part that matters.’ Emily screwed up her nose in doubt.

As they drew nearer the tent it became apparent why so many visitors had chosen to dawdle there. The snaking coils of thick black cables were giveaway evidence of the presence of TV cameras.

‘What’s going on, Mrs Hartley?’ Emily asked the vicar’s wife who was loitering nervously at the entrance flap. ‘Why are the TV cameras here?’

‘Well, it’s that TV chef, isn’t it, Mrs Davenport? I forget his name now, but he’s agreed to present the prize for “Best in Show” in the baking competition. A real coup, I’ve been assured, but you can’t move in there for young girls angling for a glimpse and an autograph. Do you know, Mrs Barton even had the cheek to elbow me out of the way for a place nearer the front?’

---