Page 27 of The Runaway Bridesmaid

Maybe her aunt had a point. Maybe Willowbrook Lodgecouldheal her wounds again.

Chapter Eighteen

The following day, Rosie awoke to the May sky sending a cascade of rivulets down the windowpane and a rhythmic concerto on the thatched roof. But she was paralysed. Her limbs refused to respond to her brain’s insistent requests to move. She rolled onto her right side and her neck and shoulders screamed their fervent objection.

Realisation dawned as she hobbled like an old crone to the bathroom. She negotiated the stairs as a novice mountaineer would, sideways, clinging onto the banister as every stretched muscle complained of its extreme treatment during the horticultural workout the previous day.

She set the kettle to boil and went to survey the damage in the hallway mirror. Apart from her golden hair – more haystack than slick-back – she wondered if she was becoming a younger version of her aunt and realised that she really must go shopping for clothes. At the very least she needed something for her date with Angus; her only choices were either her black jeans, fresh from a day in the garden, or the black work suit she had worn for her aunt’s funeral.

Of course, there was always something vintage from her aunt’s wardrobe. Lauren would positively encourage that avenue of sartorial elegance – but she didn’t have the eye her friend had, nor her gift with accessories. She also wasn’t sure how she felt about wearing her aunt’s clothes for a number of reasons.

There would be no gardening today. She knew mud was beneficial for the skin, but she didn’t need to take a bath in it.

The bulbous grey clouds spilled their contents determinedly, inundating the garden with random puddles, their surface reflecting the leaves and branches and the dark pewter backdrop. Each leaf of the rhododendron bush and the magnolia tree had been decorated with a slick aquatic sheen. The sky as far as the horizon was laden with an iron-heavy mist and the oppressive meteorological pressure dulled her spirits, so the decision was made for her that today would be the day to tackle the unpalatable task of sorting through her aunt’s personal possessions.

As the ceaseless drizzle continued, Rosie spent the morning in Bernice’s rose-chintz bedroom. The downpour matched her emotions as she recalled how her aunt had seemed so vibrant and alive when Rosie was a child, full of energy and passion for her children’s book illustrations and her love of horticulture. When she glanced through the rain into the garden, she knew her aunt’s spirit lingered on amongst the laburnum arbour.

Rummaging deep into her aunt’s huge oak wardrobe, she came across several floral printed Jean Muir silk tea dresses. She took a few photographs on her phone and sent them to Lauren, asking her whether she should donate them to the local thrift shop or haul them back to the US for Lauren’s delectation. Of course, she regretted the spontaneity of her request for advice, as, had she thought about it in any detail, Lauren’s immediate response would have been predictable. She demanded Rosie retain every item, and asked if there were any more.

Rosie smiled, imagining her friend’s joy at being given the opportunity to spend a rainy morning delving into the treasure in that bedroom, rather than her own current infusion of sadness. As hard as she tried, she just couldn’t prevent thememories from bombarding her each time she opened a new drawer.

As midday approached, she glanced around the room at the five black plastic sacks stuffed and ready to be collected by Emily for the trip to Oxfam, accompanied by one cracked brown leather suitcase containing Lauren’s minimum must-have selection. She didn’t want to linger on the potential excess baggage charge the airline was bound to insist on.

Her final task was her aunt’s mother-of-pearl jewellery box resting on an embroidered lace mat on her dressing table. Rosie vividly recalled this miniature treasure chest from her childhood when she had been allowed to listen to the musical box, enthralled by the tiny pirouetting ballerina who appeared when the lid was raised. This gem most certainly would be making the journey back to the US irrespective of the cost.

To the tune of Lara’s Theme fromDr Zhivago, Rosie withdrew her aunt’s slender gold cocktail watch and dangled it from her own wrist next to her mother’s, allowing her tears to roll down her cheeks unchecked.

As she replaced the timepiece in its compartment, her eyes caught on an unexpected item – a gentleman’s Omega watch. She withdrew the timepiece and inspected it. The lens was scratched and the dial had faint discolouration but otherwise it was in good condition. Its white face recorded each quarter hour with a gold number and its black leather strap held evidence of a great deal of wear. She turned the watch over in her hand – it looked old and expensive.

As she went to replace it next to Bernice’s watch, she noticed the engraving on the back –John James Peter Aubrey, 1900-1944.

Rosie crinkled her nose in puzzlement. Her grandfather’s name had been George Edward Marshall, and anyway, he had died the same year she had been born. Perhaps it had belonged to her grandmother’s father, but no, her grandmother’s maiden name had been Webster. The date of death was 1944; that would have been during the Second World War. Rosie wondered what the story was behind its scarred white face.

Drained from the rollercoaster of emotions she had endured that morning, she decided to take a break from nostalgia to grab a cheese sandwich and replenish her mug of Earl Grey. Rain continued to lash the windows and the willowy grasses and tall ferns in the garden bowed to its continual onslaught. Today was a day to spend indoors and she knew exactly what she intended to do. She opened her aunt’s journal at the page she had been studying since Angus had asked her out.

Sweet Basil Biscuits for New Love Interests

One of the meanings of the herb basil is love and I know we can all do with an extra sprinkle of that in our lives! It is written in some folklore that a young man who accepts sweet basil from a woman will fall in love with her. I love that story so I had to include this recipe for you, Rosie, especially as I have grown basil in my garden since I bought the lodge. Be careful who you select as a sampler, darling! We wouldn’t want to tempt the fates, would we?

Once again, her aunt had decorated the recipe’s border with sprigs of basil, their leaves such a vibrant colour of green that they zinged from the page. As Rosie scoured the kitchen cupboards and extracted each of the listed ingredients, she felt like a teenager mixing up a love potion with which to secure the undying love of the boy in 9B. Just as her aunt had said,the essential ingredient, fresh basil, grew in abundance in her outdoor larder and was one Rosie was already acquainted with.

She baked as if her life depended on it, and soon the kitchen was filled with chaotic activity and the deliciously sweet aroma of baking biscuits. Rosie’s stomach grumbled in support of the soon-to-be-finished product.

The oven door exhaled a balloon of smoke as she removed the first batch. The front three biscuits were burnt to a crisp, the back three underdone, but the middle six looked presentable. The infernal Aga had not been as tame as she had hoped. How on earth had her aunt struggled on with the monstrosity of a cooker at her age!

She slid the second tray into the oven and checked the clock – the recipe suggested twelve minutes only. As she lowered the clip to close the oven, she surveyed the kitchen and was shocked to see that it looked like a flour bomb had exploded. Her frantic lifestyle in Manhattan had meant she’d had no opportunity to acquire the skills needed to produce baked goods with the minimum of effort or mess.

She had just reached for a dishcloth to start the clearing up when there was a rap on the back door. She quickly brushed the flour from the cuffs of her pink shirt, dragged her voluminous hair behind her ears, but overlooked the fact she was wearing her aunt’s frilly apron emblazoned with roses. She couldn’t wait to offer Emily one of her own creations and elicit her honest opinion.

‘Hi… oh.’

It wasn’t Emily.

‘Hi, there. Oh, you’ve got a little flour...’ Her visitor smirked as he brushed away a smudge of dust from her nose with the tip of his index finger. ‘Mmm, what a heavenly smell, eventhough itistinged with a soupçon of caramelisation. What gastronomic delight is the subject of your exploitation today, then?’ he enquired. ‘Erm, do you think I could come in, or would you prefer I remain in this downpour so my white cotton shirt becomes even more transparent than it already is, and you can ogle me and my rippling six-pack, like a specimen straight from the pages of a Jane Austen novel?’

Rosie took in Charlie’s dripping ebony curls, the mischievous turn of his lips that produced those cute dimples, and his amused eyes the colour of polished coal, and stepped aside to allow him to enter her home.

‘Nice pinny, by the way. My gran’s got one just like that.’ Charlie removed his soaking Barbour jacket, draped it on a chair next to the Aga where it produced wisps of vapour, and strode over to the kitchen table. ‘Wouldn’t mind a cuppa and one of those burnt biscuits? You need to turn the tray halfway through the baking process if you are reliant on an Aga. Practice maketh the expert, I always say.’

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