‘What time do you leave tomorrow?’ she asked.
‘Lunchtime,’ Benedict replied, grinning ruefully at her. ‘I wish I wasn’t going now. Can you be tempted to come with me?’
‘I wish I could but I’ve my new job at the wildlife park to start next week,’ she told him, rueful herself that, having finally got together, they now had to endure a month apart.
‘Well, you’d better not go off me in the next month,’ Benedict told her, planting a kiss on her mouth. ‘Now that I’ve come round to the idea of not being a bachelor for the rest of my life, I don’t think I can bear to lose you,’ he added more seriously. ‘I can’t tell you how relieved I was that you weren’t interested in Ed after all. When you asked me to fix you up on a date with him I was gutted.’
‘Well, you should have told me you had feelings for me sooner! I had no idea you felt the same way as me!’ Rosamunde exclaimed. Benedict looked sheepish.
‘I was going to,’ he admitted. ‘The day I explained to you why I’d been pretending to be gay. But then everyone came back in from the snow and the moment was lost. I’d been trying to pluck up the courage ever since and when I saw you again last night I knew I couldn’t waste any more time.’
Rosamunde squeezed him to her. It was a funny thing. They’d both reached a stage in their lives where they’d been quite content to remain single and suddenly they had found each other. It was quite a turnaround, but now it had happened it seemed to Rosamunde it had somehow always been destined.
The next morning was full of goodbyes. Ed was off to London to see his children but he confided in Rosamunde that he was quite taken with Alison Thacker and would be looking for excuses to return soon.
Then it was time for Benedict to leave. The goodbyes were hard, but it was with a sense of peace that Rosamunde watched him and Humphrey drive off. It might only have been December but Rosamunde felt like a spring flower, slowly unfurling after a long winter.
‘Keep safe!’ she called out into the distance and the Land Rover hooted in reply.
42.
AUGUST 1999
FRANCE
You needn’t panic,’ Pierre assured Rosamunde. ‘I’m afraid your mother lost her first baby, the same as you.’
Rosamunde took a deep breath. Thank heavens. She had been dreading the thought of having to tell Rachel that Bernie wasn’t actually her father, but then she thought of her sister’s red hair – just like her own and an obvious characteristic inherited from Bernie – and she realised she’d never had cause to worry.
‘By this time Etienne had left Marguerite high and dry and your mother was utterly heartbroken. She decided to return to Exeter, leaving her glittering career behind, but she soon swapped her life of glamour for the love of a good man. You mustn’t think she just settled for Bernie, though. She really did love him. I think the affair with Etienne cemented those feelings in the end. And, of course, you know the rest. Your parents married, Bernie started his first job as a vicar in Potter’s Cove and soon Rachel was on the way. When you were a baby you all came to stay with us in France and we had the most wonderful time. I don’t think I’d ever seen a couple so right for each other as your parents. It doesn’t surprise me your father has never found anyone else. How could anyone compare to Marguerite?’
It was true and yet Rosamunde was brought back to thinking about this pattern of love only striking once in her family. There was her grandmother and then there was Bernie. Both of them had loved once and never again. The thought that she would follow this pattern terrified her.
Rosamunde left France the following week, after a tearful farewell with her kindly hosts, with a ticket to India, her suitcase and a newfound knowledge of her family history, which had left her certain of one thing. She might never fall in love again but she was determined that she would not follow in her grandmother’s footsteps and be forever unhappy and embittered. Instead she would do her best to be like her father – she would seek out peace and joy and love, even if she remained single for the rest of her days.
Had this been her grandmother’s intention when she sent Rosamunde to France? Was this the lesson she’d hoped Rosamunde would learn? Rosamunde would never find out, for Granny Dupont died a week later of a heart attack. Rosamunde returned to Exeter briefly for the funeral, but hardly saw her family after that for fifteen years, visiting very briefly for Rachel and Simon’s wedding and later to see her niece and nephew shortly after Art was born. She missed them all dreadfully but there was something that prevented her from returning home. There was a journey Rosamunde needed to embark on and in the depth of her soul she knew she couldn’t go back for good until there was some signal – some indication that the journey was over.
The years were full of adventures and lovers, but Rosamunde didn’t settle anywhere until she reached Perth – a place that she wasn’t sure she would ever leave, she loved it so much. There was also the draw of Troy Daniels, the toy boy she'd met there. It was never serious though, and when the recurring dreams began Rosamunde knew the signal she’d expected had arrived.
It was time to go home.
43.
JANUARY 2015
Of course, the path of true love never did run smoothly and it would have been too much to hope, thought Rosamunde ruefully, that she might at last have found a relationship that would play out without any sort of drama at all.
Two weeks into their separation, after daily telephone calls, Rosamunde was surprised to get to the end of a working day without hearing from Benedict. She supposed he must have been on the slopes and without a mobile signal all day and thought nothing more of it until the next day arrived – a Saturday – and still she’d heard nothing. It was then she began, very quietly, to panic. She tried calling but there was no dialling tone on his mobile. They’d been speaking more than once a day and their conversations had been perfectly cheerful, with no arguments, so Rosamunde was left to surmise that one of three things had happened: Benedict had suddenly got cold feet about their relationship, or he’d been kidnapped, or he was in some other sort of trouble. She thought it unlikely really that he’d been kidnapped, which left just two options: he wanted nothing more to do with her, or he’d had an accident.
All of a sudden Rosamunde was reminded of those bleak days in the aftermath of the Zeebrugge disaster, when she’d been in limbo, waiting to find out whether Stephen was all right while certain he was not. This time Rosamunde was determined not to be so passive in the face of a crisis. She immediately booked a flight to Geneva, leaving that afternoon, and packed a bag. Her father was at Mrs G’s (no, Betty’s) house and so she left him a scrawled note, trying not to be too alarmist, and called a taxi. By five o’clock that afternoon she’d landed in Geneva.
There followed a most frustrating hour in which Rosamunde tried to hire a car and, finally having done so, descended into a hell-hole beneath the airport where she located the Renault and set about manoeuvring herself out of the car park while frustrated drivers beeped loudly at each other and two or three individuals crunched their cars as they tried to park in the too-tight spaces.
This was before Rosamunde had even started her journey in the dark, driving on the wrong side of the road, and unsure of her route. However, finally – and late at night – she arrived in Chamonix Mont-Blanc. It was only as she navigated her way into the town that she realised she had no idea where Benedict was staying. He’d never given her the address. Close to tears with frustration and fatigue, Rosamunde checked herself into a small chalet hotel and laid her weary head to rest for the night. Her emergency search would have to commence in the morning. And she still had no idea if she was searching for a man who wanted to be found.
The next day Rosamunde discovered the answer to that question. She decided she would have to start with the rather dreadful prospect of driving to the nearest hospital to rule out her most feared explanations for Benedict’s sudden lack of contact. Her minimal French posed a few problems but soon after arriving at the hospital she
was astonished to find the receptionist saying to her, ‘Please follow me.’ Immediately her ears began to pound with panic. Benedict was here?
She was led into a small room that had just enough room for a bed, a chair and a bedside locker. And there, lying prone on the bed, with a bandage wrapped around his skull and a leg in traction, was Benedict. His eyes were closed and he looked terrible.
‘I’ll get a doctor,’ whispered the receptionist. Tentatively Rosamunde approached the bed and stroked Benedict’s hand. He didn’t move at all and his skin felt damp and cold. A feeling of dread crept over her entire body.
‘You are Benedict’s girlfriend, I believe?’ came a voice from behind her. Rosamunde looked around and nodded.
‘He had a terrible skiing accident the day before yesterday,’ the doctor explained in fluent English. ‘He’s suffered a head injury, which we’re keeping an eye on, but it’s not as serious as we first thought. A badly broken leg, but he’ll recover. He’s on a lot of medication so he’s sleeping a lot. I’m afraid he’s groggy, making little sense. He keeps saying the name Humphrey so we thought maybe he had a male partner?’ Rosamunde almost smiled at the irony.
‘I’m afraid he had no phone with him,’ continued the doctor. ‘So we didn’t know who to contact. Perhaps it was lost in the accident. Anyway, I’m pleased you made it.’ A moment later the doctor was gone.
A little while later Rosamunde saw Benedict begin to stir.
‘Benedict?’ she said. ‘It’s me, Rosamunde.’ Benedict opened his eyes and she saw two things in those dark pools: love and relief. He smiled and then grimaced.
‘Humphrey,’ he croaked. ‘At the chalet. Hungry,’ he managed and a tear slid down his cheek. Rosamunde understood immediately and her heart ached as she realised how anxious he must have been about Humphrey since the accident and how helpless he’d been to make anyone understand him.
‘I’ll go now,’ she told him. ‘Tell me the address,’ she said, jotting his brief instructions down on a receipt from her bag. ‘I’ll feed Humphrey and let him out. Then I’ll be back.’ She started to gather her things together. ‘One thing, though,’ Rosamunde added, smiling wryly. ‘Is it the same leg you broke last time?’ Benedict shook his head.
‘Well, that’s something, anyway. Now you stay here,’ Rosamunde ordered and Benedict raised his eyebrows in pained amusement. And there, in that moment, Rosamunde knew. She knew, absolutely, that Benedict would be all right.
And she knew, without a doubt, that her heart had finally opened again – fully, completely and entirely. It seemed, after all, that love – real, proper, honest-to-goodness love – could strike more than once in a lifetime.
EPILOGUE
APRIL 2015
It was the day before Bernie’s wedding and unseasonably warm. A day for the beach, even at this time of year. Rosamunde was lying on a towel rubbing her belly, her face tilted to the sun, while Benedict, now fully recovered and clad in a wetsuit, took his body board out to play around in the surf. As soon as he emerged from the sea she was going to tell him the news. She’d already shared it with Humphrey, who’d wagged his tail obligingly. He now lay beside her, his dubious breath a little too close to her nose.
Rosamunde turned from the sun to look out into the ocean beyond and was surprised to see a large black cloud looming on the horizon. She checked to see where Benedict was and grinned as she saw him waving at her, mucking about. Then, as the dark cloud moved closer, she realised he wasn’t waving in jest. He was in trouble.
A moment later she was pounding down to the shore and ripping through the waves to reach him. As the blue sky became smothered entirely in black, Rosamunde reached Benedict. He was by now flailing around in a mad panic, swallowing huge gulps of water before submerging again. For the first time in her life Rosamunde put to use the life-saving qualification she’d received when she was nine.
Minutes later, as they dragged themselves out of the water and, spluttering, made their way up the beach in the pouring rain, Rosamunde turned to Benedict and grabbed him to her in a fierce hug.
‘They say these things happen in threes,’ said Benedict, shaking the water out of his ears. ‘A car crash, a skiing accident and now nearly drowning. I hope that’s it!’ he laughed in shock.
Then, suddenly, realisation dawned. Rosamunde held Benedict back from her and looked into his large, dark eyes. He returned her gaze quizzically.
‘It was you I needed to save,’ she told him in wonder, the puzzle of her recurring dreams finally solved. The dreams that had drawn her home again after so long away. Rosamunde shivered at their power. She pulled Benedict back into her arms.
‘It was you.’
AUTHOR’S NOTE
All characters and storylines contained in this novel are fictional and any similarity with real life is purely coincidental.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This novel is in memory of my late father, the Reverend John Lambourne, who was an inspiration in so many ways and who thankfully had the opportunity to read it in draft, if not in published form. It is also written for my girls – Ruby and Iris.
My gratitude goes to Dad (Diddle), the late Granny Green, my husband Dan, my mum Lorna, and my siblings – Matt Lambourne, Kate Mannion and Vix Atkinson. I received a lot of encouragement and useful feedback from my family, as well as from a number of friends – Kirsty and Robin Pilcher, Elizabeth Kilgarriff, Natalie Willmott, Ruth Faye, Emma O’Prey, Kathryn Mills, Jessica Bouteloup, Sarah Lambourne, Helen Alkin and Bianca O’Connor.
Finally, my thanks also go to Jodi Warshaw at Lake Union Publishing for discovering my book and to Emilie Marneur, Sophie Missing, Jennifer McIntyre and the rest of the team at Amazon Publishing, who were a joy to work with.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2015 Natalie Mayer
Rebecca Boxall was born in East Sussex in 1977 and grew up in a bustling vicarage always filled with family, friends and parishioners. She now lives by the sea in Jersey with her husband and two children. She read English at the University of Warwick before training as a lawyer and also studied Creative Writing with The Writer’s Bureau. Christmas at the Vicarage is her first novel.
For the latest author updates, you can follow Rebecca at:
www.rebeccaboxall.co.uk
www.facebook.com/christmasatthevicarage
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