The Runaway Bridesmaid

by Daisy James

  Susan had insisted they held Bernice’s wake in the village tearoom adjacent to her shop, newly opened to the summer trade but closed that day as a mark of respect to her best friend. She had been as devastated as Rosie at the loss of her long-time confidante; their friendship having spanned more than fifty years. The spread she provided, with the help of Bernice’s friends from the WI, could have graced any movie set depicting an English garden tea party.

  The mood in the quaint little café was not as sombre as Rosie had expected, calm but with a low buzz of conversation as mourners shared anecdotes of her aunt’s life with Rosie as she thanked them for attending.

  ‘It was her beloved garden your aunt worried about the most, Rosie, dear. You saw it when you were over from America last year – manicured to French polish standards. But her arthritis had played up dreadfully over this last severe winter we’ve had in Devon and she had to cut down on her weeding routine,’ said Mrs Parsons.

  ‘It’s sad to see the garden so neglected, but you know, your aunt had the assistance of a lovely old gentleman, Ollie Bradshaw, who works part-time over at Tiverton Meadows Garden Centre, every other weekend over the spring and summer months. I’m sure he would be willing to continue the arrangement for you.’ Susan struggled to rein in her emotions. ‘Extra funds are always welcomed by the retired these days, but he is an expert and will guide you in identifying which plants are flowers and which are weeds, if you need that help, Rosie?’

  ‘Thanks, Susan.’ Rosie laid her palm on the older women’s arm and smiled into her lived-in face. Her hair, the colour of autumn mist, was drawn into a neat bun at the nape of her neck and her matronly figure seemed more at home bustling around the tables collecting empty teacups than remaining inactive. Her gentle presence reminded Rosie of her aunt and she knew Susan would be hurt that her visit was to be curtailed. ‘But I don’t intend on staying over here in Devon for long. Bernice’s will is being read tomorrow. I’m uncertain what assets my aunt owned or what her wishes were. I hope to leave all the formalities in the hands of her solicitors. I’m flying back to New York on Friday. But if you could keep an eye on the lodge, Susan, I’d be grateful? I’ll drop over the key on my way back to the airport. Ridiculous leaving it under a terracotta chimney pot.’

  ‘Ah, it’s not the New York metropolis here, my love. We can still leave our doors and windows open in Brampton, thank the Lord. We are proud to have a thriving community of people who look out for each other.’

  ***

  As Rosie drew the hand-embroidered sheet up to her chin, staring at the cobwebs on the cornice and cracks in the ceiling above, she replayed the day as though it were a newsreel. She rued her aunt’s passing and her thoughts drifted back over her life. Since her sister, Rosie’s mother, had emigrated to the United States almost twenty-five years ago, Bernice had had no family around to soothe life’s bumpy journey. Yes, she’d left behind her exquisite illustrations and artwork, but no human evidence that she had lived and loved, and been loved, and for that Rosie was truly saddened.

  Would this be her own fate? A lonely spinster with only the WI for company and sporadic communications from her niece thousands of miles away?

  Her father was right. She did need to get out and socialise more, arrange a few dates or, in his words, to ‘kiss a few frogs’. She had truly loved Carlos, but at the time she had been unable to prioritise him over her need to progress her career. Long hours at the office had eaten into the time they spent together, and often, even when they were together, her mind was on whatever deal she was brokering. It was her own fault he’d looked elsewhere for comfort and happiness, no, a future. Looking back, after her heart had mended, she couldn’t blame him. After Carlos, it had almost been a relief not to add the pressure of dating to her already manic schedule. Relationships were tough wherever you chose to love and work, but especially so in one of the world’s largest cities. Giles had edged his way into her life, but had she loved him as she had Carlos? If she was brutally honest, she didn’t think so. What he’d done was hurt her pride more than bruised her heart. She was over him already!

  She’d meet with old Mr Meadows at Richmond Morton tomorrow and, when she returned to Manhattan, she’d make a concerted attempt to date. Whilst not wanting to emulate Freya, or even take her advice and settle for anyone who strayed onto her path so as not to grow old alone, she would make a huge effort to overlook those niggling irritations she’d managed to find in every guy who had shown an interest in her since Carlos; even one guy’s liberal use of aftershave had put paid to a second date. She managed a first giggle of the day when she thought of the Canadian by the name of Marc she had met at the gym. She had toyed with the possibility of accepting his offer to grab an alfalfa tea in the cafeteria until she’d glanced down at his naked feet. His toenails looked like bear claws and she’d struggled to prevent herself from running screaming into the showers. Then another incident sprang to her mind when she had refused a minor league soccer player’s advances based solely on his choice of purple and fluorescent green sneakers.

  She knew these aversions to podiatry quirks were ridiculous. How can anyone base their romantic choices on an exemplary taste in footwear? But she had truly felt repulsed – especially after her brush with Marc, who had called her twice to repeat his offer of a health-conscious beverage. All she had been able to conjure in her mind was an image of him running through the Canadian Rockies, growling as his fur-covered feet crashed through the undergrowth. Yuck!

  But she was determined to find an exit from this labyrinth of bitterness she had built for herself, to ditch the sadness and self-recrimination and the shouldering of responsibility for everyone’s happiness that had become an unhealthy habit – no, an obsession – and grab some for herself.

  That decision made, sleep at last delivered its welcome oblivion.

  Chapter Twelve

  The branch office of Richmond Morton Solicitors was housed above an Oxfam charity shop on the High Street of Tavistock, but their main offices were in the cathedral city of Exeter on the south coast of Devon. Having no transport of her own in the UK, Rosie was grateful for Mr Meadows agreeing to conduct their appointment at the branch office; splashing out on another expensive taxi ride would have depleted her meagre funds.

  The waiting room, to Rosie’s amusement, came straight from the pages of a Charles Dickens novel. Used to the uber-slick law offices of corporate New York City, despite the sombre reason for her visit, she was enthralled by the quaint antiquity that the English, and in this case their lawyers, did so well.

  The receptionist was also straight from Victorian central casting with her tightly-permed hair and spectacles dangling over her bosom from a neck string. Her name is probably something like Mrs Harriwinkle, Rosie thought.

  She lowered herself into one of the mismatched, cracked-leather armchairs which had probably been around since the war and surveyed the room. It was more like a library than a law firm’s waiting room. Three of the four walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases crammed with impressive, presumably legalistic, tomes with hessian-coloured spines and gold-embossed lettering. The room smelled of disturbed dust and yellowing parchment, mingled with a faint tannin aroma from the chairs and the leather-inlaid mahogany table which presided over the room. Only the addition of a Victorian gentleman in a black bowler hat, fob watch dangling from his waistcoat pocket and reading The Times, would have enhanced this Dickensian idyll.

  With this image in mind, she was unable to mask her surprise when Austin Meadows strode into the room, his hand outstretched to greet her, his broad shoulders and clean-cut, handsome features diametrically at odds with the cobwebbed, bespectacled portrait of Austin Meadows she had fixed in her mind from last week’s telephone call. He could only have been in his early thirties, like herself. A surprise fizz erupted in her stomach and radiated through her veins to sparkle at her extremities.

  ‘Miss Hamilton, Austin Meadows, partner here at Richmond Morton. We spoke on the te
lephone. Pleased to meet you.’ He grasped her hand into a firm shake, his cobalt eyes crinkling, and the fizz became an effervescent burble. ‘Once again, please accept my firm’s and my own condolences for your loss. I trust the arrangements for the funeral were to your satisfaction?’

  ‘Yes, erm, yes. Thank you for organising it on behalf of the family, Mr Meadows.’

  Rosie felt her usual professional composure weaken as she followed in the wake of Austin Meadows’ waft of cologne, ashamed at finding herself enjoying a sneak peek at his taut backside encased in Paul Smith suit trousers. His sandy blond hair, gelled into a low quiff at his forehead, was clipped arrow straight at the nape of his neck, but it was the golden hairs on his exposed forearms and the strong handshake that had caused her insides to turn to liquid and blasted an unexpected jolt of desire into her unsuspecting body. A gaudy tie, his attempt at softening the stiff professional image, flapped at his flat abdomen.

  What was the matter with her! She’d never experienced such instant attraction before. But was it any wonder? He was just like a character out of a Jane Austen novel right there before her eyes!

  ‘Thank you for seeing me whilst I’m over in the UK, Mr Meadows,’ she blabbered as she lowered herself into the client chair to face him, thankful for the division of his heavy mahogany desk. She crossed her legs and smoothed down her skirt, the one she had worn to the funeral, grateful she’d made the effort that morning to tame her hair into its chignon, and dab on a little foundation and a swipe of apricot lip gloss.

  Austin Meadows’ office was a replica of the Richmond Morton waiting room, except for the piles of buff-coloured files and beribboned counsel’s briefs dotting every available surface. Whilst the man in front of her was pristine in his presentation, elegant even – his clothes screamed designer and his Rolex confirmed his wealth – his fastidiousness did not extend to office housekeeping.

  One of those ubiquitous buff files lay open on the desk. He replaced his gold-rimmed spectacles to prepare to read from the large unfolded piece of parchment which was clearly her Aunt Bernice’s last will and testament.

  ‘I have your aunt, Bernice Catherine Marshall’s will in front of me, Miss Hamilton.’ Rosie enjoyed the cadence of his English accent. ‘Her will was prepared last year by our senior partner, Mr Richmond, who has himself sadly passed away.’

  Austin Meadows didn’t look sad, thought Rosie, unaware that after old Mr Richmond’s death, Austin had been promoted to partner. His glance met her tiger-coloured eyes and his cheeks dimpled slightly. ‘As you are the only family member present, do you wish me to read the will verbatim or to provide you with an overview of your aunt’s bequests? I have a copy of the original will for you to take away with you for more detailed consideration and, should you have any queries, you are welcome to contact me further at your convenience.’

  ‘An overview would be fine, Mr Meadows.’ Rosie replied, twiddling with the pearl earring in her left ear as she met his enquiring stare. Mmm, she thought, as an image of Colin Firth emerging from that lake flitted across her mind and infused her face with heat. What would her aunt’s solicitor look like with his crisp, Jermyn Street shirt clinging to his rippling…

  ‘Call me Austin, please. The will is very simple, actually. Apart from a pecuniary legacy of ten thousand pounds to Mrs Susan Moorfield, proprietor of the Brampton Village Shop and Tearoom, the residuary estate, after the discharge of the funeral expenses and any further estate liabilities, has been left to Miss Roseannah Bernice Hamilton of Hamilton’s Hardware Store, Stonington Beach, Connecticut. I wonder, Miss Hamilton, if you could provide evidence of your identity before you leave? It’s a formality only.’

  ‘Erm, yes, of course. I have my passport with me, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘It is recorded that the estate comprises mainly of Thornleigh Lodge in Brampton, the deeds to which we hold here at Richmond Morton in our strong room, and a small Post Office savings account which I think will cover the bequest to Mrs Moorfield. And that’s it.’

  Rosie remained immobile, her jaw slackened, staring at Austin Meadows, unable to form any expression or acknowledgement. All thought of his muscular torso evaporated from her mind as she tried to concentrate on what he was saying.

  ‘You have been appointed sole executrix. But, if you so instruct, I can apply for the Grant of Probate on your behalf forthwith, which will allow you to market the property immediately, if that is your preferred course.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Do you have any questions, Miss Hamilton?’

  Her brain refused to work.

  ‘Miss Hamilton?’

  ‘My aunt left her whole estate to me? Are you sure? There’s no mention of my father, Jack Hamilton, or my sister, Freya Hamilton?’ Now Bennett, of course.

  ‘No, Miss Hamilton. As I said, the will is very clear. Here is a copy for you to take away with you.’ Austin’s gold signet ring glanced in a ray of mid-morning sunshine filtering through the sash windows and bathing the office in a mellow glow. Trees beyond the windows swayed gently in the breeze, and somewhere in the office a clock ticked. She took the envelope and placed it reverently on her lap.

  Austin closed the file and leaned forward to Rosie. ‘Miss Ham…’

  ‘Oh, it’s Rosie, please…’

  ‘Rosie. I realise it may be too early for you to consider your options, but bearing in mind you intend to return to New York tomorrow and the distance involved, you may not wish to repeat the journey to Devon on a regular basis. Could I therefore offer you the additional services of Richmond Morton?

  ‘As well as solicitors and Commissioners for Oaths, we are an estate agency. I don’t know whether you have knowledge of the Devonshire property market, but Thornleigh Lodge is situated in a much sought-after village. I am certain there will be a good deal of interest. My firm could begin to market the property immediately. I hope you will forgive my impertinence, but I have taken the opportunity to appraise your aunt’s cottage and, despite its current condition, it would be likely to fetch in the region of £225,000.’

  Rosie had no baseline upon which to judge whether this was a fair valuation or not. Certainly New York’s ridiculous property market couldn’t be used as a barometer. But leaving everything in the strong, capable hands of Austin Meadows certainly had its appeal and presented Rosie with a very easy option. It was true; she had no interest or desire to return to Devon in the near future. To hand over the whole transaction – the collecting in of her aunt’s estate, the sale of Thornleigh Lodge and the paying out of Susan’s legacy – was an attractive proposition.

  ‘That does sound like a sensible proposal, Mr Meadows. My flight back to JFK leaves tomorrow morning. Could I request the afternoon to consider your offer and I’ll get back to you before my flight leaves?’

  Was that a faint twist of regret that she saw flash across his handsome features? If he knew she would be staying longer, would he have asked her for a date? Would she have said yes? Who was she kidding? For some reason she had cast Austin Meadows in the role of lead dreamboat in her own English country rom-com, with her as the irresistible daughter of the manor.

  ‘Certainly, Miss Hamilton.’ Austin removed his spectacles and dangled one arm of them between his thumb and forefinger at his mouth. His turquoise eyes crinkled attractively as a smile played around the corners of his lips.

  Rosie wondered what it was that led her to feel so comfortable in this lawyer’s presence. She felt as though she’d known him for months, not met for the first time that morning. She swallowed hard on her rampant imagination as she grasped his extended hand and was shocked to experience the bolt of electricity shoot through her chest and southwards. For heaven’s sake, she’d just discussed her deceased aunt’s estate with her English solicitor and here she was, attracted to his golden-haired good looks, his toned body, startlingly azure eyes and his… Stop it, she chastised herself.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Meadows.’

  ‘Austin. It’s been a pleasure to make
your acquaintance, Miss Hamilton. I’m sorry we won’t have the opportunity to meet again.’ His eyes flashed over her body.

  ‘Rosie, please.’

  ‘Goodbye, Rosie.’

  Rosie stumbled from the dim confines of Richmond Morton into the weak midday sunshine, grateful for the warmth as she searched the quaint streets for a Starbucks. Of course, an English tea shop was the first purveyor of a hot beverage she came across. She slumped down at a table next to the window, ignoring the questionable décor of frilly lace curtains, dotted doilies and porcelain dogs as she ordered her favourite brew of Lady Grey.

  As she waited for her tea to arrive, memories flooded back of her only maternal relative – her wavy hair the colour of Dartmoor fog, worn long but pinned into an elegant chignon, face devoid of entrenched creases, her hazel eyes enhanced with the same golden flecks as Rosie’s own. She could almost smell the lavender scent her Aunt Bernice had favoured and tears blurred her vision. She glanced out of the window to the winding street beyond. Once Thornleigh Lodge was sold, their family’s connection with the UK would be severed. Was this something her aunt would have wanted?

  The young waitress, in a black dress and white frilled apron, returned and set a silver tea tray down in front of her, complete with the essential pot of hot water. When she had finished pouring Rosie calculated that, if she were her mother, she would have a mere fourteen years left to discover the happiness she had found with her father and, as she sipped her fragrant tea, she experienced a surge of panic.

  Should she return to New York, to utilise her renowned obsessional tendencies to locate the next eligible guy and not the next potential shares windfall? Should she grab Austin’s offer and place the estate and probate formalities in his capable hands and agree to market the cottage immediately. Or had her aunt left her beloved cottage to her, and only her, in the hope that she would keep it, maybe use it again as a bolthole when things in New York became too much. Or did her aunt intend for her to live there? God, no way! Despite her temporary foray into the pages of a Regency-era novel in Austin’s office, she had no inclination to settle down in an English rural backwater. For one thing, the cobbles ruined her shoes.