by Daisy James
She would accept Austin’s kind offer of his services and only needed to advise Susan of her inheritance and say goodbye to Emily.
Chapter Thirteen
‘Hi, Em, it’s only me.’
Rosie pushed open the sunflower-yellow front door to Emily and Nick’s imposing Victorian stone semi in Carnleigh, a larger village two miles away from Brampton. It boasted not only a village shop and post office but a pub, a village green and an eighteenth-century parish church, St George’s, the hub of the village community.
A whole year had passed since Rosie had visited Elmwood View. In the entrance hallway, chaos reigned. She hugged the walls, Louboutins in hand, as she negotiated the debris of toddlerhood scattered in her path. Scooters, helmets, Lego bricks, even a toy oven complete with cooking utensils blocked her progress to the hi-tech steel and black marble kitchen, so incongruous in a one-hundred-year-old property.
‘Hi, Rosie. Grab a perch and I’ll brew us some coffee,’ Emily shouted from the laundry.
‘Tea please, Em.’
‘Oh yes, sorry, forgot.’
Emily emerged, her hair flying, her cheeks reddened from exertion. ‘The boys are outside in the garden. We’ve just invested in a trampoline. I’ve been giving them a demonstration on how to use it safely. Mind if we take our drinks outside so I can supervise the action?’ She looked down at Rosie’s heels dangling from her fingers and met her eyes with a question.
‘Outside is fine,’ Rosie assured her friend, secretly wishing she’d snatched up her aunt’s ancient green Wellingtons on the way out that morning. As she glanced down at her favourite stilettos she’d worn for her appointment with Austin, she realised it hadn’t occurred to her to slip a pair of sturdy boots into her travel bag when she’d shot off to the UK.
They settled at the patio table, its patina greying from years of battering from the rain, the cries of delight from the jumping-jack boys disguising all other countryside tunes. Emily’s back garden was a suntrap and Rosie relaxed in the warmth of the spring sunshine.
‘So, how was your meeting with Mr Meadows?’ Emily enquired a tad mischievously.
Rosie couldn’t prevent her lips from curling into a smirk, giving her feelings away immediately as she recalled Austin’s softly-drawn features.
Emily clapped her hands. ‘Dish the details, Rosie!’
Rosie provided a brief synopsis of her visit to an attentive Emily.
‘But, Rosie, are you sure he valued Thornleigh Lodge at £225,000? I’m no property expert, of course, but that does seem to be a bit on the low side. The Old Rectory in Brampton was sold just over two years ago when the Reverend Aubrey traipsed off to Uganda for £350,000. I know the housing market is depressed at the moment but the cottage is in a better location than the Rec – i.e., not backing onto a graveyard! Nor did it have the additional attraction of a large award-winning garden – well, Thornleigh used to have.’
‘The lodge is very run down, Em. The windows are blistering paint and the central heating boiler’s ancient. I haven’t dared to switch it on! And, as you rightly mention, the state of the garden is atrocious. It has no kerb appeal.’
‘True, true,’ Emily flicked the sides of her bob behind her ears, ‘but the Old Rectory had no central heating at all. It needed a full electrical rewire, a new kitchen, new bathroom. Nick and I viewed it. We love Brampton but it would have cost another £50,000 to modernise the house, at least. You could spruce up the garden at Thornleigh a bit though without too much trouble.’
‘How can I spruce up the garden, Em? I live in New York. I can’t commute over to England to pull up weeds and oversee renovations at the weekends. I hope to have started a new job or maybe set up my own company. I could perhaps squeeze in a long weekend at Thanksgiving but that’s seven months away. Nor can I afford the cost of the flights!’
Emily wrinkled her ski-slope nose. ‘I’d love to help, Rosie but, well, I’ve got my hands full.’ She gestured the two shrieking boys having the time of their lives. ‘And it’s the village fair on Saturday. I promised to donate a batch of home-made chocolate crispie cakes and two dozen scones. Shame you won’t be around to come along. It’s always good fun.’
She paused.
‘But,’ she proceeded cautiously, ‘to let Thornleigh Lodge go in its current state would be an insult to Bernice’s memory. She adored that cottage and its garden. You know, she opened it to the public for charity under the National Gardens Scheme each year. She even supplied the local garden centre in Tiverton with unusual varieties of herbs. Wouldn’t it be a great tribute if the garden could be nurtured back to its former glory in her honour?’
Rosie experienced a jolt of shame at the phone call she had made to Austin before she hammered on Emily’s door and her willingness to ditch the whole package in his hands and hare off back to Manhattan without a backwards glance. She had no idea what Bernice had intended her to do with the cottage, but did she foresee its immediate sale? Had her aunt offered her the benefit of her sage guidance and a refuge once again – in death, as in life?
Emily changed tact. ‘This Austin Meadows chap? What’s he like? Nick and I met Mr Richmond when we redrafted our wills after Lorcan was born. Their offices are out of Dickensian London. I expected Mr Pickwick to pop out of the book shelves at any moment.’
‘No, far from it. Austin would be in his early thirties.’ Annoyingly, Rosie felt a hot flush seep across her cheeks and down her neck. She reached to twiddle with her earring.
Emily missed nothing.
‘You fancy him, don’t you! Come on, he could be your perfect match, you know – both corporate high-flyers, career-obsessed, intelligent, sophisticated, similar academic backgrounds. Hmm, I wonder if he’s single. I’ll ask around.’ Emily had an extended coterie of mummy friends from whom to elicit nuggets of gossip. ‘Was he handsome, Rosie? Oh, I can see the answer is “yes”.’
‘No! Look, Em, I need to get back to New York. Whether I fancy him or not is irrelevant. For your information, yes, he is good-looking in that clean-cut English gentleman sort of way.’ She resisted sharing with Emily the frisson of sexual desire she’d experienced when he clasped her hand in his. ‘If Austin says Thornleigh Lodge is marketable in its current condition then it must be okay to put it up for sale. I have no time or inclination to “do up” the lodge, and if I can’t trust my aunt’s solicitor then who can I trust?’
‘But…’
‘It’s the only solution. I’m sorry it can’t be any other way. If the lodge sells quickly I needn’t worry about its maintenance over the winter months, and I can give half the proceeds from the sale to Freya.’
‘But Rosie, your aunt wanted you to have the cottage – not Freya – otherwise she would have left it to you both. The way I see it, by leaving it to you, and only you, she wanted you to keep the lodge – to use it as a refuge, like you did before.’
‘She didn’t say keep.’
‘But she implied it!’
Rosie grasped Emily’s hand and leaned in. ‘I know you mean well, Em. I’d love to spend more time here in Devon. It’s a truly idyllic retreat from the manic circle of a corporate career and I do envy what you and Nick have here: two beautiful, if somewhat boisterous, boys, a comfortable home bursting at the seams with love, a community to feel part of. Compared to my Upper West Side apartment and frantic lifestyle, what’s not to crave?
‘But my life and work are in Manhattan. Especially now that Mission Freya is finally accomplished, I can truly concentrate on my career. I have no spare time to squeeze in a visit to Dad in Stonington Beach, never mind hop on a transatlantic flight to the UK, then take an exhausting train journey down to Devon and an exorbitant taxi fare from Tiverton to the lodge!
‘The only logical solution is to tie up Aunt B’s estate as swiftly as possible and that involves selling Thornleigh Lodge. My taxi’s booked for five a.m. tomorrow. When the cottage sells, I’ll catch a weekend over here to clear out the contents.’
Emily’s distress
was clearly etched on her attractive face, but it wasn’t her decision to take. Fortunately, the tension of her disapproval was broken by a piercing scream when Ethan evicted Lorcan over the edge of the trampoline and Emily’s attention was required to broker a fraternal peace.
***
As the same taxi driver that had brought her to Thornleigh Lodge on that first morning drew up outside the cottage after her chat with Emily, and Rosie reached for her purse to discharge the excessive fare he demanded, her heart slammed against her chest in objection to the sight that met her eyes. Proud and incongruous, hammered into the garden gate post, was a For Sale board. Was it swift service or unseemly haste? Her aunt’s funeral had only been the day before.
A sharp slap of déjà vu ensued as she leaned forward to hand over the contents of her purse to the driver and then cursed when she saw he was still there to witness her stumble when the four-inch heels of her stilettos sunk into the gravel path and she lurched forward onto her palms at the front porch. The blistered door croaked open and Rosie allowed the cottage to wrap her in its calm; to insulate her from the humiliation.
Lauren had been right. Distance did help to alleviate the immediacy of the trauma she had experienced since the wedding, which otherwise would have been insurmountable. At least now she could manage to go a full two hours without bursting into tears.
She switched on the kettle, a reflex action now, and filled her aunt’s stout brown pot with tea leaves left in the cupboard. Inevitably, just as the kettle clicked off, there was a knock at the front door.
‘Oh, hi, Susan. Come in, come in. The kettle has just boiled.’
‘Thanks, Rosie, dear. I saw the taxi outside Thornleigh as I was closing up the shop for the evening and wanted to ask you about… well, about the For Sale sign outside. Is there no possibility of you keeping the cottage on? Bernice adored Thornleigh Lodge, and I know it’s none of my business, but it would have made her happy if it could remain in the Marshall family.’
Rosie smiled at her aunt’s oldest friend, her neatly pinned hair and rosy cheeks the epitome of a country shop proprietor and the village busybody. Clearly nothing escaped the notice of Susan Moorfield. However, in Brampton and villages like it, privacy did not equate to friendship nor did it contribute to a sense of community. Her loose curls, her rounded curves and her soft serene voice with a slight West Country burr ensured her otherwise accusatory words landed on Rosie’s ears with a caress instead of a thud.
Smiling, Rosie set the teapot onto the kitchen table and dribbled milk into mismatched china tea cups, minus the saucers.
‘If it’s a question of money, Rosie dear, well, I really don’t need the very generous legacy Bernice left me. You could use the money to smarten up the paintwork, and I’m sure Ollie will be more than willing to make a start on the garden. He’ll be at the village fair on Saturday. I’ll introduce you if you like.’
‘Susan, that is a very kind offer, but no, it’s not a matter of finances at all. I admit I was shocked when I saw the For Sale board go up so swiftly. It’s just lawyers doing their job efficiently, I guess. But, sadly, I’m leaving to go back to the US tomorrow and I don’t have the time to spend commuting back and forth to the UK to enjoy Thornleigh’s charms. And I’m worried about its maintenance over the winter months, too. Look how rapidly it deteriorated over the last few months of Aunt Bernice’s life.’
‘Your aunt was devastated at the state of the garden and that she couldn’t manage to get out as much as she used to, but she was waiting for Ollie’s arrival. Always the first weekend in May, he’d arrive with his wheelbarrow and chainsaw and have it whipped into shape in no time.’
Susan’s arthritic fingers fiddled with the teacup handle. ‘I’m sorry, Rosie. It’s your life and your choice. I just had to make the offer. I miss her so much. I feel a tremendous burden of guilt that I wasn’t with her when she passed away. If only I…’
‘Susan, it wasn’t your fault. She died in her sleep. Nothing more sinister than that. I’ve been doing the same as you, allowing my mind to cascade into various scenarios and that path does no one any favours.’
Tears rolled down Susan’s papery cheeks. As Rosie patted her wrinkled hand, she wondered whether Bernice had confided anything about her illness to her best friend. However, now was not the time to delve into painful topics. Maybe later.
‘It’ll be so difficult this summer without Bernice’s chirpy presence whilst I mop up for the night. Remember when you were over last time, mending your broken heart after Carlos? She used to supply the tearoom with her speciality Devonshire scones and her signature lavender macaroons. Well, they’ll be off the menu this year.
‘You know, it’s becoming harder every year to keep the shop and tearooms open. There’s plenty of trade over the summer months from the weekend tourists and the guests from Brampton Manor Hotel and Spa which thankfully throws its doors open next weekend. But it’s hard physical work, and without your aunt’s support and her friendly face, I might consider taking Lucy and Jack up on their offer and emigrate to Brisbane.
‘Mrs Campbell-Wright, that’s the owner of Brampton Manor, was only saying yesterday when she was in the shop how much she wishes they didn’t have to open up their home and welcome in paying guests to make ends meet. God knows, it must cost a fortune to run that house and its splendid grounds. If she decides not to though, I think that will be my cue to move on. Fate has a way of lighting up life’s path.’
Susan raised her ample buttocks from the wooden chair and deposited her tea cup in the Belfast sink. ‘Thanks for the tea, Rosie. It’s a real shame you won’t be staying with us a little longer. Tell me, are you sleeping in the same bedroom as you did last summer?’
‘Ye…es.’ Rosie scrutinised Susan’s tired face for an explanation behind such an unusual question.
‘Maybe you could get started on boxing up your aunt’s personal things before you leave.’ Susan threw Rosie a strange look and patted her hand, still clenched around her own cup. ‘Bernice adored you, Rosie.’ She smiled, dimples appearing around her feathery lips like commas, and she quietly let herself out of the cottage that was as familiar to her as her own home.
Rosie heaved herself from the pine table and dropped her own teacup into the sink, pausing to stare out at the back garden. Despite the tangled chaos of the plants and shrubs, Bernice’s spirit still lingered amongst the marigolds and snapdragons. Rosie was grateful her aunt had enjoyed a steadfast friendship with Susan to share her life and secrets with; glad that her aunt had found comfort and joy and a sense of belonging with friends in the local community.
Emily was her own steadfast friend in this village community and, like her aunt, Rosie knew the right thing to do was to listen to her advice. She snuggled into the over-stuffed chintz sofa with an intense feeling of nostalgia for the nights she had spent curled up in that very chair bemoaning her loss of Carlos to the sympathetic audience of her aunt. Should she stay a little longer? After all, she had nothing to go chasing back to Manhattan for now.
She couldn’t settle. Why had Susan asked her which room she was sleeping in? It was a strange enquiry to make, even for someone accustomed to extracting the minutiae of people’s lives. She unfurled her long legs from the sofa and padded up the stairs.
Dusk had splayed a medley of apricot, ivory and mauve tendrils across the evening sky and the last embers of the sun melted into the horizon. She pushed open her bedroom door and switched on the light. Her eyes fell on the old oak toy box that had been such a part of her childhood. It was where her aunt had stowed her books and games, and an old porcelain doll with a wonky eye, for when she came to visit Bernice before her parents emigrated to America.
Her heart rammed against her ribcage as she approached the symbol of her early years she had spent there at Thornleigh Lodge. This was her wooden chest, no one else’s. Freya had been born after the family arrived in Connecticut. Nerves tingled at her fingertips as she tossed her Burberry holdall onto her bed and lifted
the lid.
Chapter Fourteen
The faint whiff of lavender, mingled with dried straw, permeated the musty air. Rosie experienced a sense of anticipation for what secrets the chest would hold, but as her eyes flicked into the corners of the scarred wooden box, she saw only a small, brown leather suitcase sealed by rust-blistered buckles.
A further perfunctory rummage revealed just a pair of sixties-inspired curtains covering the bottom, so she grabbed the case and removed her head from the trunk, grateful to be avoiding the possibility of coming face-to-face with a pair of beady eyes. Never a fan of errant spiders, Rosie shivered involuntarily and shook her tousled curls; her skin prickled at the thought of a hairy, eight-legged friend mistaking her hair for a golden-webbed home.
She returned to the lounge, pausing to draw the curtains on the darkness pressing against the window panes. She set the case on the coffee table, unfastened the recalcitrant buckles and raised the lid to reveal the faded Liberty-print lining and a jumble of leather-bound journals, their ribbon bookmarks protruding from the pages like lizards’ tongues.
She selected one of the largest and peeled back the cover to reveal an artist’s sketch pad. Each sheet was separated by a flimsy leaf of translucent paper that crinkled as she turned the pages in wonderment. Each illustration sprang from the page when Rosie released them from slumber in their artist’s folio. The depictions were skilfully true-to-life, yet the artist’s style had an undeniable flair that added character and life to each page. Her heartbeat accelerated as she encountered the individual stems of blossom and flowering herbs, each sprig as vibrant as the day they were drawn, especially the lavender – she could literally smell it. The illustrator had been a true virtuoso with a pencil and brush.