The Runaway Bridesmaid

by Daisy James

  The botanical sketches were an artist’s interpretation of the residents of Bernice’s garden – a portfolio of more than thirty exquisitely detailed specimens. But the biggest surprise was that each sketch was accompanied by her aunt’s familiar green-ink scrawl setting out a recipe which included the herb or plant or fruit depicted as its essential ingredient.

  Rosie lingered on the illustration of a strawberry plant, its runners framing a recipe for strawberry tarts. But the recipe title confused her. She flicked back to the journal’s title page and a smile burst onto her lips.

  ‘Bake Yourself Better! ’ her aunt had printed in her familiar green ink scrawl. The three capital letters had been enlarged and illustrated with implements from the world of baking – a whisk, a spatula, a rolling pin, a cookie cutter, even a tiny pastry brush. The title page was a work of art in itself. Her aunt had always said that the wooden spoon was mightier than the psychiatrist’s pen when it came to mental health, and here was the evidence that she intended to share her wisdom.

  The remaining three sketch pads in the case contained drafts of the illustrations Bernice had been commissioned to sketch for the children’s books she had illustrated and even to Rosie’s untrained eye they were superb.

  She lay the last of the artists’ pads aside and removed the final tome – a journal, smaller than its cousins, bound in scarlet leather, and inscribed on the front in gold-embossed lettering, DIARY 2012.

  Oh!

  Rosie replaced the diary in the trunk. She couldn’t contemplate peeling back the pages. Reading its contents would surely constitute a flagrant invasion of her aunt’s privacy. She berated herself for her next thought as she leaned back from the coffee table, her feet sparkling with pins and needles. Dedicated to her garden, her WI meetings and her artistic pursuits, Bernice had been a spinster of the parish of Brampton, North Devon. What could possibly offend her aunt if her beloved niece took a quick peek?

  And how could those tightly-packed pages contain anything particularly private? The diary was that year’s. Hadn’t her aunt been ill? She checked the contents of the trunk again and found no other diary, only the Marshall family Bible.

  Tucking the diary under her arm and removing the illustrated recipe journal, Rosie refastened the trunk, placing it behind the rose-and-fern chintz sofa. She wondered, as she mounted the stairs, whether Bernice should maybe have chosen to live her life rather than record the passage of its trials and tribulations. After placing the diary on her bedside table, she stared out of the window on the scene below, its beauty pixelated by droplets of rain journeying towards the window sill.

  She made a decision. She would read what her aunt had written. And she now understood why Susan had made that strange reference to her sleeping arrangements. Her aunt had wanted her to find it!

  She settled back against the pillows and peeled open the first page. Her heart performed an unexpected somersault. There, between the cover and the first page, was a cream vellum envelope with her name, Roseannah Bernice Hamilton, emblazoned on the front in emerald ink. With trembling fingers, she removed the missive and placed the diary on her bedside table.

  Rosie stared at the letter, weighing it in her hands as she waited for her heartbeat to return to normal. She slid her finger under the flap and withdrew the thick sheet of writing paper, not surprised to find a hand-drawn illustration of a sprig of lavender, her aunt’s favourite flower, coupled with a detailed drawing of a pale pink rose. Even before Rosie began to read the words, tears blurred her vision.

  My darling Rosie,

  If you are reading this letter, once again I have my life-long friend Susan to thank for her love, support and friendship. She has been a beacon of joy and the guardian of my sanity these last few years.

  You will know by now that I have left you my beloved Thornleigh Lodge and its treasured garden. I truly hope that you will spend time here whenever you need to reassess what is important in life.

  Rosie, I love you as the daughter I never had and it caused me such pain to watch you suppress your own pursuit of happiness in favour of Freya. Yes, she needed your love and attention when she was a child, but not any more! You will never be able to achieve a loving relationship of your own until you start focusing on your own needs. First you must find happiness within yourself, only then will you be able to form the life-long bond with the soul mate you crave.

  Rosie, don’t waste your life in the quest of the unattainable, whether in your career or in matters of the heart – for I have loved a man my whole life who could not be mine. Please don’t scold Emily for sharing the details of your relationship with Giles with me, for its knowledge has enabled me to reveal my own secret to you, my love, in the hope that, unlike me, you will choose the right path, not the easiest.

  Life is precious; every second should be exploited. Don’t delay like I did – be more like your mum and go for it! She adored Jack and we are all enriched for having her in our lives, even if it was to be for such a short time. What you must never do, Rosie my darling, is to give up on love, to settle for second best or the most convenient. Remember, you have to kiss a lot of frogs before your prince arrives.

  Your loving aunt,

  Bernice.

  XXX

  PS. I have also left you the unfinished manuscript of my last project. My Bake Yourself Better journal is the merger of three loves in my life – illustrating, gardening and baking. It’s not only a recipe book, Rosie, it’s a study of the therapeutic aspects culinary creativity can play in enhancing everyone’s lives. Perhaps you could read it, try out some of the recipes, dare I suggest that you even consider writing a foreword?

  Rosie folded the precious missive and slotted it back into its envelope. Her heart ached for the fact that her aunt had not felt able to share her confidences with her during her lifetime, especially when they had grown so close last summer when she had believed they’d developed a bond of mutual sharing. But her aunt had retained her deepest secret and, it seemed, taken it with her to her grave, still in love with the man who, for whatever reason, could not be hers. Was he married? No, her aunt would never cause such heartache to a fellow human being. Rosie was upset that Bernice had lived with such emotional pain whilst her sister had enjoyed a short but happy life with a man she adored, having two beautiful daughters before being stolen from them at the age of forty-six.

  As always, her aunt’s heartfelt wisdom was perfect and straight-to-the-point when she had beseeched her to find her own happiness and not to leave it too late. The only way she was going to do that was by getting out there and dating. Bernice had directed her not to end up a lonely old spinster and to grab some happiness like her mother had. Right! She intended to follow that advice by starting to date as soon as she got back to New York and her aunt’s words cemented her resolve to get out there, ‘to kiss a few frogs’ as she advocated.

  To her surprise, a fully-formed image of Austin Meadows floated across her mind and the familiar frisson of attraction tickled at her chest. Now he was someone she could envisage kissing without any difficulty. Bernice’s letter had made her wishes clear, too. That she assumed Rosie would keep Thornleigh Lodge, ‘to spend time here whenever you need to reassess what is important in life’, not to sell it. How could she have had such an aberration of judgement?

  She would stay! Wasn’t that what her aunt had wanted her to do? At least for a few months whilst she tidied up the garden. Do her aunt proud, just as Emily had suggested. Maybe she would even experiment with a few of the recipes her aunt had been working on. The artwork at least was too incredible to end up languishing in an old toy chest. Had her aunt once again offered her posthumous guidance by way of her recipe journal? She’d referred to ‘the therapeutic aspects of the art of baking’. Would indulging in a frenzy in the kitchen enhance her life as Bernice had suggested? Could she ‘Bake Herself Better’?

  What was there waiting for her back in Manhattan? Maybe she would follow her advice to give love a chance, too. When she rang
Austin the next day to inform him she was staying for a while, she would conjure up the courage to enquire as to his relationship status. She could think of no more ideal a candidate for her new mission to find love.

  Nightfall deepened the crimson streaks across the sky to a rich magenta, and Rosie adjusted the curtains to block out the encroaching gloom. As she glanced across the front garden to the end of the path, she caught another glimpse of the obtrusive advertising board loitering in the falling light. Its presence did seem to represent a two-fingered insult to her aunt’s passing.

  So, ignoring a sledgehammer of emotions and marshalling her last breath of energy, she trooped down the path, her stilettos sinking low into the gravel. As she heaved and pulled at the wooden post, the curtains of the neighbouring cottage twitched.

  Rosie giggled, and then laughed out loud at the image she must present. There she was, in the twilight, in her Louboutin heels, black Armani skirt suit riding up her thigh, golden hair flying in the mounting breeze, attacking an unyielding wooden post like a demented banshee.

  At last the post gave way and, with a wave to the curious onlooker and as much dignity as she could muster, she marched back towards the front door with her placard. But pride often goes before a fall. Her spindle-like heel caught in a crack in the step and she tripped over her feet, leaving the heel stuck in the crevice. Reaching the sanctuary of the hallway, she slammed the front door on the scene of her humiliation and laughed and laughed until she wept.

  Chapter Fifteen

  As a symphony of larks tuned up on the window ledge and the sun cut through the gap in the curtains to chase the darkness from Bernice’s spare bedroom, Rosie was roused from her slumber. She had no idea what time it was, but for the first time in years she had slept uninterrupted. Throughout her life insomnia had been a constant companion, winding its vicious tentacles around her whirling mind night after night, chasing her thoughts through catacombs with no exit. But that night had been blissfully devoid of such nightmares.

  Maybe if she concentrated on the immediate issues of smartening up Thornleigh Lodge and its garden and involving herself on the periphery of village life in Brampton and Carnleigh, she could shut out the implosion of her life over the pond. But perhaps she could do more than that. She could sleep here and, she had to admit as she stretched her limbs en route to the powder-pink bathroom, she felt energised for the first time in months.

  She wallowed in a hot bubble bath and then sauntered down to the kitchen, goosebumps pressing against her apricot silk robe in the chill of the April morning. As a brisk wind whistled its melody through the branches of the cherry tree, her eyes lingered on the monstrosity that was the only source of heat and cooking in the cottage – the ancient cream Aga.

  One thing at a time. She clicked on the kettle and brewed herself a pot of English Breakfast tea. She hooked her fingers through the handle of her favourite china cup with a single pink rosebud painted on the side and opened the kitchen door into the garden.

  The dew-drenched grasses and ferns slashed at her naked ankles and knees but, even that early in the morning, the garden offered a kaleidoscope of colours, vibrant with awakening life – green shoots thrusting their presence into the sunlight, tulips interspersed with highly scented freesias. The faint breeze tickled their velvety petals, an invitation to spread their glory as the bourgeoning cherry tree projected its grandeur over all it surveyed, dispersing shafts of warm spring rays.

  Whilst Rosie recognised very few of the shrubs and flowers in the garden, her abiding memory from her previous visit was of her aunt’s herb garden – her proudest achievement and an ever-evolving work of art. As she brushed past the meticulously laid-out chequerboard of herbs, their fragrant aroma of lavender and rosemary, of oregano and thyme, wafted up to her nostrils and, in that moment, she determined that if she did nothing else with her time here, she would spruce up the herb garden to its former glory in honour of her aunt and she would start the task today.

  She trotted back upstairs to dress for the day. Of course she had brought nothing with her from New York that could possibly scream ‘a horticultural day out in an English country garden’! It was her Armani skirt suit that she had worn to her aunt’s funeral or a pair of black, DKNY jeans. Well, that prevented her from prevaricating.

  However, as she returned to the back door, the bulbous clouds had turned to a menacing shade of pewter and were playing a game of celestial tag. The deluge of the previous night had resumed. Well, she supposed, the meteorological gods were sticking to their advertising slogan at least. She hoped that April showers would bring May flowers.

  Never mind. As gardening was off the agenda, she would attempt one of her aunt’s recipes from the journal. She’d just have to learn how to tame the Aga. She replenished the huge brown teapot and settled down to study the recipe journal. But she didn’t have to go beyond the very first page to know exactly what would be her debut in the baking arena.

  Strawberry Tarts for Broken Hearts

  Strawberries are often referred to as the fruit of love. When the strawberries in this recipe are sliced as directed they appear heart-shaped, bursting with sweetness and zinging with a luscious rich red, the colour of love and passion. They are nutrient-rich and packed with healthy antioxidants, especially if grown in your own garden! Some believe they possess healing qualities and can alleviate melancholy. And if that isn’t enough to tempt you, darling Rosie, the strawberry plant is part of the rose family.

  Her aunt had always possessed an uncanny ability to predict the precise treatment for any emotional ailment. She must have known Rosie would find use for the opening remedy. Strawberries were her favourite fruit, too. Not only that, but there was an abundance of the sweet scarlet berries in the garden. And when sliced they did resemble a perfect heart shape.

  The illustration accompanying the recipe was exquisite. The runners meandered around the text like a Christmas wreath, the verdant foliage interspersed with a smattering of white, daisy-like flowers and the rich red of the ripe fruit which burst from the page.

  She checked the recipe, scribbled a list of the ingredients on a piece of scrap paper, and slotted her feet into an old pair of Hunter wellies waiting to be press-ganged into service by the back door. She made a run for it to Susan’s shop before taking a trip to the strawberry plot at the bottom of the garden. The spiky straw surrounding the plants was sodden from the persistent rain, but as she lifted the leaves gently with her fingers, the big, fat, juicy fruit hung like pendulums ready to be harvested. She couldn’t resist popping one into her mouth. The acidic tang crashed against her taste buds and she reached for another and then another. Why did fruit you picked yourself always taste so much better?

  She took her bounty back to the kitchen and rubbed her hair free of rain droplets on a tea towel before scrutinising the beast of an oven. She could delay their tango no longer. After fifteen minutes of lifting the hot-plate lids and exploring the internal mechanisms she was still not nearer to igniting its fiery passion. As she was about to give up and adjourn for a rejuvenating cup of tea, she found the instructions in a plastic envelope in a cupboard. And following instructions was something she was an expert at. She was surprised to learn that it ran on oil, but, considering it was more akin to a small family saloon, she shouldn’t have been. At last the kitchen began to benefit from a spurt of warmth and she set about weighing out the ingredients for her strawberry tarts.

  But the whole process of binding the ingredients together was so unfamiliar. The last label anyone could attach to her in New York was Domestic Goddess. In fact, the white polystyrene blocks were still in her oven in her apartment. She had never used it. Sure, she had used the microwave to heat up her carry-out coffees, or the odd cinnamon roll, but she had never actually baked anything since she left home to go to college where she had lived on takeaways and coffee.

  The kitchen was beginning to resemble culinary Armageddon, with a liberal dusting of flour and icing sugar, and splodges of butte
r and strawberry jam littering the counter tops. After half an hour of wrestling with the sweet shortcrust pastry, which had taken on an unappetising grey tinge, and whipping up the cream, she was ready to slot her culinary masterpieces in the oven.

  She couldn’t face another minute in the kitchen so, as it had stopped raining, she sauntered out into the garden, leaving the washing up until later. She stopped at the herb garden and crouched down to break off a sprig of lavender. The aroma floated to her nostrils and sent a blast of nostalgia to her chest. She knew her aunt would be proud of her attempt at baking one of her recipes, if not the chaos she had brought to her otherwise pristine kitchen.

  She selected a second herb, rubbing its wide, jagged-edged leaf between her fingertips and taking a sniff. Mmm, she knew this one. Mint – its clean fresh fragrance so reminiscent of the gum she chewed through high school to help alleviate bouts of anxiety. Sprouts of grass had sprung between the plants so she knelt down, arching her back to the sky to remove them. It was so satisfying to see even that small square of soil in her aunt’s beloved herb garden cleared of debris that she spent the next half hour enlarging it.

  Eventually, she sat back on her heels, massaging her aching shoulders and wiping a trickle of perspiration from her brow with her forearm. That was when the waft of burnt caramel reached her nostrils and she realised she had forgotten to take the pastry tarts out of the oven.

  Oh God!

  With some difficulty she unfolded her stiffened legs and sprinted back into the kitchen as tendrils of grey curls began to snake from the Aga door. She had no idea what to do. She frantically searched the kitchen drawers for a pair of oven gloves and, with her arms outstretched, tentatively cracked open the door to release a mushroom of black smoke which floated up to the ceiling before dispersing, like the aftermath from a nuclear explosion.