Romance By The Book

by Jo Victor

  As she looked around, trying to figure out what was wrong, she spotted a vehicle farther down the row. The bottom fell out of her stomach and she put out a hand, automatically holding on to Rosamund’s arm for support. With all the cars in the way, she couldn’t read the writing on the side of the van, but she didn’t need to. There couldn’t be two monstrosities like that running around the North.

  For just an instant she allowed herself the utterly irrational hope that it would turn out to be someone else standing there next to the van, but that vanished as soon as she forced her eyes to focus. Of course it was Cam. And just to make things completely perfect, Nicola was there as well. Cam’s arm was around her shoulder, holding her close to her side. How sweet.

  Evidently the relationship between them had progressed somewhat beyond the innocent friendship Nicola had been at such pains to reassure her about. Not that she actually had any excuse for getting upset, given the way she had behaved toward both of them lately, not least the lovely exhibition she had just provided. The light was too dim to really make out the expressions on their faces, but by posture alone she could tell that Cam and Nicola had seen more than enough.

  As she stood there, frozen to the spot, staring at them, her view was obscured by Rosamund leaning over to claim another kiss. Alex pulled away.

  “Rosamund, would you take me home, please? I’ve got a really bad headache.”

  “Oh, my poor darling. Of course.” Surprisingly, she didn’t sound disappointed.

  *

  Cam stared at the Porsche as it pulled out of the parking lot, tires squealing. Rosamund’s driving certainly hadn’t changed, nor had her taste for public warm-ups before more private activities, something Cam had never really managed to enjoy. She preferred to keep private things private. It had been something she had gone along with to please Rosamund—just one more thing on a very long list.

  At the time, all those compromises had seemed like a ridiculously small price to pay. She had thought of them as a kind of tax she owed the universe for the unbelievable miracle that had brought Rosamund into her life. Gorgeous, glamorous, fun-loving Rosamund had somehow chosen to love her dull, plain, common-or-garden self, like a fairy queen falling for a mortal in one of the ballads her mother had taught her.

  Cam had been so head-over-heels that keeping Rosamund happy had seemed like the most important thing in the world. She never stopped to consider the way all the little things added up, the times she would bite her tongue, or do without something she wanted, or agree to something she really wasn’t comfortable with. Each time had seemed so unimportant that she hadn’t realized until it was too late that she had really been giving up parts of herself.

  And when everything had come crashing down, and she found herself facing the awfulness of her mother’s death alone, she had barely recognized the person she had turned into. Just like in the old songs when the mortal is finally exiled from fairyland, only to find that a hundred years have passed and everything they once knew was gone.

  She smiled grimly. She knew exactly what this little trip down memory lane was in aid of, and it wasn’t working. Nothing could drive out of her mind the sight of Alex and Rosamund kissing. She finally gave in, letting the image replay, feeling the roiling in her gut again.

  And it hadn’t been just a little kiss, either, some quick brush of lips against a cheek. Even from a distance, it had been obvious that Alex could barely contain herself. Flipping Rosamund around like that and shoving her against the car—somehow she hadn’t pictured Alex being so aggressive. Rosamund must be over the moon. No doubt she’d thoroughly express her appreciation once she got Alex into bed. If she hadn’t already.

  Her gut twisted again. What was it she had said last night about not caring what Alex did? One of her mother’s favorite sayings came back to her: Lie to others if you must, but only fools lie to themselves. She’d turned out to be a bloody great fool, then, hadn’t she?

  And working overtime at it. How else could she seriously have thought that the reason she was so angry last night was because of Rosamund, when it was Alex all along? Alex with Rosamund’s hand on her shoulder. Alex going on about dancing with Rosamund, holding her, kissing her—or not kissing, she claimed. Well, she’d gone and kissed her now, hadn’t she? And plenty more besides, if Rosamund had had anything to say about it. Rosamund always got exactly what Rosamund wanted, and heaven help you if she didn’t.

  Cam cursed herself for her stupidity, and rotten timing. Five minutes here or there, and she’d have completely missed the show. Learning about the two of them some other way surely couldn’t have been as bad as seeing that.

  And if she hadn’t been so intent on trying to cheer Nicola up, they wouldn’t have been here at all. But Nicola had seemed so down, and after what Alex had said about Nicola fancying Rosamund, she’d thought a trip into Leeds would be just the ticket. Drop round a pub or two, look up some of her mates, give Nicola a chance to meet some new people. It had seemed too good a chance to miss.

  “Sorry, Nicola. Me and my bright ideas.”

  “Let’s just go home, shall we?”

  “Right.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Alex managed to avoid everybody for over a week—except for Mrs. Tate and, of course, Grace. Apart from a brisk walk on the moors too early and much too bright every morning, she stayed hunkered down in the house all day. Whenever the phone rang she ignored it, letting it go through to voice mail that she never checked. Mostly she buried herself in her work and tried hard not to think about anything but Artemisia.

  Fortunately, perhaps, when Mrs. Tate was around, she didn’t offer her usual friendly chatter. Alex knew she wasn’t exactly in disgrace, since her meals continued to display the heights of Mrs. Tate’s culinary talents. But their interactions had a formal tone that hadn’t been there before. While Alex welcomed the breathing room this new distance gave her, she hoped it was only temporary. She had a sense that Mrs. Tate was not so much disapproving as disappointed in her. No big shocker there, since she was pretty disappointed in herself, not to mention confused, shaken up, and a few other things besides.

  At first she was surprised that Mrs. Tate seemed to know what had happened—or at least, that something had happened—without Alex having said a thing, but the gossip here in Bramfell was bound to be even worse than it had been in the English department back home—which had certainly been bad enough. And her being a stranger would multiply everyone’s interest exponentially.

  Not that she thought for one minute that Cam would say anything, but Nicola might have told her troubles to someone—maybe even Mrs. Tate. Now that was an embarrassing thought. And Rosamund would have no compunction about blabbing everything far and wide. Certainly to her London pals—over dinner, she had been emphatic about how close they all were—plus anyone in Bramfell she deemed worthy of her friendship.

  “Maybe I should just save everyone the time and trouble and embroider myself a scarlet letter. Probably D for dingbat.” Grace, who was sprawled in her lap generously permitting herself to be petted, flicked an ear. “What do you think, huh?”

  Whatever opinion the cat might have offered vanished along with the rest of her when a knock sounded at the front door. Alex had little hope that it would turn out to be a welcome visitor, like the postman or maybe the Angel of Death. Well, she couldn’t hide forever. Worse luck.

  It was Nicola. Alex diffidently offered a cup of tea, which Nicola calmly accepted. God bless British sangfroid. Tea having been duly brewed and poured, they sat for a while in silence.

  “Look—”

  “I say—”

  They both laughed—just a little, but it was enough.

  “Nicola, I’m so sorry. I really didn’t mean to hurt you. I don’t know what came over me the other night with Rosamund. I don’t usually do my thinking with my—”

  “Lady parts?”

  “Oh, Goddess, just shoot me now and put me out of my misery, why don’t you?”

  “T
oo easy. I prefer to have you alive and suffering. Which, I take it, is what you’ve been doing, shut up here in durance vile, subsisting on bread and water and avoiding the phone.”

  “Not bread—I’ve given it up after last week’s fiasco.”

  “Your loss, then. Don’t blame the medium for the message.”

  “The message being, I suppose, that I’m a lousy friend. If you never talked to me again, I’d understand.”

  “Over Rosamund? Just because she makes me blush and stutter like a schoolgirl? Please. I can hardly lay claim to her because of that. She has the same effect on every woman she meets—including you, I’d say. Actually, I should thank you—I think seeing the two of you going at it finally cured me of my infatuation.”

  Alex winced. “I’m really embarrassed. I don’t usually do stuff like that in front of God and everybody.” I don’t usually do stuff like that at all.

  “Yes, well…I just wish Cam hadn’t been there. She was pretty upset.”

  “How come? She made it pretty clear to me she’s not…I mean, why would she care?”

  “You really don’t know?”

  “Wait—was it because of what I told her about you liking Rosamund? I’m sorry. I never would have said anything if I’d realized how things were with the two of you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I know you said you and Cam were just friends, but, well, the two of you looked pretty cozy standing there that night with your arms around each other and I just assumed…” Nicola was looking at her like she had three heads. “Feelings can change,” she finished lamely.

  “Not in this case. Honestly, I don’t know what you thought you saw, but the whole reason we were there at the club was because Cam was trying to help me meet someone—someone available. Which, apart from anything else, Cam most definitely is not.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “So you really don’t know about her and Rosamund? For some reason I thought…never mind.”

  “Cam and Rosamund? They’re together?” A series of mental pictures flashed past, each worse than the one before, all of them featuring Cam with Rosamund, Cam holding her, kissing her, touching her. She felt queasy. Cam hadn’t given her any reason to think she was currently involved with anyone, let alone Rosamund. Quite the opposite. Had she really misread Cam so badly?

  “Not anymore, not for years. But she broke Cam’s heart. I don’t think Cam has ever recovered. You should have seen her face the other night, watching the two of you. I thought she was going to be sick.”

  “I really didn’t know. Thank you for telling me.” Why didn’t Cam? She must be so hurt by what I did. But how was I supposed to know? “I guess I’m the only person in Bramfell who isn’t clued in to what’s going on with everybody’s love life. Anything else I should know about, while we’re on the subject?”

  “Let’s see. Jim up at the Hall—that’s the tall guide with the moustache—sees quite a bit of my uncle Derek. And Aunty Elspeth has been keeping company with the village librarian for donkey’s years—ever since his wife died.”

  “Mrs. Tate? Wow. Good to know.”

  “At least, folk say that’s when they stopped trying to keep it quiet.”

  Carefully casual, she said, “What about the vicar? Is she seeing anyone?”

  “Sarah? Not that I know of. Very discreet, is Sarah. But she has to be, doesn’t she, what with being the vicar and all that. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason, really. You two just seemed to hit it off so well at the party, that’s all.”

  “I should hope so—we’ve been friends since primary school. I lost track of her when we both went off to university, but since she got assigned to Bramfell, it’s been like old times.”

  “She seems nice.”

  “Yes, she’s very sweet.” She paused. “She really is.”

  Nicola sat there looking thoughtful, while Alex tried to keep the grin off her face.

  After a moment Nicola glanced at her watch. “I must push off—duty calls, and all that.”

  “On a Sunday?”

  “We’ve got a drinks do laid on for some major donors up at the Hall. Fair warning—I’m organizing one in October called Meet the Brockenbridge Fellow.”

  “Oh no.”

  “I’m afraid so. Speaking of which, you need to get back to work.”

  “But I have been working—all day, every day, it feels like.”

  “All I know is, your office up at the museum is starting to collect cobwebs. And for God’s sake, start answering your phone before a certain party sends me over with a billet-doux.”

  “What?”

  “I’m serious. Since you’ve been dodging her calls, she’s been after me to bring you little notes—God knows what’s in them.”

  “I’m not sure I want to find out.”

  “So far I’ve managed to put her off but that can’t last. She is my boss, after all.”

  “I’m sorry she’s been trying to drag you into this.”

  “I really don’t mind, you know, about you seeing her. You can’t help yourself, can you?”

  “I don’t suppose I can. Rosamund is just so…Rosamund.” And unlike some people, she, at least, is interested in me.

  “Don’t I know it. But I’ve got to draw the line somewhere, and I will most definitely not be your go-between.”

  “Message received and understood. You know, if things go the way they usually do for me, this thing with Rosamund will probably just turn out to be Th’expense of spirit—”

  “—in a waste of shame? Oh, surely not. At least try to enjoy the ride while it lasts.”

  “Don’t say ride—I’m still having nightmares about her driving. Wherever we go next time, we’re definitely walking.”

  After seeing Nicola out, Alex reluctantly sat down to check her messages. Twelve from Rosamund. Nothing from anybody else. Not that she was expecting there to be, of course.

  She picked up the phone and dialed Rosamund’s number.

  She must have had caller ID, because Alex didn’t even hear it ring before “Darling!” came over the wire so loudly she had to hold the receiver away from her ear.

  Somewhere upstairs a door slammed.

  Chapter Twelve

  Back to her more usual routine, and with a date with Rosamund to look forward to on Friday, Alex started to feel much better. Things with Mrs. Tate gradually returned to normal, and she and Nicola managed to meet up for coffee a couple of times. As if by unspoken agreement, they avoided touchy subjects, so she had no idea how Cam was doing, but hoped no news was good news. Best of all, she was finally making some progress with her dissertation.

  And not a moment too soon—nine months had sounded like forever, until the days and weeks started slipping away.

  Otherwise she would have been just as happy to ignore the calendar. She really did love it here in Bramfell. The scenery was gorgeous, the people were friendly, even the tourists were tolerable, and—certain unfortunate episodes notwithstanding—the place was remarkably peaceful. She could imagine staying here for a long, long time—possibly even the rest of her life.

  What a pity there wasn’t a university nearby where she could work once she had her doctorate. She suspected that not even the Brockenbridge would be able to open those doors for her, an American studying British literature, however well her dissertation was received.

  She sighed. Best to enjoy her time here while it lasted, and focus on getting her work done so she could apply for Stateside jobs and start the long, soul-wearying struggle for tenure. If she was lucky enough to ever even have that problem.

  Enough. Carpe diem. Time for breakfast.

  As she came down the stairs she heard singing coming from the kitchen. It sounded beautiful. What it didn’t sound like was Mrs. Tate. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear it was—

  “Cam!”

  “That it is.” She was up to her elbows in the stove, the various innards of which were scattered around the c
ounters and the floor.

  “What are you doing here? And where’s Mrs. Tate?”

  “And a very good morning to you as well.” She stepped away from the stove, wiping her hands on a rag.

  “Sorry, you surprised me. Good morning.” Searching Cam’s face for some sign of what she was thinking or feeling, Alex could read nothing but pleasant neutrality. Which was good, right? “Is Mrs. Tate okay?”

  “That depends on what your definition is. She was as angry as I’ve ever seen her, but she looked to be in good health when I left her.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Over to young Lucy’s to cook up your dinner.”

  The nickname sounded funny coming from Cam, since the person in question had at least two decades on her, but Alex had discovered that the entire village used it to help distinguish the three possessors of that name.

  “She said to tell you it would be ready at the usual time, but you’d need to get your own breakfast.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  Alex looked around, a little thrown by having to deal with the unexpected so early in the morning, and with no likelihood of any help from caffeine, given the stove’s condition.

  Cam gestured toward the table. “Since I was told you’d be up along about now, I popped out and fetched you a coffee. Reckoned you’d need it, with the cooker on the blink and no way to brew yourself a cuppa.”

  “Oh. That was really kind.” She sat down and took a sip. Ecstasy. And it wasn’t just coffee—it was her usual, a cappuccino. She could practically feel the magic molecules swarming through her bloodstream and revving up her brain. “Bless you for this.” She took another sip. “But I’m still puzzled about why Mrs. Tate called you in. She gave me the strong impression that the Foundation had someone officially on retainer for repairs, and bringing in anybody else was sacrilege or something.”