In the middle was a small, circular patio, occupied by a wrought-iron bistro table and two chairs, glowing warm in the late afternoon sun.
Therese settled her tray down on the table, took the pot from me and motioned for me to sit down.
‘So,’ she said, pouring the first cup. ‘You’ve come home.’ The ‘at last’ went unsaid.
I nodded, picking up a biscuit to nibble. ‘Nathaniel called and asked me to. Said he had plans for the Golden Wedding.’
‘God save us from my brother’s plans.’ Therese settled into her seat. ‘I’m glad he did, anyway. I was worried that your invitation might go mysteriously astray if it was left to Isabelle.’
I winced. ‘I never did actually receive an invitation.’ Isabelle was always meticulous about sending invitations. I remember being made to handwrite invites for my eighth birthday party, not only to all my classmates, but also my own sister, even though she was sitting next to me as I wrote it. If Isabelle had wanted me there, I’d have been sent an invitation. And the fact I hadn’t… Well, it stung like a needle pressed up against my heart.
‘Typical Isabelle,’ Therese said, selecting the biscuit with the most chocolate coating. ‘They were hideous, anyway.’
‘So Nathaniel said.’ I sighed. ‘I can’t believe he didn’t tell anyone I was coming.’
‘I imagine that you’re part of Nathaniel’s plan. You know how he likes surprising people,’ Therese said. ‘More fun that way. Besides…’ she laid a hand on mine ‘…this is your home. You have as much right to be here as anyone else.’ Maybe I could just stay in Therese’s cottage for the duration, I thought.
Therese polished off the cookie and reached for her teacup. ‘Now, tell me about Scotland.’
So I did. I told her about my flat on the edge of Perth, and how it wasn’t much to look at from the outside, but I’d finally got the inside the way I wanted it – cosy and bright. I told her about the newspaper, about my job, and when she said, ‘But what are the prospects like? When are we going to read you in the Guardian?’ I distracted her with a story about a police press conference on an operation to confiscate alcohol from teens in the local park that had to be curtailed when half the cans and bottles went missing.
Therese laughed in the right places, but somehow I still got the impression that she was just humouring me. And, as I finished my last story and my cup of tea, she pounced.
‘So, tell me about your young man,’ she said, picking up the pot and refilling my cup. ‘Because I can’t believe you haven’t got one, pretty girl like you.’
‘Just one?’ I laughed, hoping vainly to throw her off the scent. Yes, there was a man, of sorts. But Duncan and I were casual, fun…and just a little bit too complicated to explain to an elderly relative. Still, it might not be a bad idea to let everyone know that I’d moved on, that I had a new life, a new romance in Perth. Even if that wasn’t quite the truth.
‘Only one that means something, I’m sure.’ Her voice was placid and immovable. ‘So, tell me about him.’
‘Well, his name’s Duncan,’ I said, sifting through my mind for what could be considered safe to talk about, and how to say it without using the words ‘friends with benefits’. ‘He works with me – he’s our new editor, actually. Brought in from Edinburgh earlier this year.’
‘Ah, so it’s all quite new, then?’ Therese leant forward. ‘I understand. Still all flowers and romance and sex all day on Sundays. Still in that private, special world where there’s only the two of you.’
Quite aside from the fact that hearing my great-aunt talking about all-day sex sessions had rendered me incapable of speech, there was just no way I was going to explain to her that, actually, it was less flowers and romance and more the second part, so I just smiled weakly and nodded.
Therese patted my hand and said, ‘I understand,’ again.
‘Anyway,’ I said, regaining my voice, just in time to change the subject. ‘I meant to ask – what’s with the clothes shop inside?’
Her face lit up with an excitement I’d only ever seen on her before at the Harrods sale. ‘So you noticed my little enterprise! Caro helped me set it up.’
I wasn’t quite sure when my baby sister had become an established business guru, but then, I still wasn’t entirely sure what the business was. ‘Really.’
‘Oh yes. She figured out with me how to get an account on eBay, and PayPal, and how to list things and set prices. Turned out that there was quite the market for some of my old evening dresses and such.’ Therese smiled a little ruefully. ‘Only it takes a lot of restraint to only sell, and not be tempted to buy.’
‘So, all that stuff inside…’
‘Waiting to be sold on,’ Therese said, firmly. ‘See, it turns out that a lot of people want to get into vintage wear, but don’t know where to start, or what size to buy. So that’s my USP.’
Which sounded more like something you’d use to track ghosts than sell clothes. ‘USP?’
‘Unique selling point. They send me their measurements, and a photo, and a bit of information about them and what they want the clothes for, and I put together a one-of-a-kind vintage outfit, including all accessories, for their specified occasion.’
I blinked. That was actually a really good idea. ‘That’s…great.’
In a sudden movement, Therese was on her feet, motioning for me to stay where I was. ‘Actually, I have something that would be perfect for you,’ she said. ‘For tonight. Just wait here.’
She was back within moments, holding out a navy dress on a satin padded hanger. ‘To wear for dinner.’
I reached out a hand to touch it. The dress was of a style that had been popular in the 1930s, and the cut was exquisite, with fluted cap sleeves and a silky bow at the neckline, above the narrow waist belt. The cotton was soft and worn under my fingertips, but the colours were still crisp and bright. It was only as I looked closer that I realised; this was the dress Therese had worn in the photo on the mantle.
‘It should fit, I think,’ she said, pushing the hanger into my hands. ‘You’ve lost weight since you’ve been away. Hold it up against yourself.’ I did as I was told, and she looked at me critically.
‘It’s lovely,’ I said, swishing the skirt from side to side. ‘But you don’t think it’s a little…too much?’ Even at Rosewood, dressing for dinner didn’t usually require evening gowns, as such. Not that this was – it was just a hundred times nicer than anything I had in my suitcase.
‘Nonsense,’ Therese said. ‘George always said that a person could never really be overdressed – merely better dressed than everyone else. Now, you’ll need the shoes and a bag too, of course. You’re a six, yes? Come with me.’
She trotted back into the cottage and I followed obediently. Maybe a makeover was just what I needed to get through the rest of the visit. Maybe Ellie wouldn’t remember what I’d done if I looked like someone else.
I returned to the main house some time later, laden down with hangers and bags, to find the place deserted. Assuming that people were getting changed for dinner, I followed suit and snuck up the stairs to my allotted room, pulling a face at the yellow walls as they glowed in the slowly fading sunlight.
On the other hand, I realised, the one good thing about the Yellow Room was that it had an en suite. I decided to take advantage of it, hoping that a shower might wash away the ache that comes from sitting on trains too long, and the tension that came simply from being home. Besides, tea with my great-aunt had left my head overflowing with thoughts, and some hot and steamy water was the best way I knew to flush them out.
The shower didn’t help as much as I’d hoped. In less than an hour I’d be sitting down to dinner with my entire family, something I hadn’t done in two years, and I was going in with nothing but a vintage outfit and a vague hope that Nathaniel had a plan.
I didn’t even know how much Ellie had told the family, or how much they’d guessed, about what had happened.
And then there was Greg.
Tonight, I’d see Greg for the first time in two years. For the first time since the wedding.
Two years, and I still wasn’t ready. I wasn’t sure I ever would be.
Part of me wanted to see him, more than anything. To get it over with. To know, for sure, that there was nothing there between us any more. To be certain that my heart wouldn’t beat too fast when he was in the room, that I wouldn’t find my eyes drawn to him every few moments.
To show that I was no longer in love with my sister’s husband.
The rest of me just wanted to put the inevitable off for as long as possible.
The love Greg and I had shared had been childish, irresponsible – and all-encompassing, for a time. The sort of love that makes you abandon caution and sense and morals. The kind of love that causes pain.
I never wanted to feel that sort of love again.
But seeing Greg was nothing compared to my terror at seeing Ellie again. I could take any reaction from Greg – anything from love to hate. It didn’t matter; it couldn’t change anything now.
But Ellie…the thought of seeing the same hate in her eyes as the day she found out, of knowing for certain that nothing had changed – and never would – that filled me with the same paralysing fear that had kept me away from Rosewood for so long. When I was hundreds of miles away, there was still a chance that she might have forgiven me. Once I saw her again, whatever she felt was the truth, and I couldn’t spin it into possibilities any more.
And that idea frightened me more than anything.
I ached across the shoulders, and my eyes still felt gritty, but at least I was clean. Wrapping one towel around my hair and another around my body, I wiped beads of water away from my eyes and opened the bathroom door, letting the burst of steam obscure the alarming yellow of the bedroom walls.
My skin burned, and I knew I’d be bright pink from head to toe. I liked my showers hot – hot enough to leave me gasping for breath when I stepped out.
Pulling the towel from my head I shook my wet hair out across my shoulders, and clutched the towel around my body tighter as I crossed the room to open the balcony door. Fresh air filled my lungs as I stared out over the Rose Garden. Edward was there, I realised, his blonde head moving between the remaining blooms. Isabelle had been right; I did have a magnificent view of the Rose Garden. I felt I could almost reach out and pluck one from its stem.
Suddenly, something else in the garden caught my eye. Another figure, too pale in the sunlight. She seemed to move in a different plane to Edward, as she ran her hands over the decapitated rose bushes, as if to her they still bloomed.
Was it really the Rosewood ghost?
I leaned further out across the balcony railing to get a better look, until a rush of cold air told me that my towel hadn’t leaned with me. I grabbed for it, yanking it back up over my breasts, but not before Edward turned towards the house again.
Even at a distance, I could see the sardonic eyebrow he raised at my state of undress. Then he turned his gaze away and walked slowly towards the other gardens.
Damn.
I was beginning to think that I hadn’t made the best ever first impression on my grandfather’s new assistant.
Copyright
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers
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First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2016
Copyright © Sophie Pembroke 2016
Sophie Pembroke asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental
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Ebook Edition © November 2016 ISBN: 9780008193157
Christmas at Rosewood Page 12