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‘Why did Aunt Bernice have to die alone, Em? I wish I’d asked the lawyer for more details, but I was so shocked to get that call, I didn’t think to ask any questions.’
Emily stroked her friend’s beautifully manicured hand with her own cracked, reddened specimen more accustomed to washing up and wiping mouths and bottoms than multiple Manhattan manicures.
‘It’s heart-breaking, Rosie, but you can stop torturing yourself. I saw Susan when I collected these delicious scones. She assures me that Bernice was ready to go, that she had put her affairs in order and passed away peacefully. So definitely not the nightmare scenario you have swirling around your head, darling. Bernice’s WI friends rallied around in the final days, too.’
Rosie drew out a fresh tissue to mop away her tears. ‘Thanks, Em. You always were able to say the right thing to soothe away my rampant anxiety. Will you and Nick come to the funeral on Wednesday with me? When is Nick due back?’
‘He’s back tomorrow evening, so yes, we’ll both be there. Juliette is staying over with us until at least Thursday night so she can get Ethan to school and babysit Lorcan. Who arranged the funeral, did you say?’
‘Bernice’s solicitor at Richmond Morton. I’ve an appointment with him in Cheltenham on Thursday for a reading of the will and to sort out the paperwork. Bernice never married and she had no children. My mother was her only relative when she was alive, so I’m not sure what’s going to happen to the lodge. I don’t suppose there’ll be much else to decide; the legal side of thingsshould be straightforward. I’ve got a return flight booked to JFK on Friday morning.’
She saw the flash of disappointment streak across Emily’s face. ‘Sorry I can’t stay longer, Em. Got some things to sort out back home.’
‘Yes, I got your text about Edward and Hannah. I’m so sorry, darling.’
And, having breached the dam once, Rosie succumbed to another fresh wave of tears. To her relief, Emily gave her the time she needed to sob her heart out, patting her hand and pouring more strong tea, heaping in the sustenance sugar provided, as the delicious scones went untouched. After Lauren, Emily was her best friend, and it had sometimes been easier to empty her heart into their exchanged emails than divulge her pain to Lauren’s concerned face.
Under normal circumstances, Rosie knew that Emily was a full-time gossiper, unmatched in the art of the extraction of trivial but essential details. She possessed an encyclopaedic memory for the village chit-chat and a theatrical talent for its repeat. She had thrown her energies into every attempted escapade in her life thus far, from stage school to karate, from studying to dating, and was currently starring in the role of motherhood to Ethan and Lorcan.
But as she watched her friend push the plate with her scone towards her, she feared Emily’s next social experiment would be her, so she plastered a wide smile on her lips, inhaled a lavender-tinged breath and prepared to dish the sanitised details.
When she had emptied her cranium’s coffers, she turned to stare at the beauty of the English country garden surrounding them, leaves glistening in the sunshine, soothing despite its unruly appearance; life struggled on regardless of neglect andhumiliation, flowers continued to bloom, fruit still matured. Clouds scudded across the cobalt sky, whipping up a stiff April breeze, and Rosie realised she was freezing, and a sudden bout of shivering overwhelmed her. Her life over the last few days had been no pretty cottage garden, more like a scene from a stage farce to whose premiere she had been press-ganged as an unwilling front-row spectator.
‘Come and stay with us tonight, Rosie. There’s plenty of room. You can have the sofa-bed in the lounge. I can’t let you stay in the lodge alone.’ Emily shot a look at the cottage crouched behind them amidst an air of genteel dilapidation.
Rosie smiled at her friend’s concern but recalled her numerous Zoom sessions with Emily as two bouncing boys screamed and frolicked in the background and politely declined. Solitude was what she craved most at the moment, not the comforting arms of a loud, boisterous family.
‘Okay, but if you change your mind, you know where we are. Now, I’ve got to dash to collect Ethan from after-school club. I’ll see you on Wednesday.’
She hugged Emily, thanked her for her support, then waved her away in her navy Mini, the Union Jack flag sprayed on its roof, and, with her spirits flagging under the onslaught of jetlag, she retired to Bernice’s chintzy spare room – the sanctuary she had used to escape the wreckage of her personal life the last time her world had imploded.
Would the cottage produce the same magic recovery this time?
Chapter Eleven
St. Peter’s Parish Church had presided over the village of Somersby for the last five hundred years. Shortly before eleven a.m. on a Wednesday morning in late April, as a golden wreath of sunlight hugged the silhouette of the church’s stone spire, mourners meandered towards the arched wooden entrance gates; some alone, some in pairs, others in solemn groups.
Rosie doubted she had the strength to enter those doors, even with the staunch support of Emily and Nick at each elbow. But as the only representative of the Marshall family in attendance, she swung her legs from the black limousine in the cortège, straightened her neat black skirt, clenched her fists and jaw, and summoned every last ounce of courage she possessed to force her steps along the churchyard’s pathway and through the heavy doors.
The heels of her stilettos – their height the source of many teasing comments from her aunt – clickety-clacked on the flagstone floor of the vestibule and, as she made her way down the aisle sewn with a tapestry of tombstones, she drew curious looks. However, she had no available headspace to worry about what people thought of her choice of footwear, so she simply took her place on the front pew, bracketed between Nick and Emily, and started to nervously twist her pearl earring. Emily gently removed her fingers and held her hand in hers, not daring to meet her eyes for fear of puncturing the bubble of restrained tears.
The congregation waited in respectful silence, the calm drone of unidentifiable organ music softening its harshness. Rosie’s soul was saturated with guilt and remorse, yet she knew these emotions were common when a life ended.
At last, when Rosie thought she could hold back on her tears no longer, the minister appeared through the rear door and the service of thanksgiving for her Aunt Bernice’s life began. Later, she could recall very little of the sermon delivered by the Reverend Paul Hartley. Bernice had not been a regular worshipper at St Peter’s, and Rev. Hartley was a relative newcomer to the parish, having replaced the previous incumbent when the popular village priest, Reverend Aubrey, had taken a mission to Uganda. However, a few of his quietly delivered words lingered on in Rosie’s disorientated mind.
‘Our faith manifests itself in all that we do, all that we love, and all that we create. It is through those creations that we live on in the hearts and minds of those with whom we shared our lives and our loves. Our sister, Miss Bernice Catherine Marshall, was a talented artist and illustrator of children’s books and gave joy to every child and adult who had the good fortune to encounter one of those colourful gems of learning. Under her hand, their vibrant contents sprang to life from the page, and it is in those pictures and in our hearts that her memory will live on.’
The congregation shuffled from the church, awaiting their turn to clasp Rosie’s fingers, to find the words to express their sorrow and offer their condolences at her aunt’s passing, thanking the Reverend for his comforting words or commenting on his chosen reading from the Bible. Some stalwart attendees asked after the previous Reverend and his presumed success in his missionary work.
As Rosie made her way back to the waiting limousine, she was probably not intended to overhear the crisp clear tones of Rev. Hartley, more used to preaching from a pulpit than whispering in ears, that sadly the Reverend Aubrey had suffered some recent ill health and was returning from Uganda to see out his ecclesiastical time in the adjoining parish of Cranbury, should they wish to resume their acquaintance. The march of time favoured no one, even those closer to the director of our destiny.
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 here, 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 Cheltenham 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 heisan expert and will guide you in identifying which plants are flowers and which are weeds, if you need that help, Rosie?’
