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‘Thanks, Susan.’
Rosie laid her palm on the older women’s arm and smiled into her lived-in face. Her hair, the colour of autumn mist, was drawn into a neat bun at the nape of her neck and her matronly figure seemed more at home bustling around the tables collecting empty teacups than remaining inactive. Her gentle presence reminded Rosie of her aunt, and she knew Susan would be hurt that her visit was to be curtailed.
‘Sadly, I won’t be here in Somersby for long. Bernice’s will is being read tomorrow. I’m not sure what assets she owned or what her wishes were, but I hope to leave all the formalities in that regard in the hands of her solicitors. I’m flying back to New York on Friday. But if you could keep an eye on the lodge, Susan, I’d be grateful? I’ll drop over the key on my way back to the airport. Ridiculous leaving it under a terracotta chimney pot.’
‘Ah, it’s not the New York metropolis here, my love. We can still leave our doors and windows open in Somersby, thank the Lord. We are proud to have a thriving community of people who look out for each other.’
***
Later that evening, as Rosie drew the hand-embroidered sheet up to her chin, staring at the cobwebs on the cornice and cracks in the ceiling above, she replayed the day as though it were a newsreel. She rued her aunt’s passing and her thoughts drifted back over her life. Since her sister, Rosie’s mother, had emigrated to the United States almost twenty-five yearsago, Bernice had had no family around to soothe life’s bumpy journey. Yes, she’d left behind her exquisite illustrations and artwork, but no human evidence that she had lived and loved, and been loved, and for that Rosie was truly saddened.
Would this be her own fate?
A lonely spinster with only the WI for company and sporadic communications from her niece thousands of miles away?
Her stomach performed an uncomfortable lurch. Her father was right. She did need to get out and socialise more, arrange a few dates or, in his words, to “kiss a few frogs”. She had truly loved Carlos, but at the time she had been unable to prioritise him over her need to progress her career. Long hours at the office had eaten into the time they spent together, and often, even when they were together, her mind was on whatever deal she was brokering. It was her own fault he’d looked elsewhere for comfort and happiness, no, a future.
Looking back, after her heart had mended, she couldn’t blame him.
After Carlos, it had almost been a relief not to add the pressure of dating to her already manic schedule. Relationships were tough wherever you chose to love and work, but especially so in one of the world’s largest cities. Edward had edged his way into her life, but had she loved him as she had Carlos? If she was brutally honest, she didn’t think so. What he’d done was hurt her pride more than bruised her heart. She was over him already!
She’d meet with old Mr Meadows at Richmond Morton tomorrow and, when she returned to Manhattan, she’d make a concerted attempt to date. Whilst not wanting to emulate Hannah, or even take her advice and settle for anyone who strayed onto her path so as not to grow old alone, she would make a huge effort to overlook those niggling irritations she’dmanaged to find in every guy who had shown an interest in her since Carlos; even one guy’s liberal use of aftershave had put paid to a second date.
To her surprise, she managed a first giggle of the day when she thought of the Canadian by the name of Marc she had met at the gym. She had toyed with the possibility of accepting his offer to grab an alfalfa tea in the cafeteria until she’d glanced down at his naked feet. His toenails looked like bear claws and she’d struggled to prevent herself from running screaming into the showers. Then another incident sprang to her mind when she had refused a minor league soccer player’s advances based solely on his choice of purple and fluorescent green sneakers.
She knew these aversions to podiatry quirks were ridiculous. How can anyone base their romantic choices on an exemplary taste in footwear? But she had truly felt repulsed – especially after her brush with Marc, who had called her twice to repeat his offer of a health-conscious beverage. All she had been able to conjure in her mind was an image of him yomping through the Canadian Rockies, growling vociferously as his fur-covered feet crashed through the undergrowth. Yuck!
But she was determined to find an exit from this labyrinth of bitterness she had built for herself, to ditch the sadness and self-recrimination and the shouldering of responsibility for everyone’s happiness that had become an unhealthy habit – no, an obsession – and grab some for herself.
With that momentous decision made, sleep at last delivered its welcome oblivion.
Chapter Twelve
The branch office of Richmond Morton Solicitors was housed above an Oxfam charity shop on a quiet street on the outskirts of Cheltenham, but their main offices were in the cathedral city of Gloucester a few miles to the south. Having no transport of her own in the UK, Rosie was grateful for Mr Meadows agreeing to conduct their appointment at the branch office; splashing out on another expensive taxi ride would have depleted her meagre funds.
The waiting room, to Rosie’s amusement, came straight from the pages of a Charles Dickens novel. Used to the uber-slick law offices of corporate New York City, despite the sombre reason for her visit, she was enthralled by the quaint antiquity that the English, and in this case their lawyers, did so well.
The receptionist was also straight from Victorian central casting with her tightly permed mousy brown hair and spectacles dangling over her chest from a neck string. Rosie’s lips twitched when she saw the gold badge affixed to the lapel on the woman’s tweed jacket; Mrs Kerriwinkle, the name fit her perfectly. After introducing herself, Mrs Kerriwinkle directed her to the collection of mismatched, cracked-leather armchairs which had probably been around since the war, and she took the opportunity to survey the room more carefully.
It was more like a library than a law firm’s waiting room. Three of the four walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases crammed with impressive, presumably legalistic, tomes withhessian-coloured spines and gold-embossed lettering. The air smelled of disturbed dust and yellowing parchment, mingled with a faint tannin aroma from the chairs and the leather-inlaid mahogany table which presided over the room. Only the addition of a Victorian gentleman in a black bowler hat, fob watch dangling from his waistcoat pocket and reading a copy ofThe Times, would have enhanced this Dickensian idyll.
With this richly detailed image in mind, she was unable to mask her surprise when Angus Meadows strode into the room, his hand outstretched to greet her, his broad shoulders and clean-cut, handsome features diametrically at odds with the cobwebbed, bespectacled portrait of Angus Meadows she had fixed in her mind from last week’s telephone call. He could only have been in his early thirties, like herself. A surprise fizz erupted in her stomach and radiated through her veins to sparkle at her extremities.
‘Miss Hamilton, Angus Meadows, partner here at Richmond Morton. We spoke on the telephone last week. Pleased to meet you.’ He grasped her hand into a firm shake, his cobalt eyes crinkling, and the fizz became an effervescent burble. ‘Once again, please accept my firm’s and my own condolences for your loss. I trust the arrangements for the funeral were to your satisfaction?’
‘Yes, erm, yes. Thank you for organising it on behalf of the family, Mr Meadows.’
Rosie felt her usual professional composure weaken as she followed in the cologne-infused wake of Angus Meadows, her cheeks colouring as she found herself scrutinising his impressive physique. His sandy blond hair, gelled into a low quiff at his forehead, was clipped arrow straight at the nape of his neck, but it was the golden hairs on his exposed forearms and the strong handshake that had caused her insides to turn to liquid andblasted an unexpected jolt of desire into her unsuspecting body. A gaudy tie, his attempt at softening the stiff professional image, flapped at his flat abdomen.
What was the matter with her! She’d never experienced such instant attraction before. But was it any wonder? He was just like a character out of a Jane Austen novel right there before her eyes!
‘Please, take a seat.’
‘Thank you, and thank you for seeing me whilst I’m over in the UK, Mr Meadows,’ she blabbered as she lowered herself into the chair he’d indicated, thankful for the division of his heavy mahogany desk. She crossed her legs and smoothed down her skirt, the one she had worn to the funeral, grateful she’d made the effort that morning to tame her hair into its chignon, and dab on a little foundation and a swipe of apricot lip gloss.
Angus Meadows’ office was a replica of the Richmond Morton waiting room, except for the piles of buff-coloured files and beribboned counsel’s briefs dotting every available surface. Whilst the man in front of her was pristine in his presentation, elegant even – his clothes screamed designer and his Rolex confirmed his wealth – his fastidiousness did not extend to office housekeeping.
One of those ubiquitous buff files lay open on the desk, and Rosie realised that it must be the file pertaining to her aunt’s affairs. With her heart beating a concerto of nerves against her chest, she waited for Angus to put on his gold-rimmed spectacles and prepare to read from the large, unfolded piece of parchment.
