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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 of her aunt’s diary. Reading its contents would surely constitute a flagrant invasion of her privacy. As she leaned back from the coffee table, her feet sparkling with pins and needles, she chastised herself for her next thought. Dedicated to her garden, her WI meetings, and her artistic pursuits, Bernice had been a spinster of the parish of Somersby, in the county of Gloucestershire.
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 toliveher life rather than record the passage of its trials and tribulations. After placing the diary on her bedside table, she took a moment to stare out of the window on the scene below, its beauty pixelated by droplets of rain journeying downwards towards the windowsill.
She made a decision. She would read what her aunt had written. And she now understood why Susan had made thatstrange reference to her sleeping arrangements. Her aunt had wanted her to find it!
She settled back against the pillows and, as she peeled back the first page, her heart performed an unexpected somersault of surprise. 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. Taking a deep breath, 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 she 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 Willowbrook 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 Hannah. Yes, she needed your love and attention when she was a child, but not anymore! You will never be able to achieve a loving relationship of your own until you start focusing on your own needs. First you must findhappiness 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 Edward 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 that 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 tried and failed to swallow down the lump in her throat as she 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.
Why? Was he married? No, her aunt would never cause such heartache to a fellow human being. Rosie was upset that Bernice had lived a long life burdened 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 both she and her father advocated.
To her surprise, a fully formed image of Angus Meadows floated across her mind and the familiar frisson of attraction tickled at her chest. She giggled; nowhewas someone she could envisage kissing without any difficulty. Bernice’s letter had made her wishes clear, too – that she assumed Rosie would keep Willowbrook 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 beenworking 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’?
And maybe she would follow her advice to give love a chance, too. When she rang Angus the next day to inform him that she had changed her mind and had decided to stay 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.
Dusk was in its final act, deepening the crimson streaks across the sky to a rich magenta, and Rosie reached over the back of the sofa to adjust 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, marshalling her last breath of energy, she strode down the path, her stilettos sinking low into the gravel. As she heaved and pushed and pulled at the wooden post, she noticed the curtains of the neighbouring cottage twitch.
First she giggled, and then she laughed out loud at the image she must present. There she was, in the twilight, in a pair of ridiculously high heels, smart black skirt suit riding up her thigh, her golden hair flying in the mounting breeze, attacking an unyielding wooden post like a demented banshee.
Finally, 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. One of her spindle-like heels caught in a crackin 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.
