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‘So, extend your stay, Rosie,’ Emily coaxed. ‘But this time, follow your heart, not your head for once. Date sharp-suited Angus. Or scorchingly sexy Charlie? Let Charlie show your aunt’s recipe journal to his publisher friend, find out if he’s still interested. Maybe get the book published! What a fitting epitaph that would be for Aunt Bernice. Her recipe journal is something different – very commercial, I’d say, what with “baking mania” sweeping the nation – and it’s somethingyoucan become involved in. What’s this Charlie like, anyway? When do I get to meet him?’
Emily flicked her mahogany bob behind her ears and watched with delight as Rosie’s cheeks flushed to her roots. ‘Oooooh, what are you not sharing with Auntie Emily? Come on, Rosie, spill. Why don’t you give Charlie a chance, just relax and see how things go?’
‘I don’t know, Emily. Sure, he’s good-looking in a sultry, Mediterranean sort of way. And yes, I can see you, like Lauren, would find him attractive. But he’s definitelynotmy type, too rough around the edges, too excessively chirpy. We had a slight disagreement the last time we met anyway, so I’m sure he’s not thought any further about his offer to pitch my aunt’s journal to his publisher friend.’
‘What did you argue about?’
Emily set down the huge brown teapot, the perpetual deliverer of calm and balm, on the kitchen table and drew up a chair, placing her elbows on the table, her chin in her palm, staring Rosie down with her big brown eyes.
‘He called me a doormat!’
Rosie noticed there was no immediate denial, or expression of sympathy, for that label from Emily. So she took a sip of her chamomile tea and continued with her indignation against the accusations levied by Charlie, on the basis that attack was the best form of defence.
‘Well, he’s got room to talk. His life hasn’t been perfect, either. Did you know his wife of three months ditched him for his flatmate and she’s having his baby at Christmas? And what’shedone with his life so far, anyway? Part-time chef at Somersby Manor, then he slinks up to Pimlico for the winter. He leaves at the end of the month, by the way.’
‘Mm, methinks the woman doth protest too much.’ Emily smirked. ‘You know, Pimlico is a very wealthy part of London. If he shares an apartment with friends there he must be making decent money at whatever he does in London.’
‘I doubt it. He’s upset to be losing his job at the Manor.’
‘That could be because he’s leaving the picturesque rural idyll that is the Cotswolds for the smoke-filled air and litter-strewn streets of the capital. Like you, maybe Somersby is where Charlie has found his little haven of tranquillity away from the bright, harsh lights of London.’
‘I suppose that’s a possibility.’
‘I can see why the Campbell-Wrights can’t wait to close their gorgeous home to the paying public, though,’ continued Emily, topping up her empty teacup from the pot. ‘I know they hold the occasional wedding or conference over the winter months, butalways in a gargantuan marquee tucked away at the bottom of the garden next to the croquet lawn. It must be heart-breaking to look down on the hordes of braying tourists trampling all over your flowerbeds and having to endure their sticky fingers handling your ancestral heirlooms. But still, what a fabulous place to call home. Charlie’s fortunate to work amongst all that majesty, even if he is a lowly kitchen hand. Anyway, since when did you get so snobbish and patronising? He’s probably working his way up from the bottom and there’s no shame in that, Miss Hamilton! Did he, by any chance, say where he worked when he was up in London? Did you even ask?’
Rosie squirmed at Emily’s admonishment.
‘He said something about getting a position as a chef in a restaurant, I think, as though he was going to brazenly walk into the Dorchester or the Ritz and collect his three Michelin stars on the way out. You know, the way he talked about getting a publisher to assess my aunt’s illustrations, it’s as though he runs with the literary crowd, too!’
‘Good grief, Rosie, this Charlie really does get your juices flowing, doesn’t he?’ Emily smirked at her friend’s animation as she sunk her teeth into a thick slice of focaccia she had drizzled with rich, dark green olive oil. ‘I think you like him and haven’t got the courage to admit it.’
‘I do not!’
‘A smoulderingly sexy guy wrapped in crisp, starched chef’s whites, long ebony curls brushing his collar, dark sultry eyes boring into your soul as his moist lips descend onto yours and...’
‘Emily Davenport, what’s got into you? I’ve told you, he’s not my type! Now, maybe if we were talking about Angus here,’ Rosie teased Emily.
‘Angus? Yes, immaculate, designer-clad, corporate shark – from the same pond as you, just different shores.’
Rosie rolled her eyes and decided to move the subject on. ‘I didn’t tell you: I’ve been reading Aunt Bernice’s diary. Did you know she adored the same man her whole life and she kept the flame burning right up until she died? It’s so sad, and she urged me not to fall into the same trap with my own life. Chance would be a fine thing! Maybe you’re right. I should extend my stay for a couple of months; Iwilldate Angus again. Despite having no idea whatsoever what was going on at that cricket match he dragged me along to, I enjoyed his company and we do have a lot in common.’
Rosie paused to drain her cup of the last dregs of the perfumed brew, taking a moment to get her words in order before she asked Emily a question that had been niggling at her for a while.
‘Anyway, if Aunt Bernice was in love with someone all her life, and I’m assuming Gordon is still alive, how can I risk publishing her journal? What if it becomes successful and the press start poking around in her background for salacious gossip!’
‘Rosie, dear, it’s a cookery book, with beautiful, hand-sketched illustrations. Not an exposé of her life with a Hollywood movie star! Bernice adored books, especially cookery books. I think she’d have loved to know her journal had found a willing publisher. Of course, it’s your decision, but throwing in my two pennies’ worth, I’d say go for it.’
‘Do you really think Bernice would have leapt at the chance? Am I denying her a posthumous display of her talents?’
‘Maybe. Just ask yourself why those journals were in the only trunk up there in your bedroom along with one single diary – this year’s? My theory is that Bernice sifted through her personalpapers at some point and arranged for you to find these items after she died. She even primed Susan to give you a hint, didn’t she? She wanted you to read that one diary she wrote. Shewantedyou to know her secrets and to enjoy those artistic drawings, even try out her recipes – toBake Yourself Better. You, Rosie. And, failing all other arguments I can present to the court, Miss Hamilton, think of Hannah.’
‘What do you mean? What about Hannah?’
‘Well, she was left nothing in her aunt’s will, and, as you’ve decided to delay the sale of Willowbrook Lodge – who knows, maybe you will end up keeping it – no, Rosie, I’m just saying, the royalties from any new book published could be shared with Hannah. Maybe she won’t have a rich husband to rely on forever.’
‘Good grief, Emily, you have uncanny foresight. I forgot to tell you what Lauren told me this morning. Hannah is back to her old tricks already, and she’s only been married for four months.’
‘Not a surprise to me, darling. So, why don’t you ring Charlie, apologise for your irrational behaviour, explain it was his sexy good looks that clouded your judgement and you’d love to let his publisher friend take a look at the recipe journal – no harm done, eh? You can pull the plug at any time, and, maybe, you could ask him for date at the same time, see how that goes too?’
