Read Online The Runaway Bridesmaid by Daisy James - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Daisy James
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Sadly, your particular frog is of the Poison Dart variety, and I can assure you it will not have a happy outcome.’ Well, he had been right there, hadn’t he?
Whilst Rosie was grateful to Lauren and Toby for sticking up for her professional abilities, she was horrified at the extent of Giles’ contempt for her. Giles Phillips, someone she thought respected her professionally, had even been prepared to trample all over her dreams of promotion to line his own coffers. Not only did he hold her in such low esteem in their personal relationship but, it seemed, in their professional one too.
Clarity hit her like a sledgehammer. She had done the right thing. Now all she had to figure out was what she should do next.
Chapter Ten
She whipped back the lemon gingham curtains and flung open the window to the rear garden, allowing fragmented sunlight to filter its rays into the room. The view over the Belfast sink to the garden beyond was impressive but Rosie was alarmed at the state of its neglect. Her aunt was usually to be found on her knees, buttocks high in the air, tending her precious herb garden to the left of the kitchen window adjacent to the wooden decking, and the plants bemoaned her absence. An essential component had been erased from the intricate green canvas.
However, despite the horticultural chaos, there, at the bottom of the garden by the drystone wall marking the lodge’s boundary with Brampton Manor, rose the cherry tree in full candy-pink blossom. As the end of April approached, its burst of botanical joy seemed at odds with the dilapidation of the rest of the garden which was a veritable tangle of weeds – evidence, if Rosie should need it, that after death life continued to bloom and good things could still happen.
She fought down a rising lump in her throat as she recalled the evening when, after a few glasses of the local scrumpy cider, she and Bernice had danced under the confetti-like rain of the tree’s velvety pink petals. Again, the scene lacked its central character: her aunt resting in her deckchair, artist’s sketch pad in hand, picking out the stamen of a tulip with her pencil. Bernice had continued to pursue her love of illustration after her formal retirement as a children’s book illustrator and had graduated to the depiction of the herbs, flowers and plants growing in her Devonshire garden which she occasionally opened to the public.
No technique was spared as Bernice had tutored Rosie in a less-defined depiction of the sumptuous garden and its myriad gems in watercolours or pastels. Those afternoons spent together in companionable artistic silence had been some of the best of Rosie’s life and once again, as she filled the kettle and set it to boil, she was wrapped in a wave of melancholy at the apparent neglect of not only her aunt’s beloved garden and cottage but also of her aunt herself.
Those careless words uttered by her aunt’s solicitor floated back to her. Her aunt had died alone. Rosie knew her aunt had been discovered by Susan Moorfield, her best friend and the owner of the village shop and adjacent tearoom she had passed earlier. Had her aunt known that she was ill? That she had only a short time left? If so, why hadn’t she said anything?
As the kettle clicked off, there was a knock on the front door. Perfect timing – Rosie knew who her first visitor would be. Her spirits leapt and a smile stretched her plump lips as she grabbed her mane of golden hair and slung it over her shoulder – no requirement for its obsessive taming here in Devon.
‘Hi, Rosie. I’m so sorry to hear about your Aunt Bernice.’ Emily dragged Rosie into a hug. ‘God, you are skinny! I can feel your bones. Is this Manhattan chic or lack of time to eat? Just as well I stopped by at Susan’s on the way over.’ Her visitor raised a white paper bag and a pint of milk in a glass bottle and made herself busy at the kettle.
‘It’s great to see you too, Emily. And thanks for the insight
Whilst Rosie was grateful to Lauren and Toby for sticking up for her professional abilities, she was horrified at the extent of Giles’ contempt for her. Giles Phillips, someone she thought respected her professionally, had even been prepared to trample all over her dreams of promotion to line his own coffers. Not only did he hold her in such low esteem in their personal relationship but, it seemed, in their professional one too.
Clarity hit her like a sledgehammer. She had done the right thing. Now all she had to figure out was what she should do next.
Chapter Ten
She whipped back the lemon gingham curtains and flung open the window to the rear garden, allowing fragmented sunlight to filter its rays into the room. The view over the Belfast sink to the garden beyond was impressive but Rosie was alarmed at the state of its neglect. Her aunt was usually to be found on her knees, buttocks high in the air, tending her precious herb garden to the left of the kitchen window adjacent to the wooden decking, and the plants bemoaned her absence. An essential component had been erased from the intricate green canvas.
However, despite the horticultural chaos, there, at the bottom of the garden by the drystone wall marking the lodge’s boundary with Brampton Manor, rose the cherry tree in full candy-pink blossom. As the end of April approached, its burst of botanical joy seemed at odds with the dilapidation of the rest of the garden which was a veritable tangle of weeds – evidence, if Rosie should need it, that after death life continued to bloom and good things could still happen.
She fought down a rising lump in her throat as she recalled the evening when, after a few glasses of the local scrumpy cider, she and Bernice had danced under the confetti-like rain of the tree’s velvety pink petals. Again, the scene lacked its central character: her aunt resting in her deckchair, artist’s sketch pad in hand, picking out the stamen of a tulip with her pencil. Bernice had continued to pursue her love of illustration after her formal retirement as a children’s book illustrator and had graduated to the depiction of the herbs, flowers and plants growing in her Devonshire garden which she occasionally opened to the public.
No technique was spared as Bernice had tutored Rosie in a less-defined depiction of the sumptuous garden and its myriad gems in watercolours or pastels. Those afternoons spent together in companionable artistic silence had been some of the best of Rosie’s life and once again, as she filled the kettle and set it to boil, she was wrapped in a wave of melancholy at the apparent neglect of not only her aunt’s beloved garden and cottage but also of her aunt herself.
Those careless words uttered by her aunt’s solicitor floated back to her. Her aunt had died alone. Rosie knew her aunt had been discovered by Susan Moorfield, her best friend and the owner of the village shop and adjacent tearoom she had passed earlier. Had her aunt known that she was ill? That she had only a short time left? If so, why hadn’t she said anything?
As the kettle clicked off, there was a knock on the front door. Perfect timing – Rosie knew who her first visitor would be. Her spirits leapt and a smile stretched her plump lips as she grabbed her mane of golden hair and slung it over her shoulder – no requirement for its obsessive taming here in Devon.
‘Hi, Rosie. I’m so sorry to hear about your Aunt Bernice.’ Emily dragged Rosie into a hug. ‘God, you are skinny! I can feel your bones. Is this Manhattan chic or lack of time to eat? Just as well I stopped by at Susan’s on the way over.’ Her visitor raised a white paper bag and a pint of milk in a glass bottle and made herself busy at the kettle.
‘It’s great to see you too, Emily. And thanks for the insight
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