Free The Runaway Bridesmaid by Daisy James Page A

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 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 Tavistock 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 things should 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 Giles and Freya. I’m so sorry, darling.’ And, having breached the dam once, Rosie succumbed to another fresh wave of tears.
    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 Rosie’s best friend. It had sometimes been easier to empty her heart into their exchanged emails than divulge her pain to Lauren’s concerned face. Under usual circumstances, 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 Rosie feared her 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 and humiliation, 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 – 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 sessions on Skype with Emily as two bouncing boys screamed and frolicked in the background and politely declined. Solitude was what she craved at the moment, not the comforting arms of a loud, boisterous family.
    She waved Emily away in her navy Mini, the Union Jack flag sprayed on its roof, and, her spirits flagging under the onslaught of jetlag, she retired to Bernice’s chintzy spare room – the sanctuary she had used to escape the