Page 19 of Finding Love at Roseford Blooms
‘Not a lot of call for butterfly hairpins in my usual line of work,’ Lizzie said dryly.
‘Well, things can change,’ Bee replied. ‘Are you ready to go?’
The judging was to begin at 11 a.m., so Lizzie and Bee had plenty of time to take a leisurely walk down to the field where the fayre was being held.
‘Are you sure you don’t want me to stay behind and look after the shop?’ Lizzie asked as they drew closer to Roseford Blooms. ‘I really don’t mind. I can sell the pre-arranged bunches and bouquets.’
‘No,’ Bee replied firmly. ‘I’ve never opened the shop on the afternoon of the village fayre, and I’ve no desire to start now. Today is all about enjoying the atmosphere and traditions of this place, not putting money in the till. Besides…’ she paused, tantalisingly ‘… Simon would never forgive me if I told him I’d put you behind the counter. I got the impression he was rather looking forward to seeing you.’
Lizzie’s face burned at the mention of Simon’s name. She found that she was looking forward to seeing him too. She wondered if he, as lord of the manor, was going to be involved in the judging. And with Bee by her side, she didn’t feel quite so nervous about walking through the gates of the hall, either. It wasn’t as if she had to go inside the house, after all.
Lizzie and Bee headed down past the car park to the field beyond the ha-ha. The ha-ha was a stone wall, built into the slope at the end of the garden, which created the impression of an unbroken sweep of grassland between the house and the horizon. A particular favourite of eighteenth-century architects, it had been restored by the British Heritage Fund as part of their general overhaul of the place when they’d taken it on from the Treloar family. Used mainly now as a space for visitors to exercise their dogs, the field beyond the ha-ha had also hosted a huge artificial ice rink when FilmFlix had shot their smash-hit Christmas movieA Countess for Christmasin the house and grounds of Roseford Hall. It was a decent space for events, and had hosted the Roseford Village Fayre for generations.
As Bee and Lizzie approached the field, Lizzie began to realise that this wasn’t just the hokey, parochial village fete she remembered from yesteryear. There were many stalls being set up already, and a large marquee housed all of the exhibits that would be judged by a panel of local experts, including Bee. It felt like a summery version of the Christmas Countdown Night that took place on Roseford’s main street in the winter, and Lizzie was impressed. Even more so when she saw the piles of glossy programmes that were being readied for sale at £1.50 each. She sensed the hand and professionalism of the British Heritage Fund everywhere.
‘It all looks great,’ she said. ‘And busy, too.’
‘Now you see why I don’t bother opening the shop,’ Bee replied. ‘No one’s going to be on the main street this afternoon.’
Entering the marquee, Lizzie could see trestle tables stretching in two long rectangles, one inside the other, covered in all varieties of squash, root vegetable, fruit and other produce laid out in neatly serried rows. The runner beans, in particular, looked like a rank of soldiers preparing to take up arms. Lizzie suppressed a smile; the setting reminded her of an episode ofMidsomer Murders, and she imagined that the competition for first prize in as many categories as possible would, in the fictional world of cosy crime, be enough to wish death on your competitor’s veg, if not the competitors themselves.
At one end of the marquee, stretching the whole of the width of the tables, were the many and varied bouquets, posies and wreaths that had been entered for the different classes, all listed in the extensive programme. They had been dropped off earlier that morning, and arranged by the members of the Summer Fayre Committee, one of whom was spritzing each exhibit with a spray bottle to try to keep them perky for the duration of the show.
‘So, we’ve got to award a first place, a runner-up and a highly commended in each class,’ Bee explained. ‘And it’s all judged blind, so there won’t be fisticuffs over the cream teas later!’
Lizzie laughed. ‘You make it sound so serious.’
‘Oh, it is, it is,’ Bee replied. ‘Never underestimate the wrath of a gardener scorned.’
As they walked down the tables, looking at each and every one of the entries, Lizzie smiled to see how carefully Bee scrutinised them, awarding marks for presentation, colour combination and originality, until she’d chosen the winners across each class. Lizzie was particularly taken by the juniors, who’d all submitted posies on the theme of ‘Bee Friendly Bouquets’. These varied from small arrangements that had lavender and sweet peas as their centrepieces, to one who’d interpreted the theme a little more literally and chosen mostly yellow flowers in a black and yellow striped vase.
‘Maybe you should offer some floristry sessions at the shop,’ Lizzie said as they continued to peruse the exhibits. ‘People might like the chance to find out a little bit more about the origins and meanings of flowers.’
Bee glanced at her. ‘I’m far too long in the tooth for all that,’ she said. ‘That’s a job for the next owner of Roseford Blooms.’
Lizzie was about to argue, when she was distracted by the sight of Simon entering the marquee. This time, there was no escaping it, her heart really did respond to seeing him. He was dressed in a sky-blue shirt, rolled to the elbows and open at the neck, and a pair of cream-coloured jeans. His blond hair flopped slightly over his forehead, and he was giving a confident smile and greeting to the exhibitors as he passed them. He looked happy, and at ease, and very, very attractive.The lord in his domain, Lizzie thought good-humouredly. Trying to get her head together before he reached them, she glanced at Bee’s notes.
‘You’ve added that one up wrong,’ she said.
‘Oh, yes, so I have.’ Bee quickly adjusted her scores. ‘Just as well you spotted that. Those two entries look like they belong to Josie and Molly, the vicar’s daughters. There would have been a steward’s enquiry if I’d miscounted those!’
‘I thought we were judging blind?’ Lizzie said, raising an eyebrow.
‘I recognise the vases from last year!’ Bee laughed. She glanced down the row of bouquets again. ‘Well, I think that’s the lot. Did you fancy a quick break for a cup of tea before we finish off?’
‘That would be great,’ Lizzie replied. ‘I’ll get them, shall I?’ With her heart pounding, she suddenly didn’t feel ready to speak to Simon.
‘Oh, I’ll get them,’ Bee replied. ‘I think you’ll struggle with just the one arm.’ Did Lizzie imagine it, or was there a knowing look in Bee’s eye as she saw Simon approaching? ‘You go and say hello to Simon. I’ll be back in a jiffy.’
Before Lizzie could respond, or try to scuttle off after her, Bee had slipped out of the side entrance to the marquee and Lizzie watched as Simon drew closer. Taking a deep breath, realising it was now or never, she walked over to meet him halfway.
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‘Hey,’ Simon said as they reached each other. ‘So, Bee’s roped you into the judging, has she? I’d better not tell you which posies were made by my nieces, then, for fear of nobbling you!’
Lizzie found herself laughing, immediately put at ease by his easy manner. ‘You’d be almost too late anyway,’ she replied. ‘We’re just about done, but Bee’s gone to grab us a cuppa before we finish the last scores. What are you doing down here?’
‘Oh, they’ve asked me to judge the home-made wine competition,’ Simon replied. ‘I’m coming down in good time to do it, since the last time I did, I got so pissed on the entries I could barely string a sentence together for the rest of the afternoon!’
