Page 45 of Finding Love at Roseford Blooms
‘Like what?’ Lizzie replied.
‘Like setting up that website you’ve been nagging me about for ages, so I can advertise a bit more widely.’ Bee held up a hand as Lizzie tried to interrupt. ‘Now I’m not saying I’m going to startsellingonline—’ she looked vaguely horrified at the notion ‘—but perhaps it’s about time I joined the twenty-first century and put myself and my business out there a bit more. You could help me do that, couldn’t you?’
Lizzie gave a brighter grin. ‘Of course I could!’ she exclaimed, suddenly excited, and overwhelmed with ideas. ‘Let me give it some thought and I’ll draw up a mood board of ideas. I’m sure we could come up with some great concepts for a USP for Roseford Blooms.’
‘A US what?’ Bee asked. ‘Now you can see why I need a little advice to update things!’ She stood up from the bed. ‘That’s better,’ she said. ‘You’re smiling again now. So, what would you like to do for dinner?’
Lizzie suddenly felt guilty. She’d been out and about a lot over the past few days, and she’d already accepted Simon’s invite. ‘I’m sorry, Aunt Bee, I’m going out tonight.’
‘Oh, yes?’ Bee raised an eyebrow. ‘Anywhere or anyone I know?’
‘Simon’s invited me over to Roseford Hall.’ Lizzie felt the blush creeping up her cheeks again.
‘Well, that’s definitely a reason to bow out on your old auntie.’ Bee smiled. ‘Enjoy yourself.’
‘I will,’ Lizzie replied. ‘And thanks, Aunt Bee. You always did know what to say to make me feel better.’
Bee’s smile faltered a little. ‘Sweet of you, darling, but I don’t think that was always the case.’ She glanced at the small armchair by the window that had Simon’s jumper slung over it. Lizzie suddenly had a feeling that Bee had known more than she’d let on about that fateful night twenty years ago, although she didn’t know how. Standing up from the bed, Lizzie gave her a hug. ‘It’s true,’ she murmured. ‘And I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to realise how important you are to me.’
As they broke apart again, Lizzie felt immeasurably better. Perhaps things were starting to fall into place for her, after all.
38
That evening, Lizzie took extra care with her appearance. She brushed out her hair until it was shining, and, while still wearing jeans, she picked her best top out of the wardrobe to pair with them. It was rather loose fitting, as she was conscious that her collarbone was still healing. The dusky pink colour complemented her skin tone. Bee had lent her an amethyst butterfly pendant, which rested gently on her décolletage, and she spritzed a little of her favourite floral scent on her wrists and behind her ears.
At around quarter to eight, she left the cottage and walked down the hill to the main street, stopping off at Southgate’s Stores on the way to pick up a bottle of Chilean Chardonnay, cool from the fridge. Niall, the owner and manager of the stores, convinced her to add a bottle of sparkling water as well, claiming that it was locally sourced from a secret spring just the other side of the Quantocks.
‘It’s a new line we’re trying out,’ he said. ‘Let me know how it is.’
‘I will.’ Lizzie smiled. She was half convinced it was blarney, but promised to pop back in with her thoughts in a day or two.
As she approached the now locked gates of Roseford Hall, she caught her breath when she saw Simon waiting on the other side of them. He was dressed in a crisp white shirt and dark blue jeans, which offset his slightly tanned skin to perfection. She hadn’t noticed before just how the sun had bleached his dark blond hair a little lighter, and he looked every inch the relaxed English squire. The fact that she’d already seen this man completely undone added to the heat of the emotions she felt for him, and she felt the colour rising in her cheeks again.
‘Hi,’ she said as she approached.
‘Hi, yourself.’ Simon smiled as he pulled open the gate, let her through and then locked the padlock again. ‘Glad you could make it.’
‘Me too,’ Lizzie replied.
As they walked back to the hall, Lizzie contemplated telling Simon about the conversation she’d had with her family that day, but thought better of it. She’d been over it enough in her own mind, and with Bee. She didn’t feel like revisiting it again.
Simon must have noticed her lack of focus, though, as he paused before they entered the house.
‘Everything all right?’
Lizzie snapped back to the moment, and she smiled. ‘Yes. Everything is definitely all right.’ She was intrigued as he led her through the house and up the wide, light stone-coloured staircase that ran through the centre of it. She’d been expecting him to take her back to his private quarters, and was surprised that they were taking a very public route to the top floor.
‘Where are we going?’ Lizzie asked.
‘You’ll see,’ Simon teased. They reached the top of the staircase and turned right onto the top floor. Formerly, the space where they stood, the Long Gallery, had been crammed with furniture and cast-offs from the rest of the house, the detritus of a family who just hadn’t known how to declutter ten generations of hereditary titles. Now, under the influence of its new owners, it had been cleared, a length of rush matting applied from end to end, the walls cleaned and strategically placed oil paintings in gilt frames lined the space. The effect was stunning, especially with the early evening sun gilding the upper end of the gallery.
‘It’s amazing up here!’ Lizzie breathed. ‘What a transformation.’
Simon grinned. ‘I wish I could take the credit for that, but all I did was dig out the ancestors for the walls!’
They began to walk down the Long Gallery, Lizzie taking in the portraits as they went. She was amazed, even with several generations between them, how much Simon resembled his forebears. One painting in particular, of a young man in a World War I army uniform, blue eyes captured for all eternity in a solemn gaze, seemed to peel away the layers of time, and unite Simon with his past in the most poignant way.
‘Ah, yes, Great-great-uncle Edmund,’ Simon said quietly. ‘Of the three Treloars who went to the Great War, he was the only one who didn’t return. The other two, including my great-grandfather, survived. This was painted after his death.’
