The Garden of Little Rose Read online

  The Garden of Little Rose

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue Hogmanay

  Acknowledgements

  Welcome to Thorndale

  About the Author

  Also by Suzanne Snow

  Copyright

  Cover

  Table of Contents

  Start of Content

  To my mum Irene, a gardener

  Chapter One

  When all three of them were last together, they had talked of sunlit Tuscan villas beneath glittering blue skies and evenings spent lingering over moonlit dinners, catching up with one another as they contemplated the future and celebrated their past. But on a miserable early April afternoon, instead of exploring the galleries and cafes of Florence, Flora Stewart was in the front passenger seat of a creaky old Jeep, rattling along a single-track road around an island off the west coast of Scotland, where she and her two closest friends were to spend the weekend.

  ‘How much further?’ Sophie grumbled from the back seat, leaning forwards to peer at the map balanced on Flora’s knee. Flora had been relieved to discover it in the glovebox after they had lost any trace of phone signal some miles back, and she was confident now that they were heading in the right direction.

  ‘I would’ve bought a TomTom if I’d known we’d have to navigate the old-fashioned way. I had no idea you could still buy maps on paper.’ Sophie shuddered as she glanced through the dirty window of the Jeep, another deep puddle sending muddy water flying over the glass. ‘Clearly modern civilisation has yet to discover this island. Are you absolutely certain we’ll have access to reliable Wi-Fi?’

  Flora laughed and grabbed her seat with both hands to steady herself as the car sped over another hidden rut in the road, looking sideways at Mel.

  ‘Sorry!’ Mel raised her voice as she jumped on the clutch to change down a gear and the Jeep lurched in response. ‘We can’t all live in luxury in London like you, Soph. Of course there’s Wi-Fi, but I’m not planning to be staring at my iPad all weekend. Anyway, stop complaining – both of you were up for this hotel when I found it. You know I’ve always loved the Hebrides.’

  ‘But that was before you suggested Florence,’ Sophie reminded Mel. ‘I get few enough chances to escape the family, and slumming it in Scotland wasn’t top of my list.’

  Mel laughed, pushing her glasses up into her hair as a feeble sun disappeared back behind the clouds churning overhead. The view began to fade once more, hiding the landscape from their sight. ‘Come on, it’s five-star! With a spa and a hot tub in the garden.’

  ‘And you’re expecting to use it?’ Sophie was incredulous. She huddled deeper into her chic navy coat and tugged on leather gloves, now that her phone was tucked away in her bag. ‘Have you actually been looking outside whilst you’re driving? I won’t be going outdoors at all this weekend; I didn’t pack thermals or my waders.’

  It was impossible not to laugh, as another shower of hail landed on the roof, making conversation difficult but not impossible, and even Sophie started to giggle. Flora reached for the unreliable heater and turned it up, trying to generate a bit more warmth in the noisy old car.

  ‘The hotel’s on the Atlantic side.’ Mel glanced across at the map, still dangling precariously on Flora’s lap. ‘Apparently, this is one of only two proper roads around the whole island; the rest are just farm tracks leading to the crofts and other houses. And the population is so small that just one person used to drive the ambulance, bus and taxi, all in the same vehicle. He was the postmaster and local police officer as well. How romantic.’

  ‘There’s nothing romantic about that,’ Flora pointed out. ‘It’s called practicalities. Most people here probably had more than one job back in the day. And you’re getting married soon, Mel. Feeling romantic about everything will pass and you’ll be back to normal.’

  ‘Hope not,’ Mel answered, slowing down again to let another vehicle pass them on the single-track road. ‘I quite like it, Flora, even if you don’t.’

  Flora glanced at Mel then and her face suddenly became alive with mischief. ‘Forget the hot tub, Mel – I dare you to swim in the sea. That’s what you get for bringing us to some out-of-the-way island instead of Italy.’

  ‘What!’ Mel screeched, meeting Flora’s laughing expression with eyes that widened in horror and dawning realisation. ‘No way! Just because we’ve always dared each other doesn’t mean we have to carry on! We’re grown-ups now, with careers and homes and partners… and stuff.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Mel,’ Sophie piped up eagerly, leaning forwards to perch herself between the two front seats. ‘Coming away this weekend is all about enjoying ourselves and forgetting our responsibilities. Daring each other is exactly what we should be doing. I think the sea is a brilliant idea: the waters are supposed to be warmed by the Gulf Stream. You’ve always liked wild swimming.’

  ‘In the summer, not in April… in the Hebrides! Well, in that case, Sophie Williams, I dare you to wear flat shoes all weekend. Even at dinner.’

  Tiny – hardly more than five feet – Sophie always wore heels, and Flora grinned as she glanced in the rear-view mirror and met her friend’s look of horror.

  ‘But I’ve only brought one pair of ballet flats to wear to the spa,’ Sophie wailed. ‘I’ll look ridiculous wearing the same shoes all weekend. Absolutely not.’

  ‘Fine,’ Mel told her airily. ‘Then I’m not going in the sea. Sorted.’

  ‘If I wear them at dinner tonight, then you’d better swim before we go home, Mel.’ Sophie looked at Flora crossly. ‘You started this,’ she told her through gritted teeth. ‘And seeing as you’re now single and without a date for the wedding, we dare you to find one before the weekend’s over.’

  It was Flora’s turn to be alarmed now, and her eyes widened in dismay as she understood the challenge Sophie had laid down. ‘Are you crazy? Up here? Where do you suppose I’ll find a suitable, single man who’s likely to turn up in Ripon on the right day? No, thank you, I’m more than happy to go to the wedding on my own.’

  Sophie shrugged, unconcerned. ‘Doesn’t matter if you don’t – the point is to try. A dare’s a dare, and I’m up for it… if you two are?’

  ‘Fine,’ Flora said breezily, convinced that the opportunity would never arise, as she reached for the map slipping off her knees. ‘Mel?’

  Mel nodded, meeting Sophie’s now cheerful gaze in the mirror. ‘Okay. If you absolutely insist.’ The clouds parted for a few moments as she turned the Jeep onto a wide driveway, flanked by green lawns and beautifully planted borders filled with shrubs offering early-season colour. ‘See, Sophie? The map worked. We’re here.’

  Flora stretched sleepy limbs; it seemed a long time since she had left home this morning. They had spent a merry evening in her little house near Thorndale, in Yorkshire, miles from the island but still closer than either of her friend’s homes. She was hungry, but dinner could wait until she had had a long, hot bath, and she drew in a breath as the driveway swung to the right and the hotel was gradually revealed. Mel pounded the brake pedal for what seemed
like forever until the Jeep lurched to a halt, and Flora heard gravel scattering beneath the wheels.

  ‘Wish you’d washed it,’ Sophie told Mel, as she shoved her door open and climbed out, staring warily at the churning sky above them. ‘Surely you didn’t need to bring half the farm with you?’

  ‘No point,’ Mel grinned at Sophie as she joined her on the drive. ‘Look at the state of it now.’

  Flora unwound herself from the car, as Sophie continued to grumble, knowing that her muttering was only the result of having a young child not yet sleeping through. Also, Sophie had been hoping for Italian sun and was instead facing the vagaries of the Scottish weather. The ferry had been delayed and they were all feeling tired. But then Flora’s smile widened, as she turned around and stared with pleasure at the building.

  ‘Wow. It’s beautiful, Mel.’

  A glorious house stood before them: a magnificent baronial tower topped with turrets and curious gabled corners stretching behind the main building, revealing a grand entrance beneath. The Saltire flag of Scotland flew high above one turret, battered by the wind into twisted strips. It was impossible for Flora to see more of the garden, as another sharp shower of hail came raining down on them and they grabbed their bags from the car as a porter hurried out to meet them.

  ‘Sorry about the weather, ladies,’ he called cheerily, reaching for their luggage and tucking it underneath his arms with ease. ‘Welcome to the island of Alana. Come on in and have a dram to warm you up. It’s forecast to be better tomorrow.’

  Through her work in garden restoration, Flora was used to old properties and their history, but this was her first experience of the Scottish baronial style and, once inside the huge main hall, she was captivated. The grandeur of the curved oak staircase soaring to the first floor and the cleverly positioned antiques perfectly emphasised the hotel’s period design, whilst the warmth and seclusion suggested modern luxuries yet to be discovered. To her left a few guests were relaxing on comfortable chairs in the drawing room, quietly chatting as they enjoyed afternoon tea before a crackling log fire. Flora shivered in her short-sleeved top, whilst Mel checked them all in. It had been much warmer back at home this morning, as well as sunny and bright. The porter stood ready with their bags and, once they were finished with the receptionist, Flora and Sophie followed him upstairs, while Mel dashed ahead.

  ‘Here we are.’ The porter paused halfway along a wide corridor on the first floor and unlocked a big, wooden door with a card he produced from his waistcoat pocket. ‘Have you remembered that all of our rooms are named after Hebridean islands? Miss Grainger is here in Iona; Mrs Williams is next door in Skye and Miss Stewart is just across the way in Islay.’

  ‘Could’ve been worse.’ Sophie grabbed Flora’s arm, as Mel stepped out of sight with a merry wave. ‘At least it’s not Muck!’

  Sophie disappeared into her room, and Flora choked back a laugh as the porter opened the door to Islay. Once he was gone, smiling his thanks for the tip she had given him, Flora looked around in delight. The room was beautiful and she absorbed the details as she slowly turned around. Damson and gold highlighted every feature, from the cosy chair in front of an oak writing desk to a deep, striped sofa and luxurious curtains draped around a pair of wide windows. She stepped past a queen-sized bed to catch a glimpse of the garden, but rain was still battering the glass and it was impossible to see far through the mist outside. She hovered at the window until there was a knock at her door, which was immediately flung open.

  ‘Shall we meet in an hour for afternoon tea?’ Mel crashed in, hurrying as always and optimistically, in Flora’s opinion, brandishing a bikini. ‘I’m going in the hot tub; Sophie’s already in pyjamas and I know you want to have a bath. But I’m sure you can’t wait to get outside. Have you brought your gloves?’

  ‘Not this time.’ Flora turned away from the window and crossed to her suitcase on its stand to begin unpacking. ‘But I won’t need them for exploring. Even I’m not planning to get my hands dirty this weekend.’

  As soon as Mel was gone, Flora slipped her shoes off and headed into the bathroom. Long hot baths had become a rarity since she had moved into a cottage on the estate where she worked. She could manage with a shower, even if the uncertain nature of the plumbing in her little house meant that sometimes it was like standing beneath a dripping tap and at others like torrential rain. She couldn’t wait to climb into the inviting spa bath and linger for as long as possible. She turned on the taps and poured in a generous dollop of water-lily bath lotion.

  Mel’s official hen night had been two weeks ago, when they had spent a happy weekend with friends in London, enjoying a macaron-and-martini experience before brunch the next day. But this weekend was just for the three of them. Their friendship went back so long that Flora had almost forgotten there had been a time in her life when she hadn’t been friends with the other two. They had met in the first term at secondary school, when friendships were harder to come by, bound together by being day girls instead of boarders, and therefore excluded from the tea-and-toast rituals after classes and evenings spent poring over prep. When she was fifteen, Sophie and Mel had provided loving support and a lifeline to normality after it had taken Flora months to recover from glandular fever and the pneumonia which had followed. Her friends had also offered endless comfort and shelter after devastating loss and the shocking discovery which had followed two years ago, and Flora loved them dearly.

  But before meeting up with them again, she wanted to be alone for a while. As they had been leaving Flora’s cottage this morning, Mel had explained that her fiancé’s best man, David, who also happened to be Flora’s ex-boyfriend, was planning to bring his new girlfriend to the wedding. Flora wanted time to think about it but, as she undressed and climbed into the hot water, she knew it didn’t really matter. She stretched languidly as she imagined how she would feel, seeing him with someone else. It would be strange, certainly, but more like seeing an old friend than a boyfriend she still desired.

  Somewhere during the past couple of years – Flora couldn’t even pinpoint when – they had slipped from an easy pleasure in one another’s company into a steady familiarity that meant each weekend missed or date postponed had mattered less whenever it happened. As they both became preoccupied with their different careers, when they did meet, they went to the same places, ate the same things and quickly forgot that they weren’t yet required to slide into middle-aged contentment. So, David would perform his duties at the wedding with a new partner at his side and Flora would wish them well, even if she couldn’t quite shake off the feeling of disappointment that she would be without a date of her own – she was resolutely ignoring the dare her friends had set her in the car.

  In the end they didn’t manage afternoon tea. Sophie stayed in her room, Mel got chatting to another guest in the hot tub, despite the rain, and Flora fell asleep in the bath. When they did finally meet, they raided the minibars and opened a bottle of champagne, piling into Flora’s room to get ready for dinner. Mel was dressed first, changed into trousers and a green tunic that emphasised her short, red hair and green eyes. She hated high heels and it was still up for debate whether she would wear flat shoes to her wedding, instead of the beautiful vintage sandals that Sophie was begging her to consider. Sophie had got hair and make-up down to a fine art and was quickly ready in a navy jersey dress perfectly complemented by her sharply layered blonde bob and blue eyes. She was wearing silver scalloped, Chloé ballet flats and her smile was ironic when Mel complimented her with a smirk.

  Flora took her time getting ready. Her appearance counted for little in her work as a garden historian, where her hands were often rummaging in soil and her face exposed to every kind of weather. For this evening she had chosen narrow black trousers and a lacy, primrose ruffle camisole top that flattered the tone of her skin and lifted the outfit from simple to stylish. At five feet eight she didn’t really need heels, but she stepped into black stilettos, hoping that their unfamiliarity woul
dn’t trip her up. She scooped her long brunette hair into an elegant ponytail and slid tinted lip gloss across her mouth.

  ‘You look gorgeous,’ Mel told her as she topped up their champagne flutes, discarding the empty bottle in its bucket of watery ice. ‘Absolutely stunning. David is so going to regret breaking up with you.’

  ‘Thank you, but I don’t think he will. And we decided together to separate – you know he wants to get married eventually and that’s not for me.’ Flora smiled to soften her words, appreciating her friend’s comments about her appearance.

  ‘Bet you’re glad to be in heels, and not those horrible work pants and steel toecap boots? You’ve probably forgotten what your own feet look like.’

  ‘Thanks a lot!’ Flora gave Mel a glare that was meant to be fierce, but failed. She reached for the last of her champagne instead and emptied the glass. ‘I can’t deny it’s been a while since I dressed up properly. And getting my nails done was a serious incentive to coming here this weekend.’

  They made their way downstairs and found seats in the bar, where they watched the waiters expertly mixing drinks before sending them out to the scattered tables filled with guests. Cocktails were ordered and menus passed around as they settled onto stools. Flora changed her mind at the last minute, opting for a non-alcoholic cocktail instead of the martinis that Mel and Sophie had chosen.

  ‘You lightweight!’ Ever decisive, Sophie had already made her choice for dinner and she leant forwards to replace the menu on the bar as she looked at Flora crossly. ‘It’s barely six years ago since you were a student, but you’re definitely in danger of becoming an old fart. We haven’t come all this way to complain about how old and boring we’re getting.’

  ‘Me, boring?’ Flora asked her incredulously, as Mel smirked while studying the menu critically with a professional eye. ‘I don’t have my timetable worked out a month in advance and circulated by email to the rest of the house.’

  Sophie was still smiling as she shrugged. With a husband shouldering a high-powered role as an economist at the Treasury and a two-year-old, as well as her own online business, Sophie made sure that everything in her household ran like clockwork. ‘So? Eddie’s plans often change and it’s helpful if we all know what’s going on.’