Chapter Eighteen
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Bronte drove home on automatic pilot.
Her new father as she saw Carl had shown great courage and a generosity of spirit she could only admire. Of course, she had no idea what was really going on in his head. But they'd agreed to get to know one another and would take it slowly. She'd accepted his invitation to have lunch with him in a couple of days and he'd told her he was there for her.
Before she realised it, she was in Ludlow chapel in the grounds of the Hall with her hand on the door of the family crypt. In the early days of bereavement she'd found no comfort, no solace here. But these days spending time with the dead brought her a type of peace.
Eyes burning she sank into a carved oak pew remembering the day she'd read the letter Alexander had discovered in their father's safe.
Fate was an absolute bastard.
She didn't apologise for swearing in her head in a holy place because she was too bloody angry. Fate had taken her family, her home and her ability to have children. Endometriosis meant her chances were slim to none of being a mother. There was no point in bemoaning that life was not fair. Look how unfair it had been to her father?
Loss crushed her. It squeezed her lungs as she fought for control. Emotions, long buried, floated to the surface of her psyche.
Bereavement she knew now had an edge of ambivalence about it. Along with guilt, bitter regret and anger for words unspoken there was unhealed sorrows that needed to be expressed and unfinished mourning completed. She'd been through denial and the truly desperate bargaining with God but Bronte couldn't find acceptance and she wondered if she ever would.
Grief left her too vulnerable these days, abandoning her in a wasteland of sadness. With a shaky breath, she rose and pressed a hand to the memorial stone.
"Mama, I wish you'd told me."
There, right there, was the wound. A running sore that coursed through her soul along with anger. She was bitterly angry with her dead mother. Guilt kept anger gleeful company preventing true healing and she had no idea what to do about it.
Alexander continued to find the reality that she was his half sister rather than a full blooded sibling too hard to bear. He'd lost his parents. He'd lost his home and now he felt threatened by her biological father. He was terrified he was going to lose her too. Everyone had their tipping point she supposed. Their family had always stood together no matter what but that had been an illusion Bronte reflected, heartsick.
No matter how hard she argued that knowledge was power, her brother did not want to dig up the past. His choice, but he was suffering and she couldn't do a damn thing about it.
Bronte stood and rummaged in her jacket pocket for her car keys. Going over old ground was a lesson in futility. She should count her blessings. And learn to deal with the positives in her life instead of the negatives. Not only did she have her brother, she had a friend who was like a sister to her, a heady new lover and a business to run. If she secretly dreamed of Utopia, where she had a wonderful husband and a couple of children running around The Dower House, well she just had to get over herself and damn well get on with it.
Striding out to her mini, Bronte ran through her schedule for the day. Rosie was due after lunchtime. She had a consultation with a bride who wanted a cake with a Brazilian carnival theme. Nothing much surprised them these days, but they'd managed to persuade the bride that feathers, firework sparklers and wedding cake were a volatile combination.
Fortunately she wasn't a bridezilla and had agreed to multi-coloured edible beads, miles of ribbon and an eye popping topper of a Swarovski crystal crown. Since the woman loved sparkly things, Rosie had come up with a diamond and silver theme to tone down the beads and ribbon, or to get rid of them all together.
As far as Bronte was concerned the role of Sweet Sensation was to give the bride a cake to remember for all the right reasons.
Her black mini sped down the road from Ludlow Hall, roared through her driveway and whipped round to the rear of the property. She forced a smile and waved at a trainee pastry chef busy in the back of one of the vans.
For a moment she stared into her gardens, knuckles white as she gripped the steering wheel. Sweet Sensation was her baby. She'd given herself to it twenty four seven. Now it was a thriving, busy business. Awards and accolades had rained upon her wedding cake designs. The diary was full for twelve months ahead.
Here was her future, so why the hell did it feel so empty?
At the end of a productive afternoon, Bronte took time to clear her mind.
She checked her diary for the following week and cast an eye over the wall mounted white board itemising the months' events.
Three chest freezers, each one the size of a family car, were filling up nicely with carefully labelled containers of butter cream icings in twenty different flavours. Along with emergency fruit cakes, muffin batters and sponges of all shapes and sizes. The trainee pastry chefs were coming along well too. Rosie had phoned to say she would drop-in to Ludlow Hall to pick-up a supply of the chef's new menus.
Potential couples were offered a dinner with free room to test drive the hotel and business was brisk she was delighted to see by the appointments scattered through the diary.
The weather forecast predicted a punch from the Arctic meeting a kick in the teeth from Siberia. A double whammy for the British Isles and minus 20 degrees. The weather warning had gone out with neighbours being asked to keep an eye on the sick and elderly.
Dusk fell at three-thirty, along with the temperature and Bronte padded through to the sitting room with her laptop to check out the competition.
Competitor analysis was an ongoing exercise, one she took seriously with diligence and determination.
Tomorrow, she promised herself, she'd check out her suppliers' new price lists. They were tricky buggers who occasionally slipped in a price increase. One of the smaller companies was lagging behind their delivery date which was totally unacceptable.
Bronte paid her invoices on time, so she expected the same courtesy on quality and delivery dates. One more strike and they were out.
A vehicle approaching the house crunched on the gravel drive its headlights illuminating the rear of the house.
Expecting Rosie, Bronte strolled into the kitchen to switch on the kettle.
The door opened behind her.
"I bet its cold enough to freeze..." She turned.
Rosie, she realised with a gasp of alarm, had been crying.
Before she could ask what on earth was the matter, Nico, in his signature designer suit and black cashmere coat stalked in firing instructions into his Blackberry in Italian.
His face was fierce.
Rosie, too pale, stared at her.
Ice clutched Bronte's heart.
"What's happened?"
Nico finished his call.
He removed his coat and wrapped it around Rosie.
Then he pushed her into a chair and turned to Bronte.
The pulse in her throat roared in her ears.
Nico placed his hands on her shoulders and she braced herself as his eyes stayed on hers.
?"Alexander has been in a car accident."
She shook her head. Her heart jolted again to hammer in her ears. "No, no."
Those dark eyes never left hers for a second. "He is alive, Bronte."
Nico wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. His phone rang and he snatched it with one hand and kept a hold of her with the other.
Rosie stared straight ahead, tears flowing unchecked down her pale cheeks.
"Grazie, grazie."
He pressed Bronte into a chair and crouched in front of her.
Those dark grey eyes fixed on hers and she held on to him as her whole world fell apart.
Fate couldn't do this to her again.
"He is unconscious but stable in the emergency room of San Pietro Fatebenefratelli Hospital in Rome. My jet is fuelling and will be ready to leave as soon as we get to the airport."
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She blinked. Her brain simply would not compute.
"What happened?"
He shook his head and took a breath.
"He was stationary at a junction and a car hit his car that is all I know."
"He's alive? You're certain?" Rosie's voice was hardly a whisper.
Nico turned and looked her dead in the eye. "Yes."
Rosie pulled it together and stood.
"Right, Bronte, we need to get you packed."
"But, I can't leave you here alone." She was aware of Nico's fingers massaging the tension in her neck.
All business now, Rosie handed Nico his coat and turned to her with a hint of the old fire in her huge eyes.
"Of course you can. I'll stay here to look after the place and terrorise the trainees. We're ahead of schedule as per usual. You're at the other end of a phone, a laptop." She gave Bronte a nudge. "You're going to Rome not Pluto."
"Pack light," Nico instructed. "We can pick up anything we need there."
His phone rang. Bronte, eyes glued to his face watched him frown.
Fear gleefully caught her throat as Rosie gripped her hand.
Nico ended his call and his dark eyes filled with anxiety.
"They are taking him for a CAT scan."
Sheer stubbornness willed back tears that threatened to flow. If she started she'd never stop.
"Okay, okay, right. I'll pack."
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