Runaway Wife (36 page)

“Thank you,” Rose whispered, tears sliding silently down her face, as she awkwardly allowed Frasier to enfold her in a hug. “You don’t know how much it means to me.”

“You don’t know how much it means to me to be able to give you this gift, after all this time,” Frasier said, wiping a tear from her cheek with the ball of his thumb. Maddie turned round and stared up at Frasier and her mother, in each other’s arms, her mother in tears, and yet smiling at the same time.

“Are you
quite
sure you are not in love with Mummy?” she asked.

•  •  •

It was late when they got back to the B & B, where Maddie and Rose would spend their last night before moving their belongings to Storm Cottage. For the rest of the day Frasier had shown Maddie the wonders of the National Gallery, escorted them around the beautiful city, taking in all the sights, and bought them dinner at the world-famous Witchery, where their table must have taken quite a lot of string-pulling to acquire at such short notice, before loading them back into his Audi and making another long drive back to Cumbria, this time, due to mutual agreement, without the tortures of I Spy.

“I’m worried about all this driving that you’re doing,” Rose said as they pulled up, glancing at Frasier’s worn-looking, if
very handsome, face. “What if you fall asleep at the wheel? I could never live with myself. Especially as it’s all been to ferry me and Maddie back and forth.”

“You are probably right,” Frasier had said reluctantly. “I am starting to feel a little worn-out. The thing is, Cecily will kill me if I don’t show up tonight, but I’m sure she’d rather have me late and alive than on time and dead. Or at least I think I’m sure . . .” He smiled, leaning his head back against the headrest as he looked at Rose, his expression unreadable. “No, when I come to think about it, I think I’d really better stop over.”

“If she does kill you,” Maddie said helpfully, her head and shoulders appearing between the two front seats, “we will call the police.”

“Will you stay the night with Dad?” Rose asked him, reluctant for him to go, even though she knew she had no right to be.

“I could,” Frasier said, glancing at the B & B and then back at Rose, some thought process that Rose could not follow galloping across his face. “Or how about I book a room at the B and B and then you and I can talk some more, once this little one is in bed, and perhaps even share a nightcap?” Rose knew that it shouldn’t thrill her that Frasier had chosen spending more time with her over getting back to Cecily, and that really he was just being sensible and choosing not to crash into a ditch over getting back to Cecily, but she couldn’t help being pleased that her attempts at setting up the boundaries of their friendship had been abandoned as soon as he’d shown her the painting her father had done of her, and she knew it was hopeless to pretend not to love him.

The idea of spending a few more minutes with Frasier, even under the watchful eyes of Jenny, was too lovely to be spoilt by technicalities. And besides, bringing home a new
guest, even just for one night, might make up for leaving Jenny tomorrow, which Rose knew her landlady was feeling very sad about, and not just because of the loss of revenue.

Quietly pleased to have an unexpected guest, and clearly bursting to know more about what he was doing, staying the night under the same roof as Rose, Jenny had taken an uncomplaining, dog tired but happy Maddie up to bed, leaving Brian to book Frasier into a single room on another floor. (“We don’t hold with no bed hopping here,” Jenny had warned him, as she guided Maddie up the stairs, who’d replied, her voice gradually receding, “I bed-hop all the time. And bed-jump and bed-belly-flop . . .”)

After completing the formalities, Brian wished them a good night, explaining that it had been a long day, but they were most welcome to sit up in the living room as long as they liked. As they pushed closed the living room door, Frasier and Rose overheard a heated exchange on the staircase, Brian doing his level best to dissuade Jenny from coming back downstairs and sitting in the living room, playing the role of curious chaperone. Even if there was no chance of any kind of romance, Rose was grateful that Brian managed to get Jenny back upstairs, with a few softly spoken words and what sounded like a firm slap on the rump. In any event, Jenny was giggling as she trotted back up the stairs.

“Would you like some wine?” Rose asked him. “I’ve got a bottle in my room that Shona left me. It’s vintage twenty-four-hour garage, but still it’s not bad.”

“Thank you, yes,” Frasier said, taking great care examining Jenny’s doll’s house as she left. “This is really quite remarkable . . .”

Maddie was already asleep as Rose entered the room, her drawing pad tucked under her arm, a more than passable portrait of Frasier on the open page. Rose picked it up
and studied it. The nose wasn’t quite right, and she’d shaded under his eyes a little too deeply, making him look older than he was, but the most prominent thing that Rose noticed was that the drawing was done with affection. Maddie really liked Frasier.

Rose picked up the bottle of wine from the dressing table and then thought for a moment. Perhaps, perhaps it should be now that she gave Frasier the gift she had brought with her on that first night. The gift that for more than seven years she had hoped to give one day.

It would be hard to think of a better time than now to show him what she had brought with her all this way. The only thing was that once he had seen it, Rose felt her story with Frasier would be completed at last, and she wasn’t sure she wanted that. Nevertheless, she had promised herself that she would never spend another second stuck in a life that did not want her, and Frasier didn’t want her, not in the way she’d hoped for. Perhaps now was the perfect time to close that last precious chapter on her hopes and dreams for him, and to start a new one built on friendship and trust, which was the one thing Rose was more than certain of, after the time that they had spent together today. Frasier knew so little of what her life had been like with Richard, or rather he’d asked her so little, and she knew he sensed a great deal about that and more besides. Because only a man who really understood her could possibly have known how much it meant to her to see that painting. Frasier had given her every reason to trust in his friendship, and there could be no greater symbol of her trust in him than giving him this very precious object.

Her mind made up, Rose knelt on the floor and pulled out her package, still tightly wrapped in a blanket, from under her bed and clutched it to her bosom, hugging it just as she would a child, whispering a final goodbye.

Coming back into the room, she found Frasier with the glass cabinet door of the doll’s house open, his head deep inside its drawing room. “Do you know I think this might be an original?” he said in muffled tones.

“An original doll’s house?” Rose asked him, confused.

“A John Grasmere watercolor,” he said, pointing to a tiny painting that hung on the back wall of the house, which Rose could see as she peered over his shoulder. “I’d have to take it down and really inspect it, but it looks too good to be a copy and he did spend a lot of time around here. Could even be worth a few hundred pounds . . . thank you.” He took the glass of red wine that Rose offered him and, taking a sip, tried hard not to make a face.

“Not exactly the caliber of grape you are used to,” Rose said, smiling as Frasier seated himself in Brian’s armchair.

“It’s perfectly awful,” Frasier admitted. “But luckily the company is sufficiently distracting to make it bearable. I’m glad I decided to stay here tonight. We have spent so little time alone together and I find that . . . I rather miss you when you’re not there.”

There was an awkward silence, Frasier looking as if he regretted saying those words as soon as he’d spoken them and Rose at a loss as to how to react.

“Frasier, I’ve got something to tell you,” she said eventually, deciding to press on despite the moment of uncertainty, knotting her fingers together as she braced herself. “It’s going to sound a bit mad, but please just listen and let me tell you, because it’s the story behind this.” Rose took the parcel from where she’d propped it up against the sideboard and placed it on Frasier’s lap, kneeling on the floor in front of him. He watched her for what seemed like an age in the lamplight, looking as if there were a thousand words on the tip of his tongue, none of which he could find a way to articulate.

“Go on,” he said eventually, making an effort to keep the tone light. “How intriguing.”

“Right, well.” Rose took a breath. “That day, the day you came to my house, the day you wanted to track down that painting of me as a girl? You could tell that something was very wrong, and you were right.” Rose shifted a little, taking a deep breath, steadying her nerves for this moment that she had longed for and that now terrified her more than she could imagine. Never be frightened again was her promise, she reminded herself, lifting her chin to complete these last few steps on her journey.

“I was so afraid. I was terrified for every single second that you were there. I was afraid that my husband would come back before you had gone and find you there, and I knew that if he did, it would make him very, very angry, because even then, he didn’t like me talking to anyone unless he was present, but especially not men. Even then he kept me in the house as much as he could, made me feel worthless and pointless, and that I wouldn’t—couldn’t—even exist if it weren’t for his approval. He’d never hit me at that point—that didn’t come until much later—but he could terrify me without ever having to lay a finger on me. He had control over my mind, you see. And I believed him, I believed him because my father had walked out on me and my mother, well, once Dad left her, she’d faded away day by day until she ceased to exist. And on that day, the day that you arrived, all I had was my unborn child. I was so scared about bringing her into a marriage and a home that didn’t have any love in them, or any hope. And I thought you might think I was a little standoffish, closed off and unfriendly. But you sensed that something was wrong, and the truth was I was scared.”

“Oh, Rose.” Frasier leant forward in his chair. “I knew it. I knew when I saw you how much pain you were in. The first
moment I set eyes on you, I wanted to scoop you up and carry you out of there, like some sort of ridiculous knight in shining armor. But you were married, and pregnant, living in a nice home, wife of a doctor. I thought I was being a fool, that of course you must be happy. If only I’d asked you, if only I’d been able to help.”

“You did help,” Rose said. “You were kind to me, you saw me as a person, someone who was interesting and important, a person with a history, a life and a value. And I . . . I have been so grateful for that hour I spent with you ever since, because as things between Richard and me got worse—and they got a lot worse—I could think back on that time we had together, and the way you smiled at me, and how you looked at me, and I would know that whatever Richard told me about how useless and pointless and stupid I was, he was wrong. I would take out the postcard you sent me and read it and reread it and it would keep me going. From the day I met you I gradually became a stronger and stronger person, until I finally had the strength to leave him. And I promised myself that one day I would find you and thank you in person.”

Rose laid her palm flat on the package. “And now that moment has finally come.”

Frasier shook his head, and Rose wondered if it was because he knew what she was going to say and didn’t want her to say it out loud.

“Rose,” he said earnestly, “if I had had any idea that you felt this way, you know I would have come back, don’t you? You realize that I would never, never have left you there. For so long I’ve worried about how I let you down, how I didn’t do enough. When I didn’t hear from you, the time I tried to tell you that I’d found John, I thought, I hoped, that you must be happy, that you must have moved on. I made myself think that way over and over again. I can’t forgive myself if I—”

“Frasier,” Rose interrupted him, knowing that if she waited much longer she’d lose the courage to say what she wanted to, “let me finish what I have to say, please.”

“Of course, I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just that I am really rather overwhelmed. And once you’ve started to say something that you’ve been thinking and feeling for such a long time, it’s hard to stop it coming out.”

“I know,” Rose said, taking a shuddering breath. “Which is why I have to tell you—Frasier, I didn’t come here to find my father. I had no idea he would be here. I came here because it’s the painting on the postcard, my only connection to
you
. I came here to find
you
, to thank you and to give you this.” She nodded at the blanket. “I wasn’t entirely honest with you that first day. I don’t know why, it was the only thing I had of him, I suppose. The one thing I protected from Richard, hid away from him right at the back of my dad’s old studio. And now it’s yours.”

Frowning, Frasier said nothing as she untied the string that held the blanket in place, and then carefully unwrapped what lay beneath. He gasped when he saw the contents, unable to tear his eyes away from what he was looking at.

“
Dearest Rose!
” he whispered. “You had it, you had
Dearest Rose
, the original painting, all along.” He looked up at her, his eyes shining with delight. “Oh, Rose, you don’t know how long I’ve waited to set eyes on this. It’s beautiful, just as I imagined it, if not better. I never thought I’d see the day.” When he looked back up at her he had tears in his eyes. “Thank you, Rose, thank you so much for letting me see it, hold it.”

“It’s for you,” Rose said happily, flooded with pleasure at delighting him so much. “It’s a gift, for you, to say thank you for saving me. Even if you weren’t there, you still saved me. You saved my life.”

Frasier was speechless for a moment, and then slowly, ever so carefully, he got to his feet and, placing the painting flat on the tabletop, he knelt on the floor next to Rose.