Chapter 5 #2
Abigail, watching from the orchard, heard Lara’s voice drifting across the frozen ground. ‘I think we’re in for a prolonged cold snap...’ Mrs Sutton’s reply was lost into the chilly air as she crunched down the path after Lara and into the shop.
By the time Abigail appeared in the flower shop, Mrs Sutton was long gone.
Normally she was one of Lara’s more voluble customers, full of news of the church flower group, but this morning Mrs Sutton had been reluctant to stay and chat.
Even when she had stayed to gossip, Lara never thought Mrs Sutton quite approved of her – rumours about her and Julian Armstrong maybe?
When Abigail sauntered into the centre of the shop, Lara was already halfway through unpacking the delivery of flowers that had been left there in the small hours by her wholesaler. ‘I thought you said you couldn’t walk through walls,’ Lara said, without looking up from her work.
‘I can’t,’ Abigail replied, ‘but I can appear where you are – and as you saw earlier – I can disappear when necessary. You may find it helpful to leave doors open to rooms you wish me to explore when you are busy in another part of a building. I am able to do this as you would still, strictly speaking, be within the vicinity.’
‘Or I could shut them,’ Lara muttered, picking up a basket filled with peach hypericum and carrying them out to the front of the shop.
On the pavement in front of her shop Lara had arranged tiers of wooden crates and on these had placed buckets and baskets filled with flowers.
On one side of the central door the peach hypericum jostled with orange Chinese lanterns and purple heather.
A willow basket filled with gourds and sedum added an additional splash of autumn colour.
On the other side of the door Lara had propped an old butcher’s bike that was painted the same sage green as her van.
In its large wicker basket were displayed bunches of red, gold and plum-coloured dahlias.
The shop had two large picture windows and as a backdrop to her street display Lara had filled terracotta urns with branches of autumnal foliage, placing one in each window.
She had also stuck handfuls of burnished beech leaves to the window so it looked like the wind had blown in and scattered them all over the front of her shop.
Once she was satisfied with the outside, Lara came back in and started unpacking the next box.
Abigail watched as Lara cut and stripped the flowers, adding them to the vases and buckets around her.
On a table towards the back of the shop Lara had arranged clusters of glass jugs and had already filled these with green and white flowers.
Bells of Ireland swayed above small white spray roses and delicate petalled bouvardia.
Abigail thought it looked charming and told her so.
Lara’s demeanour thawed somewhat and she showed Abigail where she was going to place the flowers she had just unpacked.
‘I thought I’d do a display on the table at the front of delphiniums. They’re out of season but a bride particularly wanted them so I added them to today’s order. They cost an arm and a leg,’ Lara said, rummaging in the bottom of one of the boxes.
‘Ah, Delfini,’ Abigail remarked approvingly.
‘I suppose you were taught Latin?’ Lara asked, looking up.
‘I do read Latin. My mother insisted,’ Abigail replied, wandering over to look at the dusty purple delphiniums that Lara was now carefully extracting from one of the flower crates.
‘However, “Delfini” is Greek. My mother was a great flower lover – I suppose in more modern times she would have been called a botanist. When I was a little girl she told me that the delphinium is named after the Greek for dolphin, on account of the shape of its lower petals.’ Abigail smiled.
‘Of course, I had no idea what a dolphin was, but I did not like to tell Mother that. She was an intellectual and like many very clever people could be dismissive of those who did not measure up to her standards.’
‘What was her name?’ Lara asked, forgetting for a moment that she still did not know her Kindred Spirit’s name.
‘Maria. On marrying my father Hugo she became Lady Bourton. For some reason my father always called her Misha,’ Abigail shook her head gently, ‘I have no idea why.’ Abigail continued, lost in the past, ‘They really were very happy together. They met at a Christmas house party that neither of them had wanted to attend. They both sought refuge in the library to get away from the other guests and they fell into conversation. At that point he was just a major in the army,’ Abigail explained, ‘it was only when his cousin died unexpectedly that he came into the title and property.’
‘Were you named after your mother?’ Lara asked, eventually getting to the question she had been meaning to pose for the last twelve hours.
‘No, I was born the Honourable Abigail Rossmore, although everyone called me Abby.’ Her expression warmed as she looked at Lara. ‘I would be very pleased if you would do so too.’
‘Okay,’ Lara nodded, strangely moved.
Abby went on, ‘when I married I became Lady Davencourt, yet somehow when I found myself here,’ she gestured by rippling her fingers through the air, ‘I realised I thought of myself as Abigail Rossmore. In fact, it was stronger than that. I knew I was Abby Rossmore. I suppose it comes from having had a short life and having lived most of it as her. She must be the most significant part of me.’
Lara unbent from the box she was unpacking, holding several willowy stems of white Arum lilies in her arms. Rather appropriate she thought, in light of her next question, ‘Abby, how did you die?’ she asked quietly.
Abby stared at her fixedly for a few seconds. ‘It was widely reported that I died in a riding accident.’
‘Reported?’ Lara asked.
‘There appears to be someone approaching the shop,’ Abby said, changing the subject. ‘I shall just sit over here and keep out of your way.’