A Cottage in Cornwall

  A Cottage in Cornwall

  By Laura Briggs

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2016 Laura Briggs

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com to purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Cover Image: “Cottage by the Sea.” Original art, “House in the garden” by Elena Mikhaylova; and “Little fairy house” by Lisashu. Used with permission. http://www.dreamstime.com/

  Dear Reader,

  This story is set in a romantic, fictional place in Cornwall — not the real Cornwall, which has cultural, language, and geographical elements that only Cornish residents and longtime visitors truly know. That's why in previous books A Wedding in Cornwall and A Christmas in Cornwall, I reminded readers before the story began, so they know they're being carried away to a place that doesn't really exist, because I know true-to-life stories are very important to some readers.

  This time, Julianne Morgen, American heroine and fish out of water who's been transported to a fictional Cornish village named Ceffylgwyn, now finds herself a little heartbroken and determined to face it in a way she hasn't needed to do since her arrival. Everything had been coming up 'English roses' for Julianne in her new life until gardener-and-professor Matt Rose embarked on a new career in America, and her budding romance with him appears to be blighted....and this, as she struggles to win over (or, at least, force a truce) with a curmudgeonly gardener, and help Lady Amanda with a rapidly-snowballing personal project.

  As usual, there's plenty of Dinah's goodies, brisk sea breezes, and mishaps with designer heels to help Julianne through her latest crisis. And, as usual, Cliffs House and Ceffylgwyn play a big part — but without all the aforementioned cultural realities. Being an American writer, there are many details I get wrong — hence, the letter of explanation before each book. I know that a few readers have been concerned by errors, and by discrepancies between the book and real life (such as the joke involving a playful, literal pronunciation of the village 'Mousehole'), and feel that differences between 'fictional Cornwall' and the true one misrepresent the real county. But for many readers on both sides of the pond, fictional Cornwall is simply a romantic place that exists only in books, and doesn't detract from the incredible depth and beauty of its real-life counterpart. Just like the fictional Paris, where the Eiffel Tower is always magical, and chance meetings at cafes are always exciting — or fictional New York, a romantic place of bright, sunny days without building shadows to overcloud them, and quaint little shops thriving in the city's most chic districts (regardless of rent costs, the economy, zoning laws, or other real-life cultural and geographical limitations.)

  So welcome once more to (highly) fictional Cornwall. Where the inconvenience of a rainy day will always be somehow romantic, and the sea breeze will always be inviting; where quaint village life trumps modern intrusions, and where one's pasties will always emerge perfect from the oven. And if you love fictional cities and towns as much as I do, then I hope you also enjoy Send a Star, my other latest release — a story about love, probability, and the stars, where reality definitely doesn't raise its head too often for escapists!

  A Cottage in Cornwall

  by

  Laura Briggs

  "He's going to prison? Nooo!" moaned Pippa. "No, it's not fair!"

  "Hush up, will you?" said Gemma. "I can't hear the telly!" She pressed the volume button and pumped the sound several decibels louder as the characters onscreen murmured their way through a British drama. No less than the famous Poldark, the show the two of them had talked about constantly during their kitchen work. "Just imagine him in some dank, dirty little cell —"

  “— probably shirtless," completed Pippa, as they both stifled a giggle. "And sweaty."

  Between them, barefoot with the bowl of popcorn balanced on my lap, I popped several kernels in my mouth as I watched the screen in silence, where the handsome, smoldering Ross Poldark suffered persecution and overwhelming odds.

  Pippa and Gemma, part of the staff at Cliffs House, where I was the event planner, had hounded me for months to watch this series when I first came to Ceffylgwyn, a village in Cornwall. Finally, I had joined them on the sofa to watch episodes — in part out of curiosity, and in part because they were right about Ross Poldark and Matthew Rose bearing a strong resemblance to each other.

  Matthew Rose. My Matthew, as I thought of him, persistently. And with all this distance between us, physically and emotionally, my heart found a strange comfort in seeing someone who reminded me of him standing on a Cornish cliffside, wind whipping aside his dark hair. It made me think of the first time I met Matt on Cliffs House's walkway to the sea. Of course, he was yelling at me at the time for stepping on his plants, but that's an understandable reflex for a serious gardener. And his roses and his charming note of apology to the newest 'visitor to Cornish shores' more than made up for it.

  My only problem is, he's not my Matthew. Not now. And I, Julianne Morgen, know that full well even as I watch the gorgeous figure onscreen suffer his latest conflict since returning home to Cornwall from foreign shores. While somewhere across the pond, Matthew's only conflict while teaching in Boston was our weeks-old heated argument.

  "Oooh, here comes a possible duel!" squealed Gemma. "You know, Francis is fairly dreamy himself, when you think about it —"

  "Not so loud — I can't hear what they're saying," said Pippa, grabbing the remote and turning the sound still louder.

  Matt — I mean, Ross — was gone from the screen temporarily. And silly as it was, I missed him, even though he had nothing to do with the real-life man I knew.

  ****

  "Breakfast?" Dinah asked, when I walked into the manor's kitchen. "There's marmalade and fried bread on the platter. It was Constance's breakfast, but she's too busy to touch it, apparently."

  "She must be really deep into her masterpiece," I said, taking a bite from the unwanted toast, slathered in Dinah's spicy, sweet-and-tart marmalade from her own special recipe.

  "Ah, Lady Amanda tells me she can spend days on one little part of a canvas. Painting away at the same tree or flower until it’s near to life as she can make it. Won't have so much as a cup of tea until it's right, apparently." Dinah dusted flour from her hands and covered her bread's proofing bowl.

  "I love the painting she gave Lady Amanda," I said. "The one of the driftwood on the shore." It was so bright and soft, exactly like a clear morning along the coast. I had spent a lot of mornings walking along there, the cool, wet sea air against my coat and scarf, wet sand beneath my sensible boots — boots Matthew coaxed me into buying so I could explore places in natural Cornwall where three-inch designer stilettos just won't do. So, in a way, it was like a part of him came along for every walk through Cornwall's rugged coast or breathtaking groves.

  Cut those thoughts out right now, Julianne Morgen, I scolded myself. It was time to quit thinking about Matt every other minute of my life. Eight weeks of not talking to a person was a sign of deep trouble, even if my heart didn't want to fully admit it.

  "That was one of her first paintings, from when Constance was only a girl," said Dinah, who continued our conversation, unaware of the thoughts in my head. "Her gift to Lady Amanda for her eighteenth birthday. Worth a decent sum now, not that she'd ever part with it."

  "Not in a million years," I said, smiling over the rim of my teacup before I took a sip. Constance Strong was practically Lady Amanda's godmother
— at times a fairy godmother, from the description of the holidays they had shared traveling in England, and in France, where Constance used to live when her career was in its prime. Now, nearly sixty, she had left France behind for England; and though her canvases were fewer and far between, each one was a meticulous masterpiece that commanded thousands in galleries. Constance Strong was now one of the foremost botanical watercolor painters in all of Europe, maybe in all the world.

  This summer, she was painting the indigenous flora of Cornwall, so she had accepted an invitation from Lady Amanda to spend a month or two here at Cliffs House. It was common around the estate's grounds and Ceffylgwyn's natural spots to find Constance cross-legged on the sand or ground, a small easel propped in front of her, her fingers making a rough sketch of a purplish sprig of Cornish heath, or one of the tenacious plants clinging to recesses in the cliffs' rocks. A strong, weathered figure with a calm face and spiky grey-white hair beneath a simple straw gardening hat, her sensible denim or tweed trousers, and her buttoned linen shirt and boots always a little stained by grass or mud from close contact with nature.

  Today, she was painting in Cliffs House's 'natural garden,' where Matt had planted an extremely fine specimen of Cornish Moneywort last year, thanks to the Cornish Natural Preservation Society's propagation arrangement. The wind whipped the scarf around her hat's crown, while her brush deftly sketched a leaf's angle with soft, painted lines. She had glanced up at me as I passed her on my way inside, revealing a pair of blue eyes, deep facial creases, and a Mediterranean tan. She raised her hand in a friendly wave.

  "Morning," I said.

  "Good morning," she called. Her voice a bit cracked and hoarse, but still full of energy, even for two little words. "Lovely day with a bracing wind, isn't it?"

  "It is," I agreed. A sunny day in Cornwall was perfection, even in its imperfect details. Like a strong wind off the coast, the one that was tearing at my coat and scarf and ruffling the leaves of the plant Constance was painting. "But it's a little strong for my tastes," I continued.

  "Puts the energy into one, though," said Constance. "Must be the breath of spring rolling off the coast. I feel twenty-five again — and me with rheumy fingers, as you know." She waved her hand again, revealing the knobby, crooked fingers — like ballet dancers have twisted toes, I suppose artists are supposed to have roughened hands.

  "Must be spring in the air, like you said," I echoed cheerfully, although I found the wind mostly played havoc with my carefully-tamed dark auburn tresses when I most wanted them to be smooth. But Constance's unruly hairstyle looked carefree and at home in the breeze. I envied it as she turned back to her painting, reaching for the glass of water and the open paints on her little folding table.

  Polishing off Dinah's toast, I made my way to Lady Amanda's office, which was close to my own. My space as Cliffs House's event planner in residence commanded a beautiful view of the estate, and an impressive display of antiques in between more modern furnishings and conveniences. Just like my room, in fact — which was a guest room I had promised myself months ago to vacate for more permanent housing.

  Lady Amanda had wanted to see me first thing this morning, and I arrived just as she was finishing her phone conference with a local inn whose brochures she was designing. Lady Amanda wasn't just the wife of Lord William, lady of the regal manor like in old-fashioned British dramas — like most modern-day ladies of title, as I had learned, she was actively involved not only in Cliffs House's role as a tourist site and event host, but had devoted herself to her career of promoting local business, tourism, and Cornish cultural preservation in Ceffylgwyn. Which was exactly why she needed me, an event planner transported from the U.S. by a lucky resume submission, to run the day-to -day process of hosting events at the manor.

  She moved aside the heap of glossy printer paper on her desk and blew a few stray bangs away from her eyes. "Well, that's a morning's work done," she said. "Julianne, I'm glad to see you. There's something we need to discuss before I leave for my sculpting class."

  Lady Amanda had taken back up a hobby from her university years recently, partly because of Constance's presence in England. Lady Amanda's friend had been quick to ask if she'd kept up with her talent — a talent that Lady Amanda decried as pathetic in comparison to her quick digital skills for whipping up tourist brochures, or designing programs for recitals and theatrical events.

  She checked her watch. "I'll have to make it quick. Close the door if you will."

  Close the door? That was new. I felt a jolt of worry. For the first time, I wondered if I was being scolded; if I had made some horrible error recently with regards to an assignment.

  "If this is about the Brown-Phelps wedding —" I began, wondering if the angry mother-of-the-groom had complained about my unwillingness to decorate the reception's petits fours with her favorite berries — a beautiful but somewhat poisonous variety which guests were just 'supposed to pick off' before eating, as she explained, but would look so much better than edible ones...

  "No, no," said Lady Amanda. "It's something quite secret, actually." She moved from behind her desk to the armchair in her office's sitting area. I sat down on the sofa.

  "No one knows but me — although everybody will find out soon enough — but the fact is, my friend Constance told me last night that she's in love. In truth, that she's going to be married very soon."

  I knew my surprise showed in my face — but not for someone falling in love with the senior-age artist. "Really?" I said. "That's wonderful." I felt relief that this discussion was about good news, and not some problem with one of Cliffs House's paying guests.

  "Isn't it?" said Lady Amanda. "It's just such a surprise to me. All these years, she's lived alone, had a boyfriend here or there, but no one serious. But last night she says, 'I've met the love of my life at last, Amanda. Me, at my age, in love like a schoolgirl.'"

  On Lady Amanda's face a fond smile appeared, one that was proof that her thoughts were drifting into the past, no doubt for exploring hiking paths and forgotten gardens in her own school days with the artist.

  "Who is he?" I asked.

  "I've never met him — but he's coming here shortly so they can be married. He's a friend of the gallery owner who's hosting Constance's exhibition this month. A former vineyard owner named Joseph, whose farm was only a hundred miles from the village where Constance always stayed in Italy. She's driven past it dozens of times, it would seem, when traveling there."

  "Wow," I said. "Think if she'd only stopped for a quick tour."

  "I know. All those years, they never crossed paths, but now —" Lady Amanda spread her hands, dramatically. "It was love at first sight, apparently."

  It was an incredibly romantic story. I was thrilled for Constance, even with my own heart still recently sore and heartbroken — but I didn't see why Lady Amanda needed a secret conference with me to reveal it, unless there was more to this story.

  "When's the wedding?" I asked. "Are we planning it?" That would make sense.

  "Two weeks," said Lady Amanda. "Right after the gallery show closes." She poured a cup of tea from a pot on her sitting-room table, then poured one for me. "But here's the problem, Julianne. Constance keeps saying 'it's just a small affair, just a little ceremony.' A mere piece of paper between them after some vows before a magistrate, and then they're off to Switzerland for a week so she can paint the plants emerging with the spring thaw. It's practically nothing — all she wants me to do is ring up and enquire about the license and putting an announcement in the London paper afterwards."

  I was pretty sure I understood now where this would lead. "And you want something special," I said.

  "Of course I do," said Lady Amanda, emphatically. "Constance is my oldest, wisest, and best friend in all the world — more so than half the close chums I still have from my school days, believe it or not. I can't possibly let her be married to the love of her life in her old hiking togs, with nothing but some ginger biscuits and tea before she ta
kes off again. It wouldn't be right."

  I pictured this slapdash ceremony taking place — with stained trouser knees that reminded me painfully of Matt's gardening clothes — and couldn't agree more with Lady Amanda taking issue with her friend's arrangement.

  "I'm persuading her to be married here, at least — and I want the two of us to add a few special little touches to make it a celebration worth remembering." Lady Amanda set aside her teacup. "Something worthy of Constance, whether she believes it or not. And I need your help to pull it off."

  "You've got it," I promised.

  ***

  Constance's wedding would be just the distraction I needed. Something to take my mind off the silly fight I'd had with Matthew, the one that had brought our long-distance romance crashing down around us.

  I tried to tell myself it was inevitable: couples separated by an ocean have the odds against them. Long phone calls and webcam chats, and love letter emails eventually become too little; every little disagreement becomes bigger just because you can't reach for someone's hand to say it's really all right.

  And it had been such a stupid, petty argument — all about whether Matt should take time off to visit some remote South American region where a new virus had appeared among a rare rain forest species of flower. It sounded dangerous, I pointed out. And didn't he have a big test coming up for his students?

  "I do, but a teacher's aide will give it to my class, and take over my syllabus while I'm away," said Matt. "It's only for a few weeks, and it's the best chance we have of saving this species. They want a team representing all fields of plant sciences."

  "It's an honor to be asked, I'm sure," I answered. "But you get why I'm concerned, don't you? It's a jungle, Matt. Literally. People get eaten there. By big snakes, and crocodiles, and — and bugs and fish, even." I dredged for further memories of South American nature specials, and came up short.