"We'll put the arbor for the ceremony here, I believe," said Lord William, waving his hand towards a neat square of green lawn in front of a flower bed. "The foxglove will still be in bloom, but I'm afraid those annuals will be spent by then. It'll look rather shabby, but this is by far the best spot."
"We could patch those spots with something else," suggested Geoff, studying it with a frown. "Bit of green, if nothing else."
"I think we should simply bring round some potted flowers from the garden behind the kitchen," Lady Amanda intervened. "There's lovely color in them, and it would fill the gaps nicely without having to plant anything more. Transplant is an art."
Lord William sighed. "Let's ask Matthew's opinion on it," he said. "We want this to be as striking as possible. Maybe he'll have a brilliant thought on what would be ideal."
I didn't offer an opinion as the three of us studied the wedding ceremony site in the garden. Absently, I plucked a few leaves from a vine in a heavy cast-iron urn, blossoms of vinca trailing along its sides. I was still peeved at Matthew — for no good reason, really — and didn't want to venture an opinion that might include his name.
Lady Amanda sighed. "This is the part of event planning that always lasts far too long," she said. "Making up one's mind to the details, be it ever so small." She checked her watch. "Fortunately for me, I have an appointment with the boat rental on the port that can't be missed."
"What — leaving now?" Lord William asked. "But we haven't made a decision."
"Their new website is nearly ready and we have to discuss online scheduling." She kissed his cheek, then tucked her handbag under her arm and strolled quickly towards the garden's exit. Over her shoulder, she gave me a conspiratorial smile — the smile of a woman finally escaping to her true calling, and leaving me to mine.
Both of the men present now looked at me. "Then I suppose it's your opinion that will be the final word, Julianne," said Lord William, with a smile. "That, and Matthew's, of course."
"Right," I answered.
Reluctantly, I set off in the direction of the hothouse, where Matthew was busy working, apparently. I picked my way around a pile of broken clay pots and fertilizer, opening the door to a long, glass room which might as well be a conservatory joined to the sunniest side of the house.
Inside, Matthew was busy testing soil in a row of potted plants — at least that's what I assumed he must be doing. He was examining smears between glass lenses, a pile that resembled chemical test strips from my old chem lab days lying on the table in front of him.
"Um, sorry to interrupt," I began, trying hard not to look at him. "But Lord William wants to know if you can do something special for the central bed in the formal garden." I studied the heavy green vines, vinca and flowering peas, which trailed past the windows from the blanket of green covering the glass roof. It was somewhere over Matthew's right shoulder, but far from the direct line to his dark eyes.
Not that he noticed. He was too busy reading whatever sample was in his hand, held up to the sunlight. "I see," he answered.
"If you could just say 'yes' or 'no,' that would be fine," I said.
"Can it wait?" he asked. "Or are you rushing off somewhere?" He looked directly at me now. I gave the little flowers on the vine considerably more study, giving him only a fraction of a glance. I didn't leave, so that seemed like an answer in itself.
He studied the sample a moment longer, then laid it aside. "Are you angry at me?" he asked.
The direct question took me by surprise. "What?" I said. I broke my own rule and looked at him for a moment. He looked amused, and vaguely puzzled. Time to study the flowers again, I reminded myself.
"No," I said. "I'm not angry. What makes you think that?"
"I'm fairly sure I can recognize anger at this point."
"That's a rather stupid question to ask someone," I said. "Whom you hardly know, anyway."
"I thought maybe we were back to the debacle of the heath plant," he said. "Or perhaps you had a problem with the edible flowers."
"No," I said, slightly softened by this mention of the flowers.
"Or perhaps you have a problem with me personally." He studied his project on the table now, but not with any real focus that I could detect. "With something I said or did. You didn't speak to me yesterday, I noticed."
"You were busy enjoying your champagne," I muttered, a little tersely. That was a mistake. I could see from Matthew's face that he figured it out.
"What — with the chief bridesmaid?" he said. "She brought me that glass, you know. I didn't ask her to — I didn't invite anyone into the garden to chat." A deep red blush crept over his face, and suddenly he looked very boyish and embarrassed. "I was polite, but I wasn't ... flirting."
I'd made him uncomfortable, which surprised me. It wasn't a crime for him to notice a woman as gorgeous as Trixie, since he was apparently unattached. And, like I had told myself before, there was nothing between us but my silly little fantasy now and then.
"If you were, there's no law against it," I reminded him, although it cost me a blush — just a little one. "Besides she was very pretty. And thoughtful."
"That's not the point," he muttered. But more to himself than to me. "Anyway, I was being polite in the garden to — to a guest of the house. But not quite as polite as all that." He seemed to have recovered now, offering me a smile. It seemed perfectly friendly, yet sad. I wasn't sure why it struck me this way, but it did.
"Well, as I said before, it's none of my business." My voice softened. "But when you get the chance, if you would give Lord William and Lady Amanda a few ideas on how to make the flower bed more impressive, they would appreciate it." I turned to go.
"Do you still want to make a better acquaintance with Cornish culture?" he asked.
I glanced back. "Sure," I said. I didn't think this was a trick question — although back home, with a friend like Nate or Aimee, this kind of proposal sometimes ended with the kind of mean joke friends play on each other, a cube of ice down the back of my shirt, or a spoonful of salt in my coffee. But me and Matthew weren't close enough for me to worry about that, were we?
"Then come with me to lunch," he said. "If you're not busy with other plans."
"No other plans." The voice that answered him had come from me, yet it was soft and entirely different from my usual one. That was good, because a sudden and quiet astonishment had swept over me when he suggested this.
Ceffylgwyn itself was a place I hadn't thoroughly explored until now — but by Matthew's side, I saw everything anew through the eyes of someone who lived here and clearly loved it. From the harbor port with its strong smell of fish and saltwater, the shacks and wood supports stained grey and black by the water, to the quaint whitewashed and slate structures that reminded you of Old England at every turn. The water was always there, making Cornwall feel like an enchanted island every time I glimpsed the curves of the Channel and the beaches. I peered through the windows of shops, some of them selling tourist souvenirs; others were proof of Cornwall's everyday population, with modern fish and chips and takeaway spots, and tobacco shops and grocery stores.
"How long have you lived here?" I asked Matthew, as we walked.
"Four years," he said. "I was a boy here, though, for most of my life. Long before university, I used to bike along the shore. I worked at a fish and chips shop — my first real job."
"You weren't a gardener then?" I asked.
Matthew laughed. "I'm not a gardener now," he said, sounding amused. "Not in the way you think."
I stopped walking. "What do you mean by that?" I turned to stone. Had Matthew — had everyone — been lying? Playing some elaborate joke? It made no sense — hadn't I met him digging on the grounds at Cliffs House? Defending its plants against clumsy visitors?
"I'm a horticulturist and botanist," he said. "I used to teach those subjects at a university when I was in America. I worked in crossbreeding and hybridization, disease control, preservation of historic plants — that last one was a
position I held for some time at a historic garden in Massachusetts. When I came back to England, I did a little of the same, in London and then here in Cornwall. I studied landscaping on the side. Purely a hobby, you might say."
"What — what exactly are you doing at Cliffs House?" I demanded. I crossed my arms as I faced him. "If you're not a gardener just replacing singed heath and potting foxglove, or whatever."
"William is a friend of mine from university. We may have grown up in separate parts of Cornwall, but we both love it...and since I was between positions, he asked me if I would be kind enough to consult on the gardens at Cliffs House."
I considered this as I gazed at the shop across the street. "So you are a gardener," I said. "And you are gardening at Cliffs House."
"Technically, I'm restoring the gardens of Cliffs House to their previous glory," he said. "While solving a few bacterial and disease problems among the roses and some of the shrubbery."
"Hence all the test strips and soil smears this morning," I said. I shook my head. "Why didn't anyone mention what you did?"
"Why does it matter?" he asked. "Does it matter to you whether I'm an undergardener who trims shrubbery, or a former professor who treats its diseases?"
"I guess it doesn't," I admitted. "Still, I wish I had known. I should have been addressing you as Doctor Rose, for one thing." I smiled a little, seeing that I had embarrassed him slightly.
"It's not a title I use right now," he said. "Just Matthew Rose is fine. Matt is better, actually."
"Matt," I repeated. Shyly, to my surprise. Was I in danger of melting again under his good looks and boyish charm? Shaking off the possibility, I told him, "Okay. I'll remember that." I slipped my hands into my coat pockets. "So why did you give up teaching — or your job in Massachusetts, whichever came last?"
Matthew's face dimmed. "I needed a change of scenery," he said. "I needed to come home." A moment later, he smiled at me.
"I'll show you where I grew up, if you don't mind walking a little further," he said. "We'll find something to eat there as well. If you want to taste the best in Cornish pasties, then my childhood haunt is the proper place to go."
"By all means," I said. "Besides, I'm starving. Whether they're the best or not, I'll probably eat two."
When Matt said his childhood home was very different from Lord William's, I hadn't believed him at first. Not until I saw that it was a small house near a part of Cornwall that didn't make the mention in my 'visit Cornwall' research. This was the poorer part of town, reminding me a little of places near my first home in Seattle. There were fewer historic sites here, far fewer tourist havens or boutiques. I noticed a tobacco shop and a chemist's, a fish and chips shop with a neon sign.
"I didn't realize this was what you meant," I said, gazing at the now-empty house. A black iron fence spliced with chain link on the sides kept us from passing through the rickety, ornamental gate to the miniscule lawn on the other side. The old-fashioned shutters were closed upstairs; the whole place needed a new paint job, its white, weathered surface turning grey from years of neglect.
"My father died when I was young," he said. "My mother worked to raise me and my sister, alone. I was bright enough to earn a scholarship, which was how I ended up in public school, then at university."
He was being modest, I thought. When he said 'bright,' he was downplaying his accomplishments. During our walk, I had used my WiFi connection to sneak a few internet searches of his name and discovered words associated with it were a little more glowing. Like 'brilliant,' 'innovative,' 'genius,' paired with terms like 'a leading figure in plant disease research,' and 'the foremost expert in preserving antique plant breeds for the future.' He had been an Ivy League professor, a consultant and landscape architect at the oldest and most pristine rose garden in Massachusetts.
"Then my mother died, and I helped my sister finish school. She wanted to be a nurse and that's what she does now. Only in the military, which wasn't quite what I had in mind for her future." His smile was one of pride and worry.
No noble background, I perceived. Except for that of a hero to his family, and one of the most brilliant minds in modern day botany. And that was so much better than a prince on a white horse.
"Here we are," he said, opening the door to the modern fish and chips shop. "Lunch."
"G'day, m'love," said the woman behind the counter. "Haven't seen you 'round here for a week."
"Too many plants," he answered, with a lopsided smile. "Julianne, this is Charlotte Jones, my former employer and baker of the best Cornish oggies this side of Falmouth. Charlotte, this is Julianne Morgen, the new event planner at Cliffs House."
"Pleasure to meet you," said Charlotte, with a smile. "What'll it be?"
"Two oggies," he answered.
"What's an 'oggy'?" I asked, not exactly sure I wanted to eat it. I lowered my voice for Charlotte's sake as I asked.
"It's the local nickname for a pasty," he said. "Trust me, you'll love it."
I did. At first bite. Beneath the brown, crispy crust was the savory taste of beef, onions, and spices. I practically gobbled mine up in two bites, savoring its taste as I licked my fingers. Matt, who was savoring his, laughed aloud at me. It was the first time I heard him laugh, except for the muffled sounds through the garden shrubbery that fateful afternoon with Trixie. It had a warm, natural sound that made me feel as if I had a pleasant little fire lit deep inside me as I listened. Strangely enough, that made me shiver in response.
"These are delicious," I said to Charlotte. "The best thing I've eaten in the whole county."
She laughed heartily. "Go on now," she said. "Everyone 'round here eats them all the time. Like fish and chips or bangers and mash."
I knew the pasty was an iconic Cornish dish, and I had a few poor American imitations, but not even the meat pie served at my first English hotel stay was this good. Something this sweet and savory from a kitchen in Ceffylgwyn ... didn't it deserve to be served alongside an exclusive baker's cake from Newquay? At an event where some of the most influential English and American socialites might be present?
"Can you make these in a miniature version?" I asked.
Charlotte gave me a puzzled look in response, but after some pleading on my part, she promised to try it. A tray of the 'trial versions' would be sent to Cliffs House for everyone to sample—but with the caveat they wouldn’t be ‘proper oggies’ in miniature size, given the hearty contents of a full-size one. But I was pretty sure they would still taste scrumptious, and with only a few days before the bride, groom, and their party arrived to stay, I needed every last impressive detail to be perfectly in place.
Since Petal had emailed me with a definite rejection of the Cornish flower bouquet I designed, I was left with no choice but to pay tribute to Cornwall through the centerpieces and the food. The days were ticking away, and I clutched at every possible solution I could find. Something like Charlotte's tasty 'oggies' was exactly what I needed.
"You're thinking of something else, aren't you?" Matt asked.
"Who, me? I'm just thinking how lucky it was that I left my good stilettos in the closet today," I answered. I was glad for once that I was wearing a pair of sensible boots, nothing too spiky or delicate. Not the way my legs ached after walking what felt like ten miles between here and Matt's car.
"I thought you were thinking of work," he said.
"This from an accused workaholic?"
Matt grimaced. "I am a little ... too devoted these days," he said. "I've thrown myself into projects these past few years. A good way to fill empty spaces in my life."
Loneliness wasn't something I imagined for him. I had assumed his self-induced exile in Cornwall was for the sake of working hard despite distractions — not the opposite reason. "Are there very many?" I asked him, softly.
"Oh, no more than anyone else has, I suppose," he answered, with a faint smile. "Maybe I was away from Cornwall too long to truly come home again. Or maybe I gave up on other possibilities in
my life too soon." For a moment, I thought I heard him sigh after these words.
"For what it's worth, I've enjoyed my tour of Ceffylgwyn," I said. "My first full day of Cornish culture. I owe you for that." I glanced at him with a smile.
"You could do better than a walk through the village and a few pasties," he laughed. "The locals would be happy to take you into their fold. Quiz nights at the pub, euchre circle at the fish and chips shop on Tuesdays, a bout of Cornish wrestling now and then —"
"A night of Troyl?" I suggested. "Complete with Cornish tartan and kilt?" If I was saying any of this incorrectly, he didn't bother to correct me, I noticed. A lesson for another day, maybe.
"Exactly," he said.
We were both quiet again. "Do you ever get a day off?" he asked me.
"I just took two hours off," I answered, with a laugh. "Um...with all the work I have to finish before the big event, I'm not sure."
"If you do," he said, "there's somewhere I'd like to show you. The place I worked before now. Well, consulted, really," he added. "Sort of like for Lord William, only on a slightly bigger scale. It's a beautiful part of Cornwall, one no visitor to our county should go without seeing."
I imagined it must be quite a bit bigger, given Matt's tendency to depict things as less than they actually were. "I'd love to," I said.
"Let me know when you're free," he said.
"What about your time?" I asked him. "When do you have a day off?"
"Whenever I want one," he said. "Remember?"
Right. The whole 'consulting on his own time' thing. So Matt didn't have to be the 'slave to the dirt' that Pippa and Gemma imagined him to be. Well, if it encouraged him to give it up for a few hours to shuttle a newcomer around the county, I would happily oblige. It was the least I could do in return for the edible flowers, wasn't it?
"Do you speak Cornish?" I asked him.
"A little. Why?"
"What's the house's name in Cornish?" I asked. "Cliffs House?"
He thought about this for a minute. "Chei Klegrow," he said, with an impossible pronunciation I could never match. "That's as close as I can come off the top of my tongue, at any rate."
"I think I like it better in English," I said. "But I think the village's name is growing on me."
"That it does," he answered. Whether he was talking about the Cornish name or the village itself, I wasn't sure, but it didn't matter. I agreed with both of them wholeheartedly.
***