"Come with me," said Lady Amanda, who found me in the kitchen, wolfing down a quick piece of fried bread before throwing myself back into the fray of setting up the reception rooms.
"What is it?" I asked. I followed her quickly upstairs — not to one of the offices, but to the private suite assigned to the bridal party. Specifically, Petal Borroway.
The bride was on the phone. From the tense and angry look on her face, I sensed that something was wrong. When she hung up a moment later and faced me, however, she forced a tiny smile into place.
"It looks as if we have a teensy little problem," she said. "The flower delivery was late — when I called, it turns out that the London florist lost my order somehow. It seems they can't provide a suitable replacement, and no other florist in the city can send one on time ... so I'll need you to have that bouquet you designed ready by tomorrow morning."
My heart sprang high in my chest, then crashed down just as quickly. "The Cornish bouquet?" I said. The one you hated?
"Donald will love it. It's so traditional," she said. "Such a perfect complement to the wedding's theme, don't you think? Now that there's no possibility of the London florists sending the one I selected." There was a smile on Petal's face, but I was fairly sure the only thing holding its serenity in place was the thought of scoring a few points with Donald due to his recent Cornwall obsession.
"I do," I answered. But my voice didn't reflect the confidence I had felt when I first suggested this. The flowers I had chosen — the manor hothouse might not have enough of them left, to begin with. And at this short notice, where would I ever find enough orchids that resembled the heath-spotted ones along the coast? The only thing that would be easy to find would be actual heath — if I raided Matthew's beloved patches of it, that is.
Matthew. He was the only one who could find half of these things easily, much less pull together a bouquet filled with elegant blossoms and the colors of Cornwall's native flowers. How could I possibly ask him to do it now, given what I knew about him and Petal?
"I'll see what I can do," I said, with my brightest smile. "By tomorrow morning, I'll have a bouquet for you assembled from the best that Cliffs House's gardens can offer." That much of the promise I could keep, although I couldn't promise it would be what Petal envisioned for her wedding day.
As soon as the door closed behind us, I looked at Lady Amanda. "What am I going to do?" I asked her. "She waited until it's nearly impossible — how will I ever find what we need?" I ran a hand through my hair in frustration. "Do you have numbers for all the florists around Ceffylgwyn?"
"I do — and ones in Truro, too," answered Lady Amanda. "Let's hope they have the answer." We hurried off to her desk, where the 'master list' of South Cornwall businesses was stashed in a drawer beside her telephone book.
The garden could provide some flowers the color of heath's blooms, Lord William assured me — not protected flowers, but domestic varieties in a few shades of pink and purple. Maybe not the brightest or most colorful blossoms at this stage, but that was the least of my problems. Cliffs House's greenhouse had only a couple of orchids, only one of them in bloom — and it wasn't the same color as the wild orchid's purple and pink blush. All the other blossoms had been showcased this past week as centerpieces at an afternoon charity tea.
"Hi, Flowers by the Sea? I was wondering if you could provide me with a dozen purple and white orchids..." After I finished explaining all the details, I listened with disappointment as florist after florist told me they had too few blossoms, or the wrong type of orchid. Several of them were handling big orders for other weddings or special occasions, and couldn't meet a request this last minute, not for orchids or for daisies in pink, white, or magenta.
I sighed as I hung up. All I had were lilies, a few white roses, and maybe six orchids if the two florists I had spoken with truly had those in stock. I had no painted daisies to fill the bouquet — there were none planted at Cliffs House currently, I learned, not in any color, much less what I needed. Just a few cultivated wildflower blossoms whose shades might pass as Cornish native ones.
I was sunk — just like a boat ramming against a rock wall, my first big assignment had rammed against the fickle rock of Petal Borroway's wedding tastes. I would have to find a way around this crisis, and the only choice left was to assemble a bouquet from the hothouse's best flowers and give my apologies to Petal tomorrow.