by Laura Briggs
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and events are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance between characters and persons either living or dead is purely coincidental.
A Manor in Cornwall
COPYRIGHT © 2017 by Laura Briggs
All rights reserved. No part of this book maybe used or reproduced without the author’s permission.
Cover Image: “Cornish Manor House.” Original art, “Country house” by Marrishuanna. Used with permission. http://www.dreamstime.com/
Dear Reader,
It hardly seems possible this is book four in event planner Julianne’s story. She has come a long way from the starry-eyed American who arrived in Cornwall with a little bit of luggage and a lot of ideas. She has planned celebrity weddings, organized a holiday ball, dealt with an ex-flame from the States, befriended her fellow staff members at Cliffs House, and —of course—met the love of her life.
Now, a new phase begins for Julianne in both her job and her relationship with Matthew, and new faces are introduced to the manor house as it becomes the concert site for a Cornish singing sensation. And, of course, familiar faces are there too, with Julianne planning a wedding for none other than Pippa, her Cliffs House coworker and hopeless Poldark-addict.
It’s no secret that reader influence has played a big role in getting the series to this stage. Back in 2016, I never dreamed A Wedding in Cornwall would grace the Top 100 at Amazon UK, or that its sequels would also be bestsellers. But readers have been encouraging with each new installment, and it’s only fitting I say thank you for such wonderful enthusiasm.
It has been especially nice to read the reviews of fans and see what they enjoy most about the series. Such as UK reader Ikira who wrote of their fondness for the characters, and a reviewer named Vivienne who mentioned loving the humor and descriptive passages. And I can’t forget to mention the wonderful support of such book bloggers as Rachel from Rachel’s Random Reads. Without these and thousands of other book lovers, I can’t imagine that Julianne, Matt, and the rest of the series’ characters would have come so far so quickly.
I hope you enjoy this latest novel, and if the glamour of celebrity in Ceffylgwyn isn’t quite enough for your appetite, you’ll find much more in my latest novel Retouched, in which a young fashion photographer and an aspiring model cross paths – and opinions – on the subject of whether a good heart and a successful career can coexist in the world of fashion design.
Every wedding planner wants an event to fall on a perfect day. I've had my share of good luck when it comes to sunshine and clear skies — even as an event planner in England, known for its drizzly days — but here in Cornwall, whose rainy days are fewer than England's northern counties, I didn't think that fortune would smile on my own wedding.
But it did. We took a chance, having the ceremony on a Cornish beach, instead of one of Cliffs House manor's drawing rooms, we knew. Matthew and I, however, felt there was no place more appropriate, since it was the view of Cornwall's water that brought us together. Well, the view from the flower beds growing along the garden path, that is. But our beloved cliffs' point was far too small to accommodate all our guests without squashing Matt's hard work in those flower beds — and the shore below it was, needless to say, mostly a rocky ledge.
I, Julianne Morgen, known for my love of designer shoes, stood barefoot despite any beach-swept rocks or shells, risking whatever might be buried underneath the sand — hand in hand with Matthew as the sea's breeze whipped our hair around our faces, and rippled the train of my ivory gown along the sea-washed edge of the beach. The gown I had chosen wasn't a designer label with a fancy price tag, but merely a simple, beautiful strapless dress with a sheer overlay.
I didn't care if it encountered salt water or seaweed, just as I didn't care that my hairstyle was completely ruined by the wind: the only thing I cared about today was being with the people I loved most. Even Matthew wasn't in a morning suit, although his silk shirt and linen trousers were definitely a step up from his gardening togs. This aspect definitely felt like an American wedding to me — although one straight from California's sunny beaches and not the rainy streets of my old home city Seattle.
My parents were there to watch us, looking proud, happy, and maybe just a little overwhelmed by the whirlwind of days they'd spent exploring Cornwall up until this morning. Aimee, my closest friend from the U.S., was there, too, in her brightest pink formal and acting as my chief bridesmaid; Gemma and Pippa joined her in the wedding party, wearing the matching strappy pink knee-length gowns I had chosen for my two local bridesmaids (with lots of input from both of them), and for Michelle, Matt's beloved younger sister. Even a few of Matt's colleagues from Boston were there, although his best man was Lord William himself.
"You may now kiss the bride," said the minister, as he closed his book of vows.
The words I had been waiting for. I hadn't cried through my vows, at least — being deliriously happy means you can't stop smiling even long enough to cry — but I was dangerously close to it now that I was facing Matt as his wife, and he was leaning down to kiss me.
Both of my hands were now enfolded by Matthew's strong fingers; I felt his lips brush my own, the touch between us a tender one that lasted longer than even we intended...after all, we had said beforehand, there would be plenty more later, right?
One look in those eyes as he released me, and I felt my tears melt away. It was as if fireworks were ignited inside me, lighting me up within with color and fire in breathtaking display. Aimee threw her arms around me in a bear hug as she handed me my bouquet, while Matt was engulfed in a similar hug by Michelle. We were eagerly surrounded by our loved ones now, all smiling from ear to ear as they wished us happiness.
A few moments later, my hand was safely back in Matt's hold again as I tossed my bouquet of freesia over my shoulder. A wail like a siren from behind me made us all turn to see the source of the noise — it was Pippa the romantic, whose expression was that of an astonished lottery winner as she clutched the bouquet in both hands. Someone snapped a photo at that exact moment, one of Pippa's delight and everyone else's laughter and smiles.
Like I said, it was a perfect day.
***
That beautiful day on the shore was almost five months ago, and since then, I couldn't have been busier. Maybe there was something in the air this fall that compelled people to plan major, life-changing events in Cornwall. A wedding for a couple from St Austell coincided with a financial guru's retirement, then two weddings back to back near the end of the summer, sandwiched in between a charity tea social and Cliffs House's role in the village fete.
Now, two more events were scheduled back to back, albeit at separate ends of the financial scale. The first was a major Cornish performing artist's album debut, being hosted here at Cliffs House, and the second was Pippa's wedding.
"You'll help me with it, right?" said Pippa. "I don't know the first place to start — I want a proper dress and flowers and everything. Something classy and elegant, like the big ones we've done here."
Pippa's knight in shining armor wasn't a football star, actor, or London millionaire like the ones she and Gemma had spent hours dreaming about while working in the kitchen. He was an incredibly likeable local boy named Gavin, who had just landed a good job in Hampshire and saw his opportunity to finally propose to the secret love of his life. More than one person had taken bets when he first began dating Pippa that she would break his heart — so almost everyone was surprised when she showed up one morning wearing a beautiful little sapphire ring.
"His gran's," she explained, as she showed it off to a wide-eyed Gemma and Dinah. "Not exactly the Hope Diamond, but it's pretty enough, I suppose." She blushed with these words
, and I felt sure that Pippa was in love at that moment. "Better than a diamond chip like Tandy Newcastle's wearing. Practically invisible unless you hold it under a water glass — and her Ted's spent four thousand quid on that beater of a classic motorbike what everybody says is too rusted for anything but spare parts."
"Engaged?" said Gemma, who was just now recovering her speech. "Since when? Why didn't you tell me it was serious? You held out on me, that's what you did."
"Heavens, half the village thought you were running his heart ragged, the way you talked about him, not planning to marry him," said Dinah, half surprised and half scolding at this point. "All those criticisms of his looks and his manners and the way he mooned about, trying to get your attention since he was a lad —"
"I think it's great," I said, before Dinah's concern carried her too far into probing poor Pippa's love life. "He seems really perfect, and he's definitely in love with you. The look in his eyes whenever the two of you walk into the pub for quiz night, for instance —"
"—like the way Ross looks at Demelza," sighed Gemma. Because no conversation between these two on staff at Cliffs House was complete without a reference to Poldark, I knew.
"He's not exactly Poldark, though," said Pippa, who looked slightly wistful. "But he's a decent lad, it's true. And the way he proposed was romantic. Took me to a little place in Truro, and got down on one knee and everything." A blush burned in her cheeks after this admission.
Gavin was a wise man, I surmised, who knew the way to Pippa's heart better than anyone had thought. And he was a much better choice for her than her usual boyfriend, who usually spent hours loafing around with fellow football fans, and didn't mind giving other girls a glance whenever the two of them were at the pub or Charlotte's pasty shop.
"Well, I'm astonished, that's all I'll say," said Dinah, who made herself busy rattling pans again. I'd never seen her at a sudden loss for words with either of her assistants, whose silly stories and gossip she tended to address with a quick tongue. Pippa's news, however, defied that tradition.
"So I want it to be a special day," Pippa confided in me. "Gavin wants me to pick a nice dress and flowers, no matter what my mum says about the cost — and I want a place with a bit of class for the reception. I've not much money myself, though —" here, her face fell slightly, "— and I know Gavin's saving as much as he can for renting a nice little place afterwards. So I thought maybe you'd know some ways to make it elegant without costing too much. I don't want a quick ceremony at the magistrate's and a rowdy afternoon at the pub afterwards with me dad's crowd." She made a face.
"It'll be beautiful," I promised. "There are plenty of things that we can do that will make it gorgeous, trust me."
"Like a fairytale," chimed in Pippa, hopefully. "When I think of some of the things I've seen here — even just one of Dinah's cakes would be something." Her face lit up.
I suspected the manor's cook was softhearted enough that one of those would be Pippa's, with or without the money for it. "I'll talk to the florists for you, and find a reception site," I promised. "Some place better than the pub." For all our love of the local watering hole near the shore, there were limits to its romantic appeal, from the rowdiest patrons and their arguments to Old Ned the former sailor's penchant for sidling up to guests and wheedling a free drink out of them.
I had made Pippa that promise and I intended to keep it. The two of us had already gone through Pippa's 'wedding scrapbook' one Saturday afternoon, poring over the dresses and flower arrangements she had torn out of magazines. She had excitedly described all sorts of celebrity weddings she admired. Now it was up to me to find a way to add a little of the celebrity elegance that Pippa had always craved for her special day.
I laid out the magazine clippings on my desk on Monday, on top of the wine lists, florists' catalogs, sketches, and other paperwork that was beginning to take over my workspace. Pretty soon the stack would tumble to the floor in dramatic fashion, I imagined, as I blew a few wisps of auburn hair out of my eyes and tried to rearrange a few things to make more room. Note to Julianne — take this afternoon and put some stuff away, I thought, as I searched for a critical bill among the stack.
"Julianne, have we heard from Kelly Forrester yet?" Lady Amanda hurried into my office, as fast as her semi-practical high-heeled boots allowed. Kelly was the local antique dealer, who was supposed to be loaning us a few elegant props for our next event — notably, a hand-painted spinet formerly belonging to a French palace.
"Not yet," I said. "She's been gone this week to a china auction in London."
Lady Amanda released an exasperated sigh. "Is it just me or is everyone on holiday this week?" she asked. "Just when we need answers on the dot, too." She was gathering up a few of the floor plans for the ballroom's rearrangement, which she and I had been working on yesterday, shoving them into the portfolio in her arms.
"Did you talk to the caterers in Truro yet?" I asked her.
"Heavens, no? Was I supposed to do that? I thought you were," she answered.
"I was, until I ended up having to spend all day on the phone with the sound equipment place," I said. "And you said —"
"Never mind what I said, since I clearly forgot," said Lady Amanda. "I'm afraid you'll have to call them, Julianne, since after this morning's meeting I have an appointment with the tourism council."
Another thing on my list. I jotted it down on a sticky note, where three other essential tasks were already scribbled. "You know," I said, "I think we're going to need a lot of reinforcements for this event."
"I know," groaned Lady Amanda. "An army couldn't possibly provide all the security, decorating, and heavy lifting we're facing."
"Maybe we need one, anyway," I said.
"If you can organize one, then I commend you," said Lady Amanda.
"I'll see what I can do." I posted the sticky note to my lamp, where I hoped I wouldn't miss it when I came back. Between Lady Amanda and me, more than one important thing was at risk of being forgotten these days.
"As you all know, we have less than a month until Wendy Alistair's gala evening, and we have a tremendous amount of work left to do," said Lord William. "I know we're feeling the pressure, but we need our very best to be on display for the event."
This morning's staff meeting was in his office, where we sat in a circle — me, Lady Amanda, Geoff the estate's manager, Dinah, and the new gardener Pollock. Lord William had evidently been busy on the estate's property shortly beforehand; little chips and shavings of wood were caught in the yarn of his pullover, and a pair of work gloves were sticking out of his pocket.
"It's not too soon to start mobilizing the event staff, is it?" I asked. As always, Cliffs House would hire several locals — usually young and eager for extra wages — to help out with catering, cleaning, and anything else that was overwhelming the manor's modest full-time staff.
"The more the merrier," answered Lord William. "Ms. Alistair's people have been kind enough to supply their completed vision of her performance, and some of the details might be slightly daunting."
Wendy Alistair's name was on everyone's lips in Ceffylgwyn lately, and probably all over the county, for that matter. It wasn't every day that a Cornish singer became the leading soprano in a major opera company in Milan — or became an overnight singing sensation after an inspired public performance for the royal family. Wendy Alistair, former mezzo-soprano in Milan, had now recorded a project that was already number one on the U.K. classical charts even before its release.
"I still can't believe she's coming here," said Dinah. "I mean, we've had celebrities before — but never one this famous. Her poster's everywhere when you go into the village."
"I know," said Lady Amanda. "Isn't it exciting?" I knew she had preordered the artist's CD, because the receipt had been lying on her desk for the past two weeks.
"It's quite a boon for us," said Lord William. "I found it hard to believe that she didn't wish to choose some place a bit more famous. Tintagel Castle,
or even Minack Theatre simply for its atmosphere. Although I suppose the weather might be a bit against anything outdoors."
"According to her biography, she was a Truro girl at heart," said Geoff, speaking up for the first time. "Perhaps she wished for a location close to her former hometown."
"I didn't know you followed celebrity gossip, Geoff," I said. While Lady Amanda and Dinah had been almost starry-eyed a moment ago like the manor's youngest staff members, Geoff Weatherby generally doffed a rather vacant, polite expression whenever details about actors' love lives or singers' latest pop hits were the subject at hand.
"I read The Opera Lover's Digest, from time to time," he said. "Ms. Alistair's Madame Butterfly was the toast of Venice in the March issue."
Lady Amanda was glancing over the latest set design for Wendy Alistair's performance — not the one she and I had been working on, but one from Ms. Alistair's representatives. Her eyes grew wide. "Good heavens, they want this many people in the ballroom?" she said. "And how on earth can a giant projection screen possibly be made to look nice in there?"
"I suppose we'll simply have to create the illusion of more room," said Lord William. "Quite un-simply, of course." His smile was wry.
For the project's debut party, a guest list of three hundred had been invited from all parts of the British music industry to enjoy a private concert by the artist, then champagne and hors d'oeuvres in the foyer. Lavish black tie events like these meant everyone had to be on their best behavior, including those hired just to pass around trays of champagne or mind the doors to the closed-off parts of the house.
"Ms. Alistair appears to be very particular in her wishes," remarked Geoff. "Are we quite sure we'll have everything satisfactorily in place by the time she arrives?"
"Fortunately, her representatives are sending someone here beforehand," said Lord William. "An event promoter of some sort who will 'double tick' the boxes on her behalf. He'll arrive shortly, and, hopefully, give his blessing to our progress thus far."
