A Wedding in Cornwall

by Laura Briggs

"Miss Morgen, I trust?"

  The man holding the sign at the railway station in Truro didn't look the part of an English chauffeur, which I had rather stupidly been picturing after falling asleep on the plane from Seattle while reading an old Du Maurier gothic romance that Aimee had given me as a goodbye present.

  "That's me," I answered, with a bright smile. I tried to hide the lump of nervousness I was sure was visible in my throat by swallowing. Was this my new boss? A fellow employee at the estate?

  "My name is Weatherby," he said. "Geoff, as you may call me, if you like. I'm the estate manager for Lord William, the heir of Cliffs House." He was wearing a damp canvas mackintosh over a tweed coat and wool trousers, a tie perfectly knotted above the neckline of his wool pullover.

  Lord William. I hadn't realized the house's owner was titled. "Um, is Lord William living at Cliffs House?" I asked. "Or at a town house in London now?" Vague notions of 'society' and 'the Season' popped into my head from old Regency-era novels from high school.

  Mr. Weatherby, or Geoff, laughed. Gently, as if he read my mind and didn’t want to embarrass me too much. "He lives at Cliffs House," he answered. "And he manages it as much or more than I do. If you're imagining something from one of Jane Austen's novels, I hate to disappoint you. Lord William and Lady Amanda are the picture of the modern English country house's heir. Preservers of history, overseers of proper land management, business owners, and promoters of local tourism and trade." He lifted my heaviest bag and produced an umbrella from underneath his arm. “Lord William himself is quite handy at repairing walls and planting trees — and no stranger to the use of a chainsaw."

  A chainsaw? I would have to amend the picture in my head of someone in Mr. Darcy's velvet frock coat, sawing through fallen trees amidst an electric buzz and a cloud of petrol smoke.

  "A little rain today," he commented. "I hope you're not from the deserts of America, or this place may come as a bit of a shock. Cornwall may have sunnier days than many parts of England, but she has her share of rain, and heavy ones, too."

  "I'm from Seattle," I said. "It's sort of like ... America's version of England's drizzly day." I clutched the strap of my second bag, one that held assorted books on event planning and design, and probably several pairs of stiletto heels and sleek sandals. "Pretty much every Seattle resident owns a good umbrella. That is…a brolly,” I added. Thankful I had brushed up on some English slang and hadn’t called it a bumbershoot, say, in an effort to sound quaint, like some character in an old movie.

  "Perhaps you're well on your way to understanding Cornwall's weather," Geoff answered, with a smile, one which quickly became a look of concern. "I hope you brought a coat as well," he added. "Cornwall is a warmer part of England in general, but not in the summer, necessarily. You won't encounter the sort of temperatures you're accustomed to in America. It might seem a bit cool to you at times."

  "I'm sure I have a coat or two warm enough to fix that," I answered him, thinking of the ones I had packed after reading a quick online guide to Cornwall's weather.

  North Cornwall's cool morning had made me wish I'd worn a thicker pullover like the ones I saw tourists buying in a nearby shop as I had my first real cup of English tea. But I got a taste of the kind of cool, rainy day that Geoff had described a moment later, when I felt the wet breeze against my face. I gasped and gulped in the air, almost believing I could taste the salt of the sea even though the Channel wasn't exactly running alongside the station like a stream.

  The estate's car that drove me to my new home wasn't a pristine Bentley or Jaguar, but clearly Mr. Weatherby's everyday vehicle, an economy Asian model. But it didn't matter, because the view from the windows was worth it. I had my second glimpse of Cornwall's beauty since my train ride from Newquay to the city. I had been amazed by the quick transition from the metropolitan-esque scenes of Newquay to the surrounding countryside, and here it was no different. As the city of Truro, with its mix of impressive Georgian architecture and sleek, modern businesses, slipped away, I saw the rugged fields and open countryside of rural Cornwall unfold around me.

  "How far is the estate?" I asked. "Is it in a town nearby?"

  "Ceffylgwyn. A mere dote on the map between here and Falmouth," he answered. "Falmouth's the next village of size in Cornwall, as you no doubt know by now. Although it’s quite popular with tourists now, it's still a quiet place compared to England's more metropolitan counties. But, as the natives will tell you, that's its charm, and they're perfectly right."

  "You're not from here?" I asked. I had a feeling that his accent wasn't Cornish vernacular. It sounded too much like broadcasts of the BBC I'd seen at night in my hotel room.

  "No. I'm from London," he answered. "I moved here to manage Lord William's estate after his father died — that was six years ago, when he was still at university. The previous land manager retired, and Lord William needed someone who had a more modern view on a 'working' estate, as you might call it."

  "Do you like Ceffylgwyn?" I asked, my tongue having a little trouble with the name. "Is Cliffs House a good place to work?"

  "I love the charm of Cornwall," he answered. "I used to come here when I was a lad, which was a long time ago," he added, with a chuckle. "They call South Cornwall the 'Cornish Riviera' because of the tourism and the cultural highlights, but to me it's very much about the rugged countryside outside of Truro and Falmouth. And, of course, Mevagissey, which is a lovely place. It's the moors and the cliffs, the snug inlets along the Channel. There's a lovely walk to the cliffs that oversee the shore not far from Cliffs House — that's where it gets its name. In English and in Cornish."

  "And the village name?" I asked. I wondered if there was a simpler name to call it than the one that Geoff mentioned.

  "It means 'white horse,' in Cornish," he answered. "A little anglicized over the years, but still with the Cornish heart in its name."

  As he spoke, he turned the car's wheel and we were swept along a curve that revealed the Channel's water. I caught a glimpse once again of a Cornish beach, and of stone walls cupping a part of the water, where the waves seemed strangely calm as they swept between the stone cracks I imagined lay there. Perhaps this was the kind of view Geoff was talking about on the path somewhere between Cliffs House and the sea.

  I definitely knew how I'd be spending my first day off from planning events at the country house. It was like a dream come true, the world I could see on the other side of the windscreen.

  I cleared my throat, trying to rid myself of a little of the nervousness still clinging to me. "So, what can you tell me about my job at Cliffs House?" I asked. "Any hints before I meet my boss?" I tried to sound lighthearted as I asked.

  "Very little," he answered. "My job is second to Lord William's in managing the grounds and the practical purposes of the land, you see. Conservation, agriculture, and grounds management, that's my task, with Lord William overseeing it, and managing the financial side of the estate. He's also currently the chair of the local business and tourism union in Ceffylgwyn."

  "What about the tourism side of Cliffs House?"

  "That's Lady Amanda's field," answered Geoff. "She manages the estate's event planning and books guests and clients. She also designs all promotional and public literature for the estate and many of the business union's members. It was her idea to hire a full-time event planner at Cliffs House — there's no local event planners available for the task, you see."

  "How much do you know about the wedding that's taking place there?" I asked. I had already reviewed some of the details, of course, but in my excitement over the move they had become slightly muddled. If they were truly celebrities, surely even a tiny village like Ceffylgwyn was abuzz with the latest gossip about it.

  "Donald Price-Parker and Petal Borroway," he answered. "He's an English football player, quite successful and quite popular; she's a model of sorts, I've been told, working on the runway recently in the States. It should be quite the fashionable affair."

  I'd
never heard of either of them — then again, I didn't watch British football or any of those 'how to become a model' shows, much less read Vogue and Vanity Fair outside the dentist's office. "Wow," I said. "That's a big assignment for my first day at work. I hope I don't disappoint." I tried to sound like I was kidding, but I wasn't. I was impressed and nervous, feeling a shiver travel from my spine to the soles of my feet.

  "Have you much experience in planning celebrity weddings?"

  "None," I answered. Too openly, I realized too late. And was glad I didn't mention anything more, like the fact that I'd never planned a wedding completely on my own. Something that Lady Amanda must surely know, but apparently didn't care about since I was here.

  Geoff Weatherby didn't say anything else about my work experience, I noticed. We were both fairly quiet until after we passed a road sign for Falmouth, and one for the turn to Ceffylgwyn and Cliffs House. The car traveled a stately driveway, bordered by neatly-trimmed hedges that still managed to affect a certain freedom and carelessness in their greenery that gave them character and life as they moved in the breezy rain. I glimpsed a large willow tree, and beautiful garden paths bordered by wild and colorful blossoms, untamed and rugged, with stones peeking out in between overgrown blooms and branches. I turned away, and before me was Cliffs House.

  Tall and stately. Not imposing, but reserved and dignified with its elegant stone exterior, a color between ivory and yellow, with little adornment except for the carved bowers above its arched windows, and the impressive stone carvings above its vast formal entrance, a set of double doors facing the cobblestone drive of olden days. A soft grey-tiled roof above, and multiple chimneys which signaled any number of gorgeous fireplaces somewhere inside. I fell in love at once, and my friends will tell you that doesn't happen easily — except for a pair of truly exceptional designer stilettos, perhaps.

  But this was something grand and hallowed. The closest I had ever seen to this impressive building was my first and only trip to the Guggenheim in New York, which impressed itself on my eight year-old mind and replaced Seattle's Space Needle as the world's most incredible building. I couldn't stop staring, even as I climbed out of Geoff's car and collected my bag from the back seat.

  "Welcome to Cliffs House, Miss Morgen," he said.

  ***