A Wedding in Cornwall

by Laura Briggs

No more thinking about Cliffs House's gorgeous gardener, I had resolved. I had work to do, and only a day before the big champagne luncheon for Donald and Petal's wedding. In a sudden switch, we transformed the main dining hall into a champagne buffet so we could throw open the glass doors to the terrace and garden just outside. Once, the room had been some sort of receiving hall or something like that, I had read in my Guide to Cliffs House, courtesy of Lady Amanda, but it had been transformed by Lord William's grandfather into a beautiful, modern room that still had the original stone archway and buttresses on display. The view was perfect, and so was the dining table, a long, elegant cherry one that I covered with a white linen cloth.

  The press would arrive early, no doubt, on the day of the event; the family would be cloistered for privacy until the party begin, in one of the spare bedroom and dressing room suites upstairs: one that felt like a spacious apartment compared to my beloved two-room cracker box when I first graduated from college.

  Today we were arranging the flowers while Dinah was putting the finishing touches on the petits fours, the last item made for the buffet. She had outdone herself — as Geoff Weatherby and Jackson, the apparent head gardener — had declared upon tasting the castoff pieces of sponge when she cut the perfect orange rectangles from it. Now they were lined upon baking sheets, waiting for their platters: ten dozen orange saffron cakes wrapped in Cornish tartan-printed fondant.

  "They turned out lovely," she declared. "That was a clever thought you had," she told me, although she was shouting a little over the noise outside the window, where two repairmen had come to make building repairs to the outside wall. "Using the Cornish print to add a bit of local color — especially to saffron-flavored cakes."

  "I just don't want my first big clients to be disappointed — in me or in Cliffs House," I answered. I felt a surge of pride for her compliment. Sure, it was only a design for bite-sized cakes, but it was the first step in a hopefully-successful, elegant wedding that I would coordinate into perfection. "Besides, you're the one who brought them into reality, so they're as much your creation as mine. And I didn't think of that creative geometric twist you put on some of them."

  Dinah had altered the Cornish tartan pattern with a pattern of diamonds and stripes in the same colors as the tartan. It was a simpler, lighter design, and provided a visual contrast that made the tartan's lines stand out.

  "Touch of a chef, that's all," answered Dinah, mildly, as she checked off the number of spicy ginger-orange snaps she had made, cooling on the platters before her. It was her way of accepting my compliment, I realized, smiling as I lifted the buckets of lilies from their cool storage space.

  "So why did you leave Seattle to come to Cornwall?" Gemma asked me. She and Pippa were helping me arrange the flowers in the parlor. Beautiful white lilies peered over the buckets full of cool water and the special preservative secret I remembered from Design a Dream — a dash of carbonated lemon lime soda pop.

  I sucked in a quick breath. "I don't know," I said. "There's no one reason. It was just such a great career move, being in charge of coordinating and planning events on my own. I couldn't believe I'd been given the chance, so I just snapped it up."

  "And flew all the way across the pond to Ceffylgwyn?" said Pippa, sounding amazed. "Sorry, but I don't think I'd be tempted by a job that dropped me in the middle of some tiny American village with no proper spa or entertainment to speak of."

  "Unless you like Troyls," piped up Gemma. They both giggled as Pippa stifled a snort in response. Her shears clipped off the excess greenery at the base of a lily's stem.

  "What's 'Troyls'?" I asked. I had a feeling this was definitely a Cornish thing.

  "It's a dance," said Gemma. "Old-fashioned. Not like going to a club in London, or the like."

  "Folk dancing," added Pippa. "Some people 'round here get dressed up in the tartan or the black kilts to go. Fish wife's costume, even."

  "That's more for festival than for Troyls' night," argued Gemma. "Anyway, not exactly rich entertainment unless you like that sort of music."

  I imagined bagpipes, then realized this image must be all wrong.

  "Ross used to go — I'll bet he wore a proper kilt and everything," said Gemma. "Just imagine," she said to me, and both girls had saucy grins as heat crept into my face.

  "I think I'm better off not imagining any of my fellow employees in kilts," I answered, hoping to change the subject. I stepped away from the table, dropping my trimmed leaves and stems into the waste bin.

  "Those shoes," gasped Pippa. "Where'd you get them?"

  "These?" I glanced down. I was wearing a pair of red Jimmy Choos, the same ones I'd worn to Nancy's office when she lectured me on dressing the part of an underling. "I got them from a Seattle boutique — marked down, but they were still pricey."

  "Gorgeous," she moaned. "I've wanted a pair like that ever since I saw that movie about the shoe designer — you know the one. Can I try them on?" she asked.

  "Sure." I slipped off my heels, watching as the girl kicked off her clogs and slipped them on. She stood up, wobbling a little as she walked across the carpet in stiletto heels. "How do you wear these all the time?" she asked.

  "I got used to it," I answered. "At Design a Dream, wearing silk and heels was all part of the image. Classy was encouraged — only you had to be careful not to dress better than the boss or her favorites."

  "Around here, the only person wearing designer clothes for casual is the model whose flowers we're arranging," said Gemma. "I saw the dress she wore when she met with you yesterday. Sells for four hundred pounds in London. I read it online."

  "It didn't look like it was worth it," said Pippa over her shoulder, who was walking with more confidence in the heels now.

  I had to agree. The dress's impression, like that of Petal herself, fell flat after a moment or two. Without makeup and an artful hairstyle, she looked less glamorous and more like the cute-but-pouting sort. Her smile for everybody at Cliffs House felt like a practiced one, and unless she was surgically attached to her fiancé, she seemed more interested in talking about New York and London than any sort of Cornish traditions for her wedding. Without him, Cornwall apparently held no interest for her.

  "What do you think?" Pippa asked, posing dramatically with one hand behind her head. "Do I have a future as stunning as Petal Borroway's in Milan?"

  Before either of us could answer, the sound of a tremendous crash and a wail caught our attention — coming from the direction of the kitchen hall. Without a word, we took off running from the parlor, me barefoot and Pippa teetering in my heels.

  We halted in the kitchen doorway. There, on the table, was a disaster beyond the proportion of any I could imagine. Shattered glass covered the floor, the table, and the newly-finished petits fours. What had survived of them, that is — because the ladder which had crashed through the window had landed in the middle of Dinah's creations, creating a pile of sponge and marzipan mush.

  "Sorry," said the workman, meekly. Dinah moaned again.

  ***