A Wedding in Cornwall

by Laura Briggs

"Okay," I said, forcing my reeling mind to work. "Okay, we can fix this."

  "Ten dozen sponge petits fours?" Dinah whipped her head to look at me, incredulously.

  "We have — what? Twelve hours?" I tried to calculate how soon the tea spread had to be on display — early enough for the press to photograph it, including some journalists from prominent society magazines. "It's not impossible. I can cook — I'll help you mix up new sponge, cut the cakes out —"

  "It's the decorating, though," pointed out Gemma, her voice seconds away from a wail of her own. "It took hours to stencil on that Cornish tartan —"

  "And that was with mistakes," finished Pippa. "And we've got to make new fondant, because we used the last of what was in the fridge."

  I felt cold sweat beneath my cardigan. The sweat of panic, something I hadn't felt since the time one of Design a Dream's clients delightful pond locale for their reception had turned into a mosquito-infested bog the morning of, and I'd been delegated to deal with the bugs.

  "All hands on deck, then," I said. Inspiration was striking, and I was seizing it. "Gemma, quick — go get anyone who can be spared. Gardeners, Lady Amanda's assistant, anybody — tell them to be ready to help assemble mini cakes as soon as the sponge cools."

  "What?" Gemma said. "Are you quite serious?"

  "Yes, I am," I said. "We need anybody who can help us out."

  "What about the stenciling? There's no way any of that lot's artistic enough to pull it off."

  "We'll just have to go simpler," I said. I tried to ignore my sinking heart at the thought of Dinah's beautiful tartan and geometric designs pushed to the side. "Saffron cakes are still Cornish-inspired. We'll do a simple flower on top or something." I pushed up the sleeves of my cardigan. "So where's the saffron and the flour?"

  We worked as fast as we could, me and Dinah mixing batter, with Pippa and Gemma cutting the cakes as they cooled. By the time we were ready for decoration, we had extra help. Geoff spread marmalade between cake layers as Pippa and I carefully spread a buttercream frosting over them in place of the fondant. With each smooth glide of my heated knife, I hoped that the final presentation would be even half as elegant as Dinah's poor, smashed creations.

  I looked up from my work and caught a pair of dark eyes watching me. Matthew the gardener was seated close by, helping layer the cakes. I hadn't realized that he was here, I'd been so busy with my own work. I couldn't help but notice that Gemma's cheeks were blazing fire red whenever he spoke to her or anybody else at the table. She and Pippa would look at each other and giggle ever so often.

  "Less giggling and more working," ordered Dinah. Her stout-as-steel patience was beginning to waver a bit as she removed her latest batch of sponge. She was feeling the pressure every bit as badly as I was — as the chef of Cliffs House, her reputation was at stake if these cakes weren't scrumptious and beautiful by tomorrow morning.

  "A pity about the last ones," said Matthew. "I glimpsed them through the window an hour before the disaster. You were doing a beautiful job." He was speaking to Dinah, but he glanced at me at the same time. Dinah merely shook her head.

  "Disasters happen," I said, trying to sound confident that this would all work out for the best. "I'm only sorry that no one really had a chance to see that handiwork. But I'm sure these will be just as beautiful, as soon as we put something decorative on top."

  "Whose idea was the design? Cornish tartan?" he asked. "Was it yours, Dinah? I liked them better than the ones I've seen in London bakeries."

  "Hers," said Dinah, nodding at me. I tried not to blush.

  "Really?" He studied me again. That long glance that made me feel like he could see inside me, maybe see what was in my head. I hoped not, because it was the vision inspired by the girls earlier — him in a kilt, a picture that randomly popped into my thoughts in order to embarrass me at this moment.

  "I thought it would be a good way to pay tribute to local culture," I said. "A twist on Saffron cakes, draped in Cornish colors."

  "You're taking to Cornwall quickly," he said. Another smile, one that made my heart skip a beat. "Or maybe you're simply clever enough to do a quick internet search." In a second, the smile had become a sly, teasing one that infuriated me the way Nate's sometimes did, a friend who was almost like a brother to me. Matthew didn't seem like the brotherly type, I felt. So what was I feeling?

  "Maybe Cornwall's colors were already my favorites," I retorted. "And this was all a coincidence." I didn't stick my tongue out at him, but I was tempted to. I wondered what would happen if I did. Would he tease me some more? I was surprised to find that I wanted that to happen.

  "What was it for? There's no festival this week. Troyl, maybe?" As he said this, I heard Gemma stifle another giggle. I managed to stuff the image of Matthew Rose in tartan somewhere else in my mind, and was now working hard not to think about those rather strong-looking hands across from my own.

  "It's for the wedding," said Pippa. "You know, the smashing Donald Price-Parker who's marrying the model? Petal Borroway, from the nail varnish advertisements?"

  "Ah." This sound was somewhere between a growl and a grunt from Matthew's throat. I guessed he wasn't a fan of celebrity gossip.

  "You know, she emailed Lady Amanda about the colors for the champagne luncheon," said Pippa, confidentially. "What do you think — odds are she shows up in a matching frock?"

  "Bet a quid," said Gemma.

  Matthew pushed his chair back from the table. "I have to finish the project I was working on a bit ago," he said to Dinah. "I can't finish helping with these, I'm sorry." He glanced at me. "I wish I could help more, but —"

  "Of course," I said. I was startled by how abruptly he was leaving. "Fine. We've got more than enough people to finish these, I'm sure."

  "Best of luck," he said. He wasn't looking at any of us, but busy collecting his tool belt, one fitted with spades, rakes, and augers instead of hammer and nails. He lifted a potted plant from beside it, opened the kitchen door and left.

  "Why is he going?" Gemma said. "It's just some plant."

  "You know how he is," said Pippa. "Well — Julianne here does, anyway."

  It was their first time to openly tease me, and even if it happened to be about a sensitive subject like Matthew Rose, I decided to put up with it. "Maybe he's way too busy to spend his whole afternoon assembling tiny cakes," I answered.

  "Matthew doesn't have to do anything he doesn't want around here," said Dinah to Gemma. "He came as a favor to help. We're lucky to have him, and if he says there's something pressing in the garden, I'm sure Lord William would prefer he finish it than slice cakes in here."

  She made Matthew sound privileged for a gardener. It struck me as odd, and I wondered what made his relationship with Cliffs House so unusual. Was Matthew a relative of Lord William? Had he been in some kind of accident and wasn't supposed to be working right now? Any number of weird and wild solutions popped into my head — including a romantic one in which he was the rightful heir to a neighboring estate, and working as a gardener until he could wrest his place from the grip of a scheming relation —

  "Last one," announced Dinah. "Now all we need is a decoration for the top."

  Nothing came to mind that seemed original or perfect, especially since the original Cornish colors were the only real solution, given the biscuits and chocolates. We mixed up marzipan dough, looked through the kitchen's collection of decorative molds and books on creative cake toppers, but nothing seemed right.

  "I suppose we could just do orange roses," began Dinah, with a sigh. A quick knock sounded on the kitchen door, and Gemma ran to answer it. She and Pippa had been splitting an Indian curry takeaway since they were both hours past their usual working shift at Cliffs House.

  "These are for you," said Jackson the gardener, handing Dinah a basket. "He said you might find 'em helpful. G'night." He tipped his gardening hat at all of us, and went back out again.

  "Who said it?" Dinah wondered aloud as she pulled back the damp
cloth over the top. Inside were edible flowers — little delicate white and pink petals, and bright yellow and gold ones that I recognized from my grandmother's flower pots.

  "Dearovim, it's lady's smock and marigolds," said Dinah, whose accent slid gently into strong Cornish with these words. "The one's common, though I've not seen any in the garden — and where'd he ever find so many of the lady's smock? So few of them go to seed around here."

  "He grows stuff at his cottage, so maybe it's from his own garden," said Pippa. "I've seen it before when passing by — all sorts of stuff grows there."

  Pink, white, and gold. It would change the colors slightly, but not enough to matter. And once these were dusted with rock sugar, they would be perfect atop the cakes, and would add the 'Cornish touch' that we were missing.

  I had never been so grateful to anybody in my whole career. Not even the shop who sold me the ornamental citronella candles at half price for the bug-infested reception.

  ***