by Laura Briggs
The fete's banner ruffled gently in the dawn breeze. Behind it, white marquees with Cornish banners and flags, and stalls of food, games, and wares only beginning to stir to life. Soon, visitors would arrive to savor mouthwatering Cornish pastries and saffron cakes with a proper ‘cream tea’ featuring feather-light scones, and hear Old Ned bring to life local legends and folk tales. Some would take up the challenge of learning the steps called in a Troyl as the band played traditional tunes, while others would watch a Cornish wrestling demonstration, or tour the garden tent before resting in the tea tent and sampling some delicious sponges.
I took a deep breath, catching the scent of sugar, oil, and spices mixing with the damp, sweet smell of early morning. Whatever went wrong today, be it a minor injury in the games or an upset rose pot in the garden tent, we could handle it. It would be a glorious day, no matter what.
Glorious, if for no other reason, because I wasn't angry at Matthew.
"A million small tasks have paid off," announced Lady Amanda, joining me, her hands tucked into the pockets of her long jumper. "I suppose we should help in the tea tent first — sponges won't cut themselves, will they? And I've heard the only miniature cakes are Charlotte's Lamingtons."
"I thought you'd be breakfasting at home and waiting for the influx of tourists tired of Cornish festivities," I said.
"I've put the task of guiding tours firmly upon William and Geoff for today," said Lady Amanda. "After all, William had the good fortune of tea at the Golden Swan in London this past week, whereas I had Nigel nattering in my ear all day and Edwin's mud pies to contend with." She brushed aside a lock of bright ginger hair. "Shall we?"
There were lots of serving trays in need of preparation in the tea tent, both for the volunteers and for visitors, including a special table for guests like the Cornish preservation society and the horticulturists who were here for the rose contest. The band arrived, and assistance for their setup was necessary before they could begin warming up a few tunes for the dance — and then there was a slight snafu with the storyteller's costume. Old Ned had arrived in full Cornish dress for his session as the 'droll teller' ... but a few carefully-placed sewing pins were necessary to keep him thus clad.
"Must've lost a stone since I last wore it," he mumbled, thoughtfully. "Could've sworn it fit well enough last I wore it down in Mousehole for Bawcock's Eve."
"When was that?" I asked, as I covered a moth hole with a deft pleat fashioned with a safety pin. "Last December?"
"'T'was ... let's see ... December of eighty-nine, I think."
Fortunately, once patched up, Ned was more than ready to take his place for a storytelling session, as a small crowd gathered around his stage, including several kids sitting on the ground in front. A few of them gave a little jump of surprise at a thrilling part in the legend of Cornish giants.
"He's pretty good at this," I said to Lady Amanda, who paused in the midst of delivering some wax paper to the oggie stall from the committee's stash of 'emergency' supplies.
"Quite," she said. "We almost went with Wallace Darnley instead. If anyone could have persuaded him, that is. I was rather planning to make you try."
"Me?" I echoed.
"All water under the bridge, dearest."
Ned was rather hamming it up with a dramatic bow for his applause as Amanda spoke these words — and quite nearly stumbled off his storytelling platform. "Then again, there's always next year to think of," Lady Amanda added at this point.
I had a spare moment now, and an obligation to see that my fellow members in the sewing circle weren't in need of any assistance. I made my way through the milling crowd of visitors to the stall being manned by Olivia and Dovie today.
Dovie's beautiful 'gull quilt' had been donated as a prize for the hospital fund raffle; but several others made by the members would be displayed beautifully from several quilt racks that Ted, Olivia's husband, had assembled for them, and placed strategically to tempt passers by to buy one and make a further donation.
At the very back of the stall, on its makeshift wall, Olivia had planned to display Julie's newly-finished Tempest in a Teapot as a showcase piece for display only, but to my surprise, it had been replaced by a different one. White squares featuring appliquéd pictures, each one different: a Cornish flowering plant blooming in this one, a little cottage with a red chimney in that one, a lighthouse in another. Nine blocks in all, with their turned-under edges wandering slightly here and there, and with one finished quilted corner a little crumpled like a child's fist had bunched the fabric too tightly.
My wall quilt. I had imagined it hidden discreetly under the seat in Olivia's car, a charitable resting place for the belated entry by one of the booth's members.
"It looks quite nice, doesn't it?" said Olivia to me, cheerily, as she folded several patchwork pot holders in tissue paper for a visitor making a purchase.
"You didn't have to put it up," I said. "I only felt bad that I hadn't finished anything for the group. I mean, the stitches are terrible in places ...."
"I think it's lovely," she said. "And quite good for a beginner who couldn't put a four patch into proper order, too. You must have been working very hard indeed these past few days to do this."
"Thanks," I said, trying not to blush. I shoved my hands in the pockets of my dark blue dress trousers and stepped aside for two more customers who were admiring Charlotte's Cornish flora embroidered piece.
I was still gazing at the stall when someone joined me. "Yours?" said Matt, gesturing towards the quilt hanging behind Olivia. With his other hand, he bestowed a cup of hot tea in mine, for which I was grateful, even without the addition of a Cornish cream-filled scone with jam.
"How did you guess?" I asked.
"That's our cottage. And I believe that's a certain lighthouse from the cover of a certain book," he added. "I recognize the rose ... and what I think is possibly a Cornish heath in bloom?"
I recognized his teasing tone for my less-than-artistic rendering of some of these things — including a little mouse by a tiny doorway in a wall, as part of our old 'inside joke' — and though my lips twitched, I managed not to smile.
"Don't make fun," I said. "I can't believe she actually put it up where people can see it."
"Why? It looks beautiful. You've done a proper job putting it together, as Olivia herself no doubt saw. I think the only question is how you found the time to learn all of this — it couldn't have been easy."
"There are a few tricks to that," I admitted. "But a friend passed on a piece of advice from her sewing teacher. Something about sewing what you love."
Matt touched my hand. "Will you walk with me to the garden tent?" he asked.
"Of course." We walked together in the direction of its open doorway, our fingers brushing, but not interlinked. I made certain I didn't look around for Petal, who would be here at some point to give the opening speech before judging began.
The table of entries was crowded with plants, with showy, rambling pink clusters and graceful hybrid stems rising to support full blooms or ripening buds. Matt gave me a brief tour of the preservation society's neighboring display of Cornish plants, and of the hybrid roses unveiled for the crowning touch to the exhibition. The 'Lady Macbeth' was blooming with fierce, two-toned velvety roses in shades of red which definitely stirred passion for me, while the gentle 'Piskies' Crown' was like a golden and cream shower when its miniature clusters of buds opened to reveal pink centers.
"How beautiful," I said. "It's so tiny. It's ... exquisite."
"I think it might be my favorite also," said Matt. "Martin's Lady Macbeth is everything the best rose breeders hope to achieve, and I say that as a professional, and not as his good friend ... but to see something simple and old-fashioned developed and cultivated to greater heights is rather refreshing. Falworth's hybrid stands apart for that reason, I think."
Listening to Matt explain the history of the wild roses and forgotten antique cultivars behind the little Cornish rose — for
me, it felt like normalcy, the thawing of the frozen barriers created by the past two or three days. Of course, nothing in the discussion of floribundas versus tea roses would really touch the sensitive spots between us. Still, it felt good to be beside Matt and not sense tension or distance at any point.
"Ah, there you are, Matthew." The spokesman for the horticultural society was back, his bow tie in place once more. "Admiring the little beauties, are we?"
"I was introducing Julianne to Falworth's work," said Matthew. "I didn't want her to be obliged to wait for your journal's article to appreciate its uniqueness."
"Well, chop chop, dear boy. I believe we're nearly ready to begin the judging. Terrence and Donald are here already ... and I see our lovely hostess has arrived as well."
Petal had indeed arrived, in a powder blue summer dress that put my white linen blouse to shame with its ink fleck stains somewhere on the collar from a mishap with a leaky pen weeks ago. Two days ago, I would have felt the urge to rush back to the cottage and find something more elegant — say, my posh emerald green strapless gown. But I wasn't competing with Petal, I reminded myself; and my strengths lay somewhere other than the clothes in my closet.
"I'll join them shortly," promised Matthew. He smiled, and lightly touched my elbow, a cue for us to walk on before his friend could utter anything else.
We ended up behind the folding screen where the judges' table waited for the final decision to be made in the amateur rose competition. It was currently empty, with three chairs waiting for Matt and his companions. Matt and I finished off our cup of tea here, away from the visitors to the tent and the nervous gardeners awaiting the marks for their roses.
"Thanks for the tour," I said to him. "And for not really making fun of my quilt earlier."
"Did you think I would?" he asked. "I was sincere in my compliments, Juli."
"I know. I just like saying that." I took a sip from the teacup.
"The 'upper hand' in the argument," said Matt. "That's the purpose of those little remarks. I'm not unaware of that tactic, you know." He paused. "I've been guilty of using a similar one, I suppose."
I passed him the teacup again. "I thought about what you said at dinner," I said. "And I wanted to say ... I know that I take for granted your stoic 'English' patience. I may say it's a facade, or an excuse for you ... but I know it's more than that." I glanced at him. "I really do. Even if it does drive me crazy sometimes."
"I meant those words in the restaurant," he answered, softly. "I'm glad you believe me."
I shrugged my shoulders. "What would I do without that stiff upper lip in a crisis?" I said. "Or when I know that ... maybe ... it's all that saves us when I'm kind of driving you crazy with what I'm doing or saying."
"Your ‘American stubbornness’, you mean," answered Matt. "Perhaps it does drive me a little mad, the things you involve yourself with, sometimes. But I didn't do justice to the good that comes from that stubbornness, sometimes."
"You actually admit that something good comes from my meddling?" I raised one eyebrow. I was actually a little impressed by this.
"The success of Kitty Alderson attests to it better than any words I can say," he answered, quite seriously. But it was the edge of a smile trying to take its place that left my heart without further arguments.
"I never meant to make you feel you don't belong," he said, softly. "I never think of you as belonging elsewhere."
"I would never have survived here without you," I said. "You know that as well as I do. I needed your knowledge to get me through it. How would I have ever appreciated half of this place or its past without you?"
"This isn't just my home anymore, it's ours," he said. "Every bit of it. Our cottage, our county, our language we've been arguing about. So long as we're both here, that's what we share ... just like we share our lives wherever we are."
As our fingers brushed against each other, I intended to take his hand in mine and squeeze it tenderly; but that last answer was too much for a simple understanding touch. I didn't give him a warning — I simply cupped his face in my hands and kissed him hard.
"That's the second time I've kissed you first," I said, when we parted, our foreheads resting together as we caught our breath. "Remember that."
"Still keeping score, are we?" he whispered. He was teasing me, however, which ended quickly as we kissed again. A longer, gentler one this time.
He drew away a second later, as the announcement for the garden competition's judging began. "I have to go," he said. He squeezed my hand as he turned to join the others.
"Wait," I said. "Lipstick." I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket and wiped away its traces from Matt's lips and cheek. "Better," I declared.
"Thanks." He gave me a grateful smile, and then he was gone.
I slipped from behind the screen to watch him at work, enjoying the serious concentration he gave to the twenty or so entries, conferring with the other judges on a robust hybrid tea bud. I knew that concentration well, and it had been a long time since I had proudly watched it in action.
I knew I should probably be checking on the band's session, and seeing if the church's stall needed any extra volunteers instead. But I decided those things could wait for now.
***
First place went to a silvery-white hybrid tea rose, the heart of its petals faintly blushed with pink. Second place was a curly-petaled lavender rose, and the judges awarded third to a veritable pink cloud that reminded me of streaked taffy with its red splashes.
Polite applause followed, then a session at the tea tent for discussion and debate on the merits of all the roses. This time, I didn't find a graceful excuse to avoid sharing the room with Petal, but spent nearly a half hour among the conversation circles of the horticulturists and local gardeners — not clinging to Matt's hand possessively all the while, either, even when Petal was present.
She definitely made a stunning impression on the other judges, and most of the stodgy academics among the gardening circle couldn't help casting admiring glances her way. As always, she kept a polite smile on her lips, and in her eyes. I made sure that I didn't take notice if that expression changed whenever it happened to land on Matt in the crowd.
By evening, the festival was over, and the last of the oggies, Victoria sponges, as well as jam smears and crumbs from the cream tea, occupied paper plates and cups scattered across the tea tent. No more lively folk tunes from the band's stage, or dancers breezing through — or clumsily attempting — the caller's steps. As the stall's workers packed up their remaining wares, and volunteers cleaned up any stray rubbish, the garden exhibition's guests made their way home as well.
"Do come to see us, Matthew," said Macpherson, who pressed Matt's hand in a farewell shake. "Autumn in Edinburgh can be a very exciting time, and we've room to spare."
"I'm sure we'd love to come sometime," said Matt, glancing at me. "Take good care of Lady Macbeth. She's truly the stuff that rose gardeners' dreams are made of."
"I will. Give me a ring if you decide to pay a call on us." Macpherson bundled his treasured hybrid tenderly into the car's back seat, then climbed into the driver's one, waving goodbye as he drove away. He passed a car entering the park behind the fete's grounds, a sleek black one with tinted windows.
It belonged to Petal and her publicist, who were departing for their hotel at the same time as several members of the horticultural society. One of them was escorting her to her car as the publicist chatted away on her mobile phone — Petal paused momentarily before Matthew.
"I must thank you both for making me feel welcome," she said. "It's been rather a long time since I visited this village. I must confess I was rather curious what it had in store for me."
"Anytime," I said. It was slightly hard to be sincere with this answer, but, after all, Petal's ties to this place deserved as much recognition as anyone else's, including my own. "I hope you had a pleasant stay."
"I did," she said. "It was nice ... for a time ... to relive a little of my p
ast." She smiled, and I detected sadness in it, as if ruffling the perfect calm that defined her.
She held out her hand to Matt. "Goodbye, Matthew," she said. "It was good to see you once more."
He accepted it, briefly. "And you," he answered.
"Take care of yourself." Leaning up, she kissed his cheek. "But I suppose you have someone to do that for you." She looked at me as she said these words. "Goodbye, Julianne."
"Have a safe trip home," I said. Petal climbed into her car, following her preoccupied publicist and a harried-looking man I assumed must be her manager. She glanced one last time at Matt before the car door closed and the driver pulled away from the car park.
I had seen regret in Petal's eyes, once again. It was a lonely, hungry look, and I felt a twinge of sympathy, knowing she was returning home to a courier's envelope containing her divorce papers, most likely. If she could turn back time, she would have made a different choice all those years ago, when Matt offered her anything to let him stay in her life.
I was glad I hadn't made a mistake like that. Not in my past or now. I reached for Matt's hand, enfolding his fingers in my own, tenderly. Our eyes met, and we exchanged smiles. Yes, not the same ones from when we were first madly in love, maybe, and everything was magical and perfect between us; but these were better. A little wiser, a little deeper, a little more appreciative of how strong yet breakable anyone's love can really be.
"Julianne! We saw your quilt in the sewing circle's stall," said Gemma. "Was that your cottage in the top middle square?" She and Pippa were on their way home, evidently; from Gemma's arm dangled a canvas shopping bag, while Pip was finishing off the last of a saffron bun from a little paper sack of them.
"It was," I answered, proudly.
