Wedding in Cornwall

by Briggs, Laura

  "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 icebox."

  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 tea 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 tea 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 tea 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.

  ***

  Guests seemed impressed by the Cliffs House champagne luncheon, judging from the 'oohs' and 'aahs' when Dinah's decorative spread was revealed. Antique china trays of cream-colored cakes decorated with sugared flowers in pale pink and bright gold-orange, milk and dark chocolates lightly sprinkled with candied orange, and spicy ginger and cinnamon biscuits with only a hint of citrus in each crisp bite.

  Lord William played host briefly, popping the cork on the first bottle of champagne to pour a round for toasting the bride to be. Petal was blushing, but in a way that only enhanced the pink rouge dusted over her flawless cheekbones. As Gemma predicted, her dress was a pale orange-brown print featuring white butterflies, matched with a pair of shoes so expensive I couldn't imagine ever dreaming about them, much less owning them. An engagement present from Donald, she told the girl at her elbow, the American chief bridesmaid Trixie Nelson.

  Until now, I hadn't been aware that anybody in the world was still named Trixie, much less anyone as young and supposedly chic as Petal's fellow model. Trixie dabbled in acting, apparently, which she informed a few members of the press as she brushed aside the strands of platinum blond hair swept across her face by the breeze.

  "Looks like it's gone off smashingly," whispered Pippa as she passed me, circulating one of the trays of champagne. I smiled, feeling as proud of Cliffs House's success as she did. It was my first big event, and it was going smoothly by all accounts.

  I circulated the room, making sure that the cakes remained ornamentally stacked and that the truffles weren't running low. I helped Gemma chill more champagne, then edged closer to a journalist who seemed to be taking a strong interest in Dinah's beautiful citrus saffron cakes.

  Only the journalist was really interested in the conversation taking place between Petal and Donald. Who were arguing over something about the wedding.

  "And I hate the thought of carrying them down the aisle!" hissed Petal. "It's hideous, and I won't do it, Donald. I want something from the shops in London. Anything. Even a bundle of half-dead roses."

  Her beautiful features had twisted into a scowl. I realized, with chagrin, that she was talking about the sketches we had discussed yesterday, the ones for her flower bouquet. I had prided myself on coming up with a Cornish bouquet that would match her wedding colors — a mixture of blooms the color of heath in autumn, paired with orchids and colored daisies — and had mentioned that most of the flowers were available in the manor's hothouse. Apparently, Petal's polite smile for my suggestions had been extremely fake.

  "Why? It's a bunch of dead leaves and flowers, love," said Donald, disgustedly. "Toss 'em in the dustbin after it's over."

  "You know why I feel that way," she said. "It's uncomfortable, Donald. I simply prefer to bring something down from London the day before and be done with it. Besides, it would go better with the dress. It's a couture gown, Donald. Not some fish wife's costume." She muttered this last part.

  Donald rolled his eyes. "This is the Cornish Riviera, love," he said. "Stop moaning because it's not the beach house at Newquay. We were both bored there, and half the crowd's in Truro now for the summer."

  "Then why couldn't we get married there?" she said. "Why did you have to pick this shabby little spot in the middle of nowhere where I'm reminded of a past I loathe every time I'm here?"

  The color drained from my face, and I burned with indignation on behalf of Cliffs House and the impossible-to-pronounce Ceffylgwyn described as 'shabby.' I wanted to snap at Petal that a place that breathed this much history and local pride was too good for her, but I bit back my words.

  I remembered my role at this event, and that this was their party, and they were entitled to their privacy, even if it was privacy for the sake of trash-talking the venue. Even with their voices low, people around them could still hear their argument, and I didn't want that — for both Petal and Donald, and for the sake of Cliffs House's reputation. "Sorry," I said, nudging the listening-in journalist as I passed him. "Oh, did I do that?" I said, as his champagne sloshed over his wrist. "My apologies. Can I get you a towel?"

  "Watch where you walk next time!" he snapped. Obviously he was annoyed that he had lost track of their conversation. Petal and Donald had noticed him standing nearby and moved to a more private part of the room. A moment later they were both laughing at the best man's stories, and feeding each other pieces of saffron tea cake.

  I retreated through the open glass doors for a breathing moment. I wanted to slip off my heels and relax, but there were still hours to go. But since nothing disastrous was happening at the moment, I took off in the direction of the garden paths where some of the wedding party's guests were wandering.

  On the other side of the hedge, I could hear a woman's laugh, a high falsetto one that sounded a little like a yapping dog. Curious, I stepped through the opening, and found Trixie the chief bridesmaid and Matthew Rose the gardener. There were two glasses of champagne present, one in Trixie's hand and one on the lawn beside Matthew.

  He had been in the middle of tending the roses, but now Trixie was sitting on his wheelbarrow tilted on its side, her dress's ornamental wrap slipped low enough to bare her shoulders to him. Matthew was laughing, though not as heartily, at whatever had struck them both as funny a moment ago.

  "Sorry," I said. I stepped backwards. "I didn't realize anyone was here." Not true, but I said it anyway.

  "Oh ... the wedding planner, right?" said Trixie, squinting at me. "Yes, I do remember meeting you earlier." That was all the attention she was willing to give me, turning her attention to Matthew again. "Did you really meet David Bowie?" she said.

  "Only once," he said. "And at a party of a friend, who merely wanted me to give him some advice on landscaping. Nothing very exciting, I'm afraid."

  "I wanted to hear you tell that story — I've always been jealous when other people get to meet famous people that I wanted to meet." She leaned closer to him. "So how many other famous people have you met?"

  Matthew blushed. Her face was much closer to his than before, her whole body sidling towards his. The look in his eyes was strangely conflicted — even confused — but it wasn't the look of someone utterly shocked or repulsed by this bold maneuver.

  Two champagne glasses — obviously the two of them had been here for a little while, getting acquainted. I tried not to let my feelings show, those of disappointment and mortification, as I turned and left without bothering with any polite farewells. Obviously I wasn't wanted at this little gathering.

  I made myself busy for the next hour or so back at the reception, although blood was thundering in my ears. What was wrong with me? It wasn't as if Matthew ever suggested he was attracted to me. I made it all up in my imagination, based on some silly roses and a couple of glances. He sent those edible flowers to save Dinah's reputation, not mine. And those roses — that was just his way of flirting with the newest female employee on the estate, or maybe his way of flirting with every woman he ever met.

  I was pretty sure I wouldn't be fond of seeing roses around for awhile.

  More people were strolling around the grounds, and the press was almost finished with 'exclusive interviews' or 'one on one' questions, and begi
nning to make small talk in the dining hall. I discreetly swept some crumbs off the table and removed an empty truffles platter.

  Petal was on the stairs as I passed through the hall to the kitchen. Someone else was with her, and it only took a second before I recognized the platinum blond hair and gold party dress from before.

  "... he was just so attractive," said Trixie, who was almost whining. "Don't be such a stick, Pet. There's nothing wrong with me hooking up with him for a few weeks, anyway. It's not as if he's private property, is he?"

  "It's inappropriate," said Petal. "I don't want you doing it, Trix."

  Automatically, I stepped back against the wall. It was my second time to eavesdrop today — this time intentionally — and I found I didn't want to be seen before this conversation ended.

  "Why? Because I'm an American on vacation here?" her friend retorted. "Or is it because —"

  There was a crash from the kitchen. "Dearie me, there goes a bucket of ice!" I heard Dinah say, the last threads of patience in her voice wearing out.

  "Sorry," squeaked Pippa. "It just slipped." The sound of ice clattering as they swept it up.

  Both Petal and Trixie had been listening, too. Trixie tossed her hair. "I don't care what you say," she said. "I want him and that's that." She trotted up the stairs quickly, ignoring Petal's pouting scowl and crossed arms.

  I waited until they were both gone to finish walking to the kitchen. Even if Matthew was a flirt and probably deserved someone like her, I still didn't like the idea of her 'hooking' him for a few weeks time. I tried not to think too hard about why as I helped Dinah and Pippa finish cleaning up the spilled ice.

  ***

  "We'll put the arbor for the ceremony here, I believe," said Lord William, waving his hand towards a neat square of green lawn in front of a flower bed. "The foxglove will still be in bloom, but I'm afraid those annuals will be spent by then. It'll look rather shabby, but this is by far the best spot."