A Castle in Cornwall

by Laura Briggs

  "Rowena St. James? The romance novelist?" said Gemma. "You've heard of her, surely. Even my mum's read all her books, and she usually only reads a good spy novel now and then."

  "Rowena St. James?" I said. "The author of The Lightkeeper's Heart?" I had a copy of her first and most famous book on a shelf at home, tucked next to Matt's Treatise on the Flora and Fauna of Southern England. Romance and gardens go hand in hand, in my opinion.

  "That's her. And rumor says she's taking a room at the Dummonia," whispered Gemma, excitedly. "Anyway, that's what she heard from Charlotte Jones's sister what delivers dairy goods there on Thursdays, when she told her about the register. Mind you, we're not supposed to spread it around, since it's not certain. And the guest book's supposed to be private, too. We wouldn't want to get anyone into trouble."

  I tried not to smile, knowing that Gemma was not only breaking this rule without a second's thought, but so was everyone else in the village, too. "Of course," I said. "I won't tell anyone."

  "Think we'll see her about while she's here?" asked Gemma. "Think she'll visit Cliffs House to see the gardens? I've always wanted to meet someone famous — Donald Price-Parker and Wendy Alistair don't count, really." Gemma mused over this fantasy. "I wonder if she'd tell me whatever became of Alaric and Georgia in Love's Winding Path."

  "Most likely she plans to keep traveling and stay in Penzance for awhile," I said. "Ceffylgwyn's probably not exactly the location she has in mind for her next novel." I read somewhere once that inspiration for her first book had struck her during a holiday in Penzance, so she was probably revisiting whatever site planted inspiration for her greatest literary achievement. I made a mental note to tell Aimee about this in our next conversation — that book was her favorite of all time.

  "I wish it were," said Gemma. "Then maybe we'd have a bit of romantic magic around here and not just boys nattering away about rugby and beer. But she wouldn't write about a dull little village when she writes about lonely, wind-swept plains, or islands adrift in the foamy sea. That's a lot more romantic."

  How about windswept cliffs? I wanted to reply, but knew that Gemma was quoting the author's description of book settings. "You don't think Ceffylgwyn could be the scene of a fictional romance?" I laughed.

  "Maybe. If Rowena St. James made it into someplace exciting or irresistible," said Gemma. With that, she was off to tell the same news to Lady Amanda, probably.

  I hung Constance's painting above the mantel in my office. It was the perfect spot for the portrait of my favorite place on earth — which was more romantic than even Rowena's lonely lighthouse, in my opinion. But I'm not a writer, as my long-abandoned personal journal proved, so maybe I'm wrong.

  Maybe journaling was the answer to my feeling a little lost upon coming back. I wondered just where it had ended up when we moved.