by Laura Briggs
"A few flowers would be nice. As a botanical enthusiast, I'll never say 'no' to one, even though I prefer them in the ground rather than in the vase," said Constance. "But no fuss, mind you. Neither of us expect any fuss. Joseph is bringing a bottle of his best vintage for us all to drink a toast, and then we'll be off in no time on our sketching holiday."
"A little fuss never hurts," said Lady Amanda. "You told me that, remember? When I was fifteen, and I didn't want a posh frock for Lydia Chansom's wedding? All pimples and adolescent angles back then," she explained to me. "I was mortified at the thought of drawing attention to myself in grown-up heels and that short little blue dress. But when I look back at the photos, I was actually quite lovely — at least when someone managed to coax a smile out of me for the picture. Constance was right. I don't regret that fuss in the least."
"So why not let us plan something special for you?" I asked Constance. "This is your special day, after all. You're marrying the love of your life."
Constance smiled. "The love of my life," she repeated. "True enough. Until now, the love of my life was painting. And nature in all its splendors." She polished off her marmalade muffin. "Of course, half my friends are saying it's come too late. 'What a pity, what a shame. If you'd only stopped in for a glass of wine, you would have met him.' 'If you'd only met some nice bloke on that sketching holiday in the Lake country when you were really in your prime.' Not Amanda, of course," she said, waving her hand towards Lady Amanda, who was busy snipping a price tag from a newly-purchased scarf, but looked up and smiled at hearing her name.
"I don't agree with them," I said. "I think it's romantic. I think romance can happen any time, right? It's the sort of thing everyone dreams about — that loneliness can turn into love at any moment."
Constance laughed. "Like in novels," she said. But her smile told me there was something more to this statement. She took another sip of tea.
"My special day has already happened, you see." She set aside her teacup. "I was on a sketching holiday in the Ardennes last month. Took a train down from France for the weekend, and Joseph came with me. I thought he'd wander around some of the shops, look for a bottle for his collection, perhaps...but instead, he came with me to the place where I was painting.
"It was this beautiful little place in the middle of the woods. Just where the trees part, and a shaft of sunlight comes down. It landed on this cluster of wildflowers, sleepy little crocus-kin bulbs, just at the base of an old black log covered in white mushrooms marching across it just like little fan-shaped soldiers. It was like something out of a fairytale, I said to Joseph. The sort of thing one pictures in enchanted forests, where all the mushrooms circle fairy rings.
"He said, 'Maybe it is one. Maybe it's a part of a story here and now, and we're in a fairytale ourselves.' I thought he was being silly, of course — he does rather like to be silly sometimes, when it's the two of us going off on a lark, or having a time painting up impossible stories about what people are doing, or where they're going.
"But he reached into his pocket, and took something out. And he took my hand. And then I knew...and for a moment, I honestly thought I would cry. Me being silly enough to do it, there in a spot of sunlight, before those little white flowers. And Joseph with his serious smile and a diamond between his fingers."
I thought I detected the glint of tears in Constance's eyes now — but the artist blinked them back, shaking her head with a smile. "A diamond for me — it's not as if I needed one, is it? But that's Joseph, you see, always being sentimental about things."
The ring on Constance's finger wasn't a mere diamond chip — it was a row of three diamonds in a beautiful antique setting, with a filigree band. I imagined Joseph scouring antique shops or Old World jewelers for it, knowing that a modern cut and a glitzy, faceted stone wouldn't be the right choice.
"I would have said 'yes' for the ring alone," I joked.
Constance laughed heartily. "He does have good taste — although I suppose most people find it pityingly old-fashioned that it's not something custom made. But I never liked everything to be glitzy and new, even when I was young. I like the present when it's alive — breathing, and growing, like a plant or a bulb pushing earth aside to come out, not merely all of us rushing about like ants on the march or glued to the telly at night. And I like to remember the past and keep it alive in bits and bobs. Old brushes and old postcards and the like."
"Oh, do go on about 'bits and bobs,'" said Lady Amanda, sarcastically. "Your flat in France was as cluttered as a packrat's nest. Hardly room to swing a brush for all your souvenirs and things — when you were teaching me a few years ago, I must have painted half a dozen wine bottles, shadow boxes, and heaven knows what else by proxy. I can only imagine the one in England must be every bit as bad by now."
"Your problem was your talent didn't lie with a brush," said Constance, with a snort. "You were obviously a sculptor, and anyone could see it by your hands. It was for the best that you gave up on my lessons."
"Never mind that. I only know that you're every bit as sentimental as Joseph is, apparently. Otherwise, your move from France to England wouldn't have required toting quite so many boxes."
Yup. I was right. Joseph's choice had been perfect.
***
Lord William believed that I could convince Billy to start on the east garden on my own, but I decided I needed backup for this campaign. When I explained to Matt what the issue was, he immediately volunteered to discuss things with the gardener himself the next morning.
Hand in hand, we walked up the main path to Cliffs House, the first time Matt had been back to it since his semester in America. I glanced at him, giving his fingers a quick squeeze.
"Does anybody else know?" I asked him, softly. "Besides me?" I didn't have to say about what.
He shook his head. "Not even Michelle knows," he answered. "And I don't want anyone to know, if I can help it. Not until the results are in."
I nodded. If this was what Matt needed, then I would respect it. I would keep his secret until he was ready for everyone to know.
Billy was in the shed, cleaning dirt from the hand tools as Matt and I approached. I stepped back a little, letting Matt be the one who addressed Billy first. The gardener squinted at me hanging around the rhododendron bushes, then looked at him, a look of suspicion in his eyes for a stranger.
"What'b'ye doin' here?" he asked.
Matt, who had been studying the shed with an air of aloof interest, now nodded towards the row of pots on the table, where some twigs were poked above the dirt, a little leaf on each one. "Your cuttings have a good size," he said. "You've got a good skill with rooting them."
Billy grunted. "V'been at i' long nuff," he said.
"Mark of a gardener's best service is his palm," said Matt. "Let's see yours." He held out his hand, his own palm still weathered and callused from his work in the university's greenhouses. Billy surveyed it with reserve, then clapped his own work-worn hand in Matt's.
They shook hands solemnly, then began talking about something with words that sounded to me like gibberish — Matt's speech had slipped into Cornish dialect, something I'd scarcely heard him use before more than a word at a time. Billy's squinting glare hadn't disappeared, but he was nodding occasionally. They both gestured at times in the direction of the east garden, making me hopeful that this was progress.
A few minutes later, Matt strolled out of the shed and joined me. "It was simple enough," he said to me. "A reasonable chap. You should have told me that before." But there was a twinkle in his eye that proved he was teasing me. "I wonder why you didn't settle this sooner."
I rolled my eyes. "Maybe because I don't know the secret Cornish gardeners' handshake," I answered.
"Pshaw," said Matt. And I enjoyed hearing him tease me again, because a little of the worry had lifted from Matt's face with it. He seemed more like himself, and I would happily endure any ribbing over Billy's malevolent grunts to see it return.
With
a truce between Billy and the east garden apparently in place, I left Matt in one of the gardens and went to the manor kitchen to take advantage of Dinah's morning 'cuppa,' and to discuss Constance's wedding buffet. I had a few ideas — more elaborate than the 'bottle of wine and quick bite of crumpets' suggestion that Constance had offered Lady Amanda on the subject, and wanted to see how possible they were.
"A log cake?" Dinah lifted an eyebrow. "But not a Yule log, you say?"
"It's the same, really — a Swiss roll with chocolate ganache and cherry compote spread inside it," I said. "It's for the groom's cake. Lady Amanda says Constance mentioned Joseph is fond of chocolate gateau, and I thought fashioning a cake to look like a log would be perfect." I thought of Constance's story about the Ardennes forest, and thought it was a stroke of luck that I'd already sketched out this cake.
"What's the bark made of?" She peered more closely at my supply list, pushing her eyeglasses further up the bridge of her nose.
"Flakes of chocolate, gilded along their edges," I said. "Layered like bits of bark over a mirror ganache, see? And with little meringue mushrooms spotted with chocolate, and some sugared rosemary to look like fir needles on a forest floor."
The wedding table's theme was meant to suggest a forest floor — lots of meringue mushrooms, and sugared marzipan crocus blossoms and buds on teacakes. Savory biscuits topped with a creamy spread, rosemary needles, and edible kale and spinach stems crowned with mini roasted garlic-and-shallot blossoms; and delicate little wild lilies made from candied citrus peel atop Dinah's famous iced orange saffron sweet biscuits.
"It's quite elaborate," said Dinah, studying my menu and my quick little drawings. "It wouldn't be terribly hard to pull it off for such a small affair, providing Pippa and Gemma have quick enough fingers to keep from snapping all these little stems. But what about a wedding cake?"
"I'm glad you asked," I said. If she thought these were elaborate, she had yet to see the wedding cake that Lady Amanda had dreamed up. Two layers of cream-sandwiched vanilla sponge with edible flowers and miniature bunches of gold and red grapes glowing like gems in an arrangement atop the cake. A marriage between the respective passions of the bride and the groom, Lady Amanda had declared it.
"Goodness me! This with the teacakes and the gateau — isn't this supposed to be a small affair?"
"Well, Lady Amanda might have sort of ... expanded ... the guest list," I admitted. I knew full well that she had arranged not only for members of her own family to come, but also for several of Constance and Joseph's respective friends, and even some of Constance's colleagues. It totaled thirty guests now — plus a few local friends in Cornwall and Devon whom Constance herself had invited to witness the ceremony.
"Well, that's reasonable, I suppose," said Dinah, when I handed her the guest totals. "But you say Constance knows nothing about this?"
"Not a word," I said. "So don't tell her, because Lady Amanda will be crushed if Constance makes her cancel the reception. It's practically her gift to the couple."
Except her real gift hadn't arrived yet, the special rare plant on order. Since I hadn't heard the progress on its shipping status, I made a note to stop by and ask Harvey Willow how many more days until it arrived. Time was passing quickly, and I knew it would disappoint Lady Amanda to have it arrive too late to present it before the couple's Swiss vacation.
I hoped she wouldn't ask me questions about its delay — Harvey Willow clearly wasn't filling my inbox with information, since he could barely turn on the shop's old computer. Fortunately, Lady Amanda was much too distracted as she rushed through the door.
"Rats, is that the time?" she demanded of me, looking at the antique grandfather clock near the stairs. "I'm terribly late for my appointment — Wallace Darnley is going to be peeved at me, as always." Wallace Darnley, a local sailor known for his short temper, was starting a coastal cruise business to take tourists on pleasure cruises highlighting the wonders of the Cornish coast, and had far too many opinions on Lady Amanda's brochure designs for him.
"Did you have a flat tire?" I asked, noticing her hair was slightly disheveled. She rolled her eyes.
"Heaven forbid," said Lady Amanda. "No, I was 'kept after school' by my instructor, who had rather an issue with the shape of my bowl."
Lady Amanda's sculpting instructor, I surmised. "What was wrong with it?" I asked. "A bowl's a bowl, right?"
"Apparently, not," she answered, with a scowl. "He said my edges were far too fluted, to begin with, and that one side being slightly higher wouldn't have the artistic affect I wanted...and that my choice of orange paint with metallic gold would clash after it was glazed...oh, a dozen little things in between. 'Too ambitious, aren't we, for only a third attempt?'" she said, mimicking what surely must be his voice. "Plus, he said I should cut my nails, because they're only impeding my artistic progress."
"At least it looks like a bowl," I supplied, helpfully. "That's a start, right?"
"At least I wasn't the only one. Neddy Cox and Vince Ho were both in the same murky waters as me," she said. "I wish I were a proper artistic genius like Maddie Smith — she's making a fluted vase that looks like a Calla lily. I can't imagine anything but a single Calla lily will fit in it, but it does look impressive."
"Would you like me to call and tell Wallace you'll be late?" Not that I wanted to listen to his complaints, but it would make Lady Amanda feel better, I thought.
"No, I think I'll reschedule," she said. "He'll be in a rotten mood either way. And I do need to get the clay out from underneath my nails." She studied the skin beneath her long, tapered red nails, as if bits of clay were lodged there now. She sighed. "He really has no respect for a decent manicure."
Despite the frustration in her voice, I sensed that this was good-natured complaining on Lady Amanda's part, mostly for the sake of today's class. I knew for a fact that she secretly loved the challenge of it, even staying after class on her own a time or two to practice, so it couldn't be all bad.
Pippa and Gemma were in the smallest sitting room, fitting little votives in short hollowed birch logs, artificial ones I had purchased as candleholders of varying sizes for the table's decoration. Lord William had obtained an impressive-sized driftwood log to use as an altar for the marriage ceremony, and I was planning to tuck some trailing strands of soft, white goat's beard moss in its crevices, along with little white flowers.
"These are so pretty," said Gemma. "Are they just for the table alone?"
"Mostly," I said. "In groupings of two or three with some pinecones, in between the platters."
"Menu sounds scrumptious," said Pippa. "Hope we can sample a tidbit or two. I love Dinah's savory paste."
"Is it all still a secret from Constance?" asked Gemma. "How will we keep her from noticing all this?"
"Easy. She's out painting most of the day," I said. "We'll just keep these things hidden in the pantry."
"Besides, she's so busy with her gallery show, she'll be gone several days," said Pippa, inserting another candle. "Running up to London to meet with the gallery owner and see how they're arranging her work. She's looking forward to it. Supposedly, it'll draw a big crowd of art lovers — not that I'd know anything about that lot."
The lack of metropolitan atmosphere in Cornwall was always a subject of regret for Pippa and Gemma. Whereas for me, the opposite problem existed, since I was woefully uneducated about village life, and about Cornwall especially. My ears still burned sometimes with the laughter I received the first time I pronounced the village name of 'Mousehole' for a Cornish native — with literal English phonetics, of course. One of Matt's more wicked teasing tricks on me in our earliest days of knowing each other.
Gemma carried the finished table decorations to the box near the mantel, but stopped halfway across the room. "Is that Ross?" she said, with amazement.
"What? Ross is here?" Pippa scrambled up from her seat. "It is him!"
The windows in this room, like the French doors of the main parlor, faced the t
ea garden. When I reached the view, I saw Matt in the midst of it, kneeling before one of the beds and planting bulbs from the large sacks beside him. Already he had trimmed away the frost-bitten ornamental grasses from the beds, and swept aside the weathered mulch using a narrow gardening rake.
"Why didn't you tell us that he was coming here to work today?" said Pippa.
"I didn't know he was doing this," I said. And I didn't. There was no sign of Billy, but there was Matt, with the same mud patches as before on the knees of his trousers, and on his boots.
"Come on, then! Let's go say hello!" said Gemma. The two of them hurried off to fetch their jackets and greet their real-life 'Ross' from all those Poldark fantasies, leaving me alone at the window. Matt turned around to fetch another handful of bulbs and saw me, giving me a smile and a wave.
I waved back, my smile one of surprise and gratitude. Matt gave me a subtle wink in response, then turned back to his work. A second later, Pippa and Gemma were racing up to him, both throwing their arms around him in a hug before eagerly bombarding him with their questions.
I knew they were asking him all about Boston, and why he hadn't come to see everyone sooner. I knew he was going to smile and tell them that he didn't know how long he would be here, and that everything had gone well in America.
And I knew that he had never asked Billy if he would kindly restore the east garden for me.
"Good heavens! Is that Matthew in our garden?" Lady Amanda had joined me, her eyebrows lifting with surprise. "Don't tell me he's popped in to manicure our gardens without even saying 'hello'?"
"He knows how much it means to you to have this garden at its best for the wedding," I said. "I don't think you could stop him even if you opened the window and yelled at him."
She sighed. "He really is the best, isn't he?" she said. "Utterly incredible. Julianne, you really must keep him here this time. Don't let him slip off to America again. We'll find something to keep him busy."
