A Cottage in Cornwall

by Laura Briggs

  I felt a tiny bit of discomfort over Matt's real reason for coming home. "I'm sure he'll always spend as much time in Cornwall as he can," I said. "He loves this place more than any other."

  "If nothing else, maybe we could ask him to consult again, until we find another gardener," mused Lady Amanda. "Then we could get rid of B—we could be sure the gardens were in good hands," she supplied quickly, covering her slip of the tongue. "Not that there's anything wrong with the way things are done now, of course. They're managed swimmingly, I'm sure. Just not quite as well as Matthew would do it."

  I hid my smile over these remarks. We watched Matt auger holes in the center of an ornamental urn's soil and place tiny bulbs, covering them gently with soil. Such care and seriousness on his face as he worked, even when there was a hint of a smile on his lips.

  He really was utterly incredible, I thought. I couldn't agree more with Lady Amanda's words.

  Even though we still had a few decisions to make about arranging the tea garden's parlor for the big event, I decided to postpone them in favor of checking on Lady Amanda's wedding gift. I knew she was anxious to give her friend something special and personal to keep, not just finger food trays and a place to stand on the patio facing the sea. I only hoped that she wouldn't have to baby-sit it for two weeks until Constance and Joseph returned from the Alps.

  When I opened the door to Harvey's shop, the entrance bell rang cheerily, but there was no one behind the counter to greet me. After waiting several minutes, I finally located the service bell under a pile of dirty gardening gloves, and gave it a couple of taps. Several minutes later, Harvey appeared from the back of the shop.

  "Mr. Willow. Hi. It's me — Julianne Morgen?" I crossed my fingers that he would remember me this time. There was something doubtful in his gaze, however.

  "What can I do for you, Miss Morgen?" he asked.

  "You ordered a plant for me from overseas a few days ago," I said. "On behalf of Lady Amanda at Cliffs House. Remember?"

  A thoughtful expression appeared on Harvey Willow's face. "Ah, yes. Well...let me see." With a sigh, he dug through some papers stuffed beneath an old ledger. I noticed the computer monitor was turned off again, and covered by the vinyl cloth.

  "You did order it, didn't you?" I asked.

  "Did I? Yes...I'm quite sure about that...let me think." He searched his pockets for his glasses, eventually locating them in the pouch of his gardening apron. He propped them on his nose, peered closely at the piece of paper in his hand, then shook his head.

  "Not the right one. Where is it...let me see.... Oh, yes. Here 'tis." He pulled a stack of rather crumpled and woefully dingy forms from underneath a pile of tiny little bulbs.

  "Ah. Oh. Hm. Meant to call you, it seems. Seems they returned the forms that afternoon. The nursery, that is. Application denied. Something about a customs embargo on that species — some red tape with the government."

  Denied? My heart sank. "So this plant is not on its way here from America?" I clarified.

  "Nope. Needs sorting out with the Ministry of Agriculture. Months of red tape. Dunno as I've ever had this trouble before. The boy knows all about those things, I'm sure, but he's still not stumpin' about on his cast yet," he said. "Anyways, here's the forms you filled out, all nice and stamped by the nursery. Bit sorry about the plant," he said.

  A nice red stamp of doom on my order form. I felt utterly defeated. How could I ever find a replacement for Lady Amanda in time?

  ***

  I was still feeling blue about the plant two days later, and had come up with nothing for Lady Amanda in its place. She was deeply disappointed, and I knew she was racking her brain for new possibilities. I'd seen her scouring art websites looking at reasonably-priced gallery canvases, and making lists of everything from plants to plant-inspired jewelry to art cases. Most of them were crossed out, however.

  I tried to banish it from my mind the day of Constance's gallery opening. Matt and I went up to London by train that morning, walking hand in hand through the doors of an old London warehouse converted into a modern art gallery.

  Matt was a tremendous admirer of Constance's artwork, I had learned; he had a book of her sketches from southern France, color prints that revealed the colored pencil strokes bringing to life a cluster of tiny moss flowers, or a twig engulfed by a broken chrysalis.

  "How long have you been a fan?" I asked. I turned the pages of the book, one he'd bought at a gallery in New York, apparently, looking at the glossy copies of Constance's art.

  "Five or six years," he answered. "I stumbled upon an article in a botany journal, about the sketches she made of a university class's plant dissections, trying to better hone her understanding of what she loved most. I was intrigued by that story ... so I looked up her artwork, and found myself developing a deeper respect for it with each new canvas."

  "You should have said something before," I said. "Oh, this one is so beautiful," I added on impulse, touching the print of a budding willow tree. "I wish I had seen it before I designed the petits fours."

  "So you wish I had told you so you could have access to my books, I gather?" Matt smiled.

  "Of course not," I said. "Well ... maybe a little access. After all, this book would have been incredibly helpful, since websites just don't do justice to her work...and I didn't have time to track down any interviews about what inspired her, I just went with Lady Amanda's words on it. You were clearly holding out on me."

  To prove I was teasing him, I pinched his shoulder. As Matt grinned, I closed the book, reluctantly shutting it on the beautiful view of a long-vanished palace's garden turned wilderness.

  "What I meant was, that you could have met her at the estate," I continued. "You could have spent the last few days watching her paint in person." I imagined that as a true fan, Matt would have enjoyed the progress of Constance's brush even more than I had, as a few painted black lines quickly took shape as the stems and leaves, then gradually became a complete rendering of a new-budding plant in the heart of one of Cliffs House's gardens.

  He took a deep breath. "Any other time, I would have liked that," he said. "But right now, I think I prefer working in Rosemoor's garden. As you said before, its neglected state needs attention, and looking at the pitiful state of dead stalks and overcrowded seedlings is too much for me."

  I knew that was Matt's way of saying that he needed to be working right now, to take his mind off other matters. I suppose even watching a famous artist at work wouldn't be as distracting as having his hands deep in the earth, rooting out persistent weeds or aerating the soil around that vivid tangle of overgrown English wildflowers.

  There was a sign outside the gallery with Constance Strong's name and the title of the show — A Walk in an English Wood. All of Constance's paintings and sketches from her return to England were on display, three years' of work traveling from county to county.

  Watercolors of leafy forest floors, of graceful or crooked branches loaded with buds or naked beneath frost or ice. A flower washed up on the seashore; a hoary tree with a yellow-flowered plant springing from its hollow; a ring of orange-red toadstools, huddled together like a group of confidants converging in a circle. In black and white sketches clustered here and there between canvases, I glimpsed some Cornish cliffs, with resilient plants tucked in the recesses of those jagged stones.

  Constance was surrounded by enthusiastic patrons in the middle of the gallery floor. I spotted her, my hand reaching again for Matthew's as he caught up with me just past the Sea Strawberries after a Storm canvas.

  I glanced at him. "Will you let me introduce you while we're here?" I asked. "You really should meet her. She's a great person, and tells wonderful stories. You'd like her, I'm sure of it."

  "I would be honored," he said. "She won't mind?"

  "Constance? Not at all," I said. "Trust me." We made our way through the cluster of admirers. Constance spotted me among the attendees, and motioned me forward.

  "This is the lovely girl who
's making my bouquet for the ceremony," she said to her guests, introducing me to a few art students who had been eagerly peppering her with questions. "I'm very glad you've come," she added to me. "I thought you might only be humoring a friend of Lady Amanda when you said you enjoyed my work. One can never be sure these days whether they're on the receiving end of politeness or enthusiasm."

  "I really should thank you again for these tickets," I said. "But there's someone I'd like you to meet first. Constance Strong, this is Matthew Rose." I laid my hand on his arm. "He's a scientist, gardener, and friend of Lord William's, who very much admires your artwork."

  "Matthew Rose?" repeated Constance. "Why, I'm quite sure I've heard your name before — you treated the bacterial outbreak among the historical garden's spotted orchids, didn't you?"

  "A few years ago," said Matt. "And it is a tremendous honor to meet you, Ms. Strong. It's my first time to see your canvases in person, except for the one you exhibited at the Met a few years ago."

  "Ah, yes. My Frozen Bittersweet," said Constance. "I'm quite fond of that one. It's the last one I painted in England before moving to France."

  "I remember reading that in the guide to your canvases," said Matt. "Do you ever lend Lilies of Marseilles for exhibit, or is it still in your friend's private collection? I've seen its photographs in art and science journals, and it's truly one of your most striking canvases."

  Constance laughed. "Fancy you knowing about that arrangement," she said. "You must have a friend or two in the art world. Yes, I'm afraid Horace still has it under wraps. I'm going to twist his arm for the upcoming show at the Orsay, however. I hope you can attend. I'll send you tickets, if you can possibly visit France then."

  "Thank you," said Matt, who seemed surprised by Constance's swift generosity to someone she'd scarcely met. "I'd be quite happy for them. As to whether I can make it will depend on other matters," he continued, a grave expression flickering in his dark eyes for a moment. "But I wouldn't miss it, if I can help it."

  "Splendid!" said Constance. She glanced at me. "You didn't tell me you had such a famous chap attached to you," she said. "Never breathed a word about your young man."

  "Sadly, it hadn't occurred to me that you would recognize his name," I confessed. "I hadn't thought about the fact that artists and scientists in botany would probably be studying the same plants in their work. Not until Matthew showed me the book he had of your sketches — and there was even one on the cover of a botany textbook he used in the class he taught."

  "I think I'll invite you both to my wedding as guests," said Constance, thoughtfully. "It's a small affair, as you well know —" she glanced at me in particular with these words, so I almost thought she was suspicious that Lady Amanda was up to something, "—and we're only bothering a few friends to rouse themselves to a morning train to Cornwall for it. But I suppose since Amanda's wrestled me into that lovely dress that I should make a show of having people attend."

  There was no suspicion in Constance's voice, at least. I thought of the growing guest list — the decorations and wedding buffet — and bit my lip to prevent an ironic smile from appearing. Matthew caught my eye as he listened, however, and nearly ruined my best efforts to resist it.

  "It's just a little thing. Quick vows, a toast with a bottle of Joseph's ninety-four blush, and a bite to eat if I remember to ask the kitchen for some biscuits. But you're still welcome to come, especially to meet Joseph."

  "That's so kind of you," I said. "If you don't mind, I'd love to help out with just a few little things that day, on Lady Amanda's behalf," I added, since I could hardly tell her what those things might be. "And I'm sure Matt would love to be there, if he doesn't have another engagement."

  Constance smiled at him. "It's been quite an honor to meet the scientist who helped cure the spotted orchid's last crisis. Clever chap. Quite handsome and charming, too," she added, jokingly to me. "You've done almost as well as I have in that department. You haven't seen Joseph yet, but you'll agree come the wedding day."

  "He's an extremely lucky fellow," said Matt. "Julianne has told me the story behind your romance. It's rather the stuff of novels, as they say,"

  "I suppose it is, in some ways," said Constance. "But plenty only see it as an old woman desperately hitching myself to a semi-retired gent with a bottle shop in the Cotswolds."

  "I think that's a terrible description of it," I said. "Did someone really say it to you?"

  "Oh, they say things that mean the same thing. 'Why bother at your age?' 'How long until you lose each other?' they say — but they don't see that it doesn't matter. Time doesn't matter. What difference does it make if we live a year or fifty years together? What difference does it make when it comes to loving someone?"

  "What other reason would you have besides love?" asked Matthew. "You're a successful artist who couldn't have been short of admirers in the past. And whose life has been quite adventurous, according to what I've read about you in articles."

  A dreamy look entered Constance's eyes, briefly. "Yes, exactly so," she answered. "I've lived a full life until now. And now, I'll live a full life with Joseph. I've been very fortunate. So how could I choose to be unhappy? It would be rather wrong of me. So long or short, I choose to be happy with what Joseph and I have."

  Her words were beautiful — they filled me with happiness and sadness at the same time. I looked at Matthew, wondering if he was feeling the same way. And, for the first time all day, the thought that I could lose him for good hit me, and felt worse than ever before. Even Matthew going to Boston when I thought perhaps he wasn't yet in love with me — it didn't have the ability to produce the sudden ache welling up inside me.

  I looked into Matthew's eyes for a moment. My hand felt for his again, my fingers closing around his tightly.

  "No one could have put the truth any better than that," I said to Constance.

  ***

  I showed Matt the plans for Constance's wedding and reception that night, when the two of us were curled together on the tiny love seat in Rosemoor's parlor. He couldn't help but chuckle over the vast difference between Constance's offhand, casual version of how events would unfold, and Lady Amanda's celebration, which expanded 'wine, biscuits, and maybe a crumpet or two' into the forest floor buffet and 'flowers and fruits' wedding cake.

  "Constance will be very surprised," he said, after admiring my sketch of the chocolate log gateau. "Every little detail is perfect. Lady Amanda has outdone herself, and so have you. The chocolate mushrooms are an inspired touch; I think Constance will appreciate it greatly."

  "I just hope it won't come off as an unpleasant surprise, somehow," I said. "Maybe her heart was set on a quick ceremony at Lady Amanda's, and an afternoon's walk or something."

  Matt shook his head. "I don't think it will be," he said. "Having met her, I think she's simply a person who doesn't fuss over herself a great deal, only her work and other people. I think when she sees how deeply Lady Amanda cares for her, she wouldn't have it switched back to the simple signing of the license and a toast afterwards."

  "Let's hope you're right." I settled my head comfortably against his shoulder. "When you hear Constance talk about Joseph ... it seems right. They're in love with each other, and they don't try to make their reasons for being together anything other than that."

  I released a small sigh as I thought of Constance's description of Joseph's proposal. Not a gushing, flowery story — but one that drew its romance from the look in her eyes when she told it. Its words were strong and straightforward, just like Constance herself, but full of deeper emotions.

  "If Constance is going to love it, then there's only one problem left for me," I said. I lifted myself and set my portfolio on the tiny, square table piled with some of Matt's books he loaned me on flowering South American plants.

  "And what would that be?"

  "Lady Amanda's gift to the couple." Here, I repressed a second sigh. "The rare plant she wanted from one of Constance's sketching holidays isn't a
vailable. And Harvey Willow, who's in charge of the shop right now, apparently, forgot to tell me until it was too late to do anything about it."

  "Find another plant," suggested Matthew. "I could do a little research and help you find another international nursery, if you like. I have plenty of contacts in that quarter."

  I smiled. "I know you do," I answered. "And thanks for volunteering them. But Lady Amanda wanted it to arrive in time for the wedding, and I'm pretty sure I can't find something that would be special enough on this short notice without forcing her to spend a fortune. I'm afraid she'll have to settle for a more conventional gift."

  "It seems to me that Lady Amanda's already spent tremendous effort and more than a little money on Constance's big day," said Matt. "No expensive wedding gift could ever compare with the ceremony and reception she's planned."

  "I kind of suggested that already. But Lady Amanda really wants Constance to have something more permanent from her than just memories, and photographs of them eating truffles that look like mushrooms."

  "Hmmm," said Matt, thoughtfully.

  "I suppose I could always suggest a nice photo album. Or maybe a wedding portrait." But none of these sounded like the right choice, I knew. Too cliché. And they seemed more like additional wedding expenses than a thoughtful gift, anyway.

  Matt stretched further back against the sofa's pillows. The arm which had been resting behind me, along the back of the sofa, now pulled me a little closer, something I didn't object to at all. I settled close against him, my hand resting on his chest, near his heart.

  "You know, you haven't finished telling me about South America," I said, lifting my gaze to his.

  "That's true. What do you want to hear about next? The crocodiles or the piranhas?"

  "Stop it," I said, giving him a playful little smack. "I don't want to hear about made-up jungle encounters, thanks." Those dark eyes couldn't hide their spark of humor, not from me.