by Laura Briggs
"More likely there were only young boys in there, smoking," said Michael.
"Anyway, the wood's not a romantic place," said Gemma. "They found a body there ages ago. The only unsolved death in Ceffylgwyn, me mum always said."
This was a new fact; and one that sounded a lot less romantic than an invasion of the piskies to me. "Maybe it was death by natural causes?" I said.
"Maybe," said Gemma, darkly. "All I know is, they never solved it."
"I suppose I'll hope only the pixies are present," said Rowena, with a weak smile. "I trust it's safe to stay on the fringes of the forest."
Michael grunted. "There's nothing in the wood in the daytime that would hurt you," he said.
"Good," said Rowena.
***
There really was an unsolved death in the woods — I found the newspaper clippings to prove it when I searched online at the Truro paper's archives. But the police seemed to consider it an accidental death at the time, a drunken stumble over a log following a rowdy, late night carouse at the neighboring pubs.
"Do you think pixies are romantic?" I asked Matt. "As in 'love story romantic?'" He was grafting roses in Cliffs House's hothouse today, having stopped by to help Pollock with some new scion wood.
"Pixies?" he repeated. "No, not really. I've always thought of them as troublemakers. Akin to Puck in A Midsummer Night's Dream. Why?"
"You remember the author I told you about? She wants to write a romantic story that would involve a wood legendary for 'piskies' dwelling in it," I said. "It's part of the estate, actually."
"Piskie Wood?" said Matt, incredulously. "I can't say I would have thought of it as the setting for a romance novel." His fingers carefully held the new graft in place — without touching it more than necessary — and reached for a spool of grafting tape nearby.
"I know, I know. They found a body there, once. But it was more than twenty years ago, and besides, the police think he just tripped over a log while drunk."
"I forgot about that," mused Matt. "No, I was thinking more of the atmosphere itself. The heavy equipment working at the 'dowager cottage' would hardly set the scene for love."
"Heavy equipment?" It was my turn to be the echo, evidently. Matt finished looping his grafting tape around the rose's stem.
"Geoff's having them tear down the old barn. Now that it's empty, and the caretaker's gone, it's rather a hazard — especially after that last storm tore the roof off half of it."
"Oh." I pondered this with dismay.
Lady Amanda flagged me down as I entered the manor. "Someone left these in the kitchen a day or two ago, and I thought it might be you," she said. "Michael found them this morning when he was tidying up — they had fallen under the table."
It was a pair of leather driving gloves. They didn't look familiar, then I realized they must belong to our recent visitor. "I think I know who owns them," I said. "She's staying at the bed and breakfast, so I'll drop them by."
"Thanks," said Lady Amanda.
The Dumnonian was the only bed and breakfast in Ceffylgwyn — that's because the number of passing tourists who actually stay here is pretty small. The country home was a beautiful old lime-washed farmhouse at one time, now converted into a picturesque inn tucked back in a glen not far from the sea. Its foyer was filled with country antiques and the smell of baking bread; the room's main wall was dominated by a framed print of the most famous painting in any Cornish gallery, Falmouth Art Gallery's The Lady of Shallot, and by pictures of the handful of 'celebrated guests' who had stayed at the inn in the past.
The last famous visitors were the judges of the Grand Baking Extravaganza; Dovie Todd had them both sign photos, which were now displayed proudly near an autographed picture of the classical singer Wendy Alistair. The inn's owner and hostess was busy reading a newspaper, humming to herself as she filled in the blanks of a crossword puzzle.
"What can I do you for?" she asked cheerily, as I entered. The rose-colored foyer of the little house was empty, although its parlor lamps cast a cheery light in the most shadowed corner. "Cuppa? Bit of cream tea? Not often we have visitors from up manor way — not since that big concert, when Geoff came by to borrow a few chairs, as it were —"
"I've come to return something to one of your guests," I said, knowing from experience it was best to cut to the chase. "Rowena St. James left her gloves at Cliffs House by accident. I thought I would leave them with you."
"No, nonsense! She's in her room, no doubt typing away — she's a novelist, don't you know? Just pop 'round and knock on the door. She'll be happy to see you, no doubt. Room seven."
I had my doubts, but Dovie wouldn't take 'no' for an answer, as a general rule. I climbed the stairs and crossed the worn hall runner woven with a summer leaf pattern, and knocked on the door.
"Ms. St. James?" I said. "It's Julianne Rose, from the estate. I hate to bother you —"
The door opened. On the other side, the novelist was smiling, with only a slight hint of annoyance on her face. "This is a surprise," she said.
"Your gloves," I held them up. "They must have fallen out of your handbag while you were having a cup of tea." Rowena accepted them gratefully.
"I was looking everywhere for these yesterday," she said. "I thought I must have dropped them somewhere in the wood." She stuffed them into her purse.
"How was the picnic?" I asked.
"Murderous." A look of disgust crossed her face. "Your friend was right. It wasn't a romantic atmosphere. I'm afraid we chose a spot infested by some sort of gnat colony, which was very fond of the chef's compote, I might add. And human flesh. The whole time I'm trying to talk with Geneivre about the story, there was this horrible mechanical grinding and clattering just beyond the trees. I might as well have laid a picnic in the nearest construction site for all the noise."
I offered her a sympathetic smile. "Sounds rather awful," I said. "I'm guessing your editor wasn't charmed by the idea?"
"I don't know." She sighed. "It had a certain appeal at first. It was certainly mossy and green, as you promised. And I rather like the 'piskies,' actually, after I read a bit about them ... but I'm not sure they have a part in a romance novel. At least not the one I have to write." She sat down at a table before an open laptop, its screen a blank page.
"Maybe a better idea will come to you," I said. Rowena leaned back in her chair.
"I certainly hope so." She smiled at me. "It's not as easy as it used to be. Not when I wrote A Love Affair for Two, which seemed to fly onto the page. Of course, I set that one in a musty old country barn in Yorkshire. There was an old barn near the wood, I noticed ... at least until it toppled over beneath the efforts of Bob the Builder's dozer yesterday afternoon."
She closed the lid of her laptop. "You said you're a fan of my books, aren't you?" she said. "On the beach, you told me so. Which ones?"
"Your first one, obviously — who doesn't love it?" I answered. "And I've read The Tinder Heart more than once, too." The first was my favorite, but there was more than one of her titles in my collection of books at home, with plenty of worn pages and a few wrinkled edges from the bathtub's water. I wasn't what you would call an avid reader — or a romance novel devotee — but even I couldn't resist one of her stories whenever I was feeling like a particularly romantic escape.
"Any suggestions? Any notion what would make the next story a brilliant one?" she asked. "I simply must write something in time for my publisher's deadline. Inspiration is a must at this point."
"I suppose more woods are out of the question?" I said. I racked my brain for a romantic location, short of my favorite cliffs. Or would the cliffs impress her? And maybe a certain manor house, too?
"How about a nice haunted castle?" said Rowena. "An abandoned old house with a story in its past?"
"I do work at an old house," I said. "And it definitely has a lot of history. But that's about it."
"A historical novel," said Rowena. "Now that's something I haven't written."
So t
hat's how Rowena came to spend the next few afternoons at Cliffs House. She walked through the portrait hall and the grand dining room, her notebook open and her pencil tapping against its pages. Several times I caught glimpses of her in the gardens, even walking the path that led to the cliffs view.
"She told me she started by writing a children's book," said Gemma. "When she was only four, even. Drew pictures of squirrels and fairytale princes and so on in old notebooks." Her face blushed pink. "She told me that all I have to do is start writing something down, and maybe it'll come to me. The gift, I mean."
"The gift of writing," I surmised.
"She says I could have it. I have 'the sensibility for romance.' Or something like that," said Gemma. "And I was thinking it could be fun to be a writer. All that money and loads of spare time when your book is finished. No more dusting knickknacks and cleaning drapes for me."
Hmm. I thought perhaps Gemma had the wrong picture of a 'writer's life' and income, but it wasn't really my place to correct this illusion — after all, what did I know about a novelist's career?
"And to think just a year ago you were moaning about everyone leaving this place," I teased her. "Now you sound ready to give up village life yourself."
"This is different. Pip and you moved away. I'm not saying I'd leave Ceffylgwyn...though a London penthouse would be tempting." She rested one hand on her hip with this statement, a dreamy expression in her eyes.
"Rowena St. James lives in a remote farmhouse in Yorkshire these days," I said. "With a collection of first editions and a penchant for collecting wine." I had read the author's online bio recently, curious about the woman behind the love stories. I had been surprised to learn that she had never been married, and that her longest relationship had ended before any serious commitment. The queen of romance had never found her match, it seemed.
Rowena was sitting on one of the large rocks near the cliffs' edge, her notebook open on her lap. She gazed towards the water, then up at the clouds. When she saw me approach, she smiled.
"I'm taking a break from absorbing the 'regal atmosphere,'" she said. "This is a beautiful spot to think. And your cook was kind enough to make me a thermos of coffee for my afternoon walk."
"Michael is very thoughtful," I said. "And Gemma would probably be happy to bring you some biscuits to go with it, if you wanted them. She's desperately keen to hear more of your advice on becoming a romance novelist."
"I wish her luck," said Rowena. "I only wish I had her enthusiasm. I did twenty years ago, when I began writing these books. Of course, it took me ten years to get anyone's attention." She laughed. "By then, I had almost given up on the dream. There were a lot of dead manuscripts in my past, written in many styles and genres."
"She was telling me about your first books," I said. "Back before the lighthouse one."
Rowena laughed. "Oh, that," she said. "I suppose they would count, the scribbling of my childhood. I hadn't thought about it in years. There were a dozen in all. That was before I grew up ... then I tried my hand at writing a mystery. By Jove, that mystery was horrible." She made a face for the memory. "Genievre — my future editor — told me that my gift was romance, and romance alone."
"Would she be fine with you writing something with a historical angle?" I asked. It would be different from the remote locations in her other stories, the sweeping panoramas and steep cliffs, the complex characters. It would mean the location itself would be almost like an active character, with a full back story. A completely new angle for a St. James romance.
"Truthfully? I'm not sure she has to worry about it," said Rowena. "I've spent two days wandering the halls of this beautiful manor, and haven't quite found a way to introduce two characters into its atmosphere. Not for lack of trying, I assure you."
I felt disappointed. For a fleeting moment, I had hoped maybe Cliffs House was the answer — and I had been flattered to imagine it was me who helped immortalize it on the page, too. It wasn't to be, it seemed.
"I kept hoping if I lingered here a little longer, it would just happen," Rowena sighed. "In a spot this beautiful, something is bound to happen, isn't it?"
I shrugged. "It did for me," I answered. Here was the place where my whole life changed — the reason for the rings on my finger, and one of the biggest reasons why I loved this place so much.
"What did it help you find?" asked Rowena.
"Love," I answered. "I met the love of my life here. And ... I told him I loved him for the first time here ... and accepted his proposal here, too. Basically, the biggest moments of my life in Cornwall surround this spot."
"Really." Rowena's voice was soft. "All that — in this very spot?"
"These cliffs are pretty inspirational," I said. "Well, at least they were to an American fresh off the boat. It was like I landed in a novel — a gothic manor, some wind-swept rocks, and the promise of love in the future. Not that I knew that last part yet, of course. I wouldn't meet Matt for a couple of days after I arrived." I smiled. "He was the gardener. With a few secret identities I would find out about later."
"That's quite a story," said Rowena. "Good enough for a book, actually."
Her tone was unmistakable. "You mean — you don't think that's epic enough for a romance novel, do you?" I said. I blushed, thinking of Matt's words on the suggestion. "It wasn't exciting. It was just two people being lucky enough to fall in love. We didn't have any big obstacles or crisis, really." I didn't mention Matt's move across the Pond, or the near-diagnosis of cancer that had made us both tremble.
"Was Love's Winding Path exciting?" asked Rowena. "Their only obstacle was his resentment issues with his father. And what complex dilemma did I provide in my first novel?"
"A near-death escape, for one thing."
"All right, maybe not that one. But most romance novels don't have to have excitement, Julianne. Just two people. And I think there's something in your story that my readers would love. If you wouldn't mind me 'borrowing' a few details." She lifted her eyebrows, pleadingly.
"No," I said, blushing deeply as my hands tingled with a mixture of surprise and excitement. "Borrow away. I mean, if you think some part of what I told you might help." Us in a romance story? She really thinks our story is inspirational? That was more than I ever imagined — even beyond the fleeting notion that Rowena St. James might add an American tourist angle to her next novel.
"I'd like to think about it — if your husband doesn't mind, I suppose," said Rowena, who had been pursing her lips as her pencil touched her notebook's fluttering pages, adding a quick line or two.
"Matt? I don't think he'll mind at all," I said. "Although he'll be a little bit skeptical that anybody will find two people falling in love on the Cornish cliffs as intriguing as you do. Except out of a loyalty to Cornwall's remarkable self, that is."
"I'd like to meet your gardener-turned-hero," said Rowena. "Maybe that would tell me if I've finally found the right story."
***
I knew that Rowena would like Matt, and that meeting him would dispel all fears that he would object to a little part of our story being in a book. I brought her to Rosemoor's hothouse while Matt was working there, so she could see him in his element. It was a picture that would inspire any romance novelist, I was sure — a gardener surrounded by plants, in a world of damp earth, green leaves, and careful concentration.
Climbing vines over the hothouse walls and ceilings wove a canopy just over the table where Matt was working. A couple of roses were blooming, but Matt was busy inspecting the vials from the other day, examining their contents on slides beneath a microscope as he made notes in his journal.
"Matt, this is Rowena St. James," I said. "She wanted to meet you after hearing so many stories about you."
The writer looked overwhelmed by the sight of so many colors and textures, the smell of damp earth and soil, reminding me of the first time I set foot in one of Matt's work spaces. Her glance roved from the tangle of vines creeping over the roof's glass and the terracott
a pots containing Matt's roses to the gardener himself — Matt in his stained gardening togs, a pair of reading glasses pushed back in his careless dark mane as he looked up from his microscope. Looking his best in my opinion, making it easy for me to envision him as a gardening hero in a book, even if Rowena St. James was somehow crazy enough to disagree.
"A pleasure to meet you." Matt shook hands with the author. "Are you shadowing Julianne for a book?" It was a joke, I knew — since I hadn't yet told him that it might be a little bit true.
"I was hoping that meeting a gardener would help me with my next book," said Rowena. "I'm giving strong consideration to making my hero a gardener. From what your wife told me about you, I rather thought you would make a good model for me."
I thought for a quick second that Matt blushed. "I see," he said. His glance flickered towards me ever so quickly, but I managed to avoid his eye.
"And, of course, you would make a good technical advisor for me," she continued. "I know next to nothing about gardening. Can't even keep a pot of pinks alive." She bent closer to a small potted plant on Matt's work table, which held a newly-grafted rose.
"Anything you want to know about plants, I can help you with, I'm sure," he said.
"Are microscopes a big part of gardening?" asked Rowena, noticing Matt's equipment.
"Ah, well ... I forgot to mention that part of the story," I said. "Matt is a gardener part time. He's a botanist and professor much of the time." Matt's career had split itself between working as a gardener and consultant at historic gardens on both sides of the Pond and teaching in Ivy League classrooms.
Rowena looked impressed as I finished explaining about Matt's past — he added details now and then, although he looked embarrassed to have his career discussed; Matt tends to be modest about his accomplishments, even dismissive of his own professional title whenever outside the classroom.
"I like it," she said. "That would make a wonderful angle for a story. Would you mind, Doctor Rose, if I wrote about a character who had a similar background?"
