Extract
from A
Wedding in Cornwall:
Thanks
so much to Ellesea for letting me share with her readers as part of
my book’s third birthday celebration! The first in a series of
novellas about American event planner Julianne’s adventures ‘across
the pond’, A
Wedding in Cornwall
includes an idyllic Cornish village, a beautiful manor house, and a
gardener named Matthew who bears an uncanny resemblance to modern
television’s Ross Poldark. In the following scene, Matthew and
Julianne have just spent the day visiting The Lost Gardens of Heligan
and are on their way back to the manor house when they decide to take
a little detour.
I
was feeling energized, not tired, even though the day had been a long
one. I was a little disappointed when the road sign for Ceffylgwyn
came into view through the windscreen. Maybe Matt sensed this,
because he cleared his throat and looked at me.
"Would
you like to see my home?" he asked. "Before I drive you
back to the country house?"
"Of
course I would," I answered. These past couple of weeks, I had
been curious to know more about Matthew's 'reclusive hole' after
listening to Gemma and Pippa's remarks. It could be anything from a
shack in the woods to a crumbling gothic carriage house, I felt.
But
it was none of these things. Matt turned onto a sleepy side street in
the village, then parked outside a battered picket gate and fence
surrounding a two story cottage covered in white lime wash aged grey
in places from the wind, and a slate roof with grey-painted shutters
bordering each of its windows. On the lower story, window boxes
tumbled forth vinca and pea vines, covered in small summer flowers,
while upstairs, I could see a chimney, oddly painted red, peeking
from behind the house.
I
was struck speechless for a moment, as I had been outside Cliffs
House. This was a completely different world, this tiny cottage
compared to Cliffs House's size and stateliness ... but there was
something enchanting about it. Like something special was hidden in
those walls, in the red chimney and the most crookedly-hung shutter
on the second floor.
Of
course, there were gardens — and maybe that was the source of the
magic, Matthew's talent and dedication come to life. They wrapped
around the whole cottage, tangled and wild, with plants almost as
tall as me, and some so small and delicate they barely brushed
against the toes of my shoes. Foxglove, hollyhocks, snapdragons, and
delphiniums, mixed with asters and heaths, and tufts of the delicate
lady's smock he had sent me, alongside tiny Cornish daisies.
I
recognized a lot of these from a website on Cornish flowers I had
visited, trying to learn more after accidentally trampling an
endangered variety. Even without flowers, I could now spot familiar
leaves among some of them, enough to guess what native and domestic
flowers Matthew cultivated.
"There's
a hothouse behind the cottage," he said, closing the rickety
white gate behind us. "I had hoped for a place with a
conservatory, but when I couldn't find one affordable, I simply built
a greenhouse myself. There's a path along the side of the house —
the right one, where the ivy is climbing up."
"The
roses you sent me —" I began.
"I
grew them," he said. "The roses are in the hothouse. A few
antique climbers have the trellis back there ... but most of what you
see around you does what it wants. I just helped it along a little."
Inside,
the old parlor was furnished with mismatched things, both modern and
antique, most of them looking as if they'd been rescued from junk
shops or from abandonment on the curb as rubbish. Stuffing popped out
of the arms of an old, comfortable club chair, while an antique
dining one served as a makeshift side table next to one of Matt's
many crowded bookshelves.
"This
is my home," he said, pulling open a pair of worn plaid curtains
covering the windows — Cornish tartan, I couldn't help but notice.
"Where I spend what little time I'm not outdoors."
"You
read a lot of books," I said, picking up one from the chair. A
volume of poetry, one of English myths. "A folklore fan?" I
held up the copy of Cornish
Tales and Legends
as I spoke.
"I'm
a fan of local culture," he said. "And I don't do much
reading, really. The books are deceptive." He smiled.
"Here's
one in Cornish. You can read Cornish, too, can't you?" I said.
"As well as you speak it?"
"If
by that you mean 'not well,' then certainly," he said. He took
the book from my hand and flipped through it, glancing at its pages
as if trying to remember where he'd found it before. "I know a
little, of course. The name of the house I could guess, for instance,
based on a crude vocabulary of Cornish I've learned over time."
"The
name of the gardens today?" I asked.
"Lowarth
means 'garden,'" he said. "Heligan's from the Cornish word
for 'willow tree.'"
"Willow
Tree Gardens," I said. "I like it." I looked out the
window, where the late afternoon sunshine played across the petals
and leaves in the window boxes. "So what's the name of your
garden?"
"It
doesn't have a name," he said. "But the cottage is called
Rosemoor."
