A Manor in Cornwall

by Laura Briggs

  On the other side was a large door. An ancient-looking handle and keyhole were visible, both looking rusty. The door didn't budge when I grasped the handle.

  "It's locked," I said, although I wasn't surprised. No doubt Trengrowse kept all of Lady Warrington's things under lock and key. I was only surprised there was no rusty padlock and double chain around the handle for good measure.

  "Tell Lord William," said Kitty. "Maybe he can get the key."

  "I don't have the time," I said. I sighed, frustrated. "I don't even know if it's in there, or if Lady Warrington had another shed of treasures tucked somewhere on the property." There had to be another way in. Then I spotted the window high above, on the barn's second story. It was wide open, one old shutter hanging dangerously from a hinge.

  "Kitty," I said. "Help me lift that ladder."

  "What?" she said. "Are you daft?"

  "Help me," I repeated. I seized one end of it, and, with a grunt, began dragging it around to the hidden side of the barn. I hoped that Trengrowse wasn't watching from a window in the cottage — possibly armed with a pair of field glasses kept handy for spotting would-be thieves.

  Kitty helped me lean it against the front of the barn. It bowed slightly, and was a little rotten, but it didn't disintegrate as we stood it on its legs. It was propped just below the window's sill, a spot which seemed really high from down here, but I did my best to swallow my fear. I put my foot on the rung, teetering slightly as I reached for the next one above me.

  "Stop," said Kitty. "Let me do it."

  I looked at her. "I'm not going to ask you to do something like this," I said. It was dangerous, and it was my job that was involved, not hers.

  "Shoes," said Kitty. I glanced down at my high heels, which were having a hard time finding a grip on the wooden rungs. They would be impossible to climb in.

  "Good thinking," I said. I stepped off the ladder to remove them, and Kitty, without another word, swung herself into place and began climbing.

  "Kitty, wait!" I lowered my voice again quickly, since I was afraid Trengrowse might have a window open at the cottage. Kitty was already halfway up the rickety ladder, climbing to the sill high above. The ladder creaked and groaned in protest as she seized the window's edge and hoisted herself inside, disappearing from sight.

  I waited a few minutes. I heard the sound of another creaky ladder or steps, then a scuffling noise. "Kitty," I said, leaning close to the door. "Kitty, can you hear me? Do you see a harp anywhere?"

  I heard a clicking noise on the other side of the door. A moment later, it opened from the inside, Kitty behind it. In her hand, I saw a hairpin, pulled from her sleek, black locks — that was Kitty's key.

  "Don't just stand there," she said. "Come on before he figures where we've got to."

  Lady Amanda hadn't been lying about Lady Warrington's collection. Bread boxes, butter churns, toasters, radios — anything and everything was piled head high in the barn, leaving only a few paths here and there. It was as if the unsold merchandise of Portobello Road had been cast off in here, with trinkets and clothes piled in boxes among the furniture.

  "Look at all this," I said. "How would she ever find anything?"

  "Doubt she ever looked," said Kitty.

  She had a point. I tried to ignore the twinge of despair I felt glancing around at the towering piles of unsorted goods. How would anyone ever find anything in such a place? Without a lot of hunting in dusty corners and bumping into things, that is. I imagined one false move might send the stacks collapsing against each other, domino style. That hadn’t crossed Kitty’s mind, evidently, as she was already clearing away a dusty sheet draped over some of the pieces of furniture.

  I edged aside a stack of boxes blocking another pile, sneezing as a cloud of dust rose in the air. "Where did you learn to speak Cornish?" I asked Kitty, looking for a way to distract myself from the task at hand. "That's what you were speaking to Trengrowse, wasn't it?"

  "My gran." Kitty was moving aside a broken chair and a termite-ridden coat rack, disassembling one of the biggest piles of bits and bobs. "She spoke Cornish. Spoke a bit of Welsh, too, as it happens. Old Cornish and Old Welsh were a bit alike in words — same goes for Breton, too. But not as much."

  "Breton. Isn't that in France?" I asked. Cursing my lack of geographical knowledge.

  A snort from Kitty was the only reply I received. I might have been annoyed, but I had just spotted what I was looking for. In the rear of the barn, beneath the rickety stairs to the hay loft, stood the frame of a magnificent harp. It was covered in dust, but I could see the former glory of the wood, the intricate carvings and faded gilding that would appear with just a little polishing.

  "There it is," I breathed. I forced my way between an upended parlor table and a box filled with old telescope parts, picking my way through the piles until I reached it.

  "What are we going to do with it?" Kitty lifted an eyebrow as she watched me.

  I turned around. "Do you think we could carry it?" I said. "Just beyond the trees?"

  "You're thinking of coming back for it," guessed Kitty.

  "In the dead of night, if I have to," I answered. "But I was thinking probably later today, with Geoff Weatherby and the little field truck."

  "You're the boss." Kitty began climbing over the piles, too.

  The harp was heavier than I thought. I had the foresight to remove my high heels, at least, but even so, Kitty and I nearly had several accidents that would have sent the instrument crashing into piles of glass bottles and jars, or crushed one of us beneath its frame. When we reached the main open space in the barn, we both set it down and caught our breath.

  "Look," I said, when I wasn't gasping for air again. "Isn't that cute?" I pointed to an old metal dollhouse wedged beneath an old oxen yoke and a crate of vintage milk bottles. A two-story pink one made of tin, now coated with dust and grime, and exhibiting a few dents and crayon marks, too.

  Kitty nodded. "I've seen it before," she said. "That's the old one that used to be in the Russert barn. Kids would play with it when they sneaked up there. Not that he minded." She brushed some dirt from her jacket, and I knew Kitty's averted gaze was probably because of our close proximity to the story of the apple incident. "Guess Lady Warrington must've found it in the junk he threw out."

  So Pippa had played with this, too, probably. Hadn't Gemma said that the Russert barn was one of her favorite spots as a child? I opened one of the little metal shutters on the house, surprised that it still worked. The original design had been intricate, from the painted gingerbread trim to the curly roof trim and tiny little balcony rails. Cleaned up, it would look impressive. Maybe even as a centerpiece at a certain event.

  Looked like I needed Kitty's hand for a second theft, too.

  With a lot of struggling and effort, we managed to hide the harp in the middle of the grove, then I carried the pink tin dollhouse there, too, reasoning that since it would someday be Lord William's, he wouldn't object to my borrowing it for Pippa.

  I brushed my hair — and some cobwebs — away from my face. "I wonder how often Trengrowse checks this lock," I said, as I closed the barn door again. I imagined him combing the woods for would-be thieves. Stumbling upon my hidden cache and locking it up again, maybe even calling the local constable. I didn't want Lord William embroiled in a local complaint lodged by his own family, more or less.

  "He won't know we've been," said Kitty. From her pocket, she took the hairpin from earlier, and slipped it in the lock. I heard some soft clicking sounds, then watched as she pulled the handle afterwards. The door didn't budge.

  "See? Your secret's safe." She tucked the pin into her black hair and began strolling towards the lane again. I shoved my feet into my shoes, dusted myself off, and followed. I decided I had no desire to ask exactly how Kitty came by those magic hairpin skills, or for what purpose she usually used them.

  We cut across the back lane through the fields, which put us in view of the new stage under construction in t
he dell close by the sea. Extra workers were leveling the ground for the temporary seating area, while Nathan Menton had arranged for several decorative slabs of rock to be delivered for covering the sides and top of the stage, to make it look as if Wendy Alistair was standing on a craggy, cliffside ledge as she sang.

  I had heard offhand comments about, 'candles burning in rock grottos' and 'a children's choir in gossamer robes' for the star's grand entrance to the stage. There was even talk of a 'level site for the camera crane' being readied for the big fireworks moment. I wondered what they had in mind for the ballroom's songs, given how grand the outdoor event was growing.

  "Looks like they're only making a lot of mud," said Kitty, making a face as we watched as a small backhoe leveled an unused part of the field. A truck carrying granite slabs and lumber was struggling not to sink as the driver positioned it for offloading. The event promoter Nathan, ever focused and determined— this time, in sensible boots — was in conference with two laborers, holding a set of blueprints and motioning towards the surrounding glen.

  "They're talking about making the stage a permanent fixture," I said. "Maybe hosting some of the surviving Cornish 'passion plays' from the Middle Ages, if the local theatrical group is interested." Already, the community's drama club was abuzz about the possibility of an outdoor playhouse in Ceffylgwyn.

  "Have you ever seen one of that lot's plays?" Kitty asked. She glanced at me with this question, and I tried to fathom its meaning — whether she was curious, or poking sly fun, or had been snubbed by them at some point — and found it was hopeless.

  "No," I said. "Have you?"

  "A few times." This was uttered in that same offhand tone as half of Kitty's statements. But not generally the half about things she disliked, I had noticed.

  I started to ask her another question, but another voice at my elbow interrupted. "Are you going to let them do this?" An older woman clutched my sleeve, a stranger in a garish jumper and very sensible hiking boots, who wore a pink knit cap with a bobbin on top. "Let them murder the little innocents for the crass profits of tourism?"

  "What?" I said, startled. "Who?"

  "These heartless developers, that's who," she declared, pointing towards the laborers with the trucks and backhoe.

  "They're only building a platform in the clearing," I said.

  "Think of the noise! Think of the impact on the hundreds of helpless creatures who will be driven out by construction! Not to mention the impact of the lights and the noise when they bring in those dreadful amps and what not."

  "Are you —?"

  "Noreen Prowse," she supplied. "Chairwoman of the Cornish Natural Habitat Preservation Society. And your profiteers are in violation of the agreement we have with Cliffs House to forever preserve the sanctity of the red-billed chough whose nests along the Cornish coast have been threatened by the intrusion of mankind."

  She thrust a piece of paper into my hand. "We intend to take action to stop this," she said. "We'll be addressing our complaints to the village government. I suggest you be there, if you wish to defend your so-called 'boon to the community.'" She turned and hiked away across the fields, a pair of field glasses on a long strap bobbing alongside her like a purse made of metal.

  "Do you know her?" I asked Kitty. I felt bewildered as I glanced down at the paper in my hands — a notice about the meeting, apparently, for a complaint filed against the estate.

  "Sure," said Kitty. "Old bat." She muttered this last part under her breath.

  I sensed this meant a great deal of trouble was in store for us.

  ***

  "Everyone knows Noreen Prowse," said Matt, with a chuckle. "She means well, truly. She's done quite a bit of good when it comes to raising awareness for the endangered flora and fauna of Cornwall ... but she can be a bit dramatic in her tactics, sometimes. And carry her point a little too far on some occasions."

  He brushed the dirt from his clothes before he came inside Rosemoor. "I suppose it's possible that she could cause trouble for Cliffs House," he said. "But I rather think her complaints are mostly inspired by the thought of outsiders being drawn here. Increased traffic inspired by this event."

  "'Emmets' and 'incomers,'" I said, using the local slang for thoughtless tourists and outsiders from other parts of England. "People like me, eh?" I folded my legs comfortably on the sofa's cushions.

  "Not like you." He kissed the top of my head. "I think Noreen Prowse envisions noisy tourists who toss rubbish alongside scenic views and frighten away her beloved wildlife with too much noise and too many photographs.

  "Right," I said. "Well, apparently, she's afraid for some kind of gull, or something like that. A red-billed something," I added, not too sure about the rest of its name.

  "The red-billed chough?" said Matt. "Their nests are quite rare in Cornwall now. Cliff erosion, predators, mishaps between the human and animal world — any and all of those have led to the decline. Even without those things, it was always a delicate and fragile existence for the hatchlings."

  "Well, she's afraid we're going to drive them into the sea with the vibrations from the amps and the thunderous applause for Wendy Alistair," I said. "She's planning to ask the village to ban the event from taking place."

  "I suppose it's possible the red-billed chough could be close by," said Matt. "Not likely, of course, but possible. Has anyone spotted one?"

  "How would we know?" I asked. I had never heard of this bird, not that I had any knowledge of the average Cornish species. With my limited reading time, even the presence of Matt's naturalist volumes had left me with little more than the names of a few local flowers and some butterflies.

  "We could ask the members of the birdwatcher's society," said Matt. "And I suppose we'll have to find out from William exactly what sort of habitat he's protecting in the glen."

  I nodded and hoped that speaking with Lord William would help clear up the matter. Noreen Prowse seemed like a force to be reckoned with, though—or at least the kind who didn’t willingly listen to reason. "At least my day wasn’t all bad," I told Matt, leaning back against the sofa. "I found the antique Cornish harp to replace the missing spinet. Long story," I added, seeing his confusion as he settled on the cushion beside me. "Let’s just say that Cliffs House’s ballroom needed a few extra antiques for its television debut. Oh, and something else turned up that might prove useful."

  I told him about the doll house and its connection to Pippa’s childhood days. If it could be restored to its former glory—and I thought it stood a fair chance despite the evident wear and tear the years had given it—then it might be just the right touch I needed for Pippa’s big day.

  "What do you think?" I asked, uncertain what to make of Matt’s smile as he watched me wax eloquent on my lucky find. "I know it might seem a little unconventional for a centerpiece choice," I continued, "but I really think it could work with the proper arrangement—"

  "Julianne." He shook his head, the warmth in his glance assuring me that he wasn’t questioning this decision. "I think it’s a perfect choice. Thoughtful and rather touching, even. I think Pippa will probably feel the same way."

  "That’s what I’m counting on," I said, smiling back at him. "I know she has a lot of expectations for this wedding. I just want it to seem as special as she hoped it would be." Minus the small fortune it would take for pulling off some of her ideas, I added silently to myself.

  "It will be," Matt told me. "How could it be anything less, with the finest event planner in all of Cornwall on the job?"

  “The finest?” I glanced around, as if expecting a third person in the room to clarify his words. “Is there another person involved in this wedding that I don’t know about? Because that’s definitely not me.”

  With a subtle wink, he added, "You really do have a gift for this sort of thing, you know. And I’m not merely saying it because we’re married."

  "Flatterer," I scoffed. “I’m only doing my job.” But I was pleased and reassured by the words. Maybe he wa
s right about my instincts being spot on, at least about this. I knew that I loved the ideas I had in mind for Pippa’s wedding—I just needed Pippa to love them as much as I did. And maybe she would. Maybe all I had to worry about at this point were the many demands of the Wendy Alistair concert.

  Oh, and Noreen Prowse, of course.

  "I don't suppose you know of a way to pacify Mrs. Prowse?" I asked Matt, seeing his smile grow wry in response. "Maybe a few facts on whether concerts scare away endangered birds?"

  "I'll look into it," Matthew promised. "Maybe find an answer or two." He kissed my cheek, then my lips, having forgotten his errand to make a cup of tea now that his gardening was done. And since I didn't intend to remind him of it, I cupped his cheek with one hand and kissed him back.

  ***

  On the subject of Noreen Prowse and the Cornwall Natural Habitat Preservation Society, Lord William had slightly unfortunate news.

  "I did agree to preserve a natural habitat for a local nature group," he said. "The timber along the field has been left alone specifically for that reason. It seemed like a perfectly natural request, and I'm as fond as anyone else of seeing wildlife protected — even if a few of them nibble at crops and seedling trees from time to time."

  "Do you think that they have a case?" I asked. "She claims we're driving them all away with the construction — and that the concert will upset the delicate life balance of endangered birds along the shore."

  "The size of the habitat is fairly substantial," said Lord William. "It's hardly a little cluster of trees. That particular grove around the dell is so small, I can't imagine a large population of wildlife lives there, not compared to the rest of the acreage. And squirrels and mice and the like aren't usually greatly upset by the presence of humans."

  "So what can we do?"

  "I'll write a declaration that the habitat itself is not being touched — only the open dell where already plenty of humans are present during the harvest season and the peak tourism season. Perhaps when they see that the majority of the habitat isn't being threatened, they'll dismiss Mrs. Prowse's complaint."