A Wedding in Cornwall

by Laura Briggs

"So where are we going?" I asked.

  I was trying to calm the little cloud of butterflies that took flight in my stomach now and then, ever since I climbed into Matt's car. We were just friends having a day out, I reminded myself. He was being nice, showing me the countryside around Ceffylgwyn. No need to make it into something more.

  Nevertheless, I was wearing my cutest casual dress, a soft cotton knit printed with lacy white flowers, and a pair of semi-sensible tan sandals that were a decent imitation of a top designer. Trying to seem more casual, I pulled my hair back in a ponytail, using the excuse of the coastal wind and today's warmer temperatures. It had nothing to do with last-minute guilt making me want to dress down a little, in case Matthew got the wrong message. And not at all about feeling guilty over wishing he'd notice me a little.

  "I told you,” Matthew answered. “It’s a place that every visitor to Cornwall should see."

  “If it’s Newquay, then I’ve already been there once. My first day in Cornwall,” I added. Hesitating a moment, I told him, “You were there, too, actually. At the railway station. I saw you outside the café.”

  His brows lifted in a look of surprise. “You know, I was there recently,” he said, after a moment. “But I would have noticed…that is, I think I would remember if I saw you before,” he told me. The blush creeping over his face proved he meant this as a compliment. It surprised me a little, his reaction.

  “Well, it was only for a moment,” I said, trying not to read too much into this and reawaken the butterflies inside me. A moment where he saw the back of your head, most likely, I reminded myself. I was glad he hadn’t noticed me staring at him, at any rate.

  “So why were you there?” I asked him, eager for the subject to move forward again. “You don’t seem like the surfing type exactly. Was it the nightclub scene that drew you there? Meeting up with friends for a pub crawl later that evening perhaps?”

  He laughed at my teasing suggestions. “Nothing so scandalous, I assure you. I was waiting for a cab to take me to Newquay airport. A colleague of mine was giving a lecture in Edinburgh on behalf of the garden society he serves as chairman for. I was there for moral support and to glean some of his knowledge on plant preservation and propagation. His work is quite similar to what I’m doing for the estate, you see.”

  Mmm. So he didn’t have a secret life in Newquay, with a girlfriend and a group of rowdy drinking buddies. Good to know, since I rather liked his image as the hermit of Ceffylgwyn, whose quiet but smoldering good looks were tragically wasted on plants.

  “Well, then,” I said. “Back to the subject of where you’re taking me. Is it someplace urban? A burgeoning tourism district lined with shops that cater to your every whim?”

  “It’s like no other place you’ve been before,” Matthew said.

  He smiled at me. A smile that guaranteed that was the last of his hints.

  That 'place' popped up on a road sign after we had driven several miles, talking mostly about the estate, and a little about colleges and universities, now and then brushing against a more personal subject, which made my butterflies a little worse. I saw the Cornish name printed below the English one first.

  "'Lowarth Helygen,'" I said, doing my best to pronounce it. "Wow. It has a beautiful name in Cornish." A romantic phrase right out of Arthurian legend, I thought.

  "The Lost Gardens of Heligan," he translated, smiling. "One of England's most beautiful historic gardens. I spent a lot of time here when I first returned to Cornwall."

  "You mean you worked there," I corrected him with a knowing smile.

  "Yes. Correct. I was a consultant," he said. "And it was a place worth every minute of my experience there."

  The Lost Gardens had fallen into neglect after World War One, and had only been restored to their former glory in more recent decades. They were part of a family estate, like the gardens at Cliffs House. Only these gardens were a showcase of Victorian English gardening design. Lakes and fountains, antique shrubbery in summer bloom, flower and vegetable gardens carefully planted and tended. As I wandered the grounds beside Matt, I could imagine him loving this place. It was peaceful, alive, and filled with color at every turn.

  He showed me the rhododendrons he had helped protect against a fungal infection: beautiful, tall plants whose weathered bark revealed their age. They were antiques, he explained with a smile, cared for and cultivated for decades. I gazed up at one, its shadow falling across me, as soft and cool as I imagined its glossy leaves would be if I touched them.

  There was a 'jungle' of fern trees that made me feel like I was lost in the wilds of Borneo; and flower beds filled with European specimens that I had never seen pictures of, much less admired in person. Matt knew nearly everything about this place, so there was no need for a printed guide. He walked me from place to place, pointing out special plants that I would have otherwise missed, and telling me stories about the people he'd met here, and the experience of working in a garden this historic and famous.

  We stopped and chatted with a few of the current gardeners, who were tending a less-crowded part of the estate, one of whom recognized Matt and, clearly, had enjoyed working with him. I couldn't help but feel proud, even though we were practically strangers. Something about seeing Matthew in his element was getting to me. Maybe that explained why I couldn't help the urge to move closer to Matt while exploring the jungle, where a sudden childhood fear of monkeys diving down from the trees came over me. Or maybe it was just because he seemed strong and protective.

  Not every part of the garden enchanted me — when we reached the pineapple pit, I couldn't help my reaction to his explanation of it. "You mean it's full of manure?" I asked, repulsed.

  "Fertilizer, yes. It produces heat, which is what protects the trees from cold, and encourages temperatures for fruit production," said Matthew. "It's just science, Julianne."

  "It's manure," I corrected him. "Which, I'm sorry, is really gross where I come from." I tried not to imagine a squishy, smelly floor on the bottom of the pit, and look only at the lush, tropical leaves of the trees themselves.

  "Gardeners are used to the idea," he said. "Fertilizer, compost — it's all part of a plant's life. Don't worry — I won't toss you in there to check the pH." A sudden, wicked smile played across his lips with this statement.

  "Don't ever suggest something like that again," I said, in mock warning. Just to be safe, I retreated further away, where the garden path traveled elsewhere. "You feel free to stay here and enjoy the scent of compost," I called back over my shoulder.

  It took him a moment to catch up with me. "Two more things you have to see," he said.

  "Not more pineapple pits full of slimy sludge, I hope?"

  "It’s not," he promised. "I have to introduce you to the Giant and the Mud Maid."

  They were definitely nothing like the science behind the pineapple pit. Heligan's Mud Maid was a living sculpture of plants, earth, and stone. She reclined on her side, almost smiling dreamily, I felt. Suddenly my playful fight with Matt was entirely forgiven, as I stood there admiring her.

  "What do you think?" Matt glanced at me.

  "I think she's gorgeous," I answered. "I think someone was incredibly talented and brilliant to think of creating this." I sneaked a glance at him now. "It wasn't you, right?"

  He laughed — loudly, and more heartily than I'd ever heard him laugh. "Not at all," he said. "Believe me, I don't possess garden sculpting skills, and it was never my job to look after Heligan's living sculptures in any form, I'm afraid. I just enjoyed visiting them."

  We stayed a little longer, visiting the Giant's Head also before we made our way back to the car. We stopped for a late lunch at a restaurant with the view from our table's windows of a little country cottage, where I had my first taste of fresh Cornish sea food.

  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."

  Roses on the moor, I thought, automatically. And realized it probably meant something quite different in Cornish. Maybe I could study the language eventually. Learn enough that I could recognize the meaning of Cornish words on road signs here and there, at least. Leaning against his windowsill, my view to the back of Matthew’s garden, I smiled at him. “Did you pick the cottage because you shared a name?” I asked. “Matthew Rose of Rosemoor Cottage?”

  "It's a coincidence," he said. "I picked it because ... well, it's a romantic spot, I suppose. It was close to the estate, and it had room for a garden. What else could I want?"

  What else indeed. I could think of something, but I knew better than to say it. When Matthew moved closer, I tried not to tremble, because I felt drawn to him more than ever. He laid the book I'd handed him on the chair once again, his hand resting on its cover. This close, I caught the scent of his skin, and could almost imagine the fabric of his sleeve brushing against my arm. It was mere inches from my skin now, as was the rest of his body.

  For a moment, I thought he might kiss me. I thought I might kiss him. Slide my arms around his body, pull him close to find out if it felt as good as I was imagining it right now. When his dark eyes met mine, I felt my legs tremble in response. We were both looking deep into each other’s eyes ; his features softened, his expression growing tender. I could feel my own changing, and wondered what it was telling him. I was afraid it was revealing something even I didn't know, but I felt powerless to stop it. In a way, I didn't want to.

  His glance broke from mine after a few seconds — a space of time which felt longer to me. I caught my breath sharply. I hoped he didn't notice.

  "Tea?" he asked me. "Or anything else I have on hand?" He had moved a little further away now, snapping on a lamp beside the chair.

  "A cup of tea would be nice," I answered. I was developing a taste for it, and I needed something to steady me after feeling that much electricity. It left me feeling alive but exhausted for a moment.

  Matthew made tea as I curled up in the ratty club chair and watched the insects buzz around the flowers in his garden. As we drank it, we talked about nothing as dangerous as kissing, only about Ceffylgwyn and other places we'd each lived. Our conversation felt like it lasted only minutes, but it was actually an hour long by the time we finished; time had sped up crazily after those few seconds of looking into his eyes, which had halted the world spinning around us from my point of view.

  He drove me back to the estate afterwards, and walked me inside. There was a visitor, I noticed, judging from the car parked near the camellia bed, a sporty, foreign red model. I walked through the main door which Matthew held open for me, waiting for him to follow me inside.

  Lady Amanda was emerging from her office, and with her, the bride-to-be from the wedding that was now only days away.

  "There you are, Julianne," Lady Amanda said. "Thank heavens, because we have a few last-minute issues that need discussing."

  Petal had arrived early, it seemed, with a final list of requests for the big day. As always, she was flawlessly dressed, this time in a blouse that cost three figures, and designer jeans so tight and thin I imagined them permanently bonded to her skin. A pair of oversized designer sunglasses were propped on her head.

  The door closed behind me. Matthew had entered, taking a few steps before he stopped short. Petal had seen him enter, and was staring at him as if she, too, were rooted in place.

  The color drained from Matthew's face. He looked as if he had seen a ghost. On Petal's face, a mask of complete blankness — but there was something in her eyes that looked like she wanted to turn and walk away as quickly as she could.

  "Matthew," she said.

  Matthew's lips moved. "Petal," he said. A slight tremor in his voice. No other emotion.

  "You look well." I thought these words had been squeezed from her chest, for
ced into the open.

  "So do you." It took him a moment to say this aloud.

  Petal was now paying extra attention to the set of keys in her hand. Lady Amanda was looking very uneasy. And as for Matt — he didn't look at me, or anyone else. For a moment, he seemed not to see anything, until he turned to me with the ghost of a smile.

  "I'll say goodnight," he said. I had a feeling this was meant for the whole foyer. I thought maybe my eyes were burning, but the confusion I felt was making my head feel too empty to notice that detail.

  "See you tomorrow," I said. My voice sounded normal, thankfully, although I could hear my confusion in it, too. Matthew didn't say anything. He was already gone.

  A second of awkward silence ticked past, then Lady Amanda seized the situation. "Shall we have Geoff bring in your luggage?" she said to Petal. "And Julianne can show you what she had in mind for the circulating trays at the reception."

  "Of course," said Petal. She seemed fully herself now. "I can't wait to hear about it."

  ***