A WEDDING IN CORNWALL Deleted Scene #1:
"How do you know what
colors will do?" Pippa asked. "They all look the same to me."
"It's
sort of an instinct," I answered. I lifted the ribbon from one of the
display spools, running it between the tips of my fingers. "That, and lots
of time spent reading color charts."
One
of the few jobs that Design a Dream had entrusted to me when I was a newbie was
the task of picking out minor details — decorative pins for corsages, ribbons
for bridesmaids' bouquets. That experience would come in handy today, since I
didn't have an assistant on whom to foist off my small tasks. I would pick out
the bouquet ribbons for the bridal party myself, a simple ivory satin with a
very faint pink blush being the ideal.
Pippa
and Gemma had come along to help, but mostly because Truro was more exciting
than the village. That's what I was told during our drive there in Geoff
Weatherby's car, borrowed by the two maids for the day, with both of them
chatting constantly about the differences between the two places.
"Of
course, it's no London —" said Gemma.
Pippa
snorted. "That's true enough."
"But
it has lovely shops. You can buy designer labels, see a proper film —"
"It's
rich enough. You'll like Truro."
I
thought I would. At first glimpse of the city through the car's windows today,
I beheld a civilization far different from the American concept of 'city.'
Limestone and slate architecture old enough to have housed Shakespeare's
grandmother now advertised chic shoe brands in its windows, or the latest
mobile phone released. Contemporary buildings rose above the pavement in newer
districts in the business center. A majestic cathedral appeared on my left,
giving me pause as I imagined its beautiful stained glass windows from the
inside.
A
sprawling, wide urban village that embraced the past and present within its
arms. Much like Newquay, Falmouth, and other names I had heard tossed around
these last few weeks, Cornwall's version of a metropolis was modern
civilization springing up in historic villages that practically begged for
Beatrix Potter's characters to pop out of these old-fashioned houses.
"Do
you think it's me?" Gemma asked, draping a long, wide ribbon of metallic
blue rayon around her arm. I put aside a spool of too-white ribbon, searching
for a warmer shade among the textile shop's selections.
Pippa
stuck out her tongue. "Try that awful shade of green instead."
"You're
mean, that's what you are," retorted Gemma. "Why are you so teasy
today?"
"Me
mum thinks I talk too much about the upcoming wedding," said Pippa.
"She tells me I've no room in my head for anything but celebrities and what
they wear. As if it isn't important or something." She crossed her arms.
I
guessed that Pippa must gush about Petal Borroway at home as well. "What
does she want you to think about?" I asked. My fingers touched the next
spool, and recognized a perfect match. A soft, creamy ivory in a shade which
blushed pink when laid against my skin.
"Oh,
stupid things. Boys, studies, finding a proper job." The girl rolled her
eyes dramatically.
I
bought several meters of ribbon and some decorative pins for tucking it in
place around the bouquets. Next on my list were some smaller items needed for
possible emergencies — a smaller width of ivory ribbon on a spool, a new roll
of fabric hem tape, and a few other supplies I would keep stashed in my
handbag. I wanted to be prepared for my first big event. No disaster was going
to catch me off guard.
Since
there were only a few errands for us to run, the girls convinced me to wander
around the city when we finished at the textile shop. They were window shopping
for the latest fashions, snapping digital photos of their favorite selections —
Gemma looked ready to swoon over a filmy white shirt dress that looked like
something from Petal Borroway's home closet.
I
spotted a very nice pair of Valentino heels that would feel at home in my
personal collection, but managed to keep myself from popping inside the shop to
try them on.
I
didn't realize how late it was until I checked the time on my mobile phone.
"Is there a place to eat around here?" I asked them. "It's past
my lunch time. And yours, I assume?" I hadn't quite gotten used to
mealtimes in England — little differences, like the five o' clock tea time, for
instance, were still new to me.
"Are
you hungry?" said Gemma. "There's a sandwich shop close by."
"I
like the Indian takeaway better," said Pippa. She turned away from a
window display of cute hats trimmed with feathers and tulle, and I did the same
— and almost ran straight into a person stepping out of the neighboring home
goods shop, if I hadn't stopped myself in time.
"Ross!"
said Pippa. "What are you doing here?"
It
was the gardener from Cliffs House. I had looked up from my stare at the
pavement — and the laces of his work boots — to the dark eyes I remembered from
before. This time, of course, they weren't flashing with anger and annoyance,
or with the spark from when he was teasing me a little, so I don't know why I
almost blushed.
"Nothing
very interesting to you. A planter for a maranta moving to the table in the
main hall," he answered. From the depths of his shopping bag, he lifted a
beautiful green and white ceramic pot, with a raised, swirly design that
resembled the potter's fingers having blended curly-q's and spirals over the
surface with his fingers.
"I
like it," said Gemma. "It'll look smashing, as Lady Amanda would
say."
"I
hope so, since it was her idea," said Matthew, tucking it beneath the
store's protective wrappings again. "I promised I'd have it ready this
week."
"We've
been running errands for the wedding," said Pippa, which I appreciated,
since I was suddenly, strangely tongue-tied. "Then we window
shopped."
"I
saw the perfect dress," said Gemma. "It was utterly gorgeous.
But if I spent that much quid on a garment, Mum would murder me."
"Where
are you going now?" Matt asked. He looked at me now, and I managed to
break free of the freak shyness that had descended on me.
"Lunch,"
I answered.
"Join
us," said Pippa, which was not what I had been planning to say
next. "We could all go together."
"I
suppose I could take a 'tourist's tea' now," said Matt, smiling as he
checked his watch. "Do you have a place in mind?"
It
was a good smile. One which might be responsible for me feeling awkward and
embarrassed from the beginning of this meeting; as if I had needed time to
prepare my reaction, and his sudden appearance had denied me that necessary
cushion. But that was the ridiculous
part, because I knew I had no reason to feel that way. Being shy around him —
around anyone — simply wasn't my nature.
"No,"
I answered. "The girls were trying to choose between sandwiches and Indian
food. I would eat anywhere." Asian spices sometimes disagreed with my
stomach, but I didn't care about that right now. I was determined to be bold.
"I
think I know a better spot," he said.
The
place he had in mind was a tea room — not a tiny, cozy one with chintz chairs
and sprays of rosebuds and baby's breath, like I had pictured from the English
melodramas and mysteries that Aimee had coaxed me into reading, but a spacious,
modern elegant one that was part of a hotel which looked as if it belonged in
an episode of Downton Abbey.
Gemma and Pippa seemed excited by the atmosphere, talking about tea
rooms in London which sounded sophisticated and swanky, the sort of places where
Design a Dream's clients booked their afternoon receptions.
We
sat at a white-draped table with a bouquet of lavender, spider lilies, and
ghost dianthus in its center. I let the girls choose the treats served —
fruit-laden tea cakes (which were actually fruit buns when they arrived at the
table) and tiny cream-filled petit fours covered in chocolate. I didn't venture
an opinion on the tea itself, either, since Earl Grey and chamomile exhausted
my knowledge on the subject. As for Matthew Rose, he seemed satisfied with
their choices, judging from his lack of comment.
"The
tea cakes are nothing to Dinah's,' said Pippa, as she broke apart a sticky,
sweet bun loaded with dried berries. "But I love a good petit four at a
restaurant. Dinah's mini cakes are proper enough ... but there's never any left
after the events are over."
"Guests
always gobble up the best bits," said Gemma.
"I
think they're supposed to," said Matt, whose smile was one of amusement
now. He stirred cream and sugar into his tea. "After all, they are paying
for them." He took a sip from his cup, and his gaze flickered in my
direction for a moment and rested there.
"Do
you have an opinion on the petit fours debate?" he asked me.
I
blushed. Did I actually blush at this moment? Clearly, I must be going crazy
this afternoon. "Confession time. I didn't eat one of Dinah's. There
weren't enough to spare the day she baked them."
"Why
didn't you say something?" said Gemma, indignantly. "You could have
eaten mine."
"I'm
used to not sampling the goods," I said, laughing. "At Design a
Dream, they arrived in a nice bakery box, and it was only my job to put them on
trays for guests to eat. They looked gorgeous, though. As nice as these."
I turned the little chocolate petit four on my plate a little to the right,
admiring the perfectly smooth ganache covering it.
"At
Cliffs House, it's practically a requirement to taste things," said Gemma.
"Dinah won't really slap your hand away. She only looks like she
would."
"I
can't believe you never sneaked a little cake from one of those boxes,"
said Pippa. "I would die if I had to work with chocolates and pastries day
after day and not eat them. That's why I had to quit my job at the sweets shop
last summer."
"Agreed.
It's an unfortunate waste," said Matthew to me, pretending to be serious.
"Lining up all those decorative little cakes, never knowing if they were
as delicious as they appeared."
"I'm
getting the impression they couldn't possibly have been better than Dinah's, no
matter how good," I answered.
"Dinah
is an excellent chef. There's none better in all of Cornwall, especially when it
comes to baking," said Matthew.
"And
you have eaten from all Cornish kitchens in order to confirm this fact?" I
replied, not hiding my smile. But I was looking into his eyes a little too long
when I spoke to him, so I made myself busy with the tiny chocolate cake on my
plate.
"Ross
probably has. He's worked in gardens all over Cornwall," said Pippa.
"You worked at the grand one near Newquay, definitely."
"Penzance,
actually," said Matt, gently.
"Whatever.
But Ross is so brilliant at his work, so it's positively weird that he's stuck
at Cliffs House with us," she continued, taking another bite from her tea
cake.
"Do
you mind the nickname?" I asked Matthew.
To
my surprise, he was the one who blushed now. "Let's discuss something
else," he said, in reply. "Does a day in Truro make you miss Seattle?
The two can't be compared, I realize; but the presence of a modern building
with more than two stories must make you feel a little homesick at this
point."
We
were talking about me, were we? I suppose it was only polite, since I was the
newcomer at the table. "Not really," I said. "Everything is too
new for me to feel lost or lonely yet — I miss my friends, but that's really
it." I let the second bite of my petit four sit alone on my plate.
"Have you been to Seattle?" I figured the answer would be 'no,'
although he did say he spent time in America before.
"Never,"
he said. "I've heard it's a lovely city, though."
"'Lovely'
might be debatable in some books."
"Yours
among them?" he asked.
"No.
I thought it was pretty. Especially in the spring, when the parks are in bloom.
You grow used to the rain — but what am I saying? You're English, you know all
about rainy weather."
"This
is Cornwall," he said. "It's not exactly like the rest of
England." He said this as if it were a hidden joke — the pride of one who
enjoyed being on its side gleamed in his eyes.
"So
what part of America did you see?" I asked.
"Boston,"
he answered.
"Very
chic and modern," I said. "Did you like it?"
A
faraway look crossed Matthew Rose's face. "Some parts better than
others," he answered. "But that's true of every place we spend our
time, isn't it?"
It
was a different smile on his lips now:
one soft and mild, which might have been sad except for his eyes. But
all of that vanished in a few seconds time, when he was talking with Gemma
about a funny incident involving a tourist at the manor a few months ago — I
felt a little sympathy, after my debacle on the heath-lined pathway. Matthew
poured cream into a second cup of tea, stirring in a lump of sugar lazily as
Pippa chimed in with her own recollection.
I
was staring at him a little too much, because I was noticing things about him
that I shouldn't be — the way his dark hair tumbled across his forehead, for
instance, and the sure, steady movements of his fingers whenever he touched
something. Mentally, I rapped my own knuckles for doing it, and trained my eyes
on the nearly-empty tray of mini cakes between us instead.
He
could get the wrong impression if he caught me watching him so closely — as if there
was any other impression to make. I wasn't an idiot, so I knew it wasn't chance
that Matthew Rose was the focus of my gaze right now. The little sparks I felt
on our second meeting in the garden were under my skin, their heat tingling a
little now and then in response to his presence. Yet I knew he wasn't seriously
flirting with me, right? Me, a stranger who had shown up in town mere weeks ago
and hadn't a clue about village life.
"Does
anyone else want the last bit of chocolate?" asked Gemma. She was eyeing
the final petit four, which was decorated with a sprinkle of glittery sugar
across its top.
"All
yours, as far as I'm concerned," I answered. I switched my gaze to the tea
room's high windows; watching pedestrians stroll the pavement outside was a safe
object of interest. I thought about
Matthew's question, and wondered if I would miss Seattle soon.
The
smell of exhaust fumes, steaming pavement, and clogged rain drains, no. But
Aimee and Nate, and the coffee shop where we used to have lunch on Saturdays
... that was a different story. I didn't know if I could find something like
that while living in a little Cornish village. Friends, a familiar haunt, a
place where I felt I belonged completely.
"Another
cup of tea?" That masculine voice was addressing me now.
"No,
thanks," I said. I smiled and pushed aside the cold remnants of my first
one. "I think I may need another week or two before I crave more than one
afternoon 'cuppa.'"
A WEDDING IN CORNWALL Deleted Scene #2:
The breeze was blowing inland
from the sea, and I thought I could taste its saltiness, although it was
probably my imagination. I tucked my hands into the pockets of the macintosh I
had borrowed from the coat closet, shivering a little in the gray, rainy
afternoon, my first in Cornwall. Having finished arranging for the chairs to be
delivered and confirming transportation for the musicians booked for the
reception, I decided a break was in order to clear my head of thoughts both
personal and professional.
The
sea must be restless, I thought. Probably choppy waves were dashing against the
rocks at the base of the cliffscape, washing away debris from the little strip
of beach creeping from one side towards the open plains of sand. Imaging myself
below for those rough waves made me shiver even more.
Petal
Borroway was due to arrive in the next day or so to approve our latest
arrangements for the wedding reception. I was looking forward to it, but I felt
nervous at the same time. No client at Design a Dream had ever demanded all of
my skills, and none had even come close to being this prestigious.
Then
again, no client of the firm's has ever been so cool and collected, either.
Petal knew how to tuck every emotion behind outer calm; even her little
outbursts of temper, like the one with her chief bridesmaid — smoothed
themselves over quickly, leaving nary a ruffled hair or trace of rancor. No
bridezilla moments or frazzled episodes of indecision for her.
Instead
of taking the path to the cliffs through the front garden, I crossed the
courtyard stones to the white gravel paths along the kitchen side of the house.
The kitchen garden was on this side, planted with vegetables, herbs, and other
staples that Dinah used in her dishes — someone had mentioned there was a short
path close by that led to the estate's adjacent park and farm acreage.
The
gravel crunched itself beneath the heels of my leather boots. This probably
announced my approach to the only other person on this side of the garden, who
was busy painting the trim of the newly-repaired kitchen window, shielded from
the weather by a tarp cover temporarily staked above it.
A
sudden burst of butterflies within, taking flight despite my usual calm. I
stood on tentative ground — not the gravel paths of the garden, but the
metaphorical ground between me and Matt after our lunch in the village. I still
didn't quite know what to make of our relationship — one which was part
flirtation, part friendship, part friendly-native-helps-lost-tourist.
I
gave myself a moment to watch Matthew work before I spoke. "I didn't know
you were a handyman as well." The creases of his hand, stained with earth
as usual, now had flecks of white paint also, from palm to wrist, and on the
rolled-up sleeve of his blue shirt.
"I
am when no one else is available." He brushed paint over the new cross
frames that separated the glass panes. "William and Geoffrey had business
in town today. Jackson's away on holiday. So the task falls to me this
time." He cleaned the brush on an old rag, and glanced over his shoulder
at me. "I hope you're not strolling in search of inspiration in the
gardens today," he said. "It's hardly the weather for it."
"Rain
is bad luck for a wedding in some cultures," I said.
"Then
again, it's good luck in others," he pointed out. "So maybe this is
the right opportunity for thinking about the happy event." He dipped the
brush anew in his paint can. I thought maybe I detected a tiny bit of irony in
his voice for this subject.
"Are
there any Cornish wedding traditions? Symbols? Ceremonies? Good luck talismans?"
I asked. It was mostly for an excuse to remain standing here, although I was
interested in knowing the answer. I had done some online research and found
conflicting information. Maybe a longtime resident could give me a hint
instead.
"Exclusive
to the culture, you mean? Or in Celtic cultures in general?"
"Both.
Exactly." Maybe Petal and Donald would be interested in a few of them, if
I suggested it. Petal was averse to the Cornish bouquet, but not to the
appetizers and petit fours, after all; it would be nice to have a little
suggestion or two rooted in the culture they wanted their wedding to represent.
Matt
paused in mid-brush. "Nice ones, I presume?" he asked.
"There
are not nice ones?"
"Maybe
'unorthodox' is a better word," he said. "But I think you're
interested only in romantic traditions. For instance, something more akin to
the practice of the old English marriage ceremony called 'handfasting,' popular among some
factions of Cornish culture here — particularly among Wiccans or admirers of
the Druids. The clasping of hands with vows to pledge themselves, sometimes
with the hands literally bound together ceremonially."
"I
don't know about Druids, but the ceremony sounds kind of nice," I said.
"In
the modern version, the hand of the bride and of the groom are tied with a
strip of cloth or ribbon," he said. "As opposed to the past, when it
was simply a hand clasp. But the tradition has roots in several Celtic cultures
... at one time, it was even legally binding in the eyes of English law and
that of the church."
"I'm
guessing that's not part of a legal ceremony today." Not like the formal
vows that had to be conducted officially — and at a licensed venue — to make
the marriage license official and binding here.
"It
can be, in some places, I think," said Matt, reflectively. "But I'm
afraid it's mostly a nonbinding love pledge used in neopagan commitment
ceremonies these days. Some people recite vows, promising to honor each other
for any space of time — a day, a year, a lifetime."
"Definitely
not binding," I said. I couldn't see Petal and Donald pledging anything
less than the same traditional, legal vows to each other for the benefit of
their guests at the public ceremony.
"There
are other symbolic acts sometimes, like crossing over a broom, or a small fire.
Hence why the ceremony is usually perceived as a pagan practice." He
dipped his paintbrush again. "I don't think that's quite what you're
hoping for."
I
could see that inciting a certain Puritanical indignation, as I pictured it ...
and lending itself to ceremonies with flower wreaths on the bride's head
instead of a white veil, which was definitely not our bride-to-be's taste.
"What about traditional flowers?"
"Gorse,"
he answered. "The little yellow flowers that bloom wild in the county.
Sometimes they tuck them into bouquets and other flower arrangements."
That
sounded more promising. "Why?" I asked. "Just as a symbol of
Cornish pride?"
"As
a symbol of fertility, actually," he said. "This custom predates
modern expressions of Cornish pride," he said. He cleaned his brush again,
and glanced at me at the same time. "At one time, wedding guests would
place a gorse plant in the middle of the marriage bed on the wedding night —
after the shallal and other post-wedding antics."
"What's
a 'shallal'?" I asked. Something about the wicked gleam in his eyes made
me think I wouldn't like his answer.
"A
shivaree of sorts — like in the bygone eras of American culture," he said,
resuming his work as he spoke. "It means 'infernal music' or 'infernal
band,' I think. Something like that. Loud crashing of pots and pans to serenade
the couple ... but that was better than the practice in which the wedding
guests assault the bridal couple on the first night with an array of —
relatively harmless — weapons."
"Are
you kidding me?" I knew this reply sounded slightly suspicious. A part of
me didn't entirely trust his tone or his smile during these explanations. I
didn't know him well enough yet to be sure when he was truly teasing me and when
he was being both playful and serious.
"It's
all quite true," he answered, solemnly — although I still didn't entirely
believe him. "If you don't believe me, look it up."
"Okay,
then. I guess I'll be avoiding Cornish wedding traditions for this ceremony.
Since I would like not to be fired before the wedding." I hugged the
macintosh more securely around me without removing my hands from its pockets,
and tried to ignore the little drizzle of rain coming again from the pearly
clouds overhead.
I
could see his smile soften in response to my words. "What a tradition
symbolizes can be different from person to person," he said. "Gorse
tucked in a bouquet can be as much about Cornish pride and good luck to the
newly-wedded as it is about some bygone belief in the rites of spring."
His brush's stroke grew slower as it turned the window's corner. "I think
the sprigs look nice in a bouquet or a wedding bower. But maybe that's just my
professional opinion."
"Been
to many weddings here, have you?" I asked.
"No,"
he answered. "Truthfully, it's been a long time since I attended one. My
social ties are few these days, as I've no doubt Pippa or Gemma informed
you." He lowered his brush, his gaze turning to mine again.
A
nice friendly gaze, a nice friendly smile. If only I could keep thinking about
them in those terms.
I
could feel the heat creep into my cheeks, and I wasn't sure I could stop the
blood from rushing to them. "Thanks for the culture lesson," I said.
"I'll keep it in mind, in case I run short of ideas."
It
was time to walk away, I knew, but I didn't go just yet. "Tomorrow,"
I said. "After ten. That's when I happen to be free, by the way." I
had skipped the reminder about his invitation for a day out, forgetting this
might be slightly essential to the conversation. My heartbeat had sped up
slightly as I asked. "Is that good for you?"
Matt
looked up from his work. "Tomorrow is fine," he said. "Ten is
fine. I'll pick you up then."
"Great,"
I answered. "See you tomorrow."
I
walked away this time, although I did glance back once at Matthew. Thankfully, he didn't notice, since he was
paying attention to the brush strokes he applied to the bottom corner of the
trim.
Curiosity
had a firm grip on me. Under its influence, I couldn't help my thoughts
wandering to him sometimes, even without any help from the improbable fantasies
my mind had spun before. Even with enough distractions to keep my head
elsewhere, from the beauty around me to the career-defining event looming dead
ahead in the manor's event diary.
Fortunately,
my job didn't intend to let me forget about its part in my life. I still had
plenty to fill my time without the help of cliffs' edge excursions or handsome
gardeners if I wanted this wedding to be the first of many successes in a long
and happy career.
I
gave up on the walk to the wood and fields, cutting through the herb and cut
flower beds near the hothouse to the center garden's paths again. I could see
two hired helpers from the village, busy touching up some paint as well, this
time on the old garden gazebo before the wedding. Two others were in the middle
of constructing the beautiful arbor at its entrance — no fresh flowers
decorating its rustic, hand-woven vine lattice yet to send a gentle shower of
petals onto the bride and her bridesmaids. It wouldn't be long before they were
finished, judging by the energy they were applying.
The
path would be neatly raked and readied for a carpet the day before the ceremony
... the chairs for the guests would be arranged in perfect rows ... I could
picture it all, just as I had pictured it for events I had planned in Seattle.
Only this time I wasn't merely shooing away unwanted bugs, or picking up
last-minute cases of champagne.
"How
pretty it will all look in a few more days," commented Lady Amanda, who
was watching from the front windows when I entered the house. "I can
hardly wait to see the finished scene. We've only had three weddings since we
were licensed, you know. And one of those was only the official vows in the
drawing room with a bite of cake afterwards. No fuss, and very practical ... it
was a tad disappointing."
"I
don't think this one will disappoint," I said. "Fuss is the focus
here. This wedding is definitely not settling for the practical." I
thought of the designer wedding cake from London with this remark.
"Those
newly-planted flowers are positively bursting with buds, aren't they? Matthew
couldn't have selected more promising ones."
Matthew
again. I tried to pop all thoughts associated with this name into the back of
my mind, where they seemed to have trouble keeping themselves. "I'm sure
he chose the best for the wedding," I answered.
"Matthew?
Of course — never less," said Lady Amanda. "Now, what's the word on
our serving staff for the reception?"
"I
have the list right here." I pulled it up on my phone's screen, as the
view outside the window became a light curtain of rain, and the workers gave up
on painting and withdrew beneath the gazebo's roof for cover.