A Garden in Cornwall: The final heartwarming novella

A Garden in Cornwall

By Laura Briggs

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2018 Laura Briggs

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Cover Image: Cornish Garden. Original art, House in the garden by Elena Mikhaylova and Luxury old fashioned houses buildings by Christos Georghiou. Used with permission. http://www.dreamstime.com/

Dear Reader,

Stories on paper tend to come full circle, just like many real life stories. In this example, Julianne's is no different — just like the conclusion of the series' first milestone, A Castle in Cornwall, she finds herself once more part of an event beyond Cliffs House's walls as she helps search for the answers behind a hidden mural, a lost garden, and a village legend forgotten in history. And, once more, Julianne and Matt are facing a personal and perplexing question of separation from a life which they love ... only this time, the only solution requires sacrifices that seem impossible for them to make.

This is the last novella in A WEDDING IN CORNWALL's series, and I wanted it to be special. It seems fitting that the final story is titled for a garden, and that Rosemoor Cottage is the focus of a significant part of the book. The theme of memories and history is a fitting one, too, as Julianne thinks back on her life in Cornwall, in the cottage, and among the events — and gardens — which have been part of her experience here.

Readers will recognize the classic English tales which helped shape this story, from Brideshead Revisited to Frances Hodgson Burnett's idyllic The Secret Garden (one of my personal favorites as a child — Hallmark Hall of Fame’s version of the story inspired several of my artistic details, as many of you no doubt noticed). So many little parts of this story were special that it was only right that a few of the series' most important characters return for a brief appearance — and that we meet a few new and memorable ones as well.

Thank you all for being part of the series. From beginning to end, you helped shape and influence the creation of its stories and characters. You forgave the faults of a fictional Cornish village, the 'Americanisms' of its world, the occasional story you didn't love as much as the others, and the limits which come with writing a short romantic novella. You loved the characters, you shared what you loved most about the adventures, and — most importantly — you enjoyed the escape that a tiny (and totally unrealistic) little village of romance had to offer.

A Garden in Cornwall

by

Laura Briggs

How would you like to visit a secret garden? Matt asked me.

It was Saturday morning and the two of us were being lazy, reading in bed with toasted muffins instead of having breakfast at the table. Matt was poring over science articles in the weekend journal, while I was letting my thoughts wander as I admired a full-page ad for a shoe sale at a London fashion boutique.

Like the one in the book? I asked. I had a sudden flashback to my childhood love for the Frances Hodgson Burnett classic. Rusty keys beneath the leaves, wind ruffling aside the heavy ivy covering the old door ... all right, some of this was inspired more by the movie version than the book itself. Nevertheless, I loved this story in any version.

Very much so, said Matt. I'll prove it to you. He reached underneath the baby names book we had been perusing, drawing the lifestyles section of the paper towards him — the comics were currently spread over my now-obvious baby bump, beneath the fashion section I was reading. He opened the paper to an article and photograph I had seen him reading earlier, and laid it on my lap.

The photo was of an untidy little lawn populated with big patches of overgrown grass. A few random rocks decorated it here and there. Somehow, it's not what I pictured, I said, knitting my brows. "'Littleton Lost Garden Resurfaces,' I read the headline aloud. Forgive me, but I thought the real secret garden was in Kent."

It is, said Matt. This one was lost in a different manner. Wartime necessity, shifting priorities nationally, the changing social order ... those are the reasons this garden vanished. But recently it was rediscovered, and there are plans to restore it to its original glory.

I scanned the article, spotting lines about 'historic site,' 'local legend,' and 'ancient ruins.' How did they find it? I asked.

The estate's new owner was surveying for a lake, said Matt. They discovered remains from the foundation of a castle which stood on the property hundreds of years before the manor house was ever built. And around it, clear indications that a garden had been maintained on that site, thus identifying it as the legendary 'ruins garden' of local stories. Forgotten and neglected since World War II, apparently.

Wow, I said. Seventy years is a lot longer than the one in the book was neglected. There weren't any pictures of the ruins behind the legendary garden, sadly, unless that's what the random rocks belonged to.

The site was neglected longer than that in its past, said Matt. Supposedly, the ruined garden encompassed the castle's original site and grounds; at one time, the plants growing close by its stones were descended from the seeds of ones cultivated more than six hundred years before.

That was way more impressive even than the part about it being lost. All right, I said. You had me at the 'lost garden' part, but now I'm desperate to see it. When can we go? In a year or two, after they dust off the ruins, dig up the old fountain, and make it presentable for tourists?

Maybe before then, answered Matt, tossing aside the theater listings to stretch out beside me again. It happens that the estate's new owner is a friend of William's. And I'm rather hoping he'll recommend me as a possible consultant for the garden's restoration.

That would be exciting, I said. I'll bet you've been dying to become a part of this project since you first heard about it.

Matt had decided to unofficially retire his academic career after the publication of his latest paper, at long last choosing spades and seed pods over teaching at any university. His heart was more content 'digging in the dirt,' as our friend Pippa put it, than in grading exams and research papers, despite his brilliance as a professor. A horticultural consulting position like this one would be a perfect way for him to begin a career of designing gardens and landscaping them full time, instead of between teaching classes and studying botanical viruses for a living.

I confess it's true, said Matt. His right hand now moved to rest atop our future third party, his touch a gentle pressure and warmth now distanced only by the flannel layer of my pajama shirt. The thought of becoming part of that project has crossed my mind more than a few times since I first heard about it.

My Matthew. From Ivy League career to itinerant gardener, to incredible husband and father to be. I was so proud of him; and so glad that, right now, we were both exactly where we wanted to be in our lives. Both happy in our work, both happy at what was about to change with a third addition to our home, all while living in the Cornish village we both loved so much.

I covered his hand with mine, then stroked his dark head of hair with my free hand. I guess maybe we should think about getting up soon, I said. That, or finishing our list of possible names.

He rested his head on my shoulder, closing his eyes. We could try that brunch recipe from the food column, he said. He moved aside the news section and the drama pages, feeling around in search of another section of the paper, this one featuring the cheese and tomato flatbread we had drooled over earlier.

Sounds yum. There are some sun-dried tomatoes in the cupboard, and some fresh ones in the bowl beside the fridge. I folded back the quilt, covering our weekend paper and the list of names I had made on a pad of paper. Matt's hardcover copy of Cornish Heaths and Heathers fell on the floor as I climbed out of bed.

I pulled on a jumper and a pair of leggings, and smoothed my rumpled, reddish-brown bedhair. I think there's some fresh basil on the kitchen sill, I called to Matt. I could almost taste the golden, melted mozzarella now, enfolding those sweet little tomatoes we had picked out at the market yesterday.

Matt was reading a letter from the stack of yesterday's unopened mail. Did you see this? he asked me. This letter from Mathilda?

Mathilda was our landlady, who seldom visited but kept in contact with us via letters and phone calls regarding our lease. I did, I said. I thought it was this month's rent notice, so I didn't open it.

She’s putting the cottage up for sale, said Matt. At the end of this month.

The cottage. Our cottage. Our home. If my jaw could drop to the floor, it would do it at this moment. An earthquake was rattling inside me.

What? I said. What? No — no, she can't do this. She can't sell our home like this.

She doesn't want to own a rental property anymore, said Matt. She's promised us thirty days' notice if someone buys it, but she won't renew our lease at the end of the year, even if it hasn't yet sold.

The shock was enough to make me speechless. No one could buy it, not our home. Not this cottage, where I had first lived. All its memories came flooding back to me. Of Matt living here when I first came to Cornwall; of us decorating a Christmas tree together in this living room. Of my living here to feel closer to Matt while he was overseas; of our first year of marriage celebrated in this kitchen. I had missed this place terribly when we moved to America for half a year, and coming back to it had felt so right.

Strangers couldn't live here. It wasn't possible. I wasn't ready for someone else to make memories in this place, which felt as much a part of me as my own arm. This was definitely a terrible, horrible mistake of some kind.

She can't, I said. I took the letter from Matt's hand and stared at its lines, as if they would change into something else if I saw them for myself. We can change her mind. We can talk to her and persuade her to keep it. I mean, it's not as if she doesn't have a tenant, right? We're not going anywhere.

I'll talk to her on Monday, said Matt. Maybe we can persuade her not to go through with it. He tucked the letter back in its envelope, and clipped it to the fridge with a magnet.

It wasn't a notice I wanted on display beside our postcard from Brighton or the photos from Matt’s sister Michelle's wedding — or even the coupon for half off the price of peanut butter. I desperately needed Mathilda to be persuaded by Matt's phone call on Monday, so I could throw it in the trash without a second thought.

I felt Matt's arms around me from behind as I stood braced against the counter: a tender, comforting hold encircling me. It will be all right, he said, as his cheek rested against mine. I promise. Try not to worry about it right now.

I know, I said. It's not like worry changes anything, does it?

I could feel Matt's smile more than I could see it. So what do you say to starting brunch? he asked. I'll slice the tomatoes if you'll butter the flatbread. He lifted a mini yellow one from the bowl and gave it a little toss like a juggler's ball. He met my eye with a familiar little sparkle in his own, trying to coax a smile from me, so I rewarded him with a tiny one. After all, there wasn't anything we could do about our troubles immediately, no matter how I wished it.

Think we can add some spinach without messing up this dish? I opened the fridge door.

_________________

A deep breath of fresh, salt-tinged air on the cliffs usually cleared my thoughts and made me feel more alive. Maybe not with the same power as the first time I stood here, as Julianne Morgen and not Julianne Rose; but a little of it still lingered every time I climbed the pathway to the crest of