Wedding in Cornwall Read online

  A Wedding in Cornwall

  By Laura Briggs

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2016 Laura Briggs

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com to purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Cover Image: “Cornish Cottage.” Original art,“House in the garden” by Elena Mikhaylova. Used with permission. http://www.dreamstime.com/

  Dear Reader,

  I’m so glad you’ve chosen to pick up a copy of my latest feel-good romance, A Wedding in Cornwall. Maybe you’ll read it somewhere cozy with a cup of tea, or maybe you’ll be relaxing on the beach or by the pool. Whatever the case, I hope it will prove a fun escape that transports you to beautiful Cornwall, England—a place that, sadly, I have only visited in my imagination (so far, that is).

  In a lot of ways, A Wedding in Cornwall is a tribute to my most popular wedding romances. Five years ago (I can’t believe it’s been that long!), I penned The Wedding Caper, where meek bridal assistant Gwen mistakenly finds herself in charge of a socialite wedding. It became a hit with US readers, their enthusiasm turning it into my first bestseller and inspiring three more stories about Gwen’s adventures in love and wedding planning.

  My road trip romantic comedy Late to the Wedding found equal success with romance fans in the UK, whose enthusiastic reviews inspired more readers to take a chance on it than I ever hoped for. So, in honor of those readers—both from the UK and the US—I decided to launch a new wedding-themed series with an American heroine who travels ‘across the pond’ to a new life, a new job, and— of course—a new romance!

  Happy reading!

  Can Jodi find true love with help from the likes of Lizzie Bennet and Jane Eyre?

  Find it from your favorite retailer HERE

  A Wedding in Cornwall

  by

  Laura Briggs

  I took a deep breath. And reminded myself to let it out again and take another, before I could pass out from sheer lack of oxygen. Because life-changing moments like these could send even the most rational person into a dead faint.

  But this was going to be perfect, I told myself. This was exactly what every event planner dreams of: being at the top of her professional game someplace where every celebration seems like magic. And it happened by pure chance, all because the senior planner at Design a Dream, the firm where I worked, had to miss her interview due to a few red spots breaking out on her face. Spots which turned out to be a full-blown case of the chicken pox at the age of thirty-seven. What are the odds of that happening? Seriously, WHAT are the odds?

  I didn’t know, and I didn’t care. I was too busy ransacking my closet, looking for the right combination of shoes, clothes, and, accessories for the interview of my life. The interview my fellow planner had skipped in order to wallow in anti-itch cream at home. I would have gone to that interview sporting a face full of pockmarks and calamine lotion if I had to, but that’s just me. Anything to become the new event planner for a country estate in breathtaking Cornwall, England.

  See what I mean by ‘magical’? This was the grown-up equivalent to a kid’s Disneyland fantasy. I was definitely enchanted by photos I viewed of Cornwall online, and the Travel Channel's episode I watched on England's southern counties made me even more desperate to land the position before a lucky rival could snatch it up.

  And it worked.

  Seventy-two hours later, they hired me. Me, Julianne Morgen, your average American girl was about to venture ‘across the pond’, as they say, for a new life. Pulling up roots and packing half my belongings into storage until I could find a permanent residence in the Cornish village whose name I still couldn’t pronounce after locating it on a map. It was hard to believe, and yet it was really happening, my friends and family throwing me a farewell party the night before I left. Their words of encouragement and advice were still ringing in my head as I nervously boarded the plane that would take me to a new life in England.

  Now, taking my first deep breath of English sea air, I was just a few train rides away from the elegant country house in South Cornwall. A place called Cliffs House, an old family estate that was among the rare and beautiful country houses of Cornwall, now turned into a bed and breakfast that hosted events from weddings to charity galas.

  Everything I owned that was worth bringing was stuffed into the bags I carried with me: clothes for every occasion; the collection of high-heeled shoes that fed my ever-growing addiction to footwear, and books on everything from flowers to French baking, all part of my old job in the States.

  I had never really belonged at Design a Dream. Truthfully, my creation of lemon poppy seed tea cakes with lavender-infused frosting for an English tea-themed reception had been the only time my employer ever paid me a compliment. I was always overlooked, the best opportunities for creativity being handed to others, the firm's favorite event planners — including Francine, who was offered the job as a Cornish event planner before the chicken pox struck. Our boss, Nancy, had never found my designs to be 'to her taste' as she put it.

  "It's too niche," she complained, quirking her eyebrow one time as she studied my sketches for an engagement dinner's flower arrangements. "It's all sleek lines and symmetry. Where are the vases overflowing with beauty? Where's the stuffed-to-burst elegance that we pride ourselves on, Julianne?"

  "I was under the impression," I began, trying to sound confident under this interrogation, "that sleek was what our client wanted. She chose a venue with modern nineteen-twenties' architecture, inspired by Frank Lloyd Wright. Her colors were black and white. Simple and elegant." I did my best not to study the toes of my shoes as I made this point — a pair of red Jimmy Choos that had cost me four months of 'everyday luxuries,'—and that was for getting them at a bargain price, mind you.

  "It's not what our florists want," said Nancy. "They want us to order show stopping arrangements, don't they? If we don't keep our friends happy, how will we keep our clients happy?"

  By doing what they want? I wanted to reply.

  "Triple the number of flowers in those vases, Julianne," said Nancy, dismissing me. When I was halfway out of her office, she added, "And as a gentle suggestion — find some more 'sensible' shoes for the office tomorrow. All right?"

  Meaning ones that didn’t come from a famous designer, I supposed. Senior planners at Design a Dream didn't care for junior lackeys showing off any luxury fashion labels they happened to own.

  I hoped whoever managed Cliffs House estate didn't mind. Especially since the first wedding I was supposed to coordinate happened to be for clients worlds above any Design a Dream catered to, supposedly.

  You, Julianne, are going to be helping someone famous make their dream day come true. Cakes, dinner menus, flowers, invitations — your color palettes and sketches will be going places they've never gone before. Just like I, Julianne Morgen, would be walking along rugged pathways to the shores of the English Channel on my days off. Letting the wind whip through my dark chestnut hair, closing my eyes before the spectacular view, and imagining that a fairytale English prince would come riding up on his horse —

  I opened my eyes. Enough of that. The only eligible prince left in England was moving to America, according to the tabloids I had glimpsed in the airport newsstand while buying a postcard for my best friend Aimee back in Seattle — and all the other unmarried royal males were in 'nappies and nursery schools.' With a grin, I turned away from the restless channel waters
along the shores outside the Newquay tea shop and made my way towards its cobblestone walkway to meet the cab that would take me to the railway station.

  It got me there with several minutes to spare, so I parked myself on a bench beneath the fabric canopies. My luggage surrounded my Valentino-clad feet as I waited for the train to Par. Next would come Truro, where someone from Cliffs House would be waiting to drive me the remaining distance to the estate. Just thinking about it sent my nerves tingling again. With my WiFi connection fairly sporadic, I found myself resorting to people watching as a means of distraction.

  There were some obvious tourists among the crowd, their dazed but happy expressions similar to what I had seen in the mirror that morning. Some of them carried guidebooks; others brandished their cameras like a weapon, as if they were members of the paparazzi, preparing to ambush a celebrity off the next train. There were some other, more casual-looking travelers too: a group of twentysomethings chatting and laughing among themselves on a bench, and a couple of bored-looking teenage girls who shared the ear buds to a music player. A tall, dark-haired man stepped from the doorway to the nearby café.

  Hmmm. Not bad looking, I thought. Even from this distance, I could tell he was attractive. There was something rugged about his appearance, further enhanced by his natural tan and careless dark hair. Strands of it brushed against his nicely sculpted cheekbones as he adjusted the leather portfolio under his arm. Was he a businessman, perhaps? He didn’t look quite polished enough for that, but he didn’t strike me as part of the surfer crowd either. Maybe he’s a student or a teacher somewhere. Definitely not a prince—though a galloping white horse might have suited him rather nicely.

  I realized I was making up fantasies for a total stranger, and watching him as if he was the last attractive man on earth. Don’t be stupid, Julianne. I must be jet lagged, or maybe just sleep deprived to scrutinize someone this way. He couldn’t be all that handsome, could he?

  His dark orbs flicked in my direction, and I quickly turned away, blushing hard. Had he noticed me studying him? My face blazed hot at the idea — with mortification that made me want to melt into the ground. He might very well be used to women staring at him and think nothing of it. Or else, he’s vain about it. That was more likely, I knew. Deciding to ignore the weird uptick in my pulse for those dark eyes meeting mine from across the station, if only for a second.

  After studying the pointy toes of my pumps for awhile, I dared to glance back in his direction. But the stranger was gone.

  I glanced around, checking all directions. Now that he was gone, I regretted looking away, at least without gauging whether he was nice or rude, interested or insulted — made brave by his absence, of course. But no tall, mysterious men were anywhere in sight. He must have gone back inside the café, or else made his way from the railway station to one of the nearby shops.

  Oh, well. His destination, no doubt, was somewhere miles away from my own. A peek at my watch showed I would be on the move again soon anyway. The next-to-last stop in my journey to the magnificent Cliffs House. This realization was enough to put the stranger’s good-looks out of my head as I prepared to board the next train.

  ***

  "Miss Morgen, I trust?"

  The man holding the sign at the railway station in Truro didn't look the part of an English chauffeur, which I had rather stupidly been picturing after falling asleep on the plane from Seattle while reading an old Du Maurier gothic romance that Aimee had given me as a goodbye present.

  "That's me," I answered, with a bright smile. I tried to hide the lump of nervousness I was sure was visible in my throat by swallowing. Was this my new boss? A fellow employee at the estate?

  "My name is Weatherby," he said. "Geoff, as you may call me, if you like. I'm the estate manager for Lord William, the heir of Cliffs House." He was wearing a damp canvas mackintosh over a tweed coat and wool trousers, a tie perfectly knotted above the neckline of his wool pullover.

  Lord William. I hadn't realized the house's owner was titled. "Um, is Lord William living at Cliffs House?" I asked. "Or at a town house in London now?" Vague notions of 'society' and 'the Season' popped into my head from old Regency-era novels from high school.

  Mr. Weatherby, or Geoff, laughed. Gently, as if he read my mind and didn’t want to embarrass me too much. "He lives at Cliffs House," he answered. "And he manages it as much or more than I do. If you're imagining something from one of Jane Austen's novels, I hate to disappoint you. Lord William and Lady Amanda are the picture of the modern English country house's heir. Preservers of history, overseers of proper land management, business owners, and promoters of local tourism and trade." He lifted my heaviest bag and produced an umbrella from underneath his arm. “Lord William himself is quite handy at repairing walls and planting trees — and no stranger to the use of a chainsaw."

  A chainsaw? I would have to amend the picture in my head of someone in Mr. Darcy's velvet frock coat, sawing through fallen trees amidst an electric buzz and a cloud of petrol smoke.

  "A little rain today," he commented. "I hope you're not from the deserts of America, or this place may come as a bit of a shock. Cornwall may have sunnier days than many parts of England, but she has her share of rain, and heavy ones, too."

  "I'm from Seattle," I said. "It's sort of like ... America's version of England's drizzly day." I clutched the strap of my second bag, one that held assorted books on event planning and design, and probably several pairs of stiletto heels and sleek sandals. "Pretty much every Seattle resident owns a good umbrella. That is…a brolly,” I added. Thankful I had brushed up on some English slang and hadn’t called it a bumbershoot, say, in an effort to sound quaint, like some character in an old movie.

  "Perhaps you're well on your way to understanding Cornwall's weather," Geoff answered, with a smile, one which quickly became a look of concern. "I hope you brought a coat as well," he added. "Cornwall is a warmer part of England in general, but not in the summer, necessarily. You won't encounter the sort of temperatures you're accustomed to in America. It might seem a bit cool to you at times."

  "I'm sure I have a coat or two warm enough to fix that," I answered him, thinking of the ones I had packed after reading a quick online guide to Cornwall's weather.

  North Cornwall's cool morning had made me wish I'd worn a thicker pullover like the ones I saw tourists buying in a nearby shop as I had my first real cup of English tea. But I got a taste of the kind of cool, rainy day that Geoff had described a moment later, when I felt the wet breeze against my face. I gasped and gulped in the air, almost believing I could taste the salt of the sea even though the Channel wasn't exactly running alongside the station like a stream.

  The estate's car that drove me to my new home wasn't a pristine Bentley or Jaguar, but clearly Mr. Weatherby's everyday vehicle, an economy Asian model. But it didn't matter, because the view from the windows was worth it. I had my second glimpse of Cornwall's beauty since my train ride from Newquay to the city. I had been amazed by the quick transition from the metropolitan-esque scenes of Newquay to the surrounding countryside, and here it was no different. As the city of Truro, with its mix of impressive Georgian architecture and sleek, modern businesses, slipped away, I saw the rugged fields and open countryside of rural Cornwall unfold around me.

  "How far is the estate?" I asked. "Is it in a town nearby?"

  "Ceffylgwyn. A mere dote on the map between here and Falmouth," he answered. "Falmouth's the next village of size in Cornwall, as you no doubt know by now. Although it’s quite popular with tourists now, it's still a quiet place compared to England's more metropolitan counties. But, as the natives will tell you, that's its charm, and they're perfectly right."

  "You're not from here?" I asked. I had a feeling that his accent wasn't Cornish vernacular. It sounded too much like broadcasts of the BBC I'd seen at night in my hotel room.

  "No. I'm from London," he answered. "I moved here to manage Lord William's estate after his father died — that was six
years ago, when he was still at university. The previous land manager retired, and Lord William needed someone who had a more modern view on a 'working' estate, as you might call it."

  "Do you like Ceffylgwyn?" I asked, my tongue having a little trouble with the name. "Is Cliffs House a good place to work?"

  "I love the charm of Cornwall," he answered. "I used to come here when I was a lad, which was a long time ago," he added, with a chuckle. "They call South Cornwall the 'Cornish Riviera' because of the tourism and the cultural highlights, but to me it's very much about the rugged countryside outside of Truro and Falmouth. And, of course, Mevagissey, which is a lovely place. It's the moors and the cliffs, the snug inlets along the Channel. There's a lovely walk to the cliffs that oversee the shore not far from Cliffs House — that's where it gets its name. In English and in Cornish."

  "And the village name?" I asked. I wondered if there was a simpler name to call it than the one that Geoff mentioned.

  "It means 'white horse,' in Cornish," he answered. "A little anglicized over the years, but still with the Cornish heart in its name."

  As he spoke, he turned the car's wheel and we were swept along a curve that revealed the Channel's water. I caught a glimpse once again of a Cornish beach, and of stone walls cupping a part of the water, where the waves seemed strangely calm as they swept between the stone cracks I imagined lay there. Perhaps this was the kind of view Geoff was talking about on the path somewhere between Cliffs House and the sea.

  I definitely knew how I'd be spending my first day off from planning events at the country house. It was like a dream come true, the world I could see on the other side of the windscreen.