Bliss and Daydreams of Spring Flowers Read online

  Bliss and Daydreams of Spring Flowers

  By Laura Briggs

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2022 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: “Summer in Cornwall.” Original art, “Country house” by Marrishuanna, “Luxury old fashioned houses buildings” by Christos Georghiou , and “Spring Ribbon,” by Zandiepants. Used with permission. http://www.dreamstime.com/

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Dear Readers,

  There's something a bit magical about a summertime carnival, isn't there? The thrilling rides, novelty foods, and exciting acts offer something for just about everyone—unless, of course, you're among the most uptight members of Ceffylgwyn's village council, as Julianne discovers in the seventh installment of the feel-good series.

  Poor Julianne is only too familiar with the difficult tactics of Noreen and Nigel, but she's less equipped to deal with them at the moment. She has two weddings to plan, a baby to deliver, and a pair of young ones to see off on their first big trip away from home. Being Julianne she's determined to do it all and more, of course—especially when the 'more' part concerns learning the truth behind some unusual rumors in the village about none other than Cliffs House's stiff upper lip housekeeper, Mrs. Norris.

  Exploring Mrs. Norris' backstory was a choice that I hope readers will find both fun and surprising. Previous stories have certainly hinted there's more to her than meets the eye (remember the charming winter wonderland she helped design in Book Five?). She's definitely got a few secrets in her past, and if anyone can find them, it's Julianne, with her penchant for getting to the heart of any bit of intrigue in the village.

  Speaking of secrets, there's a rather harmless one that Julianne's been keeping from Matt regarding the soon-to-be newest member of the Rose household. But let's just say he may not be the only one in for a surprise when it comes to their special delivery. With the path to summer filled with unexpected turns, feel free to brew a cuppa and curl up for a ride as pleasant as any merry-go-round or Ferris Wheel at the most charming of Cornish carnivals.

  Happy reading to you!

  Chapter One

  I lay awake on Friday morning, feeling rumbles in my stomach and the kick of soon-to-be-born child number four in my life, who was practicing for a future football career. My thoughts were on the raspberry pastry I shouldn't have eaten for last night's dinner, and how I needed to add more elastic hair bands and spare jeans to my children's packing lists.

  Sylvia and Heath were making their first solo visit to their grandparents in the States over the summer holiday, so I was packing their individual suitcases and one large travel bag of the kind of supplies that would have my mom rolling her eyes and phoning me later over why I thought she wouldn't have enough no-tears shampoo?

  My parents making the ultimate grandparent gesture to help out me and Matt when number four was born. Just a little breathing space to adjust to the rhythm of a baby in the house again, knowing our oldest two were safe and sound in my childhood hometown, making trips to the zoo and learning to bake raisin cookies. They had offered to take Joel, too, but I felt sending them all three of my brood would be too much — besides which, being only Joel's legal guardians, we had less leeway in choosing his summer plans.

  Lying here, staring at the ceiling, I thought about us being outnumbered two to one in a few more weeks. I glanced next to me, expecting to see Matt was sleeping without a worry, but he was awake, too.

  He could tell it was the same for me, and took my hand from atop our bed quilt. "I thought I would finish painting the nursery tomorrow," he said. "I found the stencil border you bought for the trim."

  "In all the stuff I piled in the room?" I joked. So far, baby supplies were spilling from storage boxes, not making much headway in organization in our son's former cracker box room off the kitchen.

  "Yes, in all the stuff," he answered. "Sylvia wants to help, so I'll put her in a smock and let her help with the window trim."

  "She's excited," I said. "The excitement of being a big sister has been revitalized temporarily."

  A soft laugh from Matt. "That must be why," he answered, sounding amused.

  We lay there quietly, as the motor of an early van passed by. I squeezed Matt's fingers. "Ready for what's coming?" I asked.

  He stroked the back of my hand with his thumb. "It will be fine," he said, tenderly.

  Yesterday, he had bought the plane tickets and made the typical arrangements for two unaccompanied minors to fly. I couldn't, because my due date was way too close to the day of departure. Matt was already committed to lecture and host panel discussions at a week-long conference on botanical biochemistry at the University of York, something he couldn't cancel at this point.

  My kids on a plane by themselves. Terrifying for me, potentially hazardous for everybody else on an eight-hour plus overseas flight. My parents were meeting them at the U.S. airport in Atlanta to fly the rest of the way with them to my former Idaho home on a domestic airline.

  "I'm running out of time to get all the stuff they'll need," I said. "I keep forgetting to stop at the shop for Heath's vitamins and some spare pajamas."

  "There are no shops in Molehill?" Matt's amusement echoed what my mom would be saying over the phone soon enough.

  "Moms have to pack it all, regardless," I answered, giving him a look. He smiled, pityingly, then looked up at the ceiling again and exhaled — a definite sigh. Even a sad one.

  I knew what he was thinking. Five weeks. It was crazy, but crazy was something we hadn't been able to control as of late. Otherwise, our cottage wouldn't be bursting at the seams, and I wouldn't be choosing between stenciling bunnies on walls or overseeing the champagne delivery for my last client at Save the Date's wedding services.

  "Are you sure you're ready?" I asked him, softly. "We could call it off. The kids are so excited by having a little brother or little sister, they'd get over losing the trip in a couple of days."

  "We have to be ready sometime," he answered. "You promised your parents."

  "They deserve to have them while they're still young and adorable, before they turn into surly teens," I admitted. Sylvia was getting closer every day, inching towards the status of liking boy bands better than fashion dolls.

  "It will all work together for the best," said Matt. "Certainly there's no time that could have been better for us. Joel has summer tutorial classes to keep him busy, and the baby might actually learn to sleep before it finds out what a restless house it belongs to."

  "Fat chance," I answered him, smiling. "You don't think we'll feel lonely, do you? In our near-empty cottage?" It would be the first time our house wasn't filled with chaos since ... well, since I had found out that infant Sylvia did not digest lima bean puree ea
sily.

  "Yes," he answered, bluntly. "But do you really want them here those first few nights we adjust to feedings and nappies again?" His glance stared down my doubtful eyes.

  "No," I admitted. I tried not to feel weak for saying it aloud. There was no crime in feeling torn between parental guilt for personal time and letting go of the tight grip every parent keeps on small hands.

  He squeezed my hand now. "We'll be fine," he said. "You and I and all the rest."

  "They'll probably miss us," I said. "I keep having this picture of them begging to come home after two weeks."

  "That's natural," said Matt. "But unless it's an extreme case of homesickness, they'll work through it and have a wonderful time making friends and making memories with their grandparents."

  I breathed out, letting my worries exit temporarily. The baby in me was somersaulting, as if I was carrying a potential gymnast. It put me in mind of Heath, who had been kicking furiously to get out in the last stage of my pregnancy. I took refuge in the strength of those calloused gardener's fingers embracing me, and the reassurance of the man to whom they belonged, who promised to love me for a lifetime despite stretch marks, too many kids, and other bouts of reality.

  I felt as if I might even drift again for a minute or two, before the door to our room opened, and our seven-year old son launched himself on the foot of our bed. "Mommy, how long until we go to the airport?" he sounded breathless. "Are we going soon?"

  "Heath, I told you, not yet." Sylvia's head poked into the doorway. "We have to finish packing — we haven't found all our beach toys."

  Heath bounded off the bed. "Can we call gran and granddad today and tell them we want to go to the play park as soon as we land?" He vanished after Sylvia, and I heard the squeak of a kitchen cupboard.

  Matt and I exchanged glances. He lifted one eyebrow, saying nothing, although his amused smile had come back. I sighed and reached to switch off my alarm clock.

  Welcome back, crazy world.

  ___________________

  Matthew Rose, capable gardener, brilliant botanist, Poldark lookalike subject to whispers about his dishiness from students, loaned me his car today since he was preparing for his lecture. I made egg salad for his lunch and popped it in the fridge, and kissed the top of his head, tenderly, lingering for a hint of the underlying masculine scent beneath that herbal shampoo like spicy sweetgum leaves.

  The kids were at school since the term was not over — I still had a few more loads of uniforms with chemistry accidents and play yard mud to go for this half of the year. Today I was foregoing laundry to do the much-needed work that paid the bills for the partnership of Julianne Rose and Kitty Menton, heads of their own event planning service in Ceffylgwyn's little corner of Cornish paradise.

  Our last client had toasted their nuptials only a week ago. This week, in addition to meeting with our latest couples busy picking out the details of their happy day, I had a side commission helping my former boss with one of her many tourism council and village committee obligations. The village's summer carnival was coming up, that week of brief frenzy that brings circus performances, exciting attractions, amusements, food tents, competitions and prizes to epic heights not shared by the church and community fete or the winter Christmas market ... which is to say, more exciting than a merry-go-round of tin ponies and a tiny dodgems ring, with Victoria sponge in the tea tent.

  It was fun for everyone who loved barbecue and ferris wheels, and was the only guarantee of the exotic on a yearly basis. I had a secret love for watching the daredevil riders in the high motorcycle tunnel that only my son Heath shared in my family.

  Cliffs House, the big manor house where I had been employed when I first came to the village, was serene in the midmorning light. Amanda's car was driving away, but I recognized William at the wheel — the future earl — Lord Harbury, or whatever his official noble title was at present — who waved to me as he passed, followed by estate manager Geoffrey driving the Land Rover.

  Must be time for a garage appointment for fine-tuning the mechanical works of Amanda's SUV, which tended to be a little worse for wear thanks to extensive driving between tourists haunts, I reflected. I parked and walked to the front door. Despite my general preference for using the kitchen one, that wouldn't do with Mrs. Norris on duty, who would consider this a social call and not one for 'trade purposes.'

  The manor's housekeeper opened the door for me. Her stony expression was typical, and not necessarily meant to fend off repairmen or sales representatives who had the audacity to ring the main doorbell.

  Mrs. Norris had a militaristic approach to housekeeping — her laced Oxfords might as well be combat boots, and the starch that kept her plain black dress and white apron wrinkle-free, the chain mail of a Norman warrior. Lift that pulled-and-sprayed-stiff hair bun of hers a few inches higher, it might well be a miniature helmet like General Patton wore.

  "Good morning," I said, with a cheerful smile. "Is Amanda in?" I hoped my jeans and t-shirt were sufficient proof I wasn't here to measure and mark for an upcoming event.

  "Her ladyship is currently having tea in her private rooms," came the reply, in a tone of intimidating propriety. "Is she expecting you, Madam — or is this call an informal one?" The latter remark suggested this would be an offense committed on my part.

  "I can see myself up," I said, hinting that this would be fine.

  "That will not be necessary." Hint rejected. "If you will kindly follow me." She closed the front door behind me as I cleaned my boots on the mat that was customarily meant for Geoff and Will when they wanted to avoid the kitchen steps after working on the property. I followed her up the staircase to the wing where the family's private apartments — ones never featured on public tours — were located.

  "Mrs. Rose, your ladyship." With this announcement etched in metaphorical iron, Mrs. Norris showed me into the little parlor, where 'Lady Amanda' was working on her laptop on the sofa.

  "Juli, you're early, aren't you? I expected you at lunch — but I'm glad you're here, because I wondered what you thought of Noreen's email about the 'Devon Daredevils' violating local codes on temporary constructions that pose a danger to the community." She dug around through some paperwork, locating a printout of the email in question.

  "Noreen being Noreen?" I answered. The local councilwoman had a stubborn tendency to interpret the rules from intractable standpoints — a 'militant nutter', as Kitty would say, if not quite in the fashion of the manor's housekeeper.

  "More or less, yes. Nigel's on her side, of course, otherwise he wouldn't be the council's judge, jury, and executioner in residence. As for the rest of us, we'd rather like fun to be the primary focus, not means of squashing it. I know we have to acknowledge that change is good, but all change must be given equal consideration."

  She reached for her teacup. "Not one person has mentioned any of the much-needed changes regarding the local stalls we license each year, for instance — even after that bad bacteria incident after Cal hosted the 'extreme foods' tent, which was quite the adventure in eating, as I recall."

  I made an empathetic face — I had made the mistake of eating one of the 'outback dogs' with a 'secret chili' recipe that gave me indigestion for three days.

  "And what about the cutthroat pet competition with its sketchy judging procedures?" She sipped her chamomile. "No, not a word about anything that might offend anyone's particular friend, but that bullying sense of control is always wielded against the others."

  "The pet show is getting out of hand." Last time, local police sergeant Charlie had been forced to wrestle apart the two semifinalists, who resorted to fisticuffs after disagreeing with the decision that very conveniently handed first prize to Nigel's nephew's long-haired show rat.

  "Exactly. I think before we point fingers because of a minor incident or rumor, we should point the fingers at ourselves for letting the summer carnival grow out of hand," said Amanda.

  "You know I don't want to condemn anything or anyone
without proof, so I'm not writing to the company's manager to say the Daredevils aren't welcome," I said. "Plus, I'm a huge fan of their act."

  "It's a slippery slope — besides, what would we do about the rest? I'm certain there's a dozen safety hazards in every performance, so we can hardly justify questions and demands for every nightmare scenario that pops into our imagination," said Amanda. "I intend to tell Noreen and Nigel that we should hold off on changing anything until after we've spoken to the council from Kilkhampton."

  The carnival in question had received permission to set up in Ceffylgwyn many times in the past, but recently someone had stumbled upon a social media conversation about possible safety violations in one of the performance tents, and growing 'seediness' in terms of the rides and the crew. It wasn't impossible that hard financial times had struck a little circus like this one, so Amanda didn't want to outright dismiss it, although it was giving the councilmembers peeved by noise and 'incomers' a chance to assert their authority.

  I was supposed to help her in preparing a report before the council voted, which meant gathering proof regarding the rumors and an informal poll of villagers on any concerns they held about the event, as well as whether they would oppose the council's move to censure any of the beloved attractions.

  "Nigel would probably be happy to nix the extreme foods." I knew Cal's barbecue fest had offended Nigel as much as nearly everything his archenemy did.

  "Yes, but it was still less violent — vomit aside — than the pet show," remarked Amanda. "I think I have a schedule here of all the summer carnivals and fetes in the county ... let's see if we have an opportunity to pop 'round to see the troupe firsthand. Forewarned is forearmed when swaying committee opinion."