A Bake Off in Cornwall Read online

  A Bake Off in Cornwall

  By Laura Briggs

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2017 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: “Baking Extravaganza.” Original art, “Country house” and “Sweet treats” by Elena Mikhaylova. Used with permission. http://www.dreamstime.com/

  Dear Reader,

  Welcome to The Great Bri — err, The Grand Baking Extravaganza, that is!

  My love for the popular baking show is pretty evident in A WEDDING IN CORNWALL's Book Five, about a fictitious baking contest hosted in Cornwall ... at, of course, none other than Cliffs House, where a surprise contestant, two picky judges, and the first flower buds of a new romance conspire to keep Julianne on her toes once more for a successful event.

  Like the previous four, your favorite characters — from scrumptious Matthew to no-nonsense Dinah — are part of the adventure in my highly-fictional Cornish village; but for the first time, the story's point of view is split between Julianne and her assistant, Kitty. Tough as nails on the outside, Kitty is as fictitiously British as the village itself — which means, of course, that her characterization and dialogue won't be anywhere near as spot-on as a true depiction of a Cornish girl in a real Cornish village — but I felt it was only fair that Kitty's romantic adventure be chronicled through her eyes, too. And speaking of romance, making his second appearance in the series is American event promoter Nathan Menton, who is every bit as caught up in the novel's baking fever as the rest of Cliffs House's characters ... although maybe not because of culinary aspirations!

  With loads of chocolate cakes, citrus tarts, and sticky puddings — Julianne puts her hand to that recipe — I made myself hungry writing this one. Hopefully, you'll have a snack or two on hand while reading it, or at least last season's The Great British Bake Off handy to watch in between its challenges.

  In case books are more your thing than baking, however, then I'd love for you to try my new series, debuting this summer with the preorder release The Bronte Book Club for Hopeless Romantics. In a fictional sleepy New England town, twentysomething year-old librarian Paige oversees a quirky, three-story historic house transformed into a lending library. It's also home to the classics book club of lonely hearts dubbed the 'hopeless romantics' ... at least until Paige decides it might be time to prove that romance can be found anywhere!

  "Which color would you prefer?" asked the sales clerk in the chic London baby boutique. "Blue is traditional for boys, of course, and pink for girls. But many people choose to switch them today — or prefer something neutral."

  I studied the choices of tiny footed sleepwear in soft colors and miniature jumpers printed with bunnies or kittens, and bit my lip. Boy or girl — I had no clue at this point, and wouldn't for some time, but time was of the essence for this occasion. Make a selection, Julianne, I ordered myself. I felt a little bit nervous about it, however, since I needed it to be perfect. I wouldn't take anything less.

  "Do you know the child's gender yet?" the clerk asked.

  "Um, no," I said. "It's going to be a surprise."

  "How about a nice duckling print? Ducklings are always in fashion, and perfectly neutral," said the sales clerk. "It comes with a free toy bath duck, too."

  Would ducklings be the right choice? It was pretty adorable, the sleeper printed with baby ducks and soap bubbles, the one the clerk had pulled from the display rack. It was a soft, pale fleece that begged to be touched like a fuzzy stuffed toy. I envisioned it swaddled in tissue paper, the layers parting, the look of surprise as it was opened ....yup, it would definitely produce the effect I wanted.

  "Perfect," I said. "Can you wrap it for me?"

  "Of course."

  Afterwards, I hailed a cab and hurried to the train station. The train to Ceffylgwyn — the village I now called home a year after leaving my old city of Seattle for English shores — was on time for once, leaving me scarcely enough leeway to board it.

  Once again, I watched the countryside fly past my window as I thought about how much had changed for me, and how much everything was still changing. First, taking a leap of faith from my old event planning firm in America to become the chief event planner for the Cornish manor Cliffs House. Then my falling in love with professor-turned-gardener (and apparent Poldark look-alike) Matthew Rose, and becoming his wife nearly a year ago — months that had magically flown by despite the challenges my job sometimes provided. Now, things were changing yet again — me training Kitty as a fledgling event planner ... Ceffylgwyn chosen to host one of the biggest summer events in all England ... and that was only the beginning of this year's new happenings, if the tiny gift sack beside me was any proof.

  I had hours to reflect on my past, but my mind was firmly back in the present by the time I arrived home again in the evening. There were no cabs in Ceffylgwyn, but I caught a ride with the florist Marian Jones, who was close by, delivering some last-minute floral arrangements to the local church. I checked my watch — if I wasn't careful with my timing, I would miss my chance for today, and I didn't want to wait to see my gift recipient's face when they opened it.

  Clutching the handles of the shiny sack decorated with pastel balloons, I hurried inside, a tiny smile twitching around my lips. Even so, I found my nerves were knotting themselves a little in my stomach — was it a mistake, a little too soon to do this? Would it be a welcome surprise?

  Too late now, I thought, as I crossed the room's threshold.

  "Sorry I’m late," I said. I paused with the gift in my hands. “This is for you.” I held out the sack. The gift tissue rustled inside, the shiny paper sack crinkling as it was opened.

  "Why ... how perfectly adorable," breathed Lady Amanda. "What charming little ducklings — and a little bath time duckling, too! Oh, Julianne, you really needn't have."

  "I know you haven't told very many people yet ... so I hope it's not presumptuous to go ahead and give you a gift," I said, feeling relieved that she loved it. "When I saw the London boutique, I couldn't resist."

  "It was a lovely thought," she said. "I love it. Come, let's go show William our first official baby gift." With one hand resting on the slight bump beneath her frilly pastel blouse, she led the way to Lord William's office, where the lord of the manor was busy with his agricultural schedules.

  "What do you think?" she asked him, smiling as she pressed the little pajama sleeper against her stomach. "Isn't it a perfect fit?"

  ****

  "Are you sure you love it?" Matthew asked.

  "Of course I do," I said, indignantly, as I opened the thin, leather-bound book propped on my knees. "It's beautiful. And so thoughtful of you." I brushed aside the tissue paper from the sofa, letting it fall into the gift box on the floor, where the birthday wrapping paper was wadded, too.

  "I know you said you were thinking about keeping a journal, but that seemed rather like a resolution made in haste on New Year's than an honest endeavour," he said, his handsome forehead creasing a little with these words, to match his rueful smile. "The necklace I knew you would love, of course. But if you've changed your mind about this gift, you needn't lie and say you love it, too. I won't be upset if you return it."

  "To say anything else than what I already have would be a lie," I answered, drawing him close to kiss him. "I intend to follow through this time and seriously keep a diar
y."

  "You already keep a diary," Matt pointed out, teasingly. Having learned long ago that 'diary' in England equals 'appointment book' in America, I replied with a playful whack on his shoulder.

  "You know what I meant," I said. "My life here has been wonderful. It's been an adventure. And I've always wished I could put it into words. This place, the events I've planned...and you, of course."

  "I'm flattered," he answered. "But I think I'll make a very boring subject on paper. You've seen what plant science becomes in written form — very dry reading for the average audience." Evidently, he had changed his mind about pouring a second glass of wine from the bottle beside my unwrapped birthday presents, choosing instead to ease himself closer to me, his arm encircling my waist.

  Until recently, Matt had been working as a horticultural consultant at the northern Cornish gardens of Pencarrow; his two-week holiday had meant lots of time for the two of us, something that was about to come to an end ... but right now, with his arms around me, I was half-glad that Matt's season as a consultant was almost over.

  "I beg to differ," I answered, half-whispering. "But I'm not going to show it to anyone in any case. It's just for me." Well, and maybe for a few pairs of understanding eyes, like Aimee's, I added mentally, thinking of my best friend back in the States, who had been a sympathetic ear to all my relationship ups and downs, in Seattle and Cornwall — and knew all but the juiciest, private details of my romance with Matt. "I want to make sure I don't forget anything about this experience."

  "Would this be because you expect things to change?" Matt asked, softly.

  "Of course not," I whispered back, firmly — well, as firm as I could sound with a quiet tone of voice, anyway.

  His fingers brushed away the strands of hair resting against my forehead. "You're happy with everything the way it is?" he asked. "I sometimes feel you've grown to love this life as much as I do. But if it's ever not the case, we need to talk about it. Change isn't necessarily bad, Julianne."

  "I know. But I don't want to change anything right now," I answered. "The life we have together, here, is the one I want most." I took a deep breath. "The only thing that worries me is you. You could be a professor on his way to tenure in an Ivy League school, for instance, instead of taking consulting jobs here and there."

  He laughed. "You needn't worry about me," he answered. "I'll look after myself. I'm quite used to change, my love, and quite content with it. You know that as well as I." His face rested close to mine, against the cushions of our sofa, his eyes looking into my own. My heart skipped a beat for a second, proof that sparks of my initial attraction to Matthew were alive and well months after saying 'I do.' That was something I was sure would never change.

  "Is there anything else you need?" he asked. "Besides my assurance that I'm content?"

  "Well...maybe one thing," I said. "I would need your help to do it...it's a two person job, so to speak." I drew myself against him. "I'd look forward to maybe having you teach me a few things in the process, too."

  "And what would this be?" he asked.

  I moved my lips closer to his ear as I whispered the words, hearing a short laugh of surprise from Matthew in reply.

  We had weathered a lot together. Like the time Matt was almost diagnosed with cancer, for instance; or, before that, when his Ivy League past summoned him to a classroom across the ocean. This period of happiness was hard earned in my estimation, since our chances almost slipped away more than once in the past.

  So I let myself become intertwined with Matthew as we whispered to each other, and forgot all about putting my thoughts on paper for that evening.

  ****

  There was plenty to keep my mind busy these days, besides Lord William and Lady Amanda's big news, and my own dilemma. As promised after the major concert hosted here by Wendy Alistair, Ceffylgwyn had experienced a steady uptick in tourism figures — and Cliffs House had been more popular than ever when it came to event bookings. It had definitely kept both me and Kitty busier than ever.

  Kitty Alderson, my assistant — the 'event planner in training' at Cliffs House manor ever since the month of Wendy Alistair's performance. Although I never thought I would say it, she had become almost indispensable to me now. Kitty's penchant for surprising ideas continued to impress me — it had been she who came up with the design for the mini fruits-and-flowers centerpieces for the summer orchard wedding, and booked a first-class Cornish folk band for the contradance that gave one of the ale-tasting events a fresh look in place of the polka theme the corporation executives initially suggested.

  Of course, there were still a few sharp corners that poked against the formal side of Cliffs House now and then. But she looked as at home in my office as I did while helping me come up with a suitable layout for the work tables in the special pavilion constructed on the green behind Cliffs House's rear gardens.

  "Should we face the trees — or the manor?" I pondered, tapping my stylus against my cheek as I looked at the digital plan. "But they'll rearrange it when the camera crew sets up, I suppose."

  "Or maybe face the hill and the woods," said Kitty. "That's better — you can see a bit of the stone wall dividing the fields that way. They'll want a bit of the country life in the picture."

  I made a note about it — and about following up with the rental place providing the tables and appliances. "Have you spoken to the delivery service about the grocery shipments arriving early?"

  "Twice." Kitty held up two fingers. But she didn't give me the 'look' anymore that I used to get for asking obvious questions. Kitty's self-restraint this past month or so had been pretty impressive.

  Besides the two international corporations' ale-tasting weekends, we had hosted two private classical concerts and several weddings, along with the usual local charitable fetes. But that was nothing compared to the event that Cliffs House — and Ceffylgwyn — was about to welcome into its arms for one whole week.

  My jaw had dropped when I first heard the announcement at the summer’s beginning. "We've been chosen?" I said. "Us — for The Grand Baking Extravaganza?”

  “So you’ve heard of it?” Nathan asked. “Lady Amanda said I might have to explain it to you.”

  I was tempted to swat him on the arm. "Hilarious," I said. As the estate's event planner, I had helped Nathan draft the proposal for the program when he first presented it to Ceffylgwyn and to Cliffs House.

  I might have been behind the times when it came to Poldark, but my days of missing British telly trends was all in the past, thanks to Gemma’s persistence.

  “You’d have to live under a rock in Cornwall not to have heard of it," said Kitty, without looking up from the invoices laid out on her desk. "Everyone’s been holding their breath to hear the big announcement, ever since the last broadcast.”

  That big announcement was which county and village would be chosen as the site for the competition, of course. Every section of England had its turn already — and some choices of villages for filming were obvious, like Cromer in Norfolk, or Thirsk in North Yorkshire. Locations across England’s two southernmost counties had vied to host the week-long event, featuring the best local bakers and two tough professional judges.

  For Cornwall — and Ceffylgwyn — to be the one chosen was, in a word, magical.

  Rumor had it the baking auditions had been filmed weeks ago at a secret location in Dartmoor, disclosed only to applicants lucky enough to be among the final pool of would-be contestants from both Devon and Cornwall. That was how the show worked, the try-outs being filmed in one competing county, while the contest events were staged in the other.

  “Didn’t I tell you that big things would happen for this place?” Nathan said. “The producers loved our pitch for the village. And wait for the best part — they especially loved this place.”

  “Cliffs House?” I said. "You're serious?"

  "Over Pencarrow, or Lowarth Heligan, or even a modern ‘hot spot’ like Newquay," said Nathan. "I'm telling the honest truth.
"

  Ceffylgwyn — where the only ‘fast food’ was the fish and chips and pasty shop in one, and it only took a half hour for news to spread from one side of the village to the other? Where there was only officially one street of shops, and the village’s most exciting event was quiz night championship at the pub? It made Newquay, a haven for 'stag nights' and surfing enthusiasts seem like bustling city life by comparison.

  “Anyway, I wanted Cliffs House to know first, because this is big," continued Nathan. "And you guys will have a lot to do to be ready for this.” He sounded pleased with himself; his ‘cheeky’ American confidence tended to linger just beneath his business persona. I remembered it well from this spring, when he’d orchestrated Wendy Alistair’s publicity campaign.

  Nathan Menton was an American event promoter, who, like me, was a transplant on foreign shores. He first visited Ceffylgwyn while working for the promotional wing of Wendy Alistair's televised concert in Cornwall. Instead of continuing on with the singer's international tour, however, he had decided to stay in Cornwall and promote its attractions to tourists — Ceffylgwyn especially. He had been the leading voice in crafting the village's proposal for the producers of The Grand Baking Extravaganza, including Cliffs House's part.

  My head might still be caught up in surprise, but my event planner self was kicking into high gear nonetheless. “Kitty, we need to contact the council about any site permits or construction permits ... and we’ll need to provide locations that won’t damage the gardens or the existing pathways.”

  Kitty reached for her open assistant’s calendar, and, for the first time since his return visit to Cliffs House, Nathan seemed to truly notice my assistant: specifically, that the sleek figure in a dark business suit and patent heels had the same freckled, porcelain face as the girl who had insulted him when he first arrived.