A Sewing Circle in Cornwall Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and events are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance between characters and persons either living or dead is purely coincidental.

  A Sewing Circle in Cornwall

  COPYRIGHT © 2017 by Laura Briggs

  All rights reserved. No part of this book maybe used or reproduced without the author’s permission.

  Cover Image: “A Cornish Sewing Circle.” Original art, “Country house” by Elena Mikhaylova. Used with permission. http://www.dreamstime.com/

  Dear Readers,

  It's celebration time in the village of Ceffylgwyn, as Julianne helps plan a unique village fete for charity, and turns her talents to new heights in the sewing world and to new issues in the village — including a longtime rivalry between two villagers on the issue of the village's 'Old Cornish' name versus its modern equivalent. A proposal at the fete's preparation by a local fisherman would change the village's name, and, naturally, Julianne involves herself, with consequences for herself and others. And to make matters worse, Julianne finds herself embroiled in jealousy and worry as the gorgeous Petal Price-Parker returns.

  In real life, we all hope that no one would conduct a debate in such a ridiculous fashion as this fictional one — but the childish arguments of two lifelong village enemies represents the silly behaviors that trigger real-life arguments. Likewise, the evolution a spoken language undergoes isn't all that different from the one human relationships experience — and after a history of promises for better or worse, Julianne and Matt will discover how their relationship has changed as they test the boundaries of their love.

  Between ghosts of past love and the problems of everyday life, Julianne and Matt must find a way around their relationship's latest stumbling blocks. And when the issues go beyond a simple apology ... into the heart of how couples hold their tongues and lower their pride to protect their relationship ... it will take a special moment of understanding to see what really matters most to them both.

  I hope you enjoy the latest adventure of Julianne and her friends beneath the marquis of this fictional village heritage fete, where sewing stitches represent love, new rose varieties bear Shakespearean names, and even a minor spat can lead to a deeper romantic connection between two people. But just in case cream tea and saffron buns in the tea tent aren't satisfying your appetite for lighthearted adventures, be sure to check out the next installment in the Love & Lit Library series, entitled The Shelley Poet’s Society for Secret Admirers.

  A Sewing Circle in Cornwall

  by

  Laura Briggs

  I, Julianne Rose, do not give up on a challenge, but pursue it boldly. Even if it doesn't happen to be my strong suit — even if it requires hours of struggle — I will stick it out to the last.

  Of course, that commitment is less bold at two in the morning. Sucking the tip of my finger, which is studded with pinpricks, I contemplated giving up on this particular challenge, and not for the first time.

  Rats. I reached for my scissors and snipped a row of crooked stitches, which had somehow traveled way out of my seam's boundaries. I tried using my seam puller, but succeeded mostly in pulling fibers from my fabric's weave.

  Double rats. I reached for another square from the mound in my basket, fishing around in the low light of the sofa lamp for something that didn't look like a shade of red. Something lighter surfaced — blue or green? I held them both up, trying to tell the difference, but my eyes were too bleary with fatigue to be sure.

  A soft footfall on the rug behind me. "Julianne, love, what are you doing?" Matt sounded groggy. "Haven't you slept tonight?" His voice and his rumpled dark hair proved he'd been sleeping soundly until now.

  "No?" I said. Meekly. "I just have a little to finish up, Matt. I'm sorry — did I wake you? I can turn the light down lower —" How it could possibly get lower than the 'nightlight' setting on this lamp, I hadn't a clue. "I'm coming soon, I promise." I hoped fervently that my blurry eyes did not look tear-filled to Matt, who might easily imagine me sitting here weeping over my failure.

  "You're not still working on stuff for the village fete, are you?" he asked, leaning over the sofa, his hands resting on its back. His glance landed on the fabric pieces in my hands, and the tangle of sewing supplies that appeared to be having a terrible brawl amongst themselves in my workbasket. "What is it?" he asked. "Is that a patchwork square?"

  "I just need to sew one tiny little row of stitches," I said. "It just keeps getting away from me somehow." I couldn't explain how, and I didn't want to confess to the various mistakes that had mangled the piece in my hand. "I think maybe I took the pins out a little sooner than I was supposed to."

  "Let me see." With a weary smile, Matt sank down beside me on the sofa, taking the squares from my hand and trying to unfold my mangled work. "Are my reading glasses on the table beside you, my love?"

  "Here," I said, holding them out to him. "Don't look too closely," I pleaded, embarrassed that I hadn't quite removed the damaged square from the last row. I bit my lip as Matt peered at the two new squares and the crooked seams holding together my previous row.

  "Is that your needle?" he asked, pointing to the one sticking out of my pincushions — its thread was snarled around several sewing pins. I untangled it as he spoke, and he drew it from my fingers, tying a quick knot at the bottom before stitching one of the new squares into the old one's spot.

  "You don't have to do this," I protested. "You were asleep. I'll get it after a couple more tries. Scout's honor." I held up three fingers with this statement.

  "You're exhausted," he said. "Besides, I'm not a stranger to the use of a sewing needle — I've replaced plenty of buttons on shirts and coats, and mended a few trouser hems, too." He darted the needle through the seam marks with a quickness that put to shame my previous efforts.

  "This will be a bit crooked, I'm afraid," he said, as he joined my final rows of squares to its mates. "I'm not very precise — the seam marks have rubbed off, and I merely guessed when I pinned your two rows together." He 'popped' the knot through the final stitch the way I had seen Charlotte Jones do at our sewing sessions, then handed me the finished piece.

  His row looked like perfection compared to mine. "I'm sure no one will notice the difference," I assured him, although I knew they'd notice a set of neat, straight seams close to my wandering vagrant ones. "Thank you."

  I kissed his cheek, my lips brushing against the coarse stubble on his unshaven face. I tucked the patchwork in my messy basket and crammed on its lid — or attempted it, anyway. "I'm trying not to envy your talent right now, after struggling on this for an hour."

  He laughed. "That will be a first," he said. "For you to find my sewing skills attractive."

  "You know that's not what attracts me to you," I said. I kissed his cheek again and rested my head on his shoulder. "Mmm. That feels good right now."

  "You realize what would feel even better?"

  "What?" I was thinking something romantic, dozing off a little as I nuzzled the soft fabric of Matt's blue summer pajamas.

  "Bed." He switched off the lamp beside the sofa. His arm around my shoulders gently pulled me off the sofa and steered me in the direction of pillows and blankets.

  My knight to the rescue again — without the shining armor, of course, but with the heart of a chivalrous warrior beneath that blue fleece. A heart beating beneath my palm as I curled up against him for the last few hours left before dawn.

  What would I ever do without him?

  ***

  A sea of brightly-colored squares lay heaped in the basket at my feet, all identical in size and diverse in pattern. So far, I had managed to stitch together nine of them into a toler
able-looking patchwork piece. The rest — bright blueberry prints, red flowers, green checks and Cornish tartans — were still nothing more than potential, and potential that would probably be better in the hands of anybody but me.

  I had officially joined the eclectic Ceffylgwyn Patchwork Sewing Circle this month: a group which was known somewhat endearingly as the 'patch and natter' society by non-members in the village. Like sewing, nattering wasn't my strong suit either, but I was doing my best in the mostly-female crowd, who were under the impression that my being an American automatically made me a skilled quilter.

  "I finished mine just this week," said Julie Finley, proudly. "All cat blocks, this one. I had loads of ginger scraps and midnight black left from the little horsie wall quilt I sewed for my daughter's birthday last month — from that American pattern I saw in the ladies' journal, you know."

  She spread her latest creation across Olivia Russert's farm kitchen table, displaying its patchwork cats in ginger, tabby brown, sleek black and grey, carefully appliquéd with stitches so tiny I couldn't even see them.

  We all 'oohed' and 'aahed' at the little details, the miniature butterfly and clever poppies fashioned from orange and red fabric. Julie had even stitched tiny whiskers on her cats.

  "How lovely," said Charlotte. "I like that one. The wee white cat in the center is lovely. Mine's not half as good," she sighed, spreading out her half-finished quilt.

  Hers was a masterpiece with a clever design of canning jars assembled from block and triangle patches, each one featuring a vibrant fabric. A different brown-patterned material as a dividing strip between block rows created the effect of wooden shelves or cubbies.

  "Oh, that's a proper job, love," said another member.

  Among the quilt blocks in the works by the circle's members were sailboats, compass stars, flying birds, and four patches. The theme for this month's projects was 'village life': the finished ones were destined for sale at the upcoming village fete, which was expected to be bigger than ever, thanks to extra effort from Lady Amanda's village tourism committee. Especially since the fete's organizers were even talking about having a celebrity 'master of ceremonies' for the event.

  Since the cause was a good one — raising money for an overseas refugee hospital — I was all too happy to help. Needless to say, that's how I ended up with a sewing needle between my fingers, since the local participants in the most need of help were the members of the sewing circle, who had lost two members recently to job transfers. So, in addition to helping Lady A fill out forms and write press releases, I decided to help fill the club's gap as their newest addition, crafting a four-and-nine patch to help raise funds for the cause.

  Well, maybe for the cause. With the talent I was exhibiting, it might not be worthy of joke gift status among the fete raffles' prizes.

  "Let's see ... Dovie's flying gull pattern is already finished," said Olivia, checking her list. "Mine is still being cut out ... and how is yours, love?" she said to me.

  "Oh, it's coming along," I said, brightly. "I've got a few blocks assembled."

  I didn't tell them that there were only three, and that the smallest stitches in them belonged to my husband Matt, who had tried to give me a hand in one of my desperate moments the night before. Apparently, the steady fingers necessary to position microscope slides of botanical microorganisms were more precise than my own when it came to a needle and thread.

  "Yours is a patchwork piece, isn't it?" Olivia asked, her brow wrinkling slightly — I'm sure she was wondering how such an infinitely easy pattern was beyond me.

  "Do you think that's too ... traditional?" I suggested.

  "No, no. A bit of tradition is always nice. People do love the old-fashioned at a fete."

  "Oh, yes," chimed in Charlotte.

  "Do show us," said Dovie. "We'd love to see them."

  My heart sank. "Okay," I said, trying to smile as I laid out my creations — which were slightly wrinkled from being stuffed beneath all my other squares, in addition to all the other flaws. A slight pause followed before the ladies made polite murmurs of enthusiasm.

  "The colors are quite nice, aren't they?" chirped Dovie. "All those reds and yellows."

  They were all trying to make me feel better, and if I wasn't so despairing of myself, I would probably let them. But I had three slightly-crooked blocks made after a week's try on the world's simplest quilt pattern, while Olivia was hand-embroidering muslin blocks featuring Cornwall's native plants. As I stashed the nine and four patches in my basket again, I vowed to do better next time, even if I had to stay up all night.

  After the sewing circle's meeting, I walked from the Russert farmhouse to my place of employment, Cliffs House, taking a shortcut by the walking path to the outdoor theater on the manor house's grounds. My destination, however, was the neatly-trimmed hedgerows and gardens surrounding the house, where a stone path led to the kitchen door I entered almost daily.

  Here's the place I do what I do best: plan events on behalf of a Cornish manor which has played host to everything from weddings to baking contests. Here, my accomplishments tended to impress rather than draw silence. Whether it was arranging flowers, creating seating charts, or persuading a wine club to accept a few modifications to their hors d'oeuvres menu, experience had definitely honed my skills to a razor's fine edge.

  "I think I finally sorted that piece for the journal, at long last." My employer and the lady of the manor, affectionately known as 'Lady Amanda' to all her friends and fellow villagers, had just returned from her latest errand. "The church committee was rather late in booking its entertainment, and their band just cancelled — I've had a terrible time sorting through the secretary's list of booths and performers to find the proper highlights for a press release. At times like this, I rather miss Nathan. He would have had them stepping lively by now."

  This reference to the young American event promoter formerly in our midst brought a smile to my face. There had been nothing like Nathan's enthusiasm for making any event as grand — and as public — as possible.

  "It'll be worth it if you draw the crowds you're hoping for," I answered, as I shoved my sewing basket out of sight behind the main parlor's sofa, before Lady Amanda could ask me about it. "It won't be anything like last year's fete ... not that there was anything wrong with the usual crowd."

  The usual church fete featured the usual activities at every English village fete, including Morris dancers and whack-the-rat. All good fun and all interesting for visitors, but without the originality Lady Amanda craved to make this fete stand out from any other local fairs or festivals — especially since the focus this year was on the village's Cornish traditions.

  "Of course, the rose exhibition alone will draw a decent crowd for the weekend," said Lady Amanda. "Asking the local horticultural society to host a contest was a smashing idea. I think every amateur gardener in the county has entered, and visitors from as far as London will no doubt be pouring in, eager to see the latest hybrids that a certain someone will be introducing."

  That certain 'someone' was Matt, of course. Matthew Rose, eminent professor of botany and horticulture, had brilliant gardening connections from Pencarrow to Oxford, from the elite amateur gardening societies of London to the heirloom glass houses in Edinburgh. As a favor to our friends and the village committee, he had arranged for the local South Cornwall Amateur Horticultural Society to have the honor of exhibiting several newly-developed varieties during the contests.

  "I think Matt is probably equally proud of the display on the Cornish flora preservation efforts," I said. "But he was happy to pull a few strings for you and Lord William."

  "Do you still have the number for the band Kitty once hired for the wine tasting?" Lady Amanda was consulting her pocket notebook. "The church committee is very keen on the entertainment being a bit unique. Someone has suggested something more in line with Troyls ... I was thinking a nice modern céilidh band would be a good musical choice, if they know any good Cornish folk tunes."
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  "That was a contra dance band she hired," I remarked.

  It still made me wistful to hear my former assistant mentioned, even after nearly a year without her. Kitty's adventures had taken her from Paris to New York, then back to England ... but not back to her old job here at Cliffs House, despite my secret hopes. Since then, I had gone 'assisstantless,' except for a brief few months with American intern Kate filling the gap, but the position was vacant once more with her return to the States. Somehow, I couldn't bring myself to seriously search for a full-time replacement.

  "Hmm. I wonder if the vicar knows any good Cornish folk bands — I know he's rather keen on Troyls," continued Lady Amanda. "We need something a bit better than the local players, since this is hardly a 'kitchen scuff,' is it?" She tapped her fingers against her notebook.

  The front door opened, and the estate manager Geoff Weatherby poked his head inside, tipping his cap to us. "Forgive me for interrupting, but there's a visitor to see you, your ladyship," he said. "Quite urgently, it would seem." His expression was serious.

  "Who is it?" she answered. With that, Geoff's seriousness transformed into a smile as he opened the door more fully, revealing a familiar petite girl in leggings and an oversized peasant blouse, her short, dark hair perpetually tousled in disarray — our beloved and long-absent Pippa, former Cliffs House maid now happily married and living elsewhere.

  "Pippa!" This was all I had time to exclaim before I was squeezed in an enthusiastic hug, enveloped in the scented cloud of Pippa's heavy perfume, her dangly silver wire earrings pressed against my cheek. "I can't believe you're here!"

  "It's been ages since I've seen all of you," she declared. "Goodness, the old place has changed a bit, hasn't it? Why is the hall this funny color?" She placed her hand on her hips as she surveyed it, pushing her sunglasses to the top of her head.