A Romance in Cornwall Read online

  "Just a minute or two ago," I said. "A dingy, white dog, sort of tall and thin. Is he yours?" I noticed she was carrying a leash — no, not a leash, but the 'slip rope' noose used for catching dogs.

  "Blast!" said Rosie. "I missed him again." She scowled and pushed back the hood of her coat. "No one can catch him, it seems. I've been trying two weeks now. Wallace has tried, even Geoff Weatherby from the estate. He's an artful dodger, this one."

  "A stray, I take it," said Matt, offering Rosie a smile of greeting, momentarily abandoning his search for his missing notes. "I'm sorry, Rosie. Had I realized, I would have tried to catch him for you."

  "Seems someone dumped him along the shore a couple of weeks ago," said Rosie. "Imagining he can eat fish heads and live like a king — as if anybody here is gutting fish, much less tosses enough remains to keep a poor old dog alive. Bad enough the number of cats I've found starving here, without a big dog joining their ranks." Rosie, the 'crazy cat lady' ran the local homeless pets' shelter, which had been overrun lately with unwanted kittens and alley cats.

  "I tried to make friends, but he eluded me," I told her. "He's over —" But where I pointed, the spot where two little boys had been chasing him a moment ago, there was no sign of a dog. "That's funny. He was right there."

  "That's him, all right," said Rosie. "I suppose I'll keep looking. He can't disappear every time I track him ... he's not a phantom prowling the fields of Bodmin Moor." She stuffed her hands in her pockets and shivered. "Cool rain doesn't help matters. I think my raincoat canvas is leaking." She trudged on.

  "Poor doggie," I said. "I hope Rosie catches him. Maybe I should leave the biscuit, in case he comes back this way."

  "The shorebirds will make short work of it before our shaggy friend has a chance," said Matt. "Don't worry, my love. Someone will catch him before long. We and Rosie are not the only people he'll meet along this beach."

  It was true that it wasn't the 'remote, windswept' location typical of the romance novels we'd been talking about, where the two of us could be alone together. There were plenty of other people here today, on this strip of land that was hardly the best example of Cornwall's famous beaches, being too near the docks. Nevertheless, there were plenty of local children collecting shells here, along with fishermen tending to boats near the docks, and joggers keeping up their heart rates and avoiding what little traffic occupied the village roads.

  Where we stood on this natural bend of sand and stone, the docks themselves were distantly within sight: where fishing shacks and boathouses turned grey beneath the influence of rain like the shower now sprinkling us, and the ever-present spray of salt water and wind from the sea. There, boats lay moored, from personal fishing vessels to the occasional sailboat, or the nicely-painted 'pleasure cruise' vessels like Wallace Darnley's boat, converted into a scenic water taxi for tourists.

  It might not be the most picturesque point along the village shore, but it hadn't changed, and, for a moment, I felt as if I had never left. It didn't change the fact that Kitty was gone, or that Edwin could now walk and say several words — at least one of which his mother was desperately trying to erase from his vocabulary — but it made me feel better.

  "I must have lost my book," Matt groaned, who had searched his satchel thoroughly after patting his last pocket. "Blast! It's my fault for being careless. Now I wish I had made copies of those observations into my spare." He carried a second, smaller notebook in the opposite pocket — one which I had guiltily doodled little flowers in at one point this afternoon.

  "You probably left it on the driftwood log where we were sitting earlier," I said. "Wait here and I'll go fetch it." I walked back up the beach in search of the spot where Matt and I had shared a snack earlier this afternoon, leaving him to fish slimy green plants from the waves.

  In my letters home, I describe the sea air as 'bracing' when it rolls in, although the air close to the docks had a decidedly fish-and-petroleum flavor to it today. I sucked in a deep breath, wanting to laugh as I imagined it being described in a romance novel. 'The breeze carried the rank odor of fish caught and gutted long ago. Of leaky, greasy boat motors from the vessels tied to posts, bobbing in waves as grey as dishwater...' Yes, that would paint quite the picture for readers, wouldn't it?

  Last week, on a tour in Cliffs House, Gemma and I thought we had spotted the novelist in a crowd of tourists, but we couldn't be certain. Our speculations on a famous writer taking this place for inspiration had become a kind of game. So imagine my surprise when I reached the driftwood log and found Rowena St. James close by.

  I was sure that was the identity of the woman walking along the beach. She looked just like the picture on the book jacket at home. Sandy blond curls, a few lines in her face as the result of fifty-odd years or so. Calm features and dark eyes, broad shoulders and a medium height, but with active, feminine grace in her movements.

  She paused to pick up a shell — not a gorgeous one, since it had broken along the rocks — then tossed it out to sea again. Then she noticed me, and I felt embarrassed — she probably had lots of people recognizing her, and hated making awkward conversation with her readers.

  Don't say anything, Julianne. I gave her a friendly smile as I retrieved Matt's notebook. "Hi," I said. "Nice day, isn't it?" I pretended that the cool rain pattering against my coat was a circumstance of the moment only.

  She glanced around. "Not exactly the atmosphere my hostess described," she said. "She said I would find a rather attractive beach to comb, but I seem to have taken a wrong turn ... then again, maybe it's just the drizzly day making it seem a bit dull."

  "You're just in the wrong spot," I said. "The best beach is about half a mile from here." I pointed far in the distance, where a beach curved gently away from the cliffs' lowest point — the beach where I was married, actually. "If you follow it as far as you can, you'll strike against a pretty small land strip at the base of the cliffs, so be careful if you go that far. But if you're a shell collector, you'll find the best specimens on the wide shore. There are fewer rocks to break them, and the sand's gorgeous."

  "Thank you," she said. And hesitated. "Are you visiting Cornwall also? You seem to know this place, so you've been here a few more days than I have, it would seem."

  "No," I smiled. "I'm a lucky resident now. I work at the manor up on the cliffs. I'm just out for a walk with my husband." I pocketed Matt's notebook, seeing the writer had a similar one in her own pocket. No doubt full of ideas for her next love story.

  "An American transplant," she said, thoughtfully. I wondered if she was storing away that fact for a future story, and shivered. Goosebumps for imagining a piece of me in a fictional love story.

  "Enjoy the beach," I said. "Maybe it will be better weather tomorrow." I turned to walk away, feeling glad I'd managed not to gush about her story, as my first instinct would have led me.

  "Thank you," she said. "You've been most kind." She sounded relieved — no doubt thinking she'd dodged a bullet by meeting a non-fan.

  I waited until I was a few more paces away to glance back. "Love your books, by the way," I called quickly, without stopping. I caught only a glimpse of her surprise, and imagined how thrilled Gemma would be to hear about this.

  She'll be spending her days off on the beaches, too, I thought. But I'll bet she's spending it with romantic thoughts, and won't be labeling little bottles of slime. I realized it bore a striking resemblance to the afternoons I'd spent with Matt along Seattle's shores, which made me feel strangely sad and out of place once again.

  ***

  "If you'll step this way, you'll see the china presented by Lady Musgrove on the wedding of her eldest son and estate heir in eighteen forty-seven," said Lady Amanda. "Quite exquisite — the place setting has been presented for several prominent estate occasions, including weddings, and a dinner attended by a certain lead singer of a famous rock band."

  "Oooh," responded several tourists, who followed her through the dining room's passages. Spring meant th
e return of visitors on days Cliffs House hosted public tours. Lady Amanda frequently conducted them whenever she wasn't too busy with baby Edwin or with her thriving local P-R business, but Gemma was almost as experienced at relating Cliffs House's long history and lineage.

  I was on my way to my office when I noticed a tourist lingering behind the others. There was no mistake about it — it was the writer from the beach. At the same time, she noticed me, and gave me a little wave and smile.

  "I thought I might see you here," she said, as I approached. "When we met on the beach, you said you worked at the manor."

  "That's right," I said. "Were you ... wanting to see me?"

  "If it's not a bother," she said. "You see, I don't know anyone else in this part of Cornwall, and I'm completely lost here. Even the hostess at the inn hasn't been able to give me any idea of what I'm looking for. Then I thought of you — someone who has been a newcomer in the past — and wondered if you could direct me to some of the places I need."

  "I'd be happy to help," I said, feeling completely flattered. I imagined that Gemma would faint dead away if she were present. "What place are you looking for?"

  "Someplace romantic," she said. "A place that would speak to my readers. I'm looking for something to inspire me ... and, frankly, I didn't find it on the beach yesterday."

  I laughed. "You were suffering one of Cornwall's drizzly spring days," I said. "What's your story about? Maybe I could suggest a place that would fit the location." I crossed my fingers — I was going to learn the plot extra-early, and this was a first.

  "There is no story — yet," she said. "This is the very beginning. That's why I need inspiration so badly, you understand. I was hoping perhaps for a list of places ... or maybe even a guide, if you know someone who would give me a tour of the place."

  A guide? I hadn't a clue, unless she wanted to rent Wallace Darnley's boat for a few hours — or have starry-eyed Gemma lead her around.

  "And also," she said, "I would like to know which delightful shop in your village sells these." She held up the second half of one of our complimentary biscuits — Michael's honey walnut recipe.

  "Come with me," I said. "I'll introduce you to the baker personally."

  She looked grateful as she accepted a cup of tea from Michael. "Thank you," she said. "I left without having a cuppa this morning. I thought inspiration might strike with the dawn." She smiled at us all.

  "I can make you two dozen biscuits tomorrow," said Michael. "And some sandwiches, if you like cucumber. Will that be enough?"

  "Perfect," she said. "I only have two guests. My assistant and my editor. She's the one who's eager for the next book — my editor. We're having a working meeting of sorts, and I was rather hoping for a picnic in a place that would appear in the book itself. Of course, I haven't chosen it yet." She laughed. "I'm in desperate need of help, as you can clearly see."

  Gemma looked as if Daniel Craig was seated at our table, her eyes wide with adoration for the novelist. She had found an excuse to be in the kitchen, polishing silverware, but she had been polishing the same piece for two minutes. As for Michael, he had the same stern expression as always, which must have caused his kitchen staff in France to tremble.

  "Are you really writing a book about Ceffylgwyn?" Gemma asked.

  "I'm afraid I don't know the answer to that yet," said Rowena. "But I'm hoping this place will be the one. I felt inspired when I first visited the Lizard, and took a boat to the Isles of Scilly for a day. It was breathtaking — I was only a tourist, but the moment I saw it, I told myself 'this is the kind of place where a story belongs.' It was absolutely a breakthrough moment. I knew then I would write a story about the coast. Of course, I was living in America at the time, so it was New England's coast I wrote about ... still, it was the beginning of everything, as they say."

  "And you felt that in Ceffylgwyn?" I said, pouring myself a cup of tea. I thought of her expression on the beach yesterday and felt a little surprised.

  "I have to feel it somewhere," said Rowena, with a smile. She took a long sip of tea. "Of course, it won't be your village per se, if I do. More the spirit of the place, transplanted to a fictional location in my mind." She smiled again, as if aware that this statement could sound either silly or logical, depending upon how you interpreted the 'artistic spirit.'

  "So how'd you become a writer?" asked Gemma. "Did you just decide to do it? Or had you always wanted to be one? Do you think anybody could learn to do it?" This string of impulsive questions left no space for answers from the author.

  "Do you want to do it?" asked Rowena.

  Gemma was struck speechless for a moment. "Well...maybe I had an idea, once," she said, dropping her gaze suddenly to the spoon she was polishing, as her voice dropped somewhere between nonchalance and mumbling. "I used to write a bit for the school mag ... well, the one issue we printed, anyway. And there's something about telling love stories, you know."

  "Readers can never have enough," said Rowena, with a mysterious smile. Gemma drew a deep breath, and I wondered if she was picturing herself writing a novel every bit as successful as Rowena's first one.

  Michael filled out one of the catering orders — the manor's kitchen was the word in gourmet cuisine in Ceffylgwyn — unless you ate at the Silver Perch, which was overpriced and not nearly as good as Michael's cooking, in my opinion. Biscuits, cucumber sandwiches, and his special French savory spread that could bring tears to the eyes of even the snobbiest diners. Rowena's friends were lucky indeed.

  "Now all I need is a spot to entertain them," said Rowena. "You've all been so kind. And you're so obviously fond of your village, surely you have a suggestion? Someplace remote and beautiful, and very atmospheric?"

  "There's the wood," said Michael. He tacked the order to his recipe board. "It has atmosphere."

  "The wood?" said Gemma. "The one practically in our back garden? It's so small — especially since the stage in the clearing seems so big."

  "Not that one," scoffed Michael. "I mean the high timber behind the old cottage. Lord William mentioned it just yesterday. The ruins of an old barn and his aunt's home are in the clearing."

  I knew the woods he referred to. Unlike the grove close to the manor's back garden, it was a deep, lush forest, one with plenty of old timber and a hush that would surely make a nice setting for a romantic story. Maybe another one about an artist ... a visiting American, even.

  "You're not serious?" said Gemma.

  "It's remote," he said. "Nobody goes there, except the woman from the bird society and her friends. It's a nice place." He cut open a tomato. "I hunt mushrooms there sometimes. Dark, green, cool..."

  "It sounds delightful," said Rowena, excitedly. "You know, I've never done a book about the woods. Where is it?"

  "It's close by," I said. "It's part of the estate's grounds. I've been there before, and it is a beautiful spot, Michael's right. There's lots of wildlife, and probably all kinds of plants and mossy logs and rocks." I thought of the Belgian forest where Constance Strong accepted her husband Joseph's beautiful proposal, one which sounded much like the spot Michael was describing now.

  "Not there," muttered Gemma. We looked at her.

  "Why not?" I asked. "You've been there before, haven't you?" I imagined that Gemma must have played there as a kid, since I knew the youth of the village tended to explore every spot in the countryside.

  "It's just ... that wood is sort of ... haunted," supplied Gemma, hesitantly. She looked embarrassed. "Well, it is. At least that's what people used to say about it."

  "Haunted," breathed Rowena. "That sounds very promising." She looked thoughtful. "I hadn't considered a haunted wood for a story. That could be highly romantic." She tapped her pen against her lips — I noticed her little notebook was open. "Don't you think so?"

  "I've never heard the woods are haunted," I said to Gemma. "Did someone die there?" I pictured the ghost of Lady Warrington roaming the forest surrounding the old barn where her beloved 'treasures' had be
en stored for the last decade or two.

  "You know what it's called," said Gemma, glancing at both Michael and me. "It's the Piskie Wood. It's — it's where the little people live."

  We exchanged glances. "What are the — the piskies?" asked Rowena, puzzled. "Are you referring to some sort of fairy?"

  She wasn't a Cornish native, I presumed by those words. "They're Cornish pixies," I said. I only knew this because of Matt's books on local lore, which had been my first true Cornish literature after coming here. "That's the colloquial term for them."

  "I see," she said. "That could certainly be romantic, couldn't it? Fairies in the forest? Sounds charming to me. A forest of myths ... I'll call it Love's Lost Legend, perhaps, if I write it."

  "Not with pixies," said Gemma, making a face. "Pixies are troublemakers, tricksters in the old tales, you know. They're not exactly Titania in A Midsummer Night's Dream. They can be awful."

  "Childish nonsense," muttered Michael. "Talk sense, please." Gemma glared at him.

  "Maybe it is, but you're not from around here," she said. "When I was a kid, the old stories were silly enough, but that wood makes you believe them. It goes all quiet in there ... and you think maybe there's something else there." She shuddered. "I never played in it, and half the kids in the village were the same. Nobody who reads a love scene set in that spot would find it romantic."

  "Hmm," said Rowena. Her brow furrowed slightly.

  "But you're an adult, Gemma," I said. "I know you don't actually believe in fairies anymore. Or ghosts, or supernatural tricksters wandering around in the woods." I imagined some very sinister pixies lying in wait for unsuspecting schoolchildren — it seemed less magical painted in Gemma's tones, like the prelude to a horror film about supernatural manifestations.

  "Of course not," she said. "It's only the stories make it seem like a weird place. Nobody goes there to snog or anything. You hear all kinds of noises the deeper you walk into the shade."