With their lives exactly what they’ve always dreamed, Matt and Julianne await the arrival of the third member of their family — but their happiness is threatened when their landlady Mathilda announces her intention to sell their beloved Rosemoor Cottage for an impossible value. Devastated, Julianne struggles to accept the cold reality of her and Matt making their home elsewhere.
Matt’s life has taken a new turn as he finally puts aside his academic work to pursue his gardening hobby as a career: his first new job as a landscape designer involves neglected Penwill Hall’s ‘lost’ garden — one with a truly romantic Cornish past. But the task of restoring its legendary beauty from nearly seventy years ago proves difficult among the ruins lost in weeds and wilderness.
With notions of secret gardens and wartime stories echoing in her thoughts, Julianne is determined to help Matt and the estate’s new owner after the discovery of a hidden mural in the hall itself, depicting a breath-taking garden that may well be the lost one. Her efforts to uncover the past lead her to a curmudgeonly local gardener who just may hold the knowledge that would restore the ‘lost garden’ to its former glory. Will Julianne’s quest help her find a way to deal with losing the home she loves?
Hellos and farewells abound as Dinah returns to lend a helping hand at Cliffs House and Julianne relives her favourite memories of her and Matt’s beloved cottage in Book Twelve — the final installment in the bestselling series A WEDDING IN CORNWALL.
Purchase Link – http://smarturl.it/agardenincornwall
Thanks so much to Felicia for letting me share about my latest book with her readers here on Nesie’s Place! It’s called A Garden in Cornwall and is the final installment in a series of twelve novellas about American event planner Julianne’s adventures living in Cornwall. In this scene, Julianne and her husband Matt are discussing his latest job, which involves restoring a forgotten garden among the ruins of an old castle. Which somehow leads to the topic of possible names for their yet unborn baby!
I sighed, and settled more closely against him. “I wonder what the castle’s name was, when it was still standing,” I said. “Before it became part of the ‘ruins garden.'”
“We’ll never know,” said Matt. “Not unless someone finds a very antiquated map of Cornwall which happens to reveal it. Although that seems almost as likely at this point as finding a photo of the garden seventy years ago.”
“Does the garden have Cornish heath in it?” I asked.
“I’m afraid not,” said Matt. “Only some lady’s smock in a very small patch. We’re outside the heath’s territory on those grounds, by the realities of both geography and agriculture.”
“A pity,” I said. I felt Matt’s cheek rest against my head.
“You know,” he said. “Heath really would be a decent name for a boy.”
“Wouldn’t it?” I said. “I think Marigold would be a nice name for a girl. It makes me think of the garden. Of the ones you picked for me when I first came here.”
“Of course … Marigold Rose,” he pointed out.
“So?” I said. “I can think of worse names to be stuck with.”
I felt his smile even though I couldn’t see it, the soft movement of his cheek against my hair. “I had forgotten about those marigolds,” he said. “I had an abundance of them in pots. The lady’s smock was in the trench box on the far side of the hothouse that year, where I was propagating more of it for the preservation group.”
“You raided your special stash just for me?” I said. “I’m touched.”
“You were worth it.” He kissed the top of my head. “Where is the list of names?” he asked. “I’ll write these down if you like.”
“Not yet,” I said. “I’m too comfy to let you go,” I said, wrapping my arms around him. “It’s been a long day and we both have to work tomorrow. Let’s just stay here for awhile, and doze off before our tiny fire.”
“I’m not sleepy,” said Matt, chuckling. “Of course, I’m not the one carrying a small entity which relies on me to eat and breathe, either. But if you want me to stay here, I will.” He placed his hand over the baby’s presence beneath my white blouse, fingers moving gently with this touch. “Shall I tell you a bedtime story?” he asked.
“Sure. Tell me more about the garden,” I said. A bedtime story from my childhood, the locked garden of roses and spring crocus and daffodils, slumbering alive beneath the thick blanket of dead leaves.
“I think I told you almost every detail in the car,” he said.
“You must have missed something,” I murmured. “Describe it for me. I won’t see it until Saturday, but I want to picture it in the meantime.”
I felt Matt settle against me more comfortably. “You’ve seen the path to it already from the hall’s windows, but if you follow it into the glen, then climb to the top of the hill that overlooks the partly-dug pond in the field, you see the first stones over the grass on the land rise,” he began. “It’s not wild grass, but a domesticated variety that wrapped itself around the former cornerstone of the castle … ”
I wasn’t drowsy enough to fall asleep, so Matt’s bedtime story only transported me away to the images I had seen of the hall’s famous garden. Curled up on our comfy but stiff old sofa, with the scent of Matt’s garden flowers in the mantel vase in the air and the quiet creak of our house settling, even sleep couldn’t make me more content than I already felt.
Author Bio – Laura Briggs is the author of several lighthearted romance novels and novellas, including the bestselling Amazon UK series A Wedding in Cornwall. She has a fondness for vintage-style dresses (especially ones with polka dots), and reads everything from Jane Austen to modern day mysteries. When she’s not writing, she enjoys spending time with family, caring for her pets, going to movies and plays, and trying new restaurants.
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