Chapter Two

 

The greengrocer’s print display had copies of the nearest Cornish newspaper's special weekend edition, fresh from the printer's, featuring the press conference from the Cornish Archaeological Society and a professor from the University of London.

As I suspected, the name of the lead archaeologist overseeing the investigation of the burial was announced: Doctor Elaine Pierce-Bishop, best known for her stunning excavation of an ancient tribal fortress and the burial cairns of its warrior ruler and household, dubbed the 'Real-Life Camelot' and 'Arthur and Guinevere' by the mainstream press.

I folded the paper and tucked it under my arm as I counted out my change atop the five quid I laid on the counter. "Anything else, love?" asked Honoria.

"No, thanks," I said. "See you later."

So that's why Percy had returned. Oh, Percy, why put yourself through the heartache again? To my knowledge, he hadn't seen the eminent archaeologist since the day they said farewell — the day that was supposed to be their wedding day, with the doctor and her academic team sailing away on their own instead.

A grown man of seventy-something knew his limitations, I supposed, especially one as sharp as the 'old earl'. But it wouldn't be easy to see someone again with whom you were besotted, and who announced that they loved you, but couldn't see your two lives becoming one.

Then again, maybe Percy was simply eager to try his hand at archaeology again. After all, he had been part of multiple digs in the Middle East, including one before he became friends with Elaine and her team. Maybe this was all an innocent coincidence, as opposed to an impossible coincidence.

Percy is so involved in this somehow. Why kid myself that anything else was true?

At the lending library, I perused the stacks of books on Cornish history and archaeology in the ten minutes before it closed for the librarian's tea break. Just in time, I grabbed a copy of a Miss Pickerell book I hadn't seen around my house in recent memory for my daughter's voracious reading appetite, and some random books on dinosaurs and space travel for all three of my kids, from the neighboring stacks. I curled up at home with a new book on excavations around Tintagel, ancient burials beneath rock cairns and slab tombs, and relic recovery on Scilly Island shores for a few hours, indulging in fond memories of visiting the Cornish Camelot over a year ago. It had been fun to dust off bits of pottery ... less fun to help find bones, even ones draped in ancient jewelry. And the flirtations of her annoying summer intern had been a plague I was glad to be rid of when that boat sailed away, even as I regretted the beautiful — if slightly overblown — wedding that never took place for a good friend.

At four-thirty, I heard the sound of Matt's car outside, as I poured myself a cup of tea, and, with regret, closed my binge session of Amazing Wedding Cakes. The front door opened and my herd of children stampeded in — well, two of them did. Sylvia, her dark curls in braids as thick as Paula's, if less frizzy, face red from too much excitement, Heath grungy from digging in the dirt, so one might assume his natural hair color was actually browner than mine.

"Mummy, you have to see our windows —" Sylvia began.

"Mummy, I fell in the compost heap!" announced my son, as if his overly-earthy stench and stained clothing wasn't clue enough.

"Yes, you did. When was this?" My question was for Heath, but my eye was on 'daddy', who had just closed the front door behind our third and quietest child. Matt's eye already held an apology.

"We put up vinyl tulips and daffodils over the parlor windows, then we put up pennant flags with vegetables all around the doorway," said Sylvia, continuing with her story regardless of her brother's. "It looks so nice, Mummy, and all the other kids are going to come see it in a few weeks."

"Yes, I know," I said.

"Guess what, Mummy? There was mud from the farm in the compost pile," said Heath, who didn't see this as a bad thing, I could tell.

"Oh, books! Look — there's one on planets — that's for Joel — and one on horses, and one on dinosaurs —" Sylvia was digging through the stack from the library. "What's this one about warrior queens?"

"Out of the books until after your baths, you two," I said, rescuing them from muddy hands. "Go, scurry — Heath, you're first, into the tub pronto, okay? Tea is in an hour."

"I didn't mean to fall in," said Heath, who narrowly missed brushing against our newly-reupholstered chair as he retreated. Matt dropped down in the plain wooden one for the desk — not the bird-and-vine one our son narrowly missed smudging.

"How did our son come to be covered in dirt and muck?" I asked.

"He wanted to stand on the open gate of Giles's truck to watch the local farmer offload the dirt with his tractor," said Matt. "I tried to help him down afterwards, but he was far too excited, slipped, and landed in the outskirts of the pile instead. If it's any consolation, he was having a glorious time."

"And my glorious time will be the presoaking period on those jeans?" I arched one eyebrow. Matt's smile was sheepish.

"I'll wash them," he said. "It's my turn to do laundry."

"I'm kidding, I'll do it," I said. "But don't drop any of our kids in the dirt next time, please?"

"Heath is the only real danger at present," said Matt. "Sylvia was practically born with wellies and gardening gloves on — she knows all the proper precautions mummy has about working in the garden."

"So I can trust that you emptied your trouser cuffs and dusted off your jacket, right?" I tried not to smile. I could see that Matt was guilty of forgetting this time, like many in the past — my husband might be bright, brainy, and extremely good-looking in the manner of Poldark, but tidiness was not one of his virtues. Only slightly less so than occasional snoring and playing very unfunny jokes on me without cracking a smile.

"What about Joel? Do I need to tidy his clothes, too?" I asked.

"I think he was busy with his homework," said Matt, ruefully, albeit trying to smile. Neither of us found this particular joke funny, however, because getting Joel to connect with us was ... well ... one of life's trickier challenges.

Our foster son was glued to a pocket video game at present, exactly the kind of distraction he gravitated to in order to avoid human contact. We progressed as far as getting answers to basic questions — yes, he liked books on astronomy, no, he didn't like lima beans, yes, the teacher at school was nice — but the shell around that little boy was still almost as thick as the night I found him hiding in the old cottage's attic stair.

How long would it take for him to get past the trauma? A lifetime? Never? Finding a chink of light in those thick walls was a daily process. Rare smiles and laughter were not as nonexistent as we once feared, but we still had a long ways to go.

Matt and I exchanged glances. "Did you have a good time?" I asked, receiving a shrug. "Did you help decorate the windows?"

"No. Sylvia did." Three whole words. Some days, that was a record.

"Maybe next time," I said. "Go and wash up in the kitchen for tea. You can save your bath until after dinner."

He looked up, then nodded. He went into the kitchen, and I heard the sound of tap water running. I didn't ask if he wanted to help and my daughter missed all the signals, because Joel tended to shut down when presented directly with activities. Number one complaint from Joel's teacher at present — finding anything he would do that wasn't a one-person activity.

"Not a team player today," I guessed.

"Christine from the school was there. I thought he liked her," said Matt. "I thought she would have an easy time coaxing him into participating. I think he spent the whole time looking at a schoolbook about how engines work instead."

"At least he'll be well read," I said. But Joel's grades were slipping, because information and interest traveled only one way in his world.

Matt noticed the books on the table, the topmost one on Cornish dig sites, and I reached for the paper underneath the sofa pillow, which I had been dying to show him for the past few hours. "Read the headline," I said.

He took it from me, and perused the front page. I watched him scan the lines below the big announcement. "Doctor Pierce-Bishop is heading another exploration in Cornwall?" he said.

"That's not all," I said. "We had a visitor today. Guess who dropped by?"

"Tell me it wasn't a flippant young student by the name of Dexter," said Matt, who was only half kidding.

"No," I said. "It was none other than the earl of Cliffs House himself."

"Percy?" said Matt. "Are you making a joke?"

"I'm serious. He brought the kids toys, you and me some spices that smell like smoked paprika, and says he's in town to see baby Charles for the first time. But in light of this headline, I kind of have my doubts about that story being totally truthful."

Matt folded the paper. "They parted amicably, didn't they?" he said. "But I had the impression that the doctor was rather steadfast in her decision."

I nodded. "She was," I said. "So I'm not sure exactly why Percy is turning up here. Unless he wants to be part of the excitement again." It was irresistible to someone like him, probably, so maybe he couldn't keep away from the prospect of helping uncover history in his own backyard yet again.

"Do you know the spot where the dig is taking place?" I asked.

"Pilmarro is more of a farming community than a village," he said. "There are dunes, but the sea has been reclaiming them the past few decades. I explored a few sea caves there once, with a friend who used to spelunk, and had found an entrance into one of the old tin mine's passages through one. It wasn't unheard-of to find cairns sometimes, and there's an ancient rock circle known colloquially as the 'Seven Angels' which is believed to be a druid worship site, although no one is certain of its origin."

"So you know a lot about it," I teased.

He smiled. "No. I visited it a handful of times — everyone who lives in Cornwall ends up exploring the north country at some point, if they like nature, or hiking. The rocks afford a good view, and the sea views are better than from the cliffs you love so much here."

"Don't talk such nonsense," I said, stretching lazily. The view from Cliffs House would be incomparable in my eyes until my death, even if it was a humble drop by comparison to some of Newquay's heights. "Is the dig near one of these places you're talking about?" I suspected the scant description in the article gave him a better perception of its geography than it did me, even after ten years.

"I would say it's not on the coast. Probably back beyond the dunes that the sea hasn't reclaimed, but I could be wrong," he said. "There are a lot of cavern entrances and potential tombs that would look like possible entrances to old mines — the sort of opening accidentally uncovered by a plough breaking ground or left unmarked if some cows toppled the cairn at some point."

"I think you've read these books."

"A couple of them." He reached over and looked at the books on our shelves. "There's a chapter in this one about a Bronze Age discovery. I don't think you've read it." He pulled it out and left it atop the desk. "Are you thinking about volunteering at the dig?"

"With my time? And with number four pushing for more room?" A short laugh escaped me. "They'll be swamped with volunteers this time, after the publicity from the last dig. There won't be room for all of the people who sign up. How big could it be in a burial tomb carved into a hillside."

"Bigger than you think," said Matt, mysteriously. He rose, leaning down to kiss my forehead. "How is our newest addition today?" he asked, softly.

"Growing. Feeling totally cramped," I said. "I think number four may decide to come early."

"Number three, technically," he said, softly. "I think Joel is number four in the works." But only if we could find a way to come together as a family, as we both knew — otherwise, we would feel like we were the wrong people to look after him through his uncertain future.

I laid my hand on Matt's arm, breathing out a sigh. "Number three is going to keep me from clambering in potential Bronze Age burial pits or whatever they've uncovered," I said. "But I expect we'll probably get to know more about it with Percy being around. You know he'll probably ask us to tea."

"With Doctor Pierce-Bishop and her entourage," guessed Matt.

"What do you think?" My eyebrow lifted again. Matt smiled.

"I'll go wash up," he said. "What's for tea?"

"Pasties," I said. "And some leftover lemon trifle. I'll put the pastry in the oven to reheat it soon."

"How did the call go with the social worker?" He disappeared down the hall, where I knew he was going to change out of his gardening clothes.

"Oh, you know. The usual." Assuring us that we were making progress, that being slow at it or falling behind was just how the process worked sometimes. Not to give up. She was perky while sharing the hard facts — for someone who was used to having to uproot confused children from one life to another without warning.

"Do you want chips or a salad with the pies?" I called out.

"Chips, please," called Matt.

"Chips, Mummy."

"Chips! I want chips!" called Heath.

Three out of four votes. I smiled, glad I was making someone happy with tonight's menu. Whereas the soon-to-arrive member of our family was beginning to feel some regret for today's greasy snack.

I should have eaten those carrot sticks. I patted my belly softly, feeling the protest going on inside me for one misstep.

 

_______________________

 

"I know it's not something we planned, but I think we should think about it," I said to Kitty. "Think about what it's going to be like for us in the future. I know that you're fine with bringing Tige to work, but what about when colds or influenza are passing around? You know the toll it takes on my work time when a contagion passes through my house."

Kitty shrugged. "We'll take turns like we always do," she said. "It hasn't been a problem up to now."

"With both of us having kids that could get sick?" I answered. "Besides, when the baby comes, I'll be losing even more time. I don't want us to lose business or let down clients."

Kitty tossed the dried out flowers from the church wreath two services ago into the rubbish bin. "Let's say we can afford it," she said. "Do we want another person about, even part time? It's not so much the pay, it's the training. One blunder and we could be cooked." She put this bluntly, as I expected.

"I know it could happen," I admitted. "It isn't like we'd be relying on her to step into any tasks immediately, though. We'd find out her limitations first. We're talking about having an assistant to help clean up around the barn after events, help field phone calls, do some basic decorating tasks that anybody can do, the busy work we have a hard time keeping up with."

"We're that busy, eh?" Kitty cracked a smile.

"I feel like this girl needs us," I said. "Not just for the job. She's still struggling to grow up in a lot of ways, and she could use some help getting there. She needs someone understanding in her corner. We can give her that, if nothing else."

I could see Kitty was thinking. She tucked back a loose lock of black curl, one that baby Tige had dislodged from the hair pins earlier. "So you're proposing a trial period, basically," she said.

"It couldn't hurt," I answered. "She could be really good at this, who knows? We might be relying on her to help out two weddings from now."

"What does she read at uni?" Kitty asked.

"I think something scientific," I answered, vaguely. Kitty gave me another look. "But she was good with aesthetics and organization when she worked in Aimee's shop. She used to help with the display windows, I know." At least I assumed.

Kitty stuck the metal bucket underneath the table, then wheeled Tige's baby walkabout frame away from the box with the wooden serving dishes and the rustic clay vase I had brought from my shelf at home. She straightened her back again. "If you feel that strongly about it, then we'll try her," she said.

"So the trial period is okay with you?" I said.

She shrugged. "I reckon we can take the risk this once." She pulled off her work apron. "Do you want to call her and tell her?"

"Actually, I rang her already to tell her I'd contact her today with the answer, so she said she was coming around," I said. "I couldn't change her mind, so she'll be here soon."

"All that way for an answer?" Kitty hiked one eyebrow. A short laugh followed. "Now I reckon she must be a nutter."

"More like overly-eager," I answered. "Want to stick around and meet her? Tell her the good news as a duo?"

"I have to start cleaning the barn before the photography club's exhibition," said Kitty. "You can tell her the news yourself." She reached for her diaper bag and Tige's baby carrying pouch, just as our front door jingled open. Paula had arrived, sliding her backpack to the floor. Her hair braid was messily twined as if put up in haste, and the t-shirt over her jeans was easily two sizes too big, sporting a logo for a physics club.

"Sorry," she said, gasping for breath. "I caught a ride part way, then rode my bicycle the rest of the distance." She gazed at us, a gleam of eagerness in her eyes. "Did you decide?"

I glanced at Kitty, who looked as if her suspicions were confirmed, but also looked slightly impressed. That kind of pluck was promising, right?

"Kitty this is Paula Smith, my friend Aimee's former shop assistant," I said. "Paula, this is my business partner, Kitty Menton. Event planner, businesswoman, and creative genius extraordinaire."

"Just Kitty's fine, thanks," my partner answered dryly. She shook hands with Paula. I could still sense some wariness, however. Paula didn't look like the best investment we could make, but I hoped that we were looking at a diamond in the rough, possibly. Or at least a cubic zirconium.

"So ... did you decide?" Paula glanced at me, then Kitty, then back. "About the job?"

"We've decided to give you a short period of trial," I said. "We'd like you to come work with us for a few weeks and see if it works for us all."

Her face lit up. "Oh, thank you," she said. "I promise, I'll work hard and make you glad you gave me this chance. I'm really hardworking, you'll see — I can learn to do anything you need me to do."

"How about we start with something simple?" I suggested. "Like answering the phone? I have an appointment with our client today, and Kitty's setting up for our next event. Usually we close our office, but if you're willing to answer the phone and take messages — and field the occasional villager with a juicy gossip story — then you can start now."

"I can do that," she said, quickly. "Can I start now, then?" Another glance between us.

"Go on," said Kitty. "We have to start somewhere." She hoisted Tige in her arms, the baby bag on her shoulder. "Just take messages, don't put any appointments in the diary."

"We'll be back later this afternoon, sometime after lunch," I said. "Think you can handle things until then?"

"Of course," said Paula, nodding — although a little less eagerly than before. "I'll be fine." She sat down on the tall stool with the woven back that was behind our reception desk. She folded her hands on her lap, trying to look as if she fit in, mostly looking stiff and awkward.

"It's okay to read," I said. Relief lifted like clouds rising, as Paula reached into the back pocket of her jeans and produced a book — something with Isaac Asimov's name on its cover. "Just remember to put it down when the bell or the phone rings, okay?"

"Okay," she nodded.

The door shut behind Kitty and I. "Are you sure about this?" she asked me.

"Sure," I answered. "It's just a few phone calls, right?"

Kitty's eyebrow flickered again. "Don't think we'll be asking her to take the lead on some wedding tasks anytime soon?" she said. Typical Kitty humor.

"You never know," I answered, mysteriously. As if.

"I'd better go if I don't want to be late." I checked the time. "I'll text you if there are any problems, but I don't expect anything to come up."

"Good thing, because mobile reception is terrible right now," Kitty reminded me.

The local florist Marian Jones did many of our arrangements for events, but spring was a busy time for her due to the local festival, so I had arranged for the biggest floral arrangements to be finished by a shop in Truro, and I had promised to show our bride the final product, as seen in my sketches.

Because we wanted to create things inspired by the love of animals and the vibrancy of nature, I had chosen blossoms with appropriate names and character, adding generous splashes of baby's breath in both white and pink to add height and width without creating an overwhelming clash of colors. The florist had put together the sample bouquet, from which multiple identical ones would be created — it was only up to us to provide the right vases for displaying them.

As I climbed out of my car, I pulled up my mobile videochat app to connect my call with the bride-to-be Jennet Julian — wellborn and a renowned marine biologist, who was engaged to Clement Summers, who ran a successful financial firm in France. It hadn't taken me long to spot the theme that would suit their wedding, since our first meeting took place at a habitat for rescued and retired big game cats, ones either born or bred in captivity. Pictures of cheetahs, elephants, elk, and penguins decorated the walls of her office space, too, like a homage to endangered animals from all parts of the globe.

The Bold and the Beautiful Bouquet Arrangements was a lot more sophisticated than Ceffylgwyn's typical business, but the arrangements, while beautiful, couldn't best Kitty when it came to creativity and imagination. I kept my hand in by trading off with her when it came to designs, which is why she let me handle a job as 'easy' as this one — a joke which made me roll my eyes.

I pushed the app button and waited until my bride appeared — pale, light brown, almost fawn-colored hair, and blue eyes. She was tall and thin, with typical English features and her straight hair unfussily pinned back, like in all the photos of her with rescued animals, and the ones from the rehabilitation center in Africa. She greeted me with a smile and a wave.

"Julianne," she said. "I'm sorry for being late, I had a meeting to finish details for the charity gala."

"No problem," I said. "Is everything going to plan? If you need some free advice or help, you can always ask."

The charity event she spoke of was taking the place of a formal engagement party for the couple — they decided to use that gathering and those funds to promote their nonprofit, arranging to hold it shortly before the wedding itself. We weren't part of the planning, and I imagined that the London board of directors probably had some very capable assistants on tap.

"It's coming along quite well," she answered. "It was only the typical questions about the menu that always come up. No one knows better than a wedding planner what those can be like."

"Of course," I said. "Is Clement joining us?" The groom didn't always participate in the conversations, but he had live chatted with me a couple of times regarding their details about departing the reception on horseback and riding to the nearby country house belonging to Jennet's uncle, where they planned to change and depart for the honeymoon.

"Not today, because he has a meeting with the board," she answered. "The grand unveiling will be for me only, I'm afraid."

"Are you ready?" I said.

"Of course," she answered, laughing. "End my suspense, please."

I turned the camera lens to the bouquet the floral artist had placed on the display table for me. With the baby's breath, I had paired tiger lilies in orange and yellow, gazing downwards to show off their black stems and the black bead pods, along with the double tiger I fondly referred to as the 'lyger' lily. I paired them with yellow, pink and orange crocosmia known as 'falling stars', and larger upright speckled orange lilies that captured the same beauty as the tiger ones, and African daisies in orange and pink. Dark green floral blades, flat as spears, decorated the base of the flower bouquet, which the florist had put in the rustic large clay jar I brought, with its simple wood tones.

I head the little inward rush of breath. "I love it," she said. "It's simply perfect. I love how simple it is. What a brilliant color pairing — and the vase. Where did you find it?"

"It's mine, actually," I admitted. "Something my husband was given years ago by an old farming family. It used to hold milk, but these days it mostly holds flowers."

"I can't wait to see them on the tables," she said. "I can't wait to see them with my bouquet."

"Well, it will take a little more work for that," I laughed. "The tiger lilies have to be specially trimmed, because a full stalk overwhelms the vase, and that means we have to have more than the normal amount, and the bridal bouquet is still a work in progress." Jennet wanted one that was small, but vibrant, so I had chosen spotted leopard liles and Incan lilies in shades of orange and bright pink, with egret flowers and a hint of white baby's breath on miniature stalks, making a close, tight cluster of stunning flowers. Short, bright green blades traveled vertically around the stems, tied with green floral twine.

"It's absolutely fitting," she said. "I'll send a screenshot to Clement so he can see it. He'll say the same, as if he really cares about what sort of flowers we have. He's only interested in two details — the champagne and the horses." She laughed.

"I'm glad you like them," I said. "I'll see you at the church before the end of the week, right?"

"I'll be there," she answered. "I'm coming down to my uncle's house as soon as I can, and we'll meet then. I'd love for you to see the old family house."

"Sounds good," I said. "Let me know when you and Clement are available and I'll clear my schedule." I made a note on my phone about penciling in extra time to visit the house that the bride's family owned in the country, probably after the meeting over the marquee's spot. Probably it would only be me, but maybe I should bring Paula along for the experience. It's never too soon to start, I thought.