A Stargazy Night Sky

  A Stargazy Night Sky

  By Laura Briggs

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2020 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: “Stargazing in Port Hewer.” Original art, “Lighthouse. Dusk, goal.,” by Festiven, and “Fashionable young girls” by Filitova. Used with permission. http://www.dreamstime.com/

  Dear Readers,

  A crisp Cornish autumn finds Maisie still basking in the glow of her love for groundskeeper Sidney Daniels, the two of them officially a couple after the dramatic events of the summer finally swept aside the barriers keeping them apart.

  Being with Sidney is better than Maisie could have imagined, and she can’t wait to see what the future holds for them…even if she does still harbor a few doubts about his rather uncertain past. The secrets he hasn’t shared with her yet have left only a little doubt between them, although Maisie will find herself again grappling with questions about the life—and the love—he supposedly left behind.

  But, for the moment, Maisie is enjoying the romantic passion she avoided so hard in the past, and her trust in Sidney is still strong, despite the fact those questions will have to be answered, of course. And as readers no doubt suspect, the truth will most likely throw a spanner into the works of their ongoing ‘happily-ever-after’.

  And speaking of romantic dilemmas, the shy maid Molly has her own to deal with as the celestial convention at the hotel heralds the return of George, the handsome young astronomer whose smile does funny things to her heart. The embers between them still glow from his visit the previous autumn, but Molly lacks the confidence to take the next step, and even advice from a concerned Maisie doesn’t seem to help matters. The porters are distracted by the presence of a mysterious, beautiful, and seemingly wealthy new guest, while the unexpected arrival of Maisie’s former writing mentor Megs Buntly (a.k.a, the fake Alastair Davies) brings her an opportunity she thought she’d lost forever—though whether or not she wants to take it anymore is another matter entirely.

  The penultimate book in the series brings more surprises, more secrets, and a twist ending that will have readers asking what happens for Maisie and Sidney next. So read on, enjoy the drama, the romance, and the big revelations yet to come as A LITTLE HOTEL IN CORNWALL nears its eighth and final installment.

  A Stargazy Night Sky

  by

  Laura Briggs

  Ripening autumn brought the first shades of russet brown and sunshine yellow to the foliage of Port Hewer's trees, and slowed the growth rate of the grass that Sidney was supposed to be mowing for the vicarage graveyard as soon as he finished repairing the old fence between it and the field.

  Instead, he was sitting on one of the ruined rails as I lay across an old blanket spread over the gold and green waves, teaching me the lines to another Scottish song, this one Battlefield Band's 'Whaur Will We Gang?' Chosen purely, he explained, because it was the only Celtic tune to his knowledge that mentioned a bikini.

  Previous selections included songs about skinny dipping, the devil, and various trips to the fair. I struggled to come anywhere close to the brogue that Sidney mimicked so naturally as we sang our way through proposed marriages from Paris to Polynesia, until my tongue stumbled over itself on the Scottish slang in Verona's lines.

  "I can never get it right," I said, giving up as I fell back on the blanket. "I can't twist my accent the way you do. Clearly I haven't watched enough Sean Connory movies. Whereas you sound like a native."

  "It takes practice," he coaxed. "Besides, I wouldn't pass in Edinburgh. It only sounds that way to you because you're an American." He moved aside my paperback copy of Washington Irving's short stories and flopped down beside me.

  "So where would you plight your eternal troth, given the choice of anywhere in the world?" he asked. The breeze stirred the curl in his short, careless sandy hair as he propped himself on one elbow. His ratty white cotton shirt and work trousers had grass stains on them, and his boots were smeared with mud, so he was careful to keep them off the blanket.

  "I don't know. I think the song's lyrics are too exaggerated for the likes of us, even in pretend," I said. "You don't get crabby in the rain. In fact, you're the opposite." Sidney was impervious to the weather, the sort who went out without his waterproof in rainstorms, and neglected his hat and gloves on chilly days.

  "And you look very decent in a bikini," returned Sidney, with a grin.

  "I could say the same about you in your swim trunks," I answered, saucily. "I suppose I would take Verona over the Polynesian Islands anyway, even if poor Romeo and Juliet were doomed. But I don't have a place I've always pictured when it comes to love. For me, it's not about the place so much as the feelings." Fantasies about magical proposals in far-off places hadn't captured my imagination deeply in the past, but maybe it was because I had never been deeply in love before.

  "Where do you picture it?" I asked.

  "I've never thought about it before," said Sidney. "But I've never had the occasion to try, either."

  "Same here," I answered. My ex-boyfriend Ronnie had never given our romance serious consideration — not compared to documenting the nests of the red-crested hawk. I twigged that early in our relationship.

  "You've never had the occasion to propose to a girl?" Sidney teased. "It's no use asking you for advice, then." And waited for me to smack him with my paperback, so I only rolled my eyes.

  "Where do you imagine plighting your troth?" I asked. "Are you for Polynesia, or for Paris? Tea or stately dinner?"

  He picked one of the long-stemmed blooms from a clump of grass, the miniature 'star flowers' that were probably some kind of seed pod in reality, rolling the green stem into a loop around his thumb. "Sometimes I wish it didn't have to be any of those elaborate things," he said. "That it could be just two people joining hands, a witness or two, and someone vested with the solemn power to hear their vows. The closest it can be to having two people before God and not another soul to intrude."

  "It sounds very hallowed," I answered. "Like a ceremony held in some ancient holy place." I hadn't expected this from Sidney, but I had not been thinking of his serious side being as much a part of it as the rest of him.

  "The only time you should be completely serious is for talking about anything so solemn and sacred as eternal love," he answered. "But we have to make do with some formalities for the sake of society, so we settle for the next best thing. Cake and Polynesian honeymoons." Now his grin was returning. He rolled over to face me and held the tight flower loop between his thumb and forefinger like a ring as he took my left hand.

  "So what do you say to my proposal, Maisie Clark?" he asked. "Would you accept my plight of troth in the future, for better or for worse?"

  "But of course," I answered, as I pretended to swoon dramatically for his request, one hand across my forehead.

  "I fear this sign of my devotion is much too conventional in taste for either of us, but it will have to do at present," he said.

  I felt the green stem settle around my finger, where it was a surprisingly good fit. The flower ring felt almost real, and, suddenly, this moment between us felt almost real, even with us both laughing. My hand in Sidney's, the look in his eye becoming something a little more tender as our laughter faded. This was possibly how it could be someday, humor and all. That future gave me unexpected goose
bumps — and then Mrs. Graves's voice broke through.

  "Sidney! Where are you?" she called from across the distance. "Ewan McGregor's been digging my tulip bulbs again!" Sidney's latest rescued dog, a shaggy dachshund mix, was a voracious tunneler when it came to the vicar's housekeeper's flower bulbs.

  "Rats. I'll have to put it right." He kissed my cheek, then scrambled to his feet, gathering up his tool bag from the blanket's corner. He climbed over the fence, waving farewell to me before he took off in the direction of the vicarage.

  I watched until he disappeared into the graveyard, then rolled on my back, staring up at the cloudless blue sky above, as the sensation of his lips lingered against my skin. I turned the little woven green band around my finger. The star-shaped flower pointed up, resembling a tiny diamond.

  The one-eyed terrier Kip had been digging in search of a field mouse all this time, now pulling his shaggy little snout from the hole. He trotted to the blanket, sniffing where Sidney had been before giving me an enthusiastic tongue swipe across the cheek.

  My shriek of protest didn't save me from that muddy kiss, which washed away the last traces of Sidney's, before Kip bounded under the fence rails in pursuit of him.

  ____________________

  The hotel Penmarrow's future was still undecided, which meant it was still for sale. By now, its owner the hotel mogul Ms. Claypool was shedding all her small properties in preparation for wedded bliss at her five-star Alpine hotel ... if the architect ever finalized its plans, that is. But the grand former manor house by the sea seemed no different for its precarious state of being, except for the thought which lingered for all its staff, of a future in which the manager Mr. Trelawney was deposed and the elegant surroundings were ripped out for something modern. While Ms. Claypool hadn't intended to plant this idea among us, it had taken root on its own.

  I say 'us' because I continued to think of myself as part of staff months after I had come back as a part-time dining room server only. But the manager's kindness had taken pity on me once again, despite the initial fibs and misunderstandings when I first came that took me from hotel guest to newly-hired maid on a covert mission to find one of England's most reclusive — and talented — authors. Because that's what a desperate young writer might do when the door to their best chance just slammed in their face, although it's far too crazy for me to ever recommend another trying.

  Note to self: never assume a false name and a no-show employee's identity just to blend in. It creates terrible feelings of guilt, an incredible sense of obligation, and may lead to romantic complications.

  Autumn had brought the last busy wave of tourists washing into the Penmarrow's hilltop harbor, and business continued as usual. Only Brigette, with her usual busy and somewhat bossy powers bestowed by the last chief housekeeper's departure, had reversed course and was having her autumn leaf garlands and harvest centerpieces stripped from the dining room today.

  "Do we have to take them all down?" Molly asked. "It looks so nice. Guests have complimented it." Her brow wrinkled. A few fake berries fell from the window's garland strand and she collected them and put them in the pocket of her maid's apron, where today's crossword puzzle was also concealed.

  "I know, but it simply won't do for the celestial event," answered Brigette. "I've already consulted Mr. Trelawney, and he thinks a white motif would be far more suitable. Katy, take down all the pink apples and wheat sheaves from the mantelpiece, thank you." The trim desk manager tapped her highlighter against the clipboard in her hand, as the maid Katy rolled her eyes and obeyed.

  The celestial event was just that: the first documented visual appearance of a new comet, which coincided with an awards banquet being held by the International Society of Astronomers. Among other activities, they were honoring a historian who had stumbled upon the record of a hitherto-forgotten constellation in ancient history and the inventor of a special telescope with some sort of computerized 'star speed' tracking and lens focus.

  I had learned this from Brigette's fat dossier file which all staff were supposed to read before the society's guests began pouring in to replace the year-end surfers and nature lovers. There was a fingernail polish stain in a ring on it, proof Katy used it as a tray for her cosmetics when she touched up in front of the big mirror by the desk. That was probably the extent of its use so far.

  "Tray for the parlor," announced Sam, as he carried through a tea tray from the kitchen. Brigette gave me a look, so I abandoned my efforts to help Molly and assumed the duties of a proper server again.

  The hotel's two porters on duty were technically the ones who should be carrying through the tea and biscuits, but they were avoiding Brigette's military directives in the privacy of the foyer's lush tropical jungle, where I found Riley playing solitaire and Gomez smoking a cigarette.

  "I take it neither of you minds forfeiting a generous tip to me?" I asked, after following the wisps of smoke like a signal.

  "What? Didn't you ring for us?" the Irish porter slapped down his latest card. "Where's the mistress of the annoying little summons — busy peeling up the carpet and marble floor to clean beneath before the honored guests have a peek?"

  "Probably she is color coding the guests by taste and need," countered Gomez in his fake but convincing Portuguese accent.

  "She's busy redecorating the dining room, and if she finds you loafing, she'll be furious," I said. "She's been looking for both of you for the past half hour."

  "We've been hiding in Norman's shed," said Gomez.

  "Brigette in a fury. That'll be the day," snorted Riley. "She's a softie inside. Just let me work a bit of the Riley Bloom charm on her and she'll forget entirely about moaning over a bit of idle time." He puffed his chest in an exaggerated show of manliness.

  "That will be the day," said Gomez, with a dusky laugh. "She thinks of you as the horrible little brother she never had."

  "So do I take this tray through to the parlor myself?" I returned this conversation to its original subject.

  "Who's it for?" Riley pocketed his cards and climbed around the palm's vast bronze urn to have a look in the parlor, where several clusters of hotel guests were relaxing after a morning spent touring the old pirate ship wreck by the beach. At least that had been the destination of the party of Eastern European youths who were gathered at a table near the windows. The American couple on the sofa videochatting with someone had the look of guests newly-risen despite midday, while the woman sitting alone on the love seat was dressed too elegantly for a day at the shore.

  "Ms. Davison," I said, who was the lady sitting alone with her book.

  "The beautiful widow," said Riley, with a quiet whistle. "Hand it over, lassie. This is clearly an assignment for a charming man in uniform."

  "That's why the likes of you will never do for such a sophisticated woman," answered Gomez. "Better hand it to me instead."

  The porters had a running wager between them all week regarding who could attract the attention first of the mysterious older beauty staying at the hotel. The observance of an expensive wedding ring set paired with her solo status was the reason the porters had pegged her as a rich widow, although nothing in her attitude suggested she was remotely interested in a romantic acquaintance with either Casanova porter.

  "Ten quid says she makes a bit of small talk and tips generously," said Riley.

  "You're on," said Gomez.

  Riley straightened his tie and lifted the tray from my hands, flashing a debonair smile that would wrinkle Katy's nose with disgust if she were witnessing it. He set off for the parlor love seat and the dark-haired woman in the tailored silk dress, who exuded grace and dignity — and reserve — as she sat turning her novel's pages in solitude.

  "Five quid says she shoots him down," said Gomez to me. Sans accent.

  "That's too easy of a bet for my taste," I answered.

  Riley's flirtatious manner was having no effect whatsoever on the widow, who merely took a few coins from her pocketbook and handed them to him after a
ccepting her cup of tea. She went back to her book as soon as his tip was paid.

  In this light, her porcelain skin looked bloodless more than pale, and the dark circles beneath her eyes, along with her physical thinness, made her look older, although she was definitely past middle ground in years. To me, she had the look of a tragically-doomed literary heroine, and I would be willing to bet Riley that she was suffering more from illness than from heartache, but, again, what do I know? Maybe her symptoms were those of lost love.

  Riley hovered, pretending to straighten the doily beneath the biscuit plate. The guest read on.

  "I can't watch any more," I said. I turned to go, but Gomez tweaked my elbow as a defeated Riley withdrew from the scene. He rejoined us by the foyer's jungle, taking a folded ten pound note from his pocket and crushing it into Gomez's palm with a disgruntled look for his fellow porter.

  "Playing hard to get, that's all," he said. "Just give it time."

  "I'll be old and dead by then," answered Gomez, pocketing his winnings with a smug grin. "Next time, watch the true master at work."

  I definitely couldn't watch any more.

  Ligeia, the hotel's chef, had scheduled a late afternoon meeting for all kitchen and dining staff to discuss the banquet menu and food presentation. Although I wasn't technically assigned to work the event I attended anyway, finding room in the middle between Sam and Janine. My former dishroom assistant and jack of all kitchen trades, gave me a friendly grin. "How goes the porters' wager over the mystery widow?" he asked me.

  "Dismally," I answered.

  "I have five quid that she checks out early and leaves them both hanging about like fools by the parlor a half day before they get wind of it." His grin sobered as the chef's lecture began.

  "I've a few handouts that include some sketches of the ice sculpture centerpiece and the grand dessert as well, so there'll be no annoying questions about what they might be whilst I'm talking." The short, spiky cook was passing out these pages to us. "Mr. Trelawney will give you the rest of the details as to ceremony in the general meeting next week."