A Spirited Girl on Cornish Shores, Page 3

  "So now you know," I answered. "I'm writing a novel. I just need someone to read it and tell me what I need to do to make the story great. I guess ... I was sort of hoping maybe I would run into someone professional while traveling who could give me some advice. Not that I expected it," I added, hastily. "It was just a sort of ... fleeting hope."

  I hoped my face wasn't red, because my cheeks were burning. It wouldn't take a genius to infer that I came here in search of the great author in question, and that was my real goal in all this. I could only make it sound crazier if I mentioned the Tucker Mentorship Program and its requirement for a nobody like me to be under the wing of a somebody like Alistair Davies.

  "What sort of book is it?" he asked. "Anything like this Alistair Davies writes?"

  I blushed. "Not exactly," I said. "It's sort of a gothic romance ... poetry inspired ... dramatic suspense sort of thing," I said. "The draft's a little rough right now. So is the idea."

  Sidney resumed pushing his bicycle along the street. "Would you let me read it?" he asked, glancing at me.

  "You?" I didn't mean to sound so surprised, although I was. "You want to?"

  "I'm not a brilliant reader these days, but I used to be," he said. "And besides, you've made me curious to see it. If you've no objection. After all, you did say you wanted a pair of critical eyes ... albeit not those of a village groundskeeper, probably. Since you were in quest of a famous author, it would seem."

  He plucked the thread of truth in my very badly-disguised joke. "I wasn't stalking a famous author for his opinion," I clarified. "I said I was just hoping I would be lucky enough to cross paths with a professional author. But I guess maybe I could bend my rules and let a friend read my work first."

  "Friends never read your work, I take it." Sidney's question was asking more than these words implied on the surface. Its subtext I read clearly: that he was something more than an ordinary friend. I didn't know what to say, since this was a suggestion that brought a flame to my own cheeks, threatening to unleash the carefully-tethered attraction I felt for him.

  "Generally no," I said. "My instructors and professors have, but not even my own mom has read the first few chapters." I tended to keep my work under lock and key — even my file on my tablet computer was password-protected now, since I had a secret nightmare involving its circulation as a joke among the hotel's staff.

  "Tell me about it," he said. "Does it have a name, your secret book?"

  "No name," I said. "Just a working title. And it's a historical novel, sort of ... but I suppose the genre 'gothic romance' kind of implies that. Do you like Edgar Allan Poe?" I asked.

  "Doesn't everyone?" He was joking. But it could just be about everyone else, and not himself.

  "Do you want to read this book or not?" I demanded.

  "Of course I do." His kidding tone had faded and he sounded a little more serious. "I want to know you, Maisie, and knowing what sparks your passion is part of it. If it's writing, I want to read your words. I think it makes perfect sense."

  "And what about yours?" I asked. "Your passion, your inspiration or whatever you'd call it."

  "You're looking at it," he replied.

  "Cycling?"

  "One of the many," he said, solemnly. Not that I believed him for a second. "We should get you one for riding up and down that long stretch between here and the hotel." He lifted the paper sack from the basket. "In the meantime, hop in. Walking time's over."

  "What?" I said.

  "The basket can take it, I assure you. I've had many handlebar and basket passengers, and I've never tumbled even one into the ditch," said Sidney, coaxingly. "Come on, I'll give you a ride for awhile."

  With a little skepticism, I hoisted myself into the sturdy wire basket fastened to the cycle's handlebars, and gripped on behind me with a tight hold. "Don't tip over," I said warningly, as Sidney pedaled forwards, the bicycle wobbling as he adjusted its balance. "Remember what happened last time I was on one of these?" My little tumble while riding Riley's old bicycle had been the reason Sidney and I met in the first place.

  "It won't happen this time, I promise," he assured me. Despite my precarious perch and the jerky sway of the cycle, I couldn't help my slight giggle of enjoyment as the wind swept across my face, and ruffled the gold chrysanthemum tucked behind my ear. We passed a scarecrow in a garden, his arm frozen in a wave and two very real blackbirds perched on his shoulder, and two neighboring women who were conversing over a nearby hedge. Their expressions narrowed at the sight of me and Sidney cycling swiftly past. We waved, me risking a one-handed grip with this action, but neither of them waved back at us.

  "I think maybe they disapprove," I said, after we safely navigated the next corner, picking up speed as the bike steadied itself.

  "They would," he scoffed, his smile becoming a cynical one. But when he met my eye, the conspiratorial gleam in his own erased whatever irony had been there a moment before, and his smile was again the one I knew best.

  I held tighter to the handlebar's brace and closed my eyes. Sometimes I didn't know what to make of him. So carefree, funny, and irresistible at every second ... except the ones where it was impossible not to sense an underlying secret side that kept itself masked beneath the rest of Sidney.

  It wasn't my secret to uncover, yet I wanted to learn it, and for the same reasons I hadn't been able to keep away from spending time with Sidney despite making him promise we would stay just friends. It was a promise I was growing afraid I couldn't keep because of afternoons like this one, where everything about it made me wish it could last forever, and that winter would never come.

  _________________

  We removed the spooky Halloween decorations before the earl's party could arrive at the beginning of the next week, since it wouldn't be conducive to 'spirit communications' to have anything less innocuous than one of Brigette's white and silver pumpkins. Since she was in charge until Mrs. Charles's replacement could be found, we were assigned to clean anything and everything in sight.

  In the foyer's golden sunlight, Brigette had her schedules, timetables, and markers spread over the front desk, adapting the tools of her concierge job to her fresh assignment of duties. There was a list of guests for the earl's party, listing several people beneath Lord Billings a.k.a. the Earl of Middlewhite which presumably included his nearest relations.

  K. Salinger. Sir Nigel de Coverly. Natalie Norridge. Alistair Davies. I couldn't believe my eyes. Was I really this lucky — was the author returning to the hotel this soon for the earl's big bash? What a stroke of good fortune. I couldn't have planned it better if my own keystrokes were writing this chapter of my life — at long last, the writer whose reluctant dismissal of my request could be reversed to save my shot at the Ink and Inspiration.

  "Is Alistair Davies really coming?" I asked. I had previously learned that the author used a pseudonym for staying in this place, the name of a character from one of his novels, in fact, and assumed that he always used it at the hotel. Perhaps whoever made the earl's arrangements didn't know about the elusive author's false identity?

  "That's the list of guests for the earl's birthday party, yes," said Brigette, now confiscating it. "The earl's very keen on celebrity friends, especially those who might be interested in the paranormal."

  That couldn't possibly be in the earl's assistant's dossier, so I assumed that Brigette must be engaging in a little extra gossip.

  The first to arrive was the Earl of Middlewhite himself: he was indeed a frail, wrinkled figure dressed in expensive tweeds and covered by a thick cashmere lap robe as he sat in his wheelchair, being pushed by a cheerful-looking young man in a linen dress shirt and corduroy trousers. An entourage of relatives and his closest friend followed, including a frowning woman in an expensive print dress, a senior gentleman I would bet twenty quid was a titled somebody-or-other as he lit a cigarette on the patio, and a young man burdened with a bag of golf clubs and an extremely bad attitude.

  I peeked through the curtai
ns of the upstairs suite the writer had occupied on his past visits here to see all of this, wondering how long before the rest of the party was due to arrive. I cast a glance at the vintage Royal typewriter on the desk behind me, the one with the seaward gaze, where I could imagine the author lifting a wrinkled, weathered visage to the glimmer of the sun on the sea, the wind rippling the grass.

  Not that it was an accurate picture, since no photograph of Alistair Davies had ever been allowed in a book or on his online biography page — he ran with a crowd that knew better than to photograph an author who craved anonymity to the point of no lectures, no public speeches, not even to collect prestigious awards.

  It goes without saying that the next guest I would envision was the author in question ... but it turned out to be the guest of honor instead. She arrived three hours after the earl's family, walking through the foyer with a simple shoulder bag, and looking exactly like the photo online from her recent television special.

  Riley was talking to Brigette at the desk behind me, as he thumbed through a magazine swiped from a complimentary gift basket left behind in one of the rooms. "I don't watch telly, but I heard part of her radio show in the doctor's office. Luna Lovegood recovering from a case of laryngitis. Probably has a face like an old turtle."

  "It's inappropriate to talk about the guests," Brigette hushed him. She snatched away the magazine and tucked it out of sight. "You have work to do, I'm sure."

  "Do I? There's no guests about, what with the earl taking the whole hotel — and his lot's gone for a sightsee at the old pirate wreck —"

  He now caught sight of our latest guest, and his complaints disappeared. Natalie Norridge the psychic was small, delicate, and blond, but with flyaway curls and perfect features, and a taste for expensive, albeit whimsically mature couture for someone in their early twenties. Far from the turban-wearing mystic of hotline commercials back home for psychic predictions, frankly.

  "Miss Norridge?" Brigette put on her brightest smile. "We've been expecting you. You have the Forest Suite, I believe —" she selected a key from the board behind the desk, "— and Riley will take your bags."

  "I only have the one," said Natalie. Her voice was indeed serious and soft, but a little more gravelly than the likes of a Luna Lovegood or a Madeline Bassett. A certain knowing, mystical quality to her words ... or maybe it was her smile that made me think it, as innocent as her face seemed.

  "I'll take charge of it, Miss Norridge," volunteered Riley quickly, like a wolf to the lamb despite his present romantic woes. "Riley Bloom's the name. If you need anything, ask me and I'll happily provide it for you."

  He held out his hand to Natalie, whose expression became strange as she touched it. "There's someone looking for you," she said. "Her name is ... Winifred ... Pendlegraft." She looked up at Riley with this last word, whose face was drained of all color.

  "How'd you know?" he asked.

  "That's amazing," said Molly, whose jaw dropped wide as she ceased to dust one of the pillars in the main hall. "Is that a psychic reading of his future?"

  "Oh no," said Natalie. "I met her outside. She said she was looking for a Riley Bloom." She glanced in the direction of the front entrance. "There she is now." We caught a glimpse of a figure there in a rather tight dress, a garish ginger dye job, peering hopefully around the overgrown ferns. At the sight of her came the sound of air being sucked from Riley's lungs.

  "Where can I hide?" he moaned. With that, he bolted in the direction of the nearest escape, the hall leading to the patio, abandoning Natalie's luggage in the process.

  Brigette's smile had vanished in dismay, now reappearing by force as she faced the psychic again. "I'm terribly sorry about that," she said. "Gomez, please accompany Miss Norridge to the Forest Suite."

  The hotel's 'Latin lover' porter collected her bag with a charming smile, but before Natalie could follow him, the earl's voice filled the foyer. "Natalie!"

  His assistant had been wheeling him in from the patio, but now the earl himself turned the wheels as he grew closer to the young woman. A smile of delight lit up the young psychic's face.

  "Lord Billings," she said. "So good to see you again."

  "Enchante, my dear girl." He took her hand in his own and gave it a kiss. "How was your trip down? Rotten trains — you should have taken my invitation and come to Greyham Abbey so you could drive down with us. Dalton might be a bit of a nuisance on most matters, but he's decent enough behind the wheel."

  The young man who had been pushing the wheelchair smiled, as if finding something in this remark funny. He was a good-looking boy with dark hair and features that completely changed with his smile, giving his eyes crinkles at the corners.

  "So kind of you," said Natalie. "I've been looking forward to seeing you again, and this lovely weekend. You were a dear to invite me." Here, she gave the earl a kiss on his cheek. "I hope it will be everything you've wished it to be."

  "Shall we have a spot of tea?" asked the earl. "I feel like tea. Dalton, to the dining room, if you please."

  "Didn't you say you wanted to wait for your daughter to come back, sir?" asked the young man. "They're due back from the shore tour any moment. I can ring if you like and find out before you decide."

  "Oh, let them drink it on their own," he grumbled. "Kay will be in a rotten mood undoubtedly after so much sun, and I seriously doubt young Bill will be back at all — only Budgy's company will be worth having. Come on, then, be quick about it. I want to hear all about Miss Norridge's trip down."

  "As you wish, sir," came the reply. The girl walked alongside the earl's chair, chatting with him about her last appearance on ITV as the assistant dutifully rolled him towards the dining room.

  "She didn't seem very psychic. Just ordinary," said Molly, dubiously, after they were out of earshot. "Do you suppose she'll do something impressive tonight?"

  "Tonight?" I repeated.

  "After dinner. The earl's having the first séance then," said Molly. "In the gold parlor. It should be quite exciting." And as Brigette gave her the warning eye, she meekly returned to dusting the lobby's wood carvings.

  "And you, Miss Kinnan, have a uniform to press for the cocktail hour tonight?" asked Brigette, briskly.

  "Yes. I'll see to it right away," I promised. Lucky for me, I had been assigned to serve drinks to the party before and after dinner — after two months of waiting, I was in prime position to meet Alistair Davies among tonight's séance participants.

  _________________

  "I'll have another," said the senior gentleman, now identified as the Honorable Mr. Wilton "Budgy" Blake, who had consumed three already before dinner. I might be mistaken, but I think it was his usual routine. "Thank you, my dear. And what's your name?" The Bloody Mary's color in his cocktail glass was a perfect match for his nose.

  "Maisie Kinnan, sir," I answered, politely, and withdrew ever so slightly from the fumes of alcohol rippling from his breath. "Are you sure you wouldn't like a nice coffee?"

  A snort of contempt. "Coffee. Black swill, that stuff. Give me a solid drink any day." He took another generous sip from his glass as Gomez and I circulated the room with a tray of cocktails mixed by the earl's grandson.

  Pre-dinner cocktails were family only thus far — excepting the assistant Dalton, the physician, and Budgy, who was a philosophy professor at a major university, descendant of one of the 'old families' of Britain, and one of the oldest living friends of the Earl of Middlewhite. He was the most cheerful person present: true to the earl's predictions, his daughter Kay seemed to have a sick headache after her day in the sun which soured her whole expression as she slumped listlessly on the sofa.

  "Father's late in coming down," said the earl's son — Phillip, whom I was under the impression was some sort of financial wizard. "Can't that blasted Dalton ever have him dressed on time?"

  "Might as well be late," grumbled the grandson — named 'Bill' Fogart-Peele, according to the earl's family guest list, apparently Kay's son from her first mar
riage. "He's only interested in chatting with spooks these days."

  "Tedious jokes are unnecessary, Bill," said Phillip. "We are here for dear father's birthday. At one hundred years of age, he has a perfect right to spend it as he wishes."

  "Chatting with the dead, I suppose," said Bill, continuing his streak of sarcasm. "Making contact beyond the veil."

  "Curiosity regarding life's closing curtain, and nothing more," snorted Budgy. "It's harmless. Usual phase when one nears the end of life, to wonder if something lies beyond this world. Perfectly natural and all that, even if it's nonsense." He snagged another cocktail from a tray, this one belonging to the physician Doctor Pitt. He was only one drink ahead of Bill, however, who held his liquor far less convincingly.

  Bill was one of the 'idle rich,' as Riley had put it after our first day of observing the family's stay at the Penmarrow, and hearing the whispered complaints of his relatives for his disappearance during the family outing. A twentysomething year-old gangly blond boy who never read the same university subject for more than a term, had no ambition for a future career, and no interest in any activity except lounging around, drinking martinis, and spending his future inheritance.

  But that's just gossip, of course. Not that anything about young Bill contradicted it thus far.

  "At least tonight will probably be uneventful," said Doctor Pitt. "I've heard Miss Norridge's psychic readings on that radio program about 'crossing the veil.'... terribly silly guff about lost items and reconciliations from beyond the grave."

  "Young Will is probably going to show up and spoil it all for the rest of us," muttered Bill.

  "Hush," said Kay, scoldingly. "Don't talk about things like that. Even in jokes. It's not proper." She took a sip from her glass.

  "No such thing is going to happen," reassured Phillip. "She hardly knows about him. She's only met with father twice — how much could he have told her about any of us?"