A Spirited Girl on Cornish Shores

by Laura Briggs

"You knew her?"

  "Knew her? Quite well," chuckled the earl. "I'm not implying we were lovers, you understand — nor truly friends in the sense of my association with old Budgy, for example. But I knew her as Clara the woman and not merely as Corona Borealis on those rather shabby carnival posters ... or Madame Evenstar in considerably more posh surroundings."

  He paused, growing slightly dreamy-eyed with recollection. "Clara Iverly," he said. "Lovely Clara. We had supper together after her London show. I told her of my fascination with her arts, and of my study of Madame Clarita and others who plied the medium's trade. She told me her secrets then ... such a lovely woman. So charming, so vital and full of life. She swore me to secrecy, of course; not that I would have ever been tempted to tell. The tricks of the trade are sacred — to her, to her daughter, and now to Natalie. Who is quite the protégé, although with a certain originality. Still, I recognized the marks of Clara's influence almost immediately, even when little Natalie was no higher than my elbows."

  He had known Natalie so much longer than I had imagined — known her as a girl, known her grandmother as an entertainer and con artist, not a medium of supernatural powers. "So why did you ask her here?" I said. "Why did you have her perform séances if you knew they were fake? She pretended to talk to your son last night, and that couldn't have been easy for you." To me, it would be painful to listen to those stories and secrets being uttered in an imitation of a lost loved one's voice, if I were in the earl's place. I couldn't imagine why he would want to create that moment.

  "She did it because I asked her to do it," answered the earl. "I asked her to pretend to speak to my wife and son. I told her things that no one who was a stranger to our family could know, and a few things of which I was supposedly ignorant — like my son's financial mismanagements, and the 'lost vase' of my children's youthful indiscretion. Since no one knew about my friendship with Natalie, no one would be any the wiser how she came by those details, except from the dead themselves."

  "May I ask why?"

  The earl leaned forwards. "Because I wanted to give myself a reason to change my will that even my children couldn't argue," he said. "Not merely the whims or conscience of a doddering old man, but a command from beyond the grave to trump petty arguments of greed. And ... because I've rather enjoyed it," he added, as he reached for his cup of tea again.

  "Enjoyed it?" I echoed, in surprise.

  "Indeed. All these years, my family has rather scorned stage mediums and the gift of psychic readings of strangers as being cheap 'hokum' meant only for the weak-minded in the realm of entertainment — not a true art form that could entertain the clever with its deductions, as I have believed," he said. "Employing that craft to show them that some things in the world are not what they seem was a fitting lesson, I felt. How can you argue with the presence of a ghost? And ... perhaps ... it will convince them to face matters of conscience and the soul for a change — of the world beyond the material one."

  "And who better than the ghost of a humanitarian?" I supplied.

  He could see by my face that I found all of this weird, probably. Gently, he set aside his teacup again. "I wish to use the money as it was intended to be used," he said. "As Will would have used it, had he lived to inherit, poor lad." Here, the earl grew quiet for a moment. "He would have turned it over to worthy causes ... there wasn't a selfish bone in his body, not a nerve in him that didn't feel sympathy or empathy for another. Schools for the underprivileged in the world, hospitals for the impoverished. Animal sanctuaries, sea water filtration systems, soup kitchens — those are the sorts of things he would approve of, if the money were his. As it should have been." Sadness appeared in the earl's face.

  He wheeled himself to the window. "Come here," he said, beckoning to me. I approached and looked below, seeing the neatly-trimmed lawn by the rear gardens, the one overlooking the sea. The earl's assistant Dalton was there, playing a game of frisbee with the children of some newly-arrived guests, who were admiring the sea view.

  "What do you think of his character?" The earl eyed me. "The young man who hauls me into this chair daily and counts my pills for me nightly."

  "I think he's a nice guy," I answered. "He's patient. He's thoughtful. He seems like a person who's kind to everyone, friends and strangers alike."

  "He wants to go to medical school. To become a surgeon some day," said the earl. "I would like to help him accomplish that goal. Perhaps sponsor scholarships for other worthy applicants who have the makings of excellent world-class physicians, but not the means of securing a place in the best medical universities. It's the kind of thing Will would have done." We watched as Dalton laughed at something one of the children said, then threw the disc lightly for the toddler to catch.

  "I didn't need Natalie or any other medium to conjure my son's voice," said the earl, quietly. "I can hear it without a psychic to channel any spirit's presence. I hear it every day. The voice of my conscience, not that of my son, of course ... even so, I could never forget his voice. A better man than most. A better man than me."

  A fragile ache entered his voice. Its sadness matched perfectly that of the tears in his eyes last night as he listened to his son's childish secret from long ago being spilt by Natalie's stage voice. His memory must have taught her to recreate its nuances — so perfectly that it fooled all the others.

  He squared his shoulders. "I suppose you think I'm a dreadful old man, scheming against my family and their hopes." The earl wheeled himself to face me now. "Sending them out into the cold, hard world financially, believing a false psychic's power and the spirit of their brother conspired to squash their inheritance."

  "It's your money, I suppose," I said. "You can use it for what you like. And I guess if you thought they'd have you declared insane or something if you changed the will ...."

  "Confined to my lonely room like a naughty child is more likely," answered the earl, with a dry laugh. "But I won't cut them out completely, never fear." He returned to his place by the table. "Just give them something to think about in life besides my money." With a smile of contentment, he lifted his teacup and took a sip once more.

  It really was a fantastic story. Outside the earl's suite's door, I leaned against the wall and pondered all the preparation and planning which had gone into the earl's scheme. Elaborate, dramatic, theatrical, and a little bit spooky and melancholy — it had all the great details of a perfect novel.

  Sadly, I couldn't write about a bit of it since it was real life. And I didn't have permission in the manner of Sir Nigel de Coverly the playwright to steal it for fiction, either.

  The guests were beginning to bring down their luggage, with Riley at last making himself useful, carrying leather suitcases and designer garment bags to the hired cars which had arrived. New guests were beginning to arrive, the children of the couple in the garden now playing an impromptu game of hide-and-seek among the ferns, and a pair of elderly sightseers in Cornwall inquiring regarding the dining room's hours.

  In the foyer, the earl said goodbye to the psychic before his assistant wheeled him away. I caught a subtle wink from the earl to the young girl before they parted. Natalie smiled and waved farewell to the rest of the family as well, a gesture not returned by stony-faced Kay or the disconsolate Bill — who, for once, did not stub out his cigarettes in either the decorative crystal bowl in the parlor or the potted plants in the foyer.

  Outside, Budgy waited beside the earl's transport, with Phil trying once more to ingratiate himself and put the family back in good standing by opening vehicle doors and making cheerful small talk. And Bill actually helped the assistant Dalton move the wheelchair into the rear compartment.

  I hoped a serious academic career would do the wayward grandson some good. Along with the notion that there was something beyond the earthly veil, too.

  The medium Natalie brought down her own luggage when she returned her key. "It has been a lovely experience," she said. "I hope that none of you have been disturbed by any of my predi
ctions," she said. "Or anything else which happened this week." She was speaking to all of us present — Brigette, me, and Molly.

  "Oh, not at all," blushed Molly. "It's been very interesting."

  "Interesting. Indeed," echoed Brigette, who looked a little less enamored with the psychic's words for her than Molly was.

  "I'll remember Cardiff," promised Molly. "Even if I really haven't the faintest notion of visiting Wales. Maybe I'm due a holiday in the future," she added, brightly.

  "I suppose we shall find out someday," said Natalie. She turned to me. "You are good at keeping secrets, I hope?" she asked me. "I think maybe you have several to keep hidden."

  The earl must have told her about our conversation. "I think it's part of official hotel policy that you have to be," I answered.

  "I'm glad." She smiled. "It wouldn't do to have it turn up in something I read later, you know. Even if the names were all changed." A conspiratorial gleam was in her eyes as she lifted her suitcase.

  She must mean the newspaper or the tabloids. Didn't she? There was no way she could know that I was a writer, or about the novel which was kept password-protected on my tablet computer.

  Unless ....

  "I must thank you again for all your help," she was saying to Mr. Trelawney, who stood beside me now. "It was really quite invaluable this week. I know I needn't ask you to keep any secrets for me."

  "Discretion need never be asked," answered the manager. A smile — at least, a tiny movement of the lips which resembled one — followed. That was astonishing in itself, given his usual demeanor.

  She shook his hand in parting. "I think it would make you happier if you didn't keep so much of yourself hidden," she said, quietly. "Masks are very hard to wear all the time. Maybe yours isn't ... but I sense that it is."

  "Sometimes life makes it a necessary condition," he answered. "Speaking hypothetically, of course." He released her hand. "Goodbye, Miss Norridge. Pleasant journey home."

  "Goodbye." Natalie walked towards the door, passing a newly-arrived guest with a backpack.

  What sort of mask was the manager wearing? Since he didn't contradict Natalie, he evidently had something in his past or present that wasn't common knowledge. Since everything about the manager seemed an enigma, I couldn't begin to guess what secrets he might be hiding from the world beneath that formidable facade.

  "Was it a secret — whatever help you provided this week?" I asked, glancing at him. I hesitated first, because this was another one of those questions that I was sure that hotel maids weren't supposed to ask.

  "Nothing of the kind," he answered, after a brief silence that made me wonder if those keen eyes of steel were going to cut me to size instead. "I merely turned the thermostat a bit cooler upon request, and made a few minor adjustments to a sticky window."

  The cold breeze. The window jammed open. That was Mr. Trelawney? If so, then the other things — the doorknob turning, the faint scent of perfume — had they all been arranged by him as well?

  Shock must have written itself on my face, because the manager's gaze held a twinkle of something that simply couldn't be mischief, whatever I might imagine. "As per hotel policy to carry out a request without questioning the guest's motives," he said. "You should remember this from your employee handbook — Miss Kinnan." With that, he retreated in the direction of the private stair to his office.

  I stepped outside the hotel's front doors, into the sunlit approach that faced the sea, where the sightseers among the hotel's newest arrivals were setting off for an autumn ramble along the coast. I watched as Riley dutifully loaded the psychic's luggage in her taxi with nary a flirtation ... or, at least, the mildest one on record. Just before Natalie climbed inside the car, she motioned me closer, so I approached.

  "I wanted to say something before I leave," she said. "Thank you for understanding. Freddy may seem a very eccentric man ... but he is really very dear and kind, in his own way. The last thing he wanted was a dreadful confrontation with his family — he truly believes it will be better this way, with them blaming it all on a supernatural encounter spawned by a foolish old man's whim. Or ... perhaps ... believing that a greater force from the world beyond ours influenced his decision."

  I nodded. "I promised I wouldn't tell anyone," I said. "The way he talks about his son, I think Will would be proud of what his father wants for the family fortune."

  "I think so, too." Natalie opened the car door. "One more thing," she said, hesitating. "Though you might claim you prefer not to hear it."

  "What do you mean?" I asked, both curious and confused. If Natalie was a fake, then surely this wasn't about my future, or about my 'secret' which couldn't be known short of breaking into my computer.

  Natalie laid her hand on my arm. "Hold onto him." She looked into my eyes as she spoke, and her voice was intense. "Though the truth will hurt at first, hold onto him. Hold tight."

  The look in her eyes made me shiver deep inside. But a moment later, the look vanished, along with the grip on my arm as the psychic returned to normal.

  "Farewell." She offered me one last smile, then she ducked inside the car and closed its door, the driver shifting into gear to exit the car park.

  She couldn't be talking about Norman's secret, surely, for that made no sense. Nor did Mr. Trelawney's hidden self, whatever that might be. There was only one person about whom that statement could possibly make sense, and that was Sidney Daniels.

  But that was impossible. Wasn't it?

  _________________

  Sidney was waiting for me on the bridge on my day off, when I walked around the bend by the large poplar. His bicycle was there, though he had clearly arrived by other means, because a second bicycle was parked beside it, one gleaming with a bright coat of sky blue paint and polished silver chrome. A new wire basket was fastened between its handlebars.

  "Like it?" he asked. He rang its bell. "You'd better. It took me three weeks to clean it up properly, I'll have you know."

  "It's beautiful," I said. "You didn't do this for me, did you?"

  He laughed. "What do you think?" he asked. "I saw it in a sad condition in the back of Jerry Tomlinson's shed. He sold it to me for a bargain, and I did my best to make it decent again. Now you'll no longer be obliged to perch on mine when we go for a ride."

  "You shouldn't have," I said.

  "I should," he answered, with emphasis. "Why do people always say that sort of thing when they open a gift. 'It's too much,' 'You shouldn't have taken the trouble.' If it was trouble or no, that's hardly what the giver wants in return, you know."

  "What do you want in return?" I asked, searching his face intently for the truth and not for excuses veiling it. After all, what if this was a move to make the 'something' between us become something more?

  "Nothing," said Sidney. Without avoiding my eye or blushing. "Except maybe to read more of your future works. The written adventures of Maisie Clark, for instance?" He leaned back against the bridge's rails.

  It took only a second for me to realize what words he uttered. "What did you say?" I demanded, in astonishment. Heat swept through my face. "How — when did —?"

  "Maybe I'm a bit psychic. Ever think of that?" asked Sidney. His arched eyebrow melted away a second later beneath a gentle, teasing grin. "It helped that it was printed on the title page of your book."

  My blush vanished in a quick draining of color from my cheeks. I had forgotten to remove the old title page when I printed out the novel's chapters. "I see," I said. "It's my writer's name. Sort of." Going into the details of my alias would only spoil the moment. Surely Sidney didn't remember the 'Cla-Kinnon' debacle of our second meeting—that awkward moment when I first introduced myself to him and accidentally combined my real name and pseudonym? Not likely, I thought.

  "I gathered that was the case," said Sidney, dryly, in reply to my words. "So, will I be reading more of her adventures in the future? Or is she off to find a Nobel prize-winning author with whom to share her work?"

&n
bsp; His gaze held mine with this question. It wasn't entirely a joke.

  "I think ... Maisie Clark is happy with the person currently reading her novel," I answered. "Maybe she was a little too adamant about her need to make a certain plan reality, since it clearly wasn't working out anyway."

  "It wasn't?" said Sidney, who sounded curious to know what exactly this meant. I, however, didn't have any plans to enlighten him on this subject.

  "Not really," I answered. Alistair Davies was as elusive today as he had been this past summer when I first arrived. No matter how much I wanted to believe he was coming back to the little hotel by the sea, I had no proof that he would ever arrive as anything more than a letter of cancellation for his suite. In short, I had nothing to lose except my pride if I walked away from the shambles that was my bid for the Ink and Inspiration prize.

  "If you're going to be a writer, you have to be prepared to bend with life's unexpected turns, don't you?" I said. "I was thinking of charting a new path for myself, with some new writing goals. And it's possible that I'll need someone to read a few chapters in the future ... and give me their not-so-professional opinion." I glanced at Sidney, seeing a little seriousness in his smile, and not just its usual devilry that both charmed and infuriated me. "Maybe."

  I watched two golden leaves drift to the water below, floating away on the stream, letting a thoughtful silence pass between us. "Do you really want to read more of my work?" I asked.

  A friend would ask me, even if they were only mildly interested, and someone who found me attractive would ask, because they always hope that being an artistic admirer inevitably leads to romance blossoming. Neither one was the right reason. Asking with the enthusiasm of a relative asking a child to draw more broccoli trees and stick figures to decorate their fridge, and add to the piles of old papers they keep tucked in drawers — what was the point of having someone like that read it?

  "Do you really want to," I repeated in clarification, "or are you just saying it to make me happy?" No whining or wishful thinking — it was a clearheaded question, backed by a clear, honest gaze, I hoped.