by Laura Briggs
I tucked my hands in my pockets. "Was it fun?" I asked, lifting one eyebrow. "Your ride?"
"Smashing," said Kitty, in reply. "Wind in my hair. Until I met with the village post box, anyways."
I caught Kitty's eye and saw the hint of a smile. I laughed, and to my surprise, Kitty laughed, too. Reluctantly, as if she wanted not to, but it was still coming out all the same.
"Don't go," I said. "Come back inside for awhile. I'll buy you a drink, anything you like — local brew, soda pop, you name it. It's the least I can do to thank you for helping me with some ... covert ... operations in my work." I smiled with these words, conspiratorially.
Kitty shook her head. "I should go," she said. "I've got work in the morning. I've had to shift my hours at the pasty shop for the manor job, so I promised Charlotte I'd come in early."
"Fifteen minutes, then," I said. "And you can go early tomorrow. I won't keep you late." I was planning to stay late myself, given the tight deadlines we were facing, but I couldn't ask that of any of the manor's temporary staff — even the supposedly-devoted Lina.
"I don't belong," said Kitty. She looked me in the eye for this statement, a square and unflinching gaze. "Not with that lot. I don't even belong here half the time." Her gaze moved from the pub towards the village in general, including it in this statement. It wasn't anger in her voice, but almost sadness in a matter-of-fact form. "I never did, and I never will, likely enough. So it's nice of you to make the offer, but I don't need it. I'm all right."
She turned to go home. I crossed my arms as I watched her, partly in stubbornness, and partly against the cool wind. "So why are you still here?" I asked. "And not in Land's End, or some other place?"
Kitty glanced over her shoulder. "I never said I didn't like it around here," she answered. "That's got nothing to do with the rest, does it?" A saucy smile appeared on Kitty's lips briefly, then she turned away and was out of sight in the evening's dusk. "See you tomorrow," she called, just before she was lost in the shadows on the other side of the lamplight.
"See you then," I answered.
Despite myself, I laughed. I had seen the first evidence that Kitty Alderson had a smile that did her face more justice than its scowl.
***
The days leading to Wendy Alistair's big debut had become a blur of activity — unfortunately for me, that blur was coinciding with my big promise to Pippa that her wedding day would be special.
In between worrying about the flower arrangements for the ballroom, I worried about the flowers for Pippa's reception, and the altarpiece garland for the ceremony, which featured lots of white roses and sprigs of bright pink heath and yellow 'chain flowers,' as Gemma called them, in bloom, thanks to Matt's generous donation from his hothouse plants.
The colors would match the ones for her reception — the ones that Kitty's impromptu rearrangement had inspired — which would be featured in several small vases placed at intervals along the reception table's center, and in a ring surrounding the cake's platter. As of yet, all of those things were merely sketches, with the last-minute crunch of arranging the flowers left entirely to me.
After applying lots of elbow grease to Lady Warrington's harp, I had managed to unearth much of the frame's original beauty. The polished wood gleamed, while the carving was inlaid not with gold, but with mother-of-pearl forming the petals of several delicate-looking white flowers — that had been the gleam that caught my eye in the barn.
"Isn't it stunning?" said Lady Amanda, catching her breath. "It will look splendid onstage. With lots of candles lit close to the string quartet's section —"
"— and the new cream and gold damask drapes contrasting the wall color, but matching the gold and white trim," I supplied. "That, with the stunning portraits and the gorgeous antique carpet spread out across the newly-finished floor, should 'do Cliffs House proud' as they say."
I felt perfectly satisfied as I surveyed the work. Geoff and his carpentry crew had constructed a beautiful temporary stage that had been finished as dark, gleaming cherrywood. The portrait drapes were drawn open, revealing the sweeping oil portraits that predated even Cliffs House's long history. The whole room smacked of history and elegance.
"... and she's letting her parade around and talk to people, like she's one of them." Lina was talking in a low voice on the other side of the ballroom, where she and Darla were supposed to be adjusting the frames on the walls.
"Did you hear what she said to some tourist the other day?" said Darla, struggling not to laugh. "About Cliffs House being 'a proper job in Cornish architecture?'"
"I thought I'd die laughing. Imagine what they must've thought, hearing that awful stony voice chattering away some facts from a tour pamphlet."
"I just can't believe they don't have someone watch her every minute. She's practically a criminal."
"If you two are done straightening those portraits," I interrupted, "then why don't you go find Pollock and assist his crew in planting the walkway to the new outdoor theater."
"Of course," said Lina, with a perky smile. "We'd love to." She and Darla walked away, still whispering together as they left. I stared after them, feeling annoyed by the conversation I had overheard. I glanced towards Gemma, expecting to read sympathy in her eyes, but saw nothing that resembled it.
"Why do you let them talk about Kitty that way?" I asked. "What if she heard her fellow employees talking about her like she's a convicted felon who escaped from prison?"
Gemma shook her head. "You haven't known her as long as we have, Julianne," she said. "Kitty's always been trouble. Even grown up, she still has a knack for rubbing people the wrong way. Anyway, she doesn't fit in here because the likes of her can't do the 'smile and nod' bit with tourists and guests."
"What if she just needs a chance to prove she can?" I asked. "Maybe she's learning how."
"Give her a chance, and she'll screw up in front of someone important," said Gemma. "You have to see that, Julianne. Honest. It's not about whether we like Kitty ... it's just a fact."
I sighed. "I thought you would understand," I said. "Imagine how you would feel if you were trying to fit in someplace like — like New York, or London, where maybe everyone made you feel like an outsider."
Not that Kitty was an outsider. She was born and bred here, I assumed. So was she an outsider by choice, or just because she made mistakes?
"Do what you want," said Gemma. "I'm just warning you. But wait long enough and you'll see it's true for yourself." She went back to polishing the mantelpiece's andirons.
In the pantry, the vases I had borrowed for Pippa's wedding were in a straight line down the middle, with my sketches in a haphazard pile. I had come here to have a little breather on my own before unpacking the candles for the 'grotto display' and candle stands at the new outdoor theater, but the pantry wasn't empty. Kitty was there, sitting on a stool, busy polishing a small piece of tin. It was the broken hinge from the dollhouse shutter, I realized. When I looked at the corner table behind me, I saw the dollhouse had been completely cleaned, scrubbed from top to bottom.
No crayon marks, no grime, no rust. Kitty had even managed to coax the dents out of it, and had painted over the damaged pieces. Before me was a glowing pink and white Victorian gingerbread house like the ones I had seen in a toy museum in Boston. Tiny little false flowers formed a garland of maroon, white, and pink around its base, as if a miniature shrubbery had grown there. Small battery-operated tea lights were inside the rooms, flickering visibly through the open shutters.
"Kitty, it looks amazing," I said. "When did you do all this?"
"This morning." Carefully, she attached the tiny shutter in its old position, using half a sewing pin in place of the old missing hinge pin. "Just thought it could do with a spot of tidying."
"I'm speechless," I said. "It must have taken you hours." The tiny windows had been covered by transparent paper squares — white, pink, and yellow — like miniature stained glass. It was a work of art, the entire effort. A perfec
t display piece for the reception. I hadn't asked her to do it — I hadn't even mentioned the fact that I needed it done.
Kitty's shoulders nudged themselves upwards in a quick motion, as if shaking off my compliments. "I used to play with this when I was a kid," she said. "Sometimes I skipped school and took my doll there. No one else would be around. There used to be little bits of furniture inside it — a toy chair, a table, some sort of wind-up clock. Somebody stole that one out of it ages ago."
She folded back the mini shutter on its new pin, testing it. "My mum would've had a fit if she'd known where I was. But I liked it, you know? Being on my own. No one to get you into trouble there, or be jumping all over you because you've done something wrong."
Her hooded sweatshirt had been swapped for a clean-looking pullover. Two small barrettes pinned back her untidy black locks of hair. She was making an effort, I realized. Trying to fit in.
I touched a small plastic sofa, a dollhouse miniature lying on the table. "You're good at this, Kitty," I said. "At making things look nice. I've really appreciated your help these past couple of weeks."
A low grunt was the only reply at first. "Good, I guess," said Kitty.
"You have an eye for arranging things to look their best," I said. "Flowers, decorations ... an instinct for what looks good. You pay a lot of attention to detail, and that's an important skill in my kind of work."
"S'pose," said Kitty, in a word that was almost a sigh of admission.
"There are jobs that need that kind of skill," I said. "We need people who can do what you've just done for Pippa — who think on their feet, the way you thought of the sea view when Mr. Menton needed one. You could learn to do what I do, even."
"Me?" Kitty let out a mocking laugh. "That'd be the day."
"I'm serious," I said. "I'm not making fun of you, Kitty. I'm not saying it wouldn't be hard work, or that you wouldn't need to change some things. Your appearance, for instance."
Kitty's fingers had stopped playing with the dollhouse's shutters.
"You would need to dress differently, maybe do your hair a little more," I said. "And you would need to talk differently to some of the people here at the manor, of course."
"And change my voice, I suppose. And my personality, and my background. Be more 'Downton Abbey' for a start." Flint in this chirpy voice from Kitty's lips, one of mockery. "You know, just not be me anymore."
"Kitty, no," I protested. "That's not what I'm saying —"
"That is what you're saying," she retorted. "That's what everyone says to me. 'Kitty Alderson, what's every bit the loser the rest of her folks are'— that's what everybody says needs changing about me. If I was only a simpering, conniving little liar like Lina Trawley, I'd be likeable enough."
"I'm not talking about changing who you are!" I said. "I don't even know Lina Trawley —"
"I don't need to change," muttered Kitty, who shoved aside her dirty rags and all-purpose cleaner, its lid clattering to the floor. "And I already have a job." She grabbed her backpack and marched out.
"Kitty, where are you going?" I called after her. "I didn't mean to offend you!"
But this time Kitty didn't stop, so I was only talking to myself, in a room empty except for the dollhouse and the newly-polished vases.
"She just ... flew off the handle," I said, feeling too exasperated for words. I rested my forehead on my hand. "Honestly, I don't understand why. Unless she thought I was trying to force her into a makeover or something."
I felt Matt's arms around my shoulders, drawing me into an embrace. I didn't care if anybody else was watching us from over the garden wall between Rosemoor and the neighboring house, since they would have seen us kissing multiple times in the garden anyway.
"Don't blame yourself," said Matt. "You didn't say anything wrong. You simply offered to help her explore a different path in life — learn a little more about the talents she possesses. But perhaps that isn't what she really wants right now."
"Maybe," I said. "Or maybe you're just trying to make me feel better."
"That, too," he answered. "But there was nothing else you could do except apologize, Julianne. She can accept it, or go on believing that you think of her the way everybody else seems to."
"Do you know about Kitty?" I asked. "Know all those stories about her?"
He smiled. "It's a small village. There are stories about everyone. Even me."
"You?" I said. "I can't imagine stories about the famous Doctor Rose."
He grimaced. "Not that, please," he said. "But yes, there are. Did you know, for instance, that I picked all of my neighbor's flowers once to give to my mother as a present?"
"No," I said. "You? Really?"
"Yes. I was five, and they were very lovely. And it was my mum's birthday, but since she was working very late, I simply left them on her pillow. And the next day — I was in very hot water with the woman next door, whose prize petunias I had stolen."
"Oh, Matt." I leaned my cheek against his shoulder. "You must have been a very adorable thief. I'll bet she forgave you immediately. One look into those dark little eyes, all full of repentance...."
Matthew blushed. "Never mind that," he said, with a gentle grin. "Nothing of the sort happened, I'm afraid. She made me plant all-new flowers for her the next spring."
"Was that your gardening start?" I asked, lifting my head to look into his eyes. "Repentance for theft?"
"Not quite," he said. "I used to plant seedlings for my mother, in the front window boxes. A hodgepodge of wildflowers, usually — some of which were far too big for that tiny space."
I imagined Matt as a boy, his tiny fingers poking holes in the soil. That same expression of concentration on his face even back then. Once again I wished I had a picture of Matt as a child, but he didn't have any around, claiming all the family photos ended up with his sister. I would have to beg Michelle to email me one if she had any with her on the base in Afghanistan.
I crossed my legs, guru fashion, and drew away from Matt's embrace. "All right, professor," I said. "Enough about my problems. Teach me how to identify hollyhock seedlings."
"Are you sure that you're interested?" he said. "If you're not, they'll all look like tiny squash plants to you. Only a practiced eye can tell the difference."
"Stop making it sound so hard." I swatted him on the shoulder. "Now show me what we're doing."
"First we examine the leaves," said Matt. "See the beveled edges? That's the first sign that we've found the right plant...."
Gardening with Matt on a weekend afternoon was the only time I had been able to spend with him lately. Between his teaching schedule and the trips to Pencarrow, and my never-ending schedule at work, we had seen less of each other than ever. I still hadn't had the chance to visit the beautiful northern estate with Matt, and was already kicking myself for missing the opening weekend of the anniversary exhibit.
Maybe if you'd just picked Lina in the first place, you'd be spending tomorrow there, a little voice in my head suggested.
No — I shook my head for this idea. I couldn't see myself trusting Lina with those tasks. Something about her had been too perfect, in all the wrong ways. Not just the safe color choices or the flowers lined up like soldiers in the vase — something simply hadn't fit with what I had in mind.
Mere days until performance time — and with Pippa's wedding only twenty-four hours afterwards, we didn't have her help at the estate now. Gemma, Lady Amanda, and I were the ones who chose the staff for serving champagne at the post-concert reception, the assistants for the stage and film crew, and the assistants to security — that, is the people who would prevent entry to private quarters on the estate, and prevent anyone unauthorized from sneaking around on the estate's grounds.
Plenty of eager part-time helpers — and even a few volunteers — were still around, but I felt more shorthanded than ever. For the past two days, Kitty hadn't returned. She had quit, apparently; and I hadn't chosen anyone to take her place.
A part of m
e had been hoping she would change her mind and come back. I left a message for her at Charlotte's shop, where I dropped by several times, hoping to find her there. Each time, however, Charlotte shook her head when I asked.
I even went to Kitty's house — at least, the house where I presumed she lived with her mother. Although I knocked several times, nobody answered the door at first, although I could hear the sound of a television blaring. At last, a mousy-looking woman with hair dyed a very orange red came to the door. Kitty's mother, Bets Alderson, according to the labels on the untidy stack of magazines piled by the door. She seemed suspicious of me until I explained who I was, and that I was looking for Kitty.
"She's not here," she said. "Gone off who knows where with her mates. That girl." She sighed. "Never listens. She doesn't get it from my side of the family." A tone which might be equal parts sad and bitter. "You're sure you're not coming about here selling something?" she added, sounding suspicious again. "None of your like ever came around looking for Katherine before."
"No, I just really wanted Kitty — Katherine — to call me, at least," I said. "I'll leave my phone number for her."
"No use in that. I haven't heard from her in two days," said Bets. "None of my business where she is, is it?" With another sigh of annoyance, she concluded our conversation and shut the door.
Back at the manor, the television crew was already setting up in the ballroom to record the indoor segment of Wendy's concert. Rows of elegant chairs which Lord William had rented from a major hotel all the way in London had been carried inside in stacks swathed in bubble wrap and mover's cloths — the temporary staff was now unpacking them and placing them in uniform rows to form two seating aisles in the ballroom — Gemma watching them like a hawk the whole time, using Lady Amanda's floor plan as a reference point for snapping out orders.
"It would be terribly exciting, if it wasn't so stressful," said Lady Amanda. She had taken a quick breather from hours on the phone with Wendy Alistair's team of personal assistants, who were eager to know about her dressing room, her crystal carafe of sparkling mineral water, and her complimentary basket of miniature oranges and white lilies, which were all essential for the singer's comfort, it seemed.
