The Storyteller's Muse

by Traci Harding

  ‘It’s Grandma,’ she explained.

  ‘Oh no.’ Peter looked around the busy city street. ‘Must we do this now? Here?’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Gabrielle did not appear happy about what she was hearing. ‘Are you sure?’ she questioned to herself, clearly becoming anxious.

  ‘What? What is it?’ Now Peter was feeling panicked.

  ‘She says that Penelope doesn’t want, sorry, forbids you to write Em’s story.’ Gabrielle winced, apparently already aware he was not going to take kindly to the news. ‘Penelope told her if she’d wanted you to write that story she would have left the rights of that book to you. She took them off you for a reason.’

  ‘She took them off me to solidify my partnership with her agent,’ Peter offered an alternative theory. ‘And fate, or rather destiny, which Penelope had the utmost faith in, has thrown every single thing I need to complete this task into my path, since I made the decision to take on writing full-time. Sorry, but I don’t believe for a second that Penelope, as a writer, would expect me to ignore all those synchronistic moments and pursue another story. There are some things that are beyond anyone else’s control.’ Peter was getting a little fed up with being told what he should and shouldn’t do. ‘And one of them is what I choose to do with my life.’

  Peter was halfway through the car park before he realised Gabrielle was no longer following him, so he released his frustration in a growl. He’d unduly lost his patience and he knew it. This was the problem with relationships: the sex was great, but having to take the other person and their feelings into consideration on a full-time basis, that was bloody exhausting! This week had been such an emotional roller-coaster that Peter really just wanted to get off it for a while.

  As he pulled the car out of the pay station, Gabrielle was waiting on the street. ‘I wasn’t trying to tell you what to do,’ she began. ‘I’m just the messenger.’

  ‘Can I give you a lift somewhere?’ Peter didn’t want to discuss it, but his cool tone undoubtedly made his offer sound uninviting.

  ‘If we’re not hanging out today, then no.’

  The disappointment was plain in her voice, but Peter just couldn’t take any more drama at present and drove on.

  Everything Peter could ever want materially had just been dropped into his lap; he should have been ecstatic, but instead he was quietly fuming.

  This was the story, there was no other on the horizon at present; he had to grab this with both hands and run with it. Hell, even Penelope had warned him that if the muse struck and he didn’t act then before long he’d see his idea mused to another writer more willing.

  Peter returned to Penelope’s house, as that was where his research was still residing, and now he didn’t even have to abscond with the books, he owned them — he owned everything! The realisation was dumbfounding. What the hell am I going to do with all of this?

  He’d imagined starving for his art as he wrote his first novel. If his writerly aspirations had been just about the money, then he would already have reached his end game, he didn’t have to write a word. But his compulsion to write was all-consuming; he didn’t know why he felt this way, only that he did, and nothing else, not romance, not travel or any other earthly indulgence, seemed even mildly tempting by comparison.

  ‘So, you’re the one.’

  Peter, who had taken a seat in the library, was startled back up to standing and swung about to find a younger version of Penelope Whitman standing in the doorway. She was older than himself, maybe in her forties or fifties, and he wondered for a moment if he was seeing a ghost. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘The only living being that my mother could tolerate.’ She strolled into the room eyeing it and him with disdain.

  ‘How did you get in —’

  ‘You left the front gates open,’ she informed him. ‘You need to be more careful, now you’ve done so well for yourself.’

  ‘There are many people who are mourning Penelope at present.’ Peter could only assume this was one of Penelope’s estranged children. ‘And I’ll be happy to sign over this inheritance to any rightful claimant who is not going to liquidate the estate.’

  ‘Then you’re in luck, as it will be difficult to find one of those. Better to keep this place as a monument to Mother’s greatness, is that the plan?’ She seemed resentfully amused by the idea.

  ‘I haven’t really had the chance to give it much thought,’ he said honestly. ‘Peter Lemond.’ He held out a hand to her, but her arms remained crossed at her chest.

  ‘Evelyn Porter,’ she replied.

  ‘So what’s the reason for your visit, Evelyn?’ Peter maintained a polite tone, although obviously she was here to intimidate and chastise him.

  ‘Just curious to see what was so preferable to life with her family.’ She walked over to the French doors and opened them. ‘Ah yes, now I see. She was quite the party girl, my mother. But it was artists only, you understand. You must be an artist of some sort yourself, Peter, or you would not have got a look-in. In fact, I’d stake my life that you’re a writer.’

  ‘More of an editor at present.’

  ‘A young, male, aspiring author,’ Evelyn summed up. ‘No wonder you were in favour.’

  Peter really didn’t like the way this conversation was headed; was she implying they were having an affair?

  ‘Peter?’ Gabrielle appeared in the library doorway, and Peter was suddenly very glad to see her. ‘The front gate and door were open . . .’ She spotted his uninvited guest on the patio beyond the doors.

  ‘Gabrielle, this is Penelope’s daughter, Evelyn.’ Peter did the honours as Gabrielle neared.

  ‘Another aspiring writer?’ Evelyn assumed.

  ‘A nurse,’ Peter replied bluntly.

  ‘Mother’s nurse?’ Evelyn queried, sounding conspicuously pleased to meet her.

  ‘Yes, I was Penelope’s day nurse for five years,’ Gabrielle advised as Evelyn shook her hand.

  ‘Five years! Congratulations . . . at least you got paid to put up with her.’

  ‘It was my pleasure. I would have done it for free.’ Gabrielle stiffened, obviously resenting Evelyn bad mouthing Penelope, and had it been anyone but Penelope’s daughter, Peter would have booted her out.

  ‘Is there something you want, Evelyn?’ Peter felt Gabrielle take hold of his arm in a bid to calm him down.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Gabrielle suggested.

  ‘No, nothing.’ Evelyn walked past them and back towards the door. ‘I simply wanted a little time and space here to tell my mother and her stupid muse to go fuck themselves. But since the house is already occupied, I’ll air my grievances elsewhere.’ She disappeared into the foyer.

  Peter was dumbstruck for a second, and although he knew querying Evelyn’s departing statement was only going to bring more resentment his way, he had to do it anyway.

  Peter caught up to Evelyn on the front stairs. ‘Why hate her muse so much?’

  ‘Because it never let up,’ she spat back. ‘No matter what the event, or occasion, or crisis! Not once did she put us before it, not once. If you are going to be a writer, Mr Lemond, do everyone a favour: stay single and never have children.’ She turned and flounced down the stairs.

  ‘Intense.’ He watched her car take off leaving a cloud of gravel dust in the wake of its hasty departure, and turned to find Gabrielle standing at the top of the stairs.

  ‘I left my phone charger.’ She showed him the item and placed it in her handbag as she descended the stairs and walked right on past him.

  ‘You’re leaving?’

  ‘Yeah, just needed the cord.’

  ‘You don’t have to go.’ Peter pursued her. ‘I’m sorry about before, I just . . . really want to write this story.’

  ‘Then write it.’ She swung around to walk backwards and smiled.

  ‘But you told me not to?’ Peter couldn’t work out if she was still mad at him or not.

  ‘No, Penelope told you not to,’ she corrected. ‘But mayb
e she’s wrong.’ She shrugged and came to a stop. ‘You should do whatever compels you and fuck what anyone else thinks.’

  Peter grinned. ‘And what are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m going to get out of your way and let you get on with it.’ She grinned, shrugged, turned about and kept walking. ‘Send me an email when you’ve got something for me to read.’ She raised a hand and waved but did not look back.

  By all appearances Gabrielle seemed to have forgiven his outburst this morning, and was actually just giving him the space he so desperately needed. Of course, he could have been reading the situation completely wrong and she might walk out that gate and never speak to him again. ‘Maybe you could give me your critique over dinner?’

  Gabrielle stopped in her tracks and turned about, seeming a little sentimental suddenly. ‘Good plan.’ She gave him the thumbs-up. ‘Now hurry up and write something, or I’ll never get to see you in that shirt.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Now he was certain she was onside.

  ‘Go break a leg, or a pencil, or whatever writers do.’ She blew him a kiss and continued up the drive.

  That afternoon, with no one and nothing demanding his attention, Peter set himself up in the lounge room with a pot of coffee, an open fire, and the two untitled volumes that he’d pulled from Penelope’s safe.

  The book of letters was a collection of correspondence between Emeline and Emanuel Fairchild that did not seem to directly reply to one another in a regular sequence. The pair were extraordinarily attached, even for siblings, thus Peter felt they were most likely twins.

  The first batch of letters, from Emeline to her brother, were dated years earlier than those he’d sent her. Emeline spoke of her time on tour with a classical quartet who had taken a chance on hiring a female cellist. Cello had not been considered a suitable instrument for a lady at that time, being that one had to part one’s legs and support the instrument between the thighs. But as it turned out, that’s exactly what many of the male members of the audience came to see. Men desired her and women admired her.

  Emanuel’s letters to his sister were from a later time and mainly spoke of how he missed her. There were a couple of people they both mentioned in their correspondence. One was a fellow whom they fondly referred to as Chester, who seemed to be something of a guardian to them both. The other was an extravagant art collector with the rather odd name of Reginald Pettigrew. The twins had nicknamed him ‘Proudfoot’ and he seemed to be something of a thorn in the side to them both.

  As Peter jotted down the names of the characters in his tale, he was writing Chester when he had a little realisation. ‘Wait a second!’ He grabbed up the lovely neat untitled journal, and unlocking it, he opened it up to check on the writer’s name. ‘Henry Chesterfield. Chester?’ He wondered. If the man was a guardian or even a servant to the twins during this period of time it was rather odd that they should cut his surname into a nickname like that. But then maybe it was something the twins only did when they were writing privately to one another. ‘If I’m right, this is going to be a far more interesting read than I’d anticipated.’

  The telephone ringing scared the life out of Peter, and he quickly rose and followed the sound to behind the stairwell, where the entrance to the kitchen was to be found.

  He picked up the antique handset and raised it to his ear. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Peter?’

  ‘Fabrizia.’ He recognised her voice.

  ‘I have a contact number for Billy Boyle.’

  ‘Hold on,’ Peter found a pad and pen in the telephone table drawer. ‘Shoot.’

  Fabrizia relayed the number and Peter expressed his gratitude.

  ‘Did you smooth over my faux pas with Miss Valdez this morning?’

  ‘Yes indeed, she understands completely.’

  ‘That’s rare, Peter, she’s a keeper.’

  Great, he’d just got Penelope off his case and now his agent was taking up where she’d left off. ‘Your approval is duly noted.’

  ‘Best of luck on both counts. Bye.’

  Fabrizia’s whirlwind impact was lessened over the phone, but the exchange still left him reeling; it was like having a little shot of adrenaline every time they spoke.

  Peter rang the number he’d been given, and the phone was answered by a nurse at an aged care home. He inquired after Mr Boyle and was told the daily visiting hours. He asked if he could make an appointment to see the said patient the next day, and was told there was no need. ‘Folk here don’t get out much.’

  ‘A clear path forward,’ he considered as he replaced the receiver — that was exciting.

  He awoke feeling panicked and was disorientated until he realised he was still on the lounge in the library with Henry Chesterfield’s diary open on his chest. The fire had gone out and with a cold sweat on his skin, Peter was freezing. He’d begun reading the butler’s tale, which had thus far been about the fairly dull day-to-day running of his household. It hadn’t mentioned anything of either Emeline or Emanuel, but that hadn’t prevented Peter from dreaming about Emeline again.

  This time he’d been pursuing her through a party, although none of the other guests saw him, they only saw her and she was admired by all. Once she had led him to a private space she had appealed to him for help. How brave are you? she’d asked, right before he awoke.

  ‘That’s more than a coincidence.’

  Twice in a row he’d dreamt of her and actually recollected it, and that was just a little creepy, considering what had happened in Penelope’s tale.

  Peter took Chesterfield’s diary in-hand and sat upright. The name of the family Henry had worked for went by the name of Fairchild, so Peter was hoping the Ems would crop up in the memoir somewhere.

  Maybe Peter was still dreaming, or perhaps it was wishful thinking, but he was sure he smelt the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. He followed the intoxicating smell through the hallway and into the kitchen where he found Thelma Eddington doing dishes. ‘Mrs Eddington?’

  She looked to him and smiled broadly. ‘Good morning, Peter, would you like some coffee?’ She spoke rather loudly, but he pretended not to notice.

  ‘I would, very much.’ He spoke up to accept her merry offer. ‘But what are you doing here? I’m not selling the house.’

  ‘I know!’ She wiped her hands and poured the brew from a jug into a cup. ‘Fred and I would be thrilled if we could remain in the service of the estate, and you, of course.’

  She was such a delightful old lady, Peter couldn’t help but smile. ‘But you’ve just been given a small fortune, don’t you and your husband wish to retire and take a holiday or something?’

  ‘What’s that?’ she queried with frown.

  ‘A holiday?’ Peter repeated, ‘don’t you want —’

  ‘Heavens, no!’ She set the coffee down in front of him, and Peter took a seat at the breakfast bar. ‘We are both the type who like to be kept busy. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself on a vacation, I’d be bored out of my mind . . . and probably start cleaning the place.’ She chuckled and her joy was infectious. ‘And don’t you worry about your privacy; I take care of the rooms you frequent, when you are not home, or elsewhere in the house. But I’ll always let you know what my movements are.’

  Peter hadn’t even had a chance to think about the upkeep of the place, so the arrangement certainly suited him. ‘Well, I’m very grateful for your service, Mrs Eddington, I dare say I’m not a very good housekeeper. I shall take a look at your contracts . . . I’m sure we can come to an arrangement that is mutually beneficial.’

  This news seemed to please her very much. ‘Well, we wouldn’t expect you to hire us without sampling our services. At present, we are still under contract to the estate, and will be for another month, so you have a little time to decide if you wish to renew.’

  ‘I should like to keep this place just as Penelope would have wished it.’ Peter was not about to reward their years of service with an unwarranted dismissal.

  ‘Tha
t’s wonderful news.’ Mrs Eddington brushed a happy tear from her eye. ‘Now, what will you have for breakfast? Bacon and eggs, buckwheat walnut pancakes with syrup, eggs Benedict with salmon?’

  Peter wasn’t a breakfast person usually — having worked the night shift for so long his eating times were all out of whack. ‘Well, that all sounds amazing.’

  ‘All of it, it is then,’ she said decidedly, pulling bowls out of the cupboard, eager to please.

  ‘No.’ Peter repressed a laugh at the misunderstanding. ‘I couldn’t possibly eat all that. You choose.’

  ‘Well, it’s all delicious,’ she assured him, ‘but as I have some fresh salmon today, I’d recommend the eggs Benedict.’

  ‘Sounds fabulous.’ Peter sipped his coffee and it was superb.

  ‘And where would you like breakfast served?’ Thelma queried, eyebrows raised as she waited to be advised.

  ‘How about right here?’ Peter didn’t want to put her to any trouble.

  ‘And waste a beautiful morning like this?’ She placed her hands on her hips.

  ‘Where would you recommend?’ Peter got the distinct impression he was invading her kitchen.

  ‘The patio beside the pool is lovely this time of day.’ She pulled produce from the fridge.

  ‘Well, I’ll go and check that out.’ He picked up his coffee and headed out there via the library, to find Wilfred skimming the leaves from the surface of the pool. ‘Good morning, Wilfred.’

  ‘Good morning, sir, I hope we didn’t disturb you; we were endeavouring to be as quiet as possible.’

  ‘It was the smell of your wife’s coffee that brought me round.’ Peter observed that it was indeed a lovely morning, the breeze was cool, but the sun was warm.

  ‘The morning paper is on the table.’ Wilfred pointed to a table under a vine-laced pagoda being bathed in morning sunshine at the end of the pool.

  ‘Goodness, I haven’t read a physical paper for years!’ Peter was rather delighted by the novelty — the Eddingtons were certainly aiming to impress.

  ‘Trying to read a screen in the sunshine is likely to be a headache, quite literally.’ Wilfred hung up his pool scoop as Peter took a seat with his coffee and opened up the paper.