by Laura Briggs
I glanced at the page in my hands, the rustle of paper and sense of anticipation stirring my blood as I admired the celestially-inspired carving, and the elegant trifle Ligeia had sketched in our first taste of the society's big night.
The beauty of the Penmarrow was its ever-changing world, which carried an undercurrent of possibilities in its quietest season and brimmed with excitement during its busy months. For a writer like myself, it provided no end of inspiration in the form of small ideas seeded in the imagination. From charity balls to a seance party, the kinds of adventures I was privy to here were nothing like my former life in L.A.
Right now, those distractions were more than welcome, since they kept my mind off another topic: the fate of my manuscript. My literary baby, which I had sacrificed for and slaved over the past two years was now in the hands of strangers who were deciding whether it was worth publishing. My track history with my old writing professor suggested it wasn't — not my mishmash of Edgar Allan Poe's gothic romanticism in America married to a tragic yarn of the Norman conquest.
Sidney saw possibility in it, and so did Alli — but the opinion of Alistair Davies had never been fated for me to hear. The revelation of Megs Buntly or 'Alli' Davies the imposter had finally given me the courage to take my book's fate into my hands. Making a friend in the form of an eccentric would-be author had probably ended up being just as helpful as meeting the real, reclusive one, as far as I was concerned.
Sam elbowed me. "Do you think you'll be assigned?" he whispered. "I'm getting stuck in the ruddy dish room, I'm sure, and I wouldn't mind a hand doing the washing."
"That's where they'll put me, probably," I whispered back. Now that I was only part time, I didn't expect any assignments that would earn tips or compliments. Then again, if I were still a maid here, I would probably be in the laundry room while everybody was toasting the long-forgotten constellation of the Mesopotamian sailors.
"Now, if you will all kindly refer to the menu for the appetizers, we will make this as succinct as possible, since I have tenderloin to braise," said Ligeia, which brought my thoughts about the past to a conclusion.
I turned the page dutifully, and tried not to let my thoughts wander anywhere else. Particularly not to the other thought that wrapped itself around me these days, my feelings for Sidney holding tight to my heart as the grass ring embracing my finger. And I couldn't stop thinking of him, even when I tried in earnest.
Which, incidentally, was never.
____________________
Sonia's guests were two nature lovers hiking the rugged countryside, and a female photographer who said she was taking photos in little villages all over the coast. I almost never bumped into the photographer in line for the bathroom, for she was a late sleeper and a late adventurer, but the two hikers were early risers and loved chatting about their life in Wokingham with two schnauzers and asking dozens of questions about Cornwall that I had no idea how to answer in most cases.
Since I no longer lived in my little attic maid's room at the Penmarrow, I had taken a place as the part-time maid and full-time housemate of Sidney's friend Sonia, who ran a bed and breakfast out of her woodland cottage home. Her typical guests were tourists who preferred some place a little less glamorous — and cheaper — than the former modest-size country manor on the hill, and who preferred a home-cooked breakfast to chef Ligeia's gourmet version of a fry up.
I served breakfast to the two hikers, buttered muffins and strawberry jam with some kind of German sausage rolls and potatoes that Sonia made from a Bavarian recipe. I put on one of Sonia's many frilly aprons over my plaid skirt and cotton lace top, this one a cook's apron embroidered with fancy teapots.
"Is the pirate wreck out on the beach from the glory days of pirating, or is it earlier?" asked one of the hikers, as I refilled his teacup. "We've been hearing stories in the village, but they all contradict each other as to when it occurred."
"I don't know, actually," I said. "I don't think the pirates off Cornwall's coast were the swashbuckling Blackbeard type, though." I had a vague idea that this was the case, but I couldn't remember if I had read it or heard it from someone native. "I think maybe it's a bit more ancient. The story about the old wreck being salvaged into a fisherman's hut is the one I hear the most — they used it as rafters in its roof until somebody dragged it out again in the eighteen hundreds and put it on display in a cave down by the cove."
"That's not very Pirates of Penzance, is it?" chimed in the second one, jokingly. "Anyway, we were thinking of walking the shore today from the marina to the south back to the village coast, but we weren't sure if there were any good beaches along the stretch. Johnny is simply dying for a swim after a long trek, and we were rather hoping for a quiet spot for a late tea if we brought along sandwiches. Sonia's cucumber and piccalilli is scrumptious."
Now this was something I could help with. "There's two great spots between here and the south stretch to Penzance," I answered. "Drift Cove is one of them, and there's a little beach further down that has some great stone boulders if you like to sit and watch the waves."
"We'll keep them in mind," said the first hiker. "They sound quite lovely. Tell me, do you know where we could rent a couple of mopeds?"
This one was not in my field of expertise. "Once again, I'm afraid I don't have a clue," I answered.
Drift Cove was the first spot Sidney introduced me to when I came here, the favorite quiet beach of locals, where tourists hardly ever ventured, because there were no eateries close by, no easy access for bringing down deck chairs or beach umbrellas. Here he taught me the basics of surfing, which I never mastered, and here he saved my life a few weeks ago, after a terrible cramp locked my muscles in the water.
"I think I'll be out of piccalilli soon at the rate our guests are enjoying it," Sonia announced, as I scraped the breakfast dishes and washed up. She was eyeing the contents of her nearly-empty jar after having made four generous sandwiches for our long-distance walkers to carry with their thermoses of tea.
"The hikers love it," I answered. "I don't know about the photographer. Does she ever eat here?"
"Frankly, I haven't seen her since day two, when she came in at midnight when I was ironing linens and listening to very sad love songs," answered Sonia. "Perhaps she's a ghost." She smirked.
"I don't think a ghost would make such a mess in the wash basin," I replied.
"Whatever happened that I should end up with piccalilli and midnight ironing as my life's highlights?" mused Sonia. "Clearly, the turn my life took in Lincolnshire altered my person dreadfully. I used to care far more about lipstick shades and wine tastings. Not to mention the substantially-better opportunities for my love life, given my advancing years."
I managed to hold back my smile. Sonia was gorgeous and twenty years younger in spirit than years, so no pity was necessary. Except possibly for the lack of love interests in Port Hewer.
"I should have laid on more preserves this past summer," she sighed. "At any rate, it will give me an excuse to go to the harvest market this coming weekend. Do you fancy coming along?" she asked.
"I have to work on my manuscript," I answered, shaking my head. "I've fallen behind lately and I promised myself I would catch up."
My Tam Lin story was beginning to shape itself into actual chapters in place of rambling notes and an outline. I had a pile of poetry books and fairy stories on my table upstairs as high as the framed dried roses, topped with the original myth's volume, which I pored over for inspiration as I plotted the events before the fateful meeting between Tam and Janet.
Sonia swept the breadcrumbs from the counter into her hand. "Any word yet on your manuscript?" she asked.
She wasn't asking about my Tam Lin story. Just about everyone in the village knew about my Poe retelling being submitted for review at a few publishing houses, just as everyone had found out about my big London chance with Alli. The blush threatening to suffuse my face was one of slight embarrassment for knowing dozens of people would k
eep asking me, and be privy to my first round of rejection letters as a novelist.
"Not yet," I answered. "It takes time, usually months. Sometimes no one ever writes back." Books got lost in electronic slush piles as well as physical ones.
"I'm certain they will," said Sonia. "No doubt they'll say it's marvelous." She gave me a reassuring smile as she brushed away the last of the crumbs and tucked her auburn hair underneath a kerchief in preparation for mixing up some fresh dough to rise for this evening's tea.
I had my doubts about marvelous. I was hoping for a gentle letdown, although I was still clinging a little to the hope that all the help from the story editor in London had made my book favorable in the eyes of an acquisitions editor as tough as Helen.
I had to take a deep breath every time I thought about it. Standing on the verge of certain rejection requires a certain amount of self fortification. Standing on the verge of potential success — that's like standing on the edge of a high, sheer cliff to jump without a parachute.
Every day I checked my email, finding nothing but chain letters, junk mail, and messages from my mom about life back in the States. She had given up telling me how crazy my choices were, which was a relief. If she suspected there was another reason I came back — read something of Sidney, in essence, between the lines of explanation I wrote — she was careful to leave it out when she wrote. It was up to me to tell her that I was in love with him.
For my afternoon out, I took my paper straw sunhat and my old beach blanket out of the closet and went to meet Sidney. The doors to the old shed were closed, but I found him crouched in the sunshine of the back garden of the vicarage, replanting a series of somewhat-chewed Dutch bulbs. A guilty Ewan McGregor, nose to the dirt, was hunkered in the pile of freshly-turned compost for enriching Mrs. Graves's garden soil, while the rest of Sidney's pack were sprawled asleep under the lilacs with the sleep of a clean conscience.
"Will the flowers be all right?" I asked. I crouched down by the offender. His tail, more schnauzer than dachshund, wagged a little as I put an arm around him.
"It's only a few tooth marks. How bad could it really be?" Sidney answered. "I'll just give them a quick tuck where they belong and no one will be the wiser when they bloom next spring."
"Mrs. Graves is at the market, I take it?"
"Good guess." He looked up with a grin. "I'm afraid if she catches him at it one more time she'll have him tossed out. There are limits to what even the kindest of souls can endure."
"Not Mrs. Graves," I protested. "Kip is a digger, but she rather likes him."
Hearing his name, the shaggy terrier put his head up from between his paws, hopefully.
"Would you rather me test that theory?" he answered. "The vicar bought these as a birthday present, direct from the Netherlands. Some new variety she admired in a catalog. I couldn't bear the expression if she saw the mess he's made of them." He shook his head. "Subterfuge is the only answer to keep everyone happy."
He brushed the dirt off his knees, then his hands, and held one out to help me to my feet. "The basket's on the table in the shed," he said. "Nothing extravagant, just a bit of cheese and crackers, some pickle and a bag of crisps. A few biscuits — the best of whatever was in my larder, in other words."
"Not Mrs. Graves's new cinnamon twists?" I had never tasted anything that appeared to be flavored by burnt dust, but the vicar's housekeeper had achieved a new culinary low with her latest recipe.
"Do you take me for a sadist?" he scoffed. "Sensible shop biscuits only, I promise." He kept hold of my hand, as if it belonged there as he clicked open the garden's back gate, Kip scurrying ahead of us.
Wind played havoc with the corners of the blanket we spread on Hewer's Hill, which overlooked only the barest bit of the coast and a great deal of field where a herd of brown-spotted cows were grazing.
A vast oak tree was at the top, spreading its limbs almost to the edges, and from the biggest one someone had secured a wide wooden swing from two ropes.
"Give you a push," said Sidney. The ropes were long enough that it swung to dizzying heights over the crest of the hill. It felt like flying, and made me dizzy as the ground disappeared, swallowed up by sky and clouds.
Letting go would mean pitching downhill and breaking one's head in the fashion of Jack and Jill, but the risk was irresistible from the first time I tried it. Red sneakers pointed to the sky, I waited for the downswing, when the distant barn and orchard came into sight, the tiny bit of blue green ocean somewhere on the way to Penzance.
When it built up enough speed, Sidney swung himself up and hopped on behind me. It slowed our trajectory, but he had enough strength to pull back the ropes and pitch us steeper towards the clouds. My laughter became a shriek. It was a sensation like the upwards roll of a roller coaster, or the way a carnival eye swoops to its peak before cycling down.
In times past, he would sometimes twist these ropes in a tight corkscrew and hitch a ride with his back to me at the last when he released it, the whole contraption untangling itself in a dizzying spin that had us shrieking with laughter — and slightly dizzy after one or two rounds. I remembered playing this game on tire swings from my one and only trip to summer camp; Sidney told me about an old rope swing by a river where he swam when he was younger, where he and a younger, carefree version of Dean took turns flying out over the water for a terrific splash landing.
Flying high lasted only so long, and ours came to a gradual end, rolling gently over the hill's edge, then back to the safety of the grass beneath us, where Sidney twisted the ropes, but only a little, giving the whole contraption a gentle sway. He slid down to sit beside me on its board, facing the opposite way.
"Do you ever think of that Robert Louis Stevenson poem when you come here?" I asked, as I gazed out at the scenery below. "The one about being high on a swing, a kingdom view below ... I can't remember how the lines go."
"From A Child's Garden of Verses. I had a book of that poem when I was a boy," said Sidney, "I remember the pictures, but not the words. Maybe that's why someone hung this swing, because they were thinking the same thing we are." He dug his heels in the grass below, rocking us to sway back and forth, slowly.
I leaned against one of the ropes. "Remember when all our small talk was nonsensical, with none of the depth of poetry in it?"
"I think our talks about Daleks and the best Doctor had plenty of depth," he retorted, pretending to be serious. "We talked literature, horticulture. All sorts of interesting and intelligent subjects."
"Daisies and making fun of Alistair Davies don't count," I answered. "But ... I missed talking about silly things after we began to talk of more serious things."
There was silence on Sidney's part for a moment. "Do you think being serious spoiled it?" He looked at me as he spoke. There was a hint of a smile, but a great deal of earnestness in those dark hazel eyes.
"Not for me," I answered. "I really meant what I said about wanting to be honest all the way. You said once that nothing can ever stay the same. After we tasted that, I think the only thing that scared me was losing us."
"I agree," he answered. "So now we have to say when we have secrets, and when we don't. Being honest from this moment forward. For my part, I honestly can't think of anything I've done or said lately that I wouldn't want you to know. If you'll keep the secret of the tulips for poor Ewan, that is."
My turn to laugh. "Same here," I answered.
He pushed off again so the swing moved in earnest, as I tucked my feet to one side on its corner. "Speaking of seriousness ... should we go on a proper date now?" he asked. "If we're talking of being more grown-up in our relationship, that's the sort that grownups generally do, isn't it?"
"What is this, then?" I asked, looking mystified. "I thought that's why you asked me here."
"This is the sort of date that children have," he answered, grinning. "Or people with very silly ideas about how to enjoy themselves in the world."
"You're poor. I don't think you could bu
y me a fancy dinner at the hotel." I wrapped my hands around the rope as Sidney pushed us higher.
"I could cook you one. You could come sit on the furry sofa in my shed, covered with a suitably-clean blanket, as we listen to records while a half dozen dogs snore along with the melody."
"That sounds terribly like last Saturday." I repressed a giggle, a horrible noise that escaped me somehow. "Except for you cooking."
"Do you expect it, though?" he asked. "In a relationship, I mean. We've never discussed that, have we?" He twisted the rhythm, side to side. "We might have different ideas entirely."
"Do you?" I said. "Have ideas about what I should do or be like in a relationship?"
He scoffed. "Of course not," he said. "But there are two of us, so there are two opinions. I have to respect yours, whatever it is."
"What we already are is what I wanted. I just wanted to tell you how I felt as well."
"You're willing to take me as you've found me, then. No wish that I was someone different, perhaps a bit better?" he queried. But I could see the mischief in his eyes, a dead giveaway that I was being teased just a little.
"I like you as you are. No more, no less," I replied. "How is that for seriousness?"
"Very generous," he said, and gave himself away this time. "Still, we have never had an official date. I never bring you flowers, or spend a half hour telling you how beautiful and bewitching you are, the way the light shines on your hair and so on."
"I never gush about your physical strength or how terribly handsome and clever you are," I said. "Do you think it isn't true that I could drown in your eyes?"
He stopped pushing the swing, which drifted stationary again as he leaned his back against the rope and looked into my eyes.
