The Cornish Secret of Summer's Promise

  The Cornish Secret of Summer’s Promise

  By Laura Briggs

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2020 Laura Briggs

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com to purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Cover Image: “Spring at the Penmarrow.” Original art, “Restaurant by the sea”, by Elena Mikhaylova, "Baking woman.", by Shawnna Porter, “Swirl frame” by sjezica, and “Fashionable young girls” by filitova. Used with permission. http://www.dreamstime.com/

  Dear Reader,

  I love a little mystery in a story, a little secret spilling, and an unexpected twist or two, and this latest story has all three. It might be my favorite so far in the series, and not just because of the dramatic dilemma in which Maisie lands – or the dramatic revelations from her and from another, which means idyllic life in Port Hewer will never be the same. I hope readers will have as much fun reading these revelations as I had writing them, and will be cheering on Maisie’s future – professionally and romantically – although there will be some groans for the twists which land her there, too!

  As usual, with another Cornish summer on the horizon, the hotel Penmarrow is preparing to host a glamorous auction, collectors and curios crowds alike gathering to admire the famous jewels, antiques, and memorabilia on display. And, as always, Maisie is on hand to help, but her thoughts are focused on the dilemma of her manuscript—still unpublished and still a secret almost a whole year after the search for a brilliant novelist’s advice led her to the little hotel in Cornwall. Only Sidney Daniels, the inscrutable village groundskeeper, has been privy to this part of her identity, and Maisie finds herself trusting him with more than just the pages of her manuscript as the bond between them grows stronger—a trust that will be tested to its very core by the circumstances surrounding this story.

  There are lots of elements from good old-fashioned capers, like the surprise element from movies like Ocean’s Eleven, the glam setting and high adventure of Hitchcock’s To Catch a Thief and Blake Edwards’ The Pink Panther. This time, Maisie is tangled in a dangerous heist, a daring criminal, and plenty of secrets, which all leads to a bittersweet moment in which Maisie must make the hardest decision of all ...and may have fans of the series on pins and needles as to whether that very special bond she treasures can survive it.

  So lose yourselves in the mystery, stand by for the secrets, and enjoy the special excerpt of book five at the end of this story to learn where her whirlwind decision takes her next in her adventures! Please join my social media/newsletter also to learn about future novels and discover clues about the final, ultimate chapter in Maisie’s Cornish escape.

  The Cornish Secret of Summer’s Promise

  by

  Laura Briggs

  Molly was curled in one of the hotel's front parlor chairs, a duster on her lap and a paperback novel in her hand. Its cover attracted my notice as I pushed the hoover into the middle of the room's Oriental carpet and began unwinding its cord, mostly because it wasn't her usual crossword puzzle.

  "New book?" I asked. She lifted her gaze.

  "I found it between the sofa's cushion," she said. "A guest must have lost it."

  "Lady Diane Marverly," I said. "I've never heard of her." I plugged in the cleaner's cord just below the Tiffany-style lamp by the window.

  "You haven't? She's quite famous," said Molly. "She's been writing forever. Her romance novels are always on bookshelves in the shops. She writes real 'bodice rippers', as some would say. Full of wars and lust and lots of drama."

  It looked like a 'bodice ripper' from my glimpse of the cover, which involved a woman in an off-the-shoulder princess gown locked in the embrace of a shirtless, muscular bodybuilder. Eternally Yours was inscribed in gold letters above the author's name on a sunset background, its embossed frame sporting red roses and buttercups.

  "Are you a fan?" I asked, curious. I had never seen Molly with any book that didn't involve word puzzles ... except for the books on astronomy that she had begun reading since this past Christmas, when a certain handsome guest introduced her to the joys of stargazing.

  "I used to read her books all the time when I was younger," said Molly. "I haven't read one in an age. They were quite exciting — and the heroes were always so daring and passionate. I've never seen this one before, so it must be new."

  It had an older first edition publication date listed inside, but had a 'new book' smell fresh from the print factory. I skimmed the list of titles inside, an extensive number with titles like Forever Yours and Love's Longing Pulse. I didn't recognize any of them, although I wondered if one or two might be among my mom's collection of romance novels, which I used to sneak in and 'borrow' when I was thirteen.

  "Is her noble title real?" I asked, as I closed it again.

  "I don't know. I've never heard of a real Lady Marverly — I always reckoned they gave her that name to give the books a posh touch, maybe," said Molly. "If she is, she's probably proper rich, even without a fortune in royalties. Everybody's read one of her books."

  "I haven't," I said.

  "You haven't? Maisie, I can't believe it. You've read everything, I thought. At least, I've seen the books you leave lying in your room, and there's all sorts among that lot."

  "I like a lot of kinds of books, but I never really developed a taste for this kind beyond the simple flip-through," I admitted. "Not after I was nearly grown, anyway."

  "You should read at least one Lady Marverly so you know what everyone else does," said Molly. "Take it for a bit. It isn't mine — it'll go into the box of lost things soon enough, in case the guest comes to claim it." She pushed the book back towards me when I held it out. "Brigette won't mind."

  "I've never read one." Brigette's voice reached us from the hotel's reception desk. "Lady Marverly's books were too sensational for my taste." In the morning's quiet, Brigette had been busy reorganizing the desk's cache of office supplies. "But guests are always leaving them lying around here, so there must be something fascinating about them."

  "Lady Diane Marverly?" said Mrs. Finny, when she caught sight of the book in my hands as I approached the desk. "I love her stories, don't you? I had a box set of her first five novels once. You could have a limited edition set signed by the author herself if you paid an additional twenty pounds, but that was ten years ago." She sighed, a sentimental smile on her lips for the memory. "Oh — Brigette, I'll be popping upstairs to my office to finish the staff schedule this morning. Do you have one of those little charts you're so fond of — only blank?"

  "Of course." Brigette lifted out a package of oversized graph paper printed with the familiar lines she color-coded for various staff and duties. "If you want to borrow my colored pens for —"

  "This will do, thank you," said Mrs. Finny. She didn't see Brigette's expression droop with disappointment as she accepted the chart materials and disappeared in the direction of housekeeping's main office.

  Mrs. Finny was the new head of housekeeping on trial at the hotel, sent directly by the hotel's owner herself, Ms. Claypool. Since her arrival, Brigette had been restored to her original duties as receptionist and part-time concierge, although with a considerable reduction in duties involving the housekeeping staff and their schedules. Unlike the former chief housekeeper Mrs. Charles, who relied on Brigette to know almost as much about the staff's daily operatio
n, Mrs. Finny preferred to do it all herself. To Brigette, this clearly seemed like a demotion, and the hotel's perfectionist employee was struggling mightily to hide her bruised ego under the change of circumstances.

  I sometimes wondered if Brigette had been secretly hoping a promotion would come from her months of double duty. Maybe the hotel's jet-setting financier would have considered it if she could only see the crushed look on Brigette's face as her beloved highlighter pens were rejected. Nobody else on the hotel Penmarrow's staff cared half as much about its reputation or obsessed whether it matched a well-oiled machine in its scheduling, except for the manager Mr. Trelawney. But even Brigette had begun to crack beneath the stress of juggling all the staff paperwork and problems on top of her usual duties.

  I laid the lost book on the desk. "What do you think of the new chief housekeeper?" I asked, as Brigette dusted the top of a tape dispenser.

  "She seems capable." This was admitted crisply, and maybe with a touch of a sigh buried beneath it. "I'm sure, given time, she'll adjust to the unique scheduling needs of the Penmarrow ... and maybe develop a touch more decorum as the head of staff."

  After years of managing a chain of cozy hospitality lodges which Ms. Claypool's corporation had recently bought, Mrs. Finny believed in a 'cheery chat' on first name basis with staff, even when customers were within hearing range. In Brigette's book, this was akin to Downton Abbey's butler making small talk with scullery maids and footmen while guests like the Duke of Something-or-Other were standing by, waiting for their luggage to be collected.

  "Nobody could step in and create a scheduling method as precise as yours overnight," I said. "I think she'll come to see the value of highlighters, given time." I tried a hopeful, sympathetic smile.

  "Maybe." Brigette's lips failed to smile in return after its attempt. "I simply wish she was open to the offer of a little help during the transition period. It would make adjustment easier for everybody on staff if she would only consider a few teensy little suggestions." She organized all the pens and pencils according to height in their little office caddy. "Nothing dramatic. Just a few little changes that would make all the difference in time." She sighed.

  I was trying to think of something helpful to say, when Riley the porter appeared on the scene, grunting with boredom as he plopped down on the bottom step of the grand staircase. "It's dreadfully dull, sitting around waiting for the lorries and security team to arrive for the big to-do. Shouldn't it have begun by now? Mr. Trelawney should be downstairs lurking about in the drive." He yawned. "I'd have a cig in the garden while I wait, but Norm's in a mood over some slug in the roses. Look at your face now — is everyone in a mood today?"

  "On your feet immediately, Riley. We are a refined hotel, not a hostel's common yard," answered Brigette, bossily. "Why aren't you helping him in the garden if you've so much time to spare?" Riley had presented an opportunity for her to vent some of her frustrations.

  "Why would I muck about in the garden?" Riley sounded mystified. "It's not my job to weed roses." He stood up again and adjusted his jacket, doing his best not to glance at the packet of cigarettes outlined by his trouser pocket.

  "You volunteered to do it last year," Brigette said. Last autumn, Riley had made desperate attempts to redeem himself after a near sacking, which had included offers to wash windows daily, run hotel errands on foot, and assume the burden of lawn care duties himself.

  "I was temporarily insane then," said Riley. "Since regaining my faculties, I've seen the foolishness of that slavering attitude as one beneath my dignity as a porter in one of England's finest hotels." He puffed out his chest, chin lifting itself pompously. In the distance, the carpet cleaner whined to life as Molly began hoovering the rugs in the dining room, making Riley's tableau all the more ludicrous.

  "If you have nothing else to do, then report to Mrs. Finny. I'm sure she has duties in mind for you before the auction house's lorries arrive." Brigette polished her stapler now. "Gomez and Martin will take their luggage upstairs."

  "If you insist, oh mistress of the desk," Riley sighed. "But it's a waste of my talents. I've refined my international hospitality skills to the razor's edge. My Americanisms? Mastered from 'pass the buck' to 'get a bite to eat.' I can do refined stuff — 'Pahk the carh in the Harvarrd Yarrd, if you pleaze,'" he drawled, in what I can only assume was an imitation of a refined New England accent.

  "Go away, Riley," said Brigette, annoyed. "Do as you've been told." But I think winning this argument against her most trying foe on staff actually cheered her up a little bit. "Maisie, Mr. Trelawney has requested that someone fetch a particular parcel for him that was due to arrive at the post this morning."

  "I can do it," I said. "If he trusts me with it." Lately, the hotel's manager had been somewhat choosy about which employees performed what duties. It was entirely due to the need for heightened security for the hotel's upcoming special event, one for which a still-fledgling employee like me might not do.

  "Of course he does," said Brigette. I collected my shoulder bag, and a note from Brigette, which apparently authorized me to collect said article. "Since the auction house will be arriving before —"

  A persistent beep beep from a car horn outside penetrated the hotel's thick walls and attracted our notice before she could finish. The three of us in its main hall — me, Molly, and Brigette — hurried to the hotel's front door and stepped outside to see what or who was responsible for the noise.

  Where the steep hillside drive meets the courtyard, the hotel's car was locked in an impasse with a newly-arrived vehicle in the hotel's narrow drive. Norm, the hotel's gardener, rolled down the car window and stuck his head out. "Move, ye daft imbecile!" he shouted. "Haven't you driven a car before? I've the right of way, so clear out with that rusty bucket of bolts and screws! Bleedin' moron," I heard him mutter loudly as he closed the window again.

  "Manners, Norman." Brigette moaned under her breath, helplessly. "Those are guests." The hotel's classic Rolls-Royce maneuvered its way around the 'rusty bucket of bolts' which was none other than Sidney's worn old jeep, with several surfboards and a swimmer's inflatable ring strapped to its top. His brakes squeaked and groaned as he swerved to avoid scraping the hotel car's pristine paint job, then finished bumping his way to the crest of the drive. Several passengers climbed out, all of them hotel guests in swimsuits, who helped him untie the surfboards and inflatable toys tied atop the car.

  "They'll be ready to leave us as soon as they've dressed and packed, I suppose." Brigette shook her head and disappeared inside to her duties. After today, the hotel's guest rooms would largely belong to the curious attendees of the exclusive auction house's public display, except for a few tourists who were staying on from the previous weekend.

  Molly watched her go. "Do you think Brigette will ever get over being disappointed over Mrs. Finny?" she asked.

  "I don't know," I answered. "But I think she will."

  "She would've been awfully young to be head of housekeeping. She was a maid like me only two years ago," said Molly. "I didn't dare try for concierge after two years." Brigette had tried and failed to train Molly as her potential replacement last Christmas — which, in hindsight, was probably for the best.

  "We all want things sometimes that we're not ready for." I tried not to sigh, thinking of a recent occasion for myself. "I know I have."

  Almost a year ago, I had been so confident about my writing being ready for the Ink and Inspiration Prize ... now, after wrestling with my story on my own all this time, I realized how far I had really been from readiness for either a mentor or a publisher to lay eyes on my manuscript. Like Brigette, I had reached too soon for the future I had been dreaming about, so maybe she, too, would find a better way to pursue her ambitions.

  "I've never wanted to manage anything," said Molly, with a sigh of her own. "So I suppose I can't really understand." She went back inside, leaving me alone on the hotel's threshold, watching as one of our guests rolled his inflatable doughnut like
a big tire crossing the garden's lawn.

  Sidney and another guest were wrestling down a large red-and-white striped beach umbrella as I approached. As Sidney hopped down from the running board, he flashed me a grin.

  His roguish smile does funny things to my heart, and I know he's aware of it, though we both pretend it's not the case. I could see that Sidney was in the mood for mischief today, from his carefree manners to his carelessly-buttoned shirt, his hair in need of a comb — not to mention his jaw in need of a shave. As the caretaker of the vicarage grounds, he didn't feel the need to dress to the nines or adhere to a strict shaving schedule every morning, I had noticed.

  "Did you surf all night with the hotel's guests?" I asked, arms crossed as I smiled back.

  "I gave them a ride here from the beach," he said. "It's a habit in the spring and summer, when the tourists come sweeping into Port Hewer. I think of it as a Good Samaritan's gesture — though I generally won't turn down a pound to cover the petrol."

  From the back seat, Kip's head emerged, the little one-eyed terrier greeting me with a string of sharp barks until he had my attention. He wagged his tail madly.

  "You're an itinerant taxi driver, are you?" I said to Sidney.

  "Just call me the chauffer," said Sidney, sticking an old cap on his head from the driver's seat and dusting off some stray biscuit crumbs. "Hop in," he said, opening the front passenger door for me. "You're going into town, aren't you?"

  "How'd you know?" I asked.

  "You've a purse with you and a cardigan, which are hardly standard issue for maids on duty at English hotels," said Sidney. "I've never been to America. Perhaps they do things differently?"

  I ignored the humor in both his smile and his words. "I'm not sure I can afford the fare to the village," I said. "What are the rates for this questionable taxi of yours?" I kicked one of its tires for show.