A Spirited Girl on Cornish Shores Read online

  A Spirited Girl on Cornish Shores

  By Laura Briggs

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2019 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: “Autumn at the Penmarrow.” Original art, “Swirl frame” by sjezica, “Holidays by the sea. View of the islands in the ocean” by © Krolone, “Luxury old fashioned houses buildings” by Christos Georghiou, and “Fashionable young girls” by filitova. Used with permission. http://www.dreamstime.com/

  Dear Reader,

  Welcome back to the seaside hotel Penmarrow, home to adventures, secrets, mysteries, and an 'anything is possible' atmosphere.

  It’s been two months since a fateful letter and semi-crazy impulse carried aspiring author Maisie Clark to its shores in book one of the series, A Little Hotel in Cornwall. Summer has faded to autumn, and Maisie has settled into her role as maid at the Penmarrow while typing her manuscript on the side. While magic and mystery prevail this autumn, so does the feeling that she is slowly succumbing to the charms of Sidney Daniels, the vicar's groundskeeper.

  I’ve always loved stories with a spooky-ish, fortune teller setting, from Agatha Christie's The Sittaford Mystery to the legendary Blithe Spirit, and I was excited to combine elements of classic psychic tales and Halloween lore for Maisie’s latest adventure. As she grows a little bit more in her new environment and her quest to find her future, she finds that the answers she sought may lie in some very unexpected places.

  The plot thickens, and the secrets remain secret, but there are still revelations for Maisie as she celebrates her first Cornish Halloween—and, I hope, adventures and the promise of romance yet to come to entertain her readers.

  Nos Calan Gwaf to you and happy reading.

  The scene is straight out of a book — the creepy tales of messages from the dead, or ghosts occupying stately family halls. Candles are lit on the table and mantel, and a circle of human bodies gather around it, as a storm gathers outside the mansion on the back of the autumn winds.

  They are waiting for the medium to communicate with the other side. The slender, delicate girl, whose eyes are closed. Her lips move now and then, as if speaking a word to an unseen presence. Whatever she hears in reply is of dire concern to the others here, whether as proof there's another side or as the answer to a question that can't be left silent.

  I can describe it perfectly on paper: the tension in the room, the anxious glances, the feeling of mystery that surrounds the young woman at the center of it all. But that's because I was destined to be part of one of these scenes, even though I had never so much as saved a fortune cookie slip in my life, or even read my own horoscope in the paper.

  But all this changed when the unseen was ready to make itself known at the hotel Penmarrow for Halloween.

  A Spirited Girl on Cornish Shores

  by

  Laura Briggs

  "Can't you drive any faster?" demanded Riley from the back seat of the hotel's car. "For heaven's sake, woman, I've seen faster treacle on a dried-up cupboard jar!"

  "Do you want to get back to the hotel in one piece or not?" I demanded. "I'm doing my best, okay? And it's not like you had a lot of trustworthy friends to help you out, otherwise I wouldn't be here." I glanced in my mirror nervously as I turned right — the vintage automobile bounced over a rough patch in the road, a thread to its pristine condition in the hands of a driver like me, an American girl who hadn't fully adjusted to driving in the left-hand lane or pausing for the occasional stray sheep.

  "Don't remind me," groaned Riley. He slumped lower in the back seat, and I could hear the rustle of clothing. "Just put the pedal to the floor, or whatever you Yanks say, before we both get sacked."

  I checked the time now. Ten fifty-five. We were never going to make it.

  Two Hours Earlier:

  "Are these decorations for the tourists?" I asked Molly as I opened a box containing a carved black raven and a simple shiny black garland of leaves. Simple white pumpkins with a touch of silver sheen came next.

  "Sort of," said Molly. "The big American party is coming tomorrow, and Brigette wants things to look a bit festive while they're here."

  "Festive?" I raised one eyebrow. Back home, 'festive' and 'Halloween' produced yards of orange and black garlands and pumpkins carved so frightening they terrified the neighborhood vermin. And sometimes inflatable black cats and haunted houses.

  "It'll probably be put away again for the earl's birthday party in a couple of weeks," Molly assured me, not quite understanding what I meant. But I was used to it. Although I wasn't quite used to her still calling me 'Marjorie,' although that was my fault.

  Two months ago, I arrived in the seaside village of Port Hewer, Cornwall in search of my dream — a meeting with one of the world's greatest living authors, Alistair Davies, who held the key to my entry for the Ink and Inspiration prize. An amateur author and recent grad from a prestigious writing workshop, I was desperate to save my manuscript's shot at greatness through the prize, which had eluded me only because the writer's program had failed to find me a professional mentor.

  How I came to be mistaken for a Canadian emigrant hotel maid named Marjorie Kinnan instead of American tourist and aspiring novelist Maisie Clark ... let's just call that a long story. As much as I love telling stories, it still embarrasses me a little that I snapped up the chance — and the job — to give me an excuse to linger at the hotel where the famous and reclusive author supposedly paid frequent visits.

  I untangled the garland and followed Molly's example of draping it across the stately white mantel with its decorative corbels and Victorian gothic fireplace surround. I placed a carved wooden raven by the crystal candlesticks at one end, which held two very melted ivory candles. I set two of the white pumpkins at the other end, thinking that maybe what the elegant pinkish parlor of The Penmarrow Hotel needed were some big, colorful pots of mums and some big orange pumpkins. Those were not to Brigette's taste, it would seem.

  "That looks perfect," said Brigette, who had now joined us. She paused to hoover a slightly dusty spot on the rug with the manual rug sweeper, where Molly had moved aside one of the green velvet armchairs. "A little extra tidying goes a long ways," she reminded us. "And it's worth the little extra effort next time we hoover the carpets, yes?" The frantic motion of the carpet sweeper ceased only when the last specks of dust were gone. "See? I finished in only fifteen minutes instead of the usual twenty."

  "Do you want this other raven on one of the tables or one of the shelves?" asked Molly, unpacking it from the crate.

  "Use your judgment," said Brigette, brightly. "Just not too obviously placed. Tasteful is the proper look for when the private party arrives at the end of the month." She checked her watch. "Don't forget, Mr. Trelawney expects to see everyone in the ballroom at eleven."

  "I didn't realize Mr. Trelawney was back," said Molly. For the past two days, the hotel's manager had been away, so Brigette, the hotel's desk clerk and once-concierge, had tripled her efforts with the white board and makers to keep everything perfectly organized in his absence.

  "A half hour ago. That's why this morning's meeting was postponed until elevenses," said Brigette. "No doubt the earl's party is on his mind. It's not every day we have a centenarian celebrating here. Molly, move aside the sofa, please, so I can
reach those dusty bits underneath." Two tiny dust bunnies now vanished into the sweeper's jaws.

  Mr. Trelawney rarely left the hotel, and to be gone the same time as the chief housekeeper Mrs. Charles had been odder still. The storyteller in me wanted to weave a fascinating reason for the silent, intimidating head of the hotel to slip away midweek to London, but even my imagination had a hard time conjuring a plausible story for the enigma that was my current employer. The handful of conversations between us — mostly ones about my still-missing work permits — never included anything remotely personal about the manager himself. So was he meeting a secret romance? Having lunch with the soon-to-be-century-old Earl of Middlewhite? Or indulging in a secret fondness for burlesque theater? You decide, because, frankly, I have a hard time imagining him even cracking a smile over a nice lunch at the Four Seasons.

  "I think the earl's party sounds exciting," said Molly, who set the last raven in place with a pat. "I simply knew something exciting was going to happen this month. It always does right before All Hallow's Eve."

  "Are you superstitious, Molly?" I asked. I noticed the maid sounded a tiny bit timid — more than usual, I mean — when she mentioned the name of this infamous Celtic holiday, now mostly a time for harmless pranks and free candy in my home country.

  "Me? A little, I suppose," she said, with a blush. "That is ... I always work four down in the crossword puzzles first, for example. I don't know why, except I feel it brings me good luck. It must have at one time or another, though I've forgotten. Is that superstitious?"

  "Sort of. It could be, if you feel that way about it," I said.

  "What about you, Marj — I mean, Maisie?" Molly still had trouble remembering that, for reasons unexplained by me, the name on my employee uniform's tag was the wrong one. "Do you believe in good luck or bad luck? Or things like ghosts and spirits?"

  I smiled, remembering how I begged for a nightlight as a kid because I was afraid of monsters in the closet — years before I stopped being afraid of haunted houses.

  "I like to keep an open mind about poltergeists and paranormal activities," I said. "But for me — I don't have any good luck charms." I wouldn't count the stuffed animal Mr. Bubbles, whose best bit of luck had been me parting ways with the childhood boyfriend who gifted him to me. "I don't have any real superstitions, either. I guess I've never seen any proof to convince me."

  "I don't know. I've seen some weird things," said Molly, dubiously. "Even the Penmarrow becomes a bit strange this time of the year." She stuffed the last of the packing paper back into the crate.

  "The Penmarrow?" I echoed, with a laugh. The opulent seaside hotel with its 1920's architecture and priceless antiques and knickknacks decorating it from sunny foyer to the royal blue damask bedroom suit — a scene for strange and weird events? Eccentric ones, I could believe, maybe, but certainly not in spooks and ghouls ... unless they were the ones hoovering the carpets at two A.M. and not Brigette, that is.

  "Gomez says he saw a ghost once," whispered Molly. "Ask him about it sometime." She lifted the empty crate. "Goodness, it's almost nine. We'd better be quick if we want to have the dining room done before the staff meeting."

  I tucked the last of the garland's free ends out of sight as the mobile phone in my maid's apron pocket rang. I checked the number, but it wasn't familiar. Whoever was calling hadn't called me enough times for me to add them to my contacts list, apparently.

  "Hello?" I answered.

  "Marjorie, it's me," said a voice that sounded hoarse and frantic. It clearly wasn't that of a close friend, since my name was wrong — it could only be someone I had met at the hotel over the past couple of months and next to no one had my number except for maybe Brigette and some of the staff.

  "Who?" I felt the hairs on my neck rise, as if expecting doom, due to Molly's conversation more than any actual notion that something weird was happening.

  "Riley. The porter from the hotel. I'm in desperate need of a favor, so I beg of you, don't cut me off. It's my third time to be late this week, and Mr. Trelawney can't know I'm not there — just hear me out."

  I recognized his voice now, and I was also feeling skeptical about this favor. "What do you need?" I asked. Undoubtedly, Riley needed someone to cover for him with an excuse since he wasn't at work today — he must have worn out his welcome with the rest of the staff by now, so I was the lucky patsy as the hotel's newest employee.

  "I need you to borrow the car and come to the local police station," he said. "Bring my uniform with you. But first there's a tin with my tips in it stashed on the back of the shelf in the uniform closet — bring it, too, and any spare notes you might have handy, so I can get out of here. And please, be quick about it."

  "The police station? Are you making bail?" I said. "What did you do, Riley?"

  But Riley had already disconnected our call.

  _________________

  Riley was disheveled, red-eyed, and fuming behind the door of his cell. At the sight of me, he came alive again, springing up from his seat on the bed. "Marjorie, I owe you. I swear it —"

  "Save your apologies to the lass for elsewhere," said the local P.C. on duty, who sounded tired as he held open the cell door. I stood behind him, arms crossed as I waited.

  Until now, I hadn't had an occasion for visiting the police station of Port Hewer, which resembled a nice, sedate building like a library or maybe an old hall of records on the outside, with a little ivy creeping up its corners and the traditional limewash, stone, and slate which was nothing like the correctional facility in my old place of residence, Los Angeles.

  I had buttoned my coat over my maid's uniform as I entered the building, but pulled my wool cap from my head despite the cool breeze and tried to do something with my messy, dark locks sticking out from beneath it. The desk sergeant lowered his copy of a P.D. James novel as I entered.

  "I'm here for Riley Bloom?" I said, uncertain what the standard procedure was for collecting a potential prisoner. Hoping at this time that maybe there was a simple misunderstanding behind the porter being here.

  "Not his solicitor, are you?" A joke, I realized.

  "No. I'm just here to give him a ride home."

  The sergeant sighed. "This way," he said. He buzzed open a cell and stepped through a door leading to the prisoner holding area, as I followed. To my right, a figure peering through a door's little window, swaying in a drunken fashion on the other side.

  "What did Riley do?" I was curious to know, though I hated to ask. Then again, I was having to help Riley, so maybe it was a little my business.

  "Drunk and disorderly in public," said the sergeant. "Got a bit too fresh with a lady. He's been accused of harassing her at the pub."

  Riley, who had scrambled up to leave the moment his door opened, had overheard these last remarks. "Harassment?" he echoed. "Harass her? What do you call what I've endured? I'm the victim in this situation!" His face was red with fury.

  "You'd best stay close to home and pray they don't bring charges," replied the constable. "Husband's not too happy with you givin' his missus unwanted attention like that."

  Harassment? Husband? I knew that Riley professed himself to be a local stag, but this was going way too far. With silent indignation, I followed him out of the police station after Riley collected his personal possessions. In the back seat of the hotel's Rolls-Royce, his porter's uniform was folded.

  "How could you?" I slammed the driver's door. "You're a cad and a pig, Riley Bloom. This is the last favor I ever do for you, I swear." I twisted the key in the ignition and the car purred to life despite the previous two weeks it had spent with its engine suffering a mysterious malady in need of repair.

  "What are you talking about?" Riley sounded shocked. He peeled off his worn wool coat and orange scarf. "Have you gone crazy?"

  "Have you? Stalking a woman — a married woman, on top of that offense?" I answered.

  "They've got it wrong, Marjorie. She's the one who's stalking me!" said Riley. "She was the o
ne who caused the scene at the pub last night, hangin' on me when he was in plain sight the whole while. I couldn't squirm away ... she's got a death grip, that woman."

  "Wait — you're telling me that you were assaulted by this woman?"

  "I've been trying to get away from her for weeks now. She's obsessed — she's after me body." He shrugged his green rugby t-shirt over his head now, and I was relieved to see he was wearing a vest underneath it.

  "Who is she?" I turned left in the sleepy square of Port Hewer, thankful traffic was light at this moment.

  "Mrs. Pendlegraft. You wouldn't know her." Riley scrunched lower in the back seat of the car. "Her husband took the upper grange this summer. He's a rum one — twenty years older, armed to the eyeballs, and as jealous as Neptune. He's got a bit of crazy in his eyes, like all the ex-officers with one too many parades in their past. Guess being rich wasn't exciting enough, so he went off to war a few times. Probably to cool his homicidal tendencies." With a grunt, Riley flopped out of sight, holding his porter's jacket and black trousers.

  "Can't you just talk to him and explain it was a misunderstanding?"

  "And have him shoot me first? Not on your life. Besides, Mr. Trelawney's given us warning to stay out of trouble with the locals, and I'm already in a bit of a pickle with him. I can't have him knowing that one of them smells my blood in the water."

  "What about her? Maybe you can tell her you're not interested." I braked for a pedestrian on a bicycle, a little clumsy on the gearshift at the same time. I heard the thud of Riley's head against the back of my seat.

  "Can't you drive a bit faster?" he snapped. "By now, someone may have squealed to Brigette that I didn't show."