by Ivy Brooke
"And who is this charming lady?" he inquired. "Ms. Cartwright, I presume? I am delighted to meet you." Despite the three years on land, Mr. Ashcroft had all the rugged and ruddy look of a sailor, his smile very energetic and pleasant.
"As am I, Mr. Ashcroft," she replied with a curtsey. Then she added, "I had the pleasure of meeting your father not three months ago."
She thought it would be some good bit of conversation, but she quickly regretted mentioning it, for she judged by the sudden discomfort of the gentlemen in the room that it was a subject not to be broached upon. However, Mr. Christopher rallied a smile.
"He does indeed get around often, rarely idle in one place, it seems. Well, I am always pleased to meet a new friend of Sebastian and Clarice—they have the most keen judgment in forming new acquaintances."
Wanting to redeem her mistake, Imogene tried a new subject, "I have heard of your passion for privateering, sir. It sounds like quite an exciting profession."
This time, she knew she struck the right chord, for Mr. Christopher's face beamed. "Indeed it is, Ms. Cartwright; there is nothing like it! To abandon it and return to such peaceful surroundings as these seems perfectly dull. But now that you are all come to visit, I am beside myself."
"How is the sport this year, Christopher?" Mr. Archer asked.
"I swore to myself that I would wait to begin shooting until you arrived, but I was obliged to test these new rifles I purchased..."
The two gentlemen left discussing sport, so Clarice offered to show Imogene to their room where there was a grand view of the sea out their window.
CHAPTER TWENTY
My dearest sister,
This place is almost too fantastic. For once, I have finally arrived at a
paradise only supplied to me before by my books. I feel free to completely indulge myself in writing every detail, and to not feel guilty of tantalizing you, as you told me in your last letter that you and Thomas are venturing to Spain in the autumn. And as you promised to tell all of Spain when that time comes, I will tell you all of Penzance, and will spare nothing.
Imogene tapped her quill against the paper, trying to think where to start. It was a trademark of her letter writing to leave ink spots where she tapped in thought, and any clean letter would be thought of as a forgery.
The sea is absolutely beautiful, and stretches out just outside my window
here. I can easily understand how a man like Mr. Ashcroft, who has known the
sea, could feel so unbearably still on land. The constant shush and motion of the waves is so comforting that I fall almost immediately to sleep every night with such peaceful dreams. And the smell is so fresh and clean. We are to walk along the beach again this afternoon, and I have made up my mind to send a seashell with this letter, which will hopefully retain the sea smell until it arrives to you.
Clarice is so darling. She is the sweetest creature, excepting you, dear
sister. She expresses every morning how glad she is that I came, and has been
surprisingly talkative. I never knew such a timid young lady to have such
conversation! And as it happens, she is a great reader of novels as well, although
she partakes in the romantics much more than I do.
She paused for a moment, recalling how exuberantly Clarice had described her latest read to her, and laughed to herself.
Mr. Ashcroft is a very agreeable man, despite my first impressions of his
father, as I have related to you in previous letters. Meaning no offense in the
comparison, he has been rather like a dog, excitable and always happy for our
company. As happy as he has been with us visiting, I hate to imagine how lonely
he might feel other times of the year. Mr. Archer feels the same, I believe, as he
seems to be discreetly convincing him to take up privateering again, which would
undoubtedly make the gentleman happy.
Now having mentioned Mr. Archer, she began tapping her pen again. She readied herself to draw a stroke, but refrained, trying to think of the right words.
Mr. Archer is quite altered here. He is very easy with his friend, and also
with me. I confess, I am taken by surprise every time that he smiles. Yes, he
smiles here! I suppose I can see how that would be possible, though. The whole
atmosphere of this place is light and happy, with little need of keeping up
appearances. He even joined in when the four of us gathered together after
supper to play the guessing game. His was the most difficult to guess, for he had
chosen snow! Being at the beach during summer, no one had set their minds to
any such cold, winter topics. We went on for fully fifteen minutes, until we all
declared that we gave up. He
She recalled his look then. Mr. Ashcroft, Clarice, and herself were stiffly competing, determined to guess. When they all finally gave up, the almost-devious sparkle in his bright eyes intensified, and his poorly suppressed grin of amused satisfaction was slowly breaking free as he gave his answer, then he laughed as the three of them reprimanded him for his ridiculous choice.
Snapping out of the smile she had sprouted at the recollection, Imogene looked over what she had written.
declared that we gave up. He was quite mercilessly scolded for it, and rightfully so!
We are to venture into the Quay soon, so I will pause this letter for now,
and continue at the day's end, to tell of how we spent our day.
With that, she slid the letter into her bookmarked page of Henry IV: Part Two, which she had brought to read. And just in time, as Clarice came up the stairs, excitedly announcing that they were preparing to leave for the Quay.
Their small party of four had a leisurely walk down the beach. It was a grey morning, but still pleasant with the slight breeze that sprayed them if they wandered too near the seashore. Imogene and Clarice ventured close enough to catch the spray, delighting in how it tingled on their skin. After about a twenty-minute walk, they reached the fairgrounds of the Quay, which were already jostled with people, making a roar that mounted that of the sea's.
Their very first ambition was the "Guess the Weight" booth, where they each put in a guess for the weight of the cake, hoping to win it. It was three layers, covered in whipped chocolate frosting, and decked with rose-colored candies.
"Six pounds," Imogene declared.
"Six and a half, with those candies," Mr. Ashcroft suggested.
"I would say five," Mr. Archer said.
"Only five?" Mr. Ashcroft asked, incredulous. "You're joking!"
"These cakes are built to fool," Mr. Archer affirmed. "Under the frosting, the cake could be a very light texture, and not so rich as it appears."
"My brother is very good as guessing cakes," Clarice boasted to Imogene. "He won a strawberry sheetcake last year."
"That's true..." Mr. Ashcroft said, pensive. "It was very good, too..." But he still wrote his guess as, "Six and a half. Three layers with candies...it must be."
"We shall see..." Mr. Archer said.
Imogene suppressed a chuckle: The two men acted as though they were engaging in a duel.
Another booth had a ring toss game. Small pouches of various potpourri scents were strewn about a table. Whichever one the ring landed on, the thrower received as a prize. However, some of the pouches held disagreeable odors. Clarice managed to win a lavender and vanilla pouch, whereas Imogene won a pouch that stank of rotten cabbage. The rank was confirmed when Imogene called upon the gentlemen's chivalry, making them sniff it first. They both made horrible faces, but declared it to be roses, to which Imogene laughed and threatened to hide it in their pillows.
There was a shooting gallery, where Mr. Archer and Mr. Ashcroft spent a great deal of their fair money. They also bought rounds for the ladies to try, and Imogene was astonished to find how expert a shot Clarice was, hitting every shot close to the bullseye, and
one directly in the center. Imogene's own shots were futile, most barely skimming the outer ring of the target.
By the time they began their trek back to the cottage, they were exhausted from their eventful day. As expected, and to their delight, Mr. Archer won the cake, which they cut into that evening after supper. Before eating, they all raised their forks to toast to his successful "pastry wisdom, without which, this decadent feast would not be possible".
Imogene was amazed when she found that the final outcome of her letter to Emmeline turned out to be five pages in length. And, as promised, she included a seashell to send off with the letter. She had thrown out the rotten cabbage she had won in the ring toss, but as a joke, used the ribbon that tied the pouch as a bookmark.
"Did you give my regards to Emmeline?" Clarice asked as Imogene folded up and waxed the letter.
"Yes. I did not know you were still awake."
Clarice smiled as she turned onto her back, staring up at the ceiling. "It was such a wonderful day. I have always loved coming here."
Imogene found her place in the bed next to Clarice. "Tomorrow is the night with the bonfires. What is that like?"
"Honestly, it had always made me a little nervous. People actually throw around their torches, did you know?"
"Throw them?"
"They set rags on fire, and the rags are tied to poles, and they swing them around."
"Oh!"
"I only parade a little ways down the street to an inn. The housekeeper there lets me watch the rest of the night from the window in her room. From there, it's very pleasant. Her room is on the top floor of three, so it all looks like a river of fire going by."
"That does sound exciting."
Clarice turned to face her friend. "Are you going to march?"
Imogene could sense that Clarice wanted her to sit with her in the inn, and tried to delicately say, "Well, this is my very first visit to the Golowan Festival, so I would like to explore it to the fullest. How long is the march?"
"All through town."
Imogene considered for a moment. "That could take hours. I'm sure I should tire after an hour. I will meet you at the inn well before the night is over."
Clarice smiled. "They do serve an excellent tea cake there. And petit fours!"
Imogene smiled in return. "Sounds very fine. But we should sleep now if we are to last long into tomorrow night."
Clarice agreed, and the two immediately closed their eyes and turned their minds to the sounds of the sea.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Even the simple walk down to the festivities that following night was exciting. Mr. Ashcroft offered that they walk along the beach, as the streets would be crowded. The Archers quickly agreed, professing that it was one of the highlights of their trip. Though they had some pleasant conversation along the way, Imogene had wished they could all be silent to simply enjoy their surroundings. The sight of the sea at night was eerily enchanting. The water looked like oil, curling and washing onto the moon-glow sand. Combined with the thousands of stars that shone clearly above, Imogene felt as though she was walking through a magical land, the likes of which could have inspired Midsummer Night's Dream or The Tempest. In the distance, they could see the orange flash of the bonfire, which grew as they approached.
People had gathered around the large fire to light their torches or burn effigies they had constructed. Some sang songs and drank ale, planning to stay near the fire rather than going on the march. Mr. Archer and Mr. Ashcroft prepared the torches; Imogene decided that she would share Clarice's torch, since Clarice would be retiring to the inn early in the trek.
At first, it was all as thrilling as Imogene imagined: hundreds of people filling the streets, carrying their blazing torches with shouts of celebration. After Clarice retired to the inn, Imogene took hold of her torch, feeling a sort of power as she held the fire in her hand. Mr. Archer had a first: He held one of the swinging torches, and held it high above his head as he gently swung it from side to side. Imogene could not remember ever seeing so many people outside before, and all behaving so informally—it was rather refreshing.
But by the third street, she began to become tired of it. The smoke was beginning to bother her, and her coughs grew constant. She was also becoming nervous of the recklessness of some, as Clarice had expressed, while one man near her swung his torch dangerously close to her hair. She felt sure a spark burned her cheek. So she expressed to the gentleman of her party that she would go back to the inn and sit with Clarice. Mr. Archer bid his friend to go on ahead while he escorted Imogene back through the crowded streets and made sure she found the inn alright.
"What do you think of it, then?" he asked, his voice loud to speak over the crowds.
"It's certainly unlike anything else," Imogene replied in equal volume. "The smoke is..." A cough finished the remark for her.
"It never bothered Clarice so greatly, but then she is a little shorter. The smoke does not accumulate about her head so much as it does ours."
Turning down the street, the crowds were wild and frantic, and it was hard to push through to their destination. Mr. Archer held a firm grip on Imogene's hand to not separate as they approached the part of the street where the inn sat.
Fire billowed from the windows of the lower floor, and smoke poured from the floor above it. Imogene felt the rush of the fire's heat course through her as panic struck, and she could see the same in Mr. Archer's face as he began to call Clarice's name. Imogene searched the crowds for Clarice, also calling her name, but having little luck of seeing anyone other than those who surrounded her, many scrambling to procure water.
A scream issued from the burning inn, and Imogene felt a sudden burst of fearful tears well up in her eyes. Both she and Mr. Archer cried out Clarice's name at the same time. Looking desperately around, though she heard people proclaim the fear that someone was in the fire, no one moved forward. Finally, she and Mr. Archer unknowingly rushed forward together and tried to find access into the building. Seeing Imogene move with him, he took hold of her arm.
"Stand back, Ms. Cartwright!" he commanded.
"But how do you plan to find her?" Imogene asked.
He walked through the open door, but a sudden burst of flame sent him backward and out again.
"I think I have an idea," Imogene said, backing off the roofed porch. "The fire has not reached the second floor yet. If you can lift me onto the awning, I can reach the second floor window there."
"I cannot allow that. I will get a gentleman to help me up. There is no point in risking you."
"The awning may be too weak to support a grown man; it would be better that I go. This is to save your ward, sir; you must do it."
His face clearly displayed duress at having to make such a decision. "I will give you one minute to search, and then you must come back, or I will go in after you both."
"Agreed, sir."
With that, they spent no more time talking. She stepped onto his gathered hands and held his shoulders for balance as he hoisted her up to the awning. As she scrambled to drag herself up across the awning roof, he pushed as high as he could, until her entire self laid upon it. But as she worked to crawl to the window, the awning creaked with her weight, and she got stuck several times as she tried to crawl in her dress. She made it to the window with only little difficulty, however, and managed to land her feet safely inside.
The room was so filled with smoke, that she had difficulty finding her way in the fog. She knew she would likely be better off crawling to escape the smoke, but did not want to waste time. As soon as she mustered a fresh breath, she called for Clarice. Hearing nothing, she attempted to find the stairs to head up to the top floor, as she recalled Clarice saying that was where she normally stayed at the inn.
As she coughed and stumbled through the smoke, she felt a pull on her dress skirt. She turned in the direction of the pull and fell to her knees to see who it was: It was an older woman simply dressed, lying just below a bed.
; "Can you stand?" Imogene asked, her coughing settling somewhat as she lowered herself down to the woman.
"I twisted my ankle," the woman said, shaking her head. "I had tried to leave too hastily..."
"Do you know a young lady called..."
"Ms. Clarice Archer? Yes. I ushered her from the room before I had hurt myself."
Imogene put the woman's arm around her neck as she helped her rise. "Do you know if she made it out?"
She then faintly heard her name being called. Stumbling to the smoke, back to the window, she saw Clarice standing with Mr. Archer, her face red with crying. Imogene helped the woman over the window ledge and onto the awning, which was creaking dangerously now, and was hot with the lower level's fires.
"You must crawl," Imogene said, staying inside the window. "If we both go together, it could collapse."
"You had better go first, miss. You might not make it."
Imogene had barely heard the comment, as she was collecting her breath to shout to Mr. Archer: "She is coming down first—be sure to catch her!"
He set himself just below the awning, and the woman carefully slid herself along until her outstretched arms reached out to Mr. Archer, who was able to help her down.
"Now, Imogene!" he shouted once the woman was on firm ground.
As Imogene stood straddling the window ledge, her fear finally caught up with her. She could see the blazes reaching up along the sides of the awning, even reaching dangerously close to Mr. Archer as determined people continued pouring buckets of water. She seemed very certain that as she slowly stepped her other foot onto the awning, it would break and fall, tossing her into the fire.