by Laura Briggs
"I thought you were looking for your friend — Anderson, or whatever his name was."
"I was. But he's not here. So ... I guess I'm here by myself." There was more chagrin in my voice than I meant to reveal.
"I wouldn't say that." He leaned across the desk, flashing me what I think was meant to be a roguish smile. "This Anderson — just a lad you bumped into by chance, right? No one serious, you said —"
"What are you doing, loafing about? Those bags are due in the Glen Suite, Riley," said a young, feminine voice. "Off with you." She shooed him away from the desk, not noticing me until he moved on.
"What are you doing?" she asked me now. I was facing someone about my age, smartly dressed in a crisp white blouse and black waistcoat, a little black tie tucked neatly in place with a brass tack to hold it. Her hair was gingery red, and tucked up in a neat bun. She looked like the 'prim and proper' schoolmarm, except for her young, babyish face, which betrayed her age as around twenty or so.
"Sorry. I'm — I'm looking for the schedule," I said. "I'm supposed to start work here this morning."
"Marjorie Kinnan. The new maid," said the girl. She drew a sheet of paper from under the desk, one divided into neat calendar blocks. "You're late," she announced, after her finger followed the progression.
"I am?" I stammered in surprise. "I thought I wasn't supposed to start until today."
"Morning shift starts at five thirty, with the staff meeting," she said. "Surely you didn't think it began at eight thirty."
"I didn't realize," I answered, embarrassed. Day one of my secret adventure as Marjorie Kinnan and I had already made a mistake. "I'm so sorry. I should have asked yesterday what time I was supposed to begin."
And where's your uniform?" She rested her hands on her hips, giving a tsk of disapproval that seemed laughable coming from someone this young. "This will never do. Fortunately for you, Mr. Trelawney is away this morning."
Swimsuit, squishy black canvas sneakers with mud-stained laces, halter top swimsuit. I glanced at my reflection in the nearby pillar, realizing how unprofessional I looked — worse still, a big tuft of hair was sticking up on one side of my head.
"I didn't have my uniform yet," I said, trying to smooth my hair with one palm at the same time. "Where do I find it?"
"In the room by the housekeeper's office. Go, quickly," she said, shooing me away now. "We have lots to do today."
I opened the door to an oversized closet, where several coats, boots, and umbrellas were stored. There was only one maid's uniform hanging there — a navy blue and white pinstripe dress that looked two sizes too big, with a white apron hanging on a hook beside it. No shoes, no little hat, no feather duster.
Time to transform into Marjorie Kinnan, maid at the legendary hotel Penmarrow ... while wearing a circus tent, apparently. I pulled the dress off the hanger and emerged from the storage closet. The concierge Brigette was on the phone taking someone's reservation, and I didn't see anybody else I could ask about this problem.
"Forgive me, miss, but are you part of the hotel staff?" A little elderly woman who looked as frail as an eggshell was at my elbow, plucking it with trembling fingers.
"I am," I said, putting on my nicest smile. "Do you need something?"
"Yes. Yes indeed. You see, my pills — I only have two left. The chemist's shop in the village has my new bottle. It's such a terrible inconvenience to ask the hotel, I know ... but I really can't go ..."
"Of course not," I said. "The hotel is always happy to run an errand for a guest." Of course, I was the 'hotel' in this scenario, I realized. "The chemist's in the village, you say?" Obviously I should have done a little exploring before I came to the hotel yesterday.
"Near the pastry shop. That's the one," she said. "It's such a dreadful inconvenience ... I simply can't go without them. My heart, you understand." She dug through an oversized purse with one hand, a lost look entering her eyes for a moment as she trembled.
For a moment, I was afraid that she might suffer a fatal heart attack right in front of me. "Of course, of course," I said, soothingly. "I'll go. I'll go now." I tucked the uniform under my arm. Was there time to change before I left? Was there someone here who could tell me exactly where the chemist was located?
"Here's the little slip from my doctor." She handed me a folded note of some kind with the name 'Wickles' printed at the top, and what looked like a small wad of British money, which could be ten pounds or a hundred. "Oh, dear. I haven't any change for the tip." She fished around in a little net change purse with shaking fingers.
"Don't worry about it," I said. "I'll be back in just a little while." I glanced around for someone else to help, but the porter and the girl behind the desk had disappeared again.
I abandoned the maid's uniform in the custodial closet temporarily and exited through a little door near the kitchen, which must surely lead to the closed-off yard where the car was parked. A blast of cold hose water struck my legs as I emerged, and I shrieked — less cheerfully than when I was on the beach.
"Mind your shoes," grunted the gardener. He was sitting on the same overturned pot from yesterday, although this time he was spraying down the gravel and not the half-drowned petunias.
I caught my breath and ignored my second cold drench of the day. "Can you drive me to the chemist's in the village?" I asked. "I'm the new maid, and I'm supposed to run an errand for a guest."
"Can't drive you anywhere, seeing as we've not four proper tires on the car," he answered, in a slow, decisive drawl. The tire from the car was lying beside it, and some sort of black oil from the undercarriage was being hosed away at the moment.
"Is there any other means of transport around here?" I asked. "I think this is an emergency." He didn't make a move to put the tire back on the car, however, still washing away the oil puddle from the ground.
"Cycling. Young Riley left his bicycle outside the yard, as it happens."
It would have to do. I hurried around the other side of the gate and found a battered blue bicycle leaning against the wall, a ratty wicker basket tied in front. I pushed up the kickstand and rolled it across the car park towards the long driveway.
It was a shaky trip down the driveway, especially at the steepest parts, where I had trouble with the brakes more than once. With considerable speed, I coasted into the heart of a small village, in search of the right souvenir-bakery-chemist combination on one of its streets. No time for sightseeing or lingering among its limestone and rock buildings, crowded close together on streets that seemed more like quaint cobblestone than modern pavement, with bright baskets and window boxes of flowers everywhere.
With a little paper chemist's sack tucked into my basket, I struggled to make the bicycle climb one of the inclines leading to the hotel, its chain slipping every third turn of my pedal. It was then that the brakes chose to give up. Out of breath, I tried to keep from sliding backward, only to hear the pop of the already-exhausted chain as it broke in half. I felt the bike begin its steep backwards descent to the road behind me.
I twisted the handlebars, trying to turn the bike around. I caught a dizzying glimpse of the sea, of the cliffs pitching down to the beach, although it was only a dozen feet or so to the ground. The bicycle bounced off the main road, into the natural rock slide leading to the beach, as I struggled to turn the pedals in the opposite direction.
The bike's tire struck a big rock and flipped. I was airborne, then I made impact with the ground and the world around me went dark.
***
A pair of strong arms. That was the first feeling I was aware of when the world appeared before me again.
As a little girl, I had a picture book of Hans Christian Anderson's The Little Mermaid that I loved to read. My favorite illustration was one of the mermaid cradling the rescued prince after pulling him from the ocean. I always pictured his perspective — eyes blinking awake, seeing a human face dimly, surrounded by a halo of sunlight. Just like the scene in the Disney movie.
I felt
the same way as the prince right now. Except, of course, I was more like the mermaid in the fact that the arms holding me belonged to the handsome prince himself.
In the haze of light, strong masculine features gazed down at me, a pair of lips curved slightly, parted in a gentle smile. Golden, sandy hair carelessly ruffled by the wind, touched with cinnamon-red highlights in the sun, a pair of dark eyes which might be the color of ocean depths or midnight skies ... my brain had just written a paragraph, and I wasn't even sure I was awake or even alive.
I could stay here forever, half awake and gazing sleepily at this stranger. "Are you ... my prince?" It was a dream, I thought. My childhood memory had come back to me when I hit my head. Only these arms felt real, and the rest — the spicy, woody scent reaching my nose, the rock digging into my leg — seemed like odd choices for my fantasy.
The torso against which I was leaning now shook faintly with laughter. "That's a new one," said a male voice with an English accent. But softly, as if he were afraid that talking loudly might hurt me ... or as if he was talking to himself instead. "Not exactly. But I will carry you up the hill to my carriage, if you wish."
Had he kissed me? I had a vague memory of dreaming about something moist against my cheek or my forehead. I blushed, but the feeling of blood rushing to my face brought a stinging sensation to my forehead.
"No ... I'll walk." My words came out funny. My eyes blinked twice, and the face came into focus. The person holding me was gazing down with a look of mild concern despite his smile. Shirt fraying at the collar, face in need of a shave.
He was becoming more real by the second, and I was becoming aware that my previous thoughts had been bizarre romantic nonsense from my head. I was lying on the beach's sand, and something sticky and painful was throbbing just above my left eye. I wondered what happened to Riley's bike and the poor hotel guest's medicine. I wondered how long I had been here.
A tiny, scrappy-looking dog licked my cheek. This was the culprit who kissed me in my dreams.
"Where am I?" I croaked aloud. Visions of broken bones danced through my head as I tried to move all four limbs at once.
"You're all right," he answered, soothingly. "You've had a tumble down the rocks, judging by your bicycle. Don't try to move too much. Stay still until a doctor sees you."
"Doctor?"
"That's a nasty bump on your head. Fortunately for you, I know a bit about first aid," he said. "I didn't want to leave until you were awake, though."
"Leave?" One hand had managed to find my forehead and touched some gauze taped over one side of it — was he going to leave me here to recover? Was I hurt, or was it just a scratch?
"To find a doctor," he said. "Unless you want me to carry you there. My offer stands."
Two minutes ago, I wouldn't have said no to this idea; but enough of myself had come back to make me refuse. "No," I said. "I'm fine." My voice was slightly mumbly. I decided to keep all my replies short.
"I'm sure you are," he soothed. "It's just a precaution, having someone look at you." He helped me to lean against the wall of natural rock, away from the loose stones, and covered me with a terrible-looking canvas jacket that had seen better days and fewer paint stains in its beginning. The little scrappy dog was trying to climb into my lap and kiss me some more, but he whistled for it and it sprang off of me.
"Sit tight," he said to me, as he tucked me in. "I'll be back soon." A roguish grin now, as if to reassure me — or was I imagining this? To me, it felt as if I had been shaken in a bag full of rocks.
"Who ... who are you?" I asked, still finding my words a bit thick.
"A friend," he said. "A stranger. Your neighborhood Good Samaritan. Doesn't matter which one, I suppose," he added. "Where did you come from? Did you fall out of the sky onto the beach?" He held a bottle of water to my lips and made me swallow some of it. "Bicycle and all?"
Whether he was talking to me or himself, I couldn't be sure. "Los Angeles," I murmured. It was a stupid answer, but I was feeling sleepy again. It was the throbbing headache causing it, I was sure. I felt his hands tuck the bottle between mine, a strong hand molding my fingers around it. I heard him whistle for the dog, but the sound of this noise seemed further away to me.
When I woke up, the sun had vanished behind the clouds. A cool breeze touched my face, and I opened my eyes, finding a vision of gentle waves rolling onto the beach that looked perfectly clear now.
I touched my forehead again. A big wad of gauze and two strips of bandage tape. The sticky blood around its edges was now dry. My limbs all worked again, and I felt awake, only bruised. My head was only pounding a little, its drumming regiment from before having retreated from the front lines.
If not for the bandages and the coat around me, I would have thought I imagined waking up cradled in someone's arms. Only the embarrassingly-titled 'prince' of my subconscious hadn't been imaginary, but probably had a good laugh over my bizarre reaction to him. He also hadn't come back, although I felt I had been asleep for a long time since he gave me that drink of water.
I didn't know how long exactly, only that I was terribly late for someone who was supposed to be running a quick errand in the village. I could be fired for this, if only I were really a part of the staff.
Fired meant no Alistair Davies. I would never have a chance to find him, if I had to leave before I learned his whereabouts. That was something I couldn't explain to my rescuer, although I wished I could.
Folding the coat, I left it and the bottle on the nearest rock's flat top. Maybe I should write him a note of thanks, telling him I was all right and not to worry, only I didn't have any writing materials.
Guiltily, I searched his pockets for a pen or pencil, and a scrap of paper. I found a few small shells, a piece of frayed rope, a torn page from a book. Like a little boy's pockets, I thought, only without the conventional frog or lizard. A receipt with the words 'S. Daniels' on it, and a shop's name. A tiny piece of pencil with its lead worn to nothing, so I couldn't even scratch my initials in the top margin of the torn page — which was from a copy of Daniel Deronda, I discovered.
His neatly-folded coat would have to be sufficient proof that I had survived my accident.
I scrambled a few feet up the rock slide, and discovered my — Riley's — bicycle was gone. I found the paper sack with the pill bottle lying a short distance away, beside a big stone. I tucked it in my skirt pocket and drew a deep, if shaky, breath.
On the beach again, I found the scrappy dog had reappeared and was sniffing the spot where my rescuer had left me. He wagged his tail at me and whined.
"I'm fine," I said. "I need to go now. You stay here and wait for your owner."
It would be easy to follow the beach back to the one at the hotel, which couldn't be far. If I started walking, I would be back soon. The cool air made me feel better, even if the sand filled my sneakers and the little dog nipped my ankles as he followed along, trying to talk me into staying here. He didn't give up until I was halfway down the beach.
I heard a rumble overhead, as if the clouds were threatening to do more than merely shade my poor injured head. But a little rain never hurt anything.
I was drenched beneath the downpour, a nice cool shower that left me shivering from head to foot before I reached the hotel's beach and the stairs to the garden above. The hotel's face was misty in the rain, its pinkish-brick hue deeper in the absence of sunlight, the garden ferns and potted petunias drooping under the weight of moisture.
I was clutching the mud-stained sack from the chemist's as I entered its lobby. The concierge Brigette was in the middle of a conversation with Gomez the other porter when they both noticed me standing a few feet away. My squishing shoes left footprints of oozy gray sand on the ornamental tiles, and I heard a little choking noise of dismay from the back of Brigette's throat at the sight.
"This belongs to Mrs. Wickles," I said, setting the medication back on the counter. "She's been waiting for it." I was swaying slightly to one side, so I tr
ied to correct that as the world around me spun the other direction suddenly.
The concierge had seized a dry mop with a sleek little extending handle, which had been propped out of sight behind the desk, and was now cleaning up my mess. "Are you sure that you are all right?" said the porter Gomez.
"I'm fine," I said. Although the floor was now closer to me than it had been a moment ago.
"She's blacking out —"
"Don't just stand there, do something —"
When I opened my eyes again, I found myself in the little bedroom upstairs. A girl in a striped maid's uniform was sitting in a chair nearby, holding a pencil and concentrating on an open puzzle book. Her tawny brown hair was knotted untidily on her head with a second pencil, and her face and body were thin and angular.
"Hello," I said. I offered her a smile as she looked up from her booklet.
"You're awake," she said. "Sorry. I was supposed to watch you. Do you like crosswords?" She held up the booklet. "I love them. Can't seem to stop working them, actually."
"Who are you?" I asked.
"Molly," she said, shyly. "I'm a maid here. Obviously, I suppose." She gave herself a gentle rap on the forehead a second later. "We haven't met before. You're the new girl, aren't you? Marjorie?"
"Call me Maisie," I said, sitting up on the bed.
"I thought it was Marjorie."
"It's my ... nickname," I said. "Never mind. I'm really sorry I caused all this trouble for everybody."
"No trouble," said Molly. "Don't worry. Just rest."
"I'm supposed to be working." I groaned a little as I sat up all the way. "I never picked up my uniform. I think it needs some pins to take it in a little."
"Brigette found a better one that should fit you," said Molly. "It's downstairs in the closet. That was Emelia's old one that you found, the one that she left behind. She went on one of those calorie counting diets, then ran off with her boyfriend to Gretna Green. Left us a bit shorthanded, really."
"I thought people would be dying to work at a place like this," I said. "It's historic. Legendary." I repeated the chief housekeeper's phrase. "It's like something come to life from a book when you first see it."