by Laura Briggs
"It's not always easy work," said Molly. "You have to be quite good with people, and unusual situations. Besides, Mr. Trelawney likes the staff to be a bit ... unique." She tucked her book into her apron pocket. "You're American, aren't you? There hasn't been an American on staff in ages. Are you a student in America?"
"No. Why?"
"Your little computer. It has lots of funny-sounding documents on it," she said. She blushed. "Not that I was peeking ... you just have such a pretty background on its screen..."
My tablet computer was on the side table, and its backdrop today was of a building in New York. But lots of documents were also visible from the Tucker workshop — and so was one entitled 'letter to Alistair Davies.' As if to be extra-obvious, my old copy of A Dark and Glorious House was lying next to the tablet.
"Those are old," I said. "I used to be a student at a university. But I graduated two years ago." I had decided it might be a good idea not to mention I was a novelist for awhile.
I winced as my fingers found the knot on the back of my head while exploring for further bumps and bruises. "Did Mrs. Wickles get her pills?" I asked. "And her change?" She had given me fifty pounds by accident, and I hoped that trusting soul hadn't made the same mistake in the past with anybody unscrupulous.
"Oh, she was very grateful. But Brigette doesn't think you should do those sorts of things on impulse. You should have made Norm put the tire on the car and take you down to the village. He's been mucking about with that puncture for too long, really, so he can smoke in the yard and not be bothered by chatty guests."
"I'll remember for the future," I said.
"She's very proper about rules," said Molly. "And a bit of a neat freak." She rose from her chair. "But don't worry. Lots of people have bad first days. You simply have to try again."
I smiled. "Try again," I repeated. Good advice for someone who had my bad luck today.
In the closet by the chief housekeeper's office, I found a much smaller uniform awaiting me. A brass nametag was pinned to it. Marjorie Kinnan, it read, in flowing script.
My alter ego. Too late to change it now. With a smile, I lifted the hanger from the closet rod and closed the door.
***
I was downstairs by ten A.M. the next morning — the time assigned to me on Brigette's color-coded schedule — in my new striped maid's dress and my black canvas sneakers. I was struggling to pin on my nametag as I descended the stairs, resolving that today would go much better than yesterday.
After peeling the bandage off my forehead in the lavatory, I was convinced that the bruising from yesterday's fall wasn't too bad. A little foundation and powder managed to disguise it so that guests wouldn't stare at me for sporting a big wound. My rescuer must have done a good first aid job, I decided. Whoever he was, and wherever he disappeared to while I was sleeping.
No time to think about him — or my embarrassment for the things I had said while gazing up at him. I was determined to be good today, and prove myself as Marjorie Kinnan, maid of supposed experience, by cleaning these opulent rooms with gusto.
I was also determined to find the name and forwarding address which belonged to Alistair Davies.
I reached the front desk, where Brigette was booking a tour on the hotel's computer. "You're late," she said.
"I am?" I checked the time on a nearby clock with surprise. "But it's only now ten."
"The staff always arrives fifteen minutes early," said Brigette. "Really, I don't know how you do things in the States if everybody only shows up on time."
"So, what am I supposed to do today?" I couldn't help my eye creeping towards the open register on the desk. Lots of guest signatures ... and all those little information blocks labeled for contact after departure....
"First things first. The dining room must be readied for lunch, then we begin tidying rooms after the departing guests check out ... six today, I think .... Oh, and there's a suit to be collected for Mr. Grammery from the village at four ..." She followed the little color-coded lines matched to squares on her chart.
"Miss O' Brien," said another voice. "I need you to spare someone to me this morning."
The person addressing the concierge was a man, and at the sound of his voice, Brigette immediately forgot her schedule and snapped to attention. A strong, stout, imposing figure was surveying us; a man with graying hair combed smoothly over a shiny, thinning crown, immaculately dressed in a suit with a salmon pocket square and perfectly-shined shoes. He reminded me a little of Nero Wolfe the great fictional detective — right down to the air of quiet intimidation he instantly commanded.
"For the ball? Of course." Brigette drew herself up straighter with this reply. "Yes, Mr. Trelawney. Of course. Anyone you need."
This was the manager of the hotel, then. I glanced at him, suddenly feeling shy and a tiny bit nervous.
"This is the new maid," he said. "Miss Kinnan. Am I correct?"
"Yes," I said. "Yes, but ... call me Maisie. Please."
"Maisie?" repeated Brigette. "But Mrs. Charles wrote 'Marjorie' on the sheet. I have it here —"
"It's a nickname," I said. "Maisie. Marjorie. Same thing, really."
"Well. Miss Maisie Kinnan — if you would be so kind as to take notes for me." He indicated a pen and pad on the desk. I seized them, trying not to feel as if he was going to fire me any second now for my mistakes thus far.
Molly and another maid, one with shiny black hair, were setting the tables for lunch. Molly worked furiously at lining up silverware while the manager was passing by, but gave me a little wave as soon as he wouldn't notice it. I waved back — then was afraid that from the corner of his eye, Mr. Trelawney noticed me, so I assumed a more dignified attitude afterwards.
"Did Brigette say this was for the ball, sir?" I asked. It seemed unnatural not to talk at all, so I attempted a little question. "The one with the Jazz Age theme?"
"Indeed." He unlocked a set of double doors I remembered from my tour of this place, and opened them. Inside was a grand space with gilded moldings, pale peach-pink walls with a gently-flocked wallpaper, and chandeliers dripping with crystal prisms. The marble floor had streaks that resembled wispy pink and amber clouds at sunset, while the surrounding trim of antique floor tiles depicted green leaves, roses, and lots of curly vines. Only a few pieces of furniture decorated it, including a sky blue brocade love seat and some carved cherry dining chairs pushed against one wall — and a baby grand piano.
"A real ballroom," I said. "Just like in novels. Amazing." I lost a little of my dignified attitude at this point, but managed not to do anything silly, like laugh with astonishment.
"It suited the Randhouser Charitable Foundation's idea of one," answered Mr. Trelawney, dryly.
"The Randhouser Foundation?" I repeated.
"Have you heard of them?"
"Of course," I said. I couldn't believe it. The international philanthropy group sponsored dozens of causes, including literary programs and writers' grants — among them, the grant money paid to the amateur writer chosen by the Ink and Inspiration committee. "I had no idea they hosted balls."
"It's a fundraising gala to sponsor a new scholarship for aspiring Cornish writers. The Golding Fellowship," said Mr. Trelawney. It must be in honor of William Golding, I assumed, a Cornish author whose works I remembered from my English literature classes.
Imagine it — a roomful of literary enthusiasts who sponsored new talent and aspiring writers. Ink and Inspiration recipients among them, maybe. Could I let an opportunity like this one pass me by in my quest?
"Hold one end, please." From his pocket, Mr. Trelawney had taken a measuring tape. I snapped to attention and held one end as he made measurements on the floor.
"What are these for?" I asked, curious.
"I have my own way of planning an event's arrangement," he answered. He made measurements on the wall as well, and I wrote down the numbers he announced with each snap of the tape. He took pictures of each site with his mobile phone — a curiou
s sight, because something about him seemed too dignified or old-fashioned for modern technology. I helped him move aside the sofa and a backless love seat upholstered in squishy seafoam-green velvet for further measurements.
"The chairs for the orchestra arrive tomorrow," he announced, presumably to me, after our long silence. "I may require assistance in arranging the position of the artwork for the event — also to be delivered tomorrow."
"There's art?"
"The theme is the 'roaring twenties,'" said the manager. "Art is inspiration." He tucked his tape measure into his waistcoat pocket. "That will be all," he said.
"Do we — does the staff — work this event?" I asked. "Decorate, pass trays of shrimp around the room. Any of those tasks?"
It wasn't as if that opportunity would help me, since I knew waitresses probably weren't supposed to peddle their manuscripts to attendees — or maids to hotel guests, either. Even if Alistair Davies or another successful author was in the room, I was supposed to bite my tongue, smile, and offer them a morsel of food only.
"Perhaps," said Mr. Trelawney.
"I suppose this room is used a lot," I ventured. "Not just for balls, either."
"For other occasions, yes," said the manager. "Does that suit your curiosity, Miss Kinnan?"
I bit my tongue, feeling suddenly a little too inquisitive. "Yes, sir," I answered.
"That will be all."
"Yes, sir." I felt as if I should curtsy or something before leaving the room.
Brigette looked disappointed when I returned alone, instead of relieved, as I had pictured. "Is Mr. Trelawney not with you? I really do want to discuss the staff days off with him — Gomez and Riley both have the same ones, and it simply won't do."
"He told me he didn't want any further help. I guess he went to his office," I said.
"No doubt he's busy thinking about last year's and how to avoid that snafu with the champagne again," said Brigette, lifting the phone's receiver. She pressed a button on the phone, then looked at me closely and made a quick motion over the front of her uniform, mouthing a word at the same time.
I couldn't make it out at first. Apron. Of course — I wasn't wearing a maid's apron. I scurried to the cupboard and grabbed the first one I could find, unpinning my name tag so I could fasten it to the right-hand corner the way Molly and the other maid wore theirs.
As I entered the lobby and walked towards the stairs — forgetting that Brigette would probably be peeved that I wasn't properly attired for staff in public spaces, or something — I bumped into a male guest coming downstairs, who dropped his cap and a binocular case as we collided.
"Sorry," I said. "So sorry —" I bent down to pick them up the same as he did, and looked up into a mild-featured face with a pair of very light blue eyes. I recognized him instantly, and my heart sank to the bottom of my chest.
"Maisie?" he said.
***
Oh, no.
Of all people in all places, what was Ronald Sutcliffe doing in Cornwall?
"Ronnie," I said. "Hi. Hi, how are you? What are you doing here?" I asked in the nicest possible way, as if I were delighted by the coincidence. And not, let's say, wishing my ex-boyfriend was at his family's country house in Connecticut.
"Birdwatching," he said. "It's nesting season for the Goldcrest."
"Birds. Of course. You have your book and everything," I said. I remembered that little book well. Birdwatching was Ronnie's greatest passion — he was the only person I knew at our university who was a card-carrying member of the Audubon Society, and who admitted to spending his adolescence watching Central Park's trees with binoculars.
"Wow. This is ... is a surprise," I said. "So ... are you still working for your dad's company?"
"I know, I said I was going out on my own after graduation," said Ronnie, inspecting his binoculars lovingly. "But ... you know how Dad is. He gave me a corner office, and put me to work two weeks after graduation."
That was no surprise. I pictured Mr. Suttcliffe's concrete blue eyes and iron features, and suspected I would probably have ended up in a Manhattan corner office, too, if I'd been his daughter.
"So what are you doing in Cornwall?" he asked. "I thought you went back to California — your mom told me you were in some kind of writer's program out there."
He hadn't recognized my dress as one identical to the ones worn by the cleaning staff. He thought I was a guest at the hotel, like he was. No wonder he was talking to me so happily. I decided not to disillusion him yet.
"I was. That is, I am," I corrected. Temporarily, I stowed my apron and name tag behind my back, out of Ronnie's sight. "I'm almost ready to start writing my novel for the Tucker mentorship program. For consideration by the Ink and Inspiration grant committee." I crossed my fingers, and felt the pin from my pseudonym's name tag stab me in the fingertip. I managed not to wince.
"Right. They sponsor a writer through the whole process, right?" he said. "Pay the bills, hire the proofreaders and so on. That's great. Great, Maisie."
Once upon a time, that sheepish, floppy smile had charmed me enough that I missed my train, and ended up across from him in a diner instead of on my subway platform. A fact that boggled my mind two years later, after we had broken up.
This was awkward. We hadn't seen each other since that breakup. I went out into the real world and struggled my way towards elusive success, Ronnie went back to his New York penthouse to await further life instructions from his family.
"So," he said again, moistening his lips. "How long have you been here? I haven't seen you in the hotel until today."
"Not long," I said. "A day, actually. Two." Should I tell Ronnie the truth that I'm an employee here? Under an assumed name? That was exactly the sort of incongruous plebian activity that would confirm his family's worst fears about me — me overseas as a working-class illegal alien.
"Fantastic. Maybe we can get together. As friends." There was a tiny hopeful hint in his voice. "I could show you around Cornwall. We could go over to Penzance for a day or something."
I wasn't sure when or if I had days off — and if I did, I didn't want to spend one with the ex-boyfriend who let our sad goodbye in a cafe be one of awkward silences and bumbling words about different backgrounds. "How long are you staying?" I asked. Maybe he was leaving today or tomorrow, and I could say I was busy. Which I was, of course.
"A couple of weeks," he said. "Dad has a thing ... he's dragging me along, of course. As if he'd ever give an hour of his time to the discovery of a mating yellow wagtail," said Ronnie, with a shake of his head. "But that's the old-fashioned business tycoon for you."
"Is your father here?" Please, let the answer be no, I thought with deepening dismay. Not Morgan Sutcliffe, who was convinced that I had tried to lure his son into a bohemian artist's life.
"Next week. You know, this is great," said Ronnie. "You being on your way to success as a writer. I'm glad my father will finally see that side of you, not just 'Maisie the cafe waitress,' or 'Maisie the carhop diner girl.' I always wanted him to see how wrong he was about you, and look — here you are, in the running for a prestigious writer's grant. It couldn't be better than that."
"Really?" I said. "I don't think it matters. It's no big deal. Win or lose, I'm still a writer."
Wallace Scott had made this point when trying to cheer me up, and I decided to run with it. I didn't like the differences Ronnie drew between working class me and artistic me, as if we were such separate people who couldn't possibly coexist in the same body. I knew it was his father's opinion talking through him, but it still stung, even after two years. After all, consideration by a program like Ink and Inspiration didn't guarantee me anything. Writers without it had soared to the top completely on their own, while some candidates had even failed to deliver a final draft to the publisher.
"Sure. Right," said Ronnie. "But ... to someone like my father, it has to be tangible. He doesn't understand the artist's soul, or whatever you'd call it. I just want him to see he was wr
ong about you. He won't believe it when I tell him that you're studying with a real writer."
A 'real' writer meant one who was published, and presumably lauded by all the best lit magazines, of course.
In another second, I knew he was going to ask me for the name of my mentor, or for the number of the room I was staying in while at the hotel, and I would have to tell him the truth. Suddenly, I realized that I didn't want that to happen.
"You know, I have to go," I said, quickly. "Have fun today with your birds. Say hello to your father for me." I hurried towards the nearest fast escape — the hall leading to the terrace, where there was a door I could disappear through
"See you later?" he called after me. Hopefully. Probably the only thing which saved me from pursuit was the fact that he was wasting precious birdwatching time by chatting with me.
Why, why, why did Ronnie have to be staying here this summer? Couldn't his father's 'thing' have been closer to some modern four star luxury hotel somewhere else? Weren't there nesting red-billed hawks or yellow-bellied sapsuckers that needed watched in some other part of the world?
Retreating to the laundry room, I slipped on my apron and pinned my nametag in place. Marjorie — that mix-up would be even tougher to explain than my chasing a famous author halfway across the world because of a professor's advice.
I could live with my ex-boyfriend's presence here, but I wasn't so sure about his father's. Poor Ronnie had never been courageous enough to defend me from his parents' disapproval. If Mr. Sutcliffe found out the truth ... let's just say that my embarrassment for this cover story would be nothing compared to Ronnie's when those steely eyes silently chastised him for ever making the mistake of liking me.
Even though Ronnie meant nothing to me now, it would feel terrible to see him humiliated like that by his father. Again.
The door to the laundry room opened and one of the porters ducked inside, followed by Brigette, who was clearly berating them for something. "...And that's no cause for making such a dreadful fuss in front of guests," she was saying, in hushed tones. "Can't you bring these things up in private?"