Miranda's Mount (26 page)

She touched
his arm. ‘You were right about me playing safe in staying here for so long, but I’m only trying to protect myself and what I’ve fought for. Once I got it, I was never going to let anyone take it away from me again. Even if you don’t want it as a part of your future, I wasn’t prepared to listen or think about what you needed. That was wrong. I can’t make you do what I want and I’m going to stop trying. You’ve won.’

On the morning
of the Festival, Miranda pulled aside the curtain and peered out onto the harbour. Well, thank goodness something had finally gone right, or was in the process of going right. The sun shone, still pink, from a sky streaked by a few early morning clouds. A gentle breeze wafted her cheek through the open casement. Even though it was barely 7 am, she knew the crowds would flock to the event.

Today, at least, she could forget that the place was being sold and that its residents and staff’s lives would soon change forever. None of the thousands of visitors who were even now packing picnics, loading up the car, calming excited children or cajoling cynical teenagers, knew that the course of history was actually being changed when the St Merryns sold it.

Most of today’s visitors wouldn’t give a toss about the sale; perhaps a few of the older ones, the history buffs, the local MPs and old-fashioned sticklers for tradition would really mind and might complain. In the end, the Mount was someone else’s problem and who would shed a tear over the angst of its overprivileged owners and their hangers-on? Not Louise and Braden Dixon, that’s for sure, they had far too much to worry about surviving each day.

Theo
might even be pleased. He’d phoned her to confirm the final arrangements for the tug of war and asked her to go for a drink after the Festival was over. She’d agreed, deciding to give him another chance – and give herself another chance to like him. Soon the news would be out about the sale and whether she was staying, or more likely, leaving, it was time to get on with life. She hoped that by thinking the words often enough, they might one day come true.

Miranda shook her head. What had she said about forgetting about the sale today?

After bolting down a piece of toast and a cup of coffee, she headed straight to the office, rubbing still-gritty eyes and sucking in lungfuls of seaweed-scented air as she strode over the cobbled harbour side from the cottage. She hadn’t slept much. Her mind had waltzed its way through the night, whirling with a list of undone jobs to do before the festival opened and a maelstrom of thoughts that had nothing do with the event at all. Yet as she passed the staff and entertainers, she held her head high, determined to make this last event her best. For it would be her last. Even if she didn’t leave, she wasn’t sure if Southcastle would keep up the tradition, unless it made money for their organisation.

Or maybe they
would
keep it up, she second-guessed. They’d probably keep on doing it for the PR value and wasn’t that why the Mount did it too? As a gesture to the community? No one kidded themselves that the place was run entirely for the benefit of the local people. And yet somehow it felt that way and she really believed that it mattered to the local people, beyond the tourist pounds it brought in.

The Festival, like the Mount and its people, was a living thing.

By half
past ten, the early birds were already making their way over the causeway. Costumed staff swarmed about, helping the entertainers set up and the charities lay out their stalls and the smell of toffee apples competed with hog roast and candy floss. Miranda threaded her way through the growing crowds and up to the storeroom in the castle tower where the Mount kept a collection of costumes for interpretation days, school visits and special events. She’d much rather have stayed in her shorts and polo shirt but she had to enter into the spirit of things.

Bugger. The costume rail was almost empty. But that was her own fault – she should have got here sooner. Hanging from the rail was a jester’s outfit, complete with three-cornered hat with bells on it and curly-toed slippers. No way was she wearing that. She’d probably trip over the slippers and jingle wherever she went.

The other choices weren’t good, either. A bear suit – in this heat? A peasant’s sack and what appeared to be a tavern slut’s outfit.

Miranda went into the washroom, slipped out of her uniform and held up the costume. Maybe it would fit if she breathed in hard but it looked as if it had been made for a very underfed wench indeed. The skirt had a stretchy waist and Velcro so that was OK but the blouse was a nightmare. She worried about ripping it as she pulled it over her head. It had a lace-up bodice that, drawn as tight as possible, just about covered her bra and almost covered her modesty. When she got down to the quayside, she would absolutely have to fetch a tank top from her cottage to wear underneath.

‘Miranda!’ Lady
St Merryn’s voice boomed through the door. ‘Is that you in there?’

Stuffing her clothes in a carrier bag, Miranda opened the door of the cubicle. ‘I’m here. Wow. You look …’

‘Fulsome?’ offered Lady St Merryn.

‘Regal,’ said Miranda, taking in her boss’s emerald velvet dress, blonde wig and wimple.

‘Do you know who I am?’

‘Um … The Lady of Shalott?’

‘Guinevere, actually, but you were close enough. As long as you didn’t say Rapunzel, I’m happy.’

Miranda let out a sigh of relief and felt the laces on her bodice creak.

‘The walking stick somewhat ruins the illusion but they say that King Arthur came from Cornwall so I feel it’s appropriate on this occasion. I was damned if I was going to dress up as some fusty old matriarch. For a day, I can pretend I’m the woman whom Sir Lancelot risked life and honour for.’ She paused. ‘Forgive me asking, Miranda, but can you actually breathe in that frock?’

‘Not really but it was this or a bear suit.’

‘Hmm.’ Lady St Merryn raised an eyebrow, as if the bear should have won. ‘Have you seen Jago?’

‘Not yet.’ Miranda had been too busy to think about him for the past two hours. She was too busy now. Her radio crackled. ‘Yes? OK. We’ll be right down. The mayor’s arrived to open the fair,’ she told Lady St Merryn.

Her
employer adjusted her wimple and sighed. ‘Shall we go and meet her?’

Down on the quayside, after the formalities with the mayor were over, Miranda ran straight into Jago. She didn’t know whose eyes popped out further – hers or his.

‘Bloody hell! Where the hell did you get that outfit?’ he asked.

Miranda’s heart sank and her cheeks heated up. ‘It was either this, a bear or a jester so please don’t make any comments.’

He held up his hands but he couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’

‘I see you got to the dressing-up box first.’

Jago glanced down at his own outfit. ‘I thought you’d find it appropriate in the circumstances.’

He was dressed as a pirate in a billowing white shirt, leather waistcoat, dark fitted breeches and black leather boots. On his head he wore a tricorne hat topped with a feather and, over one eye, a black patch. The other eye seemed to have a touch of guyliner but she resisted the urge to ask him where he’d got it from. ‘You need a parrot,’ she said briskly, hoping he wouldn’t notice the pink in her cheeks.

‘It must have flown away.’ He lifted up the eye patch and blinked. ‘Do you think I look wicked enough to rape and pillage the local populace? Not that I know what pillaging is.’

‘It means looting and plundering. Taking what you shouldn’t have.’

‘Or selling it? Let’s not start the day like this.’

The laces on her bodice creaked again. She still hadn’t had time to get a tank top to wear underneath so that would be the very next task on her list. ‘I have a feeling it’s going to be a long one,’ said Miranda. ‘And I’ll see you in the stocks.’

A few
hours later, the quay swarmed with visitors. The great weather, the attractions and the publicity had all combined to lure a record number of people to the Festival. The Fishermen’s Choir had been a huge hit with the older visitors and a hat had been passed around which had raised even more money for the lifeboats. Theo and some of the crew had even joined in with the rousing finale of ‘Trelawny’, a Cornish anthem guaranteed to stir the blood.

Amid the non-stop mayhem, Miranda’s still-untamed bodice was the least of her worries as she dashed about, fielding radio calls, looking after the entertainers and dealing with a stream of minor problems that always happened at such events. She’d just finished judging a children’s pirate fancy dress contest when she spotted Louise Dixon on the fringes of the crowd. It was almost time for the tug of war but Miranda decided to take the time to say hello.

‘Hello again!’

Braden sat in his pushchair with his mouth ringed with chocolate ice cream. He poked a finger into a tub, inspected his sticky finger then shoved it in his mouth, sucking off the cream.

Louise
grimaced. ‘The lady in the kiosk gave him a free tub but I was worried he’d try to swallow the little wooden spoon. Thanks for the free Festival ticket. He’s having a great time. We both are, and Braden’s just been in the lifeboat.’ She hesitated. ‘Um … that guy who pilots it seems nice. The captain, or whatever he’s called. Theo, isn’t it?’

Miranda hid a smile. So Louise fancied Theo. ‘Yes. Theo’s the coxswain of the boat. He’s organised a tug-of-war today. It starts soon. Are you going to watch?’

‘Do you think I’d miss all those blokes getting hot and sweaty. Are you mad?’

Braden let out a chuckle.

‘I guess that’s a “yes” to staying.’

A large crowd had gathered on the quayside, ready to watch the highlight of the day. A tug of war between a combined rugby/lifeboat team and the staff from the Mount. Miranda didn’t fancy her side’s chances. The gardeners, boatmen and maintenance men who made up the team were fit and captained by Reggie, but the rugby team had Neem. Miranda glanced at her staff and decided it was like putting Alan Carr in a cage fight with Vinnie Jones.

She heard Ronnie’s voice at her ear. ‘Don’t look so worried. Reggie’s been training our team using his SAS techniques.’

‘That should be good if they need to live on bugs and kill a man with a rolled-up newspaper,’ said Miranda. ‘But I don’t think it will be much of an advantage against Neem.’

‘Neem’s promised me he’ll try not to hurt anyone too badly.’

‘That’s good of him.’

‘Miranda!’

Reggie jogged over, sweating buckets before battle had even commenced. ‘There’s a problem.’

‘What problem?’

‘One of the gardeners has put his shoulder out and had to go to hospital.’

Miranda winced. ‘Is he OK?’

‘Yes, but we’re one short for the team.’

‘Can’t one of Theo’s team drop out?’

Reggie
looked at her as if she’d suggested he assassinate the Queen. ‘Drop out? I’m not letting his lot know we’re one man down! You never show weakness to the enemy. We need someone else. Someone fit and strong and preferably very large.’

His eyes rested on Ronnie who returned his questioning look with a glare that could have turned a whole tug-of-war team to stone. ‘Say a word and you die, Reggie.’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it. But who can we ask? I’ve already roped in every fit member of staff who’s not on medication.’

Ronnie pointed at Jago, doing a stint in the ice-cream kiosk next to very flushed Daisy. ‘What about his lordship?’

Reggie seemed doubtful. ‘D’you think he would?’

‘If someone asked him very nicely, he might. After all, it is his island.’

If there was an emphasis on Ronnie’s last phrase, Miranda couldn’t have sworn to it but she was swiftly despatched to drag Jago out of the kiosk and persuade him to take his part on the rope. She was convinced he’d refuse, having already agreed to be in the stocks later.

Leading
him behind the kiosk, she began her pitch. ‘I know you won’t want to do this and it’s so not your thing and we’re completely desperate or I wouldn’t have asked you and in the circumstances you might not want to get involved in any more of the activities today but … would you mind being in the Mount’s tug-of-war team? One of the gardeners is injured and you are our last resort.’

Jago took off his tricorne and gave a little bow. ‘Gosh, Miranda, that’s such a flattering offer. How could I resist?’

To Miranda’s complete astonishment, the staff team, with Jago at the front, won the first of the three tug-of-war sessions. Sweat poured off torsos onto the sawdust-covered cobbled court and the grunting rivalled a ladies’ tennis match. Miranda spotted Lady St Merryn, pigtails flying, screaming at the Mount team like a spectator at an all-in wrestling match. Any moment now, Miranda expected her ladyship to jump into the fray and batter one of Theo’s team with her stick.

As for Miranda,
she now knew the meaning of being between a rock and a hard place. Naturally she wanted to the staff to win, but she didn’t want to cheer too loudly in case Theo thought she was shouting for Jago. On the other hand, it would be disloyal not to egg on the staff. On the other hand – bugger, that was three hands – she ought to support Theo and his lifeboat and rugby friends as they were the main reason for the event.

After an epic second tug, a great roar went up and Theo raised his arms in the air. ‘Yessss!’

His
team cheered as the Mount team collapsed on the cobbles, gasping. Jago, sitting on his backside, put his head in his hands.

‘Oh, knickers!’ cried Miranda. Then, ‘Well done!’

Ronnie nudged her. ‘Hard, isn’t it, knowing who to support? I want our lot to win but I want Neem to win too. Life’s just so complicated sometimes.’

‘Tell me about it,’ replied Miranda

The teams gulped down bottles of water before taking up their positions again. Jago faced Theo and Miranda could feel the tension emanating from the edge of the crowd as they squared up. Both men glared at each other but Miranda guessed she was the only person watching who knew the animosity was real, not put on for effect. Her skin pricked. She had a horrible feeling something was going to give today.