Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Winnie’s lips parted in surprise. “Well, no, actually. But I have heard of them.”
From your slightly nerdy, obsessed-with-history, insanely loyal employee.
But she’d keep that to herself. No need to mention her little run-in with the knight on the road, nor the fact that she had been driving too fast and far too distractedly to not be blamed for swerving into the mud.
“I can’t say that I know too much about them, either,” she clarified.
To her surprise, Mr. Wintour smiled all the more. “I was hoping you’d say that. We’re holding one tomorrow, and I wanted it to be your first experience.”
First experience. Medieval festival. A knight rescuing her. The thoughts flitted about her mind continuously, including Matthew’s own invitation-slash-suggestion to attend the festival.
“You see,” Mr. Wintour continued, the light of the fire dancing across half his features, “for over a decade, we have put on these festivals. Jousting tournaments, falconry, sword fighting, you name it. We knew a great deal of success to begin with, but over the years, the number of attendees have dwindled. ”
“Okay,” Winnie said, trying to take his words in stride. For some reason, her stomach had started twisting like a wrung rag.
“I believe a great deal of money and enjoyment can still be had with this experience,” Mr. Wintour continued. “I’ve set aside a fair-sized budget to revitalize the event. Now all we need is the right set of hands to secure its future.” His eyes focused on her more intently. “So, I was hoping, what with your experience turning around a variety of businesses, if you wouldn’t mind taking a stab at it. Pun intended.”
He ended with a little amused smile, then waited for her to respond.
Unfortunately, Winnie didn’t know how to respond. She’d been too distracted at Foxwood. Lulled into a false sense of security by all the hot chocolate, warm smiles, and cozy rooms. This was why she’d never be as good of a Knox as the rest of her family. They wouldn’t have let their guards down in this situation.
“So you don’t need my help with the rest of the estate, then?” she asked, trying to manage her expectations.
“Oh, no,” he said, moving to lean forward, then seeming to think better of it after a soft grunt. “No, that is not what I am saying at all. I absolutely want—no, I need your help and your advice. I was merely hoping to push the work of the estate back a few weeks to prioritize the festival. After all, the event is on its last leg. It’s draining far more money than it’s bringing in, and if something doesn’t change soon, we will have to end it within the month. All you would need to do is use your business expertise to help us make the event profitable.”
Knowing he still had plans to have her work for the estate brought her only partial relief, as she still couldn’t wrap her mind around his request. Was he really considering making her head of a medieval festival—the festival Matthew had boasted of being more historically accurate than anything she’d ever attend?
She had no expertise whatsoever in the field, not to mention the fact that Dad would die of utter humiliation if she accepted the job .
A Knox daughter, being in charge of an event that not only accepted but encouraged people to dress up and reenact scenes from an archaic world? How embarrassing for him.
But now was not the time to focus on Dad and his judgments. She still had a job to see to, whether she chose to accept it or not.
“If the event is siphoning money so much,” she began, “the most logical solution would be to cancel it straightaway, right?”
Mr. Wintour winced, though this time, it looked more out of emotional pain than physical. “Yes, well, canceling isn’t really an option. There is a sort of sentimental attachment the family has to the festival—for one of us in particular. We would really hate to see the end of it.”
Sentimental attachments never did anyone any good—especially in a business setting. At least, that’s what Dad always said.
Obviously, the next solution, aside from canceling the event, would be to hire someone else with more experience than her. She would never tell him to do that, though. She didn’t have experience running an English estate, so what if he found someone else better suited to that, as well?
“I know this is not in your job description,” Mr. Wintour said, obviously sensing her hesitation. “And I completely understand if your answer is no. If it is, we may continue on with the estate as previously planned. But I do hope you will consider it. I believe that you are just the person I’ve been looking for to rescue the festival and turn it into something even better than it was before.” He paused with a smile. “You are your father’s daughter, after all. A part of the Knox family, strong and determined.”
As if that would convince her to agree. She wasn’t anything like the rest of her family. She was more likely to fail at this than anyone. She knew nothing about faires.
But she did know business. And she knew how to make a company money and how to get rid of waste, no matter the industry. The years she’d spent in business school had given her enough of a leg to stand on—though failing at her other businesses had given her more knowledge than anything .
So what if she didn’t fail? What if, instead, she knocked it out of the park? Helping with the event couldn’t be too difficult. She’d observe the faire tomorrow, jot down a few ideas, do a bit of research, hire a few carnival rides, then boom bam, she’d be on her way to the real job, the job that would finally give her the respect she desired from her family.
“You’re more than welcome to take a day or two to think about it,” Mr. Wintour said. “Attend the festival tomorrow, then decide later on.”
But Winnie shook her head. The man must’ve cast some sort of medieval witchery on her because for some insane reason, she was inclined to agree with his proposal.
“We don’t have to wait for tomorrow,” she said with certainty. “I’d be happy to help in any way I can.”
The relief and happiness on Mr. Wintour’s face was worth all of Winnie’s remaining doubt. It felt nice to make someone smile for a change.
“That was exactly what I was hoping to hear,” he said. “Thank you so much for being willing to accommodate us.”
“It’s no trouble,” she said with a reassuring nod, as if to comfort her own insecurities.
“Well, excellent,” he said, lacing his fingers together across his lap. Then his smile faded. “Now there is just one last thing I need to discuss with you. My hiring you may not go over so well with those directly involved with the festival.”
The image of Matthew flashed through her mind, but instead of trepidation, which she was sure Mr. Wintour was expecting, Winnie’s spirits lifted.
Finally, something she could handle.
“Oh, that’s to be expected,” she said with an easy smile. “I’ve had my fair share of hate mail, so you don’t need to worry about me. I can hold my own.”
Mr. Wintour’s eyes shone in a knowing light, a light that made her slightly wary. What did he know that she didn’t?
To her disappointment, he didn’t explain. “Well, I’m glad to hear it,” he said instead. “Let’s discuss more details after you’ve had the chance to observe the festival yourself tomorrow, yes?”
He pressed a button on the table nearby, then pulled his cane forward and made to stand, clearly struggling. Winnie looked away to allow the man some dignity.
“Will you be joining me around the grounds?” she asked, if only to draw attention away from his grimaces.
“I hope I’ll be feeling up to it,” Mr. Wintour said, taking a step toward the door as she followed. “But my wife will be there if I am not.”
She nodded, still following behind him. “May I ask if she is the one with the sentimental attachment to the faire? Or is it you?”
“Actually, it is neither of us.”
They reached the door, and he turned to face her, an amused smile lighting his eyes once again. What was she missing?
“It is my son.”
Son? Had Dad told her that Mr. Wintour had children? Now that she thought of it, she vaguely remembered a son and daughter being mentioned. Why hadn’t she considered them until now?
Questions swirled in her mind about them both, but her words were stifled as soft footsteps sounded behind her, and Mr. Wintour’s eyes traveled beyond her shoulder, twinkling once again.
“Speak of the devil,” he said. “Here he is now. Evening, Matthew.”
All at once, Winnie’s insides shriveled like the ends of a dying plant. She didn’t have to turn around to see exactly who stood behind her.
Matthew Wintour .
Of course.