Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
For the first time Winnie could remember, she didn’t wake up to her usual alarm playing “On Top of the World” by Imagine Dragons on her phone.
Instead, the silence woke her, then the gentle tapping of raindrops against her window.
She drew a deep breath, stretching slightly as her eyes fluttered open. She felt like a Disney princess, well-rested and smiling, lying down in the most comfortable bed she’d ever slept on. Her feather pillow cradled her head like a swaddled newborn babe, and her comforter rested upon her like a thick blanket of clouds.
She shouldn’t have been surprised by the quality of the bedding, what with the state of the room she was put in at Foxwood. It was in no way grand like Mr. Wintour’s study, but it was clean, quiet, well taken care of, and held everything she could possibly need.
Her queen-sized bed was centered atop a blue and gold-embellished rug, and the walls were a creamy green, holding just a few paintings of English landscapes with modest frames. A wardrobe was at one end of the room, and a good-sized desk was situated beneath the window.
Did she have a view from that window? She’d been too tired to find out the night before. She’d barely managed to stumble into her pajamas before zonking out for the entire night, barely noting that her clothing had already been unpacked, aired out, and hung up by the housekeeper.
She could do with hiring one of those, too.
She smiled to herself at her fanciful ideas. Tossing her covers aside and rushing into her slippers and robe, she stepped soundlessly toward the window and pushed back the floral curtains.
Her smile grew, and a wistful sigh slipped past her lips. From her vantage point on the second floor, beyond the raindrops dotting the window, green fields stretched across the estate’s grounds, stopped only by masses of trees so thick, Winnie wondered what secrets were kept hidden beyond the branches.
Was there a red dragon guarding an underground treasure? A magic well once charmed by Merlin himself? She wouldn’t be too surprised if either were true, given the renaissance faire she was about to attend.
In the midst of the dense trees emerged three thin, triangular flags just visible above the oaks. Winnie narrowed her eyes to see them better, the red, green, and yellow flashing in and out of sight as the wind played with the ends of the fabric. They had to be for the faire.
Her stomach tightened at the thought, but that was nothing new. She was always on edge at the beginning of a job. There was a surefire way to cure those nerves, though.
She needed to get to work.
After a quick shower and sprucing up in her ensuite bathroom, Winnie sat down at the desk and began her research in her usual top-knot bun, pencil skirt, and silk blouse.
With the faire not beginning until ten o’clock that morning, she had a solid three hours to do the research required of her to have an idea about what exactly she was getting into. Before, she’d dedicated most of her time on researching how to run estates in England—her original job description. But she’d be able to use all that information soon enough. For now, she focused on her task at hand, exploring website after website and reading article after article about medieval faires, knights, and jousting.
Most of her work had to be done, infuriatingly enough, on her phone, as the Wi-Fi was abysmally slow in her room, the one and only complaint she had about her circumstances. But at least her cell service was good enough to search the web for information.
Soon, with enough of a handle on what to expect from the faire, Winnie gathered her raincoat, writing tablet, and pen, and ventured to the kitchens, following the directions Mr. Fernsby had given her the night before.
The staff of Foxwood and the faire were provided with breakfast early each morning, so Winnie had intentionally waited until later on to leave her room, not wishing to meet with anyone who worked at the faire until after the event. No use putting them all on edge earlier than necessary, as she’d done with Matthew.
The image of the man in his armor flashed in her mind. His visor up. Moisture slipping down the strong ridges of his nose. Blue eyes flashing as he stared down at her atop his horse.
As much as she’d like to dwell on the attractive image for longer, Winnie pushed it aside. He was a precarious bridge she’d have to cross soon enough, so she’d be taking every second before that to tighten her defenses.
She arrived in the dining area moments later, relieved to find the tables empty, though a few clanks and clangs sounded from the kitchens nearby, the chef no doubt cleaning up breakfast with his assistants.
Winnie made herself some toast and grabbed an apple, eating them swiftly before making her way to the front doors of the estate.
Shockingly enough, she only managed to make two wrong turns before finding the main entrance, standing near the front door and looking around for Mr. Wintour, who’d agreed to meet her there at ten o’clock .
She peered down at her smartwatch, the numbers shining bright against the Movement Circles she had yet to fill.
10:01
Thank heavens she hadn’t made him wait for her again like she had last night. That being said, she had no problem waiting for him in return.
With no sign of him descending the stairs, Winnie pulled out her tablet, jotted down a few thoughts on the digital screen, organized the notes already written, then felt a buzz on her wrist.
She raised her arm, and her neck instantly tightened at the base as she read the incoming text.
Dad
Good luck on your first day, Win-Win-Winnie!
Winnie cringed. Dad had chosen the nickname for her in hopes of inspiring her to win more often. She hated to say, but it never worked. In truth, it kind of only made matters worse.
She slipped her tablet under her arm and swiped out a response on her watch. She hated messaging on those small buttons, but she’d become quite adept at doing so efficiently and with little to no spelling errors.
That was good. Dad couldn’t stand typos.
“Why do people bother to write at all when they don’t spell correctly or use proper grammar?” he’d say.
Winnie
Thanks, Dad!
Dad
What’s on the docket first?
Winnie
Just checking out the estate for now. Getting my bearings and understanding more of what’s wanted from me .
She probably should have felt more guilty for omitting the truth of what she was now doing at Foxwood, but she didn’t have the mental fortitude to hear everything Dad would have to say about her being demoted to watching over a renaissance faire instead of a stately home.
“Are you really having to prove yourself?” he’d say. “A Knox shouldn’t have to stoop so low.”
Winnie rolled her eyes. Dad had convinced himself that the Knoxes were all some special breed, set apart from the rest of the world.
If that were true, Winnie was an adopted mutt.
Dad
Sounds great. Keep me posted!
Winnie
Will do!
And she would, just like she’d be honest with him…Just as soon as she figured out a way to make the faire sound cooler than it was.
Lowering her wrist, she shook the exchange from her mind. It was time to remove her “Win-Win-Winnie” badge and put on her “Winnie Knox, Consultant” badge—a badge that she’d actually earned by herself.
Except, of course, when Dad had connected her with Mr. Wintour as soon he discovered that her latest consultant job had fallen through. And then there were the other two jobs he’d helped her find last year.
Then there was the other time before that—but all of that was neither here nor there. The point of the matter was that she had done the work for each of those jobs, and her success was proof enough of her abilities.
Footsteps approached, drawing her attention to the present, but to Winnie’s surprise, Mr. Fernsby appeared instead of Mr. Wintour .
“Miss Knox,” the butler greeted. “Mr. Wintour wished for me to tell you that he will be unable to join you this morning. I’m afraid he’s feeling unwell.”
Winnie took the news in measure. Honestly, it wasn’t much of a surprise. He’d looked so uncomfortable the night before, on the chair and afterward. She only hoped she hadn’t contributed to it as his son obviously had with all the complaining he’d done.
“I hope he’s all right,” she said.
“Thank you,” Mr. Fernsby said in his smooth accent. “He is tired but in good spirits. Instead, Mrs. Wintour has agreed to join you for the festival. However, she will be some time yet, so she is more than happy for you to go on ahead. The festival takes place on the grounds just east of the house, within walking distance. Follow the dirt pathway, and you won’t miss it. Mrs. Wintour will meet you there as soon as she is able to.”
Winnie instantly agreed, and the butler returned to his duties at once.
While she would have appreciated a tour with her questions being answered straightaway, nothing helped her get a true read on a business—or in this case, an event—as walking around by herself and simply observing.
With more motivation in her step than before, Winnie left the house through the double doors, a blast of cold air welcoming her into the gray, dreary world. Although, strangely enough, it didn’t feel dreary. She’d always enjoyed rainstorms in New York—lights reflected in the puddles on the streets, the sidewalks a monochrome sea of black umbrellas.
But here in England, the rain made everything more ethereal. More magical. The overgrown trees and the lush, green grass shone like sparkling emeralds adorning a noblewoman’s neck, while the misty clouds that cloaked Foxwood in a comforting embrace softened the imagery around them, as if a mystic haze had been cast across the grounds.
Winnie threw up her hood, stepping out onto the porch with a deep breath of cool air that filled her lungs with a pleasant lightness.
First, Mr. Wintour’s study had lured her into a sense of security, and now, Winnie was breathing in the cold? There was definitely some type of magic going on here at Foxwood. She was even looking forward to the faire now, for crying out loud, and that was something she didn’t think was possible.
Walking across the pea gravel drive to the east of the estate, she wondered what a renaissance faire at Foxwood would look like. Before, she had visualized a pitiful recreation of a barbaric, historical pastime. After her research that morning, however, seeing videos of actual jousting that knights participated in around the world, she was brought back to the first time she’d watched A Knight’s Tale —the splintering wood of the lance, the pounding of the horse’s hooves on the grounds, the attractive men.
Jousting might not be her “thing,” but at least she could appreciate what she’d seen in the videos—an immersion into the past with a healthy mixture of fun and fantastical. She just couldn’t wait to see it now in person.
She continued on her way, reaching the dirt path that led toward the faire grounds. She tried to peer beyond the thick woods for any sign of the event, but nothing appeared until she rounded a bend, and the colorful flags from that morning caught her eye.
Excitement flapped in her chest, her footsteps picking up pace. Jousting, knights walking around, horses decked out in fun colors. Booths selling knick-knacks and delicious food, fire-breathers and other entertainment. She couldn’t wait to see all that they had to offer.
But as she drew closer and closer to the grounds, that excitement swiftly turned to confusion—then confusion shifted immediately to disappointment.
Was this it?
After waiting in line behind a total of two people, Winnie—wanting to remain fully incognito—paid an extortionate fifteen pounds to a woman seated on a lawn chair. Not a single greeting or, “Welcome to the faire” was said by the woman as Winnie passed her by. And yet, Winnie hardly noticed, too taken with the underwhelming view before her as she finally set foot on the grounds.
Instead of manicured pathways, torn-up grass and muddy puddles lined the way forward. There were no knights in sight, or horses for that matter, and the handful of people who were in attendance wandered around with bored expressions and crying children, all the while clearly looking for something to do.
Something to do. Was there anything to do? Winnie slowly stepped forward, careful to avoid puddles and mud pits as she swept her eyes around her.
A total of two tents were set up—both dark green with weathered canvas that looked as if it had barely managed to live through the worst of World War II. Beyond the tents, a solitary booth stood with a sign too small to read, though Winnie was fairly certain they were advertising food—food that smelled as appetizing as the portable toilets, which, incidentally, were too close to the tents for comfort.
The biggest disappointment of all for her was the list field, which she’d learned that morning was the name of the jousting arena. In reality, it was little more than a small stretch of land cordoned off by rope and a mere rickety fence—the tilt—lined down the center of it to separate the charging horses.
Winnie shook her head in dismay. This was abysmal. No wonder they weren’t profitable. What was Matthew thinking? And why had it taken so long for the Wintours to hire someone to help?
With her mind still reeling, she stood off to the side beneath a large oak tree and pulled out her tablet, shaking her head again as she peered at the nothingness that was before her.
Nothingness…
Nothingness that would be pretty easy to turn into a whole lot of something . With the event in such a terrible state, any improvement was sure to appear monumental. So monumental that Mr. Wintour would be impressed enough with her actions that he would know for certain that Winnie was just the woman to improve Foxwood, too.
A slow smile spread across her lips. With a bit of effort, attention to detail, and the appropriate usage of Mr. Wintour’s budget, this was going to be the easiest, the fastest, and the most lucrative consulting job she’d ever have.
This was simply fantastic.