Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Throughout the following week, Winnie had never been busier, and she was glad of it, wanting to swallow any memory she had of Matthew and their interaction that night at the pub. Their conversations were kept to a bare minimum and always centered around work. They weren’t friends, after all, and he expected her to fail and leave early, so why try to create any sort of relationship from such a basis?
Besides, her success with the festival would tell Matthew everything he needed to know—she wouldn’t be failing, and she wouldn’t be leaving early. In fact, she would succeed so greatly that Matthew would finally be handed back the reins, and Winnie would be well on her way to working directly with Mr. Wintour and Foxwood. She couldn’t wait.
Of course, her confidence was now proving to be a slippery devil as each day, another problem arose. Food booths falling through, grounds being unprepared, fire-breathers bailing, rides being late for delivery.
Even with the many setbacks, however, she continued to lob the problems back into the atmosphere, refusing to give up as Saturday came and the festival finally arrived.
Six o’clock arrived swiftly, and Winnie was up straightaway, heading out to the faire grounds in the hope of finishing the seemingly endless list of items she needed to accomplish before nine o’clock that morning.
On her way out, as she strode across the pathway through the trees, her dad called, wishing her good luck, which she thought had been rather kind of him. That is, until he added the unnecessary, “You’re going to need it,” at the end of his well wishes.
“Thanks,” she muttered.
“How’s progress with the estate?” he asked next.
Winnie shook her head, grateful he couldn’t see her rolling her eyes, as well. “I’ll be in charge of it after the festival, remember?”
The other end of the line went silent. “Well, maybe something will come up earlier than that,” Dad said.
Winnie barely registered his words as she received a text from Jess, telling her there was a problem with where the vendors were being set up.
“Listen, Dad. I’m sorry, but I gotta go. I’ll call you after, okay?”
“Yeah, do that. Talk to you soon, Win-Win-Winnie.”
She hung up the phone and walked to the festival as swiftly as her heels allowed, leaving any thought of Dad on the pathway behind her.
Unfortunately, not even that helped to improve the event from the beginning.
With her advertising work beforehand—updating Foxwood’s social media profiles, throwing up ads in newspapers, websites, and on the radio, and more—they’d sold three times as many tickets as the last festival, if not four times. But even as the gates opened and the guests filtered in, Winnie’s hopes for a smooth event lowered little by little as more problems arose.
First, the carousel broke down after only three cycles, then the line for the pony rides and the bounce house—which had to be swiftly called in to replace the bumper cars that couldn’t make it in time—grew to an unmanageable size .
The food was better, though not by much, as Mrs. Porter had still insisted on providing her cabbage chowder, and the typical carnival food was being described as “the same as everywhere else.” The falconry had gathered a large crowd at first but was cut short due to the wind.
To add to the drama, the rest of the entertainment had been postponed due to Mrs. Jones missing an important phone call from the lost carnival games.
Fortunately, the cosplayers had shown up in droves, providing some much-needed immersion as crowds wandered around the craft booths and local art sales.
By the time the jousting rolled around, however, Winnie was being held together by a mere thread. The crowds surrounded the entire arena with looks of excitement, but the knights were late coming out of the stables again, driving away a number of people before Mr. Fogg’s monotonous voice finally announced their arrival.
She had been hoping for the tournament to wow people, but the feedback she overheard from passersby caused her insides to twist with worry.
“The scorin’ don’t make any sense.”
“The winner’s chosen before anyway. None of it’s real.”
“Mummy, I’m bored. Can I go back to the bounce house?”
“Look, they’re not even tryin’ to strike the small knight. No, the one who can’t even hold the lance up.”
Winnie chewed the inside of her cheek, if only to keep from relieving the contents of her stomach across the tournament grounds. This wasn’t what she’d planned at all. She’d poured all of her efforts into this, so why was it failing? Where was her success? Where was her praise?
Halfway through the jousting, the carousel started working again, much to the delight of every child in attendance. But when music, loud and plunky, blared out across the grounds, drowning out Mr. Fogg’s words—despite his new microphone—Winnie grimaced. With no volume control on the ride, one-by-one, families left the joust for the carousel, children tugging their parents away to something they found far more appealing.
Winnie could only imagine the staff’s words occurring behind her back.
“So much for Winnie’s promises of success.”
“You see? Now no one cares about the jousting when it’s scripted.”
“Just like Blackpool.”
Matthew would be thinking the same thing. After all, he’d called her out on her failure from the start.
But, no. She wouldn’t fail again. She was a good consultant. She knew too much, had learned too much, had given too much, to not succeed. The festival would be a triumph if she just worked harder and stuck to her plan.
And yet, despite her scrambling to improve matters throughout the latter half of the day—closing down the carousel for an hour, encouraging Mr. Fogg to explain the jousting points, and trying to boost interest in the big reveal at the end of who the small, secret knight was—the majority of the guests quit the festival as a whole, hours before the festival was scheduled to end.
When Jess was finally revealed as the winner, though she hadn’t managed to strike a single knight in the process, the response was so underwhelming, Winnie couldn’t take it any longer.
With worry clouding her common sense, she ducked behind one of the tents and pulled out her phone, anxious to read the feedback the guests had been given via the QR code on the back of the schedule of events. She’d promised herself not to read any of them until the end of the day, knowing they wouldn’t do her any good, but she could no longer keep herself from knowing the truth.
With each new sentence she read, stress clawed at her chest like a wild animal, dragging her spirits lower and lower until they were devoured altogether.
“Carousel was too loud. That’s all the kiddies wanted to do. ”
“Wanted my children to experience a little culture from the past, didn’t get it.”
“The jousting was great. Too bad we couldn’t hear it.”
“Would’ve liked to see them making contact more.”
“Wish the jousting scores had been real.”
“The whole thing was just too much.”
“The small knight wasn’t believable enough.”
On and on and on the list went until Winnie finally stopped, her cheeks burning with humiliation.
Had Mr. Wintour read these comments already? She’d given him the link to the feedback that morning, having full confidence that he’d be reading over her praises. What about now? How would he feel, knowing his faith in her had been entirely wasted—that she couldn’t even revive a measly, dinky little faire? There was no way he would entrust her with Foxwood. Not when she didn’t even trust herself.
All of her ideas, all of the changes she’d made, all of the things she’d sworn would succeed had failed. The staff had tried to warn her—Matthew, even—but had she listened? No. She’d bulldozed her way forward in true Knox fashion and willfully ignored every word of concern, all the while naively believing that she knew what she was doing.
How could she not know? She was supposed to be good at consulting, good at figuring out problems and solving them. She’d helped every other business until now. How had she failed at this ?
She squeezed her eyes closed, pressing a hand to her brow that pulsed with a fresh headache.
Matthew had been right all along, and it killed her to admit it. Just as it killed her to imagine his all-knowing eyes silently, accurately judging her. He would have his way now. She would be headed back to the States soon enough, just as he’d predicted, just like he’d always wanted.
Back to the States. Back to Dad.
Her stomach churned as she groaned audibly. He’d vouched for her to Mr. Wintour. What would Dad say when he found out she’d embarrassed him again?
“When are you going to change, Winnie? When are you ever going to learn?”
Her shoulders sunk low, her soul even lower. She didn’t have what it took to be a part of the Knox family—and she’d just proven it again.
At the end of the day, when the festival had been cleaned up and everyone had gone home, Winnie quietly slipped into the house.
After her moment of panic behind the tents, she’d pulled on her big girl pants and faced the rest of the event with quiet dignity, just as she faced her future now.
What that future held, she didn’t know. What she did know was that she was finished at Foxwood.
She opened the door to the estate—up, then down—and stepped foot in the entryway, not surprised to see Mr. Wintour standing at the top of the stairs, cane in hand.
Her heart thudded hollowly in her ears. “Mr. Wintour,” she greeted, closing the door behind her.
He gave her a warm smile. “Do you have a minute? Just a quick chat in my study.”
A quick chat. Firings never took long. “Of course.”
He nodded, leading the way as Winnie joined him, feeling as if she were being led to the gallows. It wasn’t too far from the truth. Her life at Foxwood was ending. If that wasn’t enough of a punishment, Dad would be sure to add more.
Maybe she just wouldn’t return to the States. Maybe she’d change her phone number, her name, her identity. She’d become Winnie…Winnie Smith. That had a nice ring to it. Perfectly normal, perfectly average, Winnie Smith.
But of course, Dad had his fingers gripped too tightly around her to ever run away from the Knox name.
They reached Mr. Wintour’s study in a matter of minutes, that same warm room she’d been in over and over again for the last three weeks now holding a different feel to it—one of sorrow and of goodbyes.
They moved to their usual seats by the fire, and she sat before him, blinking repeatedly as she averted her gaze.
“So…” Mr. Wintour began.
Winnie tried to keep her mouth closed, tried to listen to his words, but she couldn’t handle it.
“I know,” she said, beating him to the punch. “You don’t have to say anything. I’ll pack my bags and be out of here before the end of the night.”
Mr. Wintour didn’t respond for a moment, a soft expression touching his features. He was probably grateful that she’d fired herself so he could avoid getting his fingers dirty.
“While I appreciate your determination,” he began, “I do need to say, that’s not why I brought you in here.”
She paused. “It isn’t?”
“No. I merely wished to see how you were doing. You may be used to criticism in your line of work, but that feedback was a lot to take in, even for myself.”
Winnie didn’t know what to say. Why was he being so nice ? She’d wasted his money, his time, his resources. She didn’t deserve his understanding. She deserved to get the boot.
“I’m just sorry I couldn’t live up to your expectations,” she said, unable to say anything else.
Mr. Wintour frowned. She didn’t see that expression often from him. Matthew, on the other hand…
His blue eyes flashed in her mind. What did he think of her failure? Was he hosting a victory dance party in the assembly hall for finally getting rid of the wicked witch of the wild, wild west?
“Now why would you think that you didn’t live up to my expectations?” Mr. Wintour asked, still frowning. “You’ve exceeded my expectations.”
Winnie gave a mirthless laugh. “Thank you for being so nice, but I know that isn’t possible.”
“It is possible,” he defended. “You made more money, grew more interest, brought in more people than I ever could have hoped. Just because there were a few hiccups along the way—many of them beyond your control, by the way—doesn’t mean you were a disappointment in the slightest. I’m sure the next festival will be even more of a success.”
Winnie wasn’t sure she was hearing him correctly. The next festival?
He leaned forward, his wince barely noticeable. “I know the plan was to have you switch to overseeing the estate. But seeing how disappointed you are has me wanting to give you a second chance with the event.”
She stared. Was he serious? Was he actually giving her another opportunity to prove herself?
“I can see your hesitation,” he continued. “And really, if you’d like to leave behind the festival altogether so we can focus on the estate instead, I’ll gladly accept that. After all, Foxwood was the original agreement we had. But if you have any desire whatsoever to see the festival through to its success—to work with it over the next few weeks and try again—I would love to see you do so.”
Winnie couldn’t say a word. She could hardly formulate a thought. He wanted her to try again. He still had faith that she could do it. But, how?
“Winnie?” he asked as she remained silent.
“I’m sorry, I just don’t understand,” she said, still reeling. “I’ve used so much of your money. Who’s to say I won’t fail again and waste more?”
And who was to say that Matthew wouldn’t have a stomach ulcer if she chose to stay? She didn’t know if she had the mental fortitude to battle with him any longer .
“You know,” Mr. Wintour began, tipping his head to the side, “I didn’t have to spend much time with your dad to find out how driven he is. He expects nothing short of perfection from himself and everyone around him. He doesn’t need second chances because he succeeds the first time—always.”
Winnie listened to his words, a growing pressure on her chest. Was this supposed to make her feel better? She knew how Dad was. She also knew how she could never live up to his standards.
“I can see that same drive in you, Winnie,” Mr. Wintour said, “and also that same pressure to perform perfectly the first time. But you’ll find that in the Wintour household, we don’t believe in succeeding the first time. We allow failure and mistakes. We give second chances, third chances. Even hundredth chances, so long as the person is willing and able to keep trying.”
She looked up at him, humility blanketing her soul.
“So my question for you, Winnie, is this. Would you like to have another go at it?”
Winnie didn’t know what to say. She’d never been treated more like a human being than with the man seated before her. But his confidence in her was too great—especially when she’d done nothing to earn it.
“We can still hold the event in two weeks which should be enough time to prepare,” he suggested when she remained silent. “And I can be more or less involved. Whatever will help you out the most.”
Winnie shook her head, guilt rendering her nearly speechless. She didn’t deserve to work for someone so generous.
“I really am so grateful for your offer, Mr. Wintour. But I don’t know if I’m up to doing it again.”
“I understand. But may I ask you to take the rest of the weekend to decide? Come Monday, you can either leave Foxwood, help with the estate, or have another go at the festival. Whatever you choose, I will be happy to accept your decision.”
Winnie had been lulled into a false sense of security again with his kindness and talks of second chances. But she couldn’t handle the fact that she’d done something she’d never done while being a consultant. She’d failed. She was used to not succeeding in every other aspect of her life. Why did she have to suffer in this job now, too?
“So, what do you say?” he asked, his tone hopeful.
But Winnie had already closed off her feelings.
Be like Fort Knox.
“I’ll take until Monday, if that’s okay?” she responded, then she stood, signaling her desire to end the conversation.
She couldn’t remain there any longer. She had too much to hide and too much to feel.
As they made their way to the door, Mr. Wintour continued, his eyes still soft.
“Keep your chin up,” he said with another encouraging smile. “Perfection is nice to strive for in theory, but all it really does is cause us disappointment. Humans weren’t born to thrive on such feelings, no matter what the world tells us.” They stopped at the door, and he leaned forward, his voice barely above a whisper. “Or no matter what our fathers tell us.”
The understanding in his tone, the words he spoke, struck a chord within Winnie’s heart, strumming it with such care and compassion, tears sprang to her eyes.
She looked away, embarrassed by her emotion. “Thanks, Mr. Wintour. I’ll keep that in mind.”
He pulled in his lips and gave a single nod just as she started down the hallway.
Now Winnie could only pray that, come morning, Mr. Wintour would show her the same forgiveness he’d shown her today because she wasn’t going to wait until Monday to make her choice. She’d already decided that Winnie-Freakin’-Knox would be leaving England tomorrow. For good.