“Just having a look,” he muttered.
“Colleagues, I have two announcements for you!” declared the museums acting director, sweeping her gaze across the staff with deliberate gravity.
“Good news, I hope, Mrs. Whitmore?” piped up Emily, the petite tour guide, from her seat.
“I should think so. First, were expecting a group in three days.”
“Thats hardly news!” scoffed Marjorie, the caretaker, rolling her eyes. “Another batch of schoolchildren, no doubt. Nothing but mess and chaos!”
“Too right!” chimed in George, the museums security guardand Marjories husband.
“No, not schoolchildren,” corrected Mrs. Whitmore sharply. “This time, its a delegation from one of the countrys leading automotive manufacturers. And it is our duty, dear colleagues, to make their visit to this historic estate as engaging as possible. We want them to leave with fond memories.”
George perked up.
“Youve chosen the perfect word, Mrs. Whitmore’fond memories’ indeed! Remember that lot from the bearing factory last March? Theyd had one too many ‘fond memories’ before they even arrived. We spent days rounding them up from the woods! They dont come here for culturejust a day off!”
“Your cynicism is wholly misplaced, George!” Mrs. Whitmore cut in sternly. “We are the custodians of the legacy of the great Edmund Harroway-Blythe. Our foremost duty is to share his genius with the worldto preserve this hallowed place where he penned his masterpieces!”
“And who, pray tell, outside of us lot has even heard of Harroway-Blythe?” George pressed.
Today, he was in high spirits, itching to play the devils advocate.
“Objection!” interjected Edmund Carter, the resident historian. “Harroway-Blythe is a national treasure!”
“And the second announcement?” Emily interrupted, silencing the debate.
Mrs. Whitmore let the tension simmer before delivering the news.
“Were getting a new director!”
“Thank heavens!” gasped Doris the cleaner, clasping her hands. “About time!”
The room buzzed with renewed energy. Questions flew at Mrs. Whitmore
“Who is it? Where from? Which department?”
The women were keen to know his age and, inevitably, marital status. The handful of men present stiffened at first, then brightened at the prospect of male reinforcement.
“I know nothing more!” Mrs. Whitmore cut them off.
She raised a finger for emphasis.
“I received a call from head office. A Mr. or Ms. Fairchild will be arriving shortly. Thats all I know.”
Chattering excitedly about the impending change, the staff dispersed. After years of monotonous routine, any shift was thrilling. From spring to autumn, the core teamtour guides Emily and Victoria, historian Edmund, and Mrs. Whitmoreoversaw the estate, retreating to the mainland for winter. Only George, Marjorie, and Doris (who was also Georges mother-in-law) remained.
Mrs. Whitmore, exhausted from juggling accounting and management duties, was most relieved. No one wanted the remote posting, not even for a directorship. The county office had made empty promises for years.
“You must understand, Mrs. Whitmorethe conditions are challenging. Candidates agree, then back out when they hear the details!”
Determined not to let Fairchild flee on arrival (she hoped it was a man), Mrs. Whitmore ordered a deep clean.
The next day, from dawn till dusk, the estate gleamed.
“Emily, polish the umbrella stand again!” fussed Victoria. “You know how dearly Harroway-Blythe treasured it!”
“George, for heavens sake, remove your drill from the summerhouse!” Marjorie bellowed from the window. “Those factory lads will nick it!”
On the appointed day, a boat appeared on the horizon, its hull creaking, the scent of river air clinging to its passengers.
Squinting at the approaching vessel, Mrs. Whitmore issued final instructions.
“Edmund, no taking them to the marshes. Last time, someone lost a shoe! Emily, dont let anyone sit on the writers bed!”
“If Victoria didnt keep mentioning thats where Harroway-Blythe conceived his eight children, thered be fewer volunteers!” Edmund chuckled, nettled by the interference.
The boat docked, and the automotive workers spilled onto the shore.
“George, not a drop!” Marjorie hissed.
The lively crowd splitsome followed Victoria into the house, others tramped after Edmund to explore the island.
“Now, we enter the writers inner sanctumhis study. Here, Edmund Harroway-Blythe crafted his timeless works,” Victoria intoned, heels clicking.
“These very landscapes inspired our celebrated wordsmith, a titan of English letters,” Edmund proclaimed, pushing through sun-scorched thickets.
“Please dont sit on the bed! Its priceless!” Emily pleaded, flushing.
“Ill have your hide if I catch you spitting seeds in the yard!” Doris scolded.
Mrs. Whitmore sat in the study, savoring the distant hum of activity. Days like these breathed life into the estate.
Thena cry. “Stop, thief!”
Emilys voice, tremulous but urgent.
Mrs. Whitmore bolted up. Footsteps thunderedVictorias heels, Doris slippers.
In the study stood a young man in jeans and a stylish windbreaker. At his feet lay a notebookan exact replica of Harroway-Blythes, placed for display. Beside him, Emily quivered.
“Put it back, please! You mustnt touch anything!”
Victoria swept forward, eyes blazing.
“How dare you! This is Harroway-Blythes notebookhis unfinished masterpiece, *Anchors of the Soul*!”
“I just wanted a look,” the man muttered.
“Why take it? To steal? To vandalize?” Victoria advanced.
“Just a look,” he repeated weakly.
“Your papers, sir!” she barked like a constable.
The man handed over his passport. Victoria scrutinized it with theatrical gravity.
Then Mrs. Whitmore snatched it.
“Welcome, Director Fairchild,” she stammered.
***
“Do forgive me, Mr. Fairchild,” Victoria fretted as she escorted him to his office. “We never imagined youd arrive incognito.”
“Not at all, Victoria,” he laughed. “Now I know my staff are fiercely protective. Keep it up!”
