The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society

Well, I’m not. I could tell her of his affections, and then she, being French, would know what to do. She would let him know she’d find favor in his suit. Then they could marry, and she would not need to go off to Paris and live.

What a blessing that I have no imagination and am able to see things clearly.

Sidney came up to Juliet and prodded her with his foot. “Feel better?” he asked, and Juliet said yes, so I quit worrying about her. Then he walked her over to make her manners to Remy. Kit was asleep in my lap, so I stayed where I was by the fire and thought carefully.

Remy, like most Frenchwomen, is practical. She would want evidence of Dawsey’s feelings for her, before she changed her plans willy-nilly. I would have to find the proof she’d need.

A bit later, when wine was opened and drunk in toasts, I walked up to Dawsey and said, “Daws, I noticed your kitchen floor is dirty. I want to come and scrub it for you. Will Monday suit?”

He looked a little surprised, but he said yes. “It’s an early Christmas present,” I said. “So you mustn’t think of paying me. Leave the door open for me.”

And so it was settled, and I said good-night to all.

Sunday

I laid my plans for tomorrow. I am nervous.

I will sweep and scrub Dawsey’s house, keeping a watch out for evidence that he cares for Remy. Maybe a poem “Ode to Remy,” all scrunched up and in his wastepaper basket? Or doodles of her name, scribbled all over his grocery list? Proof that Dawsey cares for Remy must (or almost must) be in plain sight. Miss Marple never really snooped so I won’t either—I will not force locks.

But once I give proof of his devotion to Remy, she’ll not get on the aeroplane to Paris on Tuesday morning. She will know what to do, and then Dawsey will be happy.

All Day Monday:

A Serious Error, A Joyous Night

I woke up too early and had to fiddle around with my hens till the hour I knew Dawsey had left for work up at the Big House. Then, I cut along to his farm, checking every tree trunk for carved hearts. None.

With Dawsey gone, I went in his back door with my mop, bucket, and rags. For two hours I swept, scrubbed, dusted, and waxed—and found nothing. I was beginning to despair, when I thought of books—the books on his shelves. I began to clap dust out of them, but no loose papers fell to the floor. I was fair along when suddenly I saw his little red book on Charles Lamb’s life. What was it doing here? I had seen him put it in the wooden treasure box Eli carved for his birthday present. But if the red book was here on the shelf, what was in his treasure box? And where was it? I tapped the walls. No hollow sounds anywhere. I thrust my arm down his flour bin—nothing but flour. Would he keep it in the barn? For rats to chew on? Never. What was left? His bed, under his bed!

I ran to his bedroom, fished under the bed, and pulled the treasure box out. I lifted the lid and glanced inside. Nothing met my eye, so I was forced to dump everything out on the bed—still nothing: not a note from Remy, not a photograph of her, no cinema ticket stubs for Gone With the Wind, though I knew he’d taken her to see it. What had he done with them? No handkerchief with the initial R in the corner. There was one, but it was one of Juliet’s scented ones and had a J embroidered on it. He must have forgotten to return it to her. Other things were in there, but nothing of Remy’s.

I put everything back in the box and straightened up the bed. My mission had failed! Remy would get on that aeroplane tomorrow, and Dawsey would stay lonely. I was heart-sore. I gathered up my mops and bucket.

I was trudging home when I saw Amelia and Kit—they were going bird-watching. They asked me to come along, but I knew that not even bird-song could cheer me up.

But I thought Juliet could cheer me—she usually does. I’d not stay long and bother her writing, but maybe she would ask me in for a cup of coffee. Sidney had left this morning, so maybe she’d be feeling bereft too. I hurried down the road to her house.

I found Juliet at home, papers awhirl on her desk, but she wasn’t doing anything, just sitting there, staring out the window.

“Isola!” she said. “Just when I’ve been wanting company!” She started to get up when she saw my mops and pails. “Have you come to clean my house? Forget that and come have some coffee with me.”

Then, she got a good look at my face and said, “Whatever is the matter? Are you ill? Come sit down.”

The kindness was too much for my broken spirits, and I—I admit it—I started to bawl. I said, “No, no, I’m not sick. I have failed—failed in my mission. And now Dawsey will stay unhappy.”

Juliet took me over to her sofa. She patted my hand. I always get the hiccups when I cry, so she ran and got me a glass of water for her fail-safe cure—you pinch your nose shut with your two thumbs, and plug up both ears with your fingers, while a friend pours a glass of water down your throat without let. You stomp your foot when you are close to drowning, and your friend takes the glass away. It works every time—a miracle—no more hiccups.

“Now tell me, what was your mission? And why do you think you failed?”

So I told her all about it—my idea that Dawsey was in love with Remy, and how I’d cleaned his house, looking for proof. If I’d have found any I’d have told Remy he loved her, and then she’d want to stay—maybe even confess her love for him first, to soothe the way.

“He is so shy, Juliet. He always has been—I don’t think anybody’s ever been in love with him, or him with anybody before, so he’d not know the right thing to do about it. It’d be just like him to hide away mementos and never say a word. I despair for him, I do.”

Juliet said, “A lot of men don’t keep mementos, Isola. Don’t want keepsakes. That doesn’t necessarily mean a thing. What on earth were you looking for?”

“Evidence, like Miss Marple does. But no, not even a picture of her. There’s lots of pictures of you and Kit, and several of you by yourself. One of you wrapped up in that lace curtain, being a Dead Bride. He’s kept all your letters, tied up in that blue hair ribbon—the one you thought you’d lost. I know he wrote Remy at the hospice, and she must have written him back—but no, nary a letter from Remy. Not even her handkerchief—oh, he found one of yours. You might want it back, it’s a pretty thing.”

She got up and went over to her desk. She stood there awhile, then she picked up that crystal thing with Latin, Carpe Diem, or some such, etched on the top. She studied it. “‘Seize the Day,’” she said. “That’s an inspiring thought, isn’t it, Isola?”

“I suppose so,” I said, “if you like being goaded by a bit of rock.”

Juliet did surprise me then—she turned around to me and gave me that grin she has, the one that made me first like her so much. “Where is Dawsey? Up at the Big House, isn’t he?”

At my nodding, she bounded out the door, and raced up the drive to the Big House.

Oh wonderful Juliet! She was going to give Dawsey a piece of her mind for shirking his feelings for Remy.

Miss Marple never runs anywhere, she follows after slowly, like the old lady she is. So I did too. Juliet was inside the house by the time I got there.

I went on tippy-toes to the terrace and pressed myself into the wall by the library. The French windows were open.

I heard Juliet open the door to the library. “Good morning, gentlemen,” she said. I could hear Teddy Heckwith (he’s a plasterer) and Chester (he’s a joiner) say, “Good morning, Miss Ashton.”

Dawsey said, “Hello, Juliet.” He was on top of the big stepladder. I found that out later when he made so much noise coming down it.

Juliet said she would like a word with Dawsey, if the gentlemen could give her a minute.

They said certainly, and left the room. Dawsey said, “Is something wrong, Juliet? Is Kit all right?”

“Kit’s fine. It’s me—I want to ask you something.”

Oh, I thought, she’s going to tell him not to be a sissy. Tell him he must stir himself up and go propose to Remy at once.

But she didn’t. What she said was, “Would you like to marry me?”

I liked to die where I stood.

There was quiet—complete quiet. Nothing! And on and on it went, not a word, not a sound.

But, Juliet went on undisturbed. Her voice steady—and me, I could not get so much as a breath of air into my chest.