Curious to know what Mr. James found to write about in such a quiet town, Katherine began reading the daily paper; a thing she would never have thought to do otherwise. She discovered that Mr. James was, in fact, a talented writer.
He could pull his readers into any story, even something as mundane as the changing of bulbs in a streetlight, which he had managed to turn into an entertaining two-page spread. This was a valuable quality in the Harborhaven Gazette’s only journalist, since little of any import ever happened in Harborhaven. Without his expertise, the paper would certainly not have maintained its widespread popularity.
“Has Mr. James ever written about Miss Harriet’s?” Katherine asked her employer one day.
“No, Dearie, and I don’t suppose he could be expected to,” Miss Harriet replied casually.
Katherine frowned. “Why not?”
“For the simple reason that it would put him in a very awkward position.”
“It would?”
“Yes, it would. You see, if he were to write something favorable, he might be accused of bias, because he comes here so much. If he wrote something unfavorable, he would be sure to feel badly about it, and would be so bothered, he wouldn’t be able to enjoy his morning scones anymore. Either way, he’d be sure to find himself in a stew of some kind.”
“I never thought about that,” Katherine replied. “It must be difficult to be a journalist.”
Miss Harriet nodded. “Yes indeed, Dearie. I’m happy to stick to my tea shop.”
Each morning, when Mr. James had been at his table for about an hour, a tall elderly lady would walk laboriously in with a book under one arm and ask in politest tones if the table at the back were available. Of course, it always was available, for Miss Harriet had given strict instructions that the seats preferred by the “dailies” be reserved for them, no matter how busy the shop might get.
Like Mr. James, this quiet lady always dressed neatly. She usually wore a wool skirt and blazer, in well-pressed, unassuming earth tones. Whatever the weather, she would walk in wearing plain, sensible heels with a small brown hat perched carefully atop her short grey hair, which curved neatly around her face. She always reminded Katherine of a little brown bird.
“Poor dear,” Miss Harriet said quietly one day. “She’s probably been up for hours. Doesn’t sleep well, you see, and figures it’s better to get up very early than stay in bed tossing and turning. That’s why she comes in before most of the town is up and about. She hasn’t much to live on, you know, and this is the one little indulgence she allows herself. Perhaps it’s partly to make up for the trouble of having to wake up so early.”
Once she reached her table, the lady—whose name was Penelope Wright, although everyone simply called her Mrs. Penelope—cautiously perched on one of the chairs, holding herself as stiff and straight as the chair itself. She somehow managed to seem at ease in that unbending posture, though, as she quietly ordered “Just a cup of black tea and three plain scones with jam, please.” which she enjoyed with as much enthusiasm as her genteel nature would allow.
The scones Mrs. Penelope ordered each morning were quite different from the robust cheddar scone ordered by Mr. James. Miss Harriet’s plain scones were small, round, and very fluffy, while the cheddar scones were dense, large, and triangular. They were so dissimilar, Katherine wondered how both could be called scones.
Miss Harriet said that the two types of scones came from different regions, and that, while the fluffy scones were her favorite, the dense scones were more like what scones originally would have been. “I make both kinds, you see, so that I can have the kind I like but still feel I’m being true to the historical side of things. Besides, this way none of my customers are disappointed, whichever type of scone they like.”
And so, every morning Mr. James would have his biscuit-like cheddar triangle, Mrs. Penelope would have her three small fluffy rounds, and both would be equally satisfied.
Mr. James and Mrs. Penelope were not the only dailies, however. Round about mid-morning, as Mr. James worked away by the window and Mrs. Penelope sat engrossed in her book, Rosie would arrive. The self-appointed leader of the Luncheon Society disliked getting up early, but just like Mr. James, she wanted to see what people were up to first thing. Rosie’s motive, however, was far from the professional and business-like interest of Mr. James. She just had to know everything happening around town so she could inform everyone else. The first time Rosie met Katherine, she had unashamedly introduced herself as the town gossip.
“If there’s anything you want to know, I’m your gal. Not much escapes my notice around here, and there’s always a tale to tell. Why, only yesterday, the mayor tripped going up the steps of the courthouse on his way to a meeting and got a black eye, or at least, that’s what he said. I can’t help but wonder if he ran afoul of one of his constituents somewhere, but didn’t want to admit it. I’ve a nose for scandal, you see.”
“Does the mayor often have violent conflicts with his constituents?” Katherine asked, trying not to smile.
“Well, no… at least, we can’t be sure, now can we? It isn’t the type of thing he would go around talking about.”
Katherine soon noticed whenever Rosie came in sight, she was in for a tale of dramatic proportions. Not that much ever happened in Harborhaven which would merit such proportions, but that never stopped Rosie from framing every little detail of Harborhaven life in the most harrowing light possible. And in case nothing occurred to suit her thirst for shocking news, she carried around a sheaf of tabloids in her capacious handbag, “For when I need a good read while out and about,” she would explain.
Her favorite topic of study from those tabloids was that of the British Royals. And since Miss Harriet herself had come from England, of course Rosie felt her day incomplete without apprising Miss Harriet of the latest news.
She would bluster through the door each morning, wearing a bright, garish coat with a large matching hat, ringed around the brim with a puffy layer of tulle and a few jaunty feathers fastened on one side. “Like the Queen wears, you know,” she would say with a knowing nod. She would plunk herself down nearby the right window (often to the dismay of Mr. James), and talk, peer out the window, and eavesdrop on Mr. James’ conversations by turn.
Each Wednesday, Rosie would come a little later than usual, and with a group of ladies in tow.
“The Luncheon Society,” as they liked to call themselves, met each week to chatter, eat, and giggle over another of the Dailies, a tall, thin man with grey hair who came in promptly at noon.
Walking quietly in, the tall man would sit near the window across from that in which Mr. James was typically still installed, ordering Earl Grey tea and one of Miss Harriet’s homemade Cornish Pasties, which he would then politely eat with fork and knife. This extremely proper man’s name was Edward Patten, and he managed the town’s only bank, which had been named “First Bank” by some optimistic town founder.
Katherine quickly observed that the reason this dignified man was doomed to be giggled over by Rosie and her “Luncheon Society” was because Mr. Patten was unmarried—and so was Rosie. And despite the garish red rinse Rosie used to disguise her gray hair, one could easily tell that they were about the same age.
This unfortunate circumstance had been intensified by Rosie’s belief that Mr. Patten was “enormously rich, you know.” When asked how she had ascertained this detail, she would lean in and say mysteriously, “I have my sources,” punctuating her statement with a serious but vigorous nod of the head which made her hat feathers bob. The whole table would be still for a moment, conscious of the gravity of Rosie’s statement, then erupt into a fresh wave of giggles and teasing as Rosie blushed and pretended to look shocked and embarrassed.
But regardless of Rosie’s efforts, Mr. Patten had no interest whatever in her, and tolerated the cry of “Oh, hello there Mr. Patten!” hollered across the quiet tea shop with a cold and dignified nod, trying his best to ignore the resultant clamor of the cluster of women at the table. Katherine always felt sorry for the man, and wished Rosie and her friends would leave him alone. She said so to Miss Harriet one afternoon.
“They’re not so bad as they seem, dear.” she had replied in an undertone, leaning on the counter as she surveyed the scene. “All hat and hairspray, that’s what they are. There’s no substance whatsoever behind their tittle-tattle. Mr. Patten knows this, and has the happy ability not to be offended by the chatter of silly schoolgirls—even when they’re schoolgirls with wrinkles and grey hair.”
Katherine did observe that on the days Rosie dined alone, she appeared hardly to notice Mr. Patten’s arrival at all. Only when she had an audience did she greet him so boisterously. Katherine thought she liked Rosie much better without her entourage.
One week, Miss Harriet and Katherine noticed that Rosie seemed subdued and uncharacteristically quiet. This lasted for days, and Miss Harriet began to be concerned for her. On Wednesday, she asked one of the Luncheon Society ladies if anything was wrong with Rosie.
“Oh, I know what’s wrong with her. She decided to take on the Captain over at the Harborside.”
Katherine, clearing a table nearby, slowed her work to listen as Miss Harriet replied,
“Oh, yes? And what happened?”
“Well, we had been talking last week, you know, about how no one could get anything out of him about where his sister had gone to, and you know that Rosie has her theories.”
“Yes?”
“Well, Maybelle got exasperated with Rosie, like she does, and said, ‘why don’t you go ask him about it, if you’re so sure.’ and then she said she would. The next day, Maybelle ran into Rosie on the street in such a state, she told Maybelle everything before she could even stop to think what she was doing.”
Miss Harriet patiently nodded. “And what did she say?”
