The Bell at Sealey Head (24 page)

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Authors: Patricia McKillip

BOOK: The Bell at Sealey Head
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“Gracious,” Phoebe breathed, patting her rosy face with a bit of lace handkerchief. “I haven’t danced like this since I was your age.” She peered at Gwyneth’s plate. “Is that poached salmon?”
“Yes. Would you like a bite?”
Phoebe leaned back, fanned her face. “Mr. Trent is bringing me a plate. Why aren’t you dancing? All these handsome men from Landringham—you must have met a few of them while you were there.”
“Not a one,” Gwyneth said, biting into braised celery. “They’re far too grand for me. I prefer the bookish types.”
“Like Mr. Dow, you mean.” She patted her niece’s shoulder. “I saw you talking to him. He left quite early, didn’t he?”
“Not feeling well, I think.”
“Yes, I heard . . . Ah, here’s Mr. Cauley. He’ll do for a dance with you instead, won’t you, Mr. Cauley?”
Judd put Daria’s plate promptly on a chair, stepped in front of Gwyneth. “Whatever you say, Miss Blair.” He held out his arm. “Gwyneth?”
“Nothing would make me happier, Judd,” she answered, and left her aunt staring at them, surrounded by a little island of abandoned chairs and plates.
Later, riding home in the carriage with the moon in her window slipping gently into the waves, Gwyneth felt a sudden qualm about the fates she had devised for her characters, as she considered her own contentment. But this was life, she thought remorselessly. That was story. Each had its own demands, and she had made her choices.
No choice but to follow the story into their watery graves.
Eighteen
The inn was unusually quiet the entire morning after the Sproules’ party. Hardly surprising, Judd thought, since guests had wandered back in at all hours: midnight, the wee hours, the darkest hour, the crack of dawn. Rising shortly after sunrise himself, wakened by a ray of light in his eyes and the smile on his face, he had felt his heart floating lightly as a bird upon a wave. Everyone else, it seemed, had just gotten to sleep. He dressed quietly, wondering if he and the fishers already putting to sea were the only ones up in the entire town.
But no. As he creaked a floorboard in front of Ridley Dow’s door on his way to the kitchen, he heard the doorknob turn. He felt an eye on his back, turned to see it watching him.
He said softly, “Ridley?”
The door opened a bit farther. “I had to be sure it was you,” Ridley whispered. He was fully dressed in the clothes he had worn to the party. They looked slept in. So did his hair. “Do you have my book?”
“Which?” Judd said, studying him. “Ridley, are you ill?”
“No, not at all. I just need my book.”
“I have a dozen of your books in my room. Which in particular?”
Ridley put his finger to his lips, lowered his voice to the thinnest of whispers.
“The Secret Education—”
“Of Nemos—”
“Sh!”
“Moore?”
Judd whispered back. “Yes. Do you want it now?”
Ridley’s shoulders slumped in what looked like relief; he leaned against the doorframe. “Yes. Please. If you would be so good.”
“It’s in my room. I’ve been reading it to my father. Would you like some coffee? Breakfast?”
“I can hardly think of anything at this moment except that book.”
“All right,” Judd breathed. “I’ll get it for you.”
He found Ridley in the same position, wedged between the doorpost and the door, when he returned. His eyes were closed. His face, beneath its dark shadow, seemed very pale, except for the smudges of fatigue under his eyes and the fiery streak along each cheekbone.
He murmured without opening his eyes, “Thank you, Judd,” took the book, and closed the door.
Judd, fully awake now, and with memories of Gwyneth beginning to recede under the weight of day, went down to the kitchen to brew himself some coffee.
Mr. Pilchard, hearing a disturbance in his kingdom, wandered in yawning as Judd sat drinking it.
“Good morning, Mr. Cauley.” He glanced up as though he could see the prone bodies through the floorboards. “Didn’t expect you up so early.”
“Me, neither,” Judd said. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I doubt that anyone will need you for hours. Oh, except for Mr. Dow.”
“Ah. Back, is he?”
“He appeared yesterday afternoon, somewhat worse for the wear. And still is,” Judd added slowly, remembering the strange details Ridley had dropped, fantastic, complex, and exasperatingly vague. He found Mr. Pilchard’s disconcerting eyes upon him, the one seeming to loom large with speculation, and remembered Ridley’s plea for absolute secrecy about what he had been doing. He changed the subject. “I think Mr. Dow could use some breakfast. Something simple and hot.”
“Feeling poorly, is he?” Mr. Pilchard turned to pull a pan off a shelf. “I know some herbs that are good for fever, indigestion, such as that. I’ll add a few to his eggs. A bit of warm bread and butter with them, a pot of hot tea?”
“That should help,” Judd said. “Thank you, Mr. Pilchard.”
He took the tray upstairs, found Ridley slumped over the open book on his desk. Other books lay scattered on the floor, on his bed, as though he had been searching for something. Judd put the tray down gently, glanced at one of the open books. It seemed to be an anecdotal history of Sealey Head, one of Mr. Trent’s, probably, and contained, within a paragraph, a brief reference to the bell on the sinking ship.
Judd looked at Ridley, who was struggling upright, reaching for the teapot. “What happened to you in Aislinn House?” he asked. “Exactly?”
Ridley shook his head, pouring tea. “The less I tell you, the better. But this much I can tell you: it is under a spell and has been for some time. I don’t know if Nemos Moore is responsible for the spell or only for meddling with it. But he is very much aware of it. And I know he is here in Sealey Head.”
“Here?” Judd said, startled. “In my inn?”
“No. He’s not one of your guests. I checked as they came in. I don’t know where he keeps himself. He’s been on the edges of Miranda Beryl’s widespread circle of acquaintances for many years. He came to Sealey Head with her, I know that much. She will, after all, inherit Aislinn House, and everything in it, which is considerably more than meets the eye.”
“How much more?”
“You would not believe...” He peered at his omelet, picked up a fork, prodded it, finally took a bite. “It’s quite good,” he said, surprised. “Mr.—What was it? Perch?”
“Mr. Pilchard. Cooked at sea for twenty years, came ashore finally to look for a wife. Is your relative a danger to you? Is that what happened to you?”
“I’m not sure exactly what happened, except that I ran afoul of the spell itself. There is some quite ancient magic within Aislinn House, as well as my ancestor’s meddling. As soon as I’m stronger, I’ll go back, take a more circumspect look at it.” He took another bite of eggs, as Judd gazed worriedly at him.
“Why?” he demanded finally. “Why must you challenge whatever evil there is in that house? Can’t you find someone else to do it? Why must you risk your life? What’s in it for you?”
“Knowledge.” He buttered a piece of bread, avoiding Judd’s eyes for some reason. “After all, I am a student of the ancient arts. How else can I learn except by studying them?”
Judd left him flipping pages while he ate and went downstairs to check on the state of the taproom. He glimpsed a fluttering on the stairs ahead of him: a couple of disheveled heads, homespun skirts above bare feet skittering down. Souvenirs, he realized sourly, of last night’s party. They moved too quickly out the door for him to recognize them.
He found Mrs. Quinn and Lily busy in the taproom, readying it for whatever guests ventured in when they finally opened their eyes. He backed out silently and walked down the hallway to the room overlooking the cliff to see his father.
Dugold was awake. Judd helped him dress, chatting absently about the Sproules’ party, until Dugold interrupted him, his filmy eyes trying to find his son’s face.
“Your voice sounds like a neap tide on a fine spring morning. Washing in slow and calm and barely waking the barnacles. Something you want to tell me?”
Judd felt himself flush. Yes! he thought. I want to tell you Gwyneth, I want to shout Gwyneth, I want to toast Gwyneth between two mugs that sing Gwyneth when they clink, I want . . . “No,” he said, and Dugold, hearing the smile in his voice, grinned back.
“It’s about time.”
The guests staggered out of bed at midday; the baker’s children careened through the hallways with trays as the cook directed them. Judd, noticing one of the boys tapping at Ridley Dow’s door, was surprised but relieved that the scholar was still alive and requesting further nourishment. The outer doorbell jangled, announcing company. He hastened downstairs to greet them himself, knowing that Mr. Quinn was busy in the stable. It was not Gwyneth, as he had unreasonably hoped. It was a couple of visitors from Aislinn House, looking bleary and a trifle ragged around the edges but ready to start yet another merciless card game in the taproom with anyone who might be up.
They came and went, the butterflies of Miss Beryl’s entourage, keeping both Judd and Mr. Quinn busy. He didn’t see Ridley or his father all afternoon. Answering the bell in the late afternoon, he found the languid Miss Beryl herself at his doorstep, on horseback, with a mounted Sproule on either side of her.
He stared. He had seen her the evening before, but from a distance. That close, just above his head, she was even more incomprehensibly beautiful. Except, he thought, pulling himself out of his undignified stupor, for the thoroughly bored expression on her exquisite face.
“Afternoon, Judd,” Raven said affably. “Miss Beryl expressed a desire to visit the inn where so many of her friends find themselves in the afternoon.”
“Miss Beryl,” Judd said. “Please, come in. And Miss Sproule. How delightful to see you again so soon.”
“Thank you,” Miss Beryl said, dismounting with such graceful efficiency that the hovering Raven was left with nothing to do but hand his sister down.
Daria looked far from bored. Anxious, apprehensive, and determined, Judd thought, and felt a twinge of pity for Mr. Dow. However, if he had any of his ancestor’s gifts, he might be able to magic himself invisible to her myopic intentions.
“I brought my grandmother’s conserve of roses for Mr. Dow,” she told Judd immediately upon landing. “Excellent for distresses in the throat and lungs. I do hope he is here,” she added fretfully. “Tell me he is, Mr. Cauley.”
“I saw him in his room this morning,” Judd said, ushering them in. “I can say only that much with certainty.” He opened the door to the sitting room, the sight of which caused even the jaded Miss Beryl to hesitate for a quarter of a second before she entered. Mrs. Quinn had attacked again; there were raspberry-colored doilies underneath everything, even the table legs. “Please sit down. I’ll order tea for you and see if Mr. Dow is in.”
He resisted a desire to check the yard again, see if Gwyneth had somehow appeared, pulled inexorably into the wake of Sproules. One of the baker’s children crossed his path; he sent the boy to the kitchen to request tea in the sitting room immediately for Miss Beryl and friends. Then he went upstairs to tap on Ridley’s door.
He got no answer but what sounded like a book crashing to the floor. He opened the door, puzzled. Ridley was on his bed with a book over his face; a
History of Sealey Head with Anecdotes and Recipes
lay askew on the floor. Ridley still hadn’t changed his clothes from the previous evening. A tray with a half-eaten bowl of chowder and some drying bread sat on his desk. More books had been added since morning to the general clutter, randomly strewn like driftwood on a beach.
Judd said softly, “Ridley?”
A hand rose after a moment, pushed at the book on Ridley’s face until an eye became visible, partially open and not entirely aware. Then Ridley grunted a question, shoved the book away, and sat up.
His face had the sort of greenish pallor of someone lurching endlessly from wave to wave in a boat without a rudder. It disappeared for a moment behind Ridley’s hands.
“You look terrible,” Judd said. Ridley murmured something incomprehensible. Judd added, “I am sorry to have to tell you that the Sproules and Miss Miranda Beryl request your company in the sitting room.”
Ridley’s hands parted; he looked incredulously at Judd. “She came here?”
He nodded. “With her grandmother’s cure for a chest cold.”
“Her grandmother’s—Oh.”
“Do you want me to extend your apologies?”
“No.” Ridley stood up after a moment. He swayed, but managed to stay on his feet. “Just tell them I’ll be a moment.”
“All right,” Judd answered dubiously. “Don’t fall down the stairs.”
He checked on his father along the way, apologizing for missing their afternoon reading and promising to send some cheese and ale to keep him company. A thump on the stairs cut short his visit; he found Ridley, in clean clothes at least, clinging to the newel post.

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