“I’d worry more about the stranger,” her mother said cryptically and pulled a stool made of unstripped white birch saplings out from under an oak door laid on trestles for a table. “From what I can tell, that’s a very dangerous house.”
Emma sat down on the stool, staring at Hesper. “For Ysabo?”
“For any stranger that chances in.”
“What have you found out about it?”
“Well, for one thing it’s very old magic,” Hesper said, putting this and that from her jars into the teapot. “I don’t know how old, and I don’t know whose.” She paused, a spoonful of rose hips suspended above the pot; lines rippled across her brow. “There’s so little to be found . . . It’s all secrets, between lines, allusions in letters, hints in diaries. But for at least a couple of centuries, if not longer. People writing about stories their children invented, ghosts their servants or some lord in his cups saw. Doors open, they get a glimpse—but nobody sees the whole of it. Ever.”
“How much did you see?”
“Enough to astonish me. Enough to make me wonder . . .” She turned to unhook the steaming kettle hanging above the fire, added water to her mix. She hung it back up, then sat down herself, elbows on the table, gazing at her daughter. “You be careful, girl. Don’t even think of crossing into that.”
Emma shook her head vehemently, braid bouncing on her shoulder blades. “No. I did invite the princess here, though, after the knight hit her. She said she couldn’t abandon the ritual.”
“What knight?”
“The one she asked why. Why she had to marry him.”
Hesper, absolutely still on her chair, echoed the word silently, “Why?” Then she said abruptly, “Wait. Wait. I have to write this down.”
“You didn’t know this part?
“Not the part where anybody ever asked why.”
Emma told her that part, sipping tea with a dollop of honey in it, holding the warm cup against her cheeks, her forehead, like a soothing hand.
“I guess I wouldn’t mind so much,” she said, while Hesper scribbled the last of her tale into the end papers of an apothecary’s remedy book.
“Mind what?”
“Leaving Aislinn House, after Lady Eglantyne dies. I could get a job in town, take care of us both. Especially if there’s nobody I know left in the house after the heir comes and brings her own staff.”
Her mother gave her a skewed look above her raised cup. “You don’t really think Miss Miranda Beryl of Landringham would settle herself into this backwater.”
“How do you know her name?”
“Ah, gossip. It holds the world together. The doctor’s been asking around town about her, who might know her.” Hesper took another sip. “Strange that even Lady Eglantyne’s own solicitors are reluctant to write to Miss Beryl. As though they know she’d never stay, and Lady Eglantyne’s death might mean the end of the family affairs in Sealey Head.”
“She’s Lady Eglantyne’s family. She should be here.”
“Have you heard Lady Eglantyne talk about her great-niece?”
Emma sighed. “No. She doesn’t talk much at all. She mostly dreams. Maybe nobody wants Miranda Beryl here. Nobody wants any changes.”
They ate bread and curds and a spicy beef sausage someone had given Hesper in payment. Then Emma took off her shoes and stockings, tucked up her skirt, and helped her mother clear the garden for cabbages, carrots, spinach, beans, and radishes. Hesper had already weeded the herb garden; scents of rosemary and sage teased Emma’s nose as she worked.
“You should walk into town,” Hesper protested as the sun, going its way, began to shift the patterns of tree shadows around them into the garden. “Breathe the sea air, see some younger faces.”
“Right now I’m doing this,” Emma answered, attacking a prodigious burdock root with satisfaction. “I’m seeing you.”
Later, when they had downed tools, washed off the dirt, and perched themselves on a sunlit log for cups of mint tea and a bowl of wild strawberries, Emma asked her mother, “Why did you leave Aislinn House if you were only going to sit in the tree house thinking about it? There, you could just open a door and see more pieces of the mystery.”
Hesper shook her head. Her thick, springy hair had collected an assortment of petals, twigs, a couple of insects trying to find their way out, sprigs of herbs she had tucked behind her ear for later. One of the insects, a tiny red beetle, flew away at the movement; Emma reached out and brushed the spider off.
“I never saw like you did. I caught glimpses of a great many people doing incomprehensible things. Some of them made me uneasy. The knights fully armed. That great pack of crows flying rings around the tower. Once when I opened the stillroom pantry, I thought they would come streaming through the doorway after me. I couldn’t say for certain that anyone even saw me. Except the crows. Maybe it’s a rare thing in her world that your friend Ysabo sees you as clearly as you see her. I left Aislinn House because I wanted more time of my own to find out about it. And because—” She smiled, tilting her face into the light. “I like being outdoors. I guessed that people would come seeking my remedies no matter where I kept myself. And out here, I can go barefoot.”
Emma stayed for supper, which was great fat dried mushrooms plumped up with water and fried in butter, a salad of dandelion and violet leaves, and the curly tips of ferns, fish from the market her mother had smoked, and ale—another payment. Emma, a bit sore from her exertions and pleasantly relaxed from the ale, heard the bell on her way through the woods. The light faded around her. The trees thinned, opened to reveal the unkempt hedges and overrun gardens of Aislinn House, all but lost in wildness.
She went in the way she had left, through the boot room. She took the back stairs to her room to rebraid her hair and change her shoes before she went down to the kitchen for gossip and to see if anyone noticed she had gone.
Mrs. Blakeley found her in the hallway between the stairs and the kitchen. “Emma!” she exclaimed. “Where have you been? We looked everywhere for you.”
“Why?” Emma asked quickly, searching the housekeeper’s face. Her normal pallor was blotchy with color; her eyes, usually weary and preoccupied, looked wide and a bit stunned. There was no sign of tears; Lady Eglantyne must still be alive. “I took my half-day. I went to see my mother.”
“Oh, if only the gentlemen had come earlier; you could have taken them with you.”
“What gentlemen?”
“You might have told us, Emma. Well. At least they came in time for the letter.”
“What letter?”
“It’s down in the kitchen. Mr. Fitch was reading it to Mrs. Haw. She kept something warm for you. Oh, Emma.” She pressed her fingers against the ancient black fabric over her bosom. “We have so much to do.”
“She’s coming?” Emma breathed, her skin prickling oddly.
“Miss Miranda Beryl, and her maids, household staff, friends, carriages, horses, stablers—I don’t remember who all. Fortunately, we were able to warn Mr. Cauley. Come down, read the letter yourself. You’ll see what we need to think about.”
She hurried Emma downstairs. Fitch was writing a list, while Mrs. Haw, involved in a seemingly endless comment about life that was interspersed with items to be purchased, broke off mid-mutton at the sight of Emma.
“Oh, there you are,” she said tremulously. “We thought you’d run off and left us to ourselves with all this.”
Emma pulled out a chair, sat down. “All what?” she asked Fitch. He pushed the letter across the table, looking more alert than he’d been in years at the prospect of company. Even the tufts of hair above his ears seemed glossier.
“Lady Eglantyne’s heir will be here in two days,” he told her. “We must prepare the house.”
“Two days!” She stared at him incredulously, then ran her eyes quickly over the letter, which was mauve, lightly scented, and in clear, quite elegant handwriting. She stared again at the butler, and whispered in horror, “Oh, Mr. Fitch.”
“Help themselves to our jobs, more likely,” Mrs. Haw muttered.
“An undercook, three kitchen maids, two housemaids, stablers—”
“What about the stable roof? It’s all but fallen in. And the bedrooms haven’t been dusted for decades. And where will we put everyone?”
“We can only do what we can, Emma,” Fitch said firmly. “The lady will have to understand that. And since Judd Cauley from the inn was here when the letter came, we were able to show him Miss Beryl’s request that he ready rooms at the inn for friends and staff we might not be able to accommodate.”
“I see,” Emma said. Her voice still shook, but it was regaining strength. She rubbed her face with chilly fingers, trying to grasp an elusive thread of thought. “Judd Cauley.” She found it finally. “Why was Mr. Cauley here at all?”
“He and his friend came to see you,” Mrs. Blakeley answered.
“Me!”
“Well, your mother, actually. But they stopped here to ask you for directions. We couldn’t find you.”
“I was there, helping her with her garden,” Emma said dazedly. She looked at Mrs. Blakeley. “His friend?”
“Mr. Ridley Dow.” To Emma’s astonishment, the housekeeper came within memory of a smile. “Quite a handsome, nicely spoken young man he is, too. From Landringham, and staying at the inn as well.”
“But what did they want with my mother?”
“Who knows? An herb, an ointment, something for the horses—They were quite disappointed that we couldn’t find you. Mr. Dow was all for wandering about in the woods on the chance they might run across the tree house. But then we showed Mr. Cauley the letter, and he said he had to get back and put his own house in order.”
“The harbor inn is much closer to Aislinn House than his inn,” Emma said practically.
“Judd Cauley pointed that out, too,” Fitch said, “to his credit. The staff might be moved there later. But according to her letter, Miss Beryl preferred the inn on the cliff with the magnificent view for her friends. One of them must have known about it, I would guess. Mr. Cauley seemed a bit panicky himself when he left.”
“He at least has a working stable. What has he to panic about?” Mrs. Blakeley demanded.
“His cook,” Mrs. Haw said pithily, rapping a stirring spoon against the stew pot on the stove. “One night of her, and they’ll all be moving to the harbor. Are you hungry, Emma?”
“I ate with my mother, thank you, Mrs. Haw.”
“Nettles and bark, no doubt.”
“Close,” Emma agreed. She was silent, still wondering what a Mr. Ridley Dow from the great city of Landringham, in which presumably one could find everything in the world, would want with a wood witch in Sealey Head who lived in a tree. “They didn’t give any reason at all for wanting to see my mother? If it was urgent, she could go to them.”
Fitch shook his head slightly. “Not urgent, no.” But he seemed slightly puzzled. “Mrs. Blakeley offered to open up the old stillroom for Mr. Dow, let him look for what he needed there. He wasn’t interested. He did ask an odd question. But maybe it only seemed odd because he’s a visitor and we’re used to it.”
“Used to what?” Emma asked.
“The bell. He asked if we heard it more clearly in the house than outside. I don’t know why he thought we might.” He scratched a feathery brow. “I had to admit I scarcely hear it anywhere, anymore.”
“I never do,” Mrs. Blakeley agreed. “It’s just another noise the world makes. Doesn’t mean anything.” She reached out, patted Emma’s shoulder, and Emma, rendered transfixed in her chair, blinked oddly gritty eyes and felt herself turn human again. “We must be up and doing before the birds, tomorrow. Best get your rest.”
Nine
Judd gathered the staff of the Inn at Sealey Head in the taproom. Everything, he noted, looked suddenly dusty, shabby, worn. Chair legs were chipped, tabletops dry and splintery, the great fireplace stones stained; even the windows, letting in the bright afternoon light whereby he could see these flaws, were dim with smoke and ancient grease. Four faces, including his father’s, were gazing at him expectantly.
“Right,” he said briskly, resigning all to destiny. “In two days we’ll be having more guests than we’ll know what to do with. Miss Miranda Beryl, the heir to Aislinn House, is coming from Landringham with an entourage of staff and friends.” He paused while Mrs. Quinn sat down abruptly with a squeak. His father punched his chair arm with a fist, grinning hugely. “We’re to put up those who can’t be accommodated at Aislinn House. Every room must be spotless, the kitchen and bar need replenishing, the stables need cleaning and repairs. You’re fine workers; I don’t need to tell you what you must do.” He paused again, drew breath. “Mrs. Quinn. Since you won’t be able to cook and clean for such a large group at the same time, I’m appointing you head housekeeper. I’ll hire someone else to take over your duties in the kitchen. As of today.” Inspiration struck; he abandoned himself to it recklessly. “Now.”
“Mr. Cauley,” Mrs. Quinn protested. “I’m in the middle of cooking your suppers.”
Judd hesitated. Behind Mrs. Quinn, he saw the single fierce shake of his father’s head. “You’ll have to put up with my cooking for a change, Mrs. Quinn. I need you too much for other things.”
“But you don’t know how. I’ve had years of experience. Where will you find a replacement for years of experience in two days, Mr. Cauley?”
“I’m sure I’ll never be able to replace you, Mrs. Quinn. I can only do my best. I hope you’ll look upon my efforts kindly, and be patient.”
“But—”
“What, for instance, can be done with this room, Mrs. Quinn? Lily? What would you suggest that might make our guests inclined to linger here and not move immediately over to the harbor inn, which is more convenient by far to Aislinn House?”
Even his father looked around at that, straining to see some room for improvement. Lily and Mrs. Quinn, challenged by the threat, their eyes narrowed in eerily similar expressions, studied the room silently.
“Everything needs a good scrub,” Lily pronounced firmly. “Including and especially the windows. Maybe some curtains to soften the stones?”
“A good dusting,” Mrs. Quinn suggested. “If bottles there must be, those bottles should shine. And the tankards. A carpet by the hearth. And a few chairs around it.” She was on her feet abruptly. “And these tables—all scattered every which way. They need some kind of pattern. There’s a great deal of charm in a good pattern. I’ll show you. Help me, Mr. Quinn.”
Judd helped his father up and out of their way. In the hall, he found Ridley Dow. Still in his coat and on his way out again, he had paused to listen.
“You were brilliant,” he murmured to Judd.
“Was I?” Judd asked him, suddenly dubious. “Can you cook?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never tried. Ah—you have no one else in mind?”
Judd shook his head. “Not an inkling.”
“I don’t care,” Dugold sighed contentedly. “I’d as soon eat a boiled boot than another bite of Mrs. Quinn’s cooking.”
“Let’s hope I can do better than boot leather. I don’t blame you,” he added to Ridley, “for fleeing the confusion. I’m sorry for it. We shouldn’t be driving our only paying guest out on the rumor of others. Though I suppose you might know some of Miss Beryl’s friends?”
Ridley hesitated. “I might have met one or two,” he said slowly and without his usual easy smile. “I doubt they would remember me.” He paused again; Judd heard the screech of table legs across the floor. “One especially, I would prefer to avoid. But more than likely he would be staying at Aislinn House.”
“I’m sorry,” Judd said abruptly. “You’re the last guest I would want to make uncomfortable. I could put Mrs. Quinn back in the kitchen; she’ll get rid of everyone in no time.”
Ridley’s smile rose to th
e surface again. “Please—anything but that. And I’m not driven out by the noise. I’m going to ride back to the wood, see if I can find the tree house. If at all possible, I would like to explore Aislinn House before Miss Beryl gets there. I think the herbalist might be the perfect guide.”
“For what?” Judd asked incredulously. “What can the bell possibly have to do with that faded old house? Or Emma’s mother?”
“I won’t know unless I find out,” Ridley answered imperturbably. Something crashed in the taproom; there was a confused gabble of voices. Ridley nodded speechlessly, dropped his hat on his head, and went one way quickly; Judd grasped his father’s arm and bore him the other.
He left Dugold in his rocker, raptly contemplating their good fortune, and descended into the kitchen to see what he had inherited from Mrs. Quinn. He found beef boiling merrily in a pot above the dying fire, and, in the oven, burning bread. He pulled the bread out in a cloud of smoke and thought briefly of tossing it onto the fire, for the loaves seemed to have the density and texture of nicely seasoned wood. He poked at the beef with a fork. The prongs bounced off the meat. He pulled the pot off the hook, set it on the floor, and contemplated, with some bitterness, what might have appeared on his plate in the guise of supper.
He put his hand in his pocket, counted what came out of it. He went back upstairs to the taproom, where the three Quinns were busy transforming the room into total chaos.
“I’ll be back,” he told them tersely.
Halfway down the cliff road into town, he met Gwyneth Blair and her sister Pandora, walking up the road toward the inn.
He stopped, wordless, entranced by that long golden hair streaming back from Gwyneth’s face, then suddenly scattering every which way as the wind changed its mind and turned. She was laughing; so was her younger sister, and Judd felt his own mouth tugged into a smile.
“What?” he demanded. “Did I forget to take my apron off?”
“We were coming to have tea with you!” Pandora exclaimed. “And here you are.”
“And lucky you are,” he told them. “The inn is in shambles, and I’ve taken Mrs. Quinn out of the kitchen to put everything back together again. There’s no one left to boil water for you.”
The Bell at Sealey Head Page 8