The Bell at Sealey Head

by Patricia A. Mckillip

  The Sproules’ eyes left her face; they consulted one another, still silent, and came to an accord, apparently, for Raven said appreciatively to Gwyneth, “Very nice, very proper. How neatly you found our way out of that tangle. Worthy of your Aunt Phoebe.”

  “Music,” Daria said, moving along to the next item of discussion. “Something more refined than country dancing? We can’t have people red-faced and stomping on the floorboards at such a delicate time.”

  “Where,” Raven asked, “do you propose to find anything refined around here?”

  “Well, I don’t know. Surely somebody knows somebody. We’ll ask Mr. Trent.” She was abruptly still again, her hand reaching across to grip Gwyneth’s, reins and all, at the sight of the half dozen carriages in front of the stables. “So many people,” she sighed contentedly. “It will be a grand party.”

  Barely had they dismounted when stablers came to take their horses. Old Fitch opened the door for them. The changes in the house were immediately apparent as they crossed the threshold. Swathed ghosts looming in the rooms had become furniture again. Curtains were pulled back; windows opened; the house smelled of trees and wildflowers instead of polish and ancient soot. Even more unexpected was the faint, continuous tension in the air of people moving, breathing, rustling, doors swinging open, closing again on half-heard words. The house felt full, Gwyneth thought, vibrant with so many invisible people, and she wondered in sudden horror if they had come too early, at midmorning, interrupting, with their country ways, the leisurely habits of those who thought the sun rose at noon.

  Fitch showed them into an aired and polished drawing room and went to inform Miss Beryl of their presence.

  Miranda Beryl came to greet them almost immediately; no sign, at least from her, that she didn’t know when morning began. Her rather chilly beauty seemed a bit frayed, Gwyneth thought, after the initial, startling glimpse of it. The pale skin around her sea-green eyes was shadowy; she looked, as she crossed the threshold, as though she were trying to summon a smile and swallow a yawn at the same time.

  “Good morning,” she said in her deep, sweet voice. “I am Miranda Beryl. How kind of you to take the trouble to come and call on me. Fitch, please tell Emma to bring us tea.”

  A tall, thin man had accompanied her into the room. He had fair, lank hair as straight as straw, and remarkably bright eyes, vivid as mother-of-pearl, in a lightly lined, expressionless face. He cleared his throat very softly; Miss Beryl added indifferently, “Oh. And this is Mr. Moren, who was kind enough to ride up from the inn this morning to inquire after my great-aunt.”

  Daria made a little mewing sound, her lashes fluttering like wings. “Oh, so have we. I do hope she is better this morning. At least no worse. Miss Beryl, I am Daria Sproule, and this is my brother, Raven. We are pleased to meet you, Mr. Moren. Our father, Sir Weldon Sproule, owns most of the local farmland. We’ve ridden over from Sproule Manor to welcome you to Sealey Head.”

  Raven seemed to be having trouble finding his voice. He cleared his throat a couple of times. Gwyneth, fascinated, watched the blood well into his face, color it an even strawberry from chin to brow. Gazing into those emerald eyes, he looked as though he had been walloped with the business end of an oar.

  “Good—good morning,” he managed at last.

  “Yes, isn’t it?” Mr. Moren murmured in his thin, dry voice, while his eyes lingered with sudden interest upon the afflicted young man.

  “And you are?” Miss Beryl inquired of Gwyneth.

  “Oh, sorry,” Daria said hastily. “May I present our good, dear friend Miss Gwyneth Blair. Her father, Toland Blair, owns all the big ships in the harbor.”

  “How do you do?” Gwyneth asked faintly under the cool, disconcerting gaze.

  “I confess I am a little tired,” Miss Beryl answered with unexpected candor. “I had no idea there was so much of Rurex outside of Landringham. And so many people one doesn’t know who choose to live in it.”

  “Miss Beryl inhabits such a rarefied constellation in Landringham, one might as well expect the sun to notice his neighbors,” Mr. Moren remarked with rather perfunctory attention to his pronouns, Gwyneth thought. The brilliant eyes were on her face, suddenly, as though she had commented aloud, and she felt herself flush.

  “Also,” Miss Beryl continued, “I was awake early this morning, expecting a visit from Dr. Grantham, who came to see my great-aunt.”

  “Any improvement?” Raven asked heartily, making an effort that deepened the hue of his face to burgundy.

  “No. No change. Ah, here is Emma with the tea.” The maid backed through the door, half-hidden behind an elaborate silver tea service. “Emma, I am learning quickly, is the one upon whom we all depend, especially my staff, who have not yet found their way around this great old house.”

  “You’ve never been here before?” Gwyneth asked.

  “I think once. Very long ago, when I was a child. But it may have been another house,” she added vaguely, and reached for the teapot. “Please sit down. Thank you, Emma. How do you take your tea, Miss Sproule?”

  “Oh, please call me Daria. Sugar, no lemon. I want us all to become great friends, especially if you decide to take up residence in Sealey Head.” The flow of tea into her cup dried up briefly at the idea, but Daria didn’t notice. “I was hoping,” she confided, “we were all hoping that you and your friends might come for supper at Sproule Manor some evening soon. To meet a few more of your neighbors. We were wondering. If you felt it appropriate. We know how deeply concerned you must be about Lady Eglantyne. There could be music, if you would like.”

  Miss Beryl, standing with the teapot in her hand, watching Daria until she ran down, put the pot on the tray finally. “So kind,” she answered, handing Daria her cup and leaving her baffled. “Miss Blair?”

  “Lemon, please.”

  “And you, Mr. Sproule?”

  “In a cup is how I take it,” Raven said, chuckling at his own pleasantry. His pale blue eyes, fixed upon Miranda Beryl’s face, seemed unusually close together, Gwyneth saw; perhaps the avidity of his gaze had caused them to cross slightly. “I do hope you will accept our invitation, Miss Beryl. With or without music.”

  “How kind,” Miss Beryl said again, blinking. “But I can’t think how. Not with poor Lady Eglantyne. How could I leave her now that I’m finally here?”

  “My dear Miss Beryl, would she notice?” Mr. Moren asked, pouring his own tea. “Lady Eglantyne, I would guess from what I saw this morning, is quite comfortably inhabiting her own world.”

  Miss Beryl gazed at him across the tea table. “I am trying, Mr. Moren, to live above myself. It’s confusing, when one is used to one’s more familiar habits. Surely it would be considered unfeeling among the folk of Sealey Head?”

  “We invited you, Miss Beryl,” Raven began heartily, and ran up against Mr. Moren’s tensile voice.

  “It’s not only your aunt you must think of,” he reminded her. “Your friends might enjoy some idle entertainment.”

  “It’s true we have all been tiptoeing around the place,” she said doubtfully.

  “Besides, when have you ever turned down a party?”

  A dimple appeared unexpectedly in Miss Beryl’s cheek. “As you can so well testify, Mr. Moren.”

  “And why not? When I take such pleasure in watching you enjoy your life?”

  “You take too much pleasure in my frivolous life,” she answered idly, hiding her expression behind a tilted teacup. She put it down, and asked the drawing room in general, “Oh, why not?” Muslin over the open windows puffed in answer. “I must meet my neighbors sometime.”

  “Good!” Raven exclaimed, his cup rattling into the saucer. “We’ll make a long evening of it, then. Music, a little dancing, a late supper. I warn you: half of Sealey Head will be there to meet you. And we can even surprise you with an acquaintance of yours from Landringham.”

  “From Landringham?” she echoed. “Someone I might know in Sealey Head?”

  “Mr
. Ridley Dow,” Daria explained, laughing at her perplexity, and Gwyneth saw Miranda Beryl’s face turn oddly mask-like, still dimpled with the tilt of a smile, while all expression faded from her eyes.

  “The scholar in Sealey Head?” Mr. Moren wondered. “I thought he had left Rurex to travel abroad. He must have had a book under his nose and gotten lost.” He added with a faint chuckle, “No doubt, when he finally looked up from his reading, he thought he had reached a different country.”

  “Sealey Head is very much a part of Rurex,” Daria protested warmly. “And anyway, Mr. Dow is far too intelligent to mistake where he is in the world.”

  “Mr. Ridley Dow?” Mr. Moren queried her lightly with a raised eyebrow. “Who can spend a good hour trying to separate you from your ear with the subject of damselflies?”

  “He has never mentioned damselflies,” Daria said staunchly, “and he found his way on purpose to Sealey Head.”

  “Did he now? Ah, well, then, a different Mr. Dow.”

  “No, no; he has mentioned being in Miss Beryl’s company in Landringham. Didn’t he, Raven? In fact, he is staying at the inn on the cliff with the rest of your party. I’m surprised you have not met him there, Mr. Moren. And, Miss Beryl, I am sure he will be delighted to see you.”

  Gwyneth watched their eyes meet over the tea table: Mr. Moren’s blandly questioning, Miss Beryl’s fading toward boredom on the subject.

  “Perhaps a certain type of fossil in the cliffs drew him,” she suggested, and rose abruptly, smiling charmingly upon them without quite seeing them. “We shall all anticipate your party, I’m sure. Let us know which evening you want us. We have no plans.”

  Her visitors left half a teacup later, scattering pleasantries across the threshold.

  “A fascinating, admirable woman!” Raven exclaimed, as they waited for their horses.

  “So beautiful,” Daria murmured, clasping Gwyneth’s arm. “Oh, I can hardly wait for the party. Can you, Gwyneth? Though I am not sure that I quite liked her friend, Mr. Moren, did you, Gwyneth?” She watched her brother pawing the gravel like a steed, his eyes on a flock of warblers flitting overhead, and whispered, without waiting for Gwyneth’s opinion that, indeed, she found Mr. Moren unsettling, yet somehow intriguing, “Raven seems a bit smitten. But don’t pay any attention to it. Men get this way. I’ve read about it. It’s like a rash. They wake one morning, and it’s gone. Now,” she said aloud, as Miss Beryl’s stablers brought their horses up, “let us go over to the inn and find Mr. Dow, who is spending entirely too much time without us.”

  They continued their journey back downhill and around the harbor, where Gwyneth’s thoughts strayed to her mysterious ship, anchored, surely, just in that brilliant splash of light rippling across the bay. Not pirates, she determined, nor faery, nor from any earthly realm. But what then? And from where?

  Beyond the town, they rode abreast up the headland, Raven in the middle, where he veered randomly between discussing the details of the party with Daria and extolling the remarkable qualities of Lady Eglantyne’s heir.

  “Such grace and composure in her time of trouble. Not only must she tend to her great-aunt, but she must keep her friends amused as well. We must help her in that as best we can.” He cast a solemn look at each of the young women beside him. “I expect you will be able to come up with suitable ideas to entertain her. I can think of nothing better than a brisk ride every morning. Perhaps along the waves. The sea air would do her good.”

  The sea air was busy tying Gwyneth’s hair in knots and trying to push them all out of their saddles. Daria clamped her hat, a straw confection wreathed in pale green tulle, on her head with one arm; its broad brim flapped, tried to fly. Down the cliff, the waves boomed like cannon fire against the rocks and broke with frothy glee. A pair of seals dived effortlessly in and out of the tide. Gwyneth watched them, envying their grace, their composure in the wild waters.

  Seals, she thought. Selkies. Sea people.

  Princes of the sea.

  Come to Sealey Head for...

  “Sealey Head,” she said aloud, involuntarily. She felt the Sproules’ eyes on her, and turned to meet them, smiling. “Sorry. I was lost in my story.”

  “The pirate story?” Daria asked eagerly.

  “No. Not pirates,” she said firmly. “Better than pirates.”

  “What an extraordinary thing to be thinking about after visiting Aislinn House,” Raven remarked. Gwyneth, glancing at him, wondered why his uplifted profile seemed more parroty than usual. Exaltedly beaky.

  “One must think of something,” she said, amused. “Presumably Miss Beryl is thinking enough about death and its awesome responsibilities for us all.”

  “Yes, but pirates?”

  “It’s the way my mind works. I doubt that any chiding or lecturing will change it, since I feel most comfortable this way.”

  Raven found nothing to say to that, which he said with significant silence the last quarter mile to the inn. Daria chattered for all of them. Gwyneth’s thoughts rode ahead to the inn, where the innkeeper would come out smiling to welcome them to his suddenly bustling establishment. Or not smiling, she remembered abruptly, if he had not found a decent cook for the crowd.

  And crowd there seemed to be, judging from horses saddled in the yard, awaiting riders, from the carriage being readied, from neatly, soberly dressed underlings venturing out to the cliff edge to marvel at the sea. Were they all leaving so soon? she wondered with concern. Had the worst occurred already: Mrs. Quinn had cooked them breakfast?

  But the innkeeper, helping Mr. Quinn with the carriage, smiled with pleased surprise upon them as they rode into his yard.

  “Welcome,” he called. Raven, surrounded by horses, dismounted quickly, and, with one of his unexpected and charming gestures, went to help with the very handsome matched set of four grays being harnessed to the carriage. Judd relinquished the task to him and came to greet the ladies.

  “You found a cook,” Gwyneth guessed immediately, and he laughed.

  “An exceptional one came to my door in the nick of time. He spent the last twenty years at sea, cooking for any number of people; he was completely undaunted by the impending throng from Landringham and cooked an amazing supper for them that brought praise even from Mrs. Quinn. But what brings you here on such a boisterous day?”

  “What, indeed!” Daria exclaimed, dismounting with a sigh. “I thought the wind would blow us out among the gulls. We have come to recapture Mr. Dow’s attention; he has been neglecting us all, and we miss him.”

  “Oh.” Judd’s smile vanished. “You haven’t seen him, either, then.”

  “He’s not here?” Daria said incredulously. “After we rode all this way?”

  “You don’t know where he is?” Gwyneth asked, surprised. “When did you last see him?”

  “Several days ago,” Judd said slowly. “He said he was going to ride into the woods to look for Hesper.”

  “Hesper?”

  “Why Hesper?” Daria demanded fretfully. “What could he want with the wood witch?”

  Judd shook his head. “Something about that bell and Aislinn House. That’s all he said.” He glanced down the cliff toward the shadowy trees on the hill behind the harbor. “I haven’t seen him since.”

  “Is he staying somewhere else?” Gwyneth suggested, though it hardly seemed likely. “He wouldn’t do that without telling you.”

  “All his things are still here. All his books. He hasn’t even been back for a change of clothes, so far as I know. And you know how he likes to dress. Mr. Trent hasn’t seen him, either.”

  “Aunt Phoebe asked after him; he hasn’t come to tea again.”

  “He seems to have vanished ... What trouble could he possibly have gotten into between here and Aislinn House?”

  Gwyneth looked back at him silently, equally mystified. Daria, her eyes flickering between their faces, filled her lungs abruptly and bellowed across the yard in a voice not even her brother recognized, “Raven! Stop dawdling amon
g the horses and come here! We are riding back to Aislinn House.”

  She had mounted and turned her horse onto the road before her bewildered brother extricated himself from the carriage harness. Gwyneth sighed, moved reluctantly to her horse.

  “I’m sorry,” she said to Judd. “We are never able to talk.”

  “No,” he agreed somberly. “Let me know if you find him?” She nodded; he added quickly, “Let me know if you don’t.”

  “Yes,” she said, and followed the impulsive Daria. Midway down the headland, Raven, raising a formidable army of arguments, including rudeness, inconvenience, and the prospect of disturbing Lady Eglantyne, finally persuaded his sister not to gallop back to Aislinn House and announce her intention to search for the missing Mr. Dow in the closets or under the beds.

  “Miss Beryl would surely have mentioned it if he were staying there,” he said at least half a dozen times. “She seemed quite surprised that he might be in Sealey Head at all. He probably left town suddenly on business, and of course he will be back. He would have told us otherwise.”

  Gwyneth stopped with relief in front of her house, let them return to Sproule Manor without her.

  Daria, leaning from her saddle, whispered fiercely, “Keep looking for him; so shall I. Let me know if you hear anything at all.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  Gwyneth watched them ride sedately down the street, Raven leading the horse she had ridden, and no doubt thinking of Miranda Beryl, his sister riding silently beside him, her thoughts no doubt in a turmoil over Mr. Ridley Dow.

  Sproules in love, she thought with wonder, and went upstairs quickly, before Aunt Phoebe noticed she was back, to continue her story.

  She wrote:

  You could recognize them for what they weren’t by looking deeply into their eyes. Unfortunately neither of the humans standing on the deck of the Chimera was in the habit of looking deeply into anyone’s eyes; they hadn’t looked so at their wives in years. But had Sir Magnus Sproule or Mr. Blair done so, they would have seen the restless wilderness within, the vast expanse of an unknown kingdom the strangers viewed daily; it left its imprint on their pupils, in their very thoughts. They saw to the depths of what mortals, with their little lines and hooks and nets, barely penetrated.