The Bell at Sealey Head

by Patricia A. Mckillip

  “Miss Blair,” Judd said finally, huskily.

  “Please call me Gwyneth.” Her voice sounded strange, oddly breathless. “You used to. When we were children.”

  “Gwyneth.”

  She felt the sound of it run through her. “Yes. That’s better. What did you ask me?”

  He put his ale mug down in a patch of wild iris. “To come for a walk with me along the cliff to look at the waves.”

  “Yes,” she answered softly. “That’s what I thought I heard.”

  They came back sometime later, windblown and damp and hungry. Judd courageously plunged into the throng around one of the banquet tables, where great platters of roast meat had been added to the fare. Gwyneth found a couple of empty chairs around the dancers. Raven seemed to be making a speech of some kind, possibly introducing Miss Beryl, for she stood near him, not talking, but not really listening, either; she seemed to be searching the crowd for someone.

  “Lovely addition to—” Gwyneth heard Raven declaim. “Welcome—Our support in this difficult—Sure you all—”

  Someone took pity on him and began clapping, for everyone was chattering; even the musicians had begun to retune their instruments. The applause spread enthusiastically through the hall, cheers and caps tossed in appreciation of the feast that they could all get back to now that the ceremony was over. Raven looked gratified. Miss Beryl smiled her charming, perfunctory smile, turned her back just as Raven stepped toward her; she was drawn away from him into the dancers by Mr. Moren. Another of her friends clapped Raven on the shoulder, said something, and shrugged. He smiled again, reluctantly.

  Judd came finally, laden with plates, forks, napkins.

  “How clever of you to find us chairs, Miss Blair!”

  “Wasn’t it? And how brave of you, Mr. Cauley, to battle the mob to forage for us.”

  “That,” Judd said, “is to make you admire me so much that you might even dance with me.”

  He sounded hesitant, waited for her answer before he even took a bite. Gwyneth waited to swallow hers.

  “You mean,” she said shrewdly, “in front of my father and my aunt, the Sproules and the better part of Sealey Head?”

  “Yes,” he said without smiling. “It would mean that much to me.”

  “A declaration,” she guessed abruptly, with unladylike precision.

  “Of serious intent. Yes.”

  She held his eyes, seriously moved. “Judd. I can’t answer for my aunt, or the Sproules, or most of Sealey Head. But my father will most wholeheartedly think the better of me for choosing to dance with you.”

  He flushed. “Really?”

  “Yes. So eat your supper in peace.”

  She herself was pleasantly surprised, a little later, by the sight of her aunt Phoebe and Mr. Trent taking a turn on the floor. The bookseller smiled from sideburn to bushy sideburn; Phoebe, her bun slipping down her neck, laughed unexpectedly at something he said. Gwyneth glanced around, wondering if her father had been tempted by anyone. But no: there he was beside the fire, discussing the affairs of Sealey Head, no doubt, with the ruddy and brawny Sir Weldon Sproule and other local businessmen.

  There was a scrape and a flounce beside her as Daria pulled an empty chair up next to her and sat down.

  “Mr. Dow left,” she announced dolefully. “He was unfit for dancing, he told me, and not much better for company. He disappeared into the crowd to pay his respects to Miss Beryl, then he left without saying good night to me. Exactly what kind of an accident did he have, Mr. Cauley? Did somebody shoot him or something?”

  “I’m not certain of the details,” Judd answered. “But he seems a bit feverish, I think. That’s probably why he forgot.”

  “But I know the very remedy for that!” she exclaimed. “It’s a concoction of my grandmother’s. I’ll ride to the inn tomorrow, bring some to him.”

  “I’m sure he would be—” Judd began, and gave up, dropping his fork without finishing the thought. “Have you eaten, Miss Sproule? May I get you a plate?”

  “That would be so kind of you, Mr. Cauley,” she said glumly. “My feet got so tired from holding the wall up with Mr. Dow.” She waited while Judd, exchanging a wry glance with Gwyneth, put his plate down and took himself out of earshot. Then she said softly to Gwyneth, “You shouldn’t encourage him, you know. He has such feelings for you, poor man.”

  “There you are, Daria!” boomed a voice that made them both start. Lady Amaryllis Sproule, resplendent in blue taffeta with a beehive of lace the color of old ivory over it, put her hands to her ample waist and tapped her slipper at her daughter. “Why on earth are you sitting when there are hosts of young men to dance with? Everyone has been asking where you are.” She extended a hand the size of an ox hoof and hauled Daria to her feet.

  “Mother, Mr. Cauley is fetching my supper!”

  “Supper! Who needs supper on such a night, with all this music and these eager lads? Go on, girl, get out there.”

  “But I can’t leave Gwyneth—”

  “From what I see, Gwyneth is doing just fine as she is.” She flashed a pair of deep dimples at Gwyneth and hurried away to boom cordially at a neighbor.

  “Whatever did she mean by that?” Daria asked Gwyneth puzzledly. “I haven’t seen you dance at all.” Gwyneth shrugged wordlessly; Daria heaved a sigh. “How I wish Mr. Dow had not left. Oh, well. I suppose I must cajole somebody into dancing with me.”

  She adjusted the expression on her face and went off to flirt. Gwyneth, left alone, studied her plate hungrily, chose a forkful of cold potatoes dressed in dill and oil and vinegar, and looked up, inelegantly chewing, to find Miss Beryl’s shimmering skirt swirling in front of her. She and Mr. Moren were attempting one of the local dances, more gracefully, Gwyneth thought, than many of those born to it, yet not, apparently, without mishap.

  “Oh, Mr. Moren, was that your foot?”

  “I believe it was. No matter, my dear. Another dance, and I think we’ll have it.”

  “Fortunately,” Miss Beryl commented, looking down at her feet, “we have only two; what would we do with a third to keep track of? I promised the next dance to Raven Sproule. Since he is feeding us those great roast creatures, I think it only polite to oblige him.”

  “Let him wait,” Mr. Moren suggested without pity.

  “No. I think they take such things seriously here. They aren’t accustomed to our casual rudeness.”

  “You are letting me wait.”

  Miss Beryl was silent; Gwyneth swallowed her bite quickly and sat suspended, willing herself invisible.

  “You know I take forever to make decisions,” Miranda Beryl said finally, lightly. “And I always forget immediately what it was I had made up my mind to do. Don’t let’s talk about it. Words get in the way of my feet.”

  “I won’t take no for an answer,” Mr. Moren warned her, a smile on his sallow, clever face. His eye fell on Gwyneth; he nodded to her amiably, the smile deepening in his eyes as though he had heard her listening. Miss Beryl stepped on his foot again, and his expression changed abruptly.

  “I am so sorry—”

  “Are you?”

  “That must have been my third foot, clumsier than the others.” The music spun a merry flourish and stopped; Miss Beryl drew back. “Rest a little, here with Miss Blair, while I practice with Raven Sproule.”

  Mr. Moren sat rather heavily down next to Gwyneth, to her discomfort. “Miss Blair, I hope you don’t mind if I keep you company until your friends return.”

  “Nothing could please me more,” she said, and he looked at her with interest.

  “How strange words are, don’t you think? They can mean their exact opposite so easily. Don’t you find that fascinating?”

  “Yes, I do,” she answered with considerably more feeling, and he nodded. “These country dances can be a bit rough,” she added. “I hope you aren’t badly injured.”

  “To say that I am would be to imply blame,” he answered smoothly, “and that would be ungallant. L
et us say that the injury done is not to my foot, but to my pride, which is worth far less. I think both will heal nicely before the evening ends. Was that Mr. Dow on the edges of the gathering earlier? I noticed you talking. About newts or mushrooms, no doubt?”

  “He is rather bookish,” she agreed.

  “We haven’t seen him lately. Off wandering the coastal thickets? The cliffs of Sealey Head? He, at least, was wise enough not to try to dance.”

  “He has not been well, I believe.”

  “Ah. That must be why he didn’t brave the crush to pay court to the guest of honor.”

  “Didn’t he?” she said, surprised. “Someone said he had. I must have misunderstood.”

  “Miss Beryl remarked upon it,” he said carelessly. “She likes her courtiers to be attentive even though she tires of us easily.”

  “Mr. Dow had an accident recently,” Gwyneth said carefully. “Perhaps he simply was not feeling strong enough to get through such an energetic mob.”

  “No doubt.” He strained with a sudden energy of his own against his chair, causing the wood to protest. “No doubt. A delicate soul, I’ve often thought. Unassuming and rather more interested in trifles than in life. Even I can be wrong occasionally. Now,” he added, as the music swooped to an exuberant finish, “I believe I’m cured. And there is your friend Mr. Cauley, making his way toward you. I must find Miss Beryl and persuade her that I am completely uninjured and ready to try again.”

  He left, rather precipitously, to Gwyneth’s relief. She turned in her chair to look for Judd, and her aunt dropped down immediately beside her.

  “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, pr
odded 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.