The Bell at Sealey Head Read online

  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.”

  “Now, don’t panic. Once the lady is here, we’ll have plenty of staff to help us.”

  “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 b
e 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 the 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.”

  “Oh,” Gwyneth said, her brows crooking above her lenses. “Is this to do with Miss Beryl? We’ve been hearing rumors.”

  “Already?”

  “Dr. Grantham told my father that he’d received a note from her. Is she staying with you?”

  “No, only some of her party. Which inspired me to ban Mrs. Quinn from the kitchen. So now I must find another cook. Do you know of any cooks at loose ends, roaming about Sealey Head begging for a position?”

  “Let me give it some thought . . . Are you absolutely adamant that you’ll give us no tea?”

  “You’ll thank me,” he assured her. Then he paused, struck by a likely possibility; he added slowly, “Mr. Dow might find it well within his capabilities to boil water, but he has fled the scene as well. I’m very sorry. I’m on my way to find something to replace the disaster in the kitchen that was to be our supper. Since I got rid of the cook, I seem to be responsible for feeding people.”

  “Ah, well,” she said composedly. “Another time, then. Though—” She hesitated, an odd expression in her eyes as she gazed over his shoulder at the inn on the bluff. “I did want a word with Mr. Dow.”

  “Ah.”

  “Has he mentioned magic to you?”

  “Once or twice. He gave me a book to read. It’s quite entertaining, a sort of romance about some sorcerer who came to Sealey Head long ago.”

  “Really?” A little color fanned across her cheekbones; he recognized, in her eyes, the cupidity of another whose reason was lost to books. “May I read it when you’re finished?”

  “It may be a while, if I actually have to stop reading and behave like an innkeeper.”

  “Perhaps your guests won’t stay long,” she said fervently, then laughed at herself as he smiled. “I’m sorry. I can imagine a little of what all this means to the inn. First the wealthy Mr. Dow and now Miranda Beryl’s entourage. But what am I thinking, keeping you standing here when you must go hunting up a cook? I’d ask at the bakery, if I were you. And I’ll ask Aunt Phoebe. She might know someone who knows someone. Pandora!” she called abruptly to her sister, who was bent over and digging perilously at something down the side of the cliff. “Be careful! The wind will push you right over.”

  Pandora straightened finally. “I’ve found a perfect fossil!”

  “Good for you! Come over here before you become one at the bottom of the cliff.” She looked at Judd, seemed to read the thought in his eyes, to hear the words lined up in his impulsively opened mouth. “I promised to take her to the top of Sealey Head,” she said apologetically. “Otherwise, we would walk with you back into town. She wants to see if she can see the ghostly ship going under as the bell rings.”

  “That’s a couple of hours from now, and a walk back in the twilight,” he reminded her gravely.

  “I know. I doubt we’ll stay out that long today. Do you still?”

  “Do I—”

  “Still look for the ghost ship?”

  “Of course. Always, if I’m watching the sunset.”

  “Mr. Dow seems to think the bell has nothing to do with a ship,” she said puzzledly. “I wanted to ask him what he truly thinks. But we always seem surrounded by Sproules, when we meet, so it’s hard to talk coherently about ghosts.”

  “I noticed.”

  She threw him a sudden, mischievous smile. “That’s partly why I promised Pandora this excursion. And if we go back down too soon, they’ll most like
ly be there still in the parlor with Aunt Phoebe.”

  “Ah,” he said, enlightened and relieved, at least on that score. He added, reluctant to bring the wealthy and charming Mr. Dow into the conversation again, but it seemed only fair to tell her, “Ridley Dow seems to think the bell has something to do with Aislinn House.”

  “Really?” she said, astonished. “How could it? The house never had a bell tower, did it? And there’s no local lore suggesting a connection.”

  “That’s where he is now, trying to find Hesper Wood and all her local lore. He thinks she must know something about the bell.”