Rooms on both sides of the hall were open to reveal groaning boards within, already surrounded by unabashed townspeople, who knew that the Sproules, above all, liked their guests to make the most of their bounty, and who seldom got such a feast as this anywhere else.
Aunt Phoebe and Toland Blair were hailed by Dr. Grantham almost immediately. Gwyneth listened to news, or lack of it, about Lady Eglantyne, then wandered off for a glimpse of the guest of honor. She found Daria first, who pulled her across the floor at the edge of the dancers, then into the crowd.
“Look at her!”
Miss Beryl wore purple, the wine-dark shade visible just under the surface of the sea where the great kelp fronds grew closest to the light. Against it, her skin turned a flawless cream; her pale hair, wrapped around miniature purple irises the color of her gown, looked like a garden after a snowfall.
She extended an arm languidly; Raven, flushing with pleasure, took her empty glass and worked his way toward the bottles and jugs and punch bowls on a table just outside the door.
“Oh,” Daria groaned. “I do wish she would go back home. She is spoiling everything.”
“Never mind,” Gwyneth said.
“But I do mind. I mind for you! And for myself—I so want you as a sister. If he proposes to her tonight, I will smack him with a beer jug.”
Gwyneth laughed. “You will always have me for a sister. We don’t need Raven for that.”
Daria glowered a moment longer at the lovely Miss Beryl, then sighed, her face easing.
“Well, she would never have him, anyway. Look at all those admirers around her. Mr. Moren has scarcely left her side all evening. She’d hate Sealey Head. And Raven, estimable as he is, lacks a certain—oh—dashing quality most pleasing to women with nothing better to do than fall in and out of love.”
“Indeed.”
“Eminently worthy, though,” Daria assured her, “on a practical, daily basis.” She grew abruptly silent; Gwyneth felt fingers, tense and chilly, close around her wrist. “Is that—Just coming in—”
“Yes,” Gwyneth said, taller and able to see over more heads. She smiled at the sight of the fair head beside the dark. “I believe it is Mr. Dow. With Mr. Cauley.”
Daria tugged her so quickly into the crush again that she left a trail of splashed punch and apologies before she entirely caught her balance.
Ridley Dow saw them as they squeezed through a final tangle of elbows and backs, into the quieter realms along the wall. He looked pale, Gwyneth thought, and shadowy beneath his lenses. He didn’t move to meet them; he hovered near the protection of the stones but greeted them warmly as they reached him.
“Miss Blair, how are you? Miss Sproule, what a delightful gathering. How kind of you to think of it.”
“Mr. Dow, how are you? Where have you been?” Daria asked precipitously. “We heard you had an accident!”
“A minor one. I’m much better now.”
“But you look far too pale, even in this light, doesn’t he, Gwyneth? What happened? Nobody will tell us.”
Ridley Dow shrugged slightly, then seemed to wish he hadn’t. “It was foolish enough. A sort of hunting mishap.”
“Did you fall off your horse?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Where have you been? Poor Judd Cauley thought you had abandoned him. I do hope you are well enough to dance, Mr. Dow. But where were you? And why didn’t you tell poor Mr. Cauley where you had gone?”
“Where,” Gwyneth said, diverting Daria’s solicitous intensity from the patient Mr. Dow, “is Mr. Cauley? I thought you came in together.”
“He went to fetch some ale for us,” Mr. Dow answered. “There’s quite a mob around the bottles.”
“Ever the innkeeper,” Daria said fondly. “But, Mr. Dow, you haven’t told us where—”
“You ladies both look lovely tonight,” he interrupted. “You look like spring itself, Miss Blair. And Miss Sproule, how well that purple brings out the green in your eyes.”
“Yes,” Daria answered a trifle moodily. “Thank you.”
“To answer your question: I had some business to take care of, and I simply forgot to tell Judd Cauley where I was going. I didn’t expect to be away quite so long.”
“You didn’t tell anyone,” Daria chided him. She leaned against the wall beside him, looking mollified. “Everyone wondered. You forget that you have friends in Sealey Head who feel your absence.”
He blinked at that, looking a little nonplussed. A streak of winy purple across the room caught Gwyneth’s eye. She took pity on him, though every bit as curious as Daria about his mysterious adventure, and said quickly, “I’m sure Miss Beryl was pleased to see you again.”
Daria rolled an indignant eye at her; something unfathomable surfaced in Mr. Dow’s face.
He said only, lightly, “It’s often hard to tell exactly what pleases Miss Beryl. But I must remember to claim a scrap of her attention and pay my respects before I leave.”
Daria straightened abruptly, as if the wall had poked her. “Mr. Dow, you can’t leave before the moon sets! You must drink and eat and dance, at least with me. You will feel so much better for it, I assure you. Dancing always does me good; the more the better. I’ll prove it to you.”
“Miss Sproule, I’m quite persuaded already that you are right. But—”
“Ah, here you are, Mr. Cauley,” Gwyneth interrupted contentedly, as he came up with two foaming mugs in his hands. He looked as happy to see her, and as polished, in his new coat and shining boots, as she had ever seen him.
“Miss Blair. And Miss Sproule,” he added, sighting her at Ridley Dow’s elbow. “Thank you again for inviting me,” he added to her, while his eyes returned to Gwyneth’s face. “I’m already having a wonderful evening.”
“Mr. Dow is already thinking of leaving,” Daria complained. “Tell him he can’t possibly, Mr. Cauley.”
“Of course he can’t,” Judd said, handing him a mug. “He must at least keep you company while I fetch you some refreshment. What would you like?”
“Punch, please,” requested the placated Daria.
“And you, Miss Blair?”
She came to a sudden decision. “I’ll come with you. Keep you company while you fight through the press.”
He smiled. “How kind of you, Miss Blair. What a brilliant idea.”
They strolled outside, took a place somewhere beyond the crowd around the bottles, waiting while it dispersed a little.
Judd, studying Gwyneth in silence, alarmed her into touching the pins in her hair.
“Is it falling down?”
“No,” he said, surprised. “Sorry. I’ve never seen you with your hair up like that. It’s usually tossed about like an osprey’s nest by the time you reach the inn.”
“You have a memorable turn of phrase, Mr. Cauley. Do you like the bird’s nest better?”
He didn’t answer. She looked into his eyes, saw moonlight reflected in them. She swallowed suddenly, hearing the air between them speak, the night itself, the running tide.
“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
