The Bell at Sealey Head

Twenty

Gwyneth wrote:

The feast offered to the men of Sealey Head, Lord Aislinn, Sir Magnus Sproule, Mr. Blair, Mr. Cauley, their wives, and Lord Aislinn’s daughter by the captain of the visiting ship was every bit as elegant as the strangers themselves. There were swans and peacocks stuffed with rice flavored with cinnamon and rose water and colored gold with saffron; there was roast boar stuffed with onions and chestnuts; there was a great roast of beef, bloody, peppered, and served with a sauce of its own juices. There were delicate bisques of wild mushrooms, of asparagus in cream; there were dishes of vegetables of every kind, even those like potatoes fried with apples, and colorful steamed squashes, that were not yet in season. There were cheeses that melted to cream in the mouth, and pungent cheeses that bit back; there was such an extravagance of fruit, such color and variety that must bring a blush to the cheek of the modest reader were we to describe it. And the array of cakes interspersed among the fruits seemed wondrous works of art more suitable for worship than for eating, especially the great sculpted tower of chocolate, cream, meringue, and raspberry sauce that rose majestically in the midst of them.

In all, a stupendous and gratifying supper for the long-suffering inhabitants of Sealey Head, who fell upon it with great gusto and cries of delight. And is it any wonder if, consuming such magnificent fare, they did not notice that not one dish contained any of the fruits of the sea? Not a fish, an oyster, a lobster was to be seen on the groaning board. Not the least shrimp, the humblest whelk. Can we blame them for their oversight in the midst of what they considered the epitome of plenty?

And, of course, all was served with unstinted and unending bottles of wine, champagne, port, and brandy. At the end of the meal, when surfeited ladies reached for one more grape or sweetmeat, and men cracked nuts together between their fingers, even then, no one wanted to leave. The visitors spoke so cordially, so eloquently of the far-flung ports, strange customs, astounding animals they had seen that they fairly mesmerized their guests. They, too, seemed reluctant to signal an end to the evening.

No one, later, remembered who made the first, idle mention of cards.

The idea was seized upon by all. No one knew how late it was; no one cared. What was there to get up for in the morning but the drudgery of daily life in Sealey Head? Even the captain admitted to a willingness to allow a certain slackness to the tasks of the morning. There was no tide they had to catch immediately. They had all been confined to the ship. Let the crew have the morning hours to swim, tend to their gear, entertain themselves.

The tables were cleared except for such necessities as nuts, chocolates, sugared ginger, grapes, and, of course, bottles. The ladies declined, sat together on silken cushions, reveling in their indolence, nibbling and gossiping. Lord Aislinn’s daughter, Eloise, lay back in silence and watched the wonderful faces of the visitors, their bright eyes, and long, glossy hair. She was in love with all of them.

Her father dealt the first hand.

“Gwyneth!”

She started, her pen making a little lightning stroke of her last word. Aunt Phoebe’s voice sounded a trifle high, even tense. And fairly loud as well: she must have come to the bottom of the attic stairs. Gwyneth put her pen down, blinking; she glanced out the gable window and was surprised by all the light. It should have been the middle of the night.

“Coming,” she called, opening the door. It was still morning, she remembered, and wondered if she had forgotten to do something for her aunt. Phoebe waited for her to descend. She had something in her hand: a little bundle tied up in a ribbon. She did not look happy with it. She wore the particular expression, a mingling of disapprobation, regret, and resolution, that the twins had named her Duty Face.

“This came from Judd Cauley,” she said, when Gwyneth reached the bottom of the stairs. She dangled the bundle by the ribbon with her fingertips. “To you.”

“A book!” Gwyneth exclaimed with delight. “I wonder if it’s that one of Mr. Dow’s we talked about. The Secret Education of Nemos Moore. That sounds like it. Let me see what the note says.” She tucked the book under her arm, and tried to ignore the wild iris that had been slipped beneath the ribbon.

“He sent you a flower,” Aunt Phoebe pointed out.

“So he did,” Gwyneth said, opening the note.

“I noticed at the party that there was a certain familiarity between you.”

“Was there?” Gwyneth murmured, skimming the paragraph.

“He called you Gwyneth.”

“Did he?”

“You called him Judd.”

“Aunt Phoebe, we’ve known each other since we were born.”

“I hope you have not been falsely encouraging him.”

“Of course I haven’t. Why would I—Oh, dear, Aunt Phoebe, Mr. Dow has vanished again.” She lifted her eyes, stared, stricken, at her aunt. “And so has Judd’s wonderful cook. See page eighty-two.”

“I beg—”

“Eighty-two,” she repeated, riffling pages in the book Judd had sent. “Mr. Pilchard was by all accounts a paragon in the kitchen. Poor Judd. I wonder what happened to him. Mr. Pilchard, I mean. Here we are, page eighty- two.” She glanced over the page quickly. Some quality of the air changed; it seemed to grow darker, chillier. She reread the page more slowly.

“What does it say?” a voice asked impatiently. Her world shaped itself around her again: the morning, the note, the flower, her aunt standing in a patch of sunlight in front of her, waiting.

“Ah—” She struggled to contain the innocence in the written words without divulging the disturbances she had glimpsed between the lines. “It’s a reference to Aislinn House.

Apparently, Judd thinks Mr. Dow has gone there again, perhaps to pay a visit to the man who wrote the book, who must be in Miss Beryl’s entourage.”

“Then we needn’t worry about Mr. Dow,” Aunt Phoebe said briskly. “You must send a note back to Mr. Cauley, thanking him for the book. I wouldn’t mention the flower. It may have been an accident.”

Gwyneth smiled in spite of herself. “And the ribbon, too. Mrs. Quinn, Judd’s housekeeper, is always playing with them.”

“There. You see? Everything explained.”

“Indeed. That is one explanation,” she answered mildly. “Another is that Judd sent me a flower. Nothing difficult about that, is there? And I’m sure that if I looked in the parlor, I could find something appropriately amazing to put it in, to match the rest of the bizarre furnishings in my writing room.”

“But what of Mr. Dow!” her aunt expostulated, growing florid. “And what about Raven Sproule? You’re only toying with Judd Cauley because Raven is temporarily infatuated with Miss Beryl, as was obvious at the—What is so funny?” she demanded, seriously annoyed, as Gwyneth, reddening herself, let loose a sound like a prodded hen.

“Oh, Aunt Phoebe, you’ve been reading too many romances. Of course I’m encouraging Judd Cauley. I like him better than any man I’ve ever met. He’s kind and funny and we both love books and we’re rooted in Sealey Head. And yes, I’m going to send a note immediately to him, thanking him for the book and the flower, and inviting him to tea as soon as he comes into town in search of another cook.”

She went off to find a vase; Phoebe, she guessed from the sound of the library door pulled sharply open, went to find her brother.

Gwyneth had seen him cross the street an hour earlier, to his office in the warehouse. So she had some uninterrupted time to peruse the book Judd had sent. It was lively, disquieting, and indeed full of secrets. The writer had been drawn, like Ridley Dow after him, to Aislinn House in search of a source of great power, signaled by the ringing of a bell each day at sunset that reverberated across centuries of tales and writings. But did he find the bell? He didn’t say. He dallied with one or two of the lovely inhabitants of the house; behind closed doors, he discovered astonishing marvels and colorful rituals. He fell in love. He learned a few things. He made a few adjustments. He left Aislinn House and Sealey Head to continue his adventures.

Judd had written: He is an ancient relative of Ridley Dow’s. Still alive after all this time, and returned to Sealey Head, it is my reluctant conclusion, in the guise of my cook, Mr. Pilchard. Now they are both