“Indeed,” Gwyneth breathed dazedly, and followed her aunt into the shop, where they found Judd Cauley placing a very large order for the inn.
“I hope, Mr. Cauley, you will spare a few for us,” Aunt Phoebe said affably.
He looked even more harried than usual, Gwyneth saw as he turned to greet them. But, meeting his eyes, she found the pleased smile in them, and then felt her own. As simple as that, she thought, then wondered what that meant.
“Are you ready for your onslaught of company?” she asked.
“I’m dreading it,” he confessed. “The inn is in complete confusion; I still don’t have a cook, and we seem to have driven away our sole lodger with our noise and disorder and my cooking. I haven’t seen Mr. Dow since yesterday.”
“If he reappears, please send him to us for his tea,” Aunt Phoebe said with bewildering inconsistency.
“Thank you, Miss Blair; I’m sure he’ll appreciate that.”
“We’ll send word immediately if we find a cook for you,” Gwyneth promised.
“Just send the cook,” he pleaded. “I can make do as long as we have to feed only ourselves and rumor. But the truth of the matter will appear under our inn sign tomorrow, and if I must send them all into town to eat, I doubt they’ll be with us long.”
“There’s my cousin,” Ross Carbery, the chandler, said abruptly. “You might talk to her. She cooks nicely, and since her husband was laid up with a fever and is too weak yet to go out in his boat, she’s had to take in mending and laundry.”
“Of course I know Hazel,” Judd said gratefully. “I’d be happy to give her a try.”
“She’s just a door or two down on Mackerel Street. I don’t know how she’d feel about cooking for a crowd. But she’s got a cool head and busy hands; she might just do.”
“Good. I’ll go there immediately. Thank you, Ross.” He nodded farewell, backing toward the door; his eyes returned to Gwyneth. “Next time you ask me for tea, I might just have it for you, Miss Blair.”
“I’ll hold you to your challenge, Mr. Cauley.”
“Whatever did he mean?” Aunt Phoebe asked with mystification of the closing door.
“Pandora and I got tired walking up Sealey Head yesterday,” Gwyneth explained, and found herself smiling at the memory. “We begged Mr. Cauley for tea, but he wouldn’t give it to us.”
Phoebe pulled the door open; the cowbell rattled alarmingly. She pronounced judgment tartly as they stepped into the street.
“How very peculiar of you both.”
After a night and a morning of waiting for some sign of intention from the silent ship in Sealey Head harbor, the townspeople discussed the matter and decided to send a boat out to visit the ship. Mr. Blair would go, of course; he had traveled farther than anyone, and might recognize at least the origins of the mystery. Sir Magnus Sproule, who needed to take his mind out of his dying fields, and who was handy with a sword if the occasion warranted, volunteered. Mr. Cauley and Lord Aislinn, along with several other merchants, would be among the party onshore to welcome the visitors. Another party would be hidden away in Mr. Blair’s warehouse, watching for any signs of violence. These were hardy fishermen and field-workers, whose weapons of choice were the gaff, the shovel, and the poacher’s pistol. Lord Aislinn carried an ornate pistol as well, but since it hadn’t been fired in a century, he was persuaded to leave it unloaded. Another pair of fishermen rowed the boat across the harbor, where Mr. Blair hailed the still figures watching them from the deck of the ship.
They replied quite readily; their words were oddly accented but understandable. A rope ladder was run down over the side. Mr. Blair and Sir Magnus, strong men impelled by curiosity, hauled themselves up without incident, and stood on the shining deck, blinking in wonder.
Those who surrounded them were all tall, lean, and astonishingly elegant for the rigors of a life at sea. They wore their hair long, unbound, and unencumbered by anything resembling a hat. A dark-haired man spoke first. He wore a pale blue silk coat and breeches, and what looked like a spray of pearls set in gold pinned at his throat. He was quite handsome. They all were, Mr. Blair saw with amazement; they might have been the members of the same sprawling family.
“Welcome,” he said in a pleasant, easy voice, his words colored by the music of an unknown language, “to the Chimera.”
Eleven
Judd trudged back to the inn after a pleasant but futile interview with the chandler’s cousin Hazel. She was aware of his problem with Mrs. Quinn, she had said. As was the entire town, he thought glumly. But the young woman looked quite apprehensive at the thought of cooking for such a punctilious crowd. And who could blame her? Besides, she had confided shyly. What with one thing or another, while she took care of her ailing husband and made ends meet, she hadn’t really noticed her own condition. Until now. And he wouldn’t want a cook who turned green in the mornings and got queasy looking at an egg dribbling out of its shell and lolloping into the frying pan, now, would he?
No amount of money would tempt her.
Just as well, he thought as he left her. There wouldn’t be much once the guests had been driven away because he couldn’t feed them. Even Ridley had found another place to eat, and Judd could hardly blame him for that.
Odd, though, that he’d stayed around for Mrs. Quinn’s lumpy porridge and rubbery fish, only to vanish at the prospect of Judd’s cooking. He, at least, could follow his mother’s recipes. Judd scratched his brow bemusedly, wondering. More likely it had been the tumult he’d fled. Mr. Quinn and Judd pounding on the stable roof, while Mrs. Quinn and Lily shoved things around in every room, chattering non-stop as they cleaned everything in sight. What was it Ridley had gone off to do? Something about looking around Aislinn House for the bell? It sounded a great deal more peaceful than trying to study at the inn. At least until someone noticed the stranger flitting about the house.
Judd made a few more stops, at the butcher’s and the grocer’s to place orders, at the tailor’s to have himself measured for a new coat. Mrs. Quinn had practically demanded he do that, and his father, sight of Judd’s present coat unseen, had backed her. That tedious chore done, he spent a moment at the stationer’s shop, inquiring of Osric Trent if he had seen anything of Mr. Dow.
“No, I haven’t,” the bookseller said. “Not since you were here with him last. When you see him, tell him I found a couple of books on local history that might interest him.”
“I will,” Judd said, wondering if Ridley had finally fallen over a cliff.
At the inn, he took a quick look at the Quinns’ handiwork before he started supper. The taproom was amazingly burnished; tabletops, bottles, copper taps, even the windows gleamed. There were a few startling touches: mugs of wildflowers on every table, some exceedingly lacy curtains framing pristine views of the sea and the flowing green slope of the headlands that had been nearly invisible, what with layers of soot and salt air, for years. Decades. In fact, Judd realized, since before he was born. He felt the fierce tidal flow of worry in his heart begin to turn. The floors, both oak plank and flagstone, looked freshly scrubbed; he marveled at them as he walked down the hallway to see his father. The candles had arrived before him; the glowing brass sconces along the walls each held a fresh wax taper. With, for some reason, a ribbon tied around it. He blinked, and refrained from glancing into the sitting room, guessing that, in their zeal, Mrs. Quinn and Lily had swagged and beribboned the entire room.