“Which was—what?”
“Like a maze. A puzzle. Not,” he added, scratching his head, “the simple echo of a bell on a foundering ship.”
“A mystery in Sealey Head?” his father asked incredulously. “Where does he think he is?”
“I don’t know,” Judd said, flipping the page avidly. “Let’s find out. Ah—New chapter. ‘In Which He—’ ” His voice stopped; he sat still, staring at the page.
“You’ve gone off without me,” Dugold commented. “I may not care for the book, but I like the sound of your voice.”
“ ‘In Which He Finds His Way to Aislinn House.’ ” He raised his eyes, stared at his father. “That’s what it says.”
“So?”
“So. That’s why—that’s why Ridley Dow went there.”
“To Aislinn House.”
“Looking for the bell ...”
Dugold closed his eyes, screwed them up tightly, and shook his head as though to get rid of extraneous notions, empty words, paradoxes. He opened his eyes again, reached for his beer. “You lost me, boy. Where is that Ridley, anyway?”
“I don’t know,” Judd breathed, turning pages again. “Let’s see if we can find him.”
But the adroit and knowledgeable Mr. Moore grew strangely vague once he had entered Aislinn House. Odd details—a flock of crows, a broom closet—drew his notice. The bell was scarcely mentioned. A beautiful woman named Hydria, with a long and mysterious past, took up most of the pages. She sounded, Judd thought, like someone out of a very old ballad, the queen of a rich and magical realm accessible easily to anyone with a little imagination. Dugold began to snore in the middle of the descriptions. Judd read on, searching in vain between the lines for Ridley Dow, until the sound of his own bell, and the thump of boots on the floorboards, drew him back to the taproom and his thirsty guests.
They were growing bored, he understood from their comments as they drank his ale and brandy. Bored with the imposed quiet, the desultory afternoons in Aislinn House, where they waited for Lady Eglantyne to die, bored with the quaint fishing town, the little tedious boats coming and going, the rides along the beach or in the wood where one never met anyone, not anyone one knew, or cared to, at any rate. Their noisy card games began earlier and earlier; they gambled and drank through the evening, joined by others staying at Aislinn House who were tired of the sedate evenings there. The taproom, full of brightly dressed people calling for food and drink as they shuffled their cards, certainly had a prosperous air about it. Judd, who missed his own long evenings with his father and his books and the sound of the sea, found himself perversely wishing, even as gold clinked into the till, that they would all go away.
One afternoon, when they had begun to drift in especially early for their games, the doorbell jangled yet again, and Mr. Quinn came to join him behind the taproom bar.
“You have visitors,” he told Judd. “I showed them into the sitting room. I’ll take over here.”
Judd, cheering up at the thought of Gwyneth, was only mildly disappointed to find a Sproule with her instead of her sister Pandora. At least there was only one of them.
Gwyneth was gazing with astonishment at the bedecked little room, the only place in the inn that the guests avoided.
“It looks like a ball gown,” she said to Judd. “All lace and bows. Even the mantelpiece is swagged with silk.”
“I didn’t do it,” Judd assured her.
“Oh, come, Mr. Cauley. You’re among friends. You can confess. ”
Daria picked up a conch shell trailing a pink ribbon from one of its spikes. “I think it’s sweet. Shells are quite naked, fresh out of the sea, aren’t they.” A shout, followed by a wave of laughter, rolled out of the taproom. “Gracious, Mr. Cauley, whatever is going on in there?”
“Miss Beryl’s guests are playing cards.”
“Really?” Gwyneth looked out the sitting room door, and encountered the closed taproom door, with its narrow window of crackled glass. “Can we peek in?”
“Whatever for?” Daria demanded.
“Are they playing with dice? Are they betting?”
Judd smiled at her. “A dozen men on their way to being drunk are busy trading their considerable wealth back and forth over a handful of painted paper cards.” He crossed the hall, opened the door a little, and she applied her eye to the scene.
She stepped back finally, looking oddly contented. “I thought as much. But I wasn’t certain.”
“My dear Miss Blair, what kind of tale are you writing?”
“The kind that tells you what it is as it goes along. Thank you, Mr. Cauley, that was extremely helpful.”
“Would you like to go in and try a hand?”
“Don’t tempt me. I don’t want the experience, only the details.” She hesitated, her smile fading a little. “No Mr. Dow in there.”
“No.”
“How very odd.”
“Yes.”
She lowered her voice almost to a whisper. “Daria talked almost of nothing else as we rode up here. I think she’s in love.”
“I am sorry,” Judd said sincerely, as they went back into the sitting room, where the beribboned Daria, upon the sofa with bows pinned all over it, seemed to be merging with her background. “I do wish very much that I had some inkling of where Mr. Dow has gone. But I haven’t heard a word.” At least, he thought but did not say, nobody has found the body washed ashore.
“Oh,” Daria sighed, melting a little more into the sofa as she slumped. “I was so hoping ... Well.” She straightened determinedly and opened the reticule she carried. She took out an envelope, handed it to him. “We rode up here to invite you to a party at Sproule Manor in honor of Miranda Beryl. Music, dancing, supper. Please come. All of Miss Beryl’s guests and half of Sealey Head will be there. And,” she added wistfully, “I very much hope Mr. Dow as well.”
Judd looked at Gwyneth. “Will you be there?”
“Of course.”
“Then so will I.”
“Of course she’s coming,” Daria said a trifle moodily. “She’s practically family. My brother wrote her down first on his invitation list. Well, first after Miranda Beryl, of course.”
“And who was first on your list?” Gwyneth teased. Daria blushed a little and got to her feet restively.
“Tea?” Judd offered, but nothing, he saw, would have kept Miss Sproule except the prospect of Mr. Dow.
“Thank you. We have other invitations to deliver, and we promised Gwyneth’s aunt . . . My brother should be there, by then. He rode to Aislinn House to give the invitation to Miss Beryl. I hope,” she added to Gwyneth, her eyes widening, “she does not keep him. He seems a bit distracted these days, with the party.”
“Indeed,” Gwyneth murmured.
“Oh, my dear,” Daria said quickly, her hand closing solicitously upon Gwyneth’s elbow. “You mustn’t take it seriously.”
Gwyneth drew breath, held it for a moment; Judd watched her, brows crooked, wondering. She loosed it finally. “Yes,” she said decidedly. “I think I must.”
“But it’s not as if—”
“Your brother seems infatuated with Miss Beryl, and I for one could not be happier.”
Daria blinked at her. “But—he—she couldn’t—”
“How do we really know what another’s heart will do? Until they do it? I think it’s a lovely idea.”
“But—Well, of course it is, but—”
“And as you say, he does regard me as part of the family. A dear sister. I’m quite content with that. Mr. Cauley, we will see you soon, then, at Sproule Manor.”
“But, Gwyneth,” Daria protested, following her out the door. She glanced pleadingly at Judd as she passed him. “If you hear anything at all of Mr. Dow—”
“I’ll send word, I promise. Thank you for the invitation. I look forward to it.”