“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.”
She nodded glumly, cast an appalled glance at the taproom door as laughter exploded out of it, then a more grateful one at the innkeeper as he escorted her out the front door.
The sun set, but if the bell rang, Judd didn’t hear it over the ringing of the inn bell, as more and more of Miranda Beryl’s guests left the dreary silence of Aislinn House for the boisterous, convivial company in the taproom. Judd left Mr. Quinn behind the bar and helped Mr. Pilchard, who was alone in the kitchen by then. He took orders from the guests, for whom drinking and cards were a hungry business, conveyed them to the cook, and brought the dishes up from the kitchen. Finally, around midnight, he began snuffing out candles. Miranda Beryl’s guests rattled away in their carriages. His own finished their hands, gave final orders to Mr. Quinn and Mr. Pilchard, and took their cards and trays upstairs. Judd helped Mr. Quinn clean the taproom, then stuck his head back down the kitchen stairs. All was dark and quiet there.
On impulse, he said to Mr. Quinn, who had locked the taproom and was checking the doors, “I’m going for a breath of air. Don’t lock me out.”
He hadn’t seen the waves under his nose for days, it seemed. Months. The breath of air was more a blast of wind, misty with spindrift, for the tide was frothing up the side of the cliff, trying to shake the inn into the sea. A little coracle moon drifted serenely among the briskly scudding cloud. Dimly, within the wind, Judd could hear the laughter of the gamers, or the memory of it, anyway, for most of the windows were dark. A couple, his own among them—Mrs. Quinn must have kindly lit his lamp—cast little pools of light into the dark.
Within one of them, he saw someone standing.
He started, then stepped eagerly forward, calling softly, “Ridley?”
“No,” Mr. Pilchard said, his bulky figure turning. “Only your cook, Mr. Cauley. I came out to hear the tide. Haven’t stopped listening for it yet.”
Judd joined him at the cliff ’s edge. “I know,” he sighed. “I’ve missed it, too. It’s been years since we’ve had such a full house. I forgot how much work it is.”
Mr. Pilchard chuckled. “You’re doing well.” He held something, Judd saw; a bowl that smelled vaguely like supper.
“Thanks to you. I could have gone back to my books if Mrs. Quinn were still in the kitchen.”
“Ah, it’s almost too easy, cooking in all that room, on a floor that doesn’t throw you off your feet and toss all the plate out of your cupboards.”
They watched a top-heavy wave welter drunkenly up to the cliff, lose its balance, and careen into it, sending spray up over the top. Judd wiped his face and nodded at the bowl in the cook’s hands.
“Your supper? At long last?”
The cook glanced down at it. “No. Only scraps. I got into the habit of feeding them to the birds. Hungry buggers, always. Any news of your Mr. Ridley?”
“Mr. Dow. No.”
“Ah. Where was he off to when you last saw him?”
“Aislinn House, he said. He took his horse. Maybe he was called back to Landringham and didn’t have time to send us word.”
“Aislinn House. That’s the great house up the hill where all the extra gamers are coming from. Maybe he’s still there.”
Judd turned, saw the faint gleam in the distance, among trees tossed in the wind like kelp, of windows still alight in the house. “Maybe,” he said slowly. “He did disappear around the time Miss Beryl arrived. I believe he knows her.”
“There you are, then.”
“Maybe . . .” Judd said again, doubtfully. “But I think he wanted to go there before she came.”
“Well. Then she came, and he changed his mind. Such happens.”
“It does, indeed, Mr. Pilchard. No mystery, then?”
“From where I can see, no mystery at all. But then, I’m no expert at these things, Mr. Cauley,” he added apologetically. “Not as though I know what I’m talking about, when I’m not talking about food. But I’d say if that’s all it is, no use worrying or going looking for him. He’ll wander back when he’s ready.”
“You’re probably right. Well. I think I’ll go upstairs and read his books. Coming in?”
“Not just yet,” Mr. Pilchard said. “I’m still waiting for the birds. Blustery night. Takes them a while to catch the scent. I’ve left the kitchen door unlocked; I’ll go in that way.”
“Good night.”
He left Hieronymous Pilchard to feed the gulls and retired to his bed with the arcane mystery of the life of Nemos Moore.
Sixteen
Emma stood beside the kitchen stove with Mrs. Haw, watching the egg poaching in its pan for Lady Eglantyne’s breakfast. Everything else was on the silver tray: the teapot and cup, the sugared strawberries, the buttered toast triangles kept warm under napkins, the morsel of porridge in its pretty bowl, the pink rose in the bud vase. At the other end of the long table from the tray, three stern, silent girls chopped great piles of vegetables for Mrs. Haw to work into wonders and marvels for the evening meals of close to a couple dozen guests.
“They’re good workers,” Mrs. Haw murmured to Emma, her voice muted by the brisk thump of blades on the boards. “But they keep themselves to themselves. They’re civil enough, yet they make a body feel even our cucumbers aren’t what they’re used to, let alone our scallions and rosemary. And as far as our cabbages go—well, poor cousins they are indeed to the queen of the crop, the Landringham cabbage. Mr. Fitch stays in his pantry when they’re here; I hardly see anyone to talk to.”
The bright yolk grew filmy, like a dreaming eye. Mrs. Haw spooned the egg from the water, slid it into a bowl, and covered it. She added the dish to the tray; Emma picked it up.
“Let me know how she’s doing,” Mrs. Haw pleaded. “Nobody tells me anything anymore.”
“I will,” Emma promised, knowing that the tray itself would tell Mrs. Haw as much as anyone that Lady E was still alive and chewing. Though how or why, Emma had no idea. What kept that delicate, aged, weary body alive in such a house? she wondered as she trudged upstairs. Nobody came to see her but her grandniece, once every morning, just to check if she was still alive. Everyone sat around in the afternoons, beautifully dressed and bored, waiting languidly for her to die.
Why bother? Why didn’t they all just go back to Landringham, where they could party from one end of the night to the other? Aislinn House was hardly a prize to be taken when one old lady finally drew her last. It was a moldering, dusty pile in an obscure fishing town. Probably the best Miranda Beryl could do with it would be to sell it outright to the Sproules, who would consider it another giddy step toward the lofty respectability to which they aspired.
Except, she remembered, for the secrets within its walls.
She balanced the tray carefully, opened the door to Lady Eglantyne’s chamber, holding her breath and hoping against hope for a glimpse into that rich, powerful, extremely peculiar world. She only saw, as usual, Lady Eglantyne sitting up precariously, her head bobbling in her cap, her eyes watching Emma as though she were part of a dream and only remotely familiar: she might as well have been a flowerpot or a pillow crossing the room. Miranda Beryl sat in a chair beside the bed facing her great-aunt; Sophie sat anxiously at the window, her own breakfast tray, which one of the aloof creatures in the kitchen had brought up earlier, a clutter of crusts and yolk stains on the window seat.
At least Sophie recognized Emma, gave her a smile, looking grateful for the sight of a friendly face.
“Thank you, Emma,” Miss Beryl said, rising as Emma laid the tray on the bed next to Lady Eglantyne. She left the feeding of her great-aunt to Sophie, who took her place at the bedside with relief. Usually, Miss Beryl waited in the room until Dr. Grantham came. That morning, she turned and followed Emma out.
“I am to go riding with Raven Sproule,” she said so abruptly that Emma glanced behind her to see who else was in the hallway. It was empty. Behind the closed doors of the bedrooms, very little seemed to be stirring. She turned back, found herself the focus of the intent green eyes. “After Dr. Grantham comes, of course. Mr. Sproule wants to take me to Sealey Head so that I can see the famous view that my guests there are enjoying; we will ride down to the beach from there.”
“Yes, miss,” Emma ventured, wondering.
“You were born here, weren’t you? You know everyone in Sealey Head.”
“Yes, miss.”
“So you would recognize a stranger come to town.”
Emma nodded. “Everybody would, miss. Especially the way they dress.”
“But perhaps this one might not be so gaudy.”
“Mr. Ridley Dow, miss?”
The eyes gazing at her withheld expression, but Emma felt a heartbeat’s worth of pause in the air, a blink that was suppressed. “You know him?”
“He was the stranger who came to town first.”
“Ah. No. Not Mr. Dow. Someone not so noticeable. That I might not recognize as not belonging here, but you would.”
Emma thought. “Oh,” she remembered suddenly. “You mean like Judd Cauley’s new cook.”
“Judd Cauley?”
“The innkeeper on Sealey Head, where your other friends stay. He was desperate for a cook. His other one, Mrs. Quinn, would have driven all the guests away, she was that bad. The entire town was watching to see what he could do about it. Everyone likes Judd Cauley; he’s just had some bad luck, until Mr. Dow came. That was the first of his changing luck. And then Mr. Pilchard came a few days ago, just in time for your guests.”
This time she did blink. “Pilchard?”
“I think that’s the right fish. Mrs. Haw told me about him, after she went to town to give her orders and pick up gossip.”
“H’m,” Miss Beryl said. Her gaze left Emma, refocused on something nebulous just beyond her. “It hardly seems likely,” she added after a moment. Neither comment seemed to require a reply. “Anyone else?”
“No one that springs to mind, miss.” She hesitated, asked before she lost courage, “Is Mr. Dow one of your party?”
The green eyes came back to her, wide and chilly. “Ridley Dow? I believe we occasionally meet. But no. Why, Emma?”
Because he’s lost in a mysterious world behind a door within this house, Emma thought, in case he’s a friend of yours. But nothing in Miranda Beryl’s expression suggested anything of the sort. Her own eyes dropped; her voice dwindled. “If there’s nothing else, miss, I’ll take Sophie’s tray down.”
Dr. Grantham was in the room when Emma returned later for Lady Eglantyne’s tray. Slipping unobtrusively to the bedside, she counted the number of bites taken: missing points on two toast triangles, the highest on the tiny mound of strawberries gone, a bleed of yellow into the egg white. Lady Eglantyne was sleeping now, her breath so light the coverlet scarcely moved. Emma picked up the tray, heard Dr. Grantham speak softly, echoing her own thoughts.
“I have no idea why she clings ... Were you ever very close? Is she staying alive for you?”
Miranda Beryl, gazing inscrutably down at Lady Eglantyne, looked as though she might emanate mist like an ice block at the question. She didn’t bother answering it, only said, “There’s nothing else you can try?”
“Against time? No. I haven’t a cure for that in my bag. She seems in no pain; that is the best we can hope for. Of course, if you wish, you could ask one of your Landringham physicians to visit her. I’ve done all that I can.”