The Bell at Sealey Head

Seventeen

That evening Gwyneth read to the twins:

So charming were the unexpected visitors to Sealey Head that in no time at all both Mr. Blair and Sir Magnus Sproule were possessed of the same idea: they—at least the highest-ranking among the strangers—should come ashore and be given a sumptuous dinner. Exactly where the necessary succulent viands were to be found in the desperate and impoverished town, neither of them knew. Somebody probably had a pig left. Or a sheep. Surely Lord Aislinn hadn’t drunk up his entire wine cellar. There must be cabbages around somewhere. And leeks. And—

But, alas, the handsome man they assumed was captain, since he did most of the speaking, told them apologetically. For various reasons, neither captain nor crew could leave the ship. The reasons were vague: things were hinted at, allusions were made to the nature of the cargo, to a distinguished unnamed presence, to the contract with the ship’s owner, a formality surely, but they had given their word of honor not to leave the ship until it was safely in port. You understand, being men of the world.

Indeed the two men did. They glanced down at the boards beneath their feet and understood that either a woman of unearthly beauty, or the heir to a great realm, or a hold crammed with gold and jewels lay just beyond eyesight.

But, the captain continued, there was no reason why he should not extend his own invitation to the dignitaries of Sealey Head. They should come to supper on the ship the very next night, and they would be given such a repast as they would remember for the rest of their lives. And they should, of course, bring their wives.

Mr. Blair and Sir Magnus Sproule agreed with alacrity. Such was the miserable fare in town the past months—thin fish soups, ancient bread and cheese, withered vegetables, hard, sour fruits—that they were already dreaming, as they clambered down the side into their boat, of rich creamy sauces and hot, bloody, peppered meat.

They hastened to shore, spread a general, appeasing word of their visitors’ peaceful intentions. And then they conferred in private with Mr. Cauley and Lord Aislinn.

The four of them were pretty much the extent of the dignitaries in town, besides the owner of the stationer’s shop, a most intelligent man who might even discern where the strangers came from. But he grew dizzy and was prone to fainting just putting one foot into a rocking rowboat; there would be no persuading him. The four of them it would be. Wives had been mentioned, it was reluctantly remembered. Wives should be brought, lest the omission be considered rude or suspicious. Lord Aislinn’s wife, having come to the conclusion that anything must be an improvement over life with her selfish, profligate, untrustworthy, misery-making libertine of a husband, had departed this vale some years earlier. He would bring his daughter, Eloise, he decided immediately, his eye brightening at the thought of a wealthy, charming husband who might be away at sea most of the time, leaving his possessions under the care of his father-in-law.

That determined, they hastened home with the news, causing four pairs of eyes to gleam with anticipation for the first time in months. And of the four, the eyes of Lord Aislinn’s daughter shone the brightest.

Gwyneth stopped. The twins, Pandora on the sofa, Crispin prone on the carpet with his chin on his hands, looked at her expectantly.

“Go on,” Crispin urged. “Tell what they ate at the feast.”

“She doesn’t find a husband, does she?” Pandora asked uncertainly. “Gwyneth, does this have a happy ending?”

“I don’t know. Which way would make it happy? That she does find a husband, or she doesn’t?”

“Well, she can’t marry one of them, can she? They’re wicked!”

“So,” Toland Blair murmured over a palm frond, “I’m beginning to think, is my eldest daughter. What have you in mind for those poor unfortunates?”

Gwyneth considered her plot and reddened slightly. “Nothing good, I’m afraid.”

“I think it’s a marvelous story,” Crispin said staunchly, sitting up. “Only I wish you didn’t write it in fits and starts. You should just finish it.”

“Well, I would if my writing life didn’t go in fits and starts.”

“Do you know what’s going to happen?” Pandora demanded.

“Yes. I think I finally have all of the pieces.”

“Speaking of invitations,” Mr. Blair said, rummaging around his desk. “Your aunt Phoebe and I have both been invited to the Sproules’—ah—what did they call it? ‘Evening affair, with supper and dancing, to meet Miss Beryl,’ ” he read from the card. “Phoebe is very pleased. Though it’s quite soon: they give us only two days to choose our dancing slippers.”

“I believe they were concerned about Lady Eglantine,” Gwyneth answered as vaguely as possible. Her father slewed an ironical eye at her.

“Ah.”

“May we go?” the twins demanded together. Crispin’s voice, sliding perilously into the upper registers, sounded so much like his sister’s that he blushed scarlet; his mouth clamped shut.

“Of course not.”

“But I am so rivetingly curious about Miranda Beryl,” Pandora exclaimed. “Please, Papa!”

“You weren’t invited,” he said pitilessly. “We’ll tell you all about it. And hope that it doesn’t end in the kind of disaster your sister’s story portends.” He contemplated Gwyneth in silence a moment, smoothing his mustache. “It can’t have been your extremely conscientious governess. Or that bland educational establishment in Landringham. I can’t imagine what it was that gave your mind such an aberrant turn.”

“Luck, I suppose,” Gwyneth said cheerfully, and went to put her papers away.

At tea the next afternoon, Aunt Phoebe could talk of nothing else—of shoes and silks and Gwyneth’s hair and the generosity of the Sproules—until the twins moaned in torment, and Gwyneth felt like joining them. Fortunately, Daria arrived with news that wrested everyone’s attention from the party.

“Mr. Dow is back at the inn!” she exclaimed almost as she entered. Her stricken eyes, very round and for once unblinking, kept them from instant, general rejoicing; held in abeyance, they all waited for the bad news. “He has had an accident! But—” She held up her hand, cutting short the immediate agitation. “He will be fine, I heard. He will attend our party.”

She waited; so did everyone else, trying to anticipate the next emotional hurdle.

Finally, Aunt Phoebe said, rather bewilderedly, “That’s wonderful news—I mean about—Gracious, child, what kind of an accident?”

“I’m not really—Nobody quite—” She turned to Gwyneth; her face was bright now, with relief and delight. “I am so happy!” she breathed, clutching Gwyneth’s hands, which Gwyneth had fortunately just emptied of her last bite of cherry tart. “I can’t wait to see him.”

“I can’t, either,” Pandora sighed. “Why didn’t he come tonight? He must miss us.”

“I’m sure he does,” Daria said quickly. “He is resting this evening. That’s what Judd Cauley told me, when I saw him at the stationer’s shop. Mr. Trent was delighted with the news, of course.”

“As we are, as well,” Aunt Phoebe said, pouring Daria tea. She glanced at the door, missing something else.

Under the table, Dulcie asked through a mouthful of crumbs, “Tantie, where’s the bird?”

“Raven!” Aunt Phoebe exclaimed. “Yes. Where is your brother this evening? We miss him as well.”

Crispin opened his mouth, closed it again under Gwyneth’s narrow-eyed stare. Daria took a precipitous gulp of hot tea, which rendered her speechless a moment.

“He—ah—rode over to Aislinn House. To ask after Lady Eglantyne, of course, make sure her condition has not worsened.”

“Of course,” Aunt Phoebe said smoothly. “Very proper.”

“Yes.”

They both gave little, darting glances at Gwyneth, who, unable to work up a sufficiently mortified expression, reached for a cherry tart instead and handed it to Dulcie.

“Oh, don’t encourage her!” Aunt Phoebe cried, instantly diverted. “Dulcie, come out from under that table before you turn into an uncivilized hooligan.”

“Are there civilized hooligans?” Pandora asked sweetly.

“Yes,” Gwyneth said. “Both of you twins. Go away, as I know you’re longing to do, and let us talk.”

“Raven promised he would stop here on his way home,” Daria told Gwyneth earnestly and unconvincingly. “Oh, Gwyneth, all Miss Beryl’s guests are coming, and most of those from Sealey Head whom we invited. Sproule Manor will scarcely hold such a crush! We will be forced to dance on the cliff.”

“Did you find some musicians of delicacy and refinement?”

“No,” Daria said complacently, choosing the plumpest macaroon. “But they’re young and energetic, and they’ll play the moon down. Now, tell me what you will wear.”

Gwyneth wore thin pale green muslin over a shift of white silk so embroidered and beribboned it reminded her of the sitting room in Judd’s inn. Her father brought out the carriage for the half-mile journey to Sproule Manor. The moon, while far from full, was at least congenial, smiling upon them as they rattled up the coast road. Half of Sealey Head seemed to be walking along it, everyone dressed in their best, waving cheerfully at the intermittent carriages. Gwyneth heard the vigorous, spirited fiddling even over the tide before they reached the manor.

Every window blazed; lamplight splashed upon the cliff, revealing the dancers that Daria had envisioned. Along one side of the grassy knoll, great fires blazed; a pig, a couple of lambs, a side of beef turned nakedly on their spits above the flames. The smells of brine, smoke, and meat mingled enticingly in the wind. Gwyneth wondered what Miranda Beryl’s elegant guests would think of that eyeful of country ways.

Inside, the house smelled of a hundred beeswax candles in chandeliers, candelabras, sconces, and sticks. Fires raged in the hearths at either end of the hall, for the doors were wide open to the wind, cooling the crowd within. Boots pounded among dancing slippers on the oak floors; the city folk, glasses of wine or punch in their hands, watched from the sidelines. Their gowns, Gwyneth noted with envy, were of simple, subtle lines, whose fabrics dazzled the eye with hues over which light shifted like water, changing teal to blue, and rose to crimson, and glinting through lovely, nameless colors along the way.

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—”

Someone took pity on him and began clapping, for everyone was chattering; even the musicians had begun to retune their instruments. The applause spread enthusiastically through the hall, cheers and caps tossed in appreciation of the feast that they could all get back to now that the ceremony was over. Raven looked gratified. Miss Beryl smiled her charming, perfunctory smile, turned her back just as Raven stepped toward her; she was drawn away from him into the dancers by Mr. Moren. Another of her friends clapped Raven on the shoulder, said something, and shrugged. He smiled again, reluctantly.

Judd came finally, laden with plates, forks, napkins.

“How clever of you to find us chairs, Miss Blair!”

“Wasn’t it? And how brave of you, Mr. Cauley, to battle the mob to forage for us.”

“That,” Judd said, “is to make you admire me so much that you might even dance with me.”

He sounded hesitant, waited for her answer before he even took a bite. Gwyneth waited to swallow hers.

“You mean,” she said shrewdly, “in front of my father and my aunt, the Sproules and the better part of Sealey Head?”

“Yes,” he said without smiling. “It would mean that much to me.”

“A declaration,” she guessed abruptly, with unladylike precision.

“Of serious intent. Yes.”

She held his eyes, seriously moved. “Judd. I can’t answer for my aunt, or the Sproules, or most of Sealey Head. But my father will most wholeheartedly think the better of me for choosing to dance with you.”

He flushed. “Really?”

“Yes. So eat your supper in peace.”

She herself was pleasantly surprised, a little later, by the sight of her aunt Phoebe and Mr. Trent taking a turn on the floor. The bookseller smiled from sideburn to bushy sideburn; Phoebe, her bun slipping down her neck, laughed unexpectedly at something he said. Gwyneth glanced around, wondering if her father had been tempted by anyone. But no: there he was beside the fire, discussing the affairs of Sealey Head, no doubt, with the ruddy and brawny Sir Weldon Sproule and other local businessmen.

There was a scrape and a flounce beside her as Daria pulled an empty chair up next to her and sat down.

“Mr. Dow left,” she announced dolefully. “He was unfit for dancing, he told me, and not much better for company. He disappeared into the crowd to pay his respects to Miss Beryl, then he left without saying good night to me. Exactly what kind of an accident did he have, Mr. Cauley? Did somebody shoot him or something?”

“I’m not certain of the details,” Judd answered. “But he seems a bit feverish, I think. That’s probably why he forgot.”

“But I know the very remedy for that!” she exclaimed. “It’s a concoction of my grandmother’s. I’ll ride to the inn tomorrow, bring some to him.”

“I’m sure he would be—” Judd began, and gave up, dropping his fork without finishing the thought. “Have you eaten, Miss Sproule? May I get you a plate?”

“That would be so kind of you, Mr. Cauley,” she said glumly. “My feet got so tired from holding the wall up with Mr. Dow.” She waited while Judd, exchanging a wry glance with Gwyneth, put his plate down and took himself out of earshot. Then she said softly to Gwyneth, “You shouldn’t encourage him, you know. He has such feelings for you, poor man.”

“There you are, Daria!” boomed a voice that made them both start. Lady Amaryllis Sproule, resplendent in blue taffeta with a beehive of lace the color of old ivory over it, put her hands to her ample waist and tapped her slipper at her daughter. “Why on earth are you sitting when there are hosts of young men to dance with? Everyone has been asking where you are.” She extended a hand the size of an ox hoof and hauled Daria to her feet.

“Mother, Mr. Cauley is fetching my supper!”

“Supper! Who needs supper on such a night, with all this music and these eager lads? Go on, girl, get out there.”

“But I can’t leave Gwyneth—”

“From what I see, Gwyneth is doing just fine as she is.” She flashed a pair of deep dimples at Gwyneth and hurried away to boom cordially at a neighbor.

“Whatever did she mean by that?” Daria asked Gwyneth puzzledly. “I haven’t seen you dance at all.” Gwyneth shrugged wordlessly; Daria heaved a sigh. “How I wish Mr. Dow had not left. Oh, well. I suppose I must cajole somebody into dancing with me.”

She adjusted the expression on her face and went off to flirt. Gwyneth, left alone, studied her plate hungrily, chose a forkful of cold potatoes dressed in dill and oil and vinegar, and looked up, inelegantly chewing, to find Miss Beryl’s shimmering skirt swirling in front of her. She and Mr. Moren were attempting one of the local dances, more gracefully, Gwyneth thought, than many of those born to it, yet not, apparently, without mishap.

“Oh, Mr. Moren, was that your foot?”

“I believe it was. No matter, my dear. Another dance, and I think we’ll have it.”

“Fortunately,” Miss Beryl commented, looking down at her feet, “we have only two; what would we do with a third to keep track of? I promised the next dance to Raven Sproule. Since he is feeding us those great roast creatures, I think it only polite to oblige him.”

“Let him wait,” Mr. Moren suggested without pity.

“No. I think they take such things seriously here. They aren’t accustomed to our casual rudeness.”

“You are letting me wait.”

Miss Beryl was silent; Gwyneth swallowed her bite quickly and sat suspended, willing herself invisible.

“You know I take forever to make decisions,” Miranda Beryl said finally, lightly. “And I always forget immediately what it was I had made up my mind to do. Don’t let’s talk about it. Words get in the way of my feet.”

“I won’t take no for an answer,” Mr. Moren warned her, a smile on his sallow, clever face. His eye fell on Gwyneth; he nodded to her amiably, the smile deepening in his eyes as though he had heard her listening. Miss Beryl stepped on his foot again, and his expression changed abruptly.

“I am so sorry—”

“Are you?”

“That must have been my third foot, clumsier than the others.” The music spun a merry flourish and stopped; Miss Beryl drew back. “Rest a little, here with Miss Blair, while I practice with Raven Sproule.”

Mr. Moren sat rather heavily down next to Gwyneth, to her discomfort. “Miss Blair, I hope you don’t mind if I keep you company until your friends return.”

“Nothing could please me more,” she said, and he looked at her with interest.

“How strange words are, don’t you think? They can mean their exact opposite so easily. Don’t you find that fascinating?”

“Yes, I do,” she answered with considerably more feeling, and he nodded. “These country dances can be a bit rough,” she added. “I hope you aren’t badly injured.”

“To say that I am would be to imply blame,” he answered smoothly, “and that would be ungallant. Let us say that the injury done is not to my foot, but to my pride, which is worth far less. I think both will heal nicely before the evening ends. Was that Mr. Dow on the edges of the gathering earlier? I noticed you talking. About newts or mushrooms, no doubt?”

“He is rather bookish,” she agreed.

“We haven’t seen him lately. Off wandering the coastal thickets? The cliffs of Sealey Head? He, at least, was wise enough not to try to dance.”

“He has not been well, I believe.”

“Ah. That must be why he didn’t brave the crush to pay court to the guest of honor.”

“Didn’t he?” she said, surprised. “Someone said he had. I must have misunderstood.”

“Miss Beryl remarked upon it,” he said carelessly. “She likes her courtiers to be attentive even though she tires of us easily.”

“Mr. Dow had an accident recently,” Gwyneth said carefully. “Perhaps he simply was not feeling strong enough to get through such an energetic mob.”

“No doubt.” He strained with a sudden energy of his own against his chair, causing the wood to protest. “No doubt. A delicate soul, I’ve often thought. Unassuming and rather more interested in trifles than in life. Even I can be wrong occasionally. Now,” he added, as the music swooped to an exuberant finish, “I believe I’m cured. And there is your friend Mr. Cauley, making his way toward you. I must find Miss Beryl and persuade her that I am completely uninjured and ready to try again.”

He left, rather precipitously, to Gwyneth’s relief. She turned in her chair to look for Judd, and her aunt dropped down immediately beside her.

“Gracious,” Phoebe breathed, patting her rosy face with a bit of lace handkerchief. “I haven’t danced like this since I was your age.” She peered at Gwyneth’s plate. “Is that poached salmon?”

“Yes. Would you like a bite?”

Phoebe leaned back, fanned her face. “Mr. Trent is bringing me a plate. Why aren’t you dancing? All these handsome men from Landringham—you must have met a few of them while you were there.”

“Not a one,” Gwyneth said, biting into braised celery. “They’re far too grand for me. I prefer the bookish types.”

“Like Mr. Dow, you mean.” She patted her niece’s shoulder. “I saw you talking to him. He left quite early, didn’t he?”

“Not feeling well, I think.”

“Yes, I heard . . . Ah, here’s Mr. Cauley. He’ll do for a dance with you instead, won’t you, Mr. Cauley?”

Judd put Daria’s plate promptly on a chair, stepped in front of Gwyneth. “Whatever you say, Miss Blair.” He held out his arm. “Gwyneth?”

“Nothing would make me happier, Judd,” she answered, and left her aunt staring at them, surrounded by a little island of abandoned chairs and plates.

Later, riding home in the carriage with the moon in her window slipping gently into the waves, Gwyneth felt a sudden qualm about the fates she had devised for her characters, as she considered her own contentment. But this was life, she thought remorselessly. That was story. Each had its own demands, and she had made her choices.

No choice but to follow the story into their watery graves.