‘Very well, my love, and now it is time to go,’ said Mrs. Ellerby with ill-concealed impatience. Isabel allowed herself to be shepherded into the carriage, casting only a single look back at the strange cat. She was not concerned about its immediate future, for she had left word with Cook to watch for it, and ensure that it was fed again should it require further sustenance. But she was left with the strange impression that the creature had spoken to her as she had put down the food. She had heard, she thought, an irritable “thank you” as she had stooped down. But that could not be, for her Mama must surely have heard it as well, and apparently she had not.
But as she climbed into the carriage and the door was shut upon her, the creature abruptly darted up, and cast after the departing vehicle a look which Isabel could only interpret as dismay. This smote her a little, but she heartened herself with the reflection that the creature had come to think of her as a source of food, and now feared that the food as well as Isabel had gone away. Soon enough Cook, or one of the kitchen maids, would appear with more, and the creature would be reassured.
Isabel sat back as the carriage began upon the six-hour journey to York, and tried to put the matter from her mind. It would not do to trouble herself any more about the little animal, though it had borne a woeful look about it. After all, she had ensured that it would be provided for.
Arriving at her aunt’s handsome townhouse at four o’clock, Isabel was grateful to alight from the sweltering carriage. The day had been hotter than she liked, and she was sorely in need of refreshment and rest.
Her aunt, a sensible woman some few years older than her sister Mrs. Ellerby, had anticipated such a need and her arrangements were everything that Isabel could wish. Isabel was directly conducted upstairs to her bedchamber, where a basin of water and a maid both awaited her requirements. When Isabel descended the stairs again some little time later she felt considerably refreshed, and the tea and tarts which Mrs. Grey immediately ordered laid out in the parlour were of significant benefit in reviving her further. She was able to speak to Mrs. Grey with composure, and the first hour soon passed away as Isabel conveyed all of her family’s news.
‘Now, my dear,’ said Mrs. Grey, as Isabel finished recounting Charles’s wedding plans. ‘I understand something of a most unusual character has lately occurred.’
Isabel’s heart sank a little. She had hoped that news of the Alford Assembly could not have travelled so far, considering the neighbourhood’s reluctance to speak of it. Her mother had not precisely forbidden her to mention the subject, for that would have necessitated her raising it herself in the first place. But it had been tacitly forbidden, and Isabel felt some discomfort under her aunt’s scrutiny.
For Mrs. Grey was displaying far more interest in this topic than she had in every other particle of the news Isabel had already shared. She was a tall, elegant woman, somewhere above forty years of age; still handsome, and well-dressed. Isabel had never known her to be anything less than impeccably groomed and attired, and she was typically serene of countenance and composed in her manner. But now she regarded Isabel with an expression of intense interest which seemed wholly at odds with her usual placid demeanour, and her eyes were oddly alight.
‘Well, aunt, I scarcely know what to tell you!’ Isabel began. ‘You must know, it is not much to be talked of…’ She allowed her words to tail off, for Mrs. Grey clearly knew no such thing. ‘How came you to hear of it, if I may enquire?’ Isabel said instead.
Mrs. Grey sat back a little, and tapped the tip of one long finger against her lips. ‘That would be telling, my dear.’
Isabel regarded her aunt in silent thought. The expression the older lady now wore was one Isabel had never before seen. It comprised a degree of interest bordering upon avidity, together with a hint of smugness and something else harder to classify – something eager, even rapacious. It was most puzzling.
‘Ayliri, were they not?’ Mrs. Grey offered, apparently tiring of her niece’s silence. ‘Ayliri! In England! But how came they to be there?’
Isabel set down her tea cup and took a calming breath. ‘I do not know,’ she said gravely. ‘No explanation for their presence has been discovered. They were not expected, of course, and how they came to be aware that such an assembly was planned, or to feel the smallest interest in attending so modest an affair, is beyond anybody’s power to account for.’
Mrs. Grey leaned forward a little. ‘My dear Isabel. I will not keep you to this topic for very long, if it troubles you, but I must ask you to tell me just one thing more.’
Isabel nodded once.
Mrs. Grey took a deep breath and let it out slowly, as though she were trying to calm some tumult of spirit. At last she said: ‘What were they like?’
Isabel blinked, a little surprised. This had not been the question she might have expected. ‘Like?’ she repeated. ‘Why, they were wild and strange, as you may imagine.’
Mrs. Grey nodded impatiently. ‘That much I do imagine, indeed. It is details I require. Humour me in this one request, my dear, if you please.’
Isabel could not resist such an entreaty. With a silent apology to her mother, she recounted everything that had occurred at the assembly, from the moment that the music had changed. She described those melodies as best she could, though words failed her in the attempt, for it was far too wild and strange to admit of easy representation in words. Her accounts of the dancers were more successful, for their curious appearances, the magnificent and beauteous oddity of their garb and the dizzying strangeness of their behaviour had lodged themselves in her memory with peculiar exactness. Mrs. Grey listened to all of these particularities with breathless eagerness, and did not interrupt by so much as a syllable while Isabel spoke.
Then she came to the piper, and that moment when he had seemed to see Isabel, and she alone, out of all the company. Her voice softened near to a whisper as she recounted this, for she had been tempted to omit the incident altogether. But the intensity of her aunt’s interest urged her on to greater confidences than she might otherwise have been inclined to offer. She could not begin to imagine the source of Mrs. Grey’s eagerness to hear of the affair, but it was evident that it mattered greatly to her. This being the case, having once begun her account, Isabel could not bring herself to leave out anything of note.
‘A piper,’ mused Mrs. Grey, when Isabel at last fell silent. She had ended with her confusion at waking up at home on the following morning, with no recollection of having travelled there. But Mrs. Grey’s thoughts seemed to be fixed upon the piper.
‘He was the leader, we must assume,’ Mrs. Grey continued. ‘He brought the dancers to the assembly. The lady with the butterflies. His consort, perhaps?’
Mrs. Grey paused, her eyebrows raised. Isabel realised this was a question, not mere musing on her aunt’s part, but she could only shake her head. ‘I do not know. I detected no symptom of particular regard for her, but I cannot say that I received more than occasional glimpses of either of them during the evening.’
Mrs. Grey was silent for some time. Isabel returned to the quiet contemplation of her tea, allowing her aunt time to indulge in her reflections. At length, Mrs. Grey opened her lips to say, in a tone of deep reverie, ‘I once knew a piper.’
Isabel set down her cup. ‘In England, you mean, aunt?’
Mrs. Grey’s only response was a considering look which swept over Isabel from her curled hair to the tips of her shoes. ‘Hmm,’ she said impenetrably, and sat back in her chair. ‘I thought we might pay a visit to the library this afternoon. You will wish for some reading, perhaps, to while away those hours we are not spending in pursuit of Mr. Thompson.’
Isabel cast a shocked look at her aunt, whose blue eyes twinkled back at her with irrepressible humour. Managing a laugh, she protested, ‘We are not in pursuit of Mr. Thompson, I hope! How lowering a thought.’
Mrs. Grey’s smile widened. ‘But of course, we are. I have the strictest instructions from your mother about it. If I do not
send you home avowedly engaged, I shall be declared the wretchedest person alive.’
‘Wretchedest?’ repeated Isabel faintly.
Mrs. Grey nodded. ‘Her word. And underlined! Twice!’
Isabel sighed. ‘Aunt—’ she began.
Mrs. Grey did not wait for her to complete her remonstrance. ‘Do you wish to marry this Mr. Thompson?’ she said, in a serious tone.
Isabel hesitated. ‘My mother and father wish it very much.’
‘That is not what I asked.’
Isabel looked at her hands. ‘I can have no objection. He is an agreeable man, not ill-looking, and it will be a suitable establishment for me.’
Mrs. Grey sighed softly. ‘How drear it all sounds.’
Isabel cast her a suspicious look. ‘Are these not the reasons why you married my uncle?’
‘Why, yes,’ said her aunt. ‘So they were.’
‘And were you not contented with your choice?’
Mrs. Grey’s gaze wandered over Isabel’s face, and she said nothing for several moments. ‘My dear niece,’ she finally said, and softly. ‘All I wish to know is what you want for yourself.’
Isabel stared, bewildered, and tried to recall when she had ever been asked such a question before. ‘I… I am fully aware of the importance of seeking a suitable establishment. My fortune is not such that I can expect to secure the necessities of life without marrying, and it will be a pleasure to me to please my family as well as myself.’
Mrs. Grey’s eyes narrowed. ‘A pretty speech, my love. But is it what you want?’
Isabel had no answer to give. Gentlewomen were not raised to think of such questions as wants; or at least, she certainly had not been. Her duty had been clearly marked out for her since her birth, and she had never imagined that she might prefer to deviate from the ascribed course of an arranged marriage, and all the happiness that a well-chosen alliance could bring. ‘Then… then you are not in favour of the match?’
‘As far as my sister is concerned, I am fully in favour of it,’ said Mrs. Grey. ‘We shall do our appointed duty, and attend all the necessary social engagements. But I shall not scruple to present you with alternatives to marriage with Mr. Thompson. I see you consider this a sacred duty, and one which you have no power to avoid. That, my love, is taking entirely the wrong view of the case.’
Isabel sat a little straighter. ‘I am not aware of any alternatives, ma’am.’
‘Because you have not been given any. And really, the wretched selfishness of your brother — I could throttle him for it, if I were not much more inclined to applaud him.’
Isabel blinked at that. ‘Charles is happy,’ she said. ‘I cannot accuse him of selfishness, in having contracted an engagement that is so clearly of benefit to himself.’
Mrs. Grey merely looked at her, and smiled.
‘An engagement to Mr. Thompson would be of considerable benefit to me!’ Isabel insisted. ‘Mama only has my happiness in view.’
‘That is a wilful misunderstanding,’ said Mrs. Grey. ‘She has a great deal more in view than your happiness, as you are well aware.’
‘Mama would not wish for me to be unhappy.’
‘No, indeed. I can acquit her of ruthlessness, but perhaps not of carelessness.’
Isabel opened her mouth, and closed it again with a short sigh. ‘This cannot be a proper way of talking, aunt! My poor Mama.’
‘Not at all dutiful, is it?’ said Mrs. Grey cheerfully. ‘I have had my fill of duty, as you will discover before many days have passed. But I shall not discomfort you further. Let us instead consider all the many delights we are to enjoy in the coming weeks! What heights of tea-drinking and small conversations! What promenades! And we shall talk over every evening engagement exhaustively, upon each succeeding morning.’
Her aunt’s sarcastic tone troubled Isabel a little, as to her mind these delights sounded reassuringly familiar. But she did not say so. Instead, she nodded her acquiescence to these plans and rose from her chair. ‘If you will excuse me, aunt—’ she began, but an interruption unluckily occurred to prevent her immediate departure.
Mrs. Grey, inattentive, had rung the bell, and a servant entered the room immediately afterwards; so promptly that Isabel could not help suspecting that the girl had been hovering outside the door. ‘Ah, Jane! Please remove the tray,’ said Mrs. Grey, and the girl complied at once.
Entering the parlour in her wake was a household brownie. To Isabel, this was no unusual sight, for it was common enough for Tilby households to house one or two of the creatures — or more than that, in some cases. It was not so common in York. Some speculated that the beings of Aylfenhame disliked the bustle of human cities, which might very well be true, though Isabel had never enquired into the matter. Perhaps Sophy would know.
What struck her more than the brownie’s appearance was the way in which the little creature reacted to Isabel’s presence. The brownie was a female, Isabel judged from the ragged dress she was wearing. Her hair was a mop of black curls, her eyes wide and dark. Those eyes were fixed upon Isabel with an arrested expression; so intent was she in her scrutiny that she stopped in the doorway, her errand forgotten.
Isabel looked away, confused. Did she present so very odd an appearance? Discreet examination assured her that there was nothing amiss with her gown, but perhaps something untoward had happened to her hair. She caught her aunt’s eye, questioning her with a silent look as to the respectability of her appearance.
Mrs. Grey merely looked intrigued. ‘What is it, Rossan?’ she said.
The brownie, Rossan, inched closer to Mrs. Grey and said to her in a hoarse whisper: ‘Is it she? Is that the one?’
Mrs. Grey’s eyes twinkled at Isabel. ‘My niece, Miss Ellerby.’
Rossan stared at Isabel. She appeared to reach no particular conclusion, for she finally turned away without comment and offered something to Mrs. Grey in her two small hands. This offering was accepted with care, and the object tucked into Mrs. Grey’s reticule. Isabel could not see what it was, but she heard Rossan say in a low voice, ‘Well fed, and fast asleep.’
Mrs. Grey nodded, and murmured her thanks. Isabel watched these proceedings in utter mystification, but her aunt did not see fit to explain. She merely rose from her chair with enviable grace and gestured Isabel out of the room. ‘You will wish to rest, I imagine? We will enjoy some cosy outing together tomorrow.’
Isabel was too well brought-up to display a vulgar curiosity where none was either expected or wanted. She left her questions unvoiced, and allowed herself to be gently shepherded back to her room. Mrs. Grey had always been among Isabel’s favourites of her relatives, but her habits and behaviours did sometimes puzzle her niece — particularly since the death of Isabel’s uncle two years before. Her aunt had settled into her solitary state with alacrity, and though nothing about her life had undergone any significant change in the intervening years, the woman herself had certainly changed. It had happened by such slow degrees that for some time Isabel had barely noticed. Reflecting upon it now, she was aware that the respectable, dutiful aunt she had known in her first youth had faded away. Standing in her place was the woman who could speak slightingly of matters which meant a great deal to her family; could disparage the social niceties around which their worlds revolved; and who could display an inordinate degree of interest in matters magical, when all those around her strove to hide or explain them away.
Isabel loved her aunt as much as ever, but the alteration puzzled her, and sometimes left her feeling lamentably out of step. She did not know what her aunt intended from this visit, but it was evident that her mother’s expectations of her sister were somewhat misplaced.
Isabel withdrew to her room, settled herself in an armchair, and took up an improving book. She intended to focus her mind upon the text, and thus to banish all the disquieting thoughts that disturbed her peace of mind. In this she was unsuccessful. Her mind turned upon its pressing questions without cease; and by the time the dinner hour a
rrived, Isabel had been thinking with little interruption upon such curiosities as Rossan the brownie, the obliging Tiltager and the Ayliri assembly for almost two hours.
She went down to dinner with the piper’s face before her, his indigo hair swept back and his violet eyes fixed upon her as he played.
Chapter Four
The next morning was so mundane in character that Isabel felt reassured. She accompanied her aunt in paying some morning calls upon various of their acquaintance, and nothing untoward occurred. Isabel did not glimpse so much as a brownie wandering the drawing-rooms of her aunt’s friends. They were universally respectable, and the conversation turned upon such well-trodden topics as the recent marriage of Mr. George Barnes to Miss Mary Blackwell; some hazy conjecture as to the progress of Bonaparte in Russia (or perhaps it had not been Russia, perhaps it was rather another place entirely; Mrs. Spender could not precisely recollect); and the newest fashions from Paris.
Isabel listened placidly, and rarely interjected any comments of her own. It was her habit to listen a great deal more than she talked, though perhaps it was not considered becoming to be so quiet.
But upon their return to Castlegate, Isabel’s tranquil mood abruptly evaporated. As she followed her aunt out of the carriage and back onto the street, shading her eyes against the glare of the noon sun, an irate voice reached her ears.
‘At very last!’ it said crossly. ‘And how very dare thee! Didst thou think I enjoyed the journey to find thee the first time? I did not! I most very indeed did not! And what must thou do the very moment I find thee at long last but step into thy fancy-fine carriage and sail away!
‘Not,’ continued the voice, ‘that I am ungrateful for the eatin’s. That was suitable. But what happened after the eatin’s! That was most very surely not!’
Isabel had been casting about throughout this speech for the source of the irritable tirade, but the street appeared to her to be virtually unoccupied save for their two selves. A carriage was turning in at the end of the street, but the voice could not possibly be emanating from so far away.
Miss Ellerby and the Ferryman Page 3