Miss Ellerby and the Ferryman

by Charlotte E. English

  I ‘ad all my best folk out lookin’ fer some way to help Miss Isabel, as ye may readily imagine. Nobody remembered the poor Ferryman, let alone his name, an’ no one knew where to go lookin’ fer the Kostigern’s hidey-hole neither. Aye well, he was always well tucked away, that one. But wi’ the Ferryman rememberin’ next to nothin’ himself, the Chronicler missin’ an’ Lyrriant unwillin’ to speak, where did that leave us? Wi’ a mighty ole mess.

  It worried Miss Isabel, I’ll no deny. But somethin’ odd came to pass soon after — an’ in the midst of a grand ball, at that! ‘Twas a confusin’ day fer our young lady, an’ she ‘ad some hard decisions to make…

  The failure of the expedition into the Hollows left Isabel at a loss to know where next to direct her attention. Nor was she much at leisure to consider the question, for the ball at Ferndeane was almost upon them, and the house descended into all the flurry and chaos of the preparations her mother deemed necessary before her friends and neighbours could be permitted to cross the threshold. Isabel quickly saw that her mother’s aspirations had outpaced her resources; the house was by no means large enough to accommodate everyone to whom she had extended an invitation. There was no ballroom at Ferndeane, either, and they were obliged to throw open the doors in between two other rooms in order to create a makeshift dancing space.

  The Thompson family were to be the guests of honour, of course, and it fell to Isabel to ensure that their stay at Ferndeane would be perfect in every conceivable way. All her mother’s anxious care of Isabel’s appearance, largely forgotten since the Alford Assembly, returned as well. In the midst of these various and burdensome demands on her time, Isabel found barely a moment to reflect on the problem of the Ferryman, or indeed to think of anything else at all. Eliza gave as much assistance as she could, but Tafferty’s notion of helping was more of a hindrance.

  ‘Thou couldst enchant their closets,’ she suggested, wandering along behind as Isabel surveyed the room that was to be assigned to Miss Thompson. ‘A self-tidyin’ closet, where nothin’ is ever creased an’ messy. Or thou couldst encourage it t’ change all the colours o’ their gowns.’ Tafferty snickered under her breath as she pronounced this second suggestion, and Isabel could not help smiling a little, too, as she pictured Miss Thompson’s confusion upon opening her closet to dress for the ball.

  ‘I will do no such thing,’ she chided, but gently. ‘I cannot deny that a self-tidying closet would prove useful, but it would be impossible to explain. And besides, how can one expect a closet to appreciate precisely the way in which one would like one’s gown’s arranged?’

  ‘Then yonder chamber-pot. Tell it t’ keep itself empty, no matter what may be put into it.’

  Isabel blinked, strongly tempted by the notion. ‘How convenient that would be, to be sure! But again, I do not know how I could explain it to our guests.’

  Tafferty sighed. ‘Thou’rt too gullible. In truth, I am not certain any o’ those things would be possible. But would it not be entertainin’ t’ try?’

  ‘Perhaps, but now is not the time.’ Isabel spoke firmly, and Tafferty sighed and slunk away. Isabel did not see her for the remainder of the day.

  The ball was set for the morrow. Isabel retired to bed late, and was obliged to rise early, for nothing would do for Mama but to spend half the day fussing over Isabel’s hair, and her gown, and all the rest. She had received favourable reports from her sister regarding their interactions with the Thompsons while in York, and her hopes were high indeed.

  Isabel could not care about any of it; not when her failure of the Ferryman weighed so heavily upon her conscience. She was content to permit her mother to determine everything just as she liked — with one exception. She would not consent to wear anything other than the beautiful gown Sophy had made for her, and no remonstrance of her mother’s could detract in the smallest degree from her resolve. Mrs. Ellerby was obliged, though with ill grace, to relent. Her distaste for the gown puzzled Isabel, until it struck her how unmistakeably fae the garment looked. But her accounts of the Misses Thompson’s eagerness for all things Aylfenhame did nothing to mollify her mother’s doubts as to its probable appeal for that family. Mrs. Ellerby had always disapproved of Isabel’s occasional excursions to Grenlowe to visit Sophy, though she had not outright forbidden her daughter’s going. Her clear dislike for Isabel’s bringing any part of it back with her brought all Eliza’s words to mind, and Isabel was saddened. Why was difference so easily equated with inferiority, or danger?

  The Thompson family arrived before two o’ clock. All was a whirl of noise and obligation as they were settled at Ferndeane, and subsequently entertained, until the hour to dress arrived. Isabel retreated to her own room with a sense of relief, for the Misses Thompson were a little overpowering when encountered all together. Furthermore, she had been showered with more attention from young Mr. Thompson than she had expected, and the meaningful looks exchanged between her parents and his were unwelcome to her. She closed her door upon all of this with a sigh, and submitted to the efforts of her mother’s abigail in dressing her hair.

  Eliza entered when this process was almost complete, and stayed to assist Isabel into her gown. She contrived, with a few deft touches of Glamour, to enhance the otherness of the garment. Fully dressed, Isabel seemed garbed in magic itself. Her gown was woven twilight, her ribbons shining like moonlight upon water. The simple necklace at her throat was no longer a sapphire; instead a living butterfly, or its semblance, had alighted at the hollow of her throat as though she were a flower in summer. Fireflies dreamed amongst the coils of her hair.

  Isabel gazed at this magnificence, torn between wonder and dread. ‘But shall not—’ she began.

  Eliza cut her off. ‘If you are going to say that your mother will be displeased, then I beg you not to speak at all. Harriet wishes for her daughter to look her best, and so you do. It is not for anybody to dictate how you choose to appear.’

  It occurred to Isabel that her aunt had not sought her permission before transforming her simple jewellery and hair ornaments into the marvels they now appeared to be, but she held her peace. If she was becoming some manner of battleground in the ongoing conflict between her mother and her mother’s sister, this could not please her. But the butterfly did, very much.

  Her remaining qualm related to the other young ladies due to attend the ball. They could not like being outshone by such arts as were available to her, and it was perhaps unfair of Isabel to employ them. Further, she would be no less at a loss to explain the magical beauty of her garments and jewellery now than she had been before. Would the three Thompson girls permit her to evade their questions yet again?

  She opened her mouth to give voice to some of this, but a glance at her aunt’s raised eyebrow silenced her.

  ‘It is well,’ said Eliza firmly. ‘You appear as you should — and as you have every right to be seen.’

  But not necessarily the desire, Isabel thought. She swiftly packed that thought away, for it was not strictly the truth. It wasn’t that she didn’t wish to make her appearance in such attire; merely that she feared the possible consequences of doing so. And that, she could now recognise as a fear inherited from her mother.

  Upon descending the stairs, she swiftly found herself subjected to all the close questioning and enthusiastic examination that she expected, most of it from the Misses Thompson — though their mother was more forward in her interest than she had ever been before. Eliza was of assistance in deflecting some of these, though Isabel did not feel that they were fooling anybody. She caught Mrs. Thompson’s eye more than once, and found that lady’s gaze fixed upon her with an air of consideration.

  Mr. Thompson had already claimed her hand for the first dances, and Isabel knew it was her mother’s wish that they should open the ball together. She performed this duty with her colour high, for she was conscious that the attention of all those guests who were not dancing was fixed upon her — or rather, upon her gown, and the ornaments in her hair.
Such scrutiny might please some women, but it could not please her, and she was by no means used to it. Afterwards she was much sought after as a partner, and was not obliged to sit down for any of the dances. This was more than merely flattering. It reduced the opportunities her mother’s guests could find to comment upon her appearance, or question her about the provenance of her gown.

  Her Mama was clearly delighted with the attention she was attracting. Isabel thought she was far too inclined to attribute it to her daughter’s beauty, rather than to the remarkable nature of her garments. But she trusted it went some way to reconciling her to the choice of attire, which she had still never approved.

  There had been much speculation, prior to the beginning of the ball, as to whether the Piper and his dancers might be disposed to make an appearance. Considering the outcome of her venture into the Hills, Isabel thought it to be, of all things, the most unlikely. She could hardly explain that to her mother’s guests, however. As such, hopes ran high, unimpeded by mundane probability. Every time the strains of a violin became particularly prominent in the music, or some unexplained bustle occurred in some part of the room, there was a collective sense of excitement, as though it must surely presage the event they all hoped for. But it never did.

  Isabel was glad of it. Such an occurrence could appear to her mother in no other light than that of a catastrophe, and she would still be complaining of it a decade hence.

  One source of discomfort proved both distressingly persistent and sadly troublesome to Isabel. Mr. Thompson was not contented with opening the ball with her; he would seek her hand for further dances throughout the evening, in spite of the clear impropriety of her standing up with the same gentleman more than twice. Only a forthcoming engagement could make such particularity respectable, and the significant manner he thought it appropriate to adopt whenever he interacted with her led her to feel that a proposal was imminent. The conspiratorial air she detected whenever her mother stood talking with Mrs. Thompson only seemed to confirm it.

  Her reaction to the idea puzzled her, for why should she not welcome it? She had long since determined that she was not at all ill-disposed to encourage Mr. Thompson’s suit. Well might her mother expect him to offer, and her to accept, for she had never expressed any disapprobation for the idea. Not out loud, and not even to her own self. She wanted a home of her own, respectability, and a family. All of these, Mr. Thompson could surely provide.

  Where, then, had her disinclination come from? She was surprised at herself, and vexed; for to decide only at the last moment that she did not wish for a proposal of marriage was poor timing indeed. And she had encouraged him — or at least, she had not actively discouraged him, which amounted to the same thing.

  The moment came. In between one dance and the next, Mr. Thompson approached, smiling in a manner both familiar and affectionate. He took her hand and bowed over it.

  ‘May I request the favour of a moment’s audience with you?’ he said in a soft voice.

  Isabel sighed inwardly, unable to think of a reason to decline. She murmured her assent, and he led her to an alcove and took a seat beside her.

  The proposal was quietly and properly made, for which she gave him all due credit; at least he had not postured and made wild professions of love. But his manner was so collected that her puzzlement increased, and at first she made no reply at all, merely examining his face for some sign as to his intent. She saw none.

  ‘Why is it that you wish to marry me?’ she said at last. The question emerged in a blunter fashion than she had intended, and she coloured a little, but she lifted her chin and awaited his response in silence.

  His smile turned quizzical. ‘Any man would wish to marry you,’ he said, with more gallantry than truth. ‘You are a young woman of sense, intelligence and beauty, and of a good family—’

  ‘The real reason, if you please,’ she said, cutting him off without compunction. ‘I understand perfectly why my mother and father are in favour of the match, but I do not at all comprehend why yours should be. Or why you would consent to go along with the plan. Your family is far beyond mine, in terms of fortune and connections; and for all your compliments just now, you are not in love with me.’

  He winced at her uncompromising speech, but she did not care. It was a relief to her to speak nothing but the plain truth, at long last.

  To his credit, he made no further attempts to persuade her of affection he clearly did not feel. Instead, to her confusion, he gestured at her gown. ‘I had thought that your appearance this evening indicated your perfect understanding of the case.’

  Isabel glanced down at her gown in surprise. ‘I am afraid it does not, sir. I have no notion as to what you are referring.’

  His brows went up. ‘Do not you? Is it not true that your family bears some hereditary connection to the Ayliri of Aylfenhame?’

  Isabel stared at him, for some moments unable to speak for surprise. ‘I beg your pardon?’ she managed at last.

  ‘Our mothers were at school together, were not they? And your mother once confided as much to mine.’

  ‘Nothing would surprise me more! For Mama has always viewed those connections as deplorable.’

  Mr. Thompson spread his hands in a helpless gesture. ‘That I cannot explain. I gather only that there was some family trouble occurring because of it at that time, and she found some comfort in talking to my mother.’

  Perhaps he referred to some action of Eliza’s. She had no time to give the matter further consideration, as he hurried on. ‘I take it that it is indeed the truth! Then you can require no other explanation.’

  ‘I am afraid I do, sir! Can you truly be seeking my Ayliri connections? Why would you do so?’ The idea puzzled her exceedingly, accustomed as she was to her mother’s mild but persistent distaste for all things Aylfenhame — and Eliza’s long habit of concealing all trace of it, both in herself and Isabel.

  By way of answer, Mr. Thompson reached out and gently touched the fragile wings of the butterfly at Isabel’s throat. ‘Because of marvels such as this. Who would not wish to have such wonders at their disposal?’

  Isabel was silenced. The sheer strangeness of being sought out because of her Ayliri heritage, instead of being shunned for it, left her with nothing to say. Not least because she could not immediately decide how she felt about it. Was it somehow worse to be sought for her witch heritage, than for her inheritance or her beauty? Many a marriage had been arranged because of the desirable, preferably noble, family lineage of one or both parties; it was merely unusual for Ayliri lineage to be considered worth chasing.

  Nonetheless, she felt peculiarly displeased. Perhaps her illusions of good sense had been baseless after all; she had been foolish enough to imagine that some part of his family’s interest in her had been on more personal grounds. Perhaps she had even hoped that he himself sought her for reasons particular to herself as an individual, whether he was in love with her or not. It was pleasant, in some ways, for the heritage she had viewed with such suspicion to be sought after and revered, rather than condemned. But overall she felt reduced by his explanation; reduced to naught but an accident of birth.

  She also felt not the smallest desire to accept his proposal — however congenial he may be, and however respectable and luxurious was the home he could offer her. To her surprise and dismay, visions of the delights of life as Mrs. Thompson faded rapidly in favour of the Ferryman’s face, and he was all she could think of.

  She was prevented from answering, as she wished promptly to do, by some commotion spreading rapidly through the room. A buzz of excitement began with it, and for a shocked instant Isabel wondered — feared? — that Lyrriant had chosen to attend the ball at Ferndeane after all. But an instant’s reflection reassured her on that point, for the music was unchanged, and soon it stopped altogether.

  She stood up, murmuring some abstracted courtesy to Mr. Thompson as she did so. It was the work of a minute or two to weave through the chattering crowds. The scene t
hat met her wondering eyes brought her to an instant halt, and she stared.

  The Ferndeane Ball had indeed received a number of uninvited guests, but they were not Lyrriant and his companions. Isabel was astonished to perceive Mr. Balligumph ducking his head to fit through the doorway. He had abandoned the blanket and cap he had been wearing last time Isabel had seen him, and was attired once more in his usual trousers, waistcoat, boots and tall hat. On one shoulder he carried Tafferty; ensconced upon the other was Tiltager.

  ‘I am lookin’ fer Miss Ellerby,’ he bellowed, causing an immediate stir as everybody in the room tried to point out her probable location at once. In their eagerness to assist — and perhaps to get the noisy troll out of their ball room again — they impeded Isabel’s attempts to present herself, and she found herself engulfed in a wave of humanity which must utterly conceal her from Balligumph. To her surprise, she found her arm taken by Mr. Thompson, who pushed his way to the front of the room without the compunction Isabel would have felt in doing so, and drew her after him.

  ‘Here she is,’ he said, with a bow. ‘I imagine there must be some important matter at hand?’

  Balligumph tipped his hat to Isabel, but before he could say another word Tiltager spoke up, clearly agitated. ‘Mistress! They are going to the place to do bad things to it!’

  Isabel smiled up at Tiltager in a manner she hoped was calming. ‘Who are going, Tiltager, and where?’

  ‘Lyrriant!’ she proclaimed.

  ‘They are plannin’ t’ burn it,’ added Tafferty.

  ‘Best make haste, my lass, if ye wish to search it before they has chance to destroy the lot,’ said Balligumph.

  Putting these disparate pieces of information together, Isabel arrived at the conclusion that Lyrriant’s people had decided to go to the Kostigern’s former residence after all — with the express intention of ensuring that no one else ever would again. ‘How is it that you know?’ she said quickly.