by Nina Clare
‘I know.’
‘There are greater stakes than you can know. Time will reveal all. A carriage will arrive at dawn seven days from Harvest Moon. Your assignment is to pass into Faerie at the southwest border and open up negotiations with the new Mer queen. There have been disputes this past century regarding the boundary lines on the coast, and intermarriage with mortals. You will negotiate both issues to the satisfaction of the Merfolk and the Godmother High Council.’
‘Harvest Moon is tomorrow. Very well,’ said Mother Goodword. ‘May I ask, with all due respect, Grand Godmother South… why me?’
‘No one is such a stickler for High Council law as you, Mother Goodword.’ The South Wind gave a smile, like the sun gleaming after a summer storm. Outside the parlour window the grey clouds melted away to reveal clear sky and golden sunshine. ‘The Merfolk can be slippery in agreeing on boundaries, but your adherence to careful wording in drawing up the treaty will make you an excellent negotiator, the Council all agrees on this point.’
‘The Council has assessed me recently? I thought no one took any notice of us here, tucked away in little Highbury.’
‘All is seen,’ said the South Wind, wagging a glowing finger, ‘you know that. Your work has not gone unnoticed. Be glad!’ she exhorted, flinging a beaming smile around the room so that the glass in the windows became dazzling with reflected light. ‘New seasons are a splendid thing. Life is change, dear heart! Change is growth, my sweet! We advance, my love! And now I must be going, but I almost forgot, you will need this.’
Mother Goodword looked in surprise at the wand held out to her. ‘But I have a wand,’ she said. ‘And that one is—’
‘Superior. It has greater authority, as befits a Council Ambassador and Treaty Negotiator. Take it. It shall not activate until your assignment begins.’
‘And what shall I do with my old one?’
But the South Wind did not answer. She was too busy gathering up her skirts that she might fit through the doorway.
‘I have an appointment at court with the mortal king and queen. There is a little princeling on the way and we must discuss appointing a suitable Royal Guardian, and thus I must change my gown to something more courtly. Farewell, until we meet in the south!’
Harriet put her patten shoes away in the bottom of her clothes chest. She was very glad to be home. Glad to be back in her own little room at the school, so she told herself repeatedly as she sat on the edge of her bed, looking out of her window with its bubbly glass.
The South Wind had gone, and the summer storm with her. Harriet’s view was that of the Donwell road, and beyond it the new-planted hedgerow and then the meadow that was so pretty in springtime with flowers, and had enormous trees to sit under in the summer. But there were few flowers now, and the leaves on the trees were falling.
She moved to the window and craned her neck to look eastwards. She knew that Mill Farm was in that direction. She could not see it from her window, nor could she see the orchards that lay on one side of the farm, nor the meadows on the other side, or the river that ran behind it, with the old mill clunking busily away by the water. But if she thought hard, she could almost see Mistress Martin in her kitchen, directing the bread making, or in the dairy, examining the cheeses and saying that they were coming along nicely. She could see Elizabeth Martin, in her frilled apron as she milked the cows, for even though they had a boy to look after the cows, she still liked to milk them herself, she said they were like old friends to her. And young May Martin, laughing as she swung back and forth on the swing her brother had made for her. What a kind brother he was…
‘It’s so nice to be home again,’ she said rather loudly to the room. ‘With my own bed, and my own eiderdown, and my own view, and all my friends and students.’ And then she sighed, though she did not know why. A tap at the door sounded, and the housemaid poked her head round the door to say that Mother Goodword wished to see her in her parlour.
The parlour door was open. Mother Goodword sat at her writing desk near the window. The afternoon was drawing towards evening now, and Busie, the house brownie, was at the hearth, laying a fire. Harriet politely turned her eyes away from Busie, who always made her think of a little brown dog with her furred skin and her black eyes and small pointed ears.
Busie gathered up her wood basket and scurried silently away. The door clicked behind her. ‘Sit down, Harriet, there’s tea in the pot. I have only a line or two left to write.’
Harriet obediently sat down and took pleasure in looking about the room, so familiar to her since she first arrived at the school at nearly seven. She remembered how frightened she had been when she first came, and how kind Mother Goodword had been to her. She had brought her into this very parlour, and sent Busie for milk and sweet biscuits, and had held her hand as she showed her round the school and introduced her to the other small girls in the class. Her teacher was Sister Lily-of-the-Valley, but they were allowed to call her Sister Lillian. Harriet had cried every night for three weeks when Sister Lillian graduated and went away to become a Weather Watcher on the coast.
Mother Goodword’s things were all neatly ordered on their shelves. Busie kept everything so tidy and sparkling clean. Mother Goodword’s beautiful fancy work hung about the room, and her trinkets, made up of gifts from her students, were prettily arranged on the mantelpiece.
‘I am writing a note to Mistress Woodhouse,’ Mother Goodword said, pausing from her scribing. ‘I should like you to come with me to the manor tomorrow evening.’
‘Me? Go to Hartfield Manor? But why would they want me?’ She thought of Mistress Woodhouse, the lady of the manor, so beautiful, so elegant, like a queen in a story.
‘Mistress Woodhouse is considering becoming a Sister. You may tell her all about the school and the elementary Godmothering subjects we cover.’
‘Me? Tell Mistress Woodhouse all about everything!’ Harriet gave a nervous giggle. ‘But she’s so elegant and she looks very clever. How could I talk to her? What should I say?’
‘You will be your own good-natured self, Harriet. Openness and honesty, two of the best qualities a person can have.’
‘Yes. To be sure,’ said Harriet earnestly. ‘Oh, Mother Goodword, me go up to the manor!’ The gloom that had overshadowed her return home that day was dispelled by such a happy expectation.
Mother Goodword sealed her note and stood it upright, ready for delivery in the morning. She moved to her fireside chair and opened her workbasket, bending over it, looking for the skein of silk she wanted, then sat back to thread her needle. ‘Now tell me, Harriet. How did your visit to the Martins fare?’
‘Oh, very well indeed. They were all so good to me. I was a little frightened of Mistress Martin at first, for she is very particular about everything, but she is kind and very hardworking, just like Elizabeth.’ Harriet was tracing the embroidery on the cushion next to her as she spoke.
‘And is Elizabeth happy in her choice to return home and not continue with us?’
‘Oh, yes, to be sure, for she loves the farm very much. She did say that she sometimes wonders if she should have stayed here and trained as a Healer, but she likes the work in the dairy, and she thinks she could never be happy anywhere else.’
Mother Goodword was concentrating on tying a knot, so Harriet continued her chatting.
‘The South Wind was so beautiful. I should like to be a beautiful Wind fairy, but what do they do, exactly?’
Mother Goodword’s fingers paused before she answered. ‘They bring change, Harriet. They usher in new seasons and drive out old ones.’
‘She came to bring in the autumn then,’ said Harriet brightly. ‘Only,’ she looked at the window and the chestnut tree outside which was already golden. ‘Only, autumn is already come.’
‘She came to bring a new season to me, Harriet. Which is a good thing. Change is a good thing.’
Mother Goodword did not sound as sure of her words as she usually did, but Harriet must be imagining it. Mother
Goodword was the surest person in the whole world.
‘Does the change include Mistress Woodhouse becoming a Sister? And me meeting her?’
Mother Goodword granted a slight smile over her work. ‘Perhaps.’
‘Only imagine,’ said Harriet. ‘Me at Hartfield. I wonder if I shall go up to the tower!’
4
The Fair Mistress of the Mansion
Sister Myrtle surveyed the ten expectant faces before her. Ten girls between the ages of eleven and thirteen years, all waiting for her to begin.
‘This morning, girls,’ she began, ‘we’re learning something new.’ She wound her long black hair up into a bun and jabbed the knitting needle into it to hold it in place.
‘A new dance, Sister?’ asked Jenny Wheelwright hopefully.
Myrtle did not deign to reply. Myrtle never danced. She left that to the dance mistress.
‘Will you show us how to make Dust, Sister?’ asked Sukie Potter eagerly.
Myrtle flashed her a disdainful look. No student was allowed near Dust before the age of fourteen. That was Sister Rue’s responsibility, and thank goodness for it. Dust and girls were a dangerous combination.
‘Shall we start a new story?’ suggested Kitty Sitwell, blinking from behind her spectacles.
‘Riddles,’ Sister Myrtle announced. ‘You must come up with five riddles. Work in pairs. And the theme of the riddles is – romantic love.’
‘Love!’ The girls turned to one another, pulling faces. Sister Rue’s class adored the theme of romantic love, but Myrtle’s girls were not of that age. They preferred maypole dancing and heroic stories. Romance was not Myrtle’s preferred subject either; she would rather share her current research into river hags and black dogs. But for now, she must endure studying the workings of mortal hearts, which was painfully uninteresting compared to the territorial habits of gytrashes.
‘The purpose of this exercise is to engage the wits of the reader and hearer,’ said Sister Myrtle. ‘Not all prospective wards are romantically inclined. If they cannot be reached through the heart or the eyes or stomach, they must be reached through the mind. A romantically themed riddle will engage the intellect and introduce the subject of love. Song, story, speech, letter — the four vessels of words. Riddles are a subcategory of story. An effective riddle employs metaphor, humour, imagery and rhyme in only a few lines, and when combined with the theme of romantic love, can be almost as good as a poem, but far more entertaining and accessible to those of a more prosaic mind.’ Sister Myrtle was reading this description from a creased piece of paper, and was doing her best to inject some enthusiasm into her words.
‘And of course, the most useful thing about riddles and rhymes, are that they train the mind in forming spells.’
Myrtle looked round the room. The girls had stopped pulling faces, but they were not entirely convinced of the merits of love-riddles.
‘Let’s begin with ideas for themes,’ Myrtle said. She clicked her fingers at the chalkboard, and the everlasting stick of chalk poised itself in the air, ready to write.
‘Dancing,’ suggested Jenny Wheelwright. ‘Dancing is supposed to be romantic if you have to dance with a boy, though I don’t know why. They always have sweaty hands at the Midsummer dance.’
Chalk wrote ‘Dancing’ in beautiful script on the board.
‘Princesses,’ chorused Penny and Tuppence, the Abbott twins.
‘Princess dresses,’ added Tuppence.
‘Princess crowns,’ said Penny.
‘Princess slippers,’ said Tuppence.
‘Princess carriages—’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Sister Myrtle. ‘There are other members of royalty other than princesses, however.’
‘But princesses are the most romantic,’ Penny Abbott assured her.
The chalk obliging wrote ‘Royalty’ on the board and added ‘princesses’ in brackets.
‘What else fits the theme of romance?’
‘Hedgehogs,’ offered Tilly Fletcher, an eleven-year-old who wanted to be a Wisewoman. ‘Or chickens.’
‘How do hedgehogs or chickens fit with the theme of romance?’
Tilly Fletcher shrugged. ‘I would think it was romantic to be given hedgehogs or chickens. How about flowers? I like flowers too, but hedgehogs are better.’
‘Flowers,’ affirmed Sister Myrtle, and Chalk wrote it on the board, adding a little drawing of a rose. ‘Flowers have long been a language for love. And roses are the particular symbol of romance. When a Godmother makes a successful match and the words of betrothal are exchanged, a messenger sylph is sent to the matchmaker. And what scent does this sylph carry?’
‘Roses!’ shouted Sukie Potter, who liked to get the answer in before anyone else.
‘Correct, Sukie. Who’s next? Daisy Moorcroft – something romantic, please.’
Daisy Moorcroft squirmed on her stool and flushed deep red at being singled out. ‘Pie,’ she squeaked at last. There were giggles in the room, and Daisy threw her apron over her face.
Sister Myrtle quenched the giggling with one of her famous ice-blue glares. ‘Do explain, Daisy. And put your apron down.’
Daisy peeped over her apron. ‘Farmer Mitchell got wed to Mistress Mitchell on account of her being the best pie maker in all the county,’ she said faintly.
There were a few more titters, but Sister Myrtle silenced them. ‘Excellent observation, Daisy. Well-prepared food has long been a token of affection and favour, including that of romantic love.’ She nodded at Chalk, but it had already written ‘Food’ on the board and added a representation of a steaming pie. Daisy Moorcroft blushed with pleasure.
‘One more idea on the theme of romantic love. Lettice, can you give us one?’
Lettice tossed her long fair plaits behind her. ‘Hair,’ she declared. ‘Ladies in love stories always have beautiful hair.’
There was more girlish laughter.
‘Well they do!’ said Lettice fiercely. ‘They’re always brushing their hair and having it curled and decorated with flowers and jewels and things. You couldn’t have a romantic heroine who didn’t have nice hair.’
Sister Myrtle felt a glimmer of despair, but Chalk had written, ‘Beauty’ on the board.
‘Of course,’ Sister Myrtle felt bound to add, ‘beauty is comprised of many things other than nice hair. But that is a lesson for another day.’
‘You would have nice hair, if you would arrange it, Sister Myrtle,’ said Lettice examining Myrtle’s crude topknot. ‘A rosemary wash would bring out the shine. I could curl it for you, if you like?’
Sister Rue’s class with the eldest of the students was going less smoothly than Myrtle’s. The focus of the new autumn term was on weather-making, and Rue had been too impatient to begin with a theory class, so she plunged them all into snow. She thought that she was being patient in starting with snow, as it was generally the least harmful medium; experience had taught her that beginning a class with rain always resulted in a change of clothes all round. Sleet was the most difficult to perfect, and lightning the most dangerous. The girls had all perfected raising dew last term, now they were ready for snow.
‘Go careful,’ Rue advised Cora Chandler as Cora took up Dust for the snow spell.
But Cora’s fingers struggled with being careful and an explosive poof of snow blew up from the large wooden tray and coated both Cora and Sister Rue’s face to the general mirth of the class.
Harriet’s students were thoroughly enjoying her reading to them from The Thrilling Tales of Orfeosus, the Emerald Knight. Chalk was in a lively mood that morning, and was drawing illustrations on the board behind Harriet’s head to accompany her reading. When Harriet got to the part where Orfeosus set out to face down the flaming dragon, Chalk drew such a realistic dragon face that the children squealed, and Harriet stopped reading to turn and see the board for herself. Chalk scrubbed out its picture as fast as it had drawn it. It paused, hovering in the air, waiting for the next line.
Little Sarah Dovecote ha
d her hands over her eyes, and Harriet said firmly, ‘I hope you’re not drawing scary dragons again, Chalk.’
‘He is!’ said Henrietta Shepherd.
‘Only pleasant landscapes and heroic characters, Chalk,’ requested Harriet.
‘Sister Myrtle would have let us keep the dragon,’ Isobel Woodman protested.
Harriet chose to ignore this, and raised her voice to read.
‘Sir Orfeosus drew out his magic sword and approached the dark, cave of the dragon’s lair… perhaps we will skip to the next chapter,’ she said, thumbing through the pages. ‘Suffice to say that Sir Orfeosus did slay the dragon and recover the crown from its lair. Now he returns to the enchanted castle with the crown to restore it to the rightful princess.’
‘And marry her,’ added Franny Robert. Please draw her getting married,’ she begged Chalk.
There was a rattle from outside the window, and all eyes turned towards it. A ladder appeared, and the figure of a young man in a workman’s smock began climbing up, while whistling a cheerful tune.
‘It’s Master Martin!’ called the girls. Master Martin was very popular among the students, for he could always be relied on to repair their swing, or bring a basket of fresh-baked scones sent from his sister at the farmhouse, and at Mother Goodword’s behest he would come with his head shepherd, for his head shepherd had the finest voice in the county, and would sing, while Master Martin played his fiddle, and the girls would practise their country dances and enjoy themselves heartily.
‘He’s come to repair a roof tile,’ said Harriet, getting up to look, but changing her mind and sitting down again to finish the lesson. But her eyes would keep drifting to the window.
The first school day drew to an end. Harriet heard all the girls going to their early supper as she and Mother Goodword left the school for their visit to Hartfield.
It was still early enough for daylight; the sun dipping to the west. Mistress Woodhouse’s tower could be seen from everywhere in Highbury, even as far as the end of Randalls Road, which was right on the boundary between Highbury and Donwell. Harriet had often looked up at it as she walked down Highbury Broadway on errands, or walked over the common with her friends. But now she might actually go into it! Might climb the winding stone stairs to Mistress Woodhouse’s turret, where there must be such a view of all Highbury – no doubt one could see the Martin’s farm as clear as could be!