by Nina Clare
‘I did it!’ Harriet exulted. ‘I was so nervous, I almost turned back when he turned down Green Lane, I was about to give the scheme up, for I knew he would take the walk over the fields back to Donwell, and I had not my boots on, but Cloe-Claws made me follow him, so I did, and I did not forget to put my forgetfulness cloak up when I left.’
‘But did you ask him?’
Harriet nodded, colouring more deeply at the remembrance of it.
‘And?’
Harriet pulled her little book out of her pocket and read from it.
‘Truthfulness, intelligence, kindness, open temper, musical ability. He has no preference for eye or hair colour.’ The triumph faded from her face. ‘It is rather a vague description.’
Rue was disappointed too, but only for a moment. ‘The music is a good clue. And intelligence means she’s got to be educated. Not being particular about her looks makes it easier.’
‘It does?’ said Harriet doubtfully.
‘Any good-tempered lady who’s educated and musical and don’t look like a donkey will do. It can’t be too hard to find such a match.’
‘But he’s so very important. He must want someone equal in rank.’
‘Not at all,’ argued Rue. ‘A rich man needs no rich wife when he has plenty already. He could marry anybody. Who’s on your list?’
Harriet turned to another page in her notebook and read: ‘Anne Cox, May Martin, Charlotte Gilbert. There’s also Mary Stokes, but she’s not very pretty.’
‘Nor educated,’ said Rue. ‘Only May Martin and Anne Cox are educated. May’s a bit young to be thinking about marriage.’
‘She’s only fifteen,’ agreed Harriet.
‘As for Anne Cox,’ said Rue, ‘She might’ve had some schooling, but she ain’t what I’d call intelligent. Is she musical?’
Harriet shook her head.
‘There must be someone else.’ Rue rubbed her chin through her veil.
‘Oh, I knew this would be impossible,’ moaned Harriet. ’It nearly killed me to talk to him, I thought I should die when he turned to me and spoke, and it was all for nothing.’
‘Don’t worry. We got to think again, that’s all. We’ll talk to Myrtle about it. There’s got to be someone, or Mother Goodword wouldn’t have given him for a ward.’
Harriet nodded and forced a smile. A bee the size of her thumb drifted lazily through the air, and so she made a hasty retreat to the school.
‘Come on you,’ Rue said to the bee. ‘Time to tuck you up, winter’s coming, don’t you know?’ The bee ignored her, and Rue glanced around before pulling out something from the pocket of her work apron. ‘Off to bed, little pest, time for sleep, time to rest,’ and waved the wand over the bee. The bee did as it was bid, but not before chasing Rue around the hive three times. ‘I take it back! – you ain’t a pest – I were rhyming in a hurry!’
When the hive was closed and the danger of an angry bee removed. Rue looked down at the wand and laughed at herself. ‘Oh, what fun not to have to fiddle about with Dust!’ Then she remembered she was not supposed to use the wand for anything other than the Dust activation and she shoved it back into her pocket, hoping that Cloe-Claws was not close by enough to smell the magic.
‘I shall go and put it away,’ Rue said out loud to herself. ‘Right now.’ And she left the bee garden, whistling a summery tune as the autumn leaves scrunched under her feet. But on reaching the school side entrance she hung her bee-keeper hat on the doorknob, recalling that she wanted to talk to Elizabeth Martin that afternoon, so she twirled round and marched off in the opposite direction. ‘I’ll put it away just as soon as I come back,’ she announced to no one in particular.
The three Sisters took counsel together in their little sitting-room that evening. They’d all had a busy day, teaching classes in the morning and working on their assignments in the afternoon.
‘I walked over to see Lizzie Martin this afternoon,’ Rue reported. ‘I had a good long gossip with her about all kinds of things.’
‘About marriage?’ Harriet asked.
‘Mostly about cows. She’s having problems with one of her milkers not producing.’
‘What did you suggest?’ Harriet asked.
‘Marigold milk in the water.’ Rue smiled to herself as she remembered the little spell she had made over the cow when no one was looking. It was a good feeling to know that she had secretly helped her friend with just a few words and a quick wave of the wand.
‘But did you find any clue as to her match?’ asked Myrtle, peering over the enormous book she was holding. ‘That was what you went to see her for.’
Rue screwed up her face as she recalled their conversation. ‘I tried. I said our assignments this term was in matchmaking.’
‘And?’
Rue made another face. ‘She laughed. And said she hoped she weren’t no one’s ward. She didn’t want no matchmaking nonsense.’
‘But why did Mother Goodword give her to you as a ward if she does not want to be matched?’ exclaimed Harriet.
‘I don’t know,’ said Rue. ‘I’m wondering that myself.’
‘I’ve been looking through the library on the subject of matchmaking,’ said Myrtle, tapping the heavy book. ‘I found this.’ The book was well-worn with yellowed pages. The title on the spine read: The Godmother’s Manual to the Many Mysteries of Matchmaking.
‘It’s rather old-fashioned,’ said Myrtle. ‘But it has some interesting points. Listen to this.
‘Oftentimes it canst be found that a ward doth speaketh aloud, for all the birds of the air to heareth, that they should wish to marry, or speaketh it quietly in their heart, for all the goodly spirits that watcheth over them to knoweth, and thus their Godmother doth heareth this through means of Council and makes of them a ward.
Yet the ward hath not yet heardeth their own heart, to realise that it is indeed their heart’s desire to be enjoined with their destined true love for their mutual hearts’ comfort.
In such cases the Godmother must showeth great care in working in the secret places, and showeth great patience in awaiting the awakening of their ward’s hearts.’
‘Oh, this is going to be harder than I thought,’ groaned Rue. ‘A ward that don’t even know her own heart, and I’ve to find out who her true love is!’
‘Me too,’ squeaked Harriet. ‘Master Knightley looked positively…’ she struggled for the right word to describe the look on tall, brisk Master Knightley’s face, ‘he looked quite… bemused. As though he’d never thought of marriage until that moment, and was not best pleased about having to think of it. And I don’t have one single person on my list who fits his description of a good wife.’
‘What about your ward, Myrtle?’ Rue asked. Myrtle was engrossed in leafing through the deckle-edged pages of the book. ‘Did you speak to Hannah Hazeldene this afternoon?’
Myrtle dragged her eyes from her book. ‘What? Oh, yes, I did. Cloe-Claws made me. I walked out to Randalls to see her.’ She dropped her eyes back to her book.
‘Well? Tell us what happened.’
Myrtle looked up again. ‘Nothing. The butler who answered the door said she was indisposed for gossiping, too busy about her duties, so I came away again. Tiresome walk for nothing. I could have been reading.’
‘Cloe-Claws let you leave without speaking to her?’ wondered Harriet, who had never dared resist the silver tabby’s demands.
Myrtle shrugged. ‘She was not best pleased with me. But what was I to do, force my way in?’
‘You have to speak with her,’ Rue said. ‘Tell anyone who gets in your way that it’s Godmothering business.’
‘I did not think of that,’ said Myrtle. ‘Did you know that Randalls has the most fascinating gate guardians? A pair of lions in the old style. I’ve never noticed them before.’
‘They’re to keep the witch out,’ said Harriet.
‘Witch?’ said Myrtle.
‘Mistress Woodhouse told me all about it when we walked to Randalls. You kn
ow about the witch and Mistress Woodhouse and her hair?’
‘Hair?’ Myrtle stared at Harriet as though she were talking nonsense.
‘Don’t you know about the witch and the hair?’ Harriet exclaimed. ‘Do you mean to say that I know something you don’t!’
‘I’m not interested in Mistress Woodhouse’s hair,’ said Myrtle, ‘but what’s this about a witch?’
‘The Wild Wood witch,’ said Harriet. ‘The Sorceress of the West. Or is it the East? She threatened to come back to Highbury and get her revenge. Master Woodhouse gave Mistress Weston the gate charms as a wedding gift.’
‘How interesting,’ said Myrtle. ‘I must research this witch.’
‘Never mind about some witch who ain’t been seen for years,’ said Rue, ‘we have to keep focused on our assignments.’
‘Hannah Hazeldene will likely be at the market tomorrow,’ Harriet said. ‘You can see her there.’
‘That’s what Cloe-Claws told me,’ said Myrtle. ‘And, yes. I’ll go.’
9
In the Way of Love
‘Oh, Mistress Woodhouse, sorry I’m so late! One of my girls was sick this morning, and another one had lost her shoe, and I had to help her find it, and I had to use ever such a lot of Dust to make finding spells, for I kept getting the spell a little off, but we found a good many other things – it was quite like having a treasure hunt!’ Harriet burst into the morning parlour, looking a little blowsy from the wind, and smelling of autumn.
‘Well, you’re here now,’ said Emma, beckoning her to come and take a seat. ‘I‘ve been going over all I wrote after having tea with Master Elftyn yesterday. We should compare notes. Let me see what you wrote, Harriet.’
Harriet passed her notebook to her companion. Emma read aloud: ‘Mr. E smells lyke hunney-suckel and sumthing else. Mr. E feels lyke— feels like what, Harriet? You have not written anything of his energy.’
‘I did not know how to describe it in writing. It felt like a kind of bouncy energy, like a calf or lamb when they are bouncing around the field, you know?’ Harriet made a bouncing movement with her hand as she described this. ‘But it also felt like a kind of watery energy.’ She moved her hands through the air in a flowing motion, ‘as though it were slipping around things like a river does, or like a running brook. Oh, Mistress Woodhouse, I am not very good at this sensing work, I never was.’
Emma held her tongue from commenting that she was better at sensing than she was at spelling. She only said evenly, ‘I think your description very good, Harriet. I also felt that combination of an excitable, youthful energy, combined with a more fluid smoothness. I think your description excellent.’
‘You do?’ Harriet beamed.
Emma handed the book back. ‘Write the words bouncing and watery, just as you said them. I shall write in my book excitable, youthful and smooth.’
‘Does bouncing have one s or two?’ Harriet murmured.
‘Neither, dear. The ess sound is made with a c.’
There was a minute of silence as they wrote.
‘Your notes said nothing of his words,’ Emma said, when their pencils were still. ‘We were to listen for the words between and beneath speech. Did you hear anything?’
‘Oh dear, I cannot say that I did.’
‘What about when I enquired of Master Elftyn if he were pleased with his decision to move to Highbury, do you recall his answer?’
‘Well, let me think…’
‘He said,’ Emma prompted, ‘that he was delighted that he had moved to Highbury because…?’
‘Oh, because… because… now what did he say?’
‘That he was delighted because he had found in Highbury…?’
‘Oh yes! He made such a pretty compliment! He said that he had found in Highbury the most charming people in all the kingdom, there surely could be no ladies anywhere in the world as charming as he had met with here.’
‘And who was he looking at as he said this?’
‘He was talking in general, Mistress Woodhouse.’
‘No, you are wrong, Harriet, most happily wrong, for Master Elftyn was looking at you as he said the latter words. I was watching him carefully, I assure you.’
‘Really? Oh, I’m sure I never heard anyone say such pretty things before in my whole life. He is very charming, is he not?’
‘Charming enough for a worthy young lady,’ said Emma with a smile. ‘But that was not all. Recall what he said when I mentioned Mistress Weston’s recent marriage?’
Harriet looked blank.
‘He made a comment regarding the state of matrimony, do you recall?’
Harriet scrunched up her lips in thought. ‘I recall he said something very pretty about it, now what was it?’
‘He said that he envied Master Weston excessively, did he not?’
‘Oh yes! And he was smiling, and then he laughed, so I was not certain that he meant it.’
‘Oh, be sure he meant it, Harriet. The smile and laughter were a ruse, do you see? The words were hidden beneath them, but he certainly meant them. And envy is a strong word, is it not?’
‘So it is. And he did not merely envy, but envied excessively.’
‘Harriet, you have discerned exactly right.’
‘Have I?’
‘So, let us see.’ Emma ran her finger down her list. ‘Smell, you wrote honeysuckle and something else, I wrote hyacinth, and then I put a question mark. I came to the same conclusion as you, Harriet. I could not identify the second scent. Never mind. We will try again when next we meet with him. Now, back to our list. We observed with our eyes. I observed a young man most eager to please, exerting his charm with intention. In short, I saw a would-be-lover.’
Harriet nodded and laughed and blushed all at the same time.
‘Sight, smell, speech, feeling, taste. We recorded nothing for taste. What taste did our conversation leave with us?’
‘Oh dear, I confess that I only recall the taste of those delightful little biscuits your cook made, the ones with chopped almonds on the top.’
‘I fared little better myself,’ Emma admitted. ‘I cannot recall what taste was left with me afterwards. Ah, well. I shall pay more attention to that tomorrow.’ She shut her book. ‘We’ve made a good start. And there is still so much to do. We still have our riddle and rhyme exercise to do this morning.’
‘And meditation,’ added Harriet. ‘Shall I get the book of proverbs?’
Emma winced slightly. She had opened the book earlier that morning while alone, and read the words: The taste of honey is strongly sweet, but there may be a sting for the grasping of it. The book made little sense to her. In fact, its words always left an unpleasant taste in her mouth. Like having one’s teeth cleaned with soap.
‘Perhaps later. Let’s do our other lessons and tasks first. We’ll work on our riddle for a half hour and then put on our cloaks and walk out and look round the market.’
Market day in Highbury was a cheerful affair. Usually.
Usually on market day in Highbury in October, Farmer Mitchell’s stall, piled high with pumpkins, would be doing a brisk trade, as would Mistress Martin’s, with her cheeses wrapped in leaves, and her jars of pickles and chutneys and jams.
Usually Mistress Wallis’s bakery door was wide open to accommodate the steady flow of customers coming in to buy her famous Market Buns, which she only baked on Saturday mornings.
Usually there would be plenty of folk about the saddlery stall, and the chandler with his boxes of candles; the blacksmith would display the wonderfully delicate work he made in between the everyday buckets and horseshoes: candlesticks of blossoming trees, napkin rings of flower wreaths so delicate and dainty. By day the blacksmith took after his mortal father in the everyday smithing, but in the evenings his elven mother’s blood was seen in his artistry.
And what market day in Highbury in October would be complete without a stall of Donwell Orchard apples and apple cider? Stone bottles, lined up neatly, wicker baskets of gleaming red
and golden Donwell apples, well known to be the best baking apple, eating apple, pie-making apple in all the county, if not in all the kingdom. There were apples for sale, but few customers.
‘What’s wrong with the market?’ said Rue as she surveyed the diminished square. ‘How come the bakery’s shut? Where’s all the fae market holders? Where’s that fairy lady with her fae wool? I wanted to knit mittens for Midwinter gifts. And where’s them brownie sisters who make the best cakes in all the county?’
‘Where’s the pixie man who makes ink?’ added Myrtle. ‘He’s always here. His ink lasts twice as long as any I can make.’
‘Let’s ask someone,’ Rue said, moving to the nearest stall, which was a tiny table displaying neatly turned wooden bowls. ‘Morning, sir, where is everyone today?’
The elderly wood-turner sat on a stool of his own making, whittling at a block of wood.
‘Don’t rightly know, maid,’ said the wood-turner. ‘Something’s amiss. Fae folk don’t wish to come abroad, for they feel the kilting in the wind. Last time it felt this much out of kilter was when Old Jack, who was Young Jack at the time, did venture across the border and steal a fae goose to breed wi’ his own. Fae folk don’t take kindly to thievery, even if it be a goose. Everything went out of kilter ’til Young Jack made good. Cost him near all he had to repay seven-fold. Near ruined him. Very particular about their goods an’ their magic is the fae. If ‘ee ask me, someone’s been pilfering magic. I wouldn’t wish to be in their shoes when it comes out.’
He shook his head of wispy white hair.
Rue and Myrtle exchanged glances and moved away, but Rue suddenly looked very strange.
Harriet appeared, walking beside Mistress Woodhouse. She broke away from her companion to run over and greet them.
‘Isn’t this a dismal market?’ Harriet said. ‘What’s wrong, Rue?’ she said, catching sight of Rue’s expression. ‘You look ill. Oh, dear, you haven’t caught Penny Abbott’s stomach-ache, have you? I thought we’d treated it with the Dust and ginger.’