Magic and Matchmaking: A variation of Emma volume 1 (The Jane Austen Fairy Tales)

by Nina Clare

  Myrtle lost no time in going to Donwell the following Monday, leaving early, before her morning class began. If Hannah Hazeldene’s match was of the servant class, then he would be up at dawn, and Myrtle would see him about his work.

  She paused outside the entrance to the manor house in order to make a rhyme. She was running a little low on Dust, she should have filled her pouch up properly. She would have to get some more from the jar Rue had made up.

  Thinking up romantic rhymes for spells was not Myrtle’s strong point, but she needed one that morning. She looked about for something to hold the charge. ‘You will do,’ she said to an obliging beech tree.

  She gathered a pair of beech nuts from the ground, taking them out of their bristly cases. She gauged that two were as much as would hold a pinch of Dust; she would spread the magic too thinly with any more. Holding the nuts in the palm of her left hand, and taking the Dust between the fingers of her right hand, she closed her eyes and concentrated, searching for the words.

  ‘Little beech, good and sweet,

  ‘Bear this charge in your meat,

  ‘Whosoever’s mouth does eat,

  ‘True love’s name, he must speak.’

  It was not a perfect rhyme, but Mother Goodword always said the rhyme would work as long as three out of four lines rhymed; a fourth could be a half rhyme, as long as there was clarity in the direction and unity in the theme. She sprinkled the Dust and the beech nuts glowed as though made of polished carnelian. The Dust sank in, and Myrtle pulled up the hood of her forgetfulness cloak and hurried on before the magic began to fade.

  She passed the stables first, where a young groom was sweeping the yard. ‘Too young,’ Myrtle murmured; he could not be above fourteen years. A second man sat on a hay bale polishing tack. ‘Too old,’ she said. He looked up as she passed by. He would only recall seeing a shadow passing, dimming the light momentarily.

  A horse with his head over his stable door snickered at her as she passed by, and tried to take the beech nuts out of her hand. ‘Oh, no you don’t,’ she scolded, stepping out of reach. The cloak did not shield her from the vision of animals or fae.

  There was no one else in the stables, so she entered the servants’ quarters, slipping through the door as the scullery maid opened it to throw a pail of dirty water into the courtyard.

  ‘What a maze!’ Myrtle said as she hurried through rooms and anterooms and corridors and peeped into door after door, looking for any male servant who had a lovelorn smell about him. She had checked the Dictionary of Smells in preparation the night before; everybody knew that love smelled something like roses, with variations in strength and type, but she had read that deferred love was more like the sharp tang of nettles. She was not entirely sure what the smell of nettles was like, but she trusted she would know it when she smelled it.

  She passed the butler – too old, the under-butler – smells only of mustard – must look up what mustard means – four footmen – not a whiff of anything nettle-ish, one of them smells of beer. This was proving to be more difficult than she thought. A gnomess bustled into the pantry where Myrtle had found herself. Donwell certainly had well-stocked shelves. Apple pies, a whole shelf of strawberry preserve – what kind of mead is that, I wonder?

  ‘Leave off the master’s spruce beer!’ growled the gnomess. Myrtle jumped away from the rows of stone bottles. ‘Bad enough that yon wastrel in breeches keeps pilfering it.’ She jerked her head towards the room beyond, where Myrtle had passed the footmen busy cleaning silver.

  ‘I wasn’t touching anything,’ Myrtle replied, removing her hood, which was ineffective in the presence of fae folk.

  ‘Who are you, and what are you doing creeping round the pantry?’ The gnomess looked fierce. Myrtle examined her with interest, noting the thickset neck and shoulders which gave the gnomes such strength, despite the shortness of their arms.

  ‘What are you gaping at?’ the gnomess snapped.

  ‘Do you find it hard working in a house?’ Myrtle asked. ‘Do you not miss working with the earth?’

  The gnomess looked surprised by the question, but her scowl returned. ‘Mind your own business. Get out of here before I call the butler to have you thrown out.’

  ‘The butler cannot see me,’ said Myrtle with satisfaction, pulling up her hood. ‘And I am here on Godmothering business.’

  The gnomess sniffed and began pulling items from the pantry shelves and putting them onto a large tray.

  ‘And, as a fae, you are bound by honour to assist me,’ Myrtle reminded her, ‘when I am on a lawful assignment.’

  The gnomess sniffed again and continued stacking her tray.

  ‘Could you tell me if there are any unmarried men in the house who have the smell of nettles about them.’

  ‘Nettles?’

  ‘Yes. Nettles. Or something like it. It is the smell of deferred love.’

  The gnomess’s sniff became a snort.

  ‘I know gnomes do not hold with notions of love, and I am quite in sympathy, but I need to find someone here who is in love with a young girl in the village. It’s Godmothering business,’ she reiterated.

  ‘There’s more than one,’ the gnomess admitted.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The boot boy. The bailiff’s son. The master.’

  ‘The master?’ But of course. The master of Donwell was Harriet’s ward. That was not so much of a surprise. ‘The boot boy and the bailiff’s son,’ repeated Myrtle. ‘Where would I find the bailiff’s son?’

  ‘Not in the pantry!’ growled the gnomess. ‘Now out. I’ve said all I know.’

  Myrtle found the boot boy; he looked to be about the same age as Hannah Hazeldene. He was bickering with the shoemaker elf over the thickness of the soles on a pair of boots. ‘I tell you it ain’t thick enough!’ the boot boy said. ‘Master’ll wear it through in no time and give me no end of grief for not getting ‘em heeled as he wants.’

  ‘That,’ said the shoemaker elf, pointing at the sole of the boot, ‘is the hide of a Midnight Boar, tougher than any old boots, and worth a year of your wages! The master ain’t going to wear it out any time soon.’

  ‘A Midnight Boar,’ exclaimed Myrtle, feeling a surge of interest. She moved forward to better see. The boot boy cried out at the invisible voice behind him and dropped the boot. The elf could see Myrtle well enough. She pushed back her hood for the boot boy’s sake and picked up the boot, examining the sole. ‘Beautiful,’ she murmured, running her finger over the thin, brown-patterned hide.

  ‘Glad someone appreciates my work!’ said the elf, glaring at the boot boy as he slapped a receipt on the table. ‘There’s my bill, and it ain’t cheap!’ he said, mimicking him before he left.

  ‘Pesky elf,’ muttered the boot boy. ‘Right rude he is. Who are you? Why are you sniffing me?’

  Myrtle had been sniffing the air around the youth, but it was hard to discern nettles from the thick smell of shoe polish in the room.

  ‘Eat this,’ she said, taking one of the Dust-covered beech nuts from her pocket.

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Just do it,’ Myrtle urged. ‘It’s Godmothering business.’

  ‘I don’t want no Godmother.’

  ‘Master’s orders,’ fibbed Myrtle. The boot boy scowled, but he ate the nut, which was glowing irresistibly. ‘Tell me,’ said Myrtle, when he’d crunched and swallowed it, ‘who do you love?’

  He blinked, the effect of the nut prompting him to speak whether or not he wished to. ‘Me Gran. Me Ma. Darkie.’

  ‘Darkie? Who’s that?’ Perhaps it was a nickname for Hannah, who did have dark hair. ‘Is there any young lady you love?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘But you smell nettle-y. I think.’ It was difficult to tell with the smell of raw tallow so strong in the room. But the gnomess had said the boot boy smelled of nettles. ‘Is there someone you love whom you’re separated from? Someone you are missing? Someone you long to see?’

  He nodded and looked misera
ble. ‘Me dog, Darkie. She died. Was old. Never have a dog so good as her again.’

  Myrtle pulled her hood up, vexed that she had wasted time. The boy blinked as all memory of their conversation faded from his mind. Myrtle stalked out to find the bailiff’s son, who likely lived in the bailiff’s cottage farther out on the estate. He was her last hope of finding any clue that morning. The effect of the Dust would only last about half an hour more, and she had a class to teach at nine o’clock. She had to move fast. Oh, for the wings of a senior Fairy Godmother. Would she ever have them?

  Finding the bailiff’s son involved a trek across dew-soaked grass, a misstep into a patch of boggy ground, several ankle-deep muddy puddles, and a snarling guard dog that took a precious pinch of Dust and a hurried Calming Rhyme to appease. The heavens opened and poured down a brief, but heavy shower, and the maid at the bailiff’s cottage was very rude in telling her that the bailiff’s son was not at home, and Myrtle walked much farther than she needed to in searching for him before she eventually found him drawing water from a well house.

  Myrtle watched him at work, feeling partly relieved at having found him, and partly miserable at standing with soaked, cold feet.

  ‘It must be him,’ she said to herself. He was the right age, he was well looking, if one liked a tall, brawny young man with a head of brown curls. His countenance was cheerful, he was whistling as he worked. Cheerful, thought Myrtle. He was supposed to be lovelorn. She groaned inwardly, hoping this was not a wild goose chase she was on. But then she caught the tune he was whistling, and recalled the words of the song it belonged to: My love she has gone o’er the shiny, briny sea. Will e’er she return, an’ come home to marry me? This was more encouraging. She put down her hood and approached the well.

  ‘Morning, sir!’

  ‘Good morning!’ he returned, after a moment of surprise at her sudden appearance. ‘Care you for a drink?’ He lifted the dipping spoon.

  ‘I thank you for the offer,’ said Myrtle, coming closer so she could smell the air about him, but there was a breeze rising, and it was carrying his scent away from her. ‘But it is I who have something to give you.’ She held out the beech nut, which still glowed like amber. ‘Eat it, if you will.’

  The young man laughed. ’No fear!’ he cried cheerfully. ‘I know all about these sorts of tricks. I’ll not eat something out of Faerie.’

  ‘It is not out of Faerie,’ snapped Myrtle, feeling irritated by the frustrations of her morning’s work. She hated having wet stockings. Why couldn’t people just do as they were bid? ‘It’s Godmothering business. Now eat.’

  The Dust soaked nut should have been irresistible to the one ordered to eat it; the effect of the magic ensured that. Yet the young man still resisted.

  ‘I’ll not eat any charm,’ he said, shaking his curly head. ‘No doubt it’s some love potion to catch me. I’ve heard of such things. And I especially won’t eat nuts.’

  ‘I do not employ love potions. If you must know it’s to learn the name of your true love, and nothing more, now eat.’

  If she had found him half an hour earlier, the magic would have been strong enough for him to be unable to resist, but the power of the Dust was fading. She argued in her mind whether to use up more Dust; but she didn’t want to waste any. She would need a spell to dry her feet for the walk home, and drying spells always took far more Dust than wet ones. She tried a different tack.

  ‘If you please, sir,’ she said, adjusting her voice to a polite tone. ‘I am on Godmothering business, and I need you to eat this nut and tell me the name of your true love, nothing more. Or, at least tell me directly, without eating the nut, the name of the young lady you are pining for.’

  ‘Pining?’ he said with a laugh. ‘I’ve never pined in my life! What am I, a lovesick swain?’

  ‘There is no young lady you are fond of?’

  ‘Well… perhaps there is.’

  ‘I am relieved to hear it. Tell me her name.’

  ‘Not likely.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You’ll use it in some spell to snare me, and I tell you I cannot eat that nut.’

  Myrtle groaned with vexation. ‘What do you think I am, some kind of witch?’

  The young man looked her up and down, with her rain-soaked, black hair, come loose from the knitting needle she used to keep it up, and falling in bedraggled strands about her scowling face. ‘You don’t look like a Fairy Godmother, that’s for sure. They always look quite pleasant.’

  ‘Master’s orders!’ said Myrtle, holding out the nut, ‘you must comply with Godmothering business!’

  ‘Master’s orders, hey?’ He eyed the nut. ‘No such orders have been told me.’

  ‘You know full well the master works with Mother Goodword.’

  ‘You’re not Mother Goodword. You’re only pretending to be her! Hah! Caught you out!’

  ‘If I had a wand,’ she said through gritted teeth, ‘I would turn you into a frog and leave you sitting in that well for a year and a day!’

  ‘I knew you were a witch!’ he cried triumphantly. ‘That’s just what an evil old crone would say! I’ll wager my hat you’re a crone disguised as a maid!’

  ‘That is it!’ growled Myrtle, reaching for another pinch of Dust.

  ‘Little beech nut, brown and sweet,

  ‘Irresistible to take and eat,

  ‘Cause the eater to be tame,

  ‘And reveal his true love’s name.

  ‘Now, EAT.’

  ‘Do not make me—’ he begged, but he could not resist the glowing nut, the magic compelled him. ‘Please—’ he begged one last time as he took it and lifted it to his mouth. ‘Allergic—’ he popped it into his mouth, his eyes still pleading with her.

  ‘Allergic?’ repeated Myrtle. ‘You do not mean…?’

  She watched in horror as his face turned purple, and his cheeks swelled up like a squirrel stuffed full of acorns.

  ‘Ugh—aah—ohh,’ he moaned, clutching his throat as though he was having trouble breathing.

  ‘Merciful Mushrooms!’ cried Myrtle. He had dropped to his knees, still clutching his throat, still gargling and gasping in that dreadful way. She flew to his side, her fingers wrenching her pouch of Dust out that she might shake it over his head – she shook it all out, terrified that she might have killed him!

  ‘Dust be kind,

  ‘Dust be a friend

  ‘Make this man

  ‘Heal and mend!’

  It was a rushed rhyme, but amazingly it worked! The young man’s cheeks began to deflate, his eyes ceased bulging, his colour faded from beetroot to a more regular hue, and he ceased gasping. Myrtle sat back on her mud-soaked heels and gave a long exclamation of relief.

  ‘Why did you not say you were allergic to nuts, you great numskull!’ Then she remembered her mission. ‘Quick, before the magic wears off, who is your true love?’

  He looked at her. ‘Uth—ath—eth—’ he garbled, showing a swollen tongue, which had not yet returned to normal.

  ‘Is her name Hannah?’ Myrtle asked, feeling desperate as she saw the glow of the magic fading fast. ‘Nod your head if her name is Hannah.’

  The last of the glow departed, and the man’s face had partly recovered.

  ‘I wuth noth tell you nothin’, you ole with!’ he said through swollen lips.

  Myrtle gave up. It was a dreadful morning’s work, and she could bear no more. She put up her hood, glad that he would soon forget all about her, and left in her squelching boots, feeling a sneeze brewing as she shivered beneath her damp cloak.

  11

  The Beginning of Wretchedness

  Harriet was troubled more than usual that morning as she taught her class.

  Mistress Woodhouse’s kind attempts at matchmaking her were adding to her confusion over who she was and what she was meant to do.

  Was she to be a Godmother? If so, why had the Godmothering Council not given her a name? Was she to give up Godmothering, marry and lead an ordinary life
? If so, why did she feel so sad at the thought of leaving her home at the school? And who would want to marry her? She suspected Master Elftyn was the man Mistress Woodhouse had in mind for her, but she could not quite believe it. Such a man as him. The whole notion of her marrying was such a strange one that she could not even speak of it to anyone, save Mistress Woodhouse.

  She was perplexed. And there was no Mother Goodword to talk out her worries with. And Mother Goodword might only be disappointed that she was failing in her assignment. She wanted to do well and make Mother Goodword proud, but she simply could not discern who Master Knightley’s match was.

  Reading to her class from The True and Trusty Tales of Sir Trowlyn only increased her troubled thoughts, for Sir Trowlyn had led a very complicated love life.

  Her students sat wide-eyed as she read aloud of how Sir Trowlyn had fallen in love with Eleonora the Ever-Fair, only to drink the fateful love potion given him by Genevieve the Dark, which made him fall hopelessly in love with her. Then he had been accosted by the powerful sorceress, Elementa le Fey, who had decided she rather liked him, and kept him in her castle, feeding him Faerie food and wine and under an enchantment so he would be besotted with her.

  But, of course, true love is far stronger than any enchanted love – which was the important lesson of the story for her students – so when the Royal Fairy Godmother, Lady Sweetbrier – the class always cheered when she appeared in a story – came and counselled Sir Trowlyn not to eat or drink the sorceress’s food and wine, but only morning dew and berries, then the enchantment weakened and Sir Trowlyn was able to make his escape and return home (with a half-dozen or so adventuresome diversions on the way) to his true love, the long-suffering Eleonora the Ever-Fair.

  Of course, that was not quite the end of the story, for Eleonora had been duped by Duke Ethelbard the Eloquent into believing that Sir Trowlyn had abandoned her for another. It was the very eve of Eleonora’s wedding to the duke, a match she did not care for, but was forced into by her father, who wished to appease the duke, for he was the most powerful man in the kingdom, and could be a threat…