by Nina Clare
Why had Robert Martin proposed? That was the question that shadowed her, like a watchful cat. He knew she wished to be a Godmother. Had she not said so many times over the summer? She tried to remember any conversations they may have had on the subject. It was odd, but now that she considered it, she could not remember ever having really talked about it. It was as though the idea had gone from her mind all through the summer. Why was that? Perhaps she had simply been too occupied with her friends.
What delightful walks and picnics they had all had, down by the riverbank, paddling in the shallow places in the water. He’d tried to teach her and May to fish. How she’d squealed when she caught a tiny little fish, and how he’d laughed, and made her laugh too. And the evenings of cards and more laughter, and then the dancing and music and singing at Midsummer.
But it was no good to think of such things. She could never leave Mother Goodword and the children at the school. She was in the dining room now, and it saddened her to see the long refectory tables stretching away empty, the chairs standing useless. She caught Cloe-Claws watching her through narrowed eyes, as though she knew her thoughts. ‘I could never leave you all,’ she told the cat. ‘But why did he have to write such a letter?’ He had quite ruined her peace. ‘I’ll polish the tables,’ she decided.
There was something soothing in the quiet repetitive acts of cleaning and polishing. Harriet was not so ignorant as to carry out any work the brownie had taken on as her own. So, she announced loudly, for the benefit of Busie, that she was just going to carry out some maintenance to the woodwork in the dining room. Maintenance work and cleaning one’s own bedroom was permitted by Busie; the rest of the household work was not. Mother Goodword had always been very firm with the students on how to behave when there was a brownie in the house. Having a loyal brownie was a blessing; offending one brought very unpleasant consequences to one’s household comforts.
Harriet first searched the cupboards and shelves in the storeroom for the orange oil she wanted. The little stone-built room with its low rafters looked sadly depleted. There were few herbs and plants gathered in winter; spring would begin replenishing their pitiful stock. Strange that they should have used so much of it in so short a time. In fact, as Harriet looked at each shelf, each cubbyhole, and the empty hooks in the beams where bunches of herbs should hang, she wondered which of the Sisters had used everything up. She could not recall Rue or Myrtle saying they were making a big batch of anything. Perhaps Mistress Perry had borrowed it, her own stock affected by the mischief in the village of late. There was no purple-spotted orchid root left, no cow-parsley or chickweed powder. The last bottle of dawn dew was almost empty. There was a jar of orange oil, however, so she took it up and returned to the dining hall and began her work.
A rap at the school door sounded, its sound echoing down the hall, and a ‘Coo-ee! Anyone home?’ was repeated as quick, light footsteps came down the hallway.
‘In the dining hall, Mistress Perry!’ called out Harriet, continuing her polishing.
‘How quiet it is,’ exclaimed Mistress Perry, coming in, her bright elven eyes looking round. ‘It’s not natural. Such a pity. I hope Mother Goodword returns soon. Any news?’
Harriet chatted a while with Mistress Perry, glad for the distraction. They wondered between them where Mother Goodword could be, and when she might come back. The talk moved from Mother Goodword to Mistress Woodhouse.
‘I hear a rumour that you have been sitting for a portrait,’ said Mistress Perry.
‘It is true,’ admitted Harriet.
‘How very aristocratic. I wonder that you have time to sit for hours, I should have thought you had much to do with your studies.’
‘It was connected to my studies. Indirectly.’
‘Did you feel like a fine lady, having your likeness taken?’
Harriet paused in her polishing to recall those hours. ‘Time passes so slowly when one is only to sit. I had a constant itch or tickle about me the whole time. Master Elftyn was very kind in reading to us to while away the time.’
‘Was he now? How interesting. Well, I did hear another rumour…’ Mistress Perry said the word rumour as though it were some kind of delicious sweet. ‘I heard that Master Elftyn was commissioned to take the portrait to the framers. All the way to town, is that true?’
‘It is. He is very obliging,’ said Harriet warmly.
‘Ah, that solves a little riddle. My husband met Master Elftyn on the road the other day. He was coming home from Clayton Park and was amazed to find that Master Elftyn was riding all the way to London and did not mean to return till the next day. He said he was on a very enviable commission. My husband said he looked as the cat who has had the cream. He was so bold as to say directly to Master Elftyn that he was sure that there must be a lady in the case, and what do you think Master Elftyn did?’
‘What did he do?’
‘He smiled and rode on.’
‘Oh.’ Harriet had been expecting a better ending to the story.
‘What a lucky woman to have captured the heart of Master Elftyn,’ said Mistress Perry. ‘For this enviable commission was surely in the service of a certain fair lady of the manor and her painting, was it not?’
‘To be sure,’ agreed Harriet, pleased to think her matchmaking must be working to some degree if the neighbours were noticing it. It was only a great pity that Mistress Woodhouse herself seemed resistant.
‘Any woman that Master Elftyn could prefer I must think the luckiest woman in the world, for, beyond a doubt, Master Elftyn has not his equal for beauty and agreeableness,’ continued Mistress Perry.
‘Oh, indeed. He is very handsome and gentlemanlike and agreeable.’ It was always a pleasure to praise Master Elftyn.
‘And he has an air of confidence,’ said Mistress Perry. ‘It would suit him very well to be raised up. To become a leader in society. We need a good leader in these times, do we not? We need someone with authority at the helm.’
Harriet was not quite sure what Mistress Perry meant by this. ‘He does have a good air of confidence,’ she agreed. She paused to tip fresh oil onto her polishing rag. ‘But he has not the air of authority that Master Knightley has.’ Her conscience pricked her a little as she recalled that she had displaced Master Knightley as her ward for handsome Master Elftyn.
‘You may be right,’ said Mistress Perry. ‘But I think that will come with age. He’s a young man, and will improve in time. As you say, he has not the confidence of Master Knightley. And he has not that delightful smell of pine about him that Mistress Martin’s son has.’
Being elven, Mistress Perry was just as susceptible to scent as the Sisters were, though hers came with no need for practise.
‘Master Martin!’ exclaimed Harriet, dropping her cloth. ‘Why do you speak of him? How can you speak of him as though comparing him to Master Elftyn and Master Knightley!’
‘To be sure, he has no beauty in his features comparable to Master Elftyn,’ said Mistress Perry, ‘but his soul smells very pleasant. But you would know that. You spent the whole of the summer with the Martins, did you not?’
‘Why, yes.’ Harriet picked up her cloth and vigorously resumed her work. Was Mistress Perry fishing for gossip regarding Robert Martin’s proposal of marriage? Had she heard a rumour of it? Harriet did not mind encouraging rumours of Master Elftyn and Mistress Woodhouse, but she did not want any regarding herself and Robert Martin.
‘Robert Martin’s manners cannot be compared to Master Elftyn’s,’ was Harriet’s summing up of the matter. ‘I don’t think Robert Martin ever wrote a riddle or spoke a line of poetry in his life, but Master Elftyn knows so many poems and is always quoting clever things and I should think he would write very long, clever letters, if he were to write to a lady, and not short ones that were easy to understand.’
‘Very long letters?’
‘I am only guessing.’ Harriet flushed deeply and polished so hard that her fair curls bounced with the movement.
Mis
tress Perry did not seem to notice Harriet’s distress. She continued on the subject of Master Elftyn’s praiseworthy qualities. ‘How well he has done his house up since he came to Highbury. One would think he has done it up purposely to prepare it for a wife. Those pretty curtains at the front, what a happy colour. They exactly match the primroses in spring.’
A sudden thought struck Harriet that made her cease polishing for a minute.
‘Mistress Perry, if you lived in a very grand house, and had done so all your life, would you think it difficult to move into a little cottage?’
‘Why would one wish to move into a little cottage if one had a grand house?’
‘Perhaps you had fallen in love with a very agreeable man, but he only had a little cottage.’
‘If I were very much richer than my husband, I would bring a fortune to him that would enable him to build a bigger house.’
‘Of course!’ said Harriet, her frown replaced with a smile of relief. ‘Why did I not think of that? They will build a handsome house.’
‘Who will?’
But Harriet did not answer. She peered into her jar of oil, trying to see if there were any left in the bottom. Goodness, how much she had used!
‘Are you out of orange oil?’
‘We’re out of everything,’ said Harriet, thinking of the sparse shelves of the storeroom. ‘Mistress Perry, did you borrow a goodly amount from our storeroom in the past week?’
‘I borrowed a sprig or two of tansy some time ago.’
‘Is that all? You have not borrowed any purple-spotted orchid root? No cow-parsley or chickweed powder?’
‘No indeed. What need have I for love powders?’
‘Love powders?’
‘Purple-spotted orchid root, cow parsley and chickweed are the base ingredients of a love powder. Along with dawn dew, and honey to bind them, it must be fae honey, and chamomile-leaf, and something else… now what is it?’
‘Could it be… speedwell?’ said Harriet.
‘Very good! You are coming along well in your studies. Those little rumours regarding your acolyte name must be mistaken. Speedwell. Excellent for a speedy recovery from winter colds, the tickly cough, the rheumy eye, and an essential ingredient in a strong love powder. Though I did not think Mother Goodword approved of love powders and potions.’
‘She doesn’t,’ said Harriet distractedly. Her mind was flitting over many thoughts and ideas at that moment.
‘Well, you can’t do any harm with a love powder at present,’ said Mistress Cole, adjusting her bonnet in preparation to leave. ‘For you have no magic to activate it, have you?’
Harriet stared at her.
‘It was a pleasure talking with you, Sister Harriet. I don’t have any orange oil I can lend you, but I do have some lemon. I’ll send my boy over with it.’
‘Wait,’ she said, as Mistress Cole neared the door. ‘What was it you came for?’
‘I just wanted to hear if there was any news,’ said Mistress Cole. ‘I’ve come from sitting with Dame Baytes, and she was asking after Mother Goodword, so I said I would come and enquire if there’s any word.’
‘Oh. I see.’
‘I wish she would return and put things right in Highbury, that is what I said to Dame Baytes, it’s a bad day, is it not, when mischief runs amok among us and our own Wild Man will not stir from his armchair. Folks are saying it’s a shame and an injustice, but I say there’s good hope for a welcome change coming in that quarter. Did we not have two great Winds these past months? Winds bring change, do they not? Change is coming. Spring shall drive out winter, the old harvest shall make way for the new. That’s the way of things. Good day to you!’
23
A Troublesome Creature
Midwinter came, and the village lingered on in dissatisfaction. There was no gingerbread smell wafting from Mistress Wallis’s bakery that Midwinter; the cinnamon rolls and gingerbread would keep coming out burnt, so Mistress Wallis gave up making them. There were still odd accounts of mischief shared over tea in parlours and ale in the Crown Inn: tales of scarecrows coming to life and wandering about the fields, scaring more than just the crows; sightings of all kinds of unearthly creatures near the riverbank, so that no one would dare fish there. There were grumblings against Mother Goodword and Master Woodhouse. What was the point of having the Wild Man, and a Godmother amongst them when things were left to go on as they were? It was a disgrace. Their children terrified by enchanted scarecrows and not a single gingerbread star to be had on Midwinter eve. Not to mention the deplorable lack of fresh milk now that the cows were all so skittish.
‘Perhaps,’ good Master Elftyn was heard to say over his mug of mead in the Crown, ‘we need a new Guardian at Hartfield. One who would exert his authority and put a stop to all this nonsense.’
His fellow partakers of mead and ale nodded over their pipe bowls and mugs. Perhaps Master Elftyn ought to marry the daughter, and take over at Hartfield, was the consensus, to which Master Elftyn modestly laughed.
‘Perhaps,’ Master Elftyn was heard to say over his cup of tea as he sat in ladies’ parlours, discussing all things genteel, ‘we need a new Wild Man at Hartfield. One who would take up his responsibility and make safe our borders.’
The good wives and daughters of Highbury nodded over their saucers and wished heartily that it were so. Those who had no marriageable daughters hinted that perhaps Master Elftyn should seek the hand of the Lady of the Manor, that he might step into the shoes of Guardian himself. Master Elftyn laughed charmingly at such an idea.
So, it came to pass that all of Highbury reached the general opinion that good Master Elftyn would soon wed Mistress Woodhouse, and save the village; after all, it was well known that he visited the manor frequently. Was he not always mentioning something Master Woodhouse or Mistress Woodhouse had said or done recently? Tea, supper, evening cards, he was always there. It was even said that he rode all the way to town just to carry out an errand for her. Some business at the framers. Now that was not the act of a mere kindly neighbour – that was the act of a lover!
Speculation became fact, suggestion became certainty, whispers became open talk. Everyone, saving the lady in question herself was quite convinced of it, and there was even talk that one of the young Godmothers at the school was assisting him with magic. It was about time something useful was done by the residents of that establishment.
Myrtle was feeling hopeful. She had set out to check the site of the old bridge, to see if there were any signs of darklings crossing over, but before she reached the turning to Donwell Road, she picked up the smell of a trail of magic leading westwards, and it was most definitely rogue magic. She followed the hedgerows overarching the lane between Highbury and the road to Kingston. The magic came as a twist in the air, as though a sylph had somersaulted through her head, giving her a momentary feeling of tumbling. An ordinary mortal would have exclaimed in that moment that they’d had a funny turn, a sudden feeling of dizziness that passed as quickly as it had come. But Myrtle knew what a sylph felt like, and she knew she was not having a funny turn. Something had recently passed by this way and left a trace of strange magic roiling behind it in its wake.
It was easier to close her eyes and apply all her sensing to track the magic. She could only walk a few steps at a time in this fashion, or she risked stepping in a rut in the lane and turning an ankle, or being tricked into walking into the brambles by the tiny bramble imps, who lived in burrows beneath.
So, she made slow progress, but certainty rose with every yard she gained, for the roiling magic grew a little stronger in feel and smell the closer she drew towards it. She was in Gypsy Woods now, an ancient woodland of hornbeam and elm and box, dense and dark, despite the elms and hornbeams being leafless in their wintry rest.
Eventually she had no need to close her eyes, for she could sense the magic more readily. It crossed her mind that she might be entering into danger. Perhaps she ought to turn back and seek assistance, but assistance from
whom? Rue would urge her onwards, not heeding any danger in her excitement; Harriet would be of no help, she was too frightened of imps to venture into Gypsy Wood, and there was no one she could ask magical aid from. So, she continued on alone, glad that she was naturally light-footed, and could move carefully and quietly. Rue would have crashed through the undergrowth, treading on sticks and tripping over roots, alerting her presence to every imp and mischievous sprite.
Myrtle had her little knife she always carried in her pocket, and she had her knitting needle, which doubled very well as hair pin and weapon, if required.
There was a break between the trees, and she spied a wreath of wood smoke. Someone had set up camp.
The smoke came from a small ring of stones, harbouring a fire, and over the fire, squatted down, stirring a small cauldron was a stranger.
Myrtle stood behind a hornbeam trunk and peered at him. At first glance she had seen a thin creature, with limbs like crooked branches. But that first impression shifted into a different view when she looked again. The man, or whatever he was, clearly wore a glamour. Behind him lay objects spread on the ground, as though he had carried a big pack of goods, that were now tipped out to be rummaged through. A roamer, thought Myrtle. A roamer would be exactly the sort of person to steal a wand.
‘Well, lookee here,’ said the roamer, not looking up, but remaining squatted over the fire. ‘Company.’
Myrtle hesitated, but she had come this far. There was no use running away now.
‘Good day to you,’ she said, stepping out from behind the tree, and approaching as close as she dared.
‘What can I do ye for?’ said the roamer. He tilted his head and grinned up at her. He was surprisingly handsome. Myrtle’s first impression had been that of an ugly face with crooked teeth and dirty straggly beard, but this was a youthful man, clean-shaven with tolerably good teeth. But she was not so unwise as to forget her first impression.