The Tales of Aylfenhame Compendium

Chapter Eleven-1

Chapter Eleven

There’s a sorry state to be in, an’ no mistake. Miss Sophy was in a deal o’ trouble, poor lass, but she’s no fine lady as wilts at the drop of a hat.

As if to illustrate this point, Balligumph drops his fine hat into the dust of the road—and then hastily scrambles to pick it up again. He winks broadly, and with a throaty chuckle, continues:

Ye may be thinkin’ this is all gettin’ a mite complicated-like. People pretendin’ to be someone else entirely, an’ poor Sophy not knowin’ who she’s talkin’ to—nor me neither! Ye’d be right, but I warn ye: that’s nothin’. Here’s where everythin’ really gets complicated.

I had another visit from Miss Sophy, an’ she was all rarin’ to put her plans into action. Didn’t have the first idea o’ where to start, mind, but that never stopped her!

Three days after the death of Mr. Landon, Sophy made her way once more to Balligumph’s bridge. She was in a calmer state of mind, though still troubled and sorrowful. Wearing borrowed mourning-clothes, and with a black ribbon hastily applied to her summer bonnet, she knew she made a sorry sight in Tilby.

This concerned her little, however, for her goal was now to leave Tilby as soon as she could possibly arrange to do so.

‘There’s my favourite lady,’ said Balligumph when she arrived at the bridge. Every feature of his great round face spoke of sympathy and compassion, and his voice was full of warm affection. It was enough to bring a lump into Sophy’s throat.

‘Good morning!’ she said in a cheery tone. ‘Dear Mr. Balligumph, it is always such a pleasure to see you.’

He looked kindly upon her for that statement, and winked. ‘Aye, that I know! I’m thinkin’ this is no social call, however; ye’ve that purposeful look in yer eyes.’

Sophy smiled ruefully. ‘How disappointing to be so transparent! You are perfectly right, however. I am come with a request.’

Balligumph leaned closer to her, tilting his great head in a listening gesture.

‘It is about Aylfenhame,’ Sophy said, feeling curiously nervous as she said it. ‘I meant what I said before. My prospects are limited in every direction: I must make my own living, I fear, but I have few means to do so. Sewing must be my rescue; but to take up that profession here! It would be insupportable.’

‘Now, it may not be so very bad! Why should you say so?’

Sophy sat down upon the bridge, taking care not to dirty or tear her borrowed skirts. She leaned against Balligumph for comfort as she spoke. ‘To make one’s living with the needle is not a respected profession in England; that you must know! And to sink so far beneath society—to do so here, where I have always lived, always been known—it would be an endless source of misery to me. And I hardly know how I would contrive to support myself. But in Grenlowe! Their regard for finery seemed to me to be so very considerable, I have some hopes of better prospects there.’

‘An’ ye liked Grenlowe, that I recall,’ said Balli, nodding thoughtfully. ‘It ain’t a simple matter, that’s the truth, but it may be managed. Let me think a moment.’

He sat in thought for some minutes. Sophy felt no impatience; she was too tired for that. She closed her eyes, enjoying the feeling of warmth on her face and the fresh breeze against her skin, until Balli spoke again. ‘I think I may know someone who can help,’ he said, a statement which set Sophy’s heart leaping. ‘I can’t promise, mind! But if ye wish to pursue it—’

‘I do, I do!’ Sophy interrupted eagerly.

He chuckled, and patted her head. ‘Aye, very well. I can send ye back to Aylfenhame—though it won’t be so easy nor so pleasant as the last time—an’ a guide will take ye to the friend I have in my mind. Ye must put the case to her, and I can’t promise she will help, but she may, if she likes ye. An’ if ye mention my name, that might not be an awfully bad idea neither.’

A relieved, joyous smile came to Sophy’s face—the first real, unfeigned one in days—and she thanked Balligumph with all the most fervent language at her disposal. He actually seemed embarrassed, and waved her gratitude away with a few muttered syllables as the blue skin over his cheeks darkened a shade or two. ‘No promises, remember that!’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t like ye to be too disappointed, if it weren’t to come off.’

Sophy agreed to it; she would have agreed to anything, if it furthered her aim.

‘Do ye wish to go right away?’ Balli asked.

Sophy considered this. She was tempted to say yes, to leave at once; the sooner she secured some future to herself that she could welcome—that she could even tolerate—the sooner her troubled mind would be at peace. But there remained some matters that required her attention. She could not in conscience simply abandon Mary and Thundigle without notice, not even for a few days.

She relayed this to the troll, and he nodded wisely. ‘Well, now,’ he said when she’d finished. ‘Given our last conversation, I had a thought that you might be needin’ this.’ He fetched a little glass sphere from a pocket—the same as the one he had given her before—and offered it to her. ‘So I put my hands on another. Here, take it. Ye may use it whenever ye feel ready.’

Sophy took it, with more profuse thanks which Balli waved away. She tucked the little sphere into her reticule, and drew the string tightly to secure the precious object inside.

‘I will find a way to repay you, someday,’ she said to Balligumph.

He found that amusing, or perhaps he was merely delighted; an enormous grin split his face and he gave a great, rumbling laugh. ‘Ye’re a good woman,’ he pronounced, administering another heavy pat on the head. ‘Ye’ll be all right.’

Sophy fervently hoped so. The flutter in the pit of her stomach suggested otherwise, but she was growing used to ignoring it.

***

Aubranael stood in the library at Hyde Place, pacing about among the bookshelves and pausing at intervals to stare moodily out of the large windows. Their house was situated on the edge of the Lincolnshire Wolds, and the library windows afforded a pleasant view of fields and hedgerows and, in the distance, rolling green hills.

He saw none of it; not even when the sun came out from behind a smattering of clouds and cast a golden glow over the countryside. He was too absorbed by his own concerns, and the problems he faced.

Mr. Landon’s death had come as no surprise to anybody but him, he had discovered. The neighbourhood was more inclined to feel surprised that it had taken so long. The good reverend’s health had been in decline for years, and while people’s opinions as to the cause differed—some spoke romantically of heartbreak following the long-ago death of his wife, others spoke more disparagingly of selfishness and gluttony—all agreed that his time had come, fair and square.

Few seemed concerned about the fate of his daughter. Most talked very comfortably about her imminent fall from society, and speculated about the probable character and appearance of the new reverend in the same breath. Even those who expressed concern for her could think of no way to help her.

To his chagrin and anger, he found that there was no longer any expectation that he, Mr. Stanton, would seek to claim her as his wife. Now that she was penniless in fact rather than merely in prospect—and homeless into the bargain—it was generally agreed that he would give up all thought of her. Did they think him so shallow, or were they merely projecting their own feelings onto him?

He had paid her a visit as soon as he had heard the news. She had been subdued, exhausted, and in pain, and despite her attempts at composure he had detected more than a hint of fear behind her eyes. It angered almost as much as it frustrated him; she should not have been left in this situation! Her pain had hurt him far worse than any misfortune of his own; shocked at how deeply he felt, he had wanted to hold her until she was smiling once again.

He could do no such thing, of course, so he had merely hovered, exchanging awkward pleasantries with Miss Landon until he judged that it was time to withdraw. The meeting had taken barely fifteen minutes, and he had gone away with so many things unsaid…

If he could, he would have settled the matter once and for all, there and then. But there remained the problem of the mess in which he had embroiled himself. He could hardly ask her to marry him in the character of Mr. Stanton, when she had no idea who she was truly engaging herself to, and he had no home to take her to, nor the means to acquire one. And so, as the days passed, the neighbourhood took his inactivity as confirmation of their expectations. Edward Adair had even had the effrontery to congratulate him on his escape! On his having, as the revolting boy put it, “come to his senses”! It was intolerable.

But he had only himself to blame. What had possessed him to begin this ridiculous masquerade? Where had he expected it to end? The truth was, he hadn’t thought that far. Seduced by the prospect of beauty, he had succumbed to the temptation with the greatest of ease. At the beginning, it had all seemed so easy; by the time his month was up, he and Miss Landon would of course be on such good terms that she would accept the truth about him with equanimity.

Almost four weeks had passed, and he had only a few days left before Hidenory’s enchantment expired. It no longer seemed so easy, and he could only curse the appalling naivety—and insecurity, and fear—that had got him into this mess. He was stuck, and he could see no solution that would end in the way he wished.

‘Aha!’ came a cry from behind him. ‘Got you!’

He turned to find Grunewald standing in the doorway, holding a household brownie by the ear. It took Aubranael a few moments to shake off his preoccupied daze and fully register the scene before him. When he did, he frowned. Grunewald appeared to be searching the creature.

‘What are you doing?’

Grunewald flashed a brief glance at him, his leaf-green eyes shining with anger. ‘It seems we have a visitor,’ he said lightly. ‘Though uninvited visitors are usually given less courteous names, are they not? Intruder, perhaps? Or spy?’

The brownie stared up at Grunewald with calm passivity. She was dressed as most of her kind, in ragged clothes stained with dirt and dust; her hair was a mass of flyaway brown curls, and the expression in her dark brown eyes was gentle. She showed no signs of fear or alarm at Grunewald’s treatment, however, merely staring up at him with flawless calm.

‘I don’t understand,’ Aubranael said. ‘Is not this one of your people?’

‘Why, no,’ Grunewald said. ‘This one is a real brownie.’ He finished his search, apparently finding nothing interesting or incriminating about the person of his “visitor”, and frowned down at her. He was a great deal taller than she and wearing such a fierce expression that Aubranael felt quite sorry for her.

‘Certainly I am a real brownie,’ she said, calmly smoothing herself down.

‘And why are you here?’ Grunewald demanded. ‘I thought I established that this house was not to be infiltrated.’

It was a curious choice of word, Aubranael thought. Infiltrated, as if a brownie helper might be expected to have some ulterior motive in moving into the house.

The brownie smiled gently up at Grunewald. ‘I am here to help.’

Grunewald smiled nastily back. ‘As I am sure you have had ample opportunity to observe, I am in need of no help.’

‘Indeed, sire, for your entourage is considerable.’

Aubranael blinked. There was that word again: sire. He’d thought he had heard it before, at Grunewald’s house in Nottinghamshire, but he could have been mistaken. This time, he was sure he had not misheard.

Grunewald was scowling in annoyance. ‘My name is Mr. Green,’ he said shortly.

The brownie merely nodded and said, ‘Of course, sire.’

Grunewald sighed and released her. He muttered something under his breath, of which Aubranael could just catch the words interfering trolls.

‘You may tell Mr. Balligumph that his surmise is quite correct, that we are all awfully impressed by his cleverness, and that he will certainly be the first person I will ask should I be requiring information at any time in the future,’ Grunewald said severely. ‘You may also inform him that he is not welcome to send his spies and snitches into my household and that any further incursions will be greeted with the utmost severity.’