Miss Ellerby and the Ferryman Read online

  ‘It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Ellerby,’ said Mr. Thompson. She raised her eyes to his face, and saw, to her relief, that he was smiling. His countenance was boyish, though she gathered him to be of some eight-and-twenty years of age, and his dark green eyes bore an expression of friendliness and good humour which she found reassuring. They rested upon her, moreover, with an air of mild approval, and she guessed him to be ready to be pleased by her. Isabel took a breath, and as she let it out much of her nervousness dissipated along with it.

  He solicited her hand for the first dances in a very proper style, and with modesty which further recommended him to her; for he must be well aware that she had no power of refusal. He led her into the set, and as they awaited the beginning of the music he talked to her in an agreeable way about the dance, and the number of couples, and the roads, in a fashion exactly calculated to soothe. She found him to be an excellent partner. He danced with a little reserve, but with grace and perfect correctness. When the two dances were over, she was conscious of having enjoyed them more than she had expected to.

  Afterwards, he led her to a sofa, bowed over her hand as he settled her upon it, and retreated for a few moments. He returned shortly, bearing a glass of punch for her, and seated himself beside her with a smile.

  ‘I hope the circumstances of this meeting have not left you feeling too uncomfortable,’ he said. ‘Our families have been a little high-handed, I fear.’

  Isabel was surprised into a genuine smile, though she felt it incumbent upon her to make a polite demurral.

  ‘Oh, come now,’ he said, laughing. ‘To introduce us like this and expect that we should dutifully take to one another! It cannot have been easy for you, and I am sorry for it.’

  ‘It has been unusual,’ Isabel conceded, though she smiled as she spoke.

  Mr. Thompson nodded. ‘I did want to assure you that I shan’t press any suit upon you unless we should both genuinely wish it,’ he continued. ‘And regardless of the wishes of your mother — or mine — I do not expect that any such conclusion can be arrived at under so short an acquaintance as this evening allows. Several more meetings, at least, will be necessary to determine our feelings.’

  Isabel had not expected to receive such plain-speaking, and it briefly disconcerted her. But she was also reassured by it, and a moment’s reflection allowed her to say, ‘I am pleased to find that I can view the prospect of further meetings with pleasure.’

  It was spoken with sincerity, for she found in Mr. Thompson a congenial young man, not at all the self-important high-stickler she had been picturing under the onslaught of her Mama’s panic. It was far too early to imagine with equanimity the prospect of a lifetime spent as his wife, but the idea did not actively repel her.

  Mr. Thompson smiled upon this cautious praise, looking, Isabel thought, rather relieved. Had his mother been as urgent with him as Mrs. Ellerby had with Isabel? Surely not, for the Thompsons enjoyed undoubtedly the stronger social position as well as being far wealthier.

  Mr. Thompson began to talk of his family in a manner designed, Isabel felt, to introduce to her some idea of the company she would be keeping if she married him. She watched the dancers as he spoke of his three sisters, for she could see them all, suitably partnered and whirling about the floor. The picture he painted agreed but little with what she saw, for he spoke of amiable, unpretending young women, and they did not, to her eye, appear much pleased with their company.

  She saw her brother Charles as well, dancing with Jane Ellis. Charles was smiling, and Jane was in high bloom. The match was not what her parents had hoped for, but that it made him happy, none could deny. Her friend Anne had also married the man of her choice, as had Sophy Landon. Isabel could only hope that her parents had chosen as well for her, as Anne, Charles and Sophy had chosen for themselves.

  Mr. Thompson had progressed to speaking of his horses. She turned her attention back to him, watching his face as he talked. Amiable he might be, and well-looking, but he seemed well-pleased to talk at great length upon his own topics without requiring much response from her. Conscious of a feeling of boredom, it occurred to her that she had made little effort to speak, and she sought in her mind for a suitable topic.

  But then the orchestra began to play a lively reel, which instantly inspired Mr. Thompson to bring an end to his disclosures and to say instead, ‘May I solicit you as a partner for a second time, Miss Ellerby?’

  Grateful for the interruption and not at all disinclined to dance, Isabel smiled upon him and allowed him to lead her back onto the floor. But as she waited for the couples to form and the dance to begin, she became aware of an alteration in the music. It began as a subtle change in the tone, as though one of the instruments had wandered off to play a slightly different part. Then it began to seem as though the instruments themselves had undergone some indescribable change; that what had once been a fiddle had transformed into something similar, but not quite the same — like the difference between a pianoforte and a harpsichord.

  Isabel was obliged to turn about entirely in order to see the orchestra, and thus risk missing the beginning of the dance. But as the tones and the tune grew rapidly stranger, she could not refrain from satisfying herself that all was well. She turned.

  The orchestra was not clearly visible from the dance floor, for they were raised up upon a square balcony which overlooked the hall some way above the dancers’ heads. At first, all she could discern was the white, full sleeve of a fiddler billowing as he played, and a becurled head bobbing in time to the music. But then one of the players leaned over the rail to survey the dancers, affording Isabel a clear view of his countenance.

  He was not human; that much she discerned at a glance. His skin was too white, and it shimmered in an odd way, like mother-of-pearl. His hair was pale too, long and straight and bound back in a fashion no gentleman would ever think proper. His eyes glittered like chips of ice and his smile stretched a fraction too wide.

  Isabel stared. She now saw that not one of the four-piece orchestra was human, for beside the pale fiddler stood another man, taller than the first, whose golden skin and green-streaked hair were every bit as wild and strange. There were two others besides these, both dark of skin and hair and eye. All four wore clothes of outlandish style, and their ears curled at the tips.

  Isabel had spent little time beyond the shores of England, but she had thrice travelled beyond the walls which separated her homeland from the realm of the fae. Aylfenhame, it was called, and its principle denizens were the Ayliri. In face and form and feature they resembled humans, and yet they were not like at all.

  These musicians were Ayliri, but how they came to be playing for a country assembly in England she could not guess. Lesser denizens of Aylfenhame often wandered into England; indeed many, such as the household brownies and Balligumph the bridge-keeper, settled in England entirely. But to her knowledge, the Ayliri visited but rarely, and never without good reason.

  Her thoughts flew to Sophy. Her dearest friend in the world, Miss Sophy Landon, had — by a series of strange events — come to marry one of the Ayliri, and had settled in Aylfenhame. Had she somehow contrived to send these musicians?

  But Isabel could not conceive of how Sophy could have known of the assembly at all, nor why she might have chosen to interfere in such a way. Besides, Isabel felt sure that until a few minutes ago, both the music and its players had been human indeed.

  The dancers were in shambles and the steps forgotten as the music grew stranger, and the ball guests more uneasy. Mr. Thompson was at Isabel’s elbow, a picture of gentlemanly concern as he tried to steer her away from the confusion. ‘I do not know what can be amiss with the musicians,’ he was saying in a placid way, ‘but I trust it will soon be put right. In the meantime, please come and sit out of the way, and I will procure you some refreshment.’

  Isabel stared at him in confusion. His smile was tranquil enough, and he betrayed no sign that he was other than mildly puzzled.
Had he not observed how badly amiss the musicians were?

  Rising over the strains of the music came a dull, hollow boom, and then another: the main doors had been thrown open. Whirling to observe this new disturbance, Isabel saw streaming into the assembly room the strangest procession of people she had ever beheld.

  At their head strode a tall, thin man, taller than anyone else in the room. He wore knee-breeches, waistcoat and cutaway coat in the fashion of the English gentry, but his were cut from strange, shimmering fabrics dyed in the colours of spring flowers. His hair was indigo in hue and fell in a tangled mess around his face, and at his lips he held a strangely curling pipe. The music he played upon this enchanting instrument rippled like water, and melded perfectly with the lively melody the orchestra played.

  Behind him danced a lady only slightly shorter than he, her figure as wispy and fragile as a blade of grass. Her golden hair was swept up upon her head and bound with long pins, at the ends of which rested living butterflies — Isabel’s startled gaze discerned the slow movement of wings. Her dress mimicked the style of Isabel’s own, but hers was as light and silky as flower petals. Its colour was some hue between purple, blue and pink that Isabel had never seen before, and shockingly vibrant. She wore clusters of glass bells upon her wrists; these she shook in time with the piper’s song, setting them ringing with an eerie music.

  Behind these two came six more couples, all dressed in the same manner of familiar, yet strange fashions. Their hair was long and flowing, straight and heavy or curling like wisps of smoke. Some wore their sumptuous locks loose, while others had bound their hair up with jewels and combs. Their eyes flashed with merriment and anticipation and something else — mischief, perhaps.

  Isabel’s mind flew back to the visits she had paid to Sophy in the fae town of Grenlowe. Being a skilled seamstress, Sophy had set up a shop there. She now sold fashions for both men and women, wondrous garments which mixed English styles with the strange and beautiful materials available in Aylfenhame and a glimmer of fae magic. These Ayliri were wearing Sophy’s clothes!

  Did that mean that Sophy had sent them? But why would she do such a thing? Isabel watched in a daze as the Ayliri dancers streamed through to the centre of the room, the assembly’s displaced guests falling back as one to make way for them. Even the Thompsons’ finery paled to nothing against the riot of colour and light and magic the fae brought with them, and the Alford assembly guests were silent in awe.

  The Ayliri formed themselves into a set and began a whirling, laughing dance that was as alien as their music. They dominated the space with their flamboyant movements, and the people of Alford and Tilby were forced back against the walls.

  Isabel couldn’t see who first began, but in the blink of an eye she realised that the eight Ayliri were no longer alone in their dance. A young Englishman and his fair partner were whirling along with them. Rapidly, the lines of silent people ringing the walls melted into the set, and it grew bigger and more encompassing.

  Isabel watched, mesmerised, and aware of a growing longing to join them — a longing which swiftly deepened into a kind of compulsion. Soon her desire to whirl into the merry dance outweighed her hesitance and her inhibitions and in the next instant she was caught up in the flow, Mr. Thompson swept in alongside her.

  No dance in Isabel’s life could have prepared her for the sensations she now felt. She was caught up in a fever of energy, activity and colour so intense she could barely comprehend what she did. The steps were wholly strange to her, yet she knew their patterns instinctively and kept pace with the intricacy of the dance without any effort. Her skirts twirled and swayed around her legs with the vigour of her movements and her cheeks flushed as she was swept along. And the music grew ever stranger.

  Moreover, she felt a sense of wild, almost violent joy which had never been hers to experience before; and a sensation of perfect belonging, as though she had always been intended for such a dance as this. Had she but had leisure enough to observe her companions, she would have seen that the same sensations affected all around her. But she had attention for nothing but her own place in the circle, and the lithe, strange, bright figures of the Ayliri who led the dance.

  Only one moment amongst this blur of activity particularly impressed itself upon her memory. There came the briefest of pauses in the dance, when, for an instant, the breathless whirl ceased and the dancers waited, suspended, as in the grip of some strange enchantment. And as she waited, among the others, for the dance to continue, Isabel found herself observed.

  It was the tall piper’s gaze which rested upon her. His tangled indigo hair was swept back from his face, revealing violet eyes. These eyes were fixed upon Isabel, intent and questioning, though she had no way of knowing what questions he asked of her in the silence of his own mind.

  This scrutiny lasted but a moment. Then he lifted his curious pipe to his lips once more, and blew three rippling notes. The fiddlers took up the tune, and the dance resumed. Isabel lost sight of the piper.

  The evening passed by in a blur of colour and sound, and the assembly did not break up until the small hours of the morning. Isabel came to herself at last, deposited upon the step of her own home without the smallest recollection of how she came to be there.

  Chapter Three

  Ye may be thinkin’ these are mighty strange goin’s-on fer a quiet place like Tilby. Ye’d be right enough. Oh, there’s brownies an’ sprites and the like in these parts — as well as my good self, o’ course! — but in the common way o’ things the county o’ Lincolnshire’s a proper human place, wi’ less o’ the fae-begotten antics.

  Tis not normal, indeed, fer the likes o’ Tiltager to appear out o’ nowhere an’ offer service to a human woman. An’ fer the Ayliri to descend in force upon a mere country assembly, well! Thas far out o’ the ordinary.

  An’ there was stranger t’ come. Fer instance, when I woke on th’ morning a few days after tha’ strangest of assemblies, the most unexpected sight met my eyes. Have ye ever seen a creature resemblin’ some kind o’ feline crossed wi’ a bear and wi’ more than a little o’ the bat about its features? I’ll reckon ye ‘ave not. No more had I. An’ what’s more, it was o’ the strangest colours. All striped wi’ brown an’ gold, an’ some kind o’ scarlet tassel on the tip of its tail.

  An’ it — she, I should say, as it was a lady — was grumblin’ and whinin’ fit to burst as she crossed over my bridge. Crankiest beast I ‘ave encountered in many a long year! An’ when I stopped her t’ ask fer my toll, ‘twas Miss Isabel’s name she were bandyin’ about. Walked all the way from the wilds o’ Aylfenhame to find Miss Ellerby! It were a while before I learned the truth o’ the reason why.

  On the morning of the seventh of July, Isabel breakfasted very early with her mother. Her trunk had already gone outside and she was soon to follow, for a visit to her aunt in York was to occupy her for the next few weeks.

  Mrs. Ellerby’s reasons for proposing the visit had been twofold. In the first instance, she wished for Isabel to be nearer to the Thompsons, and Mrs. Grey had promised to shepherd Isabel around all of the public functions which might be supposed to include the son of the house.

  In the second instance, all of Tilby had been shocked by the intrusion of the Ayliri into the Alford Assembly, and even more shocked by their own behaviour under it. Though unusual events typically spurred a flurry of gossip and chatter which might last weeks or even months, the town had entered into a grim, unspoken pact never to mention it at all. Though her mother never said it in so many words, Isabel knew that her motive in sending her daughter to York was partly to remove her from the environs of Lincolnshire which had, so suddenly and unexpectedly, descended into a state bordering on degeneracy — at least in the minds of some.

  To send her daughter away from disturbing fae magics and towards the delights promised by her marriage into the Thompson family seemed the best combination of motives to Mrs. Ellerby. It mattered not that the Ayliri had faded out of Lincolnsh
ire the moment the assembly had ended, and that nothing more had been seen or heard of them since. Once such a thing had occurred, no dependence whatsoever could be placed upon its never occurring again.

  Isabel was hustled outside by her mother the moment she could fairly be supposed to have finished her breakfast. Neither was expecting to find that a most curious-looking creature had taken possession of the doorstep.

  ‘What manner of being is this?’ cried Mrs. Ellerby, upon finding a furred and striped animal curled up around itself just a little to the left of her front door.

  Isabel stared at it in wonder. It was a cat, or something like, though its ears more nearly resembled those of a bear and its face was curiously reminiscent of a bat. It was handsomely striped in shades of brown with glittering flickers of gold, and its tail bore a lively tuft of crimson.

  ‘It is some kind of stray cat, perhaps,’ said Isabel in some doubt. ‘Perhaps it is hungry? I shall ask Cook to find some scraps for it to eat.’

  ‘You will do no such thing, for you are to depart at once,’ said Mrs. Ellerby firmly. ‘And if it is fed, you know it will only linger and we will never be rid of the odd thing.’

  ‘It will take only a moment, Mama!’ said Isabel. ‘If it is a stray it is surely hungry, and it would be cruelty to turn it away.’ She turned and went back inside the house as she spoke, before her mother could detain her further. Cook was obliging, and soon Isabel was able to bear a saucer with assorted morsels out to the curious creature at the doorstep. It had occurred to her halfway down to the kitchens that she had no notion what such an animal might be inclined to eat, so she had arranged a variety of treats upon the plate: meat scraps, a handful of summer berries from the garden, and a pool of honey.

  The cat — or whatever it may be — uncurled itself as Isabel approached, its sensitive nose twitching as it scented the delights she carried. She placed the saucer down upon the floor before it, and watched as it ate, with apparent relish, everything but the meat.