Miss Ellerby and the Ferryman

Miss
Ellerby and the Ferryman

(Tales of
Aylfenhame, 2)

by

Charlotte E.
English

Smashwords
Edition

Copyright 2015 by
Charlotte E. English

Cover design
copyright 2015 by Elsa Kroese

Illustrations
copyright 2015 by Rosie Lauren Smith

All rights
reserved.

This ebook is
licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be
re-sold.

***

Now,
halt just a moment if ye’d be so kind! There’s a toll to pay, if ye
wish to pass over the Tilby bridge, an’ I’m the toll-keeper.
Balligumph’s my name! I may be a troll but I'll not be hurtin' ye.
No, I’ll not ask ye to step out o’ yer fine carriage, but yer
coachman won’t do. I need a toll from ye. Nowt o’ any particular
importance, mind. Just a bit of information. Yer name, an’ yer
business in Tilby; that’ll do. An’ one little tidbit o’ somethin’
else — somethin’ secret-like. That’ll do nicely. An’ on ye
go!

Or,
no! Stay a while. I fancy I’ve heard yer name before. Maybe I’m
mistaken — I’m no young troll, ye may notice, an’ I sometimes
forget things. Remind me. Was it yer good self to whom I told the
tale o’ Miss Sophy Landon an’ her husband, Aubranael? It’s tales I
like. I like to hear ‘em, an’ I like to tell ‘em. Ye’ll remember,
perhaps, about Miss Sophy, an’ what a fix she was in. No home, no
money, an’ no one to look after her! But she’s well an’ settled in
Grenlowe now — that bein’ a town in Aylfenhame, ye’ll recall — an’
mighty happy she is.

But
she’s not the only young lady o’ Tilby to get ‘erself entangled wi’
the faerie realm. She ‘as a friend, Miss Isabel — oh, she’s one o’
the kindest young ladies in these parts, no doubt o’ that! Perhaps
ye’d like t’ hear her story? It’s a jolly tale, for all tha’ she
came to — well, no, I’ll no give away the ending! Come, sit wi’ me
a while an’ I’ll start from the beginnin’!

Chapter One

‘Isabel, my love, do come and look! The shoe-roses have
arrived. Now, these will do very well with your lavender gown, do
you not think?’

Mrs.
Ellerby’s voice, penetrating in its enthusiasm, carried easily over
the sounds made by the Ellerby household brownie as she vigorously
swept the parlour hearth. Isabel’s mother chattered on, holding up
handfuls of ribbons, shoe roses and other trifles for her
daughter’s perusal and approval. With an inward sigh, Isabel set
aside her needlework, and went to the parlour table.

‘They
are beautiful, Mama,’ she said in a mild tone, ‘but I had thought
we had decided upon my gown for tomorrow? Is it not to be the
blue?’

Mrs
Ellerby nodded absently, her attention fixed, apparently
irrevocably, on the ribbons in her hands. ‘It is what we agreed
upon, but think, my love, how much the lavender becomes you! It is
the very thing to go with your hair. If you had been light-haired I
should not venture to recommend it, for it can be a trifle insipid!
But with your colouring I should think it the very thing!’ Mrs
Ellerby continued on in this style for some time while her daughter
listened dutifully, playing about with a piece of gold ribbon which
had fallen from the box.

In
due course came the inevitable. ‘And I am persuaded, you know, that
it is the very thing which Mr. Thompson would like.’

‘Mama,’ said Isabel gently, ‘we must not allow Mr. Thompson’s
supposed preferences to rule us entirely. I should prefer the
blue.’

‘Yes,
yes, I am sure you are right.’ Mrs. Ellerby paused, and bent her
attention to a fresh pair of shoe-roses she had at that moment
pulled from the box.

Isabel
waited.

‘But
I am persuaded you might reconsider, if only you were to think
—’

‘Mama! Please! It is decided: I shall wear the blue.’ Isabel
dropped her ribbon and stood up. ‘It is time for my walk, now that
the rain has cleared. Please, put the shoe-roses away.’

Mrs. Ellerby
subsided with only one more faint protest, and Isabel made her
escape.

It
was early in July, and the morning was warm. Isabel regretted the
bonnet and spencer jacket that propriety insisted she should wear,
though the former was of straw and the latter of the lightest
sarsenet. A breeze ruffled her dark brown locks as she turned in
the direction of Tilton Wood, and for a wistful moment she
considered removing her bonnet entirely, and tucking it under her
arm. After all, there was no one to see her.

But
no, it would not do. A passerby may happen upon her at any moment,
and even were it but a farmer, Miss Ellerby of Ferndeane must not
be seen to commit so great an impropriety as to wander the fields
of Tilby without a hat. Her Mama would be appalled.

Resigned, Isabel heaved a great sigh and walked on, turning
into Tilton Wood with relief. The great oak trees offered cooling
shade, and the sunlight filtered through the green, green leaves
cast pleasing dapples over the earthen floor. Isabel slowed her
pace to a stroll, and her tumbling thoughts slowed to match
it.

Mr.
Thompson was the son of an old friend of her Mama’s — at least,
Mrs. Ellerby chose to claim Mrs. Thompson as a friend. In truth,
they had merely been at school together, and Isabel could not find
out that they had ever been close. But her schoolfellow had married
well. The Thompsons were a family of consequence, settled some
fifteen or twenty miles south of York, and Mr. Thompson was, as
yet, unmarried.

By
some means beyond Isabel’s comprehension, her mother had
re-established contact with Mrs. Thompson, coaxed her into renewing
their acquaintance and had at last persuaded her to attend an
assembly in Lincolnshire — with her son. That assembly was due to
take place tomorrow night, hence all Mrs. Ellerby’s anxious
preparations today.

Nothing had been said to Isabel in so many words, but she
understood that she was to be offered to the young man as an
eligible bride. Her family was not wealthy, but they were
respectably endowed with a genteel fortune, and Isabel could expect
to inherit some twelve thousand pounds someday. Mama hoped that
this, together with Isabel’s person, manners and accomplishments,
might be sufficient to tempt the young man.

Isabel’s own feelings upon the matter were undecided. She had
long known that she was expected to raise the credit and position
of her family through her marriage, and now that her brother
Charles had engaged himself to Miss Jane Ellis — a very pleasant,
unobjectionable girl, but one who brought neither money nor
connection to her marriage — the obligation had fallen more heavily
upon Isabel herself. She had rejected the advances of Mr. Reed,
Tilby’s new parson, not long since. He was neither rich enough nor
important enough to satisfy her parents, and he had not been
congenial enough to satisfy her. But having failed to accept one
proposal of marriage, her parents were beginning to grow anxious
that she should soon receive another.

She
was ready to perform her duty, and willing to be directed by her
parents if it must be so. Their ambitions were not such as to lead
them to bestow her upon anyone unworthy, or to give her in marriage
to anyone she had taken in dislike. But she felt all the pressure
of their hopes and expectations keenly, and she knew very well that
Mama especially had set her heart upon Isabel’s liking Mr. Thompson
well enough to marry him.

Of
course, since his marriage with Isabel would bring him little by
way of connection or standing and only a moderate fortune, it fell
upon her to try to capture his heart. This she was not at all
certain she was equal to. Mrs. Ellerby sensed this, and had tried
to make up for Isabel’s reluctance with a fever of preparation over
her dress, hair and ornaments. If Mr. Thompson did not instantly
fall in love with her daughter’s beauty, it would not be for lack
of trying.

These
reflections weighed heavily upon Isabel’s mind as she strolled and
sighed through Tilton Wood, paying only the barest attention to the
route she took. Her abstraction was such that she wandered deeper
into the wilder parts than she would normally choose to do, and
soon began to feel that she had lost her way.

She
walked about for some minutes, attempting with all of her natural
good sense to calm the flutter of worry which began to intrude upon
her peace. But it would not do. She could not convince herself that
she recognised any of the several winding pathways which presented
themselves to her searching gaze, and the flutter of alarm grew.
Tilton Wood was not known for being especially expansive, but it
was fully large enough to detain her some hours should she lose her
way. Severe would be Mama’s alarm should she fail to reappear
within an hour.

Schooling herself
to calmness, she paused to consider that walking about aimlessly
was as likely to render her situation worse, as to bring about any
solution. She stopped instead, reposed herself upon a great branch
which had fallen nearby, and applied herself to the question of how
best to extricate herself from her predicament.

She
had not been about this for more than a few moments before it
occurred to her that the cluster of leaves at which she had been
vacantly staring was not a cluster of leaves at all, but something
living. Its limbs were as slender and gnarled as twigs, its head a
shade too large for its body, and it sported a great pot-belly
which strained against the ragged leaf-brown dress it wore. The
creature’s nose was as knotted as a whorl of wood, its ears long
and twisted, its eyes bright, azure blue — and fixed upon
her.

Isabel started, but before she could speak a word, the
creature said in a high, lisping voice, ‘Goodest of mornings to
you, Mistress! What is your bidding?’ She — for Isabel felt, by
some instinct, that the creature was female — bowed low as she
spoke, and offered Isabel a tiny violet flower.

Isabel opened her
mouth; found, in her surprise, that she had nothing to say; and
closed it again.

‘Mistress?’ prompted the little fae creature, staring fixedly
up into Isabel’s face.

‘I
think there must be some mistake,’ said Isabel. ‘I am not your
mistress! Indeed, I do not think we have ever before
met.’

‘This
is our first meeting,’ agreed the fae, ‘but without doubt, my
mistress you are! For did you not summon me?’

‘I
assure you, I did not!’ cried Isabel. ‘I do not know how I could
have done so! I am sorry, if you have been put to any
trouble.’

The
fae creature considered this in silence, her tiny lips pursed.
‘Then you are not lost?’ she said at last.

‘I am
lost,’ Isabel admitted. ‘But I feel sure I shall find my way at any
moment; pray do not be put to any trouble on my
account.’

‘It
is that way,’ said the fae, pointing out the direction with a
finger as thin and delicate as a new shoot.

Isabel glanced in the direction indicated. A pathway opened
up through the thick undergrowth, clear and inviting. It was odd,
but in beholding it now, it was perfectly evident that therein lay
her route home.

Isabel came to her feet and shook out her skirt. ‘Thank you,’
she said, and curtseyed.

The little fae
bobbed an ungainly curtsey in response and smiled with sunny
enthusiasm, revealing a mouthful of green teeth.

‘I am
Tiltager,’ she offered. ‘This is my wood.’ With that, she vanished.
Isabel found herself staring at a cluster of leaves which so nearly
resembled Tiltager, she wondered whether she had imagined the
whole.

No;
she had not. She paused a moment in indecision. Should she trust
Tiltager? Fae were a common enough sight in England, but while some
of them devoted themselves to aiding their human counterparts and
sometimes formed the deepest friendships, others were equally
dedicated to causing harm. Tiltager’s path may not lead back to
Tilby at all, but to somewhere else entirely; somewhere Isabel
could have no wish to go.

But
the little fae had seemed friendly. Nothing in her behaviour or her
manner had led Isabel to suppose that she intended any harm. Isabel
began walking in the direction Tiltager had indicated, tentatively
at first and then with growing confidence as the pathway soon took
on proportions that were familiar to her. It even seemed, as she
walked, that the tranquil oaks sped by a little faster than was
entirely reasonable, and she found herself restored to the
outskirts of Tilby sooner than she had imagined
possible.