Miss Ellerby and the Ferryman (33 page)

Isabel tried not to feel too alarmed.

‘It
will be best to go at night,’ continued Tiltager. ‘For that is when
they are dancing! And most of them will be too busy and merry to
notice you and your aunt. I think it will be much
better.’

‘It
will not be easy for us to be abroad at night. Shall it be so very
ill-advised to go in the daytime?’

Tiltager looked grave. ‘If you wish it especially, then of
course we will go in the daytime.’

‘But
you think it unwise.’

‘Most
unwise! Most very much unwise.’

Eliza
would not shy from such an adventure, Isabel knew that well enough.
Nor, precisely, did she. Only it would be difficult indeed to
escape Ferndeane at night without waking anyone. ‘Where is the way
into the Hills?’

Tiltager looked surprised. ‘Why, we are close upon it now. It
is at yonder edge of the Wood.’ She pointed unerringly behind
herself, without making the smallest effort to orient herself
first.

‘Are
there many ways into the Hills, Tiltager?’

‘None, that I know. Not for many miles.’

Isabel was surprised, too, though after a moment’s reflection
she felt that she should not be. Tilby was not precisely usual in
the generality of English towns and villages. There were, on
average, more household brownies in residence across Tilby than in
other places, and no other town that she had ever seen or heard of
had a troll for a bridge-keeper. And it was, perhaps, no
coincidence that her own Aylir ancestor, whoever it had been, had
come here, and left a child behind. What it was about Tilby that
drew such interest from the denizens of Aylfenhame, she did not
know.

‘I
shall find you here this evening,’ Isabel said. ‘At a late hour,
once the moon is up. Will you be waiting?’

‘I
shall be waiting!’ said Tiltager, and bowed.

Isabel took her leave soon afterwards, aware that she had
been gone some little time already. She did not wish to excite
comment or suspicion at home; not when she was to so far transgress
as to leave Ferndeane in the late hours and wander abroad at night.
If she were to be caught leaving or returning, it would be as well
to avoid compounding those problems with some earlier misdemeanour;
her mother’s temper would not be quick to recover.

On
returning home, she found an early opportunity to speak to her aunt
alone, and availed herself of it at once. Eliza, predictably, was
excited by the prospect, and eager to accompany Isabel. She
appeared to wish to take her niece’s request of company as a sign
that her meddling had been forgiven, but Isabel could not fully
assure her of that. She did not precisely know how she felt about
Eliza’s actions; only that she was more than sensible of the folly
of venturing into the Hills alone, and none but her aunt could or
would follow her there. The arrangement was made, to creep from the
house at midnight, once all had sought their beds. Thus they
parted, conspirators in Isabel’s second secret undertaking in a
month, to while away the intervening hours with all the innocent
and mundane activities of a normal day at Ferndeane.

Isabel was unused to subterfuge. It was not easy for her to
undergo the rituals of dinner, and subsequently supper, with her
family while betraying none of the unease and guilt she felt
inside. Her brother engaged her in conversation about her visit to
her aunt in York, and she was obliged to conceal from him the truth
of her sojourn in Aylfenhame as well as disguising her discomfort
about her upcoming venture behind a facade of normality. The strain
resulted in a headache before dinner was over, and weariness
threatened to dissuade her from attempting the Hills at
all.

Eliza
sensed her difficulties, and exerted herself to deflect attention
from her niece wherever possible. She chattered in the liveliest
fashion about the calls they had paid upon her acquaintance, and
the dinners and evening parties they had attended; she made light
of Isabel’s supposed bout of illness, while still contriving to
present it as full reason enough to explain Isabel’s absence from
York society for near upon a week; and she entered into the
interminable discussions of Charles’s upcoming wedding with
sufficient enthusiasm to disguise her niece’s lack of liveliness on
the subject. Isabel was grateful to her, and endeavoured to
remonstrate with the part of her soul which blamed Eliza for the
masquerade she had imposed upon Isabel’s life. She felt plagued
with guilt; guilt that she had deceived her parents, and would do
so again; guilt that she could resent her aunt, when Eliza had
probably displayed a truer and deeper concern for her happiness
than any other member of her family; guilt that she could not
welcome the heritage which Eliza gloried in.

When
at last she was permitted to retire to her room, she wished deeply
that she could tuck herself into bed with Tafferty beside her, and
sleep away the tumult of emotions she had suffered throughout the
day, and the weariness they had left behind. But she grimly pushed
such impulses aside, and forced herself through the motions of
changing her evening attire for more practical walking dress. She
whiled away the ensuing hour with a book, though her mind refused
to focus more than passingly upon the text. Her thoughts drifted
back to the Ferryman, and the way he had laughed with her, danced
with her, welcomed her and accepted her. She held his smiling image
firmly in mind, reminding herself of the irreproachable reasons
behind her departure from propriety, obedience and — so her mother
would certainly say — good sense. A voice at the back of her mind
persisted in wondering: How would he feel about her true
appearance? Would he be pleased? Would he be dismayed? What if it
was her very Englishness that had appealed to him? How would he
react to the truth of her heritage, her face, her
nature?

This voice went
steadfastly ignored.

At
last she heard a faint tap upon the door, and put away her book.
When Eliza entered moments later, Isabel stood ready to accept the
bonnet and shawl which her aunt brought with her. They donned their
outdoor attire in silence, and crept unshod through the house with
Tafferty padding along at their heels. The hour was early enough
that some one or two servants were still awake and at work; Isabel
trusted that any faint sounds she and her aunt made would be put
down to such a source, but still she did not breathe easily until
they had successfully traversed the great staircase and slipped out
of the front door. The house would be locked up for the night upon
their return, so she made sure to take the spare door key from its
regular spot in the porch and tuck it into her reticule.

They
paused upon the threshold to don stout walking shoes, and then
slipped away into the darkness. Isabel’s heart pounded alarmingly
as they crept down the driveway and out into the fields, for she
had never before been afoot in the full dark of night, and so far
beyond the shrubbery of Ferndeane as they now ventured.

The
moon was bright, but its silvery light availed them little once
they stepped beneath the trees of Tilton Wood. Eliza had had
sufficient forethought to acquire a lamp, however, and she held it
high, lighting the path some few feet ahead of them. Tafferty took
the lead, navigating the uneven pathways of Tilton more
successfully, with her sensitive night eyes, than either Eliza or
Isabel could have done alone. The half-hour it took to reach
Tiltager’s part of the wood passed with agonising slowness to
Isabel’s mind, as it seemed that their passage beneath the trees
stretched interminably. They had woven Glamours behind themselves,
maintaining the illusion that both she and Eliza lay peacefully
asleep, in case anybody should take it into their heads to go into
either of those rooms. But every moment, Isabel imagined some
unlucky chance undoing all of their careful plans, and exposing her
absence to the household. She could not be calm, not even with her
aunt’s confident reassurance.

When
they at last found Tiltager these concerns rapidly faded from
Isabel’s mind, for she was faced with the very near prospect of
entering the Hollow Hills, and without the permission or invitation
of any of those who lived within. Tiltager bowed and chattered as
she led them through the Wood towards the Hollow Way, and Isabel’s
courage threatened to fail her more than once as she pictured all
the possible catastrophes that might befall them once within. She
was obliged to summon the Ferryman’s image to her mind and hold
fast to it, in order to go on, and nothing but the recollection of
his wit and his smile and the tragedy of his unearned plight could
keep her from abandoning all thought of pursuing the elusive
Piper.

She
missed him. His company cheered and enlivened her in ways she
experienced with no one else. In his presence, she was able to do
and be as she pleased, with regard neither for the propriety of her
behaviour, nor for the opprobrium of society. She had taught him to
dance, and she had danced and laughed herself with a degree of
merriment, of contentment and happiness she had rarely ever felt
before; for she had, at last, ceased to think of the behaviour
expected of her, and simply done as she wished. It had been a heady
experience, and one she had scarcely allowed herself to think of
before, for it cast the rest of her life into a stark, and
unflattering, contrast.

Now
she allowed those thoughts and memories to overtake her entirely,
for they strengthened her resolve and kept her hurrying into the
darkness ahead. She did not know how long she and Eliza followed
Tiltager and Tafferty through the night, but at length they came to
a halt in some part of Tilton Wood which Isabel had never before
seen. The trees grew thick and close, their trunks wide and gnarled
with age. The ground was no longer flat here: ahead of them rose a
tall hill, its sides covered with clusters of dark, aged trees
gleaming silvery-grey under the moon.

‘Here
we are, strange ladies!’ said Tiltager brightly. ‘Onwards, do you
still wish to go?’

‘That
we do,’ said Eliza firmly. ‘But first, my dear Isabel, I do advise
relinquishing the Glamour. In the Hills, I think it will be
advisable to allow our own true selves to show.’

Isabel could not but admit the sense of this, but still she
hesitated. She did not think she could restore the Glamour of her
face without the benefit of a mirror, and so she would have to
travel home and slip back into her bed with her Aylir face on full
display. What if they were to encounter someone on the way, or upon
their return to the house?

No
matter. Her aunt was correct, and she had no time now to concern
herself with the possibility of trouble later. She allowed her
painstakingly-assembled Glamour to fade, suffering a small pang of
regret as she did so, and nodded to her aunt. ‘I am
ready.’

Tiltager waited until Eliza had likewise prepared herself,
and then turned away from them. She stared up into the trees ahead,
motionless and silent, and Isabel could not discern what she was
attempting to do. But within moments a light began to shine, a
light as pale as the moon but growing ever stronger. At last the
brightness swelled to such proportions that Isabel could scarcely
bear to look at it a moment longer.

‘Here’s off!’ cried Tiltager, and she jumped forward into the
light. Tafferty sprang after her, tail lashing.

Isabel exchanged a look with Eliza, and accepted the hand her
aunt held out to her. They moved forward together, shading their
eyes against the light until it engulfed them. The glow
extinguished abruptly, and Isabel tumbled into darkness.

The
first thing Isabel became aware of was the strong scents of flowers
and honey in the air, a combination she found both heady and
tantalising.

The
second was faint strains of music, echoing as they reached her
ears. Some oddity in the arrangement of the melody, and the
strangeness of the tones, struck her as familiar. She had heard
such music once before.

‘The
Piper,’ Isabel said softly, reaching for her aunt in the
near-darkness. ‘That is his music. He was first seen at Alford,
because his regular home is here.’

‘Excellent,’ said her aunt, with strong satisfaction, and such
a pragmatic manner that Isabel recollected herself. The passage had
disoriented her, and she had to force herself to focus upon her
surroundings.

She
could see little, initially, for they stood in near darkness. But
the ground was soft beneath her feet and she detected the springy
texture of grass, or perhaps moss. Looming shadows implied the
presence of trees, and she heard the soft sounds of leaves rustling
in a cool breeze, and of scurrying animals somewhere close by. In
the near distance, soft lights glowed. Tiltager and Tafferty set
forth in the direction of the lights, and Eliza and Isabel
followed.

The
music grew gradually louder as they ventured on, and the lights
grew brighter. Stepping carefully, Isabel walked on through dark,
whispering trees until the ground dipped beneath her feet and she
all but fell.

‘There be the dancers,’ whispered Tiltager, startling Isabel.
She had stopped, too, and her tiny form had been all but hidden in
the darkness.

They
stood on the edge of a valley ringed with tall, gnarled trees.
Lanterns hung from the branches, softly illuminating the revelry
underway below. One of the trees was no tree at all, Isabel
realised with delight; she was a tree-giant like Sir Guntifer, her
trunk firmly planted on one side of the valley and lanterns in her
hair as she swayed to the music. Abundant flowers and fragrant
foliage ringed the glade — the source, no doubt, of the delicious
aromas which teased Isabel’s nose.