Miss Landon and Aubranael (Tales of Aylfenhame Book 1) (17 page)

Late that afternoon, Sophy sat on the threadbare sofa in the parlour that was no longer hers. She was in such a state of exhaustion, she could barely think.

The last few hours had been, without contest, the worst of her life. She and Mary had arrived at the parsonage to find that Thundigle had returned with Doctor Howard—but too late. Her father had already gone.

When she had left the parsonage that morning, she had done so in a state of good cheer, her mind full of ideas and better hopes than she had enjoyed in some time.

She returned to it to find herself bereft of all familial connections and without a home, for her father’s living had been secured to another long before. In effect, the living passed into the hands of her father’s successor on the very moment of his death; and that included the parsonage.

The comfort of her father’s presence had been meagre, certainly; he had often vexed her, and habitually neglected her, and his passing did not leave her as heartbroken as she felt she ought to be. But still, she was not without compassion for him: he had been eating himself into the grave, she supposed, from the moment of her mother’s death, and his sudden, complete absence still affected her deeply.

That it had occurred so suddenly was a source of extreme concern to her. She had only just begun to think about the wider plans for her future that her visit to Grenlowe had encouraged; she had as yet had little time to give the matter any serious consideration, or to begin to make the necessary arrangements. Her future stretched ahead of her in her mind’s eye, empty of solid prospects and empty of companionship. It would not be long, she supposed, before the new parson of Tilby would arrive to claim the living and the house, and she would have to ensure she had removed herself and her life from the premises before that occurred. But where would she go? To whom could she turn for help? She felt lonely and frightened and helpless, and was for the present so overpowered with it that she could only sit, and stare out of the window.

The news would travel across the town in a matter of hours, she knew. Already they would be talking about her over their evening meals, and sitting in their parlours afterwards; they would talk of her lack of relations, her lack of husband, her lack of money, tutting and shaking their heads over her father’s conduct, and reflecting on how she must, inevitably, sink forever beneath good society. And in a very few days, the subject would be over—hurried off, in favour of the next shocking piece of news. Sophy and her plight would be consigned to history, and what became of her would interest no one at all.

Such dark thoughts were unproductive, but her exhaustion was so complete that she knew not how to shake herself free of them. She felt that she had been deluding herself for years; hiding from the truths she did not wish to think about, setting them aside in favour of finding some little enjoyment, some small piece of comfort in her life; setting herself up, in short, for the terrible predicament in which she now found herself.

But it had not been in her power to do very much more than she had. She could, perhaps, have followed the well-meant advice of such persons as Mrs. Ellerby, and Anne, and even Isabel, and tried harder to
catch
a husband. But such a course of action had always struck her as so very repellent—so absurd in
her
in particular, to throw herself at eligible men in the hopes that she might
take.
Even if she had been able to see into her future, and been forewarned about the terrible situation she now found herself in, she could not have acted differently.

Sophy became aware of soft footsteps approaching, and looked up to find Isabel stepping quietly into the room. She was carrying a tray set out with tea-time fare, and a steaming pot of tea.

‘Dear Sophy,’ she said, with a sympathetic smile. ‘I do not know if you can find it possible to eat? Poor Mary is quite overset, so I have sent her to lie down and made up a few things for you myself. Please, do, try to eat a little. Mamma has left you some of her very best tea, in the hopes you might be persuaded to try it. She swears it is quite fortifying.’

Sophy managed a tremulous smile, ashamed of the tears that sprang to her eyes at Isabel’s words. Cold meat and tarts and tea! As if such things could help her now! A towering ingratitude took hold of her heart—an irritation, even, with such ineffectual assistance, no matter how well-meaning might be the givers—and she had to swallow the retort that rose to her lips. To be impatient, angry,
waspish
even, was not her way, and she would allow the impulse to overpower her now.

‘Thank you,’ she said softly. Isabel’s concern was real, no matter the form it took, and she managed to find a little gratitude in her heart that
someone
cared for her fate. ‘Perhaps I can eat, a very little.’ She felt sick through-and-through, from mind to heart to stomach, and the prospect of food revolted her. But to neglect her meals altogether would only weaken her further—perhaps even turn her into one of those wretched
fainting misses
in novels, whose lack of fortitude had always irritated her profoundly. So she took the food and nibbled at it as Isabel watched with all the anxious concern of a mother overseeing a sick child.

‘Mother wished you to know…’ began Isabel, and then hesitated. ‘If there is ever anything that we can do to assist you, you need only ask.’

Sophy fully understood the reason for Isabel’s hesitation. She knew very well—as did her mother and father—that she was beyond the mere commonplace kind of help that they could offer. This kind of assistance had been offered to her many times already over the course of the afternoon, and she was exhausted with the effort of thanking people for words that were uttered mostly as a matter of form. They knew she was beyond their help, and that they would not be expected to carry their promises through into actual assistance; as such, the words came cheaply and were easily given.

Wearily, Sophy thanked Isabel anyway.

Isabel seemed on the point of speech once more, changed her mind and closed her lips, and then shook her head. After this little display of indecision, she finally said: ‘Charles has… expressed a great deal of concern for you, Sophy. He has stayed away, he said, because he feels sure you must be overrun with visitors at present, but he will be sure to call on you very soon.’

Sophy began to laugh, a mildly hysterical, empty piece of mirth born of exhaustion and despair. ‘Charles! My dear Isabel, he is
certainly
not going to relieve me of my troubles. You must put that idea out of your head. No gentleman is going to ride to my rescue! I am perfectly reconciled to it!’

Isabel opened her mouth to speak, and Sophy held up a hand. ‘
Don’t
, I pray, mention Mr. Stanton’s name to me! I am sick of hearing it!
He
will have no inclination to rescue me either, I have no doubts at all on that score; and even if he were—or dear Charles, or anyone—I am not at all minded to accept. To do so out of desperation, because I have no choice! I cannot conceive of anything more humiliating! No, I will find my own way out of my troubles.’

Isabel subsided, and sat in silence while Sophy ate through the repast she had provided. The silence continued as Sophy sat motionless, her head aching, her eyes sore from weeping, her heart empty of all hope. The sun continued to shine outside, which seemed an insult to Sophy’s tired mind: the beautiful, golden sunshine that had blessed the happiness of the morning, now shone down with equal vigour upon the despair of the evening.

‘Isabel,’ she said abruptly.

‘Yes?’

‘Would you be willing to stay here tonight?’

Poor Isabel seemed energised at the prospect of some service she could perform for Sophy, and answered almost rapturously: ‘Of course I will stay! I am so glad you asked, for I was not at all looking forward to leaving you here alone.’

Sophy’s loneliness eased, just a little, at the prospect of having company for the night. She had never before spent a night alone at the parsonage, and she did not feel equal to it today of all days. ‘Thank you,’ she said with real gratitude, and pressed Isabel’s hand. ‘I will feel better in the morning, I am sure. A night’s sleep will restore me to my usual self, and leave this cursed wretchedness behind.’

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.