Miss Landon and Aubranael (Tales of Aylfenhame Book 1) (32 page)

His goblins, however, continued to alarm her. There were so many of them: they surrounded Sophy’s little company on all sides, ringing the weary party around in a surging wall of noisy activity. The hounds howled in ghostly voices, thin and chilling like the distant calling of dogs carried on a strong wind; the goblins yipped and spurred their steeds faster and faster, riding wildly around and around the slowly-moving company. The display was dizzying, but Sophy supposed she should be grateful for it: between Balligumph and Mr. Green’s inexplicable goblin escort, nothing wicked could hope to gain access to the knot of humans and fae sheltered within.

She tried to refrain from thinking too much on that strange journey, but without much success, for her thoughts spun around and around and she could not call them to order. She had too many questions, and they were so important that she could not lay them to rest. Who
was
Mr. Green? Here in Aylfenhame she wondered that she could ever have thought him human: there was a wildness to his leaf-green eyes that startled her every time his gaze met hers; he was quick and lithe and fleet of foot, far more so than any human could ever hope to be; and the control he exerted over the goblins and their steeds was truly remarkable.

And if Mr. Green was, in truth, a being of Aylfenhame—and a powerful one—who was Mr. Stanton? Was he an Englishman after all? He could be; perhaps he had simply fallen in with the mysterious Mr. Green and formed an unlikely friendship.

Or perhaps not. This possibility depressed her: if he, too, was a powerful denizen of Aylfenhame, what could he really want with her?

When at last they had all stepped back through the veil into England and gathered at Balligumph’s bridge, a degree of quiet descended and Sophy’s frayed nerves began to calm. The goblins and their chilling steeds did not accompany them as far as Tilby, and Sophy was relieved to leave that whirlwind of baying and leaping and circling behind. Mr. Green, however, did follow; and she found that she was the focus of his attention and Mr. Balligumph’s.

‘Now, Miss Sophy,’ said Balli kindly. ‘Come up an’ lean on me. We’ve a deal o’ news to share, an’ ye may find some of it a trifle surprisin’. There, very good.’ He seated Sophy on the wall beside him and bade her lean against his tree-trunk of a side; she did so gratefully, suddenly conscious of great physical exhaustion. And no wonder, for she must have walked the length and breadth of the Outwoods over the past two days.

Then followed an extraordinary tale, narrated largely by Balligumph, with interjections from Mr. Green—or Grunewald, as she learned he was really called—and occasional assistance from Thundigle, Mary, Anne, Isabel and Mr. Ellerby. She was not obliged to exert herself very much, for her side of the tale was told by Tut-Gut, Pinch and Graen; she had only to master herself long enough to recount the involvement of Felebre and the actions of Hidenory.

This was fortunate, for the news from Balligumph sent her already overtaxed mind spiralling beyond her control.

Mr. Stanton was Aubranael. Aubranael and Mr. Stanton were one and the same.

She had much to reimagine and reinterpret; every meeting with Mr. Stanton must be gone over again; every aspect of Aubranael’s behaviour at the tea-party revisited; every thought she had ever had about him must be edited in light of the revelations she was now receiving.

And she did not know precisely how to react. Her heart ached for the insecurity that had led him to practice such a charade; but she could not help feeling offended—nay,
hurt
—that he had felt such a masquerade to be necessary for
her
sake. Did he think her so shallow? And whatever the reasons behind it, it had still been a long-practiced, carefully planned deception of the most cold-blooded kind. Had he ever planned to tell her the truth?

Perhaps it did not matter. He had Lihyaen to attend to now; she might never see him again. The manner of his farewell had certainly suggested as much to her own heart. But insecurity was something she could always forgive, for she was so intimately acquainted with it herself.

‘All’s well, Miss Sophy?’ Balligumph was saying, peering down into her face with concern. She had been staring sightlessly at the darkening sky for some time, she realised, and a silence had fallen upon her companions as they awaited some manner of reaction from her.

It cost her a considerable effort, but Sophy managed to push away the painful thoughts that crowded her heart and muster a smile for Balligumph. He was such a dear friend, and he had always taken such very good care of her. ‘All shall be well, I promise it,’ she said firmly. ‘I am only tired.’

‘Aye, an’ I shouldn’t wonder! Best be off home soon, eh, and get some shut-eye?’

‘Indeed.’ Sophy recognised her cue to stand, but for the moment she could not muster the energy to pull herself to her feet. Her eyes drifted shut for an instant, and she hurriedly opened them wide again.

Grunewald stood in front of her, peering down into her face. When she opened her eyes, he smiled widely and tipped his hat to her.

‘Our friend Aubranael has exceptionally good taste, I do believe,’ he said. ‘I can read your thoughts, I think, and so you may take it from me: you have not seen the last of him.’ He winked, and Sophy could not help smiling in return. His certainty cheered her, for he knew Aubranael better even than she did: had he not spent these past few weeks living with him entirely? Perhaps he was right.

Isabel took a seat beside Sophy and took her hand, pressing it in the friendliest manner imaginable. Anne did the same on her other side, and Sophy’s smile grew. ‘I cannot tell you how grateful I am,’ she said. ‘That you should all take such risks on my behalf! It is very humbling.’

She was treated to a chorus of affectionate denials in response, and much in the way of caresses and kisses from Anne, Isabel and Mary. Even Thundigle squeezed her thumb, his eyes shining with emotion, his lip quivering as he attempted to express his fears on her account. Sophy’s heart was so full she could barely contain her own emotion, and she felt considerable relief when a great clattering of approaching carriage-wheels interrupted them.

Within moments, three carriages drew up on or near the bridge. Anne’s sisters spilled forth from the first; Mr. and Mrs. Ellerby all but fell out of the second; and the third stood quietly waiting, Mr. Green’s coachman visible holding the reins.

‘Anne!’ shrieked a chorus of female voices, and Anne’s sisters descended upon her. Their mother was close behind, and the four of them swiftly bore Anne away. Then Mr. and Mrs. Ellerby swept over the bridge and fell upon their children, with much high-pitched protestations of alarm on Mrs. Ellerby’s part and a number of rather thunderous questions posed by Mr. Ellerby. Drowsily, Sophy realised that her friends had been absent for some time, quite long enough to alarm their families. A twinge of guilt smote her, for it must be her fault: but she was too tired to give it very much room in her heart. She merely watched sleepily as her friends disappeared into their carriages and were driven away.

‘How curious that they should all appear at the bridge, and at the very same time,’ she murmured, her eye on Thundigle.

The brownie adjusted the angle of his tall top-hat and flashed one of his rare smiles. ‘It does not take so very long to send a message from one side of Tilby to the other,’ he informed her gravely. ‘Not when one enjoys the friendship and regard of Mr. Thundigle of the Brownies.’

The third carriage drew all the way up to the bridge and stopped. Grunewald bowed before her, held out his hand and said: ‘Miss Landon? My carriage is at your disposal.’

Sophy gave him the sunniest smile she had at her disposal, and allowed him to help her to her feet. She was truly touched by the gesture, and swiftly revised her opinion of the erstwhile Mr. Green. ‘I am much obliged to you,’ she told him. But before she stepped inside, she turned to Tut-Gut, Tara-Tat, Pinch, Pinket and Graen who stood, a little forlornly, with Balligumph.

Tut-Gut cleared his throat. ‘In spite of yer tricks, I must say it has been a pleasure,’ he said gruffly. ‘Ye’re a tricksy sort, in the best kind o’ way.’

Balli chuckled at that, and Grunewald smiled in his sardonic way. ‘Thank you,’ Sophy said gravely. ‘But I do not think our friendship is over, just yet.’ She surveyed the small faces before her sternly, and put her hands upon her hips. ‘Who was it who saved you—Pinket excepted—from the Teapot Society?’

‘Mary and Sophy!’ carolled Graen and Pinch together, and Tut-Gut and Tara-Tat nodded. Pinket bobbed beside her head, flashing with a blinding white light.

‘That puts you all in our debt, do you not think?’ Sophy said with a smile.

Mary drew herself up to her full height and looked down her nose at the assembled fae, a smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. ‘So it does! And a good thing too, for we are in sore need at present.’

‘In that case,’ said Tut-Gut, and grinned. ‘What is it yer needin’?’

‘Sleep,’ Sophy said promptly. ‘We shall be delighted to receive you at the parsonage for tonight; and in the morning, we will discuss our options.’

Tut-Gut bowed, and Tara-Tat, Pinch and Graen hurriedly followed suit. They all piled into the coach, and Sophy saw Mary and Thundigle safely inside. She turned back to Balli and stretched up on her tiptoes; he put down his head to receive her kiss on his broad cheek, and grinned at her. ‘Ye’re a good girl,’ he said fondly. ‘Get yerself some shut-eye, Miss, and see me again in the mornin’.’

Sophy promised, and allowed Grunewald to hand her into the coach. His bright green eyes twinkled at her with amusement and respect, and the last thing she heard before the door closed behind him was: ‘Tricksy indeed! He has the right of it.’

Epilogue

Well, now, an’ how was that fer a wild tale? Ye wouldn’t think so much could happen in a place like Tilby, but every word is true—that I swear.

Matters quietened a great deal afterwards, an’ a good thing too. The fine people o’ Tilby are much like the rest o’ their kind: they like their peace an’ quiet. An’ who can blame them? I like a little quiet meself.

Miss Sophy left Tilby, as you might ha’ guessed. Took herself an’ Mary an’ Thundigle off t’ Grenlowe. Oh, they are fine an’ thrivin’ an’ happy indeed—thanks fer askin’! Ye may be able to find them there, if ye would like to visit: just ask fer Silverling—thas the name o’ Miss Sophy’s shop.

Tilby got theirselves a new parson. His name is Mr. Reed, an’ I can’t say as I’ve taken to him all that much. Oh, he’s popular in these parts: a young gentleman, and unmarried. Richer than poor Mr. Landon, too; they say he has other income o’ some kind. Ye may imagine the delight felt by some o’ the young ladies. He courted Miss Adair fer a time, an’ when she proved too high-an’-mighty fer him he transferred his
affections,
as he is pleased to term them, t’ Miss Ellerby
.
I hope she’ll have better taste. He is a fine, pompous chap, everso pleased wi’ himself and none too pleased wi’ the rest o’ mankind—or fae-kind neither. He won’t have a brownie anywhere near his house! He needn’t ha’ worried, for they dislikes him every bit as much.

Grunewald is still about. He likes tha’ Hyde Place, I suppose, or perhaps there’s somethin’ else as keeps him by. He has yet to delight the Tilby folk by marryin’ any one o’ their daughters. Nothin’ has ever been seen o’ Mr. Stanton, of course, nor Aubranael; not in Tilby, anyhow. Miss Adair is said to be inconsolable; but her Mama is takin’ her to London soon enough, an’ there she will find many a rich gentleman to mend her wounded heart.

Oh, ye’ll no doubt be pleased t’ hear that Miss Daverill is married. Yes! She is an odd little thing, an’ can be a tiny bit tirin’, I’ll not deny; but still I was pleased as punch when she became Mrs. Ash. They’s said to be quite the happy couple.

Well, but I’m ramblin’ on, an’ all ye really want to hear about is Miss Sophy and Aubranael! So hearken t’ me just a few minutes more, an’ I’ll tell all…

Sophy sat in her favourite rocking-chair in the front parlour of her shop, a pile of sewing in her lap and a cup of steaming tea at her elbow. The late summer sun shone through the open window, bathing her in golden light; she could not help smiling. Not since the death of her father had she felt such blissful contentment.

There was a kitchen in the back of the building, and Mary was hard at work within it; Sophy could hear her singing. Thundigle was helping her, whistling along with her song as he did so. They were making delicate pastry tarts, filling them with a jam made from the strange and delicious fruits that grew among the orchards of Grenlowe. Later they would pack them into a basket and wander the streets of the town, selling the contents. The basket would be empty within half-an-hour, in all likelihood, for Mary and Thundigle’s confections were becoming legendary.

Almost as legendary as Sophy’s wares. She had taken possession of this shop six weeks ago, with Grunewald’s help, and the assistance of her friends from the Outwoods had been invaluable. Graen had brought her fabrics so delicate and light they could have been wrought from flower petals; they smelt deliciously of nectar and honey and roses and many other fragrances Sophy could not put a name to. Pinch had brought her ornaments: tinkling bells and twinkling gems; coloured stones and beads of blown glass; delicate pearlescent shells and spun cobwebs; even some of the ribbons she had seen and coveted so many weeks ago at the Grenlowe market. Pinket had infused some of the gems with his wisp-light, until they shone like stars. Tara-Tat had brought her tools: the sharpest, strongest needles Sophy had ever seen; scissors that cut any material with ease, and never grew dull; bobbins of fine thread that never ran out. And Tut-Gut had worked long hours to help her sew her first wares: fine, beautiful gowns of all shapes and sizes, with gloves and boots and reticules to match.