Magic and Matchmaking: A variation of Emma volume 1 (The Jane Austen Fairy Tales)

by Nina Clare

  ‘Well, I think that will do for this morning.’ Emma gave up at last. ‘We did not manage a quarter of an hour, but I suppose we can work up to that. Let’s continue our lesson in another form. We’ll compose another rhyme for your riddle book.’

  ‘Oh, yes!’ Harriet jumped up, glad to be released from the strain of sitting still. But then her face fell. ’I left my book downstairs. Shall I go all the way down to come all the way back up?’

  ‘We’ll go down together and make a list of the persons in Highbury to observe, and then we shall work on your book.’

  Harriet snatched one last peek out of the spyglass before she left. ‘How big the world looks when you look from so high up!’ she marvelled. ‘I wonder, Mistress Woodhouse,’ she said, as they filed down the steps, ‘I wonder that you never travel outside Highbury. If I were like you, with a carriage and horses, I am sure I should like to travel.’

  ‘Where would I go?’ They reached the sitting room, and Emma gathered up paper and ink to compose their list.

  ‘Should you not like to go to the city? To see the shops and the ballrooms and the royal gardens and palace? Your sister is in the city, is she not? I wonder you never go to stay with her.’

  ‘I have no need to travel abroad,’ said Emma. ‘What is there beyond Highbury which I do not have here?’ She looked thoughtful as she sat down and opened the lid of the ink jar. ‘It would be nice to visit Isabella and the children. But I cannot leave Highbury, even if I wished it.’

  ‘What a pity. I should like to see the city very much. I think everybody should see the city at least once. I suppose you cannot leave because your father does not like to travel? I should have thought he would like to visit your sister.’

  ‘I suppose it is a little odd,’ Emma admitted. ‘There is a story connected to it. I’m surprised you have not heard of it, being so long in Highbury.’

  ‘There was a story about a witch who had cursed you,’ said Harriet, sitting down with a bounce. ‘But one never knows which of the stories are true. Was there a witch?’

  ‘There was. There still is, I believe.’

  ‘Oh, do tell! I love to hear a story.’

  ‘We never speak of it as a rule,’ said Emma. ‘Papa does not like to talk of it.’ She looked over at the door, as though to be sure her father was not coming into the room or walking by. ‘It all began with my mother. She had a very strong yearning for a particular salad green when she was expecting me. My father would do anything for my mother, just as you have observed he would do anything in the world for me.’

  ‘Except let you travel abroad,’ said Harriet, in such an innocent tone, that Emma could not mistake it for any reproach on her father. ‘And so?’ Harriet said, when Emma sank into thought again. ‘And so, your father got your mother some of the special salad leaves?’

  ‘Yes. But it was a difficult thing to procure. It was a type that only grows in Faerie. And it was not always available to buy in the weekly market. And so my father did something he regrets. Bitterly regrets.’

  ‘Oh, Mistress Woodhouse, what did he do? I cannot believe for one moment that your father would do anything bad!’

  ‘No, it was not bad. It was… unfortunate. Perhaps foolish, in hindsight.’

  ‘Did he steal it? He surely did not steal it!’

  ‘Not precisely. He paid for it, he bought it in good faith… but then, one ought never to put one’s faith in a roamer.’

  ‘Oh, dear me, no! Mother Goodword tells us never to buy anything from a roamer when they pass through. One never knows where they have gotten their wares from.’

  ‘My father bought some of the particular salad from the roamer, but it turned out to have been stolen from the garden of a witch.’

  ‘Oh no! Dear Mistress Woodhouse, that is too horrible!’

  ‘And not just any witch. The witch.’

  ‘Which witch do you mean?’ Harriet’s eyes widened. ‘The Witch of the Woods? Or the Sorceress of the West, or The Hag of the Forest?’

  ‘I think they may be all one and the same, Harriet.’

  ‘They are?’ Harriet’s eyes widened further. Then she looked a little relieved. ‘Perhaps it is a good thing that there is but one wicked witch, and not three in all. But, oh! She is said to be very dreadful. And your father had something that was stolen from her.’

  ‘He did not realise,’ said Emma. ‘Not until some days later, when my mother had eaten up all the leaves, and then the witch came to the door and demanded her produce back.’

  ‘But he could not give it back, for it had been all eaten up! Whatever did he do?’

  ‘He offered to pay her, and to pay her well. He did not permit her to enter the house, of course, and she should never have been able to enter the grounds at all, but that she had some legal right over him in that he had acquired something stolen from her garden.’

  ‘But he did not know! He would never have bought it, had he known!’

  ‘The witch is not known for fairness,’ said Emma.

  ‘She is wickedly unfair beyond words,’ said Harriet sagely.

  ‘She would accept no reasonable payment,’ continued Emma. ‘She claimed that the herb had great value, that to eat it would impart great beauty and charm and the most beautiful hair imaginable to the eater. She said that such impartation would be diverted to the child in his wife’s womb, and she demanded that he give her the child that was to be born to him, that she might regain her precious herb.’

  ‘How shocking! But, of course, he did not – he would not!’

  ‘He would not.’

  ‘And what did she do?’

  ‘She cursed him. She cursed his family. She said that should his child be found outside the protection of the Green Man’s domain this side of the border, she would take the child as her due payment. She vowed that she would gain me. And then she left.’

  ‘What a dreadful tale.’

  ‘And so, my father insists that I take no step outside the protected boundaries of our little village. While I was small, I was often confined to the tower for my own safety, which was most tedious. But time has allayed my father’s fears in part, and I have not been immured there since the last rumour of the witch being sighted near the border. But I shall never leave the environs, for while I have no fear of some old crone and her faulty logic, I would not grieve my father for the world.’

  ‘And that is why your hair is so long, and so beautiful,’ said Harriet, looking admiringly at Emma’s crown of glossy braids. But your poor mother, did the witch have anything to do with her being lost to you?’

  ‘My father thinks so. He believes the shock caused my mother to grow unwell, leading eventually to her demise. Master Perry, who attended upon her, said that it was an unusual form of pneumonia that no tonic could treat. Papa sent for the best Healer in the kingdom. But she came too late.’

  ‘Oh, Mistress Woodhouse, that is the saddest story I have ever heard.’

  Emma looked sad for some moments. But she soon gave herself a little shake, dipped her pen into her ink and said, ‘Now then, who shall we begin with to practise our sensing exercises on?’

  Harriet sat up straight in an attitude of attention. ‘What about Mistress Ford?’

  ‘Mistress Ford? Why of all people should you choose her?’

  ‘Because… earlier we were talking of fashionable ladies in town, and so I thought of fashion, and thus I thought of Ford’s and their window display, which always has a very nice new fashion piece in, and so I thought of Mistress Ford.’

  ‘We should think of someone eligible for matchmaking,’ said Emma. ‘What is the point of beginning with someone who’s not free to be matched? Mistress Ford has long been married.’

  ‘Indeed,’ laughed Harriet. ‘To Master Ford these twenty years or more.’

  ‘Harriet, do be serious. Think of someone, a young lady… or young man… who is eligible.’

  Harriet pursed her lips. ‘Master Wallace?’ she offered. ‘He is not married.’

&
nbsp; ‘To be sure, he is not,’ cried Emma. ‘And not likely to be, with such vulgar manners. Think of someone gentlemanlike.’

  ‘I suppose the Perry’s boy is too young?’

  ‘Indeed. He cannot be above twelve. Try again. Picture Highbury broadway, Harriet. Venture past Ford’s, in your mind’s eye. Walk past the Perry’s, past the road to the village boys’ school, where else do you see?’

  ‘Um,’ said Harriet, closing her eyes tightly. She laughed. ‘This is like trying to concentrate on a proverb, is it not? Only this time I am trying to concentrate on seeing something.’

  ‘And what do you see? You are walking past the school. Can you see the railings which run all around it?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I see them. And I see the pretty line of birch trees that grow to the side of the lane, and I see the ditch which fills with water after rain, and Lizzie Coster stepped into it once, for she was tricked by a will-o-wisp that had come in with the mist, and fortunately she was wearing galoshes, but even so, her stockings were quite soaked through, and she said she was cross enough to—’

  ‘Harriet! We are not talking of your school friends, nor of troublesome fairies, we are thinking of something very important. Do concentrate, dear.’

  ‘Forgive me.’

  ‘You are rounding the corner of the lane—’

  ‘Do I turn off to the footpath across the common?’

  ‘No, you stay on the lane. You round the corner—’

  ‘There is a lovely lilac tree by the stile, and foxgloves grow all along the bank there every summer. I only think it is a pity that foxgloves are too large to pick and put in a vase.’

  ‘Harriet, it is autumn. There are no foxgloves. Do you see the gate to your right? See the neat little garden beyond it. Perhaps the owner is coming up to the gate just as you are walking by, perhaps you can hear the owner calling out a greeting to you. Can you see who it is?’

  Harriet squeezed her eyes harder. ‘Oh, Mistress Woodhouse, I think I can see …it is…’

  ‘Yes, Harriet?’

  ‘It is…’ she opened her light blue eyes and looked with confusion at Emma. ‘It is little Jack Napes, from the cottage round the bend, but I do not think their garden very neat, not one bit.’

  ‘Oh, Harriet,’ groaned Emma, ‘You walked right past it. Recall whose house is around the bend in the lane. A little old-fashioned to be sure, but very neat, with a door with a knocker in the shape of a—’

  ‘A duck!’ cried Harriet.

  ‘I believe it is a swan.’

  ‘With the prettiest yellow-dyed curtains at the window!’

  ‘And he is?’

  Harriet blushed and laughed. ‘Why, Master Elftyn, of course. Who else lives in a little cottage with a duck knocker and curtains the colour of primroses? Master Elftyn, to be sure.’ A sudden thought seemed to strike her. ‘Oh, Mistress Woodhouse, do you mean…?’

  ‘I am suggesting we choose Master Elftyn as our first person to practise on. I will invite him for tea. Here, I write his name at the top of our list, and you shall likewise write his name in your notebook, ready for marking down your observations. I will write a note of invitation directly.’

  8

  Matchmaking

  Harriet had decided she must be brave. It had been some days since Mother Goodword left them, and she had not yet spoken with her ward. She finished her morning class, and announced at lunch that she was setting off to find Master Knightley.

  Rue reminded her to put on her forgetfulness cloak and suggested she take some Dust, and Myrtle had advised taking a notebook and pencil to record any observations. Harriet took the cloak and notebook, but decided against the Dust. It would take all her courage just to speak with the great man, she could not think of making up spells at the same time.

  Master Knightley was bemused to find he had a shadow. A little, fair-haired shadow, with light blue eyes and a nervous look, who was occasionally pausing to scribble something in a notebook. He saw her follow him all the way down the broadway. When he called in at Ford’s to see if his order had come in yet, his fair-haired shadow stood behind the umbrella display, peeping out at him. When he called in at the post office she hovered outside, pretending to be looking in at the bakery window opposite, but she was clearly waiting for him. When he turned down the lane behind the apothecary to take the footpath across the common back to Donwell, she trotted behind,

  ‘May I help you, Maid…?’ he said, finally rounding on her as she followed him over the stile into the footpath.

  ‘Oh, no, I thank you,’ stammered the young lady, scrabbling over the stile. ‘But if you would not mind giving me a moment of your time, I should be very grateful.’

  ‘Certainly,’ Master Knightley said, wondering where he had seen her before. She was familiar, but he could not quite place her. Was she the young lady he had seen walking with Emma recently? ‘But you will have to walk, I am already late.’

  The young lady hurried to keep almost apace with him. This was peculiar behaviour, and he wondered if she was a little unstable, though she seemed harmless enough.

  ‘I just wanted… I wished… I hoped… I…’

  ‘Out with it,’ Master Knightley said briskly, but not unkindly. ‘Mind that patch of nettles, Maid…?’

  ‘I should like to know…’ the young lady gave an ouch as a tall nettle grazed her hand.

  ‘Give it a good rub,’ said Master Knightley, bending down to pluck a dock leaf.

  ‘Thank you. So very kind.’

  ‘Now, how can I oblige you?’

  ‘If you please, sir, could you tell me what are the characteristics of an excellent wife?’

  Master Knightley stopped mid-stride to turn to her. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  She blushed and squirmed at his direct look. ‘Oh, do not mistake me, sir, it is for educational purposes that I ask.’

  ‘Educational?’

  ‘I am studying the qualities of a good matrimonial partners. Not for myself,’ she added hastily. ‘It is a project. At the school.’

  ‘The school? Ah, so that is where I have seen you. You are one of Mother Goodword’s pupils, are you not?’

  ‘I am. Would you be so kind as to answer my question?’

  ‘Ought you to be walking the fields alone asking unmarried men about matters of matrimony? It seems most singular.’

  She blushed again. ‘I am sorry if it appears so, sir, but it really is a matter of importance. And I am not alone.’

  ‘You are not?’ He looked at the footpath beyond, leading to the stile they had just crossed, but could see no one.

  ‘My companion follows behind.’ She pointed to the tall grass a little behind her, and the shape of a very large, silver and black tabby cat could be seen sitting among the hillocks. ‘I don’t know why she follows me today,’ the girl added with a little shrug, ‘but she does that sometimes of late.’

  Master Knightley took out his pocket watch and glanced at it. ‘I’m rather late for an appointment,’ he said. ‘I must get on.’

  He was about to turn away when the silvery tabby caught his eye. He could not say why, but it was a very compelling look. It was a very compelling cat. Only fae cats had that enormous size and that distinct glow to the eyes and fur. He had a respect for fae guardians, so he remained standing and said to the young lady. ‘Very well, I will answer your question, odd as it is, and then I must be on my way.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ gushed the girl, opening her little book and holding her pencil in readiness.

  ‘The characteristics of an excellent wife,’ said Master Knightley, frowning a little in concentration. ‘Truthfulness. Intelligence. Kindness. An open temper. And if she be musical, that is an advantage.’ He smiled a little at this last point, for it was partly a joke, but the young lady was assiduously writing every word down.

  ‘Does that answer your query?’

  ‘Oh, yes, thank you, sir, but… may I ask… what of beauty? What kind of beauty do you regard?’

  He blin
ked at her question, and was about to say something dismissive in reply, but that silvery cat caught his eye again, and he felt compelled to answer honestly, even though it was a question bordering on the ridiculous. He had never thought about such a thing. Beauty? What kind of beauty?

  An image rose in his mind – that of a young woman dressed in white, walking with sure, swift steps to meet him with a smile. A woman of graceful stature, with a mass of light brown hair and laughing hazel eyes…

  ‘Beauty is… most subjective,’ he said, not wishing to share what he had just envisioned, for the image had startled him. He had not known that his definition of beauty was bound up so completely in her until that moment. But the silvery cat caught his eye again and gave him that knowing look. What a peculiar morning this was turning out to be. He tried again.

  ‘Beauty, as I would regard it, undoubtedly resides in a pleasing face and figure, I cannot deny it, I doubt anyone could. But such external beauty can be nothing if there is not also the inner beauty of a true and generous heart.’

  The young lady was scribbling hard. Master Knightley looked at the silver tabby and was glad to see that it looked mostly satisfied with his answer.

  ‘So, you do not prefer light hair over dark? Tall over short? Blue eyes over brown?’

  ‘I do not.’ The cat fixed him with a firm look, but he was not going to be pressed into saying any more. A man must be allowed some privacy of thought.

  ‘Now I must bid you good day, Maid…?’

  ‘Good afternoon, sir, and thank you most kindly for giving me a moment of your time.’ She bowed and hurried back the way she had come.

  ‘Good day to you,’ he said to her departing figure. The characteristics of an ideal wife indeed!

  He saw her put up the hood of her plain, grey cloak, and suddenly he could not recall who the stranger was that was now hurrying away, nor what it was they had been talking of; there was only the feeling of some new feeling having been awakened.

  ‘How did you fare?’ Rue called out when Harriet returned to the school, flushed but pleased with herself. Rue was in the bee garden. She came up to the gate, lifting her beekeeping veil from her face.