by Nina Clare
‘I’m not ill,’ said Rue, ‘I’m never ill.’ She tried to laugh, but her laugh came out rather shrill. ‘I think I know why the fae folk are out of sorts, and it’s all my fault.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I, um, used Mother Goodword’s wand. Only once. Or twice. Or so…’
‘Rue!’ exclaimed Harriet. ‘You were only to use it for the Dust!’
Myrtle looked curious. ‘What did you use it for? Did it obey you?’
‘I only put a troublesome bee to sleep.’
‘That’s all?’
Rue shrugged. ‘I helped Lizzie Martin’s cow, oh, and I did try magicking the Dust twice over.’
‘Why?’ said Harriet.
‘To see if it would be double strength.’ She sighed. ‘But it weren’t.’
Myrtle nodded sympathetically. ‘I’ve often wondered if that were possible.’
‘Wouldn’t it be fun?’ said Rue, forgetting her remorse.
‘Rue!’ protested Harriet. ‘You must put it back where it belongs.’
‘Did you use it for anything else?’ asked Myrtle. ‘There seems to be a lot of fuss from the Fae over one bee and a cow.’
‘Well,’ said Rue slowly, her face screwing up into a wince. ‘I might have turned that pesky chestnut sprite into a squirrel.’
‘Did you change him back?’ Harriet cried. ‘Oh, poor, poor sprite! Rue, how could you?’
‘I did change him back. Well. Almost.’
‘Almost?’ Harriet looked distressed enough to cry.
‘Well… oh, you’ll see. I did warn him!’ she said in her own defence. ‘He would keep pelting me every time I walked by. Those conkers hurt, you know!’ But Rue was very fond of Harriet, and did not like seeing her upset. ‘I’ll put the wand back,’ she promised. ‘Right now.’
‘And be sure to lock the desk,’ said Harriet.
‘Right then,’ said Rue, patting her pocket where the wand and key was kept. ‘I’ll see you both later. I’ll run and put it in the desk.’
‘Go on then,’ Harriet said, as Rue hesitated.
Myrtle’s attention was distracted by the appearance of a young woman in a neat, plain gown and cloak hurrying through the marketplace. ‘There’s my ward,’ said Myrtle, watching Hannah Hazeldene as she threaded her way through the scanty crowd, her basket on her arm. ‘It must be her half day off, she’s not in uniform. I ought to speak to her. See you both later.’ And Myrtle strode away across the marketplace.
‘Oh, there’s Lizzie,’ said Rue, spying Elizabeth Martin making her way to her mother’s stall. ‘I must speak to her. Assignment business,’ she said as Harriet protested. ‘I’ll go straight back to school once I’ve spoken to Lizzie, I promise.’
‘Mother Goodword says a Godmother’s promise is as binding as a spell,’ Harriet reminded her. ‘Let me take it back. Every moment it’s not where it ought to be makes it stolen magic, Rue.’
‘Oh, all right,’ grumbled Rue, taking the wand and key out and handing them over. Her grip on the wand lingered a moment after Harriet had taken hold of it.
‘Rue!’ Harriet prompted, feeling the resistance. ‘It’s very bad to covet what’s not ours to have. You know what—’
‘Yes, I know what Mother Goodword says.’ Rue let go of the wand, then shook herself as though to shake free of it altogether. ‘I’m going to try out that smelling spell we looked up last night,’ she said. ‘I’ll see if I can winkle out of Lizzie who she likes, but don’t know she likes.’
‘Don’t use too much Dust. Remember what we read about smelling spells making one sneeze if they are too strong.’ But Rue had gone.
‘What can I use to hold the spell?’ Rue murmured as she wended her way round the edge of the marketplace. A clump of tall, purple daisies had sprouted up beside the stone watering trough, and she plucked a stem, cupped the flower in both hands and concentrated very hard on making the spell.
‘Little daisy, carry well, upon your stem this little spell.
‘When true love passes, make a smell.’
She took a pinch of Dust from the pouch the Sisters each carried in their pockets and sprinkled the daisy. It glittered, and the sparkle sank into the flower, plumping up the petals and deepening the colour. Fairy Dust was such fun! Pity it did not last long, at least not when her spells were so weak. She must work harder on spell making; Mother Goodword’s poetic spells were beautiful and long lasting.
‘Morning, Mistress Martin, morning Lizzie!’ Rue greeted, elbowing her way to the front of Mistress Martin’s stall.
‘Morning, Sister Rue,’ replied Elizabeth, barely returning Rue’s smile.
‘What’s wrong?’ Rue asked.
‘It’s been a wearisome morning. I told you of the trouble with our cow, now the jam has been going badly.’ She gestured to the scanty supply of jars on display. ‘Nothing is going right this week. I think our brownie is right, something’s out of kilter.’
‘Ain’t the cow no better?’ Rue asked, puzzled, for she had cast a spell to ensure an abundance of milk.
‘It’s giving milk again,’ said Elizabeth, ‘bucketfuls, but it comes out blue.’
‘Blue?’
‘You didn’t do anything to her, did you?’ Elizabeth said, narrowing her eyes.
Rue ignored the question. ‘Come and take a turn about the marketplace,’ she said, beckoning her from her place behind the stall. ‘I want your opinion on something. Can I take Lizzie for a minute, Mistress Martin?’ Rue asked, taking hold of Elizabeth’s arm before Mistress Martin had replied.
‘Want my opinion on what?’ Elizabeth said, as she was tugged away, and the daisy was surreptitiously thrust into the band of her straw bonnet.
‘Oh, this and that,’ said Rue gaily, looking about for any suitable men to try out the smelling spell on. She spotted William Cox standing in the doorway of his office and made a beeline for him. He would be an excellent young man to begin with. ‘Let’s bid Master Cox good morning,’ she said, pulling Elizabeth along.
William Cox, Giles Arthbutnot, Luke Mitchell, Walter Sanders, Adam Wallis, Ernie Stokes, even Jemmy Gilbert, Rue brought Elizabeth Martin before them all, but to no avail – the smell of true love was decidedly absent.
‘Are you getting a cold?’ Elizabeth asked. They were lingering near to Ernie Stokes who sat upon an empty ale cask at the side of the Crown Inn, whistling tunelessly to himself.
‘A cold?’ said Rue, sniffing the air, ‘not at all.’
‘You keep sniffing.’
‘Do I?’ Rue sniffed harder, but all she could smell was stale ale.
‘I must get back to Mama,’ said Elizabeth. ‘She’ll want to pack up soon. It’s been a poor morning’s work. What was it you wanted to show me?’
‘Morning, ladies!’ bellowed Ernie Stokes from his perch. ‘Looking fine and handsome, if I might say so!’
‘Ugh,’ said Elizabeth with a grimace. ‘So uncouth.’
‘Let’s go then,’ said Rue despondently. Had the spell failed because she was so poor at casting them, or because Eliza’s true love was not to be found in the market place that morning, even though everyone came there on a Saturday morning?
They returned to the Martins’ stall; Robert Martin was stood by, listening to his mother’s account of the poor sales they’d had.
‘Oh, look, it’s Harriet,’ cried Elizabeth, waving at the plump and pretty little figure walking on the other side of the square.
Harriet saw her and waved back. She came towards them, blushing and dimpling as she came. She had almost reached them when a tall figure in a scarlet cloak appeared, calling Harriet’s name. Harriet paused, and for a moment looked stricken, then turned to join with Mistress Woodhouse. They walked away, Harriet giving a glance over her shoulder as she went.
‘Well,’ said Elizabeth in a clipped tone. ‘I see it is true regarding Harriet being taken up by the Lady of the Manor. I suppose we aren’t good enough now that she moves in more exalted circles.’
‘Do
n’t speak of her like that,’ said her brother, watching the retreating figure of Harriet. ‘She’d have come and spoken with us if she could. One could see she wished to.’
Rue was moving about, sniffing the air like a bloodhound.
‘Sister Rue, what are you doing?’ Elizabeth said.
‘I’m sniff following sniff my nose…’ She wandered in a circle, trying to trace the distinctive smell she had caught, she had truly caught it – the smell of a true love. There was no mistaking it. It was just as Mother Goodword had said it would be – a smell of roses in midsummer, while the midday sun was still upon them, mixed with a hint of something sharp and clean, like lemon. She had smelled it, but where did it come from, and where had it gone?
She looked around. A letter-boy had ridden by on a donkey, but he was far too young; a dapper young man in a plum-coloured coat with large, shiny buttons was walking away, she couldn’t recall his name, but she had seen him with the Coles, he must be a friend of theirs, could it be him? She moved towards him, sniffing the air, but she was moving too far away from the daisy in Elizabeth’s hat. The spell would not stretch so far.
‘Do you know that fellow?’ she asked Elizabeth, turning back to her.
‘What fellow?’
‘The one in the smart frock coat.’
‘The dandy, dressed in purple?’
Rue sighed, feeling weary of the whole business of matchmaking. It was not going well.
‘What’s that in your bonnet, child?’ Mistress Martin said, catching sight of the daisy in the brim of Elizabeth’s hat.
Robert Martin plucked it out. ‘Who’s dandifying themselves this morning?’ he teased. He sniffed and bent his head down to the flower. ‘Smells like roses,’ he murmured.
‘You can smell roses?’ Rue demanded, staring at him. ‘That must mean…’ she did not finish her sentence; she was too confused. Elizabeth Martin had smelt nothing, but her brother could – so what was going on? He was not her ward, so why did he smell true love? And more importantly, who was close by that he could smell it?
She whirled around, looking at everyone within reach. An old woman with a basket was at the next stall, examining marrows; Anne and Kitty Cox were approaching, their heads bent together, giggling and whispering. Harriet and Mistress Woodhouse were completing the circle of stalls and were coming by again. Harriet smiled a greeting at the Cox sisters, but Mistress Woodhouse kept her arm linked in hers, so she could not stop and chat.
The smell grew stronger. Robert Martin looked almost drunk on it, and he took a few steps away. Even prosaic Mistress Martin was sniffing the air a little behind him.
‘Morning, Master Martin,’ said the Cox sisters in unison. Kitty Cox giggled.
Master Martin looked a little dazed, and his eyes were glassy as he looked down at the upturned faces of the sisters.
Rue was watching all of this carefully and wondering to herself. This was not part of the plan. Had Mother Goodword given her the right ward? Should it have been Master Martin, not Maid Martin? And clearly his match was with one of the Cox sisters, there was no doubt of that – the smell was positively heady.
This was not going to plan. Not at all.
10
A Black Morning’s Work
Myrtle followed Hannah Hazeldene through the marketplace. She was a fast walker, and even with Myrtle’s long stride she had a job catching her up. Down the broadway Hannah hurried, past the bakery and Crown Inn, leaving the market crowd behind; past the Coles’ large dwelling, and down the leafy lane that led to the grounds of Hartfield. So that was where she was headed. Then Myrtle recalled that Hannah’s father was the coachman at Hartfield.
Myrtle picked up her pace. If she wanted to speak to Hannah, she needed to catch her before she reached the stables. But she did not yet know what she would ask Hannah. What was it Mother Goodword had said? – That they must listen closely to the silent words between and beneath those spoken aloud; silent words were a clue to the heart. Myrtle was not at all sure of what that meant, and she didn’t find it easy to make idle conversation. Perhaps she should have brought Rue; she could chatter to anyone about anything.
‘I need a spell,’ Myrtle said to herself. ‘What can I use to carry it?’ A fallen twig on the ground caught her eye. That would do. She took a pinch of Dust from her pouch and closed her eyes to concentrate.
‘Fallen twig, from above,
‘Carry words, that tell of love,
‘Words between, and words below,
‘Bring to my ear that I might know.’
She sprinkled the twig with Dust. It glowed as though blue fire was passing over it, like a plum pudding being lit at Yuletide. When the glow had subsided, she snapped the twig in two and tucked them behind her ears. Now she was ready to listen.
‘Maid Hazeldene!’ Myrtle called, raising the hem of her gown to run.
‘Yes?’ Hannah said, giving a curious look back. ‘Can I help you? You’re one of Mother Goodword’s schoolteachers, are you not?’
‘I am,’ said Myrtle, panting a little. ‘May I walk with you a little way?’
‘You are going to Hartfield, Sister… is it Mistletoe, no, Mallow?’
‘Myrtle.’
‘Sorry. I’m not good with names. I’ve been at my new position for three weeks now, and I still haven’t remembered everyone’s name. Who are you going to see at Hartfield?’
‘I dare say you are visiting your father,’ said Myrtle, avoiding the question.
‘I am. I knitted Pa a new scarf. The weather’s turning cold, and he feels the chill when he drives out, ‘specially at night.’ She lifted the cloth cover on her basket to show a lumpy woollen scarf. ‘I’m not much good at knitting. It’s a bit uneven, but Pa won’t mind. I ought to ask old Dame Baytes to knit for me, she’s the best knitter in Highbury, her rows are so neat, I don’t know how she does it. I’m a tolerably good sewer, but only at plain work.’
Myrtle’s eyes were glazing over a little through this conversation. She had been made to take up knitting as a student and had snapped the wooden needles in frustration, which resulted in a week’s cleaning duties.
‘How do you like your new position?’ Myrtle asked, scrabbling around for a topic of conversation. ‘Master Weston is known to be a convivial man, and Mistress Weston a very amiable woman.’
‘Oh, they’re very good people,’ Hannah said. ‘I ought to be very happy.’
The twigs behind Myrtle’s ears tingled against her skin.
‘Ought?’
‘Did I say ought? I meant I am very happy. Very grateful. Yes. I am very grateful for my excellent new position… the Westons are good employers… so very kind.’
The tiny pauses caused further tingling.
‘Where did you work before?’
‘At Donwell. As a lower maid. I’m a general maid now. The work is much easier.’
‘You were not happy at Donwell?’
‘Oh, I was very happy at Donwell. The work was hard. Old houses get so dusty and cobwebby and need so much cleaning, Randalls is not nearly so old. It’s got polished wainscoting and new curtains. So much easier to keep clean and nice. No old tapestries taller than me to beat. No enormous stone floors to mop.’
Myrtle heard the discrepancy in Hannah’s words. The twigs were tingling away. The work was so much easier, the position higher, and yet underneath her words was a yearning for her old position.
‘It must be nice to have an improved wage, as well as easier work,’ she probed. Perhaps the pay was not so good, and that was the cause for discontent.
‘Yes. The wages are improved,’ said Hannah flatly.
‘And I am sure your colleagues are friendly? The Westons would not keep staff that were not pleasant, I’m sure.’
‘Yes. Everyone is very nice. Most kind. I am very fortunate.’ The words were still flat.
‘But no doubt there are those you miss from Donwell?’ pressed Myrtle. ‘You must miss people there. Perhaps one person in particular?’ She sto
le a sideways glance at Hannah and saw a blush deepen her already rosy cheeks.
‘Yes. I do miss... friends.’
The twigs tingled.
Aha! Thought Myrtle triumphantly. She has left behind her true love at Donwell!
‘Do you go and visit your friend at Donwell? The one you miss most?’
Hannah looked startled, as though Myrtle had jolted her out of a memory that had absorbed her for a moment. ‘Oh, no. It would not be… it is not… that is to say… oh, no. I must forget… I must.’
The twigs were tingling and whispering the missing words from Hannah’s speech: It would not be seemly, they whispered, it is not possible, that is to say it is all a dream, oh, no. I must forget him, I must.
Myrtle was silent as she pondered how she would find out who he was, the man Hannah must forget. But they had reached the gate the servants used to access the stables at the side of Hartfield Manor. Hannah pushed open the gate.
‘Are you coming in, or going on to the house? Who was it you said you were going to visit?’
‘I’m going this way,’ said Myrtle, stepping back from the gate. There would be no use following Maid Hazeldene any farther. ‘Goodbye.’
‘It was pleasant to talk to you,’ Hannah said, though the tingling behind Myrtle’s ears told her it had not been pleasant, it had been a source of pain. ‘By the way, Sister Marigold, you have a twig in your hair, just above the ear. In fact, you have one on the other side as well.’
Myrtle lifted the hood of her forgetfulness cloak in parting and saw Hannah blink hard and give her head a little shake as she forgot that she had been speaking to an odd, tall young lady who asked lots of questions.
Hannah turned around and took hold of the gate latch, Myrtle strode away down the lane, lowering the hood of her cloak. She had done her afternoon’s work on her assignment; she deserved some uninterrupted reading time in the library. The book she was reading on the fae-life of Faerie marshlands was fascinating. Bogglers, Will-o-wisps, Jack-o’-lanterns, Marsh-hags, and then there were the poisonous swamp toads – poisonous enough to kill a grown man!
