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

by Nina Clare

  ‘How complicated the path of true love is!’ exclaimed Harriet, ceasing her reading to express her troubled thoughts aloud. Her students stared at her. ‘Why must it be so hard?’

  Martha Wood put her hand up. ‘Because people are always letting themselves get tricked?’ she offered.

  ‘Because it’s more fun to keep falling in love over and over?’ offered Franny Rabbit. ‘If they only fell in love once and never again, the stories would be over too quick.’

  Lydia Lovelace agreed with this. ‘And true love has to be hard,’ she said. ‘All the important things are, like long division, and doing your own plaits.’

  Harriet considered these points. ‘But why?’ she pondered aloud. ‘Is there some force that comes against true love? Some antagonistic spirit?’

  Olive Johnson put her small hand up. ‘What’s an ‘tagnist’?’

  ‘An antagonist is an enemy,’ said Martha Wood pertly.

  The cuckoo called twelve times from the hall, and Harriet dismissed her students, who filed out of the classroom to giggle and chatter down the hall.

  Harriet moved from her own chair to Franny Rabbit’s in the front row that she might clearly see the chalkboard on the wall. Chalk lay in its little holder, waiting for a command.

  On the board was an illustration of Sir Trowlyn, in full armour, his hand upon his sword ready to challenge Duke Ethelbard. Eleonora the Ever-Fair looked ready to swoon at the sight of her true love returned, while her crowd of bridesmaids stood round her, too interested in the unfolding drama before them to think of catching their fainting mistress.

  ‘Why is true love so hard to find? I don’t suppose you could draw me a picture of Master Knightley’s true love, Chalk?’

  Chalk lifted a few inches and quivered, then dropped back down.

  ‘Of course you can’t,’ said Harriet. ‘You can only draw illustrations for school lessons. You are not all-knowing.’

  Chalk quivered again, as though trying its strength. Harriet’s hand went to the pouch of Dust in her pocket, but it was empty. There was something else in her pocket, however; her fingers touched a cool bronze key.

  An impulse seized her. She jumped up, ran from the room, down the hall, into Mother Goodword’s empty parlour. She stood before the desk near the window staring at it with a strange look on her face as she wrestled with what she wanted to do and what she knew she ought not to do. A grim determination seized her, as it had never done before. ‘I must help myself,’ she said in a shaking voice. ‘Mother Goodword is not here to help me, and I must not fail. I cannot.’ And she pulled out the key to the desk she had been entrusted with and unlocked the drawer, snatching up the wand and hurrying from the classroom. Cloe-Claws came padding behind her, making a rumbling growl, so she made a sudden sprint, down the hall, into the classroom, slamming the door behind her.

  She hesitated, the wand raised over the stick of Chalk, took a deep breath, and said quickly:

  ‘Magic Chalk, rise and scratch,

  ‘out a portrait

  ‘of the match

  ‘of the man

  ‘tall and sprightly

  ‘known to us as Master Knightley!’

  One quick tap with the wand and Chalk rose up, glimmering and sparkling, flew to the board and sketched out lines and swirls faster than it had ever drawn before. ‘Oh my!’ Harriet cried out as the form of a lady took shape. ‘Oh, who is it, who is it?’

  The face was not yet distinct. The lady’s gown was very fashionable; the figure was a tad stout. Chalk flew over the face, and when the cloud of dust settled in a sparkle of stars, a lady was clearly portrayed. Harriet stared at her. Then she frowned. Then she cried out, ‘Oh, Chalk! That is Master John Knightley’s true love! That is his wife! I must know his brother’s match – draw me Master George Knightley’s true love!’

  The drawing on the board vanished, and Chalk quivered and rose up again; but the magic was fading. The sparkle was lessened. The light was wilting. Chalk sketched out a picture, each line growing slower, returning to its usual pace. A faint figure of a woman appeared, but the face was blank of features. Harriet reached out to tap it again with the wand, but Chalk hovered in the air, made a strange hissing noise, and then there was a loud pop, as it exploded into a cloud of dust.

  Harriet sank back onto the stool, staring in dismay at the white powder all over the floor that had been Chalk.

  She would have to leave Highbury in failure. That would be the end of her story. She just knew it. She was not fit to be a Godmother. She was not fit to be a teacher. She would have to marry anyone who would have her, and leave everyone she loved here at the school, or be sent back to where she had come from – the hamlet of Digweed-on-the-Marsh.

  She would become a marsh-maid, like all the other girls in the hamlet, spending her days ankle deep in mud, hunting for the horrible little eel-like creatures, putting the slimy things into the basket on her back until it was full, so she could sell them to the eel-monger in the town for a pittance. She had nowhere else to go. No family who would own her. Her thoughts circled round and round and she burst into tears.

  Rue found her in this state when she opened the classroom door, coming to see why she had not come for lunch.

  ‘Harriet, what’s wrong?’ she cried, coming in and taking the stool beside her.

  ‘I…I…’ blubbered Harriet, ‘I… do not… want… to be… an eel catcher!’

  ‘You’re not an eel catcher, Harriet, you’re a Godmother.’

  Harriet shook her head.

  ‘Yes, you are. We all are. We’ll finish our assignments, and then we’ll graduate.’

  Harriet shook her fair head and hunted for a handkerchief to blow her nose.

  ‘I shall never graduate,’ she mumbled between sniffs. ‘I have no idea who my ward’s true love is. I’ve made a list and thought of everyone, but there is no one. It’s hopeless.’

  ‘Tripe and Tatties on Toast!’ cried Rue in defiance. ‘There’s no such thing as hopeless, I won’t have it. It’s early days.’

  ‘It’s been weeks,’ sniffed Harriet. ‘And I’m no closer to discerning who Master Knightley’s match is than when I began.’

  ‘No more am I,’ said Rue, ’nor is Myrtle. We’re all in this together. We’re all finding our way. The first match is bound to be hard. Everything’s harder first time.’

  ‘But time is running out,’ moaned Harriet. ‘And then what will we do?’

  ‘Is that Mother Goodword’s wand?’ Rue caught sight of it under Harriet’s chair where she had dropped it in her despair. Rue bent down and picked it up. It felt warm, as though it had been just used, but law-abiding Harriet would never have taken it and used it, would she? ‘Did you…?’ she asked.

  Harriet nodded and pulled out the key to Mother Goodword’s desk. ‘Lock it away, Rue, please, I’m not fit to be trusted with it.’

  ‘We will all be just fine,’ Rue said, patting Harriet’s shoulder. She slipped the wand and key into her large pocket. ’We’ll get through this together. Cheer up. Busie has made muffins. Afterwards we’ll work together on our assignments – two heads is better than one. We’ll talk Myrtle out of her books and get her to help – three heads is better than two! By the way,’ she said as they turned to the door. ‘What’s all that white stuff on the floor?’

  ‘Oh, don’t ask,’ moaned Harriet.

  12

  An Amazing Match

  Harriet stood at the turnstile of the footpath to Donwell. The talk with Rue and Myrtle the evening before had given her some courage, at least while they talked – courage that she could speak again with Master Knightley, and find some clue as to his match.

  She was heartily ashamed of using the wand, she would never do such a thing again – what had she been thinking of! Her troubled conscience made her feel that she must double her efforts and work extra hard at her assignment.

  She had spoken once to Master Knightley on the subject of love and marriage, but had not learnt much other than he liked
musical young ladies. Next she would try identifying his scent when he thought of marriage, that would give her some clue. Discerning smell was her best sense. Mother Goodword said that matches always had complementary scents, it was one of the foundational laws of attraction. Looks and words could be oppositional in their attraction, but scent must always mingle in harmony. Nobody could live with a smell they did not like.

  So why did she feel so anxious again? Mistress Woodhouse had no anxiety over her matchmaking; she was full of confidence. ‘I wish I could take Mistress Woodhouse’s confidence, and share a tenth part of it,’ she said to no one in particular, though she knew there was a lilac sylph in the lilac tree by the stile. ‘A hundredth part. A thousandth part, even. Why cannot I just go? Why am I so afraid?’

  ‘Where do you go? What do you fear?’ the lilac sylph said, moving out of the lilac trunk and showing herself as a little lady with streaming, lilac-coloured hair that wrapped around her like a cloak.

  Harriet generally allowed herself to be charmed by tree sylphs, she thought them very pretty, despite their capricious ways. The sylph, sensing Harriet’s admiration, danced about her, causing a gentle waft of air, scented with lilac, to wind about Harriet’s head.

  ‘Oh, you do smell beautiful,’ said Harriet, breathing deeply, despite knowing full well that too much sylph-scent can dull a mortal’s senses and make them suggestible to the charm of fairies. But Harriet was not thinking of that at that moment; she was only glad of some diversion from the task ahead.

  ‘Where do you go, what do you fear?’ the sylph sang again.

  ‘I go to try and find my ward’s true love,’ Harriet replied, the heady scent of lilac lifting the anxiety from her, and making her feel that true love was a delightful thing, and how could she possibly be afraid? ‘I go to find a man who wishes to marry, even if he does not know it yet.’

  ‘I will bring you a man who wishes to marry,’ the sylph said, still wrapping Harriet about in lilac fragrance. The sylph giggled and darted away. Harriet watched her as she streaked down the path and disappeared around the corner.

  The smell of lilac now dissipated in the breeze, enough for Harriet to shake her head and recall why she was stood at the stile to the Donwell footpath. She was lifting her skirts to step onto the stile when the sound of footsteps crunching on fallen leaves in the lane made her look round. Walking towards her, though oblivious to her presence, was Master Elftyn with the lilac sylph flitting about his head.

  ‘Away with you!’ he scolded the sylph. ‘Your tricks will not work on me, you little piskie!’ The sylph darted at Harriet and enveloped her in scent once again.

  Master Elftyn noticed Harriet for the first time, and gave a small nod of greeting, and would have passed on, but the sylph was making a figure of eight about Harriet and Master Elftyn, as though to tug them together.

  ‘I said, away with you!’ said Master Elftyn again, ‘or I’ll send for the woodcutter and have your tree chopped down!’

  The sylph made a noise that sounded both indignant and rude, and disappeared into her tree.

  ‘My apologies, Maid Smith,’ said Master Elftyn, recalling some manners. ‘But the fae seem particularly troublesome of late, I do not know what has got into them. One would think it was Midsummer Eve.’

  Harriet was pleased that Master Elftyn should remember her name, for she had not spoken more than a few words to him when she had sat having tea with him and Mistress Woodhouse. But she did wish that Mistress Woodhouse had introduced her as Sister Harriet, instead of Maid Smith.

  However, in that moment, with the lilac scent about her, and handsome Master Elftyn before her, she could not decide if she wished to be Maid Smith, eligible for being matched in marriage, or Sister Harriet, the one doing the matchmaking. This bout of inward struggle, combined with the haze of lilac, made her feel quite light-headed, and she took a wobbly step backwards and put a hand out to steady herself on the post of the stile.

  ‘Are you unwell?’ Master Elftyn asked. ‘May I be of assistance? I am on my way to an engagement, but I could send for my housekeeper, you could sit in her room and recover yourself, take a cup of tea?’

  ‘Oh, how good and kind you are!’ Harriet said, full of renewed admiration for the handsome Master Elftyn. The smell of lilac certainly was intensifying his charm. So lilac-bound was she that she did not notice Master Elftyn checking his pocket watch with some vexation, she saw only that his fingers upon the watch were so very elegant, and he was so perfectly dressed, so smart, so neat.

  ‘It must be a very important engagement,’ Harriet said, regarding his beautifully tied silk cravat. It was surely fae-woven silk, for it glowed like dragonfly’s wings.

  ‘It is of the utmost important,’ said Master Elftyn, with a secret smile. He took something out of his pocket and looked at it, before pushing it back again. It looked like a note, folded tightly, just as a lady would fold a little letter.

  Harriet was certain that it was a note of invitation from Mistress Woodhouse, who was taking care to cultivate regular visits from him in pursuit of her matchmaking plans. Mistress Woodhouse had said she would encourage Master Elftyn to drink tea with her father that she might have chance to observe him. And Harriet was sure she could smell something like true love, though it was hard to tell with the strong scent of lilac still lingering in the air. But if it was the smell of true love, who was it he loved? Mistress Woodhouse had dropped hints that she thought Master Elftyn a match for Harriet, but Harriet had not dared believe it. Such a thing was too strange; it did not feel quite right.

  ‘Is it…?’ She hesitated, then summoned up courage. ‘Is there… a young lady in the case?’

  Master Elftyn looked surprised, then pleased, then coy, all in a moment. He laughed. Such a musical laugh. ‘Oh, that I had a Fairy Godmother to aid me in my quest. Are you certain you are quite well?’ He took a small step backwards, as though eager to be gone.

  A Fairy Godmother. He wished for a Godmother! Harriet’s thoughts struggled again between whether she wanted to be Maid Smith, or Sister Harriet, between whether she wanted Master Elftyn’s heart to be turned to herself, or to someone else. The way Master Elftyn had looked at the note when the scent like true love arose was a very clear clue to Harriet’s senses, even with the blunting effect of the lilac.

  A sudden thought struck her – there might be a way to discern for certain who it was Master Elftyn loved. She glanced behind her at the stile that led to where she thought she had wanted to go, and looked back at the retreating figure of Master Elftyn, handsome Master Elftyn who had the look and smell of love all about him – surely, surely, if she was not certain that he was her match, or if she even wanted him as a match, then could he not be her ward?

  Master Knightley, blunt and brisk had not seemed to want anything of her services, but Master Elftyn, so very worthy of true love if ever a man was, here was he, so ripe and perfect for matchmaking…

  ‘May I walk with you to the end of the lane?’ she asked.

  She was still too lilac-bound to notice the flash of irritation upon Master Elftyn’s face. But he waited for her, even holding out his arm. So gentlemanlike.

  If Mistress Woodhouse could see me now, thought Harriet. She would think her matchmaking was at work. But still the waverings of Harriet’s mind swung to-and-fro, making her feel lightheaded, and glad of Master Elftyn’s arm. Was she Harriet Smith, the ward of Mistress Woodhouse, to be matched to Master Elftyn?

  Her mind swung back to Mother Goodword and the school and her Godmother training, and she shook her fair head and shook the sylph charm from round her thoughts, and determined – No! She was Sister Harriet! And when she had proved herself worthy, she would gain her acolyte name and truly be a Sister and then a Godmother.

  Master Elftyn already had a lady in mind, he had as much as said so, and Harriet was quite sure it was Mistress Woodhouse his heart was turned towards. And after all, who in all of Highbury was worthy of Master Elftyn save Mistress Woodhouse? It was a
perfect match!

  They were halfway down the lane and Master Elftyn looked upwards and gave a small sigh. Harriet followed his gaze and saw the clouds parting to reveal the tall, ancient tower of Hartfield. The tower of Mistress Woodhouse.

  ‘Do you go to visit Master Woodhouse, sir?’ Harriet queried.

  He laughed musically. ‘I daresay I shall see good Master Woodhouse, but I go at the invitation of the lady of the house.’ He smiled and Harriet’s thoughts leapt. She was discerning correctly. This was wonderful progress!

  ‘You mentioned the help of a Fairy Godmother, sir, I am not of that rank, but I am a Godmother-in-training. I should be glad to assist you in any way I can.’

  ‘Would you?’ Master Elftyn looked at her. ‘Would you really? Can you give me a charm, a potion? A love potion would be very desirable, Maid Smith.’

  ‘Call me Sister Harriet.’

  ‘I have not heard of a flower of the name of Harriet,’ he said. ‘But, Sister Harriet, can you make a love potion? Or have you a wand?’ he smiled so winsomely that Harriet in that moment would gladly have given him a love potion if she had one.

  ‘Oh dear, I am sorry, sir, but I am not permitted to carry Mother Goodword’s wand, that must remain safe at the school, and we are not allowed to make love potions.’

  ‘Not allowed?’

  ‘They are too manipulative. True love ought to unfold naturally. Our job is to discern the right marriage partner and bring people together, not to make people fall in love who perhaps ought not to.’

  ‘Oh.’ His arm drooped, as though he found her hand resting upon it a burden.

  ‘Perhaps I ought to buy one from the next travelling roamer,’ he said with a wry smile.

  ‘Oh, please do not do that, Master Elftyn, I beg you! They carry dangerous things.’

  He flashed another smile, but it did not meet his eyes. ‘I was joking. I think I know better than to trust a roamer. And I think I have the power to excite a genuine love in a worthy lady without the need of charms. And yet… it does not hurt to have all the help one can get in such a matter, does it?’