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

by Nina Clare

  ‘Word might reach the Green Man, if the Woodhouses know of it,’ said Myrtle.

  Harriet’s blush paled away at the thought of the fearsome Green Man coming to life and looming over her, demanding to know where the Faerie-gifted wand was, or dragging her away into Faerie to face the court of the queen. ‘I won’t say a word,’ she promised.

  ‘Make use of all the time you spend out and about with Mistress Woodhouse,’ Rue said. ‘Use it to look about for clues.’

  ‘I suppose I may as well get started,’ said Myrtle, twisting up her hair and jabbing the needle into it. She snatched up her list of suspects.

  ‘But it will soon be dark,’ protested Harriet.

  ‘The cover of night will be to my advantage,’ said Myrtle. ‘And I want to check the bridge. My research tells me that it can only be seen at twilight. I want to see if there’s any sign of it.’

  ‘You want to see if there’s any darklings about,’ said Rue, looking disapproving. ‘Don’t be taking any risks.’

  Myrtle did not deny this, only saying, ‘I’ll tell you if I find anything,’ before she left.

  ‘I don’t understand her fascination with darklings,’ said Rue. ‘It ain’t healthy.’

  ‘She wants to write a book on them,’ said Harriet, who was very impressed by this. ‘She’s got lots and lots of notes, but she wants to see them for herself. For research.’

  ‘I’ll go out and have a look round for clues too,’ said Rue. ‘I can’t sit fretting all evening. Do you want to come?’

  Harriet looked a little stricken. ‘I don’t much like being out after dark,’ she admitted.

  Rue shrugged, but not unkindly.

  ‘I’ll go out at first light,’ Harriet promised. ‘Before I meet with Mistress Woodhouse. And while I’m out with Mistress Woodhouse, I shall be very observant.’

  17

  The Waverings of Harriet’s Mind

  Harriet and Mistress Woodhouse were discussing ribbons with due gravity. There was a new display arrived in Ford’s, the principal shop in Highbury, and Mistress Ford had done Mistress Woodhouse the honour of telling her she had a new consignment from town.

  ‘Silk, velvet and satin,’ she said with a wink. Mistress Ford’s pleasure would have been curtailed if she knew how repulsed Mistress Woodhouse was by the vulgarity of winking. But a little vulgarity would not put Mistress Woodhouse off having the first pick at the latest haberdashery.

  ‘Which one shall you have, Harriet?’ Emma asked, having completed her own selection.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ sighed Harriet, finding it hard to concentrate on ribbons, when her mind was busy trying to observe everyone for unusual signs of magic. ‘Which do you think I should choose? They are all beautiful.’

  ‘The pink satin would make delightful roses for your straw bonnet.’

  ‘Oh, to be sure it would. And I had not even considered the pink.’ Harriet picked up the pink ribbon in question. The ribbons were pretty. For a moment she was pleasantly distracted from her pressing concerns, and managed to say, ‘But then… the brown velvet would go so well with my winter cloak… and the blue satin is lovely, but I do not think it is quite the right shade of blue for my blue-trimmed gown, it is perhaps a little dark, what do you think? It’s so hard to choose when there is so much to think about.’

  ‘Good morning, ladies,’ cried a glad voice of greeting. Harriet and Emma turned round.

  ‘Master Elftyn, good morning to you,’ Emma replied cheerfully.

  Harriet flushed, feeling all the turmoil of her duplicitous position. Here she was, pretending to be but an acquaintance of Master Elftyn, when in short she was secretly in the intimacy of trying to match him with Mistress Woodhouse without Mistress Woodhouse knowing of it, while Mistress Woodhouse was deceived in thinking she was successfully matchmaking Harriet to Master Elftyn – and to add to this, Harriet now needed to observe him as a potential thief without his suspicion – it was all too much for her, and now she had the added pressure of trying to choose ribbons. She made an awkward bow, but her voice was breathless as she stammered out, ‘Oh, good morning, Master Elftyn.’

  ‘Ah, ribbons!’ said Master Elftyn, raising his eyebrows knowingly, as though ribbons were some great beauty secret.

  ‘You have not come in for ribbons,’ said Emma.

  Master Elftyn laughed more heartily than was required. ‘The time has not yet come for me to be sent out to buy ribbons,’ he said, with a meaningful look that to Emma’s mind almost bordered on a wink. ‘Only a well-married man would be sent out to collect an order of ribbons, I think.’

  Emma saw his glance at Harriet’s ribbon as he spoke, and was well satisfied with his hint, even if it was a little glaring. Harriet would not notice his lack of subtlety; it would not trouble her. Even if he should wink, it likely would not trouble her.

  ‘Perhaps that day will soon come, Master Elftyn,’ Emma replied, turning to smile at Harriet whose cheeks were blushing as deep a shade of pink as the ribbons in her hand.

  ‘Indeed.’ Master Elftyn laughed again and looked delighted. ‘Perhaps that day will soon come.’

  Master Elftyn remained standing before them like an eager puppy. Emma looked between him and Harriet again and felt affirmed in her decision to never marry – what folly love made of people!

  ‘Perhaps, Master Elftyn, you could assist Harriet in her choice of ribbon?’ Emma suggested, when he showed no sign of leaving. ‘Which colour do you prefer? Pink or brown?’

  ‘Or blue?’ Harriet said timidly, holding up the blue silk.

  ‘Oh, that such a decision as ribbons should be placed upon me!’ cried Master Elftyn, ‘I am certainly not equal to it.’

  ‘Come, come, Master Elftyn, we must get you some practice,’ Emma coaxed. ‘I think the pink, but Harriet likes the blue.’

  ‘Oh, the pink, the pink!’ declared Master Elftyn. ’There can be not the smallest doubt, it must be the pink. Exactly so! Pink is of all colours the most pleasing.’

  ‘And why do you say that, Master Elftyn?’ Emma dropped her voice in a mock whisper. ‘Is it because it so perfectly suits my friend’s delicate complexion? I have often thought her cheeks the very colour of pink roses.’

  ‘Indeed, they are, Mistress Woodhouse, exactly so. You have perfectly described the colour of Sister… er… Maid Smith’s… the perfect colour, I perfectly agree with you. Pink is most decidedly of all colours the most pleasing.’

  ‘I think, Harriet,’ said Emma, ‘our decision is made.’

  Harriet assented, though she still clutched the blue.

  The tinkle of the bell above the shop door sounded, and beyond Master Elftyn’s shoulder Emma could see that Mistress Cole had come in with her eldest daughter. Not wishing to have it said that Mistress Woodhouse and Mistress Cole were the first to see the new ribbons, Emma made a prompt conclusion to the transaction that she might make her exit.

  They made their farewells, Master Elftyn giving his assurance that he would not fail to call at Hartfield on the morrow, as agreed, to see how the painting was coming along. Emma entreated him not to forget, and she and Harriet gained the street outside.

  ‘Well,’ said Emma, pulling Harriet’s arm through hers. ‘That was a good morning’s work. Not only did we gain our ribbons, we gained further notes for our project. Master Elftyn’s unspoken words were positively crying out that he longed to be married, did they not?’

  Harriet made murmurs that Emma took for agreement.

  ‘And could any man smell more deeply of love?’ continued Emma. ‘The whole shop was filled with the smell of roses. You did say that the Dictionary of Smells classes roses as the smell of love?’

  ‘Yes, it does. However, I think that was only Mistress Ford’s new display,’ Harriet said in an apologetic tone, for she hated to contradict Mistress Woodhouse. ‘Did you not see the pair of potted rose trees before the archway into the hats and gloves? Do you think they were real trees?’

  ‘Real?’

  ‘Did they look
like magicked trees? It seems odd to have rose trees in October, does it not?’

  ‘I did not notice them. But regardless of potted trees, Master Elftyn certainly overflows with the scent of love. And what are you tasting now, Harriet? What taste is in your mouth after your conversation with Master Elftyn?’

  ‘Umm…’ Harriet thought for a moment. ‘I do not think I had much of a conversation. If I recall correctly, I only said blue.’

  Emma thought a moment. ‘I believe you are right. You did not converse. We must get you to converse with Master Elftyn. That will be the next step in our venture. I shall contrive to leave you alone the next time we are all together, that you might have the intimacy of a tete-a-tete.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘It means just the two of you. Talking.’

  ‘Oh, I see. I thought it sounded like a kind of cake. I thought you meant we had to share a tart.’ She giggled at her own folly, but there was something almost hysterical in the laughter, as though Harriet were not quite her usual self. Emma gave her a disproving glance.

  ‘Harriet, when you talk with Master Elftyn, you must remember not to giggle. It is perfectly acceptable, nay, desirable, to laugh if he makes a joke, but it must be a genteel laugh, and not a giggle.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Harriet. ‘I know I giggle terribly. Especially if I am nervous or worried.’

  ‘Well, we shall work on it. I shall contrive to tell you a joke, and you shall contrive to respond with a genteel laugh.’

  ‘Thank you. You are very good to me.’

  ‘I only wish I could think of a joke. Why is it that jokes never come to you at the moment you wish for one?’

  Emma’s searching for a joke was interrupted by a voice calling from above them.

  ‘Coo-ee, Mistress Woodhouse! Good morning to you! Would you have the greatest kindness in stepping up for just a minute?’

  ‘Oh dear,’ groaned Emma as they looked up at the opened upper window of the house ahead of them. ‘Not Mistress Baytes. I have not patience for her gabble this morning.’

  Emma lifted a hand to acknowledge Mistress Baytes, who shook her handkerchief at them from the window. ‘I cannot think of an excuse on the spot,’ Emma murmured to Harriet. ‘My wits are very slow this morning, neither jokes nor excuses will come when they are bid. I suppose we’d best step up and see what it is she wants. Do not ask her any questions, Harriet, for she will take a full half hour to answer each one, and most especially do not ask anything about her niece, Jane. She will talk of dear Jane till the cows come home once got upon that subject.’

  They reached the door to the house where the Bayteses lodged. The maid, Patty, opened it.

  ‘She is coming, Mother!’ Mistress Baytes was heard to call out as Emma and Harriet stepped inside. ‘Mind the step, Mistress Woodhouse!’ Mistress Baytes’s voice floated down the stairwell. ‘There is a steep step on the turn. Take care. It is such a dark stairwell.’

  The living room was small and humbly furnished, but a good fire crackled in the little hearth.

  ‘Please, take my seat,’ old Dame Baytes said upon Emma’s entry. She moved as though to vacate her cushion-padded chair, which was the best chair among the furniture.

  ‘No, indeed,’ said Emma. ‘I am far too warm from walking to endure sitting so close to the fire. Please remain exactly where you are, Dame Baytes. And how are you this morning?’

  ‘My mother is very well,’ cried Mistress Baytes, ‘How kind you are to ask. She is remarkably well considering the unsettled weather we have been having. Unsettled weather troubles her health usually, but not this year, thank goodness. So far this winter Mother has not had so much as a tickle of a cough or a sniffle of a cold, have you, Mother?’

  Dame Baytes opened her mouth to reply, but Mistress Baytes ran on. ‘So very kind of you to step up, Mistress Woodhouse. Dear Sister Harriet, you have not been here before, but you are most welcome, any pupil of Mother Goodword’s is most welcome, such a kind person is Mother Goodword, but I hear that her school is closed until her return, that is sad to hear. In all the years we have been in Highbury we have never known Mother Goodword to be absent, nor her school closed. What unsettled times we live in. My mother has known dear Mother Goodword for many years, is that not so, Mother?’

  Every line spoken to Dame Baytes was shouted rather than spoken. Emma winced at the proximity of Mistress Baytes’s raised voice. She tried to exchange glances with Harriet, but Harriet was too busy trying not to bang her head on the low beam of the ceiling, for she was crushed into the corner of the room while they waited to be seated.

  ‘Mother is a little deaf,’ Mistress Baytes said apologetically, ‘but please sit down, please do—’

  ‘I can only stay for a moment, Mistress Baytes,’ Emma interrupted, ‘we must complete our morning walk.’

  ‘Do take a seat, take Jane’s chair, we call that Jane’s chair, you know, for that is the chair she always takes when she is here, she likes to sit next to Mother so she can wind her wool for her, I cannot wind it half so well as Jane does, but she does everything so neatly. How is Master Woodhouse? Dear Master Woodhouse!’

  ‘My father is very well, I thank you.’

  ‘Are you walking far? I am glad to see that you are both well dressed for walking, such good thick soles on your boots, I see.’

  ‘We shall walk a little way down the lane toward Randalls. The lanes are pretty this time of year, though they are a little bare of leaves now.’

  ‘So they are,’ said Mistress Baytes, ‘for that North Wind did blow everything away early, and now there are barely any blackberries to be had, are there, Mother? Barely any blackberries to be had, and Master Knightley was so obliging as to send us a bushel of apples, and Patty would have gladly made up an apple and blackberry pie, but do not tell dear Master Woodhouse of us desiring apple and blackberry pie, for he quite objects to blackberries, for he says the pips cannot be good for one’s digestion, and he makes very sure that his cook strains them out most carefully before making blackberry preserve, but I daresay there will be no blackberry preserve this year for there are so few blackberries to be had.’

  ‘You wished us to step up for a moment, Mistress Baytes?’ Emma said, squeezing in her words while Mistress Baytes drew breath.

  ‘So, I did. So very kind of you to step up, so very obliging, but I am forgetting my manners, dear me, what am I about this morning? Let me cut you a piece of cake. Mistress Wallis was so obliging as to send us a poppy seed cake, as you see, almost a whole one. We have the kindest neighbours in all the kingdom.’

  ‘I thank you, but we have not long breakfasted, Mistress Baytes. No cake for us, if you please.’

  Harriet gave a wistful look at the cake.

  ‘I hope you will not tell your father I offered cake,’ said Mistress Baytes, ‘for I know he does not approve of sweet stuffs, but it is a very light cake, and barely burnt at all at the edges, for you may have heard that Mistress Wallis has been having difficulties with her ovens, they will keep burning things. She is sure that it is some fae mischief afoot, but she cannot get to the bottom of it. But there are many instances of such trouble in the village. I am sure you must have heard of them, Mistress Woodhouse, it is very worrying—’

  ‘Indeed, it is,’ Emma interrupted. ‘But I think you said you had something particular you wished to tell us?’

  ‘Dearie me, did I? What did I wish to tell Mistress Woodhouse, Mother? I am sure I cannot recall. I can be so forgetful, Jane would laugh and tell me I am quite a butterfly, flitting from one thing to the next, and I tell Jane that she is quite as pretty as a butterfly, do not I, Mother? And truly she is. Sister Harriet, you have not yet met my niece, Jane? I am sure you have not.’

  ‘Only in passing in the village,’ Harriet replied. ‘I recall that she was beautifully dressed—’

  ‘Oh, indeed! Jane is always beautifully dressed, and she makes a good deal of her clothes herself. She is so clever with a needle, you would hardly believe the beautiful thi
ngs she makes – where is that stomacher that Jane made, Mother? Let me show our guests the beautiful embroidery on the stomacher she sent you. Mother does not care for the modern fashions, she likes to wear a stomacher, just as she did in her youth. Oh, you are wearing it under your house robe, I cannot show you it just at present, for Mother is wearing it beneath her house robe, but I can show you the beautiful workbag she made me, now where did I put it—?’

  ‘Really, we have but a minute to spare, Mistress Baytes, for my father will worry if I am not home by luncheon. It has been so pleasant to see you and Dame Baytes, so glad to see you well, and if there is anything I can do for you I hope you will—’

  ‘It is Mistress Weston,’ Mistress Baytes said urgently.

  ‘Mistress Weston?’ Emma stopped at the doorway.

  ‘Not Mistress Weston herself,’ Mistress Baytes added, speaking more quickly than usual, but with the same low voice. ‘Her maid.’

  ‘Which maid would that be?’

  ‘The young one. The pretty one. The daughter of your father’s coachman.’

  ‘Hannah?’

  ‘Yes, I believe that is her name. Such a pretty girl, and so pleasant to speak to. Whenever I pass her in the market or the street, she always smiles and bids us good day. A credit to her father, I am sure, and she having brought herself up, so I hear, after her poor mama died and her papa being out at work, it is precisely because she seems like such a nice girl that I wished to speak of her, but I did not know who I should speak to, I did not wish for it to be generally known, so I asked Mistress Cole who she thought I ought to speak to about it, and Mistress Cox came in, so we asked her, and they both agreed that it might be impertinent to speak to Mistress Weston directly, so I thought perhaps I would speak to you, and you could speak to Mistress Weston, for you are quite as a mother and daughter to each other, just as Jane is quite as a daughter to the Campbells, having lived with them since she was ten years old. Dear Jane, how we have missed her these past nine years – nine years, Mistress Woodhouse since Jane went to live with the Campbells, and they could not have been kinder to her for all the world – and it has been two years since we have seen dear Jane. Two years!’