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

by Nina Clare

  Next morning, Emma helped her father ready himself for his walk. The weekly menu had been discussed with Serle, and there were no other housekeeping matters Emma needed to attend to. Hartfield ran smoothly. She prided herself on how well she kept everything in good order. She would not have her father perturbed by any change in routine or menu. All was regular, predictable, orderly. So why did such words cause a feeling something like heaviness to settle upon her? She had nothing to feel heavy about. She was mistress of a grand house. She was the lady of the manor. She was Lady Bountiful to Hartfield, so important a village with its situation on the border of Faerie. What was there to feel unhappy about? What more could she possibly wish for, except that the petty thief would be apprehended and everything return to as much order outside of Hartfield as it was within.

  ‘What more could I possibly wish for?’ she murmured to herself, and somehow, she could hardly say how, she found herself drawn to the table where the Book of Proverbial Wisdom sat, its gilt letters winking at her. ‘It’s only a book,’ she said. ‘You are only a book.’ She defiantly opened it and let her finger fall randomly onto a line.

  The heart is a deep well. Who can know its hidden depths?

  ‘I do not think my heart is so very hidden in its depths. I know my own heart very well. It is full of my father and sister and my nephews and nieces, and dear Mistress Weston, and sweet Harriet, I know all that is in my heart. There is nothing hidden.’

  She was about to close the book when the page before her turned itself as though by an invisible hand.

  ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I am not unused to the ways of Faerie, living within the influence of the Green Man. What is it you wish to tell me?’ She dropped her eyes to the page where one proverb drew her eye.

  A true friend’s counsel is to be prized above gold.

  ‘Certainly, it is. I do not argue with you there. And I hope I always prize the counsel of my true friends.’ She felt a glint of triumph that she had not fallen short on that point.

  There was the sound of a familiar voice in the hall beyond, and she closed the book and went to greet Master Knightley.

  ‘Have you come with news?’ she asked. She scanned his expression for any telltale sign of bad news. But he looked no worse than he had the previous day.

  ‘No further news as yet,’ he replied.

  ‘Then you will drink tea with us.’ She was pleased to have so enjoyable an occupation as sitting with Master Knightley; he always drove away any uncomfortable thoughts of hers with his bright, strong spirit, except, one uncomfortable thought struck her in that moment – ‘I hope you are not come to press Papa into action.’

  ‘No,’ said Master Knightley gravely. ‘I have given up all hope of that. Some other way must be sought, but what it is, I do not know.’

  ‘Papa is in the drawing room, considering whether it is too cold to walk out. Perhaps you can assure him it is not so wintry as he fears.’

  Master Woodhouse sat in his chair wearing his fur-lined cap and a voluminous scarf wrapped about his throat.

  ‘I do not know if I should venture out just now,’ said Master Woodhouse after the usual greetings had been exchanged and tea had been drunk and general news had been shared and the topics of thieves and rogue magic and darklings had been avoided. ‘It looks very cold.’

  ‘It is but fresh, sir,’ Master Knightley assured him. ‘And dry. Not a hint of dampness. You will do very well to go now as Emma advises.’

  ‘And the sun has just come out, Papa,’ added Emma. ‘You had better go while the sun is out. You will feel pleasantly warm once you have gained the end of the shrubbery.’

  ‘You see, Master Knightley, that Emma advises me to go now while the sun is out. I hope you will not consider me doing a very rude thing by taking Emma’s advice to go out for a quarter of an hour while the sun is out.’

  ‘My dear sir, do not make a stranger of me,’ said Master Knightley. ‘I shall fetch your coat and open the garden door for you.’

  Master Woodhouse left for his walk, and Emma expected that Master Knightley would also ready himself to leave, having said as much. But he resumed his seat near her and asked where Harriet was, so used was he to see Harriet whenever he called of late. ‘You are expecting her again, you say, this morning?’ he asked.

  ‘Almost every moment. She has been gone longer already then she intended.’

  ‘Something has happened to delay her; some visitors perhaps.’

  ‘Highbury gossips! Tiresome wretches!’ Emma imagined Harriet getting waylaid by the likes of Mistress Cole or Cox as she made her way down Highbury broadway. They would be trying to extract some piece of gossip out of Harriet regarding the goings-on of Hartfield or herself. It was very irksome to always be the object of the lower classes’ interest.

  ‘Harriet may not consider everybody tiresome that you would,’ observed Master Knightley.

  Emma knew this was too true for contradiction and therefore said nothing. He presently added with a smile, ‘I do not pretend to fix on times and places, but I must tell you that I have good reason to think your little friend will hear something to her advantage.’

  ‘Indeed! How So? Of what sort?’

  ‘A very serious sort, I assure you,’ still smiling.

  ‘Very serious! I can think of but one thing – who is in love with her? Who makes you their confident?’

  It was surely Master Elftyn. Who else could it be? Master Elftyn looked up to Master Knightley and made him a general adviser. This was excellent news indeed, and just what her spirits required at this moment to drive out all the dreadful business of Robert Martin and his letter. Whatever this news was, it pleased Master Knightley, judging by his countenance.

  But – what was this? What was Master Knightley saying? He was not talking of Master Elftyn and Harriet – he was speaking of that wretched Robert Martin and his plans to make a proposal to Harriet!

  Things were out of order, indeed, if even Master Knightley thought Robert Martin proposing a good thing – they would be sure to quarrel over this!

  21

  Enigmas, Charades, Conundrums

  Harriet raised the hood of her forgetfulness cloak and made her way to the place of assignation. The stile leading across Highbury Common was a good place to linger. If anyone were to come down the lane from either direction, she could pretend she was retying her shoe lace before climbing the stile; but hardly anyone did use the lane.

  The lilac sylph was not to be seen; she would slumber the winter away in her tree, awaiting the touch of the springtime sun, thus Master Elftyn had no need to abuse any fairy as he made his way along the lane.

  ‘Have you got it?’ he asked. A terse greeting, Harriet thought, but she understood that likely he was tired from his long ride back from London the previous day.

  She pulled out the document, sealed with fae beeswax. ’I could not put a spell on the seal,’ she said apologetically, ‘I have not the magic for it, but there is some magic in the wax itself. When the seal is broken it will release the essence of the words within to the reader.’

  ‘And the essence is romantic?’ he queried, taking the note between gloved fingers. He sniffed the air above it. ‘The magic is weak,’ he said.

  Harriet felt grieved that she had disappointed him. ‘When shall you give it?’ she asked, thinking she might help in another way. ‘If I know, then I could prepare the way a little.’

  ‘Pray do. I will time my movements carefully. I shall wait until the arrival of the portrait. Our mutual friend may have a day or two to consider my kindness in procuring it. Perhaps you may encourage such thoughts.’

  ‘To be sure I shall.’

  ‘Every assistance in my cause is welcome. Soon comes the grand finale.’ His eyes gleamed, and a satisfied smile curled his lips.

  ‘Grand finale?’ repeated Harriet.

  ‘The grand finale of the match,’ said Master Elftyn.

  ‘Oh, you mean the proposal!’ Harriet flushed with pleasure to th
ink how wonderful it would be to have Master Elftyn on bended knee, offering his hand and heart to the woman he loved. Mistress Woodhouse could not resist such an offer, surely she could not. Or could she? A doubt niggled in Harriet’s mind. No matter how hard she tried to turn Mistress Woodhouse’s thoughts towards Master Elftyn, she always seemed to maintain a coolness towards the idea.

  ‘I hope you have success,’ said Harriet. ‘How I wish I could give you more powerful help. How I wish I were a real Fairy Godmother.’ She sighed.

  ‘I think I can manage by my own exertions, Sister Harriet,’ said Master Elftyn. His curl of a smile wavered into a sneer for a moment. Harriet blinked in surprise to see it, but then it vanished. She must have imagined it. But there was an odd smell in the air. What was it? Something was not right.

  He slipped the paper beneath his cloak, granted her a nod of farewell and turned back toward his cottage, glancing about to see if anyone had observed them.

  ‘I wonder he did not even say thank you,’ Harriet said to herself, as she watched his departing figure, his winter cloak swirling about him as a little trail of the east wind picked up and rushed about, as though irritated. But Harriet was too wrapped up in her own muddled thoughts and feelings to listen to the wind, as she ought. Had she done so, she would have heard the warning. She shivered and only wished that her cloak was nicely lined with fur as Mistress Woodhouse’s was. Perhaps that was all that was wrong with her – she was simply cold and needed to get home.

  There was a slight difficulty with the delivery of Harriet’s portrait; the courier sent to carry it to Hartfield had refused to enter the border of Highbury, claiming his horse was spooked by something uncanny in the air. It was not the first time in recent weeks that delivery men and couriers had refused to enter the village boundary; animals were very susceptible to rogue magic, and would shy away from its presence as though a snake were in the road. News of the courier at the border soon flitted from sprite to gnome to mortal, and James, the Hartfield coachman, was despatched to retrieve the delivery.

  The portrait was duly hung over the mantelpiece of the common sitting-room, and had been greatly admired by Master Elftyn, yet to Harriet’s mind, his compliments had fallen on distracted ears, and he had gone away again in some disappointment. Mistress Woodhouse continued in her distracted spirits all that day, and the next. She would hear a sound and rush to the window to look out, only to turn away looking disappointed.

  ‘Who are you expecting, Mistress Woodhouse?’ Harriet asked on the fourth occasion of this happening that morning.

  ‘Oh, no one in particular. I thought Master Knightley might call as usual, for we have not seen him these two days.’

  ‘Is he away from home?’

  ‘No. But he is not pleased with me. We had a disagreement and did not part on friendly terms.’

  Harriet was bent over her riddle book, pasting in flowers. ‘I am sorry to hear it,’ she said. ‘Shall we attend to my book now? I have one that I think you will like.’

  Mistress Woodhouse seemed not to hear her friend; she was still looking out of the window in expectation. ‘It was but a little thing,’ she said. ‘Nothing of consequence. Master Knightley had a ridiculous notion in his head about one of his tenants getting married and we quite disagreed over it.’

  ‘Tenants?’ Harriet looked up. ‘Married? Which one?’ Her thoughts flew to the Martins.

  Mistress Woodhouse did not answer, but only smiled a little too brightly and said, ‘Let me look at your page, Harriet. How do you get on? Are those moss violets pasted around your riddle? They are excellent for stirring up love, are they not? See, I do remember what we studied last week about love languages.’

  ‘Do smell them,’ urged Harriet, ‘they have the prettiest scent’

  Emma drew near and bent over the page, but there came a sound from outside, as someone’s step crunched on the walkway, and she flew back to the window.

  ‘Is it Master Knightley?’ Harriet asked.

  ‘No. It is only Master Elftyn.’ The disappointment was evident, but it quickly passed. ‘He is looking very spruce. Quite as though he were dressed to go courting.’ Emma gave Harriet a knowing smile.

  Master Elftyn was shown in, and bows and greetings followed. ‘I regret I cannot stay,’ he replied to Emma’s offer of tea. ‘I am on my way to a meeting regarding the assistance of the poor.’

  ‘What a very worthy cause,’ said Emma. ‘Harriet was only this morning talking of the poor, were you not, Harriet?’

  ‘How charitable,’ said Master Elftyn, ‘perfectly commendable.’ His gaze barely flickered over Harriet, before returning to the fair mistress of the mansion. ‘I came, Mistress Woodhouse, only to bring this on my way to my meeting.’ He placed a folded letter on the little side table between them. ‘It is a charade,’ he said, with a peculiar degree of consciousness. ‘You requested one of me quite recently, if you recollect?’

  ‘Oh, indeed. For Harriet’s book.’

  ‘I do not offer it for the collection,’ said he. ’I have no right to expose it to any degree to the public eye, but perhaps you may not dislike looking at it.’

  And he was gone the next moment, with a bow and a last lingering look.

  Emma took up the charade and promptly handed it to Harriet. ‘I believe this is certainly for you, my dear. Open it!’

  ‘No indeed, Mistress Woodhouse!’ Harriet recoiled from the letter. It must be Mistress Woodhouse who broke the seal that the words of love would move her to think of her true love.

  ‘Do not be fearful of it,’ Emma chided. ‘It is but a charade.’

  ‘Oh, Mistress Woodhouse, how can you say so? When we have been studying rhymes for so long now. Words are never just words. Pray, do open it yourself, for it was put into your hand.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Emma, breaking the seal and casting her quick eye over its contents, then passing it to Harriet, with a smile.

  Harriet blushed with the shame of reading her own words, but reminded herself that it was all in the name of matchmaking, and she must not betray herself. ‘Is it well written?’ she asked tentatively.

  ‘I have read worse.’

  ‘What can it be?’ Harriet’s cheeks glowed and her voice quivered at her own daring in this venture.

  ‘My dear Harriet, you cannot find much difficulty in comprehending. Read it again.’

  Harriet made a pretence of reading it again and threw a baffled look at Mistress Woodhouse. ‘The first line talks of lords and kings. Is it kingdom?’

  ‘Court, Harriet. The answer to the first line is court. Now answer the second line.’

  Harriet feigned confusion. ‘The monarch of the seas,’ she read. ‘It must be Neptune. Or a mermaid. Or a shark!’

  ‘Nonsense! My dear Harriet, what are you thinking of? Where would be the use of his bringing us a charade about a mermaid? The answer is ship, Harriet. The monarch of the sea is a ship. Now put the two answers together.’

  Harriet hesitated. It was not for her to speak the answer aloud; Mistress Woodhouse must say the word. The connection must all be in her mind that it might reach her heart. That was how the love-riddle worked. She would understand its meaning and immediately think of her true love.

  ‘Ship and court,’ Harriet murmured. ‘Oh, Mistress Woodhouse, it is too clever a riddle, shall we ever know the answer?’

  ‘It speaks of courtship, Harriet. Do you not see? Court and ship – courtship! ‘

  ‘Oh, so it does! How clever of you to understand it so readily. Why, it likely took the writer hours and days and weeks to think of it, and you have discerned it in a moment.’

  ‘It is not that clever a riddle.’

  ‘Is it not? Do you not think it is the best charade you have ever read?’

  ‘I have never read one more to the purpose, certainly. Therein lies all its merit.’ A quiet smile crossed Emma’s face. ‘I wish Master Knightley were here to read it,’ she said, more to herself than to Harriet. ‘He would see that I was right
, and better things have been put in writing than a blunt proposal.’

  Her words were too soft for Harriet to catch them clearly. Harriet held out the paper. ‘It certainly is for you, Mistress Woodhouse. He wished it to be for your eyes.’

  ‘Nonsense, Harriet.’ Mistress Woodhouse pushed Harriet’s fingers away.

  Harriet felt confused. Why did Mistress Woodhouse seem wholly unaffected by the romantic riddle? It must be that it was a bad one. It was another sign of her failure as a Godmother. She let it drop to her lap and looked grave.

  ‘My dear Harriet, you must not refine too much upon this. You will betray your feelings improperly if you appear to be overpowered by such a little tribute of admiration. Don’t let us be too solemn about the business. He has encouragement enough to proceed, without our sighing out our souls over this charade.’

  ‘Oh, no – I hope I shall not be ridiculous about it. Do as you please.’ Harriet stifled another sigh and resigned herself to her failure. She would have to think of some new way to assist Master Elftyn.

  22

  The Fogs of December

  Despite the time Harriet spent at Hartfield, she still found she had too much time on her hands now she had no classes to teach. Carrying out household tasks about the school was Harriet’s best measure against thinking about Robert Martin and his extraordinary letter. She could not afford to be robbed of concentration at a time when she most needed it.

  She ought to think of nothing save her matchmaking assignment. And, even more importantly, finding a clue as to the whereabouts of the wand.

  She doubted it would be her who would find the clue, for Myrtle and Rue were so much cleverer than herself. They were both out searching even now.

  She’d spent two hours walking about the village, putting the hood of her forgetfulness cloak up and down as she asked questions and looked out for signs, but it had been another fruitless morning. Mistress Woodhouse was spending the morning with Mistress Weston, so Harriet must now occupy herself. She wandered about the empty rooms of the school, looking for something to do, vaguely aware of Cloe-Claws padding behind her.