by Nina Clare
‘Sorry. Did I frighten you?’
‘You frightened the dragon!’
‘Harriet, what are you up to?’ Rue cried, helping her up with considerable effort.
Harriet pushed hair out of her eyes. Her face flushed. ‘I thought the armour would, you know, protect me.’
‘From what?’ said Rue.
‘The dragon. It’s Lady Stormont’s dragon-proof armour from the library.’
‘Yes, I can see that!’ said Rue in amazement. ‘Blazing Bullfrogs, Harriet!’ And she burst out laughing.
Rue’s laugh was big and earthy and infectious, and Harriet’s mouth twitched into a smile, and then a giggle. Myrtle glared at them both and pushed the dragon ofrom her, carefully navigating claws. The dragon sensed the mirth, and began blowing little blue puffs of smoke, jigging up and down as Rue gave way to hilarity.
It took some time for Rue to regain composure enough to talk sensibly. But eventually the mood quietened, the dragon curled up and fell asleep, and the subject of Master Elftyn and his love powder was discussed in detail.
‘We have to search his house,’ said Rue. ‘That’s where the wand must be.’
‘If he has it,’ said Harriet miserably, still feeling she was acting traitorously. But Rue was right, finding the wand was of the utmost importance, but, oh, if it should come at the price of all Master Elftyn’s goodness being not so very good after all, what a bitter blow that would be!
‘We need to find a way of getting him out of the house long enough to search it,’ said Myrtle. ‘Does he have a brownie?’
‘I think so,’ said Harriet. ‘I did not see one, I only saw the housekeeper when I was there recently, she was so kind as to give Mistress Woodhouse a new lace for her shoe when she broke it. She talked of a sister in Tythewell. She would be going there for Yuletide, to be sure.’
‘But what about the brownie?’ said Myrtle with a frown.
‘If there’s stolen magic in the house, the brownie would be right jittery,’ said Rue. ‘We’ll tell her we’re on Godmothering business. She might even help us.’
‘We had best not make any mess while searching,’ said Harriet, thinking that the wrath of a brownie was not something she wished to encounter.
‘But how to get him out of the house when everyone is staying home in such wintry weather,’ pondered Myrtle.
‘He’s going out tomorrow evening,’ said Harriet quietly. ‘He’s going to the Yuletide party at the Westons. A carriage is picking him up at seven o’clock, and the party will not break up till eleven.’
‘Harriet, that’s genius!’ exclaimed Rue.
Harriet blushed, more in shame than pleasure. Why did she always find herself so divided? What was it Mother Goodword had said about choices and knowing her own heart? What was her heart choosing at this moment? It was so hard to know, for she wanted to think well of Master Elftyn, wanted him to be the exemplary gentleman she’d thought him, and yet she wanted to find Mother Goodword’s wand above anything, and see everything back to normal in Highbury – but Master Elftyn a thief! It was too horrible an idea.
‘Are you listening, Harriet?’ Rue knocked on Harriet’s helmet sending a ringing noise through her.
‘Sorry, Rue. What were you saying?’
‘That we’ll leave here tomorrow evening, if we wait till about nine o’clock, no one will be abroad in the street to see us, and we’ll have at least two hours before he returns. We’ll search the house room by room.'
‘How will we get in?’ Harriet asked. ‘There are bound to be protection charms on the doors.’
‘Most protection charms ain’t working,’ Rue reminded her. ‘That’s how come all these thefts are going on. Oh, if we could only find it and everything be made right again!’ Rue groaned loudly with longing, and the dragon, who had settled down to sleep, stirred at the sound.
‘It’s not as scary as I thought,’ said Harriet, regarding the sleeping dragon. ‘It’s quite small without its wings out, flapping up and down, and hissing and screeching. Is it a baby, do you think?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Myrtle. ‘If he’s a fire-breather then he must be young, for he hasn’t got his flame yet.’
‘No flame? So, I didn’t need all this?’ Harriet looked down at her armour.
Rue chuckled. ‘You know, you looked scary yourself when you came through that door.’ She laughed again at the remembrance. ‘I was ready to run for it, and Myrtle was ready to fight you.’
‘Me? Look scary?’ Harriet had taken off the gauntlets; she touched the smooth finish of the fae-silver breastplate with the insignia of Lady Stormont carved upon it: three thorny roses entwined. ‘I do feel braver in it.’
‘Perhaps the spirit of Lady Stormont lingers,’ said Myrtle.
The dragon stirred again. Its eyelids opened to reveal eyes the colour of red carnelians. It lifted its small head on its long neck. It seemed to be sniffing something. Myrtle watched in fascination, Rue watched warily, and Harriet gave a little whimper as the dragon stretched its neck towards the discarded gauntlets.
‘What’s happening to his head?’ Rue asked. The dragon’s head was changing from deep blue to a silvery hue.
The dragon drew back again. The silver faded from his head and he resumed his usual colour.
‘Strange creature,’ said Rue with a hint of distaste.
‘Fascinating creature,’ said Myrtle. ‘I can’t wait to look up what it is.’
‘So we know what we’ve got to do tomorrow,’ said Rue.
‘We do,’ said Myrtle firmly.
‘To be sure,’ said Harriet resignedly. ‘Oh dear! I’m to go to the Westons' with Mistress Woodhouse! It’s to be the most delightful Yuletide dinner! What shall I say to Mistress Woodhouse? How can I say I will not go?’
‘We’ll tell her you’re ill,’ said Myrtle. ‘A bad cold.’
‘I hate pretending.’
‘We’ll all have colds if we sit out here much longer,’ said Rue pulling her cloak tighter about her.
‘You don’t have to sit out here,’ said Myrtle. ‘Go to bed.’
‘I shan’t sleep,’ said Rue. ‘I’ll be thinking about tomorrow evening. It will be the best Yuletide ever if we get the wand back. I wonder if Busie will make a Yuletide feast for us – gingerbread and syllabub and figgy pudding!’
‘It would be wonderful to get back to normal,’ agreed Myrtle. Then she glanced at the sleeping dragon. Rue saw the look.
‘What are you going to do with it, Myrtle? You can’t keep a dragon in Highbury.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Why don’t you ask Master Woodhouse or Master Knightley about it?’ suggested Harriet. ‘They might know what to do. That is, I’m sure Master Knightley would know what the right thing to do with a dragon is, but Master Woodhouse might be even more scared than me.’
‘Tell Master Knightley that I have a dragon!’ said Myrtle, her eyes lighting up with indignation. ‘I know what he’d do! He once told me he would use his ancestral sword if faced with a darkling.’ Her eyes shone fiercely at the thought of it. ‘Don’t you tell anyone about the dragon,’ she warned.
‘I won’t,’ said Harriet meekly. Even inside the armour she still found Myrtle’s glare as terrifying as any dragon.
‘Until tomorrow evening, then,’ said Rue with relish. ‘First, we find the wand, then we celebrate!’
26
Before Midnight
‘Harriet, this is too bad!’
Mistress Woodhouse looked so genuinely sorry, that Harriet really did feel dreadful as she huddled beneath her bedclothes. It was too horrible to have to deceive her dearest friend in all the world in such a manner. But there was nothing for it; Godmothering duties must come first.
Mistress Woodhouse had brought a chivalric romance for Harriet to read, a bottle of her father’s medicinal wine, and a jar of Serle’s apple jelly. ‘They are Donwell apples,’ she assured Harriet, who lay looking pale against her bed pillows, though not from actual illness, b
ut from the misery of her conflictions.
‘The Romance of the Enchanted Forest,’ Mistress Woodhouse said, holding up the book. ‘I know it’s your favourite.’
‘Thank you. You are so good to me.’
‘Do not attempt to speak, dear.’ Emma put the basket of goods on Harriet’s dressing table. ‘You must not hurt your throat further. My poor Harriet, it really is too bad. To be unwell on Midwinter Eve when we were so looking forward to the feast at the Weston’s, and my sister and her family have come, and I did so want you to meet them all. You will be delighted with the children. And Master Knightley and I have quite made up after our little quarrel, and so I did think everything was as near perfect as it could be this Midwinter, except for the little troubles about the village.’
Harriet nodded pitifully, and opened her mouth to reply, but Emma put a hand up to silence her. ‘Do not speak. Shall I sit and talk nonsense to you for a half hour to take your mind off your poor throat, or would you rather sleep?’
‘I think I had better rest.’
‘I quite agree. I shall send for word of you at regular intervals, and you must send word back by the servant if there is anything you need.’
Harriet felt tears prick her eyes at such kindness; dear Mistress Woodhouse did not deserve to be treated with such duplicity.
‘I shall leave you to sleep, dear.’
‘Wait!’
Mistress Woodhouse paused at the foot of the bed.
‘When you go to the Westons, do take care about what you eat and drink, Mistress Woodhouse.’
‘Why, Harriet, you sound like my father. Take care indeed, as if I need fear anything from Mistress Weston’s table.’
‘You don’t understand,’ Harriet pulled herself into a sitting position, ‘it is very important, Mistress Woodhouse, indeed it is – you must not eat nor drink anything that you have not seen poured or plated up right in front of you. Will you do that? I cannot explain all, but I fear you may be in danger of some mischievous magic. Please say you will do as I beg?’
‘Harriet, I think you must be beginning a fever, but I would not see you vexed for the world. I shall neither eat nor drink what I do not see prepared directly before me, if that will ease your mind.’
‘Thank you, Mistress Woodhouse!’ Harriet fell back against the pillows.
‘How distressed Master Elftyn will be when he hears of your sad state,’ Emma said in parting.
‘Oh, what a muddle!’ Harriet moaned, when the bedroom door had closed.
Master Elftyn hummed a festive tune as he smoothed his hair, arranged his cravat, and pocketed the little package of love powder. His new velvet cloak awaited him. It had been a considerable expense, but such things as new cloaks and cravats would be mere trifles once he had gained his prosperous bride.
‘If you please, sir,’ said his housekeeper, rapping her knuckles on the dressing room door, ‘I’ll be off to my sister’s now. There’s homity pie in the pantry, a new loaf and apple butter, and a figgy pudding for your dinner tomorrow. Fernley will keep things spick and span and the fire tended, though…’ the housekeeper lowered her voice, speaking quietly through the crack of the open door, ‘…she’s still not right, Master Elftyn. I cannot fathom what the problem is, but an out-of-sorts brownie is no good thing, sir.’
‘All will be well, Mistress Goodenough,’ Master Elftyn called back. ‘A touch of seasonal disorder, you know how over-sensitive they are.’
‘Master Elftyn!’ hissed his housekeeper. ‘Take care what you speak, dreadful bad luck to offend them!’
‘Good bye for now,’ was Master Elftyn’s cheerful reply. ‘Midwinter greetings, and so forth. See you when the festivities are over.’
Mistress Goodenough shook her head at her careless master, and Master Elftyn rolled his eyes at his overcautious housekeeper.
He moved to the window, to watch her stout figure trundle down the garden path and out of the gate. Then he darted to his bed and lifted the mattress, made an ‘Oops!’ to himself, and darted to his clothes chest, his head disappearing into it as he rummaged for a pair of gloves.
With gloves on, he could now draw out the iron box from beneath his mattress. His elven blood was diluted by three generations, but it still caused a sensitivity to the horrible feel of iron.
He paused a moment, listening for the sound of Fernley on the stairs, but no sound came. It was safe to open the box and finish his preparations of the love powder. Just one goodly pinch into the wassail cup of Mistress Woodhouse tonight, and she would be his, Hartfield Manor and all. And not only would he be the wealthiest man in Highbury, except for Knightley, he would be the highest-ranking man in Highbury as the new Wild Man Guardian, and what an excellent guardian he would be!
One thought troubled him as he prepared to magick his powder – would the Green Man know by what means he had procured his rise? Would he be offended? Would there be trouble? It was a risk, to be sure. But he would put the magic back first thing in the morning when he was done. And if he should succeed – all his ambitions and dearest hopes would be satisfied. It was a gamble, but faint heart never won fair lady, as some poet or other once said. All that he was doing he was doing for the good of all – Highbury needed a new Wild Man Guardian, and he needed a rich wife. The rumble of carriage wheels sounded from the lane. Master Elftyn sprang up to peer out of the window. The carriage was early, that was a good sign, the fair lady was eager for his company – well, he was no less ready!
‘Master Elftyn, you have heard the sad news,’ was Mistress Woodhouse’s first enquiry after greetings had been exchanged between them all.
Master Elftyn settled himself into the carriage, beaming with pleasure and good spirits. He would have liked to sit beside Mistress Woodhouse, but her brother-in-law had taken that seat.
‘Sad news?’
‘Of Harriet.’
‘But indeed!’ Master Elftyn lengthened his face and altered his voice to one of appropriate sentiment. ‘Such dreadful news! Poor Sister Harriet, to be struck down with a bad cold, and forced to miss all the delights of the evening.’
‘Such a sad loss to our party,’ said Mistress Woodhouse.
‘Dreadful! Exactly so, indeed. She will be missed every moment.’ And he gave a deep sigh which Mistress Woodhouse appreciated, judging by her soft look.
The Westons missed no opportunity to provide their guests with comfort and cheer in the form of good fires, excellent food, and a warm welcome. How delightful it would be, Master Elftyn thought, as he entered the drawing-room, to be entering as the principal man of the party, an honour now bestowed on Master Woodhouse.
When he was master of Hartfield, he would host a Midwinter feast of his own. No expense would be spared. All might come and admire the fine fires and food and wine he should share so liberally, and bask in the wit and welcome of the master.
He took the very first opportunity to supply the love powder to Mistress Woodhouse’s cup. It was an easy matter; he had merely to suggest that she might like some refreshment, and with her grateful approbation of his kindness, he fetched them a cup each from the wassail bowl on the side-table, slipping in the powder and feeling his own happy hopes bubble up within him as the spiced mead bubbled with the effects of the magic.
How sweetly Mistress Woodhouse smiled upon him as he put the cup into her hand. Most likely the powder was not needed – so encouraging, so inviting, so eager was her manner toward him. Surely the magic was but a seal upon the inevitable. It would merely enhance her natural feelings, and ensure that no feminine sensitivity, no maidenly modesty should cause her to resist his proposal, for he was determined to make her the happiest woman in Highbury by the offer of his heart and hand before this night was ended.
It was unfortunate that he was drawn away from his lady’s side at that moment; Mistress Weston wished him to join herself and Master Woodhouse in a game of cards by the fireside. He was torn between the desire to remain by his love’s side, and see her drink down the very last drop of
mead, and the wish not to offend his future father-in-law by refusing to play.
His fair lady soon settled the matter by encouraging him to go, and to play gently with her papa, and the look of regret in her soft, hazel eye was touching as she bade him leave her side. He made his bow of assent all the deeper as he bid her farewell for the next half hour; he thought of taking up her hand and kissing it, but that might arouse too much feeling too soon. Best to allow the magic to work gradually, degree by degree, sip by sip.
The evening was not all quite as he could have wished. He had taken up the little name cards at the dining table and switched his own name for Master Weston’s, that it might be himself who was seated by Mistress Woodhouse. But the butler, on lighting the candles on the table, had noticed the change of place, and put back the cards accordingly.
A second blow struck when it was announced that it was snowing outside, such news being most alarming to Master Woodhouse, who insisted on the party being broken up early, that they might all get home while they still could. He had not had opportunity to speak alone with his fair lady, and now the evening was to be cut short!
But there was no unlucky third blow – instead there was a delightful turn of good luck – for on leaving the party, it transpired that Mistress Woodhouse and himself were to drive home in the carriage alone. Who could say if the lady had not arranged this herself?
Here, then, was his chance.
The carriage passed through the sweep gate, and Master Elftyn, knowing there was but a mile of road, determined to delay not one moment longer. He seized hold of Mistress Woodhouse’s hand and made his declaration of adoration.
‘Mistress Woodhouse. Emma. You must know how ardently I love you!’
Mistress Woodhouse gazed back at him, as he poured out his heart, his hopes. How happy she would make him. What a goodly couple they should be – the chief couple over all Highbury. What felicity lay before them in their union. What delight!
