Miss Ellerby and the Ferryman

Chapter Four

Chapter Four

The next morning was so mundane in character that Isabel felt reassured. She accompanied her aunt in paying some morning calls upon various of their acquaintance, and nothing untoward occurred. Isabel did not glimpse so much as a brownie wandering the drawing-rooms of her aunt’s friends. They were universally respectable, and the conversation turned upon such well-trodden topics as the recent marriage of Mr. George Barnes to Miss Mary Blackwell; some hazy conjecture as to the progress of Bonaparte in Russia (or perhaps it had not been Russia, perhaps it was rather another place entirely; Mrs. Spender could not precisely recollect); and the newest fashions from Paris.

Isabel listened placidly, and rarely interjected any comments of her own. It was her habit to listen a great deal more than she talked, though perhaps it was not considered becoming to be so quiet.

But upon their return to Castlegate, Isabel’s tranquil mood abruptly evaporated. As she followed her aunt out of the carriage and back onto the street, shading her eyes against the glare of the noon sun, an irate voice reached her ears.

‘At very last!’ it said crossly. ‘And how very dare thee! Didst thou think I enjoyed the journey to find thee the first time? I did not! I most very indeed did not! And what must thou do the very moment I find thee at long last but step into thy fancy-fine carriage and sail away!

‘Not,’ continued the voice, ‘that I am ungrateful for the eatin’s. That was suitable. But what happened after the eatin’s! That was most very surely not!’

Isabel had been casting about throughout this speech for the source of the irritable tirade, but the street appeared to her to be virtually unoccupied save for their two selves. A carriage was turning in at the end of the street, but the voice could not possibly be emanating from so far away.

‘Down, my girl!’ said the voice. ‘Look thee down, by thy daintily-shod paws! Aye, there. Here I am.’

Isabel blinked. Lying flat to the ground by the wheels of Mrs. Grey’s carriage was the strange catlike creature with the striped fur that had appeared on the doorstep at Ferndeane. The creature appeared to be exhausted, for it — she? — lay in a spent huddle, though her head was raised to stare at Isabel with no friendly demeanour. Knowing herself to have secured Isabel’s attention at last, she slowly toppled over to lie stretched and inert upon the pavement, her long tail drooping.

‘My very goodness,’ said the creature. ‘I will have some more of those fine eatin’s before the mornin’ is very much advanced! Make no mistake about that.’ One long ear twitched.

Isabel found her voice. ‘I…’ she began. ‘I did not know that you were… are you looking for me?’

The ear twitched again, twice, and the creature said in a faint voice, ‘Why, ‘tis rare to encounter a companion with such ready wit.’

Isabel felt her cheeks warm, and she gazed helplessly at her aunt. ‘But truly, it seems so very odd. And I am not accustomed to being addressed by… well, by such a being as you.’

‘The nature of thy duties seems to be escapin’ thee,’ replied the creature, ‘so I’ll explain. What thou must do is bend down a ways, take up the poor exhausted bein’ lyin’ at thy feet, and convey her into thy humble abode. Once done, thou must find some comfortable spot for said bein’ to occupy an’ ply her with the choicest of eatin’s, without the smallest delay. An’ then, perhaps thy new companion will not track thee down only to expire at thy uncarin’ feet.’

‘I will call Rossan,’ said Mrs. Grey smoothly. ‘Perhaps she can help.’

Mrs. Grey disappeared inside the house, her composure unruffled by this untoward event. Isabel watched helplessly. Did she encounter talking animals so often as to make such an occurrence commonplace?

‘Immediately, would be best,’ added the creature, her tail swishing once with displeasure.

Isabel secured her reticule upon her arm and bent down. The creature’s fur was silky-soft under her hands as she gently lifted her up and settled her in her arms. ‘There, now, is that better?’ Isabel said in a soft tone.

‘No,’ replied the creature.

Isabel blinked. ‘Eatings,’ she said hastily. ‘Without delay.’

The creature nodded once, her fur bristling. ‘And lots of it.’

Ten minutes later, Isabel and her aunt sat in the parlour, watching with some amazement as the striped creature devoured a heroic portion of food. Mrs. Grey, guided in part by Isabel’s prior experience of her visitor’s tastes, had requested of her cook every delight a garden in high summer could afford, together with an array of sweet things. The cook had, with impressive promptitude, produced an enormous platter spread about with raspberries, strawberries, currants, cherries, apricots, chunks of courgette and carrot and piles of crisp green leaves. She had also provided tiny porcelain bowls filled with honey, milk, cream and weak tea. The little beast worked her way down the mountain of food upon the platter, methodically and without pause, until not a scrap of food was left. She then proceeded to slurp noisily through the contents of each bowl, delicately licking up the residue until each porcelain dish was scrupulously clean.

Having completed this magnificent repast, the creature tucked herself into a neat ball upon the parlour carpet and, to all appearances, went to sleep.

While all of this was going forward, Mrs. Grey had been quietly tatting lace. Her whole manner was one of placid acceptance of these untoward occurrences. Even more strangely, there was something in her face when she glanced at Isabel that suggested smug satisfaction. Isabel could not understand it.

‘She will sleep for at least a day,’ Mrs. Grey said at last. ‘She has undertaken a long journey.’

‘From where, aunt?’ said Isabel cautiously. ‘And how can you know anything of this?’

Mrs. Grey carefully set aside her tatting and regarded Isabel in silent thought for some moments. At last she said: ‘Do you trust me, my dear?’

‘Yes, of course, but—’ began Isabel.

‘Excellent!’ This word was spoken with a delighted, catlike smile which made Isabel faintly nervous. ‘In that case.’ Mrs. Grey reached a hand into her sleeve and withdrew something from within. The object was tiny, whatever it was; Isabel could discern nothing about it from her station across the room.

Mrs. Grey reached down and opened her hand. Something tiny, green and furred tiptoed delicately off her her palm and set off across the floor towards Isabel, who watched its approach with mounting amazement. It resembled a vole in size and shape, but in no other respect. Its colour was that of spring grass mingled with velvet woodland moss, and its ears were long and pointed. It scurried up to Isabel’s feet, its long claws sinking into the elegantly pale carpet, and began to climb her leg.

Isabel flinched, for the claws scratched a little. She dared not display any objection to this intrusion, however; she had said she trusted her aunt, and she did. She held herself still while the strange vole clambered up to her left leg to her knee, and there stopped, its snout lifted to inhale whatever assortment of scents met its long nose from this vantage point.

‘Smells sweetlish,’ it pronounced, startling Isabel. ‘Leerwise she be, but soundish enough in the toploft.’

Having delivered itself of this strange speech, the vole sniffed the air twice more, nodded in a decisive manner, and ran lightly down Isabel’s leg to the floor. From there it ambled back to Mrs. Grey and was received back into her sleeve. Isabel watched until the tip of its green tail had vanished inside the soft muslin of her aunt’s gown, speechless.

‘My companion,’ said Mrs. Grey. ‘His name is Vershibat.’

Connections snapped together in Isabel’s mind. ‘You…’ she began, though her voice failed her. She cleared her throat and tried again. ‘You said you knew a piper,’ she managed.

Mrs. Grey beamed. ‘Soundish in the toploft, indeed!’ she said. ‘Yes, my dear, I did. Oh, more than twenty years ago now.’

‘You have some connection with Aylfenhame.’

‘Had,’ corrected Mrs. Grey. ‘Vershibat is the only link I have retained.’

‘He is a fae beast,’ Isabel said. ‘So is…’ she stopped, unsure by what name to refer to the striped, furred creature still asleep on the carpet.

‘They are here for a reason.’

‘What reason?’ Isabel watched her aunt’s face, puzzled. ‘And how came you to visit Aylfenhame? Who is the piper?’

‘My grandmother was the belle of Tilby,’ said Mrs. Grey, apparently at random. ‘She was the most beautiful woman ever seen in those parts — or so I understand. But her beauty was of a peculiar kind. Her hair was a shade of red never before seen in England, and her eyes of an unusual hue: brown, but shaded with gold. Everything about her was uncommon, and unlikely. It mesmerised.’

Isabel nodded, uncertain as to the direction of her aunt’s reflections.

‘There is one in Tilby who remembers her,’ continued Mrs. Grey. ‘The bridge-keeper. He told me a tale of her, once. She was said to take a striking pet about with her everywhere. Some kind of weasel, it was said to be, only smaller, and strangely coloured.’

‘My great-grandmother,’ said Isabel.

‘Indeed. Years later, similar things were said of her daughter — my mother.’

Isabel’s thoughts flew to the Ayliri who had danced at the Alford Assembly. They, too, had been beautiful and strange; their faces and bodies were human enough, but their eyes and hair and colouring were quite unlike.

Mrs. Grey saw the realisation dawn on Isabel’s face, for her smile grew wider. ‘You understand,’ she said.

‘The piper…?’ Isabel said faintly.

‘No, it was not he. But your great-grandmother’s father was most certainly Aylir.’ Mrs. Grey paused, allowing Isabel a moment to absorb this information.

Isabel swallowed. ‘I am part Aylir?’ she said at last.

‘A small part, by this time,’ said Mrs. Grey. ‘But a little of the blood of Aylenhame is yours, and it appears to have bred true in your case. There is one in every generation, you see. It was always my regret that Mr. Grey and I were not blessed with children. Your mother never showed the slightest signs of her Aylir heritage. She is human, body and soul. I feared perhaps that the blood had died out with us, for it seemed unlikely that she and Mr. Ellerby could produce such a child. But so they have.’

Isabel’s thoughts whirled. ‘But—’ she said faintly. ‘But I am not remarkable! My hair is of the most commonplace, merely brown, and my eyes naught but brown as well, and—’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Mrs. Grey, cutting short this outburst with a wave of one elegant hand. ‘But generations have passed, and the blood has thinned with time. It does not show in your appearance, perhaps, but it is very apparent in your abilities. And in mine.’

‘What abilities?’ said Isabel.

‘Aylfenlike,’ said a voice from the carpet.

Isabel looked down. The being who proclaimed herself Isabel’s new companion stretched out one of her long, slender forelegs, spreading her paw wide, and yawned hugely. ‘More likely thou wouldst know it as witchery.’

Isabel silently repeated the word to herself, disturbed at the way her stomach fluttered in response. Witchery. ‘That cannot be,’ she said. She spoke impulsively, but from her heart. In her mind she held two visions: one of herself as she had always been, the Miss Ellerby of Ferndeane whose duties were clear, and whose future was all but decided. Whether she married Mr. Thompson or someone else of similar eligibility, her path in life was settled: she would marry, she would be mistress of a house and a mother. And with such a destiny, she was content. There was no room in this vision for Ayliri heritage, witchery or a fae companion. She struggled to reconcile the two contrasting ideas, and failed.

In this second vision of herself, how would her life progress? Isabel the witch, part Aylir, and enjoying a close acquaintance with denizens of Aylfenhame! None of it registered as plausible. She could not imagine the path of her life under these conditions. Even remembering Sophy, happily settled in Grenlowe with an Aylir husband, offered her little comfort. She was delighted for Sophy’s happiness, but never for an instant had she imagined that any part of Sophy’s life could be hers as well.

‘It can be,’ said the creature sleepily. ‘It is.’ This was said in a bored tone.

‘But—’ Isabel faltered.

The creature roused herself from slumber with a growl and stood up, turning on Isabel. ‘How very feeble!’ she said, the growl still rumbling behind her words. ‘I have walked and walked to find thee, followed thee all the way to this nethersome backway of a place, and this is my welcome! Witch! I say that of thee, and it is the truth. I am thy companion. My name is Tafferty.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Isabel at once. ‘It is not that I do not appreciate your efforts. It is merely that I do not understand. How is it that you came to venture here?’

‘I felt the call.’ This appeared to conclude Tafferty’s interest in conversing, for she turned her back on Isabel once more and curled up with her tail over her nose.

Isabel looked at her aunt.

‘I cannot precisely explain it,’ said Mrs. Grey, a hint of amusement lighting her eyes. ‘Vershibat was the same. He arrived one morning, out of breath and very weary. He announced that he had been summoned, and promptly fell asleep. Since then he has scarcely left my side.’

‘Did you summon him?’

Mrs. Grey shook her head. ‘Not intentionally. Whatever brings our companions to us is involuntary, I believe, but they feel it powerfully.’

‘How long ago did Vershibat arrive?’

‘Twenty-three years ago. He is beginning to feel his age a little, but he is sprightly still.’

Isabel nodded. She wanted to ask a great many questions, most of them pertaining to the witchery she was purported to be capable of. But she was also afraid to delve into this mystery. Her mind clung to the safe, familiar image of Miss Ellerby of Ferndeane and refused to relinquish it.

‘Tafferty will sleep until tomorrow,’ predicted Mrs. Grey. She added in a kindly tone, ‘Perhaps further discussion of this matter will wait until she wakes?’

Isabel gratefully accepted this offer of deferral, and soon afterwards excused herself to wander in her aunt’s rose garden. Her mind turned upon the strange developments in her life, but without bringing her any nearer to understanding. It was too sudden, and too surprising. She was numb with shock, and her mind was as often blank as filled with confused reflection.

She did not doubt anything that she had been told; her aunt would not lie to her, and she had received considerable evidence in support. Nonetheless, her mind shied away from acceptance. How was it that her mother had never told her of her heritage, or considered the possibility that Isabel might, in adulthood, come to follow her great-grandmother’s path?

With a soft sigh, she resolved to put all thoughts of Aylfenhame, witchery, the Ayliri or the fae from her mind until Tafferty should wake, for she was merely distressing herself with her confusion of ideas. But with the best of intentions behind this praiseworthy resolution, she failed, for her mind continued to turn upon these forbidden topics for the whole of the morning, through dinner with her aunt, and well into the night. It was long indeed before sleep finally put an end to the turmoil of her thoughts.