Miss Landon and Aubranael (Tales of Aylfenhame Book 1) (10 page)

These were delivered with pleasing celerity by a young footman. Aubranael was almost sure that he, like all of Grunewald’s household staff, was truly a goblin underneath; but if he was, then the glamour upon him was very good indeed.

His friend and host was a quick study, indeed, and when he found that most households in Tilby had brownie helpers in residence, he had even bewitched a few goblins into that diminutive form instead. It was all rather odd. Aubranael had the perpetual feeling that nothing he saw was as he saw it; nothing was real, precisely; and anything might change into anything else at any given moment.

Sometimes, he missed the simplicity of the days before he had met Miss Landon.

‘Now,’ Grunewald said, after he had suitably refreshed himself with tea and cakes. ‘I had better do more than teach you to dance. It is to be a very grand affair, I understand, and so you will need to be well up on good behaviour.’

‘More good behaviour?’ Aubranael said, with a slight groan.

Grunewald’s smile was positively wicked. ‘Oh, yes. Dancing is only a small part of the business. There is a great deal more of
etiquette
to be learned; you must know whom to speak to, and how, and when; you must know how to ask a lady to dance, what to do if she refuses, and so on; and there is the matter of dinner, too.’

Aubranael had no intention of dancing with anyone except Miss Landon, and it was on the tip of his tongue to say so. He stopped, however, conscious that Grunewald would probably find a reason why he should not stick to this resolution. Instead, he said: ‘A
very
grand affair?’

‘The grandest possible, I understand, in so short a time! They wish to make a show, you know, and prove they are up to the standards of wealth and display that they consider us to have brought to the neighbourhood.’

‘I begin to understand the workings of this place,’ Aubranael said. ‘A
very grand affair
will of necessity begin by inviting only the worthiest of guests, will it not?’

Grunewald agreed to this with a spirited nod, his mouth too full of tea and cake for speech.

‘And the worthiest guests tend to be the richest, the most well-connected, and, if at all possible, the most beautiful?’

Another enthusiastic nod from Grunewald.

Aubranael sat back, fixing his eyes on the distant ceiling as he considered this. The worthiest guests. He had already learned that Miss Landon was not rich. Nor was she of high “status”, as far as he could gather: as the daughter of a clergyman, she did at least rank as part of
polite society
, but as her father was a decidedly impoverished clergyman, she did not rank very highly within it.

Seeing as she was not blessed with any other connections—he had learned that the hard way—he began to fear that she would not be considered very
worthy
at all. The thought prompted a flicker of rage, but he thrust it down and said in a reasonable tone:

‘Grunewald. Do you suppose Miss Landon will merit an invitation, on those terms?’

He waited for another of Grunewald’s easy assurances, but none came. Instead, his friend frowned—pursed his lips—seemed about to speak—and finally sighed gustily and put down his teacup. He pointed one long finger at Aubranael’s nose and said: ‘It is fortunate that you are such congenial company, otherwise I might say that you are more trouble than you are worth.’

This odd manner of compliment pleased Aubranael more than it had any right to.
Was
he congenial company? He had never had a close friend before—at least, not one that talked back. Would Grunewald still find him agreeable, he wondered, after Hidenory had taken back his pretty face? He began to think maybe he would.

‘I am sorry,’ he said with complete sincerity. ‘I could not possibly have predicted all these difficulties, otherwise I might never have—‘

Grunewald held up a hand, and Aubranael stopped. ‘Do not say it, pray. I know very well that you would not have acted differently. Except, perhaps, in being rather better prepared, and therefore you might have made less of a foolish picture later.’

This speech was given in a grave tone, and might have sounded awfully severe if it were not for the merry twinkle in Grunewald’s leaf-green eyes. Aubranael smiled.

‘I am much obliged to you, truly, and if I can ever be of assistance to you, I hope you will—’

Grunewald held up his hand again. ‘Did Hidenory teach you nothing? Beware of promises without limit! If I were not such a good-natured soul…’

His words echoed Hidenory’s, and Aubranael felt a moment’s uneasiness. But Grunewald was still smiling with every appearance of good cheer.

‘Dangerous or not,’ Aubranael said, ‘I meant what I said.’

Grunewald gave him a long look. ‘Very well. I will remember it.’ He stood up. ‘Now, back to our lessons, I think! I will attend to the matter of Miss Landon’s invitation later on.’

‘Grunewald! If you can make sure of Miss Landon’s friend, likewise—what is her name? The young, slightly silly one—Anne, I think—that would be excellent.’

Grunewald raised a brow. ‘Thinking of switching your allegiance? I cannot compliment you on your taste, if so. Pleasant enough girl, but
quite
silly, indeed.’

Aubranael shook his head vehemently. ‘Gracious,
no!
Only I feel certain she would enjoy it immensely, and it would be a pity for her to be omitted. And Miss Landon will like to have her friends there, do you not think?’

Grunewald threw up his hands. ‘Very well, I shall endeavour to persuade our good neighbours on the topic of Anne Something-or-Other as well. Now, no more kind-hearted requests if you please; you oblige me to enough exertion as it is.’

Aubranael made a cross-my-heart motion, and smiled.

Grunewald laughed. ‘Very well, enough delays. On with the dancing!’

Aubranael allowed himself to be led away with only a small sigh. If he was to have not only the pleasure of talking with Miss Landon, but also of dancing with her—actually dancing!—then he must apply himself.

The last thing in the world he wanted was to make a fool of himself in front of
her.

Chapter Six

Avoiding Mr. Stanton and Mr. Green proved to be more difficult than Sophy had anticipated. Everywhere she went, she heard them spoken of, usually in terms of the strongest praise; everyone was enchanted with them, everyone hoped to become their intimate friend, or to see their daughters distinguished by some particular attention.

Worse, Sophy could scarcely leave her home without encountering them somewhere. If she walked into town, she passed them on the street; if she wandered over the fields or through the woods, she would see them coming back from a ride or a ramble of their own. Mr. Stanton was not again so rude as to stare openly at her, but she often felt his gaze upon her, only to find him looking elsewhere when she turned.

A week went by, and most of another, and still neither Mr. Stanton nor Mr. Green satisfied the hopes of Tilby society by distinguishing any particular young woman. Sophy would have preferred it if they had. If some other—more deserving—young woman caught Mr. Stanton’s eye, it would necessarily bring an end to the intolerable speculation that surrounded the two men and their unattached hearts. After ten days of gossip—and Mr. Stanton’s odd behaviour—Sophy greeted the return of her particular friend, Miss Isabel Ellerby, with infinite relief.

Miss Ellerby was a few years older than Anne, and considerably more rational. She was also rather prettier than Anne, and certainly wealthier; but she hardly seemed aware of either distinction, treating both her friends with gentle good nature. Having spent a few weeks with an aunt in York, she returned with a great deal of news, and walked up to the parsonage directly in order to share it.

Sophy listened to the tales of Mrs. Grey’s household with far more interest than she had ever felt on the subject before. She was delighted to hear of Isabel’s engagements abroad, and the doings of her York acquaintance, in any degree of detail, because it bore no relation whatsoever to the tiresome two who had invaded Tilby.

But such felicity could not last. Isabel had not been sitting with Sophy above half an hour before Anne arrived, out of breath as if she had run all the way.

‘Isabel!’ she cried on entering the parlour. ‘I heard that you were returned! I thought I should find you here. Well! You will never guess what has happened while you were gone.’ Sophy resigned herself to another interminable discussion of all Mr. Green’s and Mr. Stanton’s doings, and indeed a lengthy recitation followed. She purchased a few moments’ respite for herself by untangling the ribbons of Anne’s forgotten bonnet and taking it out into the blissfully quiet hall.

There she met Thundigle bustling through with an armful of cloth.

‘Thundigle!’ she cried in relief. ‘How glad I am to see you! Only tell me there is some emergency in the kitchen and that I am needed at once, and I shall be completely happy.’

Thundigle spread his brown eyes wide and blinked at her. ‘Surely you cannot be wishing for catastrophe, Miss Sophy.’

‘Indeed I don’t, precisely.’ She broke off as Anne’s voice, raised in rapturous enthusiasm, emanated through the walls to permeate the quiet hallway.

Sophy exchanged a raised-brows look with Thundigle, and the latter nodded gravely.

‘I see,’ he said, and thought for a moment. ‘Mary has just put on a kettle of stew,’ he offered.

‘Perhaps Mary might spill some of it upon me, obliging me to change my clothes.’

‘If not, then I would be most happy to capsize it in your direction, Miss Sophy.’

Sophy began to smile. ‘A most obliging offer, but I would need a reason to go to the kitchen first.’

‘I might bring you tea in the parlour, in a few moments,’ Thundigle offered. ‘And I might, in a moment of infinitely regrettable clumsiness, spill a cup or two upon your gown.’

Sophy laughed at this image, but quickly sobered. ‘As tempted as I am, I shall not impose upon your clumsiness. Can you imagine the damage to my poor gown? And I haven’t another muslin anywhere near as good.’

Thundigle sighed with apparent regret, though a rare twinkle appeared in his nut-brown eyes. ‘Perhaps you might propose a walk instead, to somewhere Miss Anne might find diverting.’

Sophy sighed and shook her head. ‘I cannot, indeed, for we would be almost certain to bump into Anne’s new beaux! I cannot think how it keeps happening.’

Thundigle greeted this piece of information with a thoughtful look, and ultimately made no reply. ‘I must get on,’ he apologised, and left again in the direction of the kitchen.

Sophy returned to the parlour just in time to hear Anne say, ‘You should have seen how he stared at Sophy! Nothing could be more particular! He is to be at the Adairs’ ball, you know, and I am persuaded he will ask her to dance first.’

Sophy, torn between embarrassment, chagrin and mild alarm, knew not what to say. Fixing on the one piece of Anne’s speech that was news to her, she turned the conversation by asking: ‘Are the Adairs to give a ball? I had not heard.’

‘Yes!’ cried Anne. ‘It has only just got about this morning. Mr. Stanton and Mr. Green are so friendly with Mr. Edward already that they have decided to give a ball to welcome them to the neighbourhood. Everyone is to be invited! Only think how magnificent! They will be hoping that Elizabeth will catch Mr. Stanton’s eye, I shouldn’t wonder, or maybe Mr. Green’s. But I think Mr. Stanton much prefers Sophy.’

Sophy could imagine no such thing, and said so. The Adairs were among the principle families in Tilby, with a large modern house and four or five thousand-a-year in income; their two children, Edward and Elizabeth Adair, were uncommonly handsome, and it was generally agreed that both would do well in marriage. The former was a natural associate for two such young gentlemen, and the latter an equally natural wife for one of them; what could Sophy have to do with any of that?

Anne refused to be swayed, however, and with more loyalty than perspicacity she insisted that Sophy was every bit as handsome as Miss Adair, and far more agreeable.

Isabel watched this exchange with sharp attention, her dark eyes lingering on Sophy’s face. ‘I shall look forward to meeting them both,’ was all she ventured to say.

Sophy merely smiled, relieved to reflect that she, in all her poverty and her lack of fashion, would almost certainly be omitted from the Adairs’ invitation list.

But in due course, a handsome invitation card arrived at the parsonage, and upon seeing it, Sophy’s heart sank. Typically an occasion for great excitement, this particular invitation filled her with a mixture of strange, fluttering nervousness (a most unwelcome feeling) and an obscure dread. The ball was to take place very soon, in a mere few days’ time. Sophy recollected that Mr. Green and Mr. Stanton had only been said to remain in the neighbourhood for a few weeks; this, she supposed, was an effort to induce them to stay longer.

She briefly considered declining the invitation. Her father would certainly not wish to go, and she might claim any manner of indisposition for herself, without eliciting any true alarm in her friends. But Anne had not confined her speculations about Mr. Stanton to Sophy’s parlour; her enthusiasm had, as usual, overridden her sense, and she had spread her ideas somewhat farther abroad. To decline the invitation would, then, invite far too much comment. She resigned herself to an evening of small trials, and wrote to accept the invitation.