Miss Landon and Aubranael (Tales of Aylfenhame Book 1) (14 page)

Mary nodded vigorously. ‘Oh, to be sure. There’s an apple tart, fresh from the oven. I’ll send it in directly.’ She turned to leave, casting a sly wink at Sophy as she did so.

Sophy suppressed a smile, torn between amusement and mortification. Mary had heard the news, of course, and would be sure to tease her about the visit later.

‘Will you sit down, Mr. Stanton?’ she said, mustering a calm smile for her visitor. She felt reasonably confident that her momentary flutter had not been perceptible; now she must ensure that her manner remained friendly and composed.

Mr. Stanton seated himself in the proffered chair, and proceeded to study her face rather intently. The conviction that he was registering all of the faults of her face took hold of her mind, sweeping away all her composure. It was very possible that she was actually
blushing
with mortification
.

This would not do at all.

Lifting her chin, she said: ‘Does something displease you in my countenance, Mr. Stanton?’

He looked surprised. ‘Of course not. Why should you suppose it?’

There was no simple answer to that question, and Sophy would not attempt any. She should have confined her conversation to the commonplace, of course. Hastily she said: ‘I am sorry that my father was not able to receive you. He often sleeps at this time of the morning. His health is not the strongest, as you may have heard.’

Mr. Stanton nodded thoughtfully, his dark brown eyes still fixed immovably on Sophy’s face. ‘I had heard, and I am sorry to hear it. I do hope his health will improve. I had not set out to visit the parsonage with any thought of seeing your father, however.’

Here was more of that awkward particularity. Did the man know nothing of small talk? Torn between pleasure and irritation, Sophy hardly knew whether to smile or frown. Deciding on attack instead of avoidance, she said: ‘Oh? What was the nature of your errand?’

‘I wished to hear your opinion on a matter of some importance to me.’

He said this in such a serious tone that Sophy began to feel a little fluttered—a little afraid that the silly daydreams she had indulged in only moments before may actually come to pass. Unable to suppress the colour that rose in her face, she managed only, ‘Indeed?’

‘Indeed.’ The smile returned to his face and he said, ‘What do you think of this coat?’

Sophy blinked. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘This coat! It is new, and an entirely new colour for me. Mr. Green says it is altogether too military, but I cannot agree. The shade is much darker than the traditional
redcoat
, as I am sure you will observe.’

Struck by the incongruity between his manner and his subject matter—between her flights of fancy and the truth behind his words—Sophy lost control of her dignified composure and began to giggle. Mr. Stanton laughed too, and at once the slight tension in the room eased and disappeared.

‘I had no notion that gentlemen worried over such things,’ Sophy said, when she had regained her breath. ‘A difficult problem, indeed! I can only assure you that it looks very well.’

‘Ah! Then I shall not mind Mr. Green’s opinion. He cannot abide red, you know, but then it would not do at all with his hair.’

His serious manner was back, but now Sophy could see the gentle self-mockery that lay behind it. ‘No, indeed,’ she agreed, mimicking his gravity. ‘Too much red all in one place! It cannot be good for a person’s health.’

‘That is a possibility I had not considered,’ said he seriously. ‘Do you think it will be of detriment to mine?’

‘No, for you are not at all red.’

He smiled and leaned a little forward. ‘I have been learning all manner of things about you, Miss Landon. The neighbourhood has a great deal to say, since the ball. For instance, you are a terrific seamstress! Is my information correct?’

‘I cannot agree with the term chosen; modesty forbids it, you know, and there can be no more awful prospect than an immodest young woman. But I do sew a great deal.’

He nodded wisely. ‘By which I understand you to mean that you
are
a terrific seamstress, and you are also very dutiful as regards the expectations of society.’

‘Not
very
dutiful. Society places so many and varied demands upon a person; it would be far too tiring to keep up with them
all.
’

‘Oh, quite! I am exhausted with it myself. For instance, I should like nothing better than to invite you to walk with me; but that could never be considered proper, and so I must resort to subterfuge.’

Her brows rose at the word
subterfuge.
‘What manner of deviousness did you have in mind?’

He thought for a moment. ‘If, say, you were to walk in Tilton Wood one morning—say tomorrow, for the sake of argument—and if you were to walk just a little too long, and find yourself suffering under the affliction of a head-ache—and if, by the most complete chance, you happened to encounter me there as you turned towards home—why, common decency would oblige me to see you safely home, would it not?’

Sophy pondered this for a moment in silence. Judging, from his smile and his gentle manner, that he meant nothing objectionable by it, she returned his smile and said: ‘It would not be wholly out of character for me to do so, certainly.’

‘I would, of course, offer you my arm, so that you may lean upon it. I would not wish to see you faint from over-exertion and the pain of the head-ache. And if anyone should happen to observe us, I may disarm any prospect of
talk
by claiming mere gentlemanly good behaviour. May I not?’

The picture he painted was an attractive one. The prospect of walking through Tilton Wood on a sunny morning, her arm linked with Mr. Stanton’s, her time whiled away by pleasantries and amusing nonsense, charmed her immensely. But dare she do so by prior agreement? Such behaviour would be considered intolerably bold, were it known.

But her social standing was already very low. Her likelihood of marrying had already been largely written off by Tilby (as well as herself). Her social credit, then, could hardly grow worse; and since she had no particular position to protect, no prospects to guard and no connections to offend, she might think herself free to consult her own pleasure.

‘I imagine I will wake tomorrow morning with every intention of walking in Tilton Wood,’ she said. ‘And it would be the very height of courtesy in you to rescue me from the ill effects of the head-ache which, I feel sure, must inevitably strike.’

This won her a smile of genuine delight; but he had not time for more, because Isabel at that moment returned to the room, now properly attired in a morning-gown. ‘Oh!’ said she, on perceiving Mr. Stanton. ‘I do beg your pardon! I had no idea that Miss Landon had a visitor.’

‘It is of no moment, Isabel; do please sit down! Mr. Stanton called to consult with father, but unluckily he is at this moment laid down upon the bed, and I am reluctant to disturb him.’

Isabel cast her a sharp look which proclaimed that she did not for an instant believe Sophy’s story; but as Mr. Stanton went along with it, she was obliged to likewise. She took a seat near to Sophy’s, arranged her skirts tidily, and proceeded to be entirely silent.

Sophy began to talk of the weather, of the roads, of the markets—anything, in short, that she could seize upon to fill up the silence. Mr. Stanton obliged her with a number of sensible comments, proving that he could indeed manage the delicate art of small talk; but the charm of their earlier conversation had gone. The entrance of a third party put paid to the easy intimacy which was beginning to grow between them, and the conversation was stilted. Sophy was not surprised when Mr. Stanton rose to depart.

‘I will look forward to seeing you both very soon,’ he said in parting, with a swift look at Sophy bespeaking his dependency on seeing
her
very soon indeed. She smiled her assent, and bid him goodbye with, she flattered herself, a very convincing calmness.

Isabel was not at all convinced. As soon as Mr. Stanton’s steps had retreated beyond their hearing, she turned to Sophy, her eyes shining. ‘Why, Sophy! What a Banbury tale! He came to see
you
, I am sure of it.’

‘You are fully as bad as Anne,’ Sophy said, with an attempt at severity; but she could not contain her smile. It
would
return, no matter how she tried to suppress it.

Isabel clapped her hands together in genuine delight. ‘Now, Mama will have to stop teasing me about him! I will tell her so directly. I only hope Mr. Green may prove as enchanted with Anne, as she is quite wild over him. I fear it is rather improbable, however.’

It was like Isabel to think of everyone else’s prospects, and omit her own. ‘Come, now,’ Sophy said, regaining her seat. ‘The likelihood of Mr. Stanton’s paying
me
any attentions was highly improbable, too.’ She picked up the cooling cup of tea which Mary had provided—pouring the tea for her, even, in the knowledge that Miss Landon would be sure to spill it—and sipped. It was cold, but the apple-tart was delicious; as Isabel declined any, she finished Mr. Stanton’s neglected slice as well as her own.

Later that day, Sophy sat alone with one of her father’s shirts in her lap, diligently mending the fraying seams, when Thundigle came trotting into the room. He made her a hasty bow, with none of his usual fastidious courtesy, and gasped out: ‘Mr. Balligumph wishes to talk to you, Miss Sophy! He says it is important.’

This came as a considerable surprise to Sophy, for Balligumph had never summoned her before. He prided himself on not being a
needy
acquaintance, as he put it, leaving it to Sophy to decide when she wished to visit him.

What could he possibly have to say that was so important? Sophy had no notion at all, but she would not trifle with Balli’s concerns. She rose at once, folding her mending neatly and leaving it upon a side-table. ‘Thank you,’ she said to Thundigle. ‘I am much obliged to you for bringing me the message. Do you have any idea at all what Mr. Balligumph wishes to discuss?’

Thundigle looked grave. ‘Not very much, but it relates to that Mr. Stanton, and his friend.’

A small feeling of disquiet invaded Sophy’s heart, spoiling the sunny mood she had been in ever since Mr. Stanton’s visit—ever since the ball, in truth. ‘Is there some manner of trouble?’

‘I couldn’t say, Miss, though Mr. Balligumph was awfully serious.’

Balli, serious? This was unlike him indeed! Sophy’s heart began to pound with alarm. ‘I will go at once,’ she said to Thundigle.

It was the work of mere moments to collect her bonnet and spencer, and then she was out of the door, walking as fast as was seemly on her way to the bridge. Thundigle did not accompany her, and so she had no one to distract her from the unpleasant reflections that passed through her mind as she walked.

Balli was extremely knowledgeable about local business.
Gossip,
one might even say. He extracted many a secret from Tilby’s citizens as they passed over his bridge, and he maintained something of a network of observers among the brownie helpers of the town, and other fae. Sophy occasionally consulted him, if there was something she wished to know; but when she had asked him about Mr. Stanton and Mr. Green some days before, he’d had only commonplace information to give. Had he uncovered something new? Thundigle’s manner suggested that the news was poor.

She arrived at the bridge somewhat out of breath, her heart beating rapidly from exertion as well as trepidation. ‘Balli?’ she called.

The moment her foot touched the bridge, he appeared. ‘Ye’re a good girl, Miss Sophy,’ he said at once. ‘I knew you’d come.’

The familiar twinkle in his eye was absent, and Sophy’s alarm deepened. ‘Of course, why should I not? What is it that you have to say to me?’

Balligumph sat down on the bridge—a sight which always worried Sophy a little, for fear that the hefty stone bridge would collapse under the troll’s considerable weight—and folded his hands over his stomach. ‘What do ye know of them two fine gents as are up at Hyde Place?’ he asked. ‘Mr. Green, Mr. Stanton? Do ye know much o’ them at all?’

‘No, no at all. No more than all the neighbourhood knows, that is: that they are of good family; that they have been friends since they were up at Oxford together; that they are both of good fortune—‘

‘Yes, yes,’ Balli interrupted, waving a meaty hand. ‘They told me all o’ that themselves. But I cannot find out that any of it’s the
truth.
’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I can’t find anything to contradict it, precisely, but there’s nothing in support of it, neither. No one’s heard o’ these two, not so much as a whisper. An’ there’s some mighty strange things about the way they conduct theirselves, too. For instance, did you know there ain’t a single brownie in that house?’

Sophy frowned, puzzled. ‘No? I am sure I heard otherwise—that they were adopted remarkably quickly, in fact, as soon as the house was opened.’

Balli shook his great head. ‘Whatever’s in that house, it’s not brownies. They just
look
like brownies. Got a glamour on ‘em, I’d wager.’

‘A glamour!’

‘Quite so! I don’t know who in that house has a way wi’ the fae-magics—whether it be your Mr. Stanton or Mr. Green—but sommat’s not right. An’ it makes me wonder: what else might be lurkin’ under them glamours?’

Sophy’s heart instantly absolved Mr. Stanton of guilt in the matter. He seemed too…too
normal.
It was Mr. Green who possessed a certain fey quality: something in his air at times, in his wild red hair and his leaf-green eyes.

‘Does it matter?’ Sophy asked. ‘Say that Mr. Green
does
know some of the fae-magics; is it so very bad?’

Balli eyed her with evident misgiving. ‘There’s sommat not right in a house wi’ no brownies,’ he stated bluntly. ‘I can’t get a straight answer out o’ the brownie-folk, neither, as to why they’re avoidin’ the place. They say only there’s no need of ‘em there, or suchlike. An’ you know what else? Not a single local chap or girl was hired to work at the house. It’s like the two of ‘em brought their own staff along. Unheard of!’