Miss Landon and Aubranael (Tales of Aylfenhame Book 1) (18 page)

***

Aubranael stood in the library at Hyde Place, pacing about among the bookshelves and pausing at intervals to stare moodily out of the large windows. Their house was situated on the edge of the Lincolnshire Wolds, and the library windows afforded a pleasant view of fields and hedgerows and, in the distance, rolling green hills.

He saw none of it; not even when the sun came out from behind a smattering of clouds and cast a golden glow over the countryside. He was too absorbed by his own concerns, and the problems he faced.

Mr. Landon’s death had come as no surprise to anybody but him, he had discovered. The neighbourhood was more inclined to feel surprised that it had taken so long. The good reverend’s health had been in decline for years, and while people’s opinions as to the cause differed—some spoke romantically of heartbreak following the long-ago death of his wife, others spoke more disparagingly of selfishness and gluttony—all agreed that his time had come, fair and square.

Few seemed concerned about the fate of his daughter. Most talked very comfortably about her imminent fall from society, and speculated about the probable character and appearance of the new reverend in the same breath. Even those who expressed concern for her could think of no way to help her.

To his chagrin and anger, he found that there was no longer any expectation that he, Mr. Stanton, would seek to claim her as his wife. Now that she was penniless in fact rather than merely in prospect—and homeless into the bargain—it was generally agreed that he would give up all thought of her. Did they think him so shallow, or were they merely projecting their own feelings onto him?

He had paid her a visit as soon as he had heard the news. She had been subdued, exhausted, and in pain, and despite her attempts at composure he had detected more than a hint of fear behind her eyes. It angered almost as much as it frustrated him; she should not have been left in this situation! Her pain had hurt him far worse than any misfortune of his own; shocked at how deeply he felt, he had wanted to hold her until she was smiling once again.

He could do no such thing, of course, so he had merely hovered, exchanging awkward pleasantries with Miss Landon until he judged that it was time to withdraw. The meeting had taken barely fifteen minutes, and he had gone away with so many things unsaid…

If he could, he would have settled the matter once and for all, there and then. But there remained the problem of the mess in which he had embroiled himself. He could hardly ask her to marry him in the character of Mr. Stanton, when she had no idea who she was truly engaging herself to, and he had no home to take her to, nor the means to acquire one. And so, as the days passed, the neighbourhood took his inactivity as confirmation of their expectations. Edward Adair had even had the effrontery to congratulate him on his escape! On his having, as the revolting boy put it, “come to his senses”! It was intolerable.

But he had only himself to blame. What had possessed him to begin this ridiculous masquerade? Where had he expected it to end? The truth was, he hadn’t thought that far. Seduced by the prospect of beauty, he had succumbed to the temptation with the greatest of ease. At the beginning, it had all seemed so easy; by the time his month was up, he and Miss Landon would of course be on such good terms that she would accept the truth about him with equanimity.

Almost four weeks had passed, and he had only a few days left before Hidenory’s enchantment expired. It no longer seemed so easy, and he could only curse the appalling naivety—and insecurity, and fear—that had got him into this mess. He was stuck, and he could see no solution that would end in the way he wished.

‘Aha!’ came a cry from behind him. ‘Got you!’

He turned to find Grunewald standing in the doorway, holding a household brownie by the ear. It took Aubranael a few moments to shake off his preoccupied daze and fully register the scene before him. When he did, he frowned. Grunewald appeared to be searching the creature.

‘What are you doing?’

Grunewald flashed a brief glance at him, his leaf-green eyes shining with anger. ‘It seems we have a visitor,’ he said lightly. ‘Though uninvited visitors are usually given less courteous names, are they not? Intruder, perhaps? Or
spy
?’

The brownie stared up at Grunewald with calm passivity. She was dressed as most of her kind, in ragged clothes stained with dirt and dust; her hair was a mass of flyaway brown curls, and the expression in her dark brown eyes was gentle. She showed no signs of fear or alarm at Grunewald’s treatment, however, merely staring up at him with flawless calm.

‘I don’t understand,’ Aubranael said. ‘Is not this one of your people?’

‘Why, no,’ Grunewald said. ‘This one is a
real
brownie.’ He finished his search, apparently finding nothing interesting or incriminating about the person of his “visitor”, and frowned down at her. He was a great deal taller than she and wearing such a fierce expression that Aubranael felt quite sorry for her.

‘Certainly I am a real brownie,’ she said, calmly smoothing herself down.

‘And why are you here?’ Grunewald demanded. ‘I thought I established that this house was not to be infiltrated.’

It was a curious choice of word, Aubranael thought.
Infiltrated,
as if a brownie helper might be expected to have some ulterior motive in moving into the house.

The brownie smiled gently up at Grunewald. ‘I am here to help.’

Grunewald smiled nastily back. ‘As I am sure you have had ample opportunity to observe, I am in need of no help.’

‘Indeed, sire, for your entourage is considerable.’

Aubranael blinked. There was that word again:
sire.
He’d thought he had heard it before, at Grunewald’s house in Nottinghamshire, but he could have been mistaken. This time, he was sure he had not misheard.

Grunewald was scowling in annoyance. ‘My name is Mr. Green,’ he said shortly.

The brownie merely nodded and said, ‘Of course, sire.’

Grunewald sighed and released her. He muttered something under his breath, of which Aubranael could just catch the words
interfering trolls.

‘You may tell Mr. Balligumph that his surmise is quite correct, that we are all awfully impressed by his cleverness, and that he will certainly be the first person I will ask should I be requiring information at any time in the future,’ Grunewald said severely. ‘You may also inform him that he is
not
welcome to send his spies and snitches into my household and that any further incursions will be greeted with the
utmost
severity.’

The brownie smiled gently at him again, and bowed. ‘My name is Pharagora,’ she said politely. ‘In case you were interested.’

‘I was not.’

She bowed again. ‘Very good. I will take your message to Mr. Balligumph.’ She walked calmly past Grunewald—her head barely reaching his knee—and disappeared.

Grunewald smiled sunnily at Aubranael. ‘Now that that’s cleared up,’ he said, and turned to leave.

‘A moment,’ Aubranael said. ‘What was that about?’

‘Nosy, self-appointed bridge guardians prying into our business,’ Grunewald replied. ‘In other words, nothing at all of any import.’

‘Oh? But you were quite angry with her.’

Grunewald’s green eyes glittered dangerously. ‘I dislike spies.’

Aubranael smiled faintly at him. ‘You have many secrets, sire.’

Grunewald pointed one long finger at him and said, ‘Do
not
call me that.’

‘Why not? If that is what you are.’ Aubranael spoke calmly, but the revelation that his suspicions might be correct—that Grunewald was the Goblin King—rattled him somewhat. He had heard all manner of strange stories about the king of the goblins. That he was famously eccentric was patently true, and not terribly alarming; but he had also heard tales of a poor temper, a tendency to tire quickly of other people, and occasional forays into shocking violence when he was thwarted.

Grunewald smiled a slow, not very pleasant smile. ‘Whatever I am,’ he said coolly, ‘you will find me a much more congenial companion if you do
not
attempt to pry into my secrets.’

‘That is evidently true,’ Aubranael said with a smile, and a slight inclination of the head.

Grunewald sighed, and further disordered his wild red hair by running a hand through it. ‘Complications,’ he muttered. ‘I suppose it is better than boredom.’

With that slightly mystifying comment, he disappeared into the corridor. But a moment later he was back. ‘Aubranael?’ he said.

‘Yes?’

‘Will you please, for the love of my sanity, make a decision? And then
act upon it?
’

Aubranael opened his mouth to reply, but Grunewald had gone. He sighed, and ran a hand through his own hair.

Grunewald had thought only of his own secrets when he had caught Pharagora, but Aubranael spared a thought for his own. Mr. Balligumph was, he knew, friendly with Miss Landon. Had Pharagora discovered anything about Mr. Stanton’s real identity? Was that news even now on its way to the troll? If so, he knew it would not be long before Sophy was informed of it.

A flutter of panic shot through him, turning his knees to water. He was not a worldly gentleman, and he could at times be astonishingly naive; but even
he
knew that if Miss Landon was informed of his true identity by anybody but himself, she might not react well to the revelation at all. All thoughts of the mystery of Grunewald’s true identity fled from his mind, in the wake of the realisation that he had run out of time. He had no way of confirming how much Pharagora had discovered, but she only needed to have heard Grunewald call him by his real name, and that was by no means impossible.

He glanced at the handsome library clock, and learned that the hour was already past four. He would have time to see Miss Landon this afternoon, if he hurried; and he had better hurry. The time for indecision was past; he would have to do as Hidenory had insisted, and tell Miss Landon the truth. Whether or not she would forgive his deception remained to be seen—his heart thumped uncomfortably at the prospect that she might not—but if she
did,
then he would do his utmost to win her over entirely.

Given the desperation of her circumstances, perhaps she would be grateful for his timely appearance, and not be too hard upon him.

Perhaps.

***

Ye may be able t’imagine my feelin’s when Pharagora came back wi’ the news. The Goblin King! In my town, messin’ about wi’ Miss Sophy! An’ that Mr. Stanton bein’ somebody else entirely! I don’t like to leave the bridge unattended, as a rule, but what could I do? Miss Sophy had t’ know! Off I went wi’ barely a second thought. I caused a bit of a stir rampagin’ through Tilby, but it ain’t like anybody’d dare to stop me, now is it?

Aubranael was in too much of a hurry to walk—or even to wait for the carriage to be prepared. He called for his horse to be saddled with the
utmost
urgency, and within ten minutes he was astride and on his way to the parsonage.

It was an anxious ride. He barely noticed the beauty of the golden sunlight filtering through the leaves of the roadside trees, or the sweet, cooling breeze that swept over the fields; his mind was too busy with the problem of how to tell Miss Landon that he had lied. The short journey stretched interminably, and he could have sworn he had covered three times the distance before he finally came within sight of Miss Landon’s home; but he had no better idea of how to confess than when he had started.

He pulled up his horse just outside the parsonage, jumped down and hastily secured the bridle to the house’s gate-posts. All the while his eyes searched the house for any signs of Miss Landon. What would he do if she was away from home? He would have to sit and wait for her to return.

He all but ran up to the front door, and, seizing the brass knocker in a hand that shook, he hammered it against the solid wooden door several times. When no one answered after a few seconds, he hammered again; and he was just about to begin for the third time when the door swung open. On the other side stood a shortish, stoutish woman of middle years with untidy, grey-brown hair. She wore the plain, practical clothing of a servant, along with an expression of alarm on her lined face.

‘Mary!’ he gasped. ‘Is Miss Landon at home?’

Mary shook her head, and his heart sank. ‘She went out more’n an hour ago,’ Mary said.

‘When will she be back?’

‘Oh,’ said Mary cautiously, eyeing him with some suspicion. ‘Reckoned she’d be gone a while, so she said.’

Aubranael blinked. A while? What did that mean? A few hours—or days? He asked, but Mary merely shrugged. If she knew the answer at all, she was not inclined to tell
him.

‘Is something amiss?’ Mary asked.

He sighed, leaning his shaking hand against the doorframe. ‘Somewhat,’ he said bitterly. ‘It is most important that I see her. I need to speak to her on an urgent matter.’

Mary softened slightly, her suspicious manner relaxing. ‘I cannot invite you in, not with the mistress gone,’ she said apologetically.

‘Certainly I would not presume to intrude,’ he said hastily. ‘Perhaps I might leave her a note, or something of the like?’

‘I suppose you could,’ Mary said doubtfully. She began to look flustered—Aubranael guessed she was trying to think of where to find paper and pen, and coming up blank—but before she could resolve her dilemma, Aubranael heard a great shout from behind him and the sounds of rapidly approaching feet.

Whoever owned those feet was rather large, he judged. Was he imagining it, or did the entire street shake with every pounding step?

He turned around, and beheld Balligumph.

He had already met the bridge guardian, of course, on his arrival in Tilby. He had also
heard
of Mr. Balligumph; he was a minor legend in Aylfenhame.

Neither this previous meeting, nor any tale he had heard, could have prepared him for the sight that now met his eyes. The troll was in a high temper—a burning rage, Aubranael would have said—and given his height and considerable bulk, this was no trifling matter. The troll approached the parsonage at a dead run, his eyes blazing fury and fixed upon Aubranael.