The Tales of Aylfenhame Compendium

Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten

‘Tell me about Grenlowe.’

Sophy sat beside Mr. Balligumph on the edge of the old stone bridge, her legs folded beneath the fabric of her gown, her bonnet lying discarded upon the stone slabs beside her. The mid-day sun shone warm upon her smiling face, and the fresh breeze seemed to take all her cares sailing away with it.

The troll had taken off his hat, too, though he chose to cradle it in his lap. He sat near to Sophy, idly stroking the crown as he spoke. ‘Grenlowe, is it?’ he said, with a toothily smug smile. ‘I take it ye’re pleased wi’ the place, to be askin’ me that.’

‘One should not form judgements too quickly, I know,’ replied Sophy, ‘but I could not help myself. Grenlowe was charming.’

Balli’s smug smile vanished and he turned serious. ‘Aye, well, I won’t deny I had hopes ye’d like it. But ye must not get too carried away wi’ such notions, Miss Sophy. T’ain’t all charming, to be sure.’

‘That is certainly the truth! For I was awfully pulled about in the market-square; I have never seen anything so busy. And almost knocked off my feet entirely, by such a careless gentleman! But I hardly minded it at all.’

Balligumph chuckled heartily, nodding his great head. ‘Oh, it’s a busy place. The Grenlowe market is famous, did ye know? Folks journey from all over Aylfenhame to spend an hour or two browsin’ the wares.’

‘Truly? But Grenlowe seems such a small place. Barely larger than a village, I thought.’

Balli winked at her. ‘It’s a mite bigger’n ye’d think, Miss.’

The consciousness of having walked from one side of Grenlowe to the other with Aubranael, and in less than an hour, puzzled Sophy immensely. ‘But how? What I mean is, where do they keep the rest of it?’

‘Down below, above ground, an’ in hidden ways and corners.’

‘Enchantments! Very well. I will take your word for it, for I hardly know when I shall ever be able to return.’

‘Do ye wish to return?’

Sophy thought of the market, the ribbons, the food, the trees, the meadows, the strange purple cat and Aubranael. ‘Yes!’ she said. ‘I should like it above all things.’

‘Yes? An’ what will ye do there?’

‘I should like to explore a great deal more, as I have evidently missed a great deal. I should like to buy one of those very beautiful ribbons from the market. And…’ here she hesitated a moment, ‘There is someone I would very much like to see again.’

Balli tilted his great dead downwards in a listening gesture, but some strange reticence discouraged Sophy from elaborating. Instead she said: ‘Do you suppose—that is, I was thinking—if I wanted to be part of the market, how would I go about it?’

Balli blinked down at her in palpable confusion. ‘Part o’ the market? I can’t understand you.’

Sophy hesitated. ‘Well… I know it is hardly proper to think of selling things—awfully vulgar, some would say—but in my position—and it is Aylfenhame, you know, where the rules are quite different—’

‘Ye wish to sell at the market?’ Balli interrupted. ‘Is that what ye’re saying?’

Sophy felt a faint blush crawl into her cheeks. ‘I… why, yes, I suppose I am. Is it so very awful?’

A huge grin wreathed Balli’s round face and he chuckled. ‘Very awful indeed, if ye were to consult those whose opinions ain’t worth havin’. For my part, I think it a grand idea. Only, what are ye minded to sell?’

‘There was something I noticed in particular about the people I saw in Grenlowe,’ Sophy said, smiling in relief. ‘They do love their finery! Much as Thundigle does.’

Balli nodded vigorously. ‘Finery an’ garments and sundry! Very well. Tis a fine plan.’

‘Only, I have no notion at all how to go about it. It would require materials, of course, and no doubt there would be other difficulties.’

‘Oh, plenty. But that don’t mean it’s hopeless, by any stretch. Ye’d be leavin’ England altogether, though; is that the plan?’

Sophy sighed, feeling a momentary pang of regret as she looked out over the green fields of Lincolnshire that stretched away before her. ‘It is not that I am unhappy here,’ she said, ‘only I can see so little place for myself, in the future.’

‘Ye’re not minded to take that fancy fellow ye danced with at the ball, then? Even wi’ all his money and fancy suits?’

Sophy laughed at this picture of Mr. Stanton, though a note of disquiet sounded within her mind. ‘Is that the talk? No, I am not at all minded to throw myself at a fortune! Besides, he would have to ask me first, and I am very sure he never will.’

‘That ain’t what I heard.’

The disquiet grew. ‘Oh, dear. Is there a great deal of gossip? That is very embarrassing.’

‘Embarrassin’, ye call it, t’ have yer name linked with so fine a gentleman?’

‘Awfully! We are barely acquainted, after all.’

Balli sat in scowling silence. For all his levity, he was still suspicious of Mr. Stanton and Mr. Green; but his efforts to find out more about the two gentlemen had, so far, failed. To Sophy’s mind, this merely indicated a lack of buried secrets to uncover, but Balli remained unconvinced.

‘Of the two plans,’ said the troll after a while, ‘I like yours the best.’

Sophy supposed he meant the market over the marriage. ‘I like it much better, too,’ she smiled. ‘But I fear I will find it even more difficult to achieve.’

‘Yer friends will be pleased to help, Miss Sophy, never fear.’

Sophy smiled up into his dear face and uttered her sincerest thanks. Balli’s eyes, however, were fixed on something behind her, and he did not meet her gaze. ‘Now,’ he muttered, ‘What’s Mary in a flap about?’

‘Mary?’ Sophy repeated in surprise, and turned to look. There indeed was Mary, coming towards them at a dead run, her hand clutching the cap that threatened to fly off her head, her face red with exertion. Sophy watched her approach with growing dread. What in the world could have sent her patient, long-suffering servant running after her like this?

When Mary reached them, she was at first too out of breath to speak. She stood with her fine, greying hair flying in the wind and her chest heaving with the effort of drawing in as much air as possible. But her eyes spoke eloquently, the expression in them one of alarm and extreme dismay, and no hint of a smile leavened her wrinkled face.

‘Oh, Miss Sophy,’ she gasped after a minute or two, ‘I’m that glad I’ve found you! You must come at once!’

Sophy felt the beginnings of a fine panic flare to life within her. In a voice of forced calmness she said: ‘What is it, Mary? What has happened?’

‘It’s your father,’ Mary panted. ‘Thundigle has gone for the doctor, but he has been gone above half an hour and no help’s come! I thought, if only Miss Sophy was here, she’d know what to do, right enough.’

Sophy had jumped to her feet at the beginning of this speech. Now she briskly tied her bonnet back into place, ignoring the shaking in her fingers. ‘You were right to come and find me, Mary; thank you.’ She took only a few moments to bid goodbye to a patently worried Balligumph, and then she set off. She began at a brisk walk, but the fluttering concern in her belly blossomed into full-blown panic and she broke into a run.

Late that afternoon, Sophy sat on the threadbare sofa in the parlour that was no longer hers. She was in such a state of exhaustion, she could barely think.

The last few hours had been, without contest, the worst of her life. She and Mary had arrived at the parsonage to find that Thundigle had returned with Doctor Howard—but too late. Her father had already gone.

When she had left the parsonage that morning, she had done so in a state of good cheer, her mind full of ideas and better hopes than she had enjoyed in some time.

She returned to it to find herself bereft of all familial connections and without a home, for her father’s living had been secured to another long before. In effect, the living passed into the hands of her father’s successor on the very moment of his death; and that included the parsonage.

The comfort of her father’s presence had been meagre, certainly; he had often vexed her, and habitually neglected her, and his passing did not leave her as heartbroken as she felt she ought to be. But still, she was not without compassion for him: he had been eating himself into the grave, she supposed, from the moment of her mother’s death, and his sudden, complete absence still affected her deeply.

That it had occurred so suddenly was a source of extreme concern to her. She had only just begun to think about the wider plans for her future that her visit to Grenlowe had encouraged; she had as yet had little time to give the matter any serious consideration, or to begin to make the necessary arrangements. Her future stretched ahead of her in her mind’s eye, empty of solid prospects and empty of companionship. It would not be long, she supposed, before the new parson of Tilby would arrive to claim the living and the house, and she would have to ensure she had removed herself and her life from the premises before that occurred. But where would she go? To whom could she turn for help? She felt lonely and frightened and helpless, and was for the present so overpowered with it that she could only sit, and stare out of the window.

The news would travel across the town in a matter of hours, she knew. Already they would be talking about her over their evening meals, and sitting in their parlours afterwards; they would talk of her lack of relations, her lack of husband, her lack of money, tutting and shaking their heads over her father’s conduct, and reflecting on how she must, inevitably, sink forever beneath good society. And in a very few days, the subject would be over—hurried off, in favour of the next shocking piece of news. Sophy and her plight would be consigned to history, and what became of her would interest no one at all.

Such dark thoughts were unproductive, but her exhaustion was so complete that she knew not how to shake herself free of them. She felt that she had been deluding herself for years; hiding from the truths she did not wish to think about, setting them aside in favour of finding some little enjoyment, some small piece of comfort in her life; setting herself up, in short, for the terrible predicament in which she now found herself.

But it had not been in her power to do very much more than she had. She could, perhaps, have followed the well-meant advice of such persons as Mrs. Ellerby, and Anne, and even Isabel, and tried harder to catch a husband. But such a course of action had always struck her as so very repellent—so absurd in her in particular, to throw herself at eligible men in the hopes that she might take. Even if she had been able to see into her future, and been forewarned about the terrible situation she now found herself in, she could not have acted differently.

Sophy became aware of soft footsteps approaching, and looked up to find Isabel stepping quietly into the room. She was carrying a tray set out with tea-time fare, and a steaming pot of tea.

‘Dear Sophy,’ she said, with a sympathetic smile. ‘I do not know if you can find it possible to eat? Poor Mary is quite overset, so I have sent her to lie down and made up a few things for you myself. Please, do, try to eat a little. Mamma has left you some of her very best tea, in the hopes you might be persuaded to try it. She swears it is quite fortifying.’

Sophy managed a tremulous smile, ashamed of the tears that sprang to her eyes at Isabel’s words. Cold meat and tarts and tea! As if such things could help her now! A towering ingratitude took hold of her heart—an irritation, even, with such ineffectual assistance, no matter how well-meaning might be the givers—and she had to swallow the retort that rose to her lips. To be impatient, angry, waspish even, was not her way, and she would allow the impulse to overpower her now.

‘Thank you,’ she said softly. Isabel’s concern was real, no matter the form it took, and she managed to find a little gratitude in her heart that someone cared for her fate. ‘Perhaps I can eat, a very little.’ She felt sick through-and-through, from mind to heart to stomach, and the prospect of food revolted her. But to neglect her meals altogether would only weaken her further—perhaps even turn her into one of those wretched fainting misses in novels, whose lack of fortitude had always irritated her profoundly. So she took the food and nibbled at it as Isabel watched with all the anxious concern of a mother overseeing a sick child.

‘Mother wished you to know…’ began Isabel, and then hesitated. ‘If there is ever anything that we can do to assist you, you need only ask.’

Sophy fully understood the reason for Isabel’s hesitation. She knew very well—as did her mother and father—that she was beyond the mere commonplace kind of help that they could offer. This kind of assistance had been offered to her many times already over the course of the afternoon, and she was exhausted with the effort of thanking people for words that were uttered mostly as a matter of form. They knew she was beyond their help, and that they would not be expected to carry their promises through into actual assistance; as such, the words came cheaply and were easily given.

Wearily, Sophy thanked Isabel anyway.

Isabel seemed on the point of speech once more, changed her mind and closed her lips, and then shook her head. After this little display of indecision, she finally said: ‘Charles has… expressed a great deal of concern for you, Sophy. He has stayed away, he said, because he feels sure you must be overrun with visitors at present, but he will be sure to call on you very soon.’

Sophy began to laugh, a mildly hysterical, empty piece of mirth born of exhaustion and despair. ‘Charles! My dear Isabel, he is certainly not going to relieve me of my troubles. You must put that idea out of your head. No gentleman is going to ride to my rescue! I am perfectly reconciled to it!’

Isabel opened her mouth to speak, and Sophy held up a hand. ‘Don’t, I pray, mention Mr. Stanton’s name to me! I am sick of hearing it! He will have no inclination to rescue me either, I have no doubts at all on that score; and even if he were—or dear Charles, or anyone—I am not at all minded to accept. To do so out of desperation, because I have no choice! I cannot conceive of anything more humiliating! No, I will find my own way out of my troubles.’

Isabel subsided, and sat in silence while Sophy ate through the repast she had provided. The silence continued as Sophy sat motionless, her head aching, her eyes sore from weeping, her heart empty of all hope. The sun continued to shine outside, which seemed an insult to Sophy’s tired mind: the beautiful, golden sunshine that had blessed the happiness of the morning, now shone down with equal vigour upon the despair of the evening.

‘Isabel,’ she said abruptly.

‘Yes?’

‘Would you be willing to stay here tonight?’

Poor Isabel seemed energised at the prospect of some service she could perform for Sophy, and answered almost rapturously: ‘Of course I will stay! I am so glad you asked, for I was not at all looking forward to leaving you here alone.’

Sophy’s loneliness eased, just a little, at the prospect of having company for the night. She had never before spent a night alone at the parsonage, and she did not feel equal to it today of all days. ‘Thank you,’ she said with real gratitude, and pressed Isabel’s hand. ‘I will feel better in the morning, I am sure. A night’s sleep will restore me to my usual self, and leave this cursed wretchedness behind.’