Miss Ellerby and the Ferryman (32 page)

Eliza
followed her upstairs, barely troubling to conceal her laughter.
‘Beautiful, Tafferty! I have not seen that look on my sister’s face
in many years.’

Isabel could not share her aunt’s amusement. Her mother had
relented with respect to Tafferty, but that was before she knew
that the catterdandy spoke — and moreover, was possessed of strong
opinions and a tart tongue. But she would fight that battle later,
if fight she must. Her aunt was correct: she was tired.

But
she was not yet to rest. Eliza followed her to her room and closed
the door behind her, first ensuring that they were alone. ‘I have
something else I must tell you,’ she said, and her demeanour
puzzled Isabel. She appeared to experience some difficulty in
meeting Isabel’s gaze, and her manner spoke of some measure of…
guilt?

Isabel deposited Tafferty gently upon the bed, and found her
a shawl to sleep upon. ‘What is it, aunt?’

Eliza
looked at her hands. ‘When I told you of your Aylir heritage, you
scarcely believed me at first. I had told you of distinctive
features and colouring, and you had them not. Commonplace, you
called yourself. Do you remember?’

She
looked up at she spoke, and fixed Isabel with an intense, unnerving
stare. Isabel felt a sense of deep foreboding, and had to swallow
her unease before she could reply. ‘I remember.’ Eliza had also
said that Ayliri features had not manifested in her either, but
that had not proved to be true, for the ordinary, human appearance
she wore was but a Glamour. Her aunt’s appearance was distinctly
other, her fae heritage stamped clearly upon her
features.

But
she had hidden that truth from everyone — even those who knew her
best. Because she was a mistress of the art of Glamour.

Isabel’s breath stopped.

‘I
see you have anticipated me,’ said Eliza with a faint, crooked
smile. Her cloaking Glamour melted away in an instant, leaving her
youthful and obviously Aylir once more.

‘Oh,
no…’ whispered Isabel. She rushed to the mirror and stared hard
into it, examining every inch of the features which were so
familiar to her. Her dark eyes, a little large but perfectly
ordinary. Her hair, a comfortable brown shade, curling a little.
Her features were attractive enough, but not arresting. It was her
face. ‘Is this… is this not…?’

Eliza
sighed. ‘I had to do it,’ she said. ‘You heard your mother
downstairs. She has never had much time for anything fae —
excepting, of course, the brownies who obligingly keep clean her
house. Many agree with her. My mother used the Glamour more and
more as she grew older, muting and fading her more remarkable
features until she was able to blend in with those around her. And
she camouflaged me. Harriet would not recognise me as I am
now.’

Isabel clutched at her own face, as though she could retain
it by force of will alone. ‘No. This is me.’

But
as she spoke, her reflection rippled like water and changed. Her
hair was not commonplace brown at all, but as rich in hue as
chocolate and threaded with gold. Her eyes were burnished jade. Her
features were more regular, and somehow more distinct; her
cheekbones sharper; her lips more finely sculpted, her nose
straighter, her lashes longer. As she stared at heself, Isabel
detected a hundred tiny signs, impossible to describe, that these
were not human features.

She
did not know when she began to cry; she only became aware that her
cheeks were wet and tears were dripping from her jaw. ‘This is not
me,’ she said indistinctly. ‘Tell me this is a Glamour.’

Eliza
came up behind her and laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘I am sorry. I
have wanted to tell you for so many years, but I did not know how
you would react. I did not know if you had inherited Harriet’s
opinions about the fae. For a long time, it seemed that you had.
All you wanted was an English life! The same life, the same
concerns, as all your neighbours.’

‘That
is still what I want!’ said Isabel fiercely. She turned away from
the mirror, dabbing angrily at her tears with the edge of her
shawl. ‘When did you begin this charade?’

‘Soon
after you were born. Your eyes, and your hair! Your Mama noticed.
So did your father, and others. They were uneasy. I watched your
mother withdraw from you, unsure what she had given birth to;
unsure whether she could love you. When I altered those things,
fractionally only, they were able to believe that it was but a
brief and passing thing, or perhaps some trick of the light. And
they accepted you, and loved you as the child they had wanted. Was
I wrong to do it?’

Isabel could not answer that question; not now. ‘Is there
nothing of me that is real? Who am I, aunt?’

‘You
are still Isabel,’ said Eliza quietly. ‘You are who you have always
been.’

‘I do
not know who that is. It seems I have never known.’

Eliza
bowed her head. ‘I will leave you to grow accustomed. Would you
prefer it if I were to restore the Glamour?’

Isabel shook her head blindly. ‘I do not know. It can be of
no consequence now.’

Eliza nodded, and
quietly withdrew. Isabel paced the room for some time, gripping her
shawl so tightly that her fingers hurt. Nothing that she had ever
known of herself was the truth! Nothing, nothing. Not even her face
was her own. She could not bear to look again in the mirror, for
she saw a stranger.

At
length she yielded to the impulse of weariness, and lay down upon
the bed. To her surprise, Tafferty uncurled herself and lay down by
Isabel’s side. She was warm, and a rumbling purr vibrated her small
body. ‘Aye, an’ thou’rt bound t’ struggle wi’ the lot of it fer a
time. Yer aunt acted wi’ the best o’ wishes fer thee, but I could
wish she ‘ad told thee before now. ‘Tis a shock fer
thee.’

Her
companion had never before been so understanding, and her kindness
soothed Isabel a little. She tangled her fingers in Tafferty’s fur
and closed her eyes, curling up around her catterdandy. ‘I do not
know who I am,’ she said in a hollow voice. ‘Miss Ellerby has been
naught but a lie.’

‘Miss
Ellerby, perhaps,’ said Tafferty. ‘But Isabel, now. Thou’rt still
she.’

‘I do
not know who Isabel is, either.’

‘Thou
wilt,’ said Tafferty simply. ‘In time.’

Chapter Sixteen

Isabel did not again trouble her aunt to restore the Glamour
of her human face. With Tafferty’s assistance, she was able to
restore it for herself. She wept as she did so, recognising the
artifice that lay in every line of her familiar features. But once
the Isabel she knew looked back at her from the looking glass, she
dried her tears and returned to Miss Ellerby’s world.

She
was more disturbed than she cared to admit by her aunt’s story.
What would have become of her had Eliza not modified her face, when
she was newborn? Would her mother have grown accustomed to her
daughter’s differences, and accepted her as she was? Or would she
have rejected the child? And if so, what would that have meant for
Isabel’s life?

She
could hardly imagine that Tilby society — and, even moreso, beyond
— would have accepted so obviously fae a child as one of their own.
Isabel might have grown up as an outcast, and her family forever
looked at askance, as not quite right. So far, at least, she could
understand both her mother’s feelings and her aunt’s
actions.

But
her heart still cried out with pain and confusion at the extent of
the trickery that had been played upon her. That sense of self, so
important to the peace of any young woman, had been built upon a
lie and was now torn from her entirely.

Was I
wrong to do it? Isabel did not know if her aunt had done the right
thing. Perhaps no one would ever be able to say for certain. But
the question that weighed upon her mind was: How would her mother
react if she were to learn the truth? If she had not been able to
accept the real Isabel at her birth, would she be able to do so
now?

Should she, in short, tell her mother and father — and the
rest of the world — the truth, or should Eliza’s Glamour conceal
the true Miss Ellerby forever?

No
answers to these questions presented themselves, and Isabel’s head
began to ache with the effort of puzzling her way through the
possible consequences of exposure versus concealment. It proved
difficult for her to focus upon the conversation in the parlour
that morning, which ought to have been reassuring in its ordinary
simplicity. At length she excused herself, ignoring her aunt’s
attempts to catch her eye, and collected her bonnet and shawl. The
day was fine, and not too hot, and she intended to partake of the
refreshment of a walk in Tilton Wood.

Her
going thither also served another purpose. She walked for half an
hour, turning her steps in the direction she had taken a mere few
weeks previously — before she had learned of the peculiarity of her
heritage; before she had become something so other than Miss
Ellerby of Ferndeane. On that day, she had been so absent in her
mind that she had lost herself, and encountered unexpected
aid.

When
she judged that she had arrived in roughly the same part of the
wood, she stopped. The exertion of rapid walking had overheated
her, and she took off her bonnet, looping the ribbon over her arm.
The breeze felt refreshing as it ruffled her hair, and she unwound
her shawl from her shoulders as well. ‘Tiltager!’ she called
softly. ‘Tiltager, I would speak with you.’

No
response reached her ears, and she knew disappointment. Had she
found the right place? The woods looked familiar to her, but
perhaps she misremembered. She wandered a little, her bonnet
swinging upon its coloured ribbons, and called Tiltager’s name from
time to time. At length, just as she was preparing to abandon the
project and return home, she heard a faint little voice hailing her
from somewhere in the vicinity of her knees. ‘Goodest of mornings,
Mistress!’

Isabel looked down, and smiled. The little fae looked
unchanged, gnarled as a bundle of twigs and wispy as a dried leaf;
only the tattered brown dress that she had worn had been replaced
with a merrier garment of faded violet rags, and she wore a bundle
of moss for a hat. She bowed as she had before, and held up for
Isabel’s interest a cluster of daisies.

‘Thank you,’ Isabel said, and carefully took the flowers.
‘Tell me, Tiltager. Why is it that you call me
“Mistress”?’

‘My
line has served yours for centuries, Mistress,’ said Tiltager
happily. ‘Did you not know?’

‘I
did not know that I was of any line at all, save for that of the
Ellerby family.’ Isabel tucked the daisies into the sash of her
gown and smiled at the little fae. ‘Nor that there was any such
arrangement as you describe.’

Tiltager bowed again. ‘My granny trained your
great-grandsire’s companion,’ she said proudly. ‘May I be of help
to you?’ She quivered with enthusiasm at the prospect, which made
Isabel smile, though it puzzled her a little.

‘Someday I would like you to tell me more of my forebears,’
she said, ‘since you appear to know far more than I. But today, I
have a particular question to put to you.’

Tiltager adopted a listening pose so exaggerated that Isabel
laughed. ‘It will be my pleasure to answer any question you may
have, Mistress!’

‘I
pray you, do not call me Mistress! For though I shall be glad of
your help, I do not consider you as a servant.’

Tiltager tilted her head at the word servant. ‘What is it
that you speak of?’

Isabel attempted to explain the concept of servitude, but
Tiltager could not understand her. ‘I am here to help,’ she simply
repeated, and grew injured by Isabel’s efforts to assure her that
she was in no way bound to do so. At length Isabel abandoned the
discussion, reassuring Tiltager as best she could that she had
meant no offence — for she saw that she had inadvertently hurt
her.

‘I am
very much in need of your help,’ she assured the fae, ‘for I have a
difficult task to fulfil. Do you know a way into the Hollow
Hills?’

Tiltager’s eyes widened, and she shook her head, sending her
knotted curls flying. ‘Oh, Mistress! You do not wish to go there,
no indeed!’

‘Isabel, please. I do not wish to go there, precisely, but I
must urgently speak with someone who I believe to be residing
there.’

Tiltager continued to protest, but Isabel was firm. At last
the little fae sighed deeply, and flopped onto her back among the
moss. ‘I know a way,’ she said.

‘Will
you take me, and one other?’

‘If I
must,’ said Tiltager unhappily.

‘Why
is it so ill-advised?’

‘Because the folk of England, they wander in and then they do
not always wander out!’ said Tiltager. ‘They are lost, and
forever!’ She sat up suddenly, and jumped to her feet. ‘But you are
not wholly of the folk of England, you! Perhaps it will be all
right.’ She smiled, and added helpfully, ‘But I hope you are not
particularly attached to this other person that you intend for me
to guide.’

‘She
is my aunt, and of the same line.’

Tiltager brightened further. ‘Then we shall make a merry
party of it, yes! And perhaps there is a small chance that we will
all come out again.’