Page 12 of Lady Emily’s Matchmaking Mishap (Merry Spinsters, Charming Rogues #5)

Chapter Six

The physician came the next morning and prescribed a poultice for Cissy’s foot, advising three days of rest.

“No standing, no walking and certainly no dancing during this time,” he instructed.

This meant that Cissy would have to remain in her room, unable to socialise. But Cissy took it in her stride. “It’s quite acceptable to me,” she declared. “I’ll sit by the window and admire the view of the park.”

The view from the window was magnificent: a lake with a fountain in front of them, beyond which stretched the parkland and woods. “I will read, embroider and enjoy the wonderful food Mrs Smith brings me.”

Emily, however, was far from finding it acceptable. How could she bring about a match between Cissy and the Duke if her sister was shutting herself away? “That won’t do. Perhaps we could ask the footman to carry you down to the drawing room so that you can at least meet the guests, even if you remain seated?”

Cissy shook her head. “No, Emily. I’d rather not have people standing around looking down at me while I’m sitting. The situation is unnerving enough. Let me stay here until my ankle heals somewhat. But you must meet the other guests.” She leaned forward. “Especially him.”

Him. Emily’s brow darkened.

She would have to set aside her personal feelings of antipathy if she was to orchestrate this match. She’d loathed the faceless image of the Duke before she’d actually met him. It was easy to dislike a faceless person. Now that she knew what he looked like, a silly popinjay no less, she found that her degree of loathing had diminished somewhat.

Now she only felt contempt for him. He was clearly a nincompoop with far too much power.

Emily reminded herself to focus on the goal, for nothing else mattered. But how was she to catch a duke? Especially when it was for her sister, not herself.

“Lady Dalrymple, Lady Mabel and Lady Jane are presently resting and would like the honour of welcoming you at nuncheon,” Mrs Smith informed them.

“And His Grace?” Emily enquired, surprised that no one was there to greet them.

“His Grace is currently engaged with some pressing business and begs to be excused,” the housekeeper replied.

Very well, then. That meant they had the entire morning to themselves.

“I’d like to rest as well, if you don't mind,” Cissy said with a repressed a yawn. “To prepare myself mentally for what’s to come.”

Leaving Cissy to rest in the room, Emily decided to venture outside to take the air and to consider their next move.

It was a beautiful autumn day. The birds were chirping in the trees as Emily walked lightly along the path that culminated in the wide avenue that led out of the park.

Her heart beat with excitement as the little village appeared. The cottages, with their crooked walls and roofs, nestled around the Norman church. And somewhat farther off stood a little cottage whose walls were covered with green ivy, overlooking the valley beneath, where the sheep grazed on the meadow.

Meadowview Cottage. It was clearly unoccupied. Cobwebs hung from the corners, the paint was peeling from the door and window sills, the thatched roof was thin and worn, moss was growing in the cracks, and the walls, originally whitewashed, were now dull and grey, streaked with soot and grime. The garden was overgrown with brambles.

Emily’s heart tightened.

She stopped outside of the stone wall, twisting her hands together, ready to burst into tears.

So this was what had happened to her beloved home. It stood lonely and abandoned, and no one cared for it at all. She wondered for one moment whether she should try to go inside, then changed her mind. Through the windows she could see that the cottage was empty. There would be nothing left of their life there, no reminder of her parents and her childhood.

After a while, she walked on, head bowed, until she reached a neighbouring cottage farther down the road. Years ago, Mr and Mrs Kent lived there, an elderly couple. It was likely that they had died long ago. Her steps slowed as she debated whether to knock on the door. The door opened, and a woman came out carrying a basket of laundry, which she hung on a clothesline in the garden. She did not recognise the woman. She must be a new tenant. “Good morning,” Emily called.

The woman shaded her eyes as she looked at Emily. “Good morning,” she replied. “Can I help you?” She looked at Emily curiously.

Emily clutched her shawl. “I was just taking a walk in the area and happened to pass by. I saw that the cottage next to yours is uninhabited. May I ask who used to live there?”

“It used to be the schoolmaster’s cottage.” The woman bent down to hang up the sheets as she spoke. “Mr Bentley lived here for about ten years, until he left. No one's been living there since.”

Mr Bentley. The name was unfamiliar. A schoolmaster. Of course he would be. Meadowview Cottage had traditionally been occupied by the village schoolmaster, which was why her father had lived there.

“Has this always been the schoolmaster’s cottage?” she asked, feigning ignorance. “Forgive my curiosity. I am a guest at Ashbourne House.”

“Are you, indeed? I hear His Grace is holding a grand house party there these days.” She studied Emily, no doubt taking in her cashmere shawl and simple cotton dress and wondering who she was. “But to answer your question, yes, it has always been the schoolmaster’s house, as far as I know. I moved here only three years ago.”

Emily nodded. “And the previous school master? Before Mr Bentley? Do you know anything about him?”

The woman pulled out a shirt and paused, giving her a sharp look. “Why do you want to know?”

“No particular reason. I was just curious,” Emily stammered, taken aback by the sudden suspicion on the woman’s face.

“All I know is hearsay,” the woman continued. “Mr White, who lived here before Mr Bentley, was a favourite, loved by the children and the village elders alike. He left suddenly one day, out of the blue. No one knows why. Rumour has it that he died unexpectedly, leaving behind two young daughters.” She paused, frowning. “Nobody knows what happened to them. Or if they do know, they refuse to talk about it. Poor things. First, they lost their mother, then their father. Then the girls themselves vanished. For a long time, no one would move into the cottage, saying it must be cursed. His Grace had a devil of a time finding another schoolmaster. After Mr Bentley, no one was interested in moving in, as you can clearly see.”

Emily found she had an odd lump in her throat that she couldn’t swallow down no matter how hard she tried.

“They say they were beautiful girls, both of them, and intelligent. I daresay if they survived, they must be grown up and long married by now. But one can’t help but wonder what happened to them.” The woman went to hang up her washing.

Emily stood in silence. “Thank you for thinking of them,” she whispered. She bid the woman goodbye and continued on her way, furtively wiping her cheek as an errant tear found its way down.

Life had continued. But against all odds, they had not been entirely forgotten. She found some solace in that thought.

And what about Mr and Mrs Timms at the bakery? Their apprentice, John, had always slipped them bits of leftover bread when he could.They were long gone, too.

Her thoughts turned to the children of the tenant farmers—poor families who could barely afford the meagre tuition her father had charged. They sometimes paid with firewood or food they could barely spare, and her father, soft-hearted to a fault, had often refused even that.

Those children must be grown now. Perhaps some had stayed, still eking out a hard life on the Duke’s land. Or perhaps they had left to seek their fortunes in London, dreaming of something better than the relentless toil of tenant farming.

Emily and Cissy knew only too well what life was like on the Duke’s land. They had lived it themselves.

Her gaze wandered over the stately gardens of the park, where manicured hedges and flowerbeds gave way to the wilder, more unkempt woodland. Beyond the lake, wilderness reigned. She followed the path around the lake and entered the forest.

Oh, how familiar this place was! How much she had missed it. The foliage closed around her like the embrace of a long-lost friend.

Throughout her childhood, Ashbourne House had been uninhabited. The previous Duke of Wolferton had favoured another, more lavish estate and never once visited. Ashbourne House had been closed, with only a handful of servants to maintain the estate. It had been safe to enter and roam the park and grounds, which had fallen into disrepair. Emily and Cissy had wandered through these woods, picking wild strawberries and elderberries, swimming in the lake, skipping across the stream and climbing the trees. It had been their own little kingdom. They’d believed in woodland fays and forest sprites. Emily had read stories about them to little Cissy as they lay on the moss under the trees. She had sung songs at the top of her voice, knowing no one would hear. Yes, they had been poor. But what a carefree childhood it had been!

The forest was so vast that it bordered the neighbouring estate. A narrow stone wall marked the boundary between Ashbourne Estate and Silvervale Valley, which belonged to Lord Hamish. Between the two estates lay a stretch of land—a sort of no man’s land—untended by either side and left well alone. And there, in that forgotten patch of wilderness, was a magical place that belonged to her alone. Not even Cissy knew about it.

In the heart of a clearing stood an ancient oak tree. When one lifted the ivy that hung like a heavy curtain from its overhanging branches, a hole in the hollow of the trunk was revealed, which must have been once the home of owls.

With some determination, Emily parted the ivy and reached inside. It was empty.

Of course it was.

She hadn’t expected anything to be there, really.

Not after all this time. How long had it been? Ten years? Longer?

She brushed the hair from her face with a tired movement.

He had long forgotten her.

A feeling of abandonment and betrayal washed over her. A feeling so old that it had become a part of her.

She stared at the tree, lost in thought. He’d granted many of her wishes over the years, Fenn, her forest fay.

It had begun so innocently. She’d read about forest sprites, and that they were benevolent, magical creatures who granted wishes when they wanted to. One summer afternoon, in a playful moment when her imagination had taken over, she’d written him a letter.

Dear Forest Fay,

Will you grant me a wish?

Yours sincerely,

Little Wren.

Little Wren, that was what her father had called her. “You sing like a wren, in a voice as sweet and lovely. Just like your mother.” Her mother had loved to sing. But she could hardly remember her, for she had died far too young.

She’d been so surprised when, a fortnight later, she’d reached into the hole again and found a letter! A sheet of parchment folded into a small rectangle.

She’d unfolded it, her hands trembling with excitement.

Yes.

He’d written the word in a scrawl of black ink. Nothing more.

Emily had jumped up and down with excitement. She’d run home and written another letter.

I wish Mama to be alive again.

The next day, promptly, she found an answer:

I can’t bring people back from the dead.

With hammering heart, she'd stared at his signature.

Fenn.

He’d told her to wish for something else, and since she couldn’t think of anything better, she’d wished for a ribbon. And a fortnight later she’d found a roll of the most beautiful red velvet ribbon. It had been so beautiful that she had been afraid to wear it, and instead she had kept it in a box under her bed, where she kept all her treasures.

Thus it had begun, her unlikely friendship with a forest fay, and their ensuing correspondence had lasted four magical, lovely years.

She’d told him all her wishes and dreams. Most of them had been girlish, childish wishes. A trinket. A sweetmeat. A book. A small bouquet of violets. Another roll of pink ribbon for her sister. More often than not, he gave her things that she’d never even wished for, like a pair of leather boots and silken stockings, which had been the best present she’d ever received in her entire life.

He’d left each item in the hole in the tree for her to find.

Once she’d pulled out a pouch of gold coins, which she’d steadfastly refused to take. That refusal had nearly led to a quarrel, for he’d been very offended by her rejection.

If you are hungry, take the money and buy some food. If not for yourself, then for your father and little sister , he’d written.

This was after she’d confessed in a letter that she often went to bed hungry and dreamed of hot crumpets all night.

The next day, she’d found a plate of warm crumpets wrapped in a tea towel in the tree, along with the bag of coins. She ate the crumpets, saving one for her sister and father, but left the coins behind.

Fenn hadn’t taken it well. He’d threatened to break off their correspondence.

If you do not accept my gift, you will break the magic and I shall disappear forever.

That had frightened her into submission, for she could not bear the thought of losing Fenn.

She reluctantly handed the pouch to her father, who opened it to reveal five gold coins.

He looked at her with concern. “You really do not know who gave you this?”

She shook her head.

Her father frowned, then sighed. “Whether gift or alms, someone wishes you well.” He put the coins back in the bag and handed it to her. “It must be an anonymous donor from the parish.” He hung his head. “I am ashamed that I cannot provide for my daughters as they deserve.”

They led a poor but happy life, the schoolmaster and his two daughters. Emily walked around barefoot all day in a simple blue cotton dress that had been mended many times. Never before had she been made to feel poor; on the contrary, she’d always thought of herself as rich, for her father had given his daughters plenty of love and freedom.

“What do I do with these?” The pouch in her hand felt heavy.

Her father bent his head. “Do what you like. It’s yours.”

She’d kept it safe, not using the coins until years later, when they had to leave Meadowview Cottage.

Over all those years, they must have exchanged hundreds of letters. They had become more than correspondents. They had become friends, soulmates, almost. She had told him everything, baring her heart in a way she could with no one else. She had shared her dreams, her hopes, her fears, her wishes. Oh, how many wishes! He knew them all. He had listened patiently, offering solace and advice. He had been her only true friend, the one secret she kept from the world. Not even Cissy had known.

He was the only one who understood her, who comforted her, who made her laugh.

An intangible fairy with whom she communicated only through paper. A forest fay who granted her even the most unlikely of wishes. Sometimes the replies were irregular, delayed by weeks, even months. He'd granted all her wishes. He'd always replied.

Except for that single, one time when she had needed him most—that terrible winter when everything changed, when her childhood ended, and when her life and dreams shattered.

Emily stared at the tree bitterly.

In the end, he, too, had failed her.

In the end, it was just that: an ordinary tree with an empty hole, without magic. There had never been any magic.

Only illusion and childish dreams that, sooner or later, had to come to an end.

Maybe it was the natural course of things. Everyone had to grow up, after all.

With a weary sigh, Emily turned and headed back to the house.