Free Miss Ellerby and the Ferryman by Charlotte E. English Page A

kind care,’ she said.
    ‘Aye,’ he said, his frank gaze running over her from her hair
to her boots. ‘Ye are all in one piece, to be sure. I ‘ave not
permitted ye t’ fall over the side.’
    Isabel glanced up at his hat, still soaring some way above
their heads. ‘That does not appear to have been a danger, if I may
judge by the behaviour of your hat.’
    ‘Ye
may, in point o’ fact. Would ye like t’ try it?’
    Isabel looked at him, startled. ‘Your hat?’
    ‘No!
Would ye like t’ fly like my hat, up there?’
    Isabel stared up at the silky sail rippling gently in the
breeze. The hat hovered just before it, bobbing in the air like a
feather. For a moment, she was tempted to accept his offer. To fly
like that! Such felicity! Her lips parted on the word yes, but she
left it unspoken. She was no feather. There would be no protecting
her modesty under such circumstances — the winds would play havoc
with her light muslin gown — and it would end with her hair and
attire in such a state of disorder as could not be put to rights
without significant attention. Such a flight was incompatible with
the decorum expected of her; her mother would be shocked that she
could even consider such an offer.
    ‘I
thank you, but I cannot,’ she said quietly, folding her hands in
her lap.
    ‘No?
An’ why not, if I may ask?’
    Isabel attempted
to explain her reasons, in as few words as possible. She felt an
unsettling degree of embarrassment on recounting them, perhaps from
the realisation that such scruples could only seem absurd to
him.
    The
Ferryman looked at her with disbelief, and shook his head. ‘Strange
notions ye ‘ave, in England,’ he said.
    She
coloured, and looked away. ‘They are of importance to
us.’
    He
bowed gravely, reclaimed his hat, and returned it to his head.
‘Then I’ll not speak further against them. Mind yerself, now, for
we are goin’ t’ land.’
    The
mist streamed away as he spoke, leaving a clear vista spread before
Isabel. Aylfenhame looked as wondrous and strange from above as
from below: meadows of bronzed-golden grass covered the ground
almost as far as she could see, melding into a thick, vast forest
to the north. Trees with silvery bark were dotted here and
thereabout, their leaves shining in shades of cerulean, indigo,
sage and moss-green. Colourful birds and enormous butterflies
flitted lazily from tree to tree, wings glinting in the sunlight.
In the midst of all this stood the town of Grenlowe, a haphazard
knot of grey stone-and-wood buildings, riotously thatched and
cheerfully painted. The ferry came down a little way to the south
of the town. As soon as it had ceased to move, the Ferryman vaulted
easily out and offered his hand to Isabel.
    ‘Thank you,’ she murmured, taking the proffered hand with, she
feared, heightened colour in her cheeks. She managed the descent
gracefully, and curtseyed to her guide. ‘You have been very
kind.’
    He
surveyed her frankly, and with scepticism. ‘I ‘ave not been kind,’
he corrected her. ‘I ‘ave merely performed my assigned duty, an’ I
found a way t’ be selfish about it, at that.’
    Isabel bowed her head, feeling chastened. ‘My thanks,
nonetheless.’ She hesitated, and added, ‘It was a pleasure to meet
you.’ And it had been, in spite of his directness and his odd
manners. She had met no one even half so interesting in
Tilby.
    He
stared at her, and blinked. ‘Was it indeed?’
    He
seemed surprised, and Isabel felt uncomfortable. Nonetheless, she
smiled. ‘Very much so.’
    The
Ferryman smiled back. An ironic tilt to his lips suggested that he
found something amusing, but she thought that he smiled with real
pleasure. ‘I did not find it entirely displeasin’, my own self,’ he
said with a twinkle, and Isabel’s smile grew. She hesitated. His
tale had afflicted her, for a lonelier life she could scarcely
imagine. She wished to offer more than thanks, but she was
uncertain as to the nature or degree of her