The Tale of Applebeck Orchard (13 page)

Miss Potter Accepts an Assignment

To Beatrix’s great relief, the person knocking at the door was not Mr. Heelis. It was Margaret Nash, of Sawrey School. She was carrying a cloth-covered basket.

“Welcome back to the village, Beatrix,” Margaret said with a smile, and held out the basket. “I’ve brought you a jar of jam and half a loaf of Annie’s fresh-baked soda bread, as a special thank-you for the books you sent for the library shelf at school. The children practically read them to tatters last spring.”

Beatrix stepped back. “How very kind of you, Margaret.” She took the basket. “I’ve been thinking of you, as well. And your sister. Come in, won’t you? The kettle’s hot—we can have tea in just a moment.”

“Why, thank you,” Margaret said. “I’d love to.” She was a slender, brown-haired woman with a high forehead, wide cheekbones, and a cheerful expression that gave her a youthful look and made her pretty, in a modest sort of way. Today, she was dressed in her usual working costume, a simple ivory shirtwaist and brown skirt, although since it was summer, her sleeves were rolled to her elbows and she wore a wide-brimmed cream-colored straw hat that shaded her face. Like Beatrix, Miss Nash was a spinster—married, everyone said, to Sawrey School and the children who passed through its doors and then went on to marry and have children of their own, who became her pupils in their turn. She was held in considerable esteem in the village, for (after many years of serving as the teacher of the infant class) she was now the school’s headmistress, one of the highest positions an unmarried woman might hope to achieve in most of England at that time.

Beatrix undid the paper-wrapped parcel she had brought in her satchel and took out a packet of tea. “I’ve brought some Earl Grey. Would you like it?”

“That will be a great treat,” Margaret said, taking off her hat and sitting down at the oak table. “The Hawkshead shops seem never to have it, and when I went over to Kendal, I couldn’t find it there, either.” Margaret could remember her growing-up years in a farming village not far from Liverpool, when China tea was still a luxury. Her mother, who knew all there was to know about herbs, brewed teas from their garden—peppermint and catmint and chamomile and medicinal teas, such as sage for stomach upsets and lavender for headaches. Now these old herb teas were nearly forgotten, replaced by China tea. Earl Grey was such a favorite that the shops could not keep it in stock.

“I’m curious,” Beatrix said, pouring hot water from the kettle over the loose tea in the brown china teapot. “I’ve only just arrived, Margaret. How did you know I was here?”

Appreciatively, Margaret sniffed the delicious aroma of bergamot and citrus that rose out of the teapot. “Why, Bertha Stubbs, of course. Who else?” During the school term, Margaret’s next-door neighbor at Lakefield Cottages also did daily work at the school—mopping, cleaning, keeping up the stoves. She was in the habit of voicing her opinion about anything and everything as loudly as possible, and carried on until she herself was ready to stop, and not before. “I’m afraid . . . That is—” Margaret took a deep breath. “The fact of the matter is that she happened to see you and Mr. Heelis driving together and . . . well, jumped to conclusions. ‘Contusions,’ as she put it.” Bertha was notorious for her unconventional use of language.

Beatrix gave a vexed sigh. “I’m the one who’s likely to feel those ‘contusions.’ Stories about oneself—especially untrue stories—are as bad as a bruising.” She shook her head. “Bertha Stubbs will have me married off within the month, I’m afraid.”

“Within the week is more like it,” Margaret said with a rueful laugh. “I am sorry to be the bearer of such news, Beatrix. But I did think you ought to know.”

“I’m glad you told me.” Beatrix squared her shoulders. “There’s no help for it, I suppose,” she added practically. “The villagers are going to say whatever they please. I don’t suppose I need to tell you that there is absolutely nothing between Mr. Heelis and myself.”

Now, you and I know that this is not quite true, strictly speaking. There is something between Beatrix and Mr. Heelis, about the size and shape (in our modern way of putting it) of a very large elephant in a very small room. The difficulty was that Beatrix wished the elephant would go away, and could not, under any circumstances, admit the existence of such a creature to anyone else, not even to Margaret, whom she liked very much.

Margaret shook her head quickly. “No, of course not,” she said, although from the way Beatrix’s cheeks had colored, she wondered whether Bertha Stubbs—who could be surprisingly perceptive, especially when one did not want her to be—might have glimpsed something close to the truth.

Margaret had had her own romantic hopes for many years, although I am happy to say that Mr. Heelis was not the target. No. Enshrined in Margaret’s heart of hearts was Captain Woodcock. Not to put too fine a point on it, she thought him simply the most handsome, most intelligent, most reasonable, and kindest gentleman in all the world. In fact, there had been a brief time a few years before, when he had helped her gain appointment as headmistress of Sawrey School, that she had hoped . . .

No again.
Hoped
is too strong a word. Margaret had only allowed herself to imagine—for merely a moment or two, or perhaps not even as long as that—what it would be like to be loved by such a man, to live with him in a house as grand as Tower Bank House, with Elsa Grape to do the cooking and a tweeny and an upstairs girl and old Fred Phinn in the garden. And she would have the management of the house and make sure that everything was comfortable and convenient for the captain, and that there were always clean collars and cuffs in his bureau drawer. And perhaps there would even be children, if—

But that particular heaven was totally out of reach, not even worth the imagining, and Margaret knew precisely why. Captain Woodcock was a gentleman, and she was not a lady. She was a working woman, a school headmistress—not so very much different, when she thought about it, than being a schoolteacher. It scarcely mattered that he and she were of an age and both free, for he was a settled bachelor, quite handsome, and she was a spinster and plain. And of course, if she thought about it very long, she had to admit that she was not free at all. There was Annie, dear, dearest Annie, who could never in the world manage on her own, poor sweet soul, especially in the wintertime.

And that was all there was to it, as Margaret knew very well. She was a practical person. Hoping was of no use and imagining was an utter waste of time, so she wasn’t going to indulge in either, at least for no more than a moment. But still—

“And how is your sister?” Beatrix rummaged in her parcel and took out two lemons, a packet of sugar cubes, and a small box of biscuits. She picked up a knife and began to slice the lemons. “You said in your letter that she is not well.”

Beatrix and Margaret had begun to correspond rather regularly, and Margaret usually included a few snippets of news in her letters. As headmistress, she was acquainted with all the local families, and Beatrix loved to hear what was going on in the village.

“She’s a little better,” Margaret said cheerfully. “She’s usually well in the summer, you know. It’s the winter cold that does not agree with her.”

Annie, two years younger than Margaret, walked with a limp due to an illness as a child, and had never fully recovered her strength. But she was always positive in her thinking and she worked as much as she was able. For a time, she’d been employed in the Far Sawrey post office. Now she gave piano lessons at home and led the local choral group and cooked and kept the garden (with a little help from Henry Stubbs) and the cottage, which was always as bright and tidy and snug as Margaret could wish. In fact, if Margaret had reflected on the matter, she might have seen how much she depended on Annie for all the comforts of home. But she didn’t, and when she thought of it, it was always the other way round: Annie depended on her for love and strength and care. Not even the bit of money each of them had recently received from their father’s estate made any real difference.

Beatrix put the sliced lemons on a plate. “Have you thought of moving to the south?” She lifted the cloth from the basket. “Oh, what a lovely loaf of bread! And shall we have some jam, as well?”

“Yes, let’s,” Margaret replied. “It’s Annie’s strawberry jam, you know. We divide the labor. I pick and Annie jams. She sells quite a lot of it now. Sarah Barwick has put it on the counter in her bakery, and Lydia Dowling has it in her shop.” With a sigh, she folded her arms on the table. “The south would be much better for Annie, of course. But I should have to find a new position and we should have to up sticks and move and—”

She laughed helplessly, thinking what a hugely unmanageable task it seemed. And of how much she loved the village and hated the thought of living anywhere else, which made her feel quite guilty, of course, for Annie would indeed fare better in a warmer climate. (I understand these confused feelings all too well, and I daresay you do, too.)

“And school will be starting in just a few weeks,” she went on, pushing her guilt away. “So a change is quite out of the question for this year, I’m afraid. P’rhaps next.” Although they had been through this before, she and Annie, and Margaret knew very well that next year would be exactly the same, especially since Annie (whilst she sometimes expressed a vague longing for seeing the world beyond the village) had no very clear idea of where she wanted to move.

Beatrix cut a slice of bread. “But perhaps just Annie might go, by herself. That way, you wouldn’t have to move house. Moving is always such a trial.”

“By herself?” Margaret said, and chuckled. Annie would never go anywhere without
her
. Why, she’d be helpless, just helpless. Where would she live?
How
would she live? Of course, there was the money from their father’s estate, but it wouldn’t be enough. She should have to work, and—

“It’s a nice thought,” she added, trying to be tactful, “but I really don’t think it would do, Beatrix.”

To Margaret’s surprise, Beatrix held her ground. “It might do, Margaret.” She cut another slice of bread. “Actually, it might do very well. An acquaintance of mine, a nurse, has just opened a sanitarium on the south coast, near Brighton. She has been looking for someone to help with music and entertainments—it’s important for the patients to keep their spirits up, of course, and she considers music to be highly therapeutic. I thought immediately of Annie and would love to recommend her. It would be the same sort of work she is doing here—teaching piano, leading a singing group—but in a warmer climate. And of course, she’d be meeting new people.”

“Oh, but Brighton is so far away!” Margaret exclaimed. If there were difficulties—if Annie got low-spirited or sick, as she often did in winter—she herself should have to go and rescue her, and that would be very hard to manage during school term.

“It is far away,” Beatrix agreed with a little laugh. She put the bread slices on a plate and opened the jam. “About as far south as one can get without falling into the Channel, wouldn’t you say? Of course, the sun doesn’t shine there every day of the year, but there’s not the snow and ice we have here.” She poured two cups of tea. “You know, it might be better for both you and Annie,” she added delicately. “To spend some time apart, I mean. The winters here do feel rather . . . well, claustrophobic at times. Don’t you agree?”

Margaret colored and looked away. Beatrix was a thoughtful, generous person, but she had a reputation for managing things in the village, and Margaret hated the idea of being managed. She supposed there was something in what Beatrix was saying, but she was reluctant to admit it.

She cleared her throat. “I suppose I do tend to be a bit protective. But in this case—” She stopped.

“And perhaps Annie depends on you just a bit more than she actually needs to,” Beatrix said. She chuckled ironically. “But here I am, the pot calling the kettle black! My parents do rather keep me close, and I feel obliged to help them all I can. I know just how you must feel.” She looked at the table. “Oh, milk. I knew I was forgetting something. Do you take it, Margaret?”

“Lemon for me,” Margaret said, helping herself, and took the opportunity to change the subject. “Actually, I wanted to mention something important to you, Beatrix. It’s about Mr. Harmsworth’s niece, who’s come to live with him. I’m always reluctant to interfere in family matters where the schoolchildren are concerned, but this is rather a special case.”

“Mr. Harmsworth of Applebeck Farm?” Beatrix asked, surprised. “The man who closed off the footpath? I didn’t know he had a young niece.”

“It’s a dreadful thing about that footpath, isn’t it?” Margaret’s mouth firmed. “I very much hope Captain Woodcock can get the path reopened. He’s seeing Mr. Harmsworth today.” She had heard this bit of news from Agnes Llewellyn at the village shop, when she went in to buy a sausage.

“I do, as well,” Beatrix agreed. She frowned. “I know that some landowners are nervous about being invaded by great hordes of fell-walkers, who leave the gates open and drop greasy lunch wrappers along the way. But the path through Applebeck Orchard isn’t a fell-path. It’s a path used by local people, coming and going from one Sawrey to the other—and especially to church.”

“And to school,” Margaret said regretfully, thinking about how many extra steps she would have to walk next term, if the captain couldn’t settle the business. She leaned forward. “But it was Mr. Harmsworth’s niece that I wanted to tell you about, Beatrix. Gilly, her name is. She’s fourteen and recently orphaned, and her uncle is apparently her only relative. She came to school for the last few months of term and finished with the other older children this spring. She was an excellent scholar. In fact, she took first prize in our spelling bee, and was awarded a copy of
The Tale of Jemima Puddle-duck
—the one you donated to the school.”

“How nice,” Beatrix said. “I’m glad the book was used in that way.”