The Tale of Applebeck Orchard (27 page)

The captain went to stand by the window with his hands in his pockets, whistling tunelessly and staring out at the summer garden. It had stopped raining, and old Fred Phinn was stooped over, weeding the phlox, while Mrs. Stubbs’ cat watched him impassively. The captain had the uneasy suspicion that this was not the end of this affair, and I must tell you that he was right, but not for the reasons he supposed.

He wasn’t planning to go out again for a time, and since it was rather warm, the captain took off his coat, unbuttoned his collar, removed his cuffs, and rolled up his shirt-sleeves. He was thinking, and not very happily, that he should have to go to the kitchen and find himself something to eat. Elsa had been called away so suddenly that she had not prepared anything for him, which meant that he had eaten last night at the pub. He would have to eat there again tonight, and a pub lunch was not appealing. Perhaps a sandwich, although he was not sure there was any bread left and he had no idea where Elsa kept—

But someone was knocking at his front door. He stopped whistling and went to see who was calling.

“Why, Miss Nash!” he exclaimed in some surprise, for that was who it was. “Good afternoon!”

I am surprised that Miss Nash has come calling, especially since I know a little of the history of her heart. Of course, the captain knows nothing at all of her affections, for she has successfully kept them hidden from everyone, and most particularly from him. Indeed, he has not even seen her since the graduation of the junior class, at which (as one of the school trustees) he presided. He is vaguely aware that she looks pretty today, in a pink-and-white crepe de chine blouse and gray serge skirt, with pink two-button gloves and a neat, narrow-brimmed straw boater with pink velvet ribbons perched on top of her rich brown hair.

(If you are thinking that this is rather detailed description for a man who is only “vaguely aware” of the way the lady looks, you are right. Even a man who is acutely aware might not be able to tell you that her ribbons are velvet and that her blouse is made of crepe de chine, let alone number the buttons on her gloves. This is
my
description, since I want you to see what the captain is seeing, even though he could not begin to tell you the details himself. Authors have a way of slipping in bits like this, so you need to be wary.)

“Good afternoon, Captain,” Miss Nash said primly. “If you have a moment, I should like to talk to you about the need for some repair of the two stovepipes at the school. I feel it should be done before the term begins, to avoid any unnecessary interruptions. The money is available, but we shall need the trustees’ approval.”

“Of course, of course,” the captain said, wishing urgently that he had not taken off his cuffs and rolled up his shirt-sleeves. He led the way to the library. “Would you like a cup of tea? Elsa is out for a few days and the maid is off, but I’m sure I can manage.”

“Tea would be lovely,” Miss Nash replied, seating herself and taking off her pink gloves.

The captain paused on his way out of the room, remembering that there was something that Dimity always asked when it came to tea. “Milk or lemon?” he ventured.

Miss Nash smiled. “Milk, as long as it isn’t any bother.”

“No bother at all,” he assured her gallantly.

But of course the whole thing was an enormous bother, from start to finish. The fire in the kitchen range had not been tended all morning, so it had quite naturally gone into a sulk, and the water in the iron kettle that sat on the back of the stove was not nearly so hot as it ought to have been. The captain had no idea where Elsa kept the tea, and some determined rummaging through the cupboard was required to find it, cleverly hidden in a green metal canister labeled TEA. He couldn’t find the tea ball, so he put the loose tea in the teapot and filled it from the kettle (sadly, the water was only lukewarm). He was hoping the tea leaves would settle, although it’s been my experience that they never do. If there’s a tea leaf in the pot, it will find its way to my teeth and be displayed for all to see.

Another few minutes were required to find the sugar, cups, saucers, and spoons, and longer to locate the biscuits—only four of them, unfortunately, but perhaps that was enough, since they seemed a bit stale. He was elated to find the milk exactly where Mr. Llewellyn had put it on the kitchen table. It was warm (owing to sitting out all morning) and the thick cream had risen to the top, plugging the neck of the glass bottle. When he tried to pour the milk into a pitcher, the cream-plug stuck, then abruptly came loose, resulting in a flood on the kitchen table. There was only enough milk left in the bottle to half-fill the little pitcher, and not enough time (of course) to mop up the puddle on the table, so he left it where it was.

And all the while the captain was thinking, with rising irritation, that his sister Dimity would never have allowed both Elsa and the maid to go off on the same day, so by the time he located the tray and everything was on it, he was feeling thoroughly put-upon. Being a bachelor was all well and good, he reflected, as he shouldered open the kitchen door and carried the tray down the hall toward the library, and he certainly enjoyed his privacy. It was very pleasant to prop one’s stockinged feet on the fender on a cold winter evening whilst reading the newspaper, and gratifying to smoke an offensively odiferous cigar without being frowned upon. But he had to admit that there were certain matters—such as breakfast, lunch, tea, and dinner, as well as collars and cuffs—that were not well managed unless they were managed under the careful supervision of the lady of the house.

The captain was still thinking these thoughts as he went into the library. “Sorry it took so long,” he said, with an apologetic smile at his guest. “I’m not accustomed to looking for things in the pantry and—”

But that was as far as he got in his explanation, for in placing the heavy tea tray on the library table, he misjudged its position (or was perhaps smiling at Miss Nash when he might better have been looking at what he was doing). He missed the table, just, and the tray tilted abruptly, taking the teapot with it, and the cups and saucers and spoons and sugar bowl, milk pitcher, and plate of biscuits,
CRASH!
in a shatter of china and cascade of tea and milk on the library floor—the wood floor, thankfully, and not the rug.

“Oh, blast!” the captain muttered, staring helplessly down at his trousers, which were gaily decorated with splashes of tea and milk, whilst the puddle grew all around him like a small ocean lapping at his boots, the biscuits like little brown rafts (they were chocolate), sailing on a sea of creamy foam. He was a dolt. He was a clown. He was a clumsy idiot.

“Oh, dear,” exclaimed Margaret. “Oh, my goodness gracious, I do so hope you’re not burnt!”

“No, no,” the captain said, touched that her first thought was for his welfare. “But I’ve certainly made a mess.”

“Not at all,” she replied. And then (over her shoulder, for she was already halfway to the library door), “Don’t move. I’ll just go and get a mop and some rags.”

Now, we may want to ask how it was that Margaret knew that the cleaning supplies were stored in the closet under the stairs. Or we may just assume that since everyone keeps their mops and buckets and dusters and cleaning rags in that particular closet, most women would look there first. (I would—and I daresay you would, too.)

In the event, Margaret went straight to the closet. When she came back to the library, she was carrying a mop in one hand and a bucket and several clean rags in the other. She set them down and rolled up her sleeves. Since she still had on her neat straw boater (with the pink velvet ribbons), she might have looked a bit incongruous, but as far as the captain was concerned, she looked like an angel. An angel of mercy, that is, bent on mercifully mopping up the mess he had made.

By this time, Miles had somewhat recovered his equanimity. Margaret wielded the mop and then got down on her knees to finish the job with a handful of rag. Wanting to show that he could be useful, he also got down on his knees and began picking up the smashed crockery pieces and putting them on the tray.

“There,” Margaret said, surveying their work with satisfaction. “Elsa will never know what happened—unless she misses her teapot. Although I must say, it isn’t the prettiest teapot I’ve ever seen.” She looked up at him and giggled.

We have known Captain Woodcock for—let’s see, how many books now? Six, is it? During the whole of our acquaintance with that gentleman, I don’t believe that we have ever found him to be seriously flustered. He is a man of cool and level head, who takes pride in knowing exactly what to do in every situation, whether it is dealing with an illegal gathering of badger-baiters or an angry man wielding a shotgun—or even a foundling baby that appears in his house as if by magic. He meets all with equanimity and a calm self-assurance.

But Margaret’s sweetly girlish giggle and her direct look completely undid him. Or perhaps it was the fact that she was kneeling beside him on the floor of his library, in her lovely pink-and-white crepe de chine blouse (although he couldn’t have told you what sort of blouse it was if his life depended on it) with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, and that little curl of rich brown hair just in front of her pretty ear, and the sweet, soft scent of violets (the violet toilet water that Annie had given Margaret for Christmas and which she saved for very special occasions), and the depths—the mysterious, luminous depths—of her gray-green eyes, ravishingly long-lashed.

Well. Whatever it was, Captain Woodcock was suddenly robbed of the wit to ask himself what under the sun he was doing or why he was doing it or whether it was the right thing to do, which was a very good thing, in my estimation. Both the captain and the headmistress are thoroughly Victorian, although they are living in an Edwardian age, and neither often acted on impulse, especially where the heart was concerned. Which makes the present scene so delightfully surprising, to me and I hope to you and I am sure to Captain Woodcock and perhaps to Margaret as well. (I say “perhaps” because I am not entirely sure what she had in mind when she came calling, although I suspect that she didn’t, either.)

For once in his life, the captain was moved by a genuinely human impulse so strong and powerful that he could not resist it. Slowly, as if mesmerized by Margaret’s nearness, he put his hands on her shoulders, and then, bending toward her, kissed her on the mouth. His arms went around her and he felt her sway toward him and he drowned in her sweetness—

But only for an instant. I am sorry to tell you that the Victorian gentleman he was, top to stern and fore and aft, took control of the situation. He released her and wrenched himself violently away, rocking backward.

“Please forgive me, Miss Nash,” he exclaimed. “I am so very, very sorry! How can I ever—”

But if he had become the ultimate Victorian once more, Margaret, to her enduring credit, had not. She put out her hand and touched his cheek. “Nonsense,” she said very bravely, and smiled a tremulous smile, although her eyes—ah, those luminous gray-green eyes—were wet with tears. “I should like you to kiss me again, Captain Woodcock, if you please.”

Of course Captain Woodcock was pleased, very much pleased, to do as she asked. He was charmed, in fact: no lady had ever before asked him to kiss her in such an artlessly enchanting way. I suppose this was what won the captain’s heart, this simple, guileless request for a kiss. And because they were both on their knees beside the mop bucket, their kiss somehow seemed . . . well, even more innocent, perhaps.

And since what happened next is a very private and intimate thing between two grown-up people who do not go around indiscriminately kissing everyone they see, we will step away and leave them to their enjoyment of each other. A very proper enjoyment, I hasten to add, for while they were not exactly behaving as Victorians, their passion (which was quickly and mutually discovered, to the astonishment of both) was constrained within Victorian bounds. I daresay that even Victoria herself could not have been more pleased, especially when the captain heard himself murmuring, much to his own amazement, “Oh, my dear Miss Nash, my very dear Miss Nash. I have been so blind, such a complete and utter fool! I find—” He swallowed. “I find that I love you, that I have loved you for a very long time. Is it possible . . . May I hope . . . Can it be that you care for me?”

To which Margaret heard herself replying, with bewildered shock, “Oh, yes, Captain Woodcock. I do care, very much!”

At this point, I imagine our good queen (who was happily and romantically in love with her darling Albert, to whom she bore nine children in seventeen years) would have smiled her blessing and tactfully turned her back, so as not to embarrass her royal self or them. And so, my dears, shall we.

Well, of course we
should
—although I don’t mind saying that I am no Victorian, and neither are you. And since you and I have watched people kissing in the movies and on television thousands of times, we are not embarrassed in the slightest by what is going on. So I shall linger behind to watch and listen and share the romantic pleasure, and if you don’t care to join me—well, I’m sorry.

The captain, entirely unable to be either sensible or rational and feeling himself quite out of his depth, took a deep gulp of air (exactly as if he were about to go down for the third time, which I suspect he was), and uttered those four words that have the potential to change one’s life forever. Of course, since he was the captain, and a Victorian, there were a few more than four words and he saved the most important until the very end.

“Miss Nash, I am sure this is appallingly precipitous, but I cannot wait another hour, another minute, another second. Can you find it in your heart to make me the happiest of men? Will you marry me?”

Miss Nash’s cheeks were every bit as pink as her blouse, her eyes were wet and shining, and she had no words to waste. She whispered, sweetly and simply, “Yes. Yes, with all my heart.”