The Tale of Hawthorn House (18 page)

“Shh!” Bertha spoke with real alarm, putting a warning finger to her lips. “They’ll hear!”

Hannah gave a skeptical glance around the kitchen. “I doan’t see nae Folk.” She made a great show of peering beneath the table. “Nae Folk under here, neither.” She appealed to Elsa. “Dust’a see ’em, Elsa?”

“Ta canst’na see ’em,” Bertha said darkly, “but that doan’t mean they ain’t here. They’re indivisible.”

“Invisible,”
Crumpet said.
“The Folk can be anywhere.”

“So tell me,” Hannah said with a disbelieving look, “where t’ Folk got t’ babe from in t’ first place. Whose babe is she?” And then she answered her own question. “She’s a gypsy babe, that’s who, Bertha. Comes from t’ gypsy camp. That’s what my husband says, and he should know.” And on that unassailable authority, Hannah sat back, triumphant.

But Elsa leant forward. “Your John doan’t know ever’thing, Hannah, even if he be constable.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’ll tell tha whose this babe is, ’cause I know fer sure. She belongs to—”

But at that moment, the upstairs bell rang. Elsa stood up and straightened her apron, all business. “Ta, ladies,” she said loftily. “Miss Woodcock needs me.”

“Elsa!” Bertha wailed.

“Elsa!” Hannah protested, “tha was tellin’ us who—”

“Aye, I was,” Elsa agreed. There was a glint in her eye. “But now I’ve work to do, so tha’ll just have to wait. Come back tomorrow.” With that, Elsa went off to do her duty.

Hannah made an unhappy noise, but she had no choice. Anyway, she had left a pot of vegetable soup simmering on the back of the kitchen range, so she went straight home to make sure that the children hadn’t pulled it down and scalded the dog and made a mess on the floor.

But Bertha had time for more gossip. Trailed by the two cats, she went across the garden and through the hedge to High Green Gate Farm, where Agnes Llewellyn put the last spoonful of Earl Grey into the teapot. Whilst it was brewing, Bertha reported that Elsa Grape had with her very own eyes seen Major Kittredge kissing Miss Woodcock, who was holding the gypsy baby in her arms (the gypsy baby who had been stolen by the Folk and left on the doorstep at Hill Top Farm), and that unless the captain put an immediate stop to the business, there would be a wedding in the very near future. And of course, if that happened, Tower Bank House would be without a mistress and Captain Woodcock without a wife. Which would leave the field wide open for Miss Potter. She would make a fine (if firm) wife for Captain Woodcock but would put Elsa Grape’s nose quite out of joint.

Then Bertha put down her cup, looked at the clock, and remembered that if she didn’t go straight home and put the tatie pie in the oven, there would be no dinner on the table that night, and Henry Stubbs would be quite out of patience with her.

The minute Bertha was out of sight, Agnes Llewellyn took off her apron, put on her straw hat with the pink ribbon roses, and walked across the street to the village shop, which was run by Lydia Dowling and her niece Gladys, who helped on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Agnes bought a tupp’ny twist of Earl Grey tea and a packet of hairpins.

As she was paying over her money, she told Lydia and Gladys (on their solemn promise not to tell another soul) that Miss Woodcock and Major Kittredge were planning to marry and adopt the gypsy baby as their own, which was dangerous (in Agnes’s opinion) because the baby had been in the hands of the Folk since her birth, but no doubt a natural thing to do since the baby had dark hair and eyes, like Major Kittredge.

But Agnes for one was all in favor of the match, because she understood that Miss Potter had it in mind to marry Captain Woodcock, which meant that there wouldn’t be room for Miss Woodcock at Tower Bank House, so it was good that the poor dear was going to Raven Hall. There wouldn’t be room at Tower Bank for Elsa Grape, either, since she and Miss Potter would certainly not get along, so Elsa had better pack her bags.

A few minutes after Agnes had delivered this stunning news and gone home, Lydia asked Gladys if she would mind running to the post office to post a letter to Lydia’s aunt in Portsmouth. Gladys, who always liked the opportunity to walk past the smithy, where Charlie Hotchkiss was helping Mr. Crook at the forge, was only too happy to oblige. (And happy to smile and wave to handsome Charlie Hotchkiss when he lifted his hammer in a salute, which made Gladys’ heart beat very fast and her feet want to skip in an entirely unladylike way.)

And when Lucy Skead, the postmistress, happened to ask Gladys if she had heard any interesting gossip lately, Gladys was happy to oblige again. She related to Lucy (and Rose Sutton, who happened to be in the post office at the same time) that the baby Miss Potter had found on her doorstep looked enough like Major Kittredge to be his very own, and that Miss Woodcock had agreed to marry the major and be a mother to the little girl, and that Miss Potter and Captain Woodcock would be announcing their engagement in the next few days. As a consequence, Elsa Grape would no doubt be looking for different employment.

To which Rose replied this was all very interesting, and she was glad that Elsa would not have to look very far, because Mrs. Thompson, the vicar’s cook-housekeeper, was going to Ambleside to take care of her mother. Elsa would be perfect for the vicar, who needed taking in hand. So, when Gladys got back to the shop, she was happy to tell Lydia that Elsa didn’t have anything to worry about, since she could have a place at the vicarage when Miss Potter pitched her out.

And all of these various contributors could breathe more easily for the rest of the day, having sorted everyone’s business to their satisfaction.

There is nothing like a village for managing affairs.

15

Miss Potter and Miss Woodcock Go Calling

Quite unaware that her marital destiny was on the minds of the village, Beatrix went calling on Tuesday afternoon. She changed from her working dress into what she thought of as her “calling costume”—a ruffled shirtwaist, striped in blue and violet, a gray tweed skirt, and a straw hat with violet silk flowers—and drove Winston over to Tower Bank House, to collect Dimity Woodcock. The two of them had arranged by note that morning to drive the pony cart to Tidmarsh Manor at two o’clock, to call on Lady Longford.

Beatrix’s visits to Hill Top were never as long as she liked, and she did not like to spend precious time making social calls. But she had a special reason to call at Tidmarsh Manor. Lady Longford had hired Miss Cecily Burns, the governess Beatrix had recommended for her ladyship’s granddaughter, Caroline. Caroline had written to say that she liked Miss Burns very much, but Beatrix wanted to see firsthand how the arrangement was working out. Dimity was coming along to return a book on Lake District birds she had borrowed from her ladyship.

“Well,” Beatrix said with a smile, as Dimity answered her knock at the door. “How is our little Flora this afternoon?” She noticed that Dimity’s eyes were sparkling with something like excitement, but that she was wearing a puzzled frown. Her friend had the look of someone who has just learnt a bit of very good news, but is completely at sixes and sevens about it.

“Elsa has just put her down for a nap,” Dimity said, picking up her hat. “She didn’t quite sleep through the night, but she fussed very quietly.”

“Any word yet on her parents?” Perhaps that was Dimity’s puzzle, Beatrix thought. If Dimity wanted to be Flora’s mother, she might be secretly hoping that the baby’s real mother would never be found.

“No word that I’ve heard,” Dimity replied, pinning on her hat in front of the hallway mirror. “Miles went to the gypsy encampment on Broomstick Lane, but they couldn’t tell him anything. He’s in Hawkshead now, making inquiries about the ring.” She gave herself another look, patted her hair, and pulled on her gloves.

“I’ve been thinking about that hand-woven coverlet on the baby’s basket,” Beatrix said. “Since we won’t be far from Holly How Farm, I thought we might ask Jane Crosfield to have a look at it. I’m sure she knows the work of all the weavers in the district.”

Dimity nodded without a great deal of enthusiasm, and went to get the coverlet. From the look on her friend’s face, Beatrix knew she was right. Dimity hoped that Flora’s mother would not be found—but she couldn’t say it out loud without appearing mean-spirited.

She was back in a moment with the coverlet, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, and the two ladies went out to the pony cart, where they were greeted by a fawn-colored terrier with a polite grin on his face. He was wagging his tail.

“Good afternoon, ladies,”
Rascal barked.
“I should love to ride up to Tidmarsh Manor, if you’ve the room. I haven’t seen Caroline for much too long.”

Winston turned his shaggy brown head to frown at the dog.
“Bit cheeky, aren’t you?”
he inquired dryly.

“Never ask, never get,”
the dog replied.
“Never try, never taste. Never taste, never enjoy.”

“Rascal wants to ride in the cart, I think,” Dimity said, bending down to pet the dog, who was a village favorite. “Shall we take him with us to the manor?”

“Jump in, Rascal.” Beatrix got into the cart and picked up the reins. “But you’ll have to promise to mind your manners when we get there. No nipping at Dudley.”

Rascal showed his teeth.
“Dudley wants a swift nip in the backside to get him moving.”
Dudley, Lady Longford’s spaniel, spent most of his time on the hearthrug, eating cheese and biscuits.
“Fellow’s too fat by half and twice too rude. When I see him, I’ll—”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort.” Miss Potter scowled down at him. “And if you are uncivil to Dudley, I will not take you to the manor again. Is that understood?”

“Ha!”
snorted Winston, with a triumphant flick of his brown tail.
“Miss Potter has her eye on you, puppy!”

Rascal put his ears back and looked contrite.
“Yes, miss. I’ll try, miss.”

“Trying isn’t good enough, sir.” Miss Potter sniffed, and rattled the reins. “You will
do
it. Shall we go, Winston?”

Winston picked up his neat pony feet and they rattled through the village and up the lane. In the cart, Rascal made himself small. He could never quite make out how it was that amongst all the humans in the village, Miss Potter was the only one who understood what the animals were saying. Of course, it might have to do with the fact that most Big Folk paid no attention. If they took the time to listen and observe as carefully as Miss Potter, perhaps they would understand, too.

Whatever the reason, Rascal had to agree with Winston. When Miss Potter had her eye on you, you’d better not try to get away with anything.

 
Tidmarsh Manor was a gloomy stone house at the edge of Cuckoo Brow Wood, shadowed by ancient yews and pines. It wore the same cheerless, sullen look as did its long-time owner, Lady Longford—which might lead us to wonder whether her ladyship was cross and ill-tempered because she lived in the house, or the house was cross and ill-tempered because her ladyship lived in it. It is not a question to which we can expect an answer, so we shall just have to leave it there.

But there is a story to be told, and we shall not neglect to tell it. Not long after old Lord Longford died, her ladyship had a disagreement with her only son, who refused to wed his mother’s choice and took himself off to New Zealand, which was the only way he could think of to get out from under his mother’s thumb. He fell in love with a New Zealand girl and married her and was happy for a little while, but his wife died and he himself was killed in a train accident, leaving their only child, Caroline, an orphan. Lady Longford, still nettled by her son’s impertinent wish to choose his own wife, was not anxious to give her granddaughter a home. But Vicar Sackett and Will Heelis (her ladyship’s solicitor) finally persuaded her to do the right thing, and Caroline came to live at Tidmarsh Manor.

Now, a sensible person might think that a young girl— who was likely to laugh and sing and play games—would brighten a dark old house and lift the gloom of its inhabitants. But if that’s what you thought (being the sensible person you are), I am afraid you would be wrong, at least insofar as Lady Longford was concerned. She had been a gloomy old woman for years and she intended to stay that way. It gave her a perverse pleasure to ignore any sort of subversive cheerfulness.

Caroline, on the other hand, was just as stubborn as her grandmother and just as determined not to be reduced to a cheerless state of mind. She did all she could to keep herself busy and happy. She played with her two guinea pigs, Tuppenny and Thruppenny. She wrote daily in her journal, a practice encouraged by Miss Potter, who gave her a blank book bound in Moroccan red leather. And she planted some flowers behind the kitchen garden—snapdragons and petunias and dahlias for herself and flowering thyme for the bees—which she tended every day.

During her first year at Tidmarsh Manor, Caroline had happily attended the village school. She liked the village children, especially Jeremy Crosfield (who lived with his aunt in the Holly How farmhouse, on Lady Longford’s estate) and Deirdre Malone (who worked for the Sutton family, in the village). But Jeremy had gone away to school, and Lady Longford had decided that Deirdre was not an “appropriate” acquaintance. What her granddaughter needed was a governess who would teach her French, art, and music, and tame her rebellious spirit.

Caroline was not at all happy with this turn of affairs (she already spoke French pretty well and did not want her spirit tamed). Thankfully, however, Miss Potter had found someone Caroline truly liked, Miss Cecily Burns, a friend of Miss Potter’s own former governess, Mrs. Annie Moore.

Lady Longford had hoped to find an older lady—at twenty-two, Miss Burns was objectionably young. But no suitable older candidates appeared, so Miss Burns was hired. She had pale yellow hair, sparkling blue eyes, and a lively expression. She spoke French even better than Caroline, drew and painted handily, played the piano and sang in a clear, pleasant soprano, and read poetry aloud with a dramatic flourish—all positive aspects, in Lady Longford’s view. On the other hand, Miss Burns was too young, too pretty, too athletic, too modern, and far too willing to indulge Caroline’s appetite for games. Moreover, she did not wear a corset and her skirts were two inches too short. Her ladyship accepted the new governess on sufferance and went on hoping to find an older, sterner lady, one who did not encourage
romps
.