The Tale of Hawthorn House (19 page)

On this particular afternoon, Caroline and Miss Burns were playing a rather rowdy game of croquet on the lawn, with Dudley looking on. Caroline had just knocked Miss Burns’s ball out of bounds when a pony cart pulled up and Miss Woodcock and Miss Potter got out. Miss Woodcock was carrying a book, Miss Potter a basket, and they were accompanied by a small brown terrier.

“Miss Potter!” Caroline exclaimed happily, skipping to them. “And Miss Woodcock, and Rascal, too! How nice of you to come!”

“I’ve been wanting to see you, Caroline,”
Rascal said earnestly.
“It’s been awf
’
lly lonely since Jeremy went off to school.”

“Miss Potter!” Miss Burns exclaimed, striding forward. “I say, it is good of you to come!”

Miss Potter smiled. “Hello, Caroline. Good afternoon, Miss Burns. I plan to see Mrs. Moore in a few days, and she’s sure to ask for a report. I hope I can tell her that you are liking Tidmarsh Manor.”

“You may tell Mrs. Moore that I am well and quite happy,” Miss Burns said. “And you can take her a small package from me, if you don’t mind. I’ll get it before you leave.”

Miss Potter introduced Miss Burns and Miss Woodcock, and Caroline invited them in for tea. “Grandmama is napping,” she confided, “so we shall have cake with our tea.”

They laughed at this, for Lady Longford’s bread-and-butter teas were infamous, and many callers considered her ungenerous. (Beatrix was not one of these, for it was her opinion that all one really needed for tea was brown bread with fresh-churned butter and a bit of cheese.)

Dudley scrambled to his feet.
“Cake?”
he barked hopefully.
“In that case, I’ll come, too.”
He gave Rascal a superior glance.
“I’ve no mind to stay out here with the village riff-raff, anyway.”

“Thought I’d chase you around the manor house a time or two,”
Rascal said in a taunting tone.
“Do you good, you flat-footed fatty. You must get tired, dragging that belly around.”

“Rascal!” Miss Potter said sternly. “Remember what I told you.”

“He started it,”
Rascal muttered, aggrieved.

“Never mind,” Miss Potter said. “Go lie down under the cart. We shan’t be long.”

“Yes, miss,”
Rascal said, adding under his breath,
“Eat cake, you stupid dog, and die of a fatty liver.”

But no one ate cake that afternoon. Lady Longford had already awakened from her nap and was sitting in the drawing room, reading a book. A small fire had been laid but not lit. Her ladyship was frugal with fires.

“Well,” she said in a disagreeable tone, “you have been out walking, I see. Tramping through the woods, no doubt, getting your feet wet.” She put her book aside and scowled down at Caroline’s feet. “Shoes do not grow on trees, young lady.” To Miss Burns, she said, “You should know better, Miss Burns. Caroline has had a bad cold, and now it will get worse. We shall have to have the doctor.”

“Caroline and I were playing croquet on the lawn,” explained Miss Burns. “I believe it was suitably dry.”

“Miss Potter and I just this minute arrived, Lady Longford,” Dimity said, in a soothing tone. “I am returning the book you lent me. It was very informative.”

“And I’ve brought you some cheese from the Hill Top dairy,” Beatrix remarked briskly. She set down a basket. She smiled at Miss Burns, who she thought looked fit and happy. “And I did especially want to hear how Miss Burns and Caroline are getting on.”

“Very well indeed,” said Miss Burns. “Caroline is a bright young lady, with a decided interest in literary pursuits. Her piano is coming along nicely, too. She might spend more time in practicing, but she seems to have a talent for it.”

“Young persons should not be praised in their hearing,” said her ladyship, pursing her lips and frowning at Caroline. “They will come to think too highly of themselves.”

“On the contrary,” Beatrix said. “It has been my experience that most young persons, particularly girls, do not think highly enough of themselves.” She gave Caroline a slight smile. “I trust that Miss Burns will help Caroline to develop a sound opinion of her abilities, neither too high nor too low.”

“Rubbish,” snapped her ladyship. She rang the small bell at her elbow, then rang it again, violently. The maid appeared, a nervous-looking young woman wearing a ruffled afternoon apron and cap. “Bring us some bread-and-butter with our tea, Rachel.” She looked down her long nose at the cheese. “And a knife for Miss Potter’s cheese. I do not care for it, but others might.” She looked up. “Well, what’s keeping you, girl! Fetch the tea!”

When poor Rachel had scurried out of the room, Dimity remarked, “I’m not acquainted with your new maid, Lady Longford. Emily Shaw is no longer with you?”

Lady Longford waved a dismissive hand. “Emily is even more foolish than I thought,” she said shortly. “She took another post.”

“Another post?” Dimity asked in surprise. “Why, where did she go?”

It was a reasonable question, for Emily could hardly have expected to find a better position than the one she had held at Tidmarsh Manor. Better, that is, in terms of status and prestige, not compensation. Lady Longford did not pay her staff well.

“She went to Hawthorn House,” her ladyship said in a sour tone.

“Hawthorn House?” Dimity asked, looking up with some surprise. “Why, I had no idea anyone was living there! The old place is so inconvenient—and so ugly. And it is not in good repair.”

“I myself have not seen the house,” her ladyship said, her tone implying that it was not fit to be seen. “However, I understand that a lady—a Miss Keller—came up from London to spend several months there. Emily knew the position was temporary, but she was in a state of great excitement about it. It seems that her employer promised to take the girl back to London with her.” She sniffed. “It is so trying when one’s servants leave one.”

“Emily will be going to London, then,” Beatrix remarked, in a musing tone.

Caroline leaned forward eagerly. “Actually, she—”

“Children do not speak until spoken to.” Lady Longford was brusque. “Emily Shaw is a naive, giddy young girl who gave up a good place here in the vain hope of a better one someplace else. Where she is now and what she is doing is of no interest to me.”

“But Grandmama,” Caroline protested, “I only wanted to say that—”

“Horrid things happen to giddy young girls, Caroline,” Lady Longford said darkly. “They will happen to Emily. Mind they don’t happen to you.”

And with that gloomy admonition hanging over their heads, Beatrix and Dimity finished their bread-and-butter and cheese, drank their tea, and took their leave, all in somber spirit. While Miss Burns went to get the package for Annie Moore, Caroline, who clearly had something to say, walked with them to their pony cart.

“Emily
has
gone to London,” she said, when they were safely out of Lady Longford’s hearing.

“Really,” Beatrix said, with interest. She did not share her ladyship’s low opinion of Emily. She had met the girl during the unfortunate experience with Miss Martine, who had intended to get her hands on Lady Longford’s fortune. Emily was inexperienced and easily taken in, but when she learned to trust her own judgment, she would do well.

“Yes,” Caroline said. “I saw her riding in Mr. Puckett’s cart, on her way to the ferry landing. Miss Burns and I went out to sketch very early on Friday morning. We were crossing Kendal Road when Emily and Mr. Puckett happened along. I asked her where she was going. She said she was off to London. She was very excited. She said it was her heart’s dream.”

Dimity shook her head. “She will find the city a very different place than the village.”

“Yes,” said Beatrix. “I am not at all sure she will be happy there.”

At that moment, Miss Burns hurried out with the package for Mrs. Moore, Beatrix promised to deliver it safely, and they all took their leave.

16

At Miss Pennywhistle’s Select Establishment for Young Ladies of Excellent Family

If Emily Shaw had heard Lady Longford’s remark—“Horrid things happen to giddy young girls”—she would have been compelled to agree, at least in part. She might not have thought of herself as giddy, but it was certainly true that horrid things were happening to her.

And Miss Potter’s prediction was sadly accurate. Emily was not at all happy. Now that she had time to reflect on what had happened, she felt that she had betrayed Baby Flora by allowing her to be carried off (although she could not think exactly how she might have prevented it). And she could not help feeling that she herself had been betrayed by Miss Keller, who had promised her an exciting life in London, and fine clothes and expeditions and pleasures.

Or at least Miss Keller had seemed to promise these things, although Emily, trying to remember exactly what had been said to her, was no longer quite sure. Had Miss Keller deliberately deceived her? Or had she been too eager to believe in such good fortune, and hence deceived
herself
? However that might be, Emily now understood that not a single one of the promises Miss Keller had made (or seemed to make) would come true. Miss Keller was only a lowly teacher in Miss Pennywhistle’s Select Establishment, and could promise nothing at all.

Emily understood this the day after her arrival, when Miss Keller took her to the parlor to be introduced to Miss Pennywhistle.

“This is Emily,” Miss Keller said. “She comes to us from—”

“Thank you, Miss Keller,” Miss Pennywhistle said in a prim, dismissive voice. “I believe you have other duties. You may leave us now.”

“But I thought—” Miss Keller began. She looked anxiously at Emily, then back at Miss Pennywhistle. “I feel I should stay and explain—”

“I am perfectly capable of making all necessary explanations, thank you,” said Miss Pennywhistle, with a do-not-argue-with-me look. Miss Keller hung her head and went away, leaving Emily with the distinct impression that of all the select personages at Miss Pennywhistle’s Establishment, Miss Keller was among the least select.

“You are a fortunate young person,” said Miss Pennywhistle, looking down her nose and curling her
R
’s with a royal flourish. She was a very tall, very thin, very dark woman with a long face and cold dark eyes. “Miss Keller has told me that you proved useful as a maid-of-all-work whilst she was on holiday in the Lakes, and that you are particularly good with a smoothing iron.” She sat down behind the table that served as her desk. “This is altogether unusual, you understand. Our girls ordinarily come to us through one of the London agencies. But since Miss Keller is so eager to vouch for your suitability, I am willing to give you a trial.”

And then, without stopping to ask whether Emily had any questions or objections or any feelings at all on this subject, Miss Pennywhistle began to rattle off Emily’s duties.

“The maids are up at five A.M. Before breakfast, you will carry coals and ashes, clean grates, and lay fires. You will fetch hot water for our third-floor young ladies’ baths, and towels and linens. After breakfast, you will assist Dora in the making of beds and the cleaning of floors. On Wednesdays and Fridays, you will assist Mrs. Hodge in the laundry, and particularly with the ironing. We have twelve young ladies in residence at the present time, so you will appreciate that there is quite a lot of fine ironing to do. As for the rest of the day, your duties will be distributed where they are needed. The young ladies are to have their hot water again at six. Your tea is at five. Your supper is at eight, after which you will turn down the young ladies’ beds and arrange their night-things.”

She gave Emily a critical look. “Your hair is not suitable. Pull it back and pin it. And straighten your shoulders. You look as if you are tired already and the day has scarcely begun. The clothing you have received—your dress, apron, and cap—will be charged against your account. You will take your instruction from Dora.” She picked up her pen and a sheaf of papers. “That is all. You may go now.”

Emily stared at her. Lady Longford had not been a kind employer, but Emily had never been asked to carry coals and ashes or help in the laundry. And Mr. Beevers, who looked after the garden, had always fetched the hot water because her ladyship thought the buckets too heavy for Emily to carry.

“You may go,” Miss Pennywhistle repeated. And when Emily did not move, she threw her pen down on the desk. “What is wrong with you, girl?” she demanded. “Why are you staring at me like that? Have you no manners?”

And then, answering her own question, she said in an acid tone, “No, I expect you do not, coming from the Lakes. No breeding, and none to be expected.” She rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Why Miss Keller is so eager to have you here with us, I don’t know. I don’t know how long you will last, either, if you persist in standing around with your hands dangling at the ends of your arms and your mouth hanging open in the middle of your face.” She waved her pen. “Off with you, girl! Dora is waiting to show you your tasks.”

And even though Emily had meant to ask such questions as “When is my half-holiday?” and “Am I required to attend worship?” and “What shall I be paid?”—normal, everyday questions that you or I would be sure to ask anyone who proposed to employ us—she found herself standing in the hall, outside the closed parlor door, with Miss Keller hovering at her elbow.

“I trust you said nothing about what transpired at Hawthorn House,” Miss Keller said in a very low voice.

“No, miss,” Emily said.

Of course she hadn’t. She could not even begin to think about what had happened at Hawthorn House, let alone speak of it. She could still feel the warm weight of Flora in her arms, smell the baby’s sweet-sour scent, hear her tiny milky sigh. Emily’s arms felt achingly empty, her heart desperately hungry.

She looked at Miss Keller, tears springing to her eyes. “Don’t you ever wish—”

“No, I do
not
,” said Miss Keller, taking her arm very firmly. “And neither do you, Emily. We are both grownups, you and I. We do what we must in order to get on in the world. What we must do now is go forward, not back. However much we may regret our mistakes, we must soldier on.”