The Tale of Hawthorn House (21 page)

“She was ill for a time after her youngest daughter’s birth,” Dimity replied. “I don’t think she’s gone back to her work.”

“A midwife, whether she’s working now or not, might know about someone who has recently had a baby,” Beatrix said thoughtfully.

“Not without Dr. Butters being involved, I should think,” Dimity said, frowning. “The midwives in this area used to attend the births alone. But since Dr. Butters opened his practice, he’s encouraged them to work with him.”

“Still, it seems coincidental,” Beatrix said, thinking about their mystery. “A new baby in a basket, with a cover that might have been woven by Sally Frost, and Sally Frost’s daughter a midwife.” She paused, reminding herself, “Of course, we don’t yet know that Sally Frost wove the cover.”

“We soon will,” Dimity said. She pointed. “That’s Long Dale Farm. I’ve met Mrs. Graham once or twice. I’ve never met her mother, though.”

The Graham family lived in a two-up, two-down cottage built onto one end of a long, open barn. Several pigs could be seen in the pig sty, two cows were grazing in the meadow behind the barn, and an assortment of chickens were scratching in the yard. Pebbled with gray mortar like the other houses in the district but without any flowers to brighten its bleak severity, the house seemed to frown. The woman who opened the door was frowning, too. A little girl with smudges on her face hid behind her skirt, peeking out at the visitors, her thumb in her mouth.

“Yes?” asked the woman. Her dark hair was snugged into a bun at the nape of her neck, and her gray dress was completely covered by a white apron.

“I am Dimity Woodcock,” Dimity said cheerfully, “and this is Miss Beatrix Potter, of Hill Top Farm. Perhaps you will remember me, Mrs. Graham. I have charge of the Parish Mothers’ Box.”

“Oh, aye,” the woman replied. “What dust tha want?” The question was not asked graciously.

“We should like to speak to your mother,” Beatrix said. “She was recommended to us as an excellent weaver.”

“Her doan’t weave now,” said the woman firmly. “Her kin barely see, and her has no loom. If it’s weavin’ tha wants, see Jane Crosfield. None better round here.” She began to shut the door.

“We don’t want Mrs. Frost to do any weaving,” Dimity explained hurriedly. “We want to ask her opinion about a piece of cloth. It won’t take more than a moment, and we’d be ever so grateful.”

“Gertie!” cried a shrill voice from inside the room. “Who’s that knockin’ at t’ door, Gertie?”

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Frost,” Beatrix replied loudly, standing on her tiptoes to peer over Mrs. Graham’s shoulder. “We’ve come to see you.”

“I said—” Mrs. Graham began angrily.

“Callers fer me, Gertie?” the voice cried. “Let ’em in, daughter! Let ’em in!”

Reluctantly, Mrs. Graham stepped aside and Beatrix saw a tiny, tottery old woman, her hair as white as snow under an old-fashioned white ruffled cap, her face lined and wrinkled, like apples a half-year after harvest. She wore a black dress, black mitts, and several knitted black shawls pinned around her shoulders.

“Come t’ see me?” the old woman asked, sounding pleased, and Beatrix thought that she probably did not have many visitors. “Well, then, welcome. Gertie, fetch t’ teapot, and we’ll have a cuppa.”

Scowling darkly, Mrs. Graham went toward the back of the house, the little girl trailing behind, glancing back, half-fearfully, over her shoulder. Beatrix and Dimity followed the old woman into a small, dark room, where a narrow plank table and two benches took up much of the slate-flagged floor. A coal fire sputtered sulkily in the fireplace, a wooden chair on one side, a high-backed settle on the other. Damp garments hung on a rack behind the settle, two pans of rising bread dough sat on the hearth, baskets and buckets were stacked in the corners, and a mantle over the fireplace held an assortment of bottles and jars and boxes.

Beatrix and Dimity seated themselves on the uncomfortable settle. The old lady sat down in the wooden chair and rested both feet against the fender. “Come about a piece o’ weavin’?” she asked brightly. Her eyes behind wire-rimmed spectacles were snappy, her expression full of interest.

Dimity took the blue-and-white rectangle out of her bag. “Jane Crosfield says you might’ve woven this.” She handed it to the old lady. “Is it yours, Mrs. Frost?”

Sally Frost took it in her fingers, turning it over to look at both sides, then bending low over it, examining it. “Dornick twill,” she muttered. “T’ blue is woad-dyed. And ’tis old, verra old.”

Woad was not much used these days, Beatrix knew, with commercial dyes so readily available. “It’s hard to find weaving like that now,” she said, “when so much is done by machines.”

“Aye. But this ’twas done by nimbler fingers than these old crippled ones,” Sally Frost said, holding up an arthritic hand, the fingers bent at odd angles. “And sharper eyes than mine.”

Beatrix smiled. “But it’s yours?”

“Aye. Long, long ago, when I was a weaver.” The old woman looked at them over her glasses. “T’ last time I saw this piece, ’twas pinned to Gertie’s clothes line. How didst tha come by it?”

Beatrix and Dimity exchanged glances. “It was . . . found,” Beatrix replied, thinking that it was not perhaps a good idea to reveal too much.

“In the village,” Dimity added helpfully.

“In t’ village.” The old lady gave them a sharp look. “Well, then, I’m glad to have it back, ’though I canna say how it got away. Cloths doan’t have feet, now, do they?”

At that moment, Mrs. Graham came into the room with a teapot and four earthenware mugs on a tray. She set it down on the table, poured tea, and handed out the mugs. There was no sugar or milk.

“Look, Gertie,” said the old lady happily, holding up the cloth. “This was found in t’ village! T’ ladies have brought it back.”

Mrs. Graham gave the cloth a negligent glance, then another, sharper. Beatrix could not see the expression on her face because she turned at that moment to pour herself a mug of tea. “Gypsies, most like,” she said in a careless tone. “They’re bad to steal things off folks’ clothes lines. They’ve been camped at t’ foot o’ Broomstick Lane this past fortnight.”

“So you think gypsies took it from your clothes line?” Dimity asked.

“Could be so,” Gertie Graham said, and gave a careless little toss of her head. “T’was washed and hung out with t’ last laundry. Dust’a think so, Mum?”

The old woman nodded.

“Aye, then,” said her daughter. “Must be gypsies carried it off. Doan’t know how else it’d get to t’ village.” She smiled thinly. “T’ wind blows hard from t’ fells, but nae so hard as that.”

Beatrix thought that the gypsies were a very convenient excuse. But she only said, “Miss Woodcock tells me you do midwifery.”

Gertie Graham nodded shortly. “Have done,” she amended. “Not now.”

“We were wondering,” Dimity said in a tentative tone, “whether you might know something about the recent birth of a baby. A little girl. She was—”

Gertie Graham drained her mug. “Only boy babes lately, as tha well knowst, Miss Woodcock, seein’ as how tha hast t’ parish Mums’ Box. Master Jeremiah Hopkins ’twas t’ last.” She stood and picked up the tray. “If tha’st finished thi tea, I’ve chores to do. And me mum allus has a bit of a lie-down this time of afternoon.”

The old lady looked pained. “But I’m not—”

“Yes, tha art,” her daughter said sternly. “Dust’a remember what Dr. Butters said, Mum? A nap ev’ry afternoon.”

Reluctantly taking their cue, Beatrix and Dimity said goodbye and went out to the pony cart, where Winston was waiting with gloomy patience. He’d had nothing to do but count the chickens (thirteen foolish hens and one rude rooster), twitch his tail against the thunder flies (always fiercest before a rain), and listen to the Galloway cow, a silly creature who could talk of nothing but her new heifer calf. And to top it off, it was beginning to drizzle. He had been right about the weather.

Beatrix took out the big black umbrella she kept under the seat and Dimity held it over their heads as Winston pulled them down the hill, trotting much more nimbly than usual.

“Well, that was interesting,” Dimity remarked.

“Not very, unless you’re fond of chickens, flies, and cows,”
Winston muttered.

“Interesting, indeed,” said Beatrix. “Mrs. Graham knows more than she wants us to know. I didn’t believe that business about the gypsies for a minute. Did you?”

“No,” Dimity said uncertainly. She moved the umbrella so that it would not drip in their laps. “But I do think we should go down to the camp and—”

“Nae!”
Winston stopped dead in the middle of the lane, nickering sharply.
“We are NOT going to the gypsy camp. It is raining, and my mane and tail are very damp—or hadn’t you noticed? Anyway, it’s time for my tea.”

Dimity looked down at the watch pinned to her lapel. “Oh, goodness, Beatrix! Look at the hour! Flora will be wanting her bottle. I must get back to Tower Bank House.”

“And we don’t need to get any wetter.” Beatrix lifted the reins and clucked to the pony. “Let’s go home, Winston. The gypsies can wait.”

Winston was very ready to oblige.

19

Captain Woodcock Investigates

Miles Woodcock had carried out his morning’s business in Hawkshead, then enjoyed a late, leisurely luncheon at the Red Lion Inn, where the shepherd’s pie, savory with veal and mushrooms and encased in a flaky pastry, was reputed to be the best in the Land Between the Lakes. It was half past two (just about the time his sister and Miss Potter arrived at Tidmarsh Manor) when he left the market town and motored along the Kendal Road, turning right at Broomstick Lane. This was as far as he could drive, so he parked and got out. He should have to go the rest of the way on foot. Glancing up at the darkening sky, he pulled a mackintosh out of the boot.

He followed a rutted lane that slanted away from the main road and down across a meadow, to the point where it forked. One branch struck off to the north toward the gypsy encampment, less than a half-mile away. The other branch curved back to the south, in the direction of Sawrey—and Hawthorn House.

This track, overgrown from disuse, grew even narrower as Miles walked along. Soon there were only the faintest of wheel marks to show that a cart had recently come this way. The land slanted down toward the lake, with willow coppices and patches of bracken and bog myrtle here and there. A mountain linnet, a graceful brown bird with a long tail, perched on a dipping spray of grass and poured his song into the scented air. Nearby, a cock grouse hunted caterpillars in the hay stubble, and over the water, gulls swung on the whirling wind. Somewhere along the shore, a dog barked furiously, and ducks scattered as if they had been shot.

If the captain had not been so keen on reaching his destination, he might have enjoyed the walk a great deal more. But he could feel the weight of the ring in his pocket and he was anxious to talk to the girl who had pawned it. She was likely a servant girl at Hawthorn House, he guessed. (He could not know what you and I do: that the girl—our Emily—has already gone up to London, where she is at this very moment lugging a heavy bucket of hot water up to the third floor of Miss Pennywhistle’s Select Establishment, as one of the young ladies of excellent family scolds her in a very unladylike way from the top of the stairs.)

In the distance, at last, Captain Woodcock saw his destination: a melancholy gray stone house, quite large, overlooking the lake, with a stone barn at the rear and a fringe of thin fir trees along a stone fence. It stood isolated and bleak on the side of its hill, its natural gloom deepened by the darkening skies. Clouds streamed in from the west, the sky had taken on a metallic hue, and the waves scudding across the lake were flecked with foam.

Hawthorn House was an architectural hodgepodge, and not a pleasing one, and I daresay that neither you nor I would be happy to stay there, not even for one night. It had what can only be called an enigmatic, furtive look, as if it were keeping secrets that ought not be revealed. The roof bristled with Tudor towers and turrets and chimney pots, Queen Ann gables poked up at oddly random angles, and Georgian bow windows bulged like ugly glass blisters from the stone walls. Unhandsome and inhospitable even in its best days, the place was now in sad need of repair. Roof slates were broken, stones had fallen from the walls, and two or three upstairs window panes were smashed. The front garden, rank with weeds, showed no sign of recent tending, and splintered stumps marked the sites where the old hawthorn trees had been cut. The place wore an air of derelict vacancy and disuse, and Miles could easily understand its reputation for being haunted. It was not a pretty house. It was not happy.

But even though it looked deserted, this was the house where lived the girl who had pawned the ring, and Miles was eager to speak to her—and to her employer. So he braved the nettles that lined the narrow gravel path and made his way up to the front door, where he banged the brass knocker loudly.

There was no answer. The knocker’s hollow echoes died away, bringing no sound in response—no voice, no step, nothing but the harsh cawing of a raven perched in one of the fir trees behind the house. Miles waited until the echoes had shivered into the dusty silence, then banged the knocker again. This time there was a flurry of wings, an alarmed clatter, and a trio of pigeons flew out of a broken gable window.

Miles went down the steps and around the side of the house. But now he tipped his hat on the back of his head and whistled jauntily, as if to cheer himself—or frighten away anything that might be lurking in the shrubbery, which was of course ridiculous. He was not given to wild imaginings, but even he had to admit that there was something about the house that invited apprehension. Perhaps it was its odd shape, its disrepair, its desolate ugliness. Or perhaps it was the tales of hauntings, and the uneasy sense that secrets were held here.

Or (speaking rationally) perhaps it was merely the house’s isolated situation. The nearest neighbor was a half-mile to the east, along the lakeshore, and he knew there were two small cottages a hundred yards up the slope behind the trees. But these could not be seen from the garden. He might have been in the middle of a vast wilderness, populated by only a few birds and—