The Tale of Hawthorn House (28 page)

Captain Miles Woodcock, who never paid the slightest attention to village gossip, was quite unaware that his marital destiny, and that of his sister Dimity, had been decided. He was, however, anxious to confirm what he had learnt from Hawker in the garden at Hawthorn House, and find out whether anyone in the village knew which of the local girls had just gone off to London. In his own mind, he was calling this problem “The Case of the Missing Mother,” and felt he had resolved it quite nicely. Baby Flora was the daughter of a servant girl who had given birth to her at Hawthorn House and had then run off to London, leaving the infant behind. All he had left to find out was her name.

The captain had intended to look further into the matter on Tuesday evening but was prevented by an unexpected bit of business that took him off to Manchester. So it was Thursday night before he could drop in at the Tower Bank to see what he could learn. The pub—the front door of which had been recently and hastily repaired—smelt of fried fish, strong malt ale, and tobacco smoke. Men crowded around the bar, around the backgammon table, and around the dart board, and every so often a cheer would go up. The evening was off to a rousing start.

“Hullo, Cap’n,” said Lester Barrow cordially, swiping the bar with his cloth. Lester was a hefty man whose red plaid waistcoat barely buttoned about his middle. “Good evenin’ to ye, sir.”

Miles sat on a stool and put his elbow on the bar. “What happened to your front door?”

Lester Barrow ducked his head. “Bit of an accident with a shotgun,” he muttered. “Had a prowler last night.”

“A prowler?” the captain asked, frowning. As the King’s justice, he felt he should be aware of any breach of the peace—although of course he had been away from home the previous night and had thus missed out on the general melee.

“Well, not to say a prowler exactly, sir,” said Lester Barrow, reddening. “T’ missus
thought
it was a prowler, only t’ constable reckoned it to’ve been a fox or t’ like, up at Hill Top. T’ dogs went through a cucumber frame, and the Jenningses’ washbasin got tipped, and t’ missus thought it was t’ scullery window bein’ broke.”

“Ah,” Miles said, only rather dimly understanding. “Well, then. I’ll have a half-pint, if you please.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. The villagers were terrible gossips, the men as much as the women, and he wasn’t anxious to call attention to his investigation. “And some information.”

“If I’ve got it,” Lester said, pouring the ale and sliding the glass across the polished surface. He raised his own glass in salute. “Congratulations, sir,” he added with a sly smile. “We’re all for it.”

“Thank you,” Miles said, wondering vaguely why he was being congratulated. “P’rhaps you might know a housemaid who went up to London a short time ago, in Puckett’s cart. I mean,” he corrected himself, “that she took the cart to the ferry. I assume that she went by train to London.”

“Puckett’s cart, eh?” Mr. Barrow raised his voice over the din of voices. “Auld Puckett! Hey, Puckett! Get thisel’ over here, man. T’ cap’n wants a word.”

Miles winced, not wanting his request made so publicly. But a wizened old man dressed in brown sacking was turning away from the darts board, squinting through the tobacco smoke. It was Puckett, who had previously worked in the charcoal pits but resorted to driving his cart for hire when he fell off his roof and broke his leg.

“A word?” Puckett piped, in a high, thin voice. “T’ cap’n’s not goin’ to arrest me, is he?”

This question provoked raucous laughter among the darts players, who seemed to find the idea exceptionally funny. They elbowed each other, guffawing. “T’ cap’n aims to make thi license that auld cart, Puckett,” one said. Another added, “Puckett’s goin’ to be fined for carryin’ contraband hither ’n’ yon, like t’ auld smuggler he is.”

“He wants to ask somethin’ verra important, Puckett,” bellowed Mr. Barrow over the clamor. “Git thisel’ over ’ere, old man.”

At the word “important,” a hush fell over the crowd, and curious heads turned in Miles’ direction. So much for carrying out his investigation in private, he thought ruefully. He motioned to Lester Barrow to refill the old man’s half-pint, and said, in a low voice, “I understand that you conveyed a certain serving maid down to the ferry one morning recently. Going up to London, she was—or so I’m told.”

Old Puckett drained his mug thirstily, put it on the bar, and wiped his gray mustache with the back of his gnarled hand. “Aye,” he allowed. “That I did, sir.” He scowled. “Bad bus’ness, her goin’ to Lon’on. Told her so, I did. Said, ‘Girls got no business in t’ City.’ But her didn’t listen.” He shook his head sadly. “Females nivver listen to me. Fer as they’re concerned, I’m jes’ an auld man laid up wi’ a gammy leg.’ ”

“Who was she?” Miles asked. “What’s her name?”

“Name?” The old man lifted his brown cap, scratched his head, and glanced craftily at his empty mug. “Name? Well, now, I—”

Miles sighed, resigned. “Another half-pint,” he said to Lester Barrow. When it was brought, he picked up the mug before Puckett could grasp it, holding it just out of the old man’s reach.

“Her name,” he said firmly.

“Ah,” said Puckett. He pursed his lips, frowning. “Well, then. If I remember a-reet, her name was Em’ly.” He put out his hand for the mug. “Em’ly,” he said again, louder.

Miles moved the mug away. “Emily who?”

The old man frowned. “I doan’t know, now, do I?” he said crossly. “Who keeps a tally of t’ village girls?” He pushed his thin lips in and out, regarding the glass. “Must’ve come from Hawthorn House, though. ’Twas Hawker who carried her bag to t’ road and put it on t’ cart.”

Well, thought Miles, at least they were speaking of the same girl.

“Em’ly from Hawthorn House?” asked a deferential voice at Miles’ left elbow. “That ’ud be her ladyship’s Em’ly, I do b’lieve, sir. Em’ly Shaw.” The speaker was another man, not so old and stooped as Puckett, with the tanned face and hands of one who worked out of doors. Miles knew him by sight: Matthew Beever, gardener and coachman at Tidmarsh Manor.

“Emily Shaw, you say?” Miles asked in surprise. He’d had a brief acquaintance with the girl in the previous year, when she testified as a witness in the trial of a woman who had made an attempt on Lady Longford’s life. A pretty girl, and intelligent, if flighty. But all girls her age were flighty, he supposed.

“Aye, Em’ly Shaw,” said Matthew Beever. He shook his head. “Naughty, her was,” he said darkly. “Verra naughty. Carryin’ on wi’ that gypsy lad. Girls nivver come to no good, goin’ on that way.”

At last they were getting someplace, Miles thought with satisfaction. “Tell me,” he invited.

Pressing his lips together, Beever glanced at old Puckett’s glass and then up at Miles. Miles signaled to Lester Barrow. Thus fortified, the gardener spilled the story.

Emily Shaw, while she was still in Lady Longford’s employ, had been seen walking out with a lad from the gypsy camp. One of the other servants had reported this, which had led Beever to keep a close watch. When he found them talking together late one evening behind the barn, he had summarily banished the boy and had forbidden Emily to see him again.

“Sent ’im packin’, I did,” he reported gruffly. “Heard he went south to work in t’ hops fields, and not a minute too soon.” He shook his head. “Girls that age got no sense. Her’d been mine, I wud’ve whipped her. Them gannan-folk are nivver up to no good.”

Miles didn’t hold with corporal punishment, although he understood Beever’s concern. Still— “You don’t know whether things went any further than talking?” he asked.

“Who knows?” Beever peered up at Miles from under bushy gray eyebrows. “But when her up and left that fast, I sez to Missus Beever it didna look reet t’ me. Leavin’ Tidmarsh where her was known and gan to Hawthorn House— leastwise, that’s what her said. Sounded fishy to me. Hawthorn House’s stood empty these last years, since t’ Thorn Folk curst it. Why ’ood her want to gan there, if not to hide hersel’ away?”

The Thorn Folk. Miles made an impatient noise. One would think someone as sensible as Beever would see how ridiculous it was to further those old superstitions. “So you think the girl—”

“Who knows?” Beever said again. He glanced regretfully into his glass, then up at Miles, who shook his head. “Ah, well,” he said, and drained the last drop. “Gone up to Lon’on, has her? I doan’t wonder.” And with that, he stood up.

“Thank you,” said Miles, feeling that the evening had not been a loss. Between Beever and old Padgett, he had made a little headway, after all. He now knew the name of the girl who had worked at Hawthorn House, and who (presumably) had pawned the cornelian signet ring. But one important piece of information was missing. “You have no idea where in London she might have gone?” he asked.

Beever shook his gray head, then brightened, thinking of something else. “Congratulations, Cap’n.” He offered a rough hand. “Her’s a fine lady, I sez. Betimes a bit short in her manner. Not one to suffer fools. But fine, all t’ same. Good luck, sez I, and so does t’missus.”

Miles shook the proffered hand, very confused as to pronouns. Who was the mysterious “her”?

“Congratulations?” he asked. “What’s this about, Beever?”

Beever broke into a loud laugh, which was echoed by old Padgett and Lester Barrow, on the other side of the bar, and by those who had gathered around them.

“What’s this about?” Beever gasped, after a moment. “Why, Cap’n Woodcock, ’tis about yer weddin’, that’s what.”

“My . . . wedding?” Miles asked inarticulately. “What wedding?”

“Yer weddin’ to Miss Potter,” Lester Barrow said, grinning. “T’ village has been talkin’ of nothin’ else—except, o’course,” he added, “your sister’s weddin’.” He sobered. “There’s talk o’ that, too.”

“My wedding to . . . to Miss Potter!” Miles felt his mouth drop open.

“Why, aye!” said Mr. Llewellyn, of High Green Gate Farm. Llewellyn was Miles’ near neighbor, and rented part of his pasture land. “Aye, and grand news it is, too, Cap’n! ’Tis good that a man gets charge o’ Hill Top at last. Miss Potter’s fine in her way—I doan’t say a word agin’ her. But her spends too much time in Lon’on, and t’ farm suffers fer it.” He leaned forward and said, with a confidential air, “Tha’ll take good care o’ her affairs, I’ll warrant. And if tha decides to sell that parcel on t’ other side of t’ Kendal Road, why, I’d have an interest.”

And even Mr. Jennings, Miss Potter’s tenant farmer, held a positive view. “I’ll be pleased to work fer thi, sir,” he said, shaking Miles’ hand vigorously. “Not that I doan’t like Miss Potter, but it’s just not t’ same, workin’ fer a lady.”

By this time, Miles was so completely confounded that he hardly knew how to answer. He made one or two starts, but barely got his mouth open when he was congratulated by Henry Stubbs, the ferryman, followed by Roger Dowling, the joiner, and Mr. Skead, the sexton at St. Peter’s—all offering their jubilant congratulations. It was clear that the match met wide approval throughout the village.

And then it got worse. Lester Barrow—a man who was so parsimonious that he would skin a flea for a ha’penny— began handing out free half-pints. Mrs. Barrow appeared with several bowls of roasted chestnuts, and the men in the pub gathered around, glasses upraised, and began to sing “For he’s a jolly good fellow.” This was followed by three resounding huzzahs, so loud that the glasses rattled behind the bar.

At last there was a moment’s silence, and Miles raised his hands.

“Thank you,” he said, conscious that the men of the village had just paid him—still an outlander, even though he had lived there for some fifteen years—an enormous compliment. He could only be grateful, but he had to nip this rumor in the bud, if that were possible. “However, I must tell you that your congratulations are completely undeserved. While I admire and respect Miss Potter to the greatest degree possible, we have not agreed to marry. I have no idea how this tale got started, but I ask you to help me put paid to it, here and now.”

The silence was so profound that we might have heard a mouse cough, had there been a mouse in the corner. Then old Padgett said incredulously, “Her’s turned thi down, sir?” Wide-eyed, he appealed to Beever. “Miss Potter’s turned down our cap’n?”

“The question has not been asked,” Miles replied, with the awkward feeling that whatever he said would only make matters worse. “Someone has been spreading untrue gossip.”

Henry Stubbs leaned over to old Padgett and remarked, wisely, “He’s sayin’ that congratulations are primmy chure.” Henry’s hold on the English language was almost as slippery as that of his wife Bertha’s. “He’s sayin’ they ain’t pronounced it yet. They’re keepin’ it unner their hats.” This produced another cheer from the gathered crowd.

Miles was floundering now, confused and uncertain. “It is not my intent to ask the question,” was what he meant to say, but even as he formed the words, he bit them back. The idea had suddenly struck him, like a bolt of lightning accompanied by a tooth-rattling clap of thunder, that asking Miss Potter to marry him might not be such a very bad thing, after all.

And with the thought came a great happiness and surprising lightness of spirit. Why, the idea was exactly right! Miss Potter would suit him admirably. She was of an age to know her mind and be settled in her choices. For a woman, she had eminently good sense, and to top it off, she had her own fortune and property. As for himself, he found her attractive, sweetly serious, even tender. He could surely be of help to her with her farm responsibilities, and she would be able to manage Elsa Grape much more strictly than did Dimity. They would be very comfortable together. Yes, indeed, it was a wonderful idea, a perfect idea. Why hadn’t it occurred to him before this?

“Tha’rt sayin’ the property across t’ road won’t be for sale?” Mr. Llewellyn asked, in a tone of great disappointment.

Miles smiled. “I am only saying, gentlemen, that this is not yet the time for celebration.” Feeling quite pleased with himself, he turned to Lester Barrow and added, “Another round of drinks, Mr. Barrow. On my account, if you please.”