The Tale of Hawthorn House (3 page)

“Don’t worry,” she called. “And don’t miss your train, dear girl!” And with that, she flew off the wall and was gone.

Emily blinked, closed her eyes, and looked again. Of course, it might have been a trick of the light or cloud or wind or an overwrought imagination. But even though she could plainly see the stile and the stone fence and the hillside beyond, Mrs. Overthewall was nowhere in sight.

She and her basket and Baby Flora had utterly vanished.

1

The Village Goes to a Fête

 
A century ago in the English Lake District, late summer was filled, dawn to dark, with hard work. There was more to do than could easily be done: hay to cut and stack and cure and cart; oats to cut and bind and stook; sheep to wash and shear and full fleeces to roll and tie; Damson plums and red raspberries and blackberries to gather and make into jams and jellies; and vegetables to harvest and lay by. If the weather was fair and fine, the work went quickly and the villagers were in general good spirits. If it was cold and damp, the hay spoilt, rats and birds got into the grain, fruit dwindled on branch and vine, and everyone felt low-spirited and cross.

But all through the August in which our story takes place, the weather had been fine. Much too fine, I fear. The sky was relentlessly blue and cloudless, and the winds blowing down from the western fells and up from the broad midlands were so hot and dry they might have blown in from the Sahara. Across Esthwaite Water, a heat haze veiled the shoulders of Coniston Old Man. The Galway cattle and Herdwick sheep would have been glad of green grass, the currants had shriveled into hard knots, and everyone in the twin hamlets of Near and Far Sawrey lamented the sad state of their flowers and vegetables, especially since the Summer Fête was upon them.

This annual event was held in Post Office Meadow and attracted not only the local folk but visitors from as far away as the market town of Hawkshead to the west and Bowness and Kendal to the east. The Sawrey fête had earned quite a reputation around the Lake District, for it featured a garden show. The villagers were known for their remarkably green thumbs, with dahlias, cauliflowers, and roses numbering among their specialties, and they all looked forward to displaying their prize specimens. The hot rainless summer had made gardening difficult, but as usual, the village gardeners remained undaunted.

The Summer Fête is always held in Near Sawrey, for Far Sawrey has the October Fête. If you’re wondering how these hamlets came by their names, it is very simply explained: Near Sawrey is nearer the market town of Hawkshead, while Far Sawrey (which is nearer Lake Windermere) is farther away by a half mile or so. Although their residents might not own to it, both hamlets are of nearly equal size and importance. Near Sawrey boasts the pub, the bakery, the smithy, and the joinery; Far Sawrey prides itself upon St. Peter’s Church and the vicarage, the village school, and the Sawrey Hotel. Each has its own post office, and each feels itself much superior to the other, as of course it is.

The posters announcing the Summer Fête had been displayed for weeks: at the ferry landings on both sides of Lake Windermere, in shop windows in Hawkshead and Bowness, on notice boards and gateposts and tree trunks. The week before the event, the cottages on Market Street were blazoned with bright bunting, and a Union Jack was hung over the door of the Tower Bank Arms. On Friday, village children had erected a flowery arch at the entrance to the meadow, and streamers and ribbons and banners fluttered everywhere.

And by the time the sun rose over Claife Heights early on Saturday morning, curious to see what was going on, it beamed down on a meadow in which stalls and booths and tables had sprung up like mushrooms around the large white central tent, where the exhibits were displayed and the judging took place. At the far end, a wooden platform for dancing, singing, and reciting was in the final stages of completion. And everywhere there was such a cheerful noise— men hammering, children shouting, women singing, birds calling, hens cackling, dogs barking—that I shouldn’t wonder if the sun had put its hands over its ears until it had risen high enough to be above it all.

For the people who pinned their hopes on a prize, the exhibits were the entire reason for the fête. They were entirely devoted to scrubbing, polishing, grooming, arranging, and otherwise perfecting their entries. But others had more to do.

Grace Lythecoe was managing the cake stall, Hannah Braithwaite the jellies-and-jams, George Crook the vegetables, and Lydia Dowling the jumble.

Dimity Woodcock and Major Christopher Kittredge had overall charge of the event, the major taking responsibility for sports, games, and entertainment and Miss Woodcock the stalls, the judging, and the evening dance.

Music was provided by the Village Volunteer Band (Lester Barrow on trombone, Mr. Taylor and Clyde Clinder on clarinet, Lawrence Baldwin on coronet, and Sam Stern on the concertina). The Hawkshead Morris Men, kitted out in gay vests, ties, sashes, and hats, would be dancing twice during the afternoon and once in the evening.

Everyone had something to do. And everyone benefited in the end, for the proceeds would be used to complete (at last!) the repairs to the Sawrey School roof.

Throughout the morning, the trio of judges moved from table to table inside the Exhibit Tent, sniffing, tasting, poking, and pinching. At two o’clock, the prizes were announced. Betty Leach’s golden pompoms took the honors, as did Joseph Skead’s cauliflower and Henry Stubbs’s honey. And the Barrow children’s rabbit—a flop-eared bunny named Rhubarb—was pronounced the best of the best and a blue ribbon was proudly pinned upon his cage.

Mrs. Lythecoe’s cake stall was the first to sell every item. Sarah Barwick had generously donated seed wigs and sponges, while other village ladies sent shortbread, ginger-bread, and tea cakes, every last crumb of which had vanished by three in the afternoon, to the disappointment of those who arrived at five minutes past.

The jams-and-jellies stall was next to clear out, with Bertha Stubbs’s gleaming jars of marmalade and Elsa Grape’s chutney (made from a recipe Captain Woodcock brought back from India) going first. Agnes Llewellyn’s green gooseberry jam, which is too tart for most people’s taste, went home with Vicar Sackett, who bought it to spare Agnes the embarrassment of having to take it back, unsold, when Hannah Braithwaite closed the stall.

It took a bit longer for George Crook at the vegetable stand to unload the last of Roger Dowling’s Brussels sprouts. And it was after four by the time Lydia Dowling got rid of the last two bits of jumble: a beaded egg cozy donated by Annie Nash and an emerald-green scarf knitted for Captain Miles Woodcock by his former nurse, Mrs. Corry, whose eyesight was not of the best. I regret to say that Henry Stubbs bought it to top off his scarecrow.

“Well!” exclaimed Lydia, surveying the ravaged jumble table. “Though I says it as shouldn’t, I’d call it a right success.”She rattled the box of coins as she handed it to Miss Woodcock. “Haven’t counted it yet, but must’ve took in all of four quid.”

“That’s grand, Lydia,” Dimity said, taking the box. “You’ve done splendidly. I always say that jumble is hardest of all. Just pricing it is a challenge.”

Lydia rolled her eyes. “T’ biggest job is fendin’ off t’ stall workers ’til we open for business. Let ’em at it early, and they’ll grab all t’ good stuff afore anybody else has a chance.”

Christopher Kittredge hurried up. “Pardon, Miss Woodcock, but you’re wanted at First Aid. One of the Banner boys bloodied his nose in the potato sack race, and his mother can’t be found.”

Dimity always turned pink when Major Kittredge spoke to her. But she only said, “Oh, dear. The poor child!” and hurried off, tucking the coin box into the string bag she carried over her arm.

The major surveyed the empty jumble table. “Well done, Mrs. Dowling,” he said with a smile. “I wouldn’t have wagered that we’d get rid of that green . . . er, that we would sell
everything.
You must be very persuasive.”

Major Kittredge had only one arm and one eye and his face was visibly scarred—war wounds suffered in a skirmish with the Boers in ’01—but Lydia thought he was still quite the handsomest man in the village, even if his reputation wasn’t all it should be. She ducked her head, muttering a pleased “Thank’ee, sir.”

The major had no idea that anyone, least of all a woman, considered him handsome. In fact, when he looked into his mirror, he looked quickly away again, feeling that he was ugly enough to frighten children and horses and that he should become a hermit after all. But he was determined not to yield to this unhealthy impulse, so when the Vicar asked him to give Miss Woodcock a hand with the annual fête, he’d agreed. One hand was all he had, he said with a rueful chuckle, but perhaps one would do.

He was glad he’d said yes. The fête gave him a chance to involve himself in village matters, as his father and grandfather had always done. It was an opportunity to try to redeem himself, for he knew that most in the village disapproved of him. And it gave him a chance to spend some time with Dimity Woodcock. His face might be altered almost beyond recognition, but if Dim found him repugnant, she was kind enough not to let on.

With a goodbye to Lydia Dowling, the major walked over to see whether Lester Barrow had finished setting up the dartboards for the evening’s tournament. All looked in good order, but to the west, the blue sky had turned dark and thunderheads threatened the fells. They’d be in for a good soaking shortly—a boon to fields and farmers, but hardly welcome to fête-goers. Bad news if it poured with rain on the one day when every villager hoped for clear skies, and none more than the major. It was his first fête since he’d come home to Raven Hall after the war, after that long stay in hospital and that blasted business with—

The major broke off with a shudder. Losing his heart, and his common sense, to that woman had been a disaster.

A damned, downright, undeniable disaster.

2

Village Affairs, from Other Points of View

The major was too busy with his thoughts to notice the two cats—one a calico, the other a gray tabby—sitting side by side on a wooden bench. But they certainly noticed him.

“Major Kittredge is remembering that woman he thought was his wife,”
Tabitha Twitchit observed in a condescending tone.
“He should never have married her.”

“A sad bit of business,”
returned Crumpet, although she couldn’t help feeling that Tabitha might show a little more sympathy toward the major. It hadn’t been his fault that the woman wasn’t the person she pretended to be.

“An actress, a beautiful woman, but dangerous,”
Tabitha went on, as if Crumpet didn’t already know all the facts of the case.
“Lucky for him, she turned out to be someone else’s wife, so their marriage was never a legal one. He is well rid of her.”

“It was an expensive lesson,”
remarked Crumpet. A smooth gray tabby with a red collar and a golden bell, she was younger and sleeker than Tabitha. It was her opinion that Tabitha’s age (she was fifteen, which is seventy-eight cat years) was slowing the older cat down. It was high time she retired from her position as president of the Village Cat Council—but of course, Tabitha would never do that of her own accord, not while she felt so superior to every other animal in the village.

“Expensive?”
Tabitha said, licking her paw.
“I think not, Crumpet. The woman’s attempt at theft was a complete failure, thanks to our Miss Potter.”

A small tan-colored dog, sauntering past, paused to add his opinion.
“You’re right, Tabitha,”
Rascal barked. A Jack Russell terrier, he lived with the Crooks at Belle Green but devoted himself to the task of overseeing village affairs.
“The Kittredge jewels are safe, and the credit is entirely due to Miss Potter.”

Miss Beatrix Potter, of Hill Top Farm, had asked the major not to disclose her part in the unhappy business of some months past. But one might as well try to hide a thunder-storm under a thimble. Word of the adventure spread, and it was not long before everyone knew that the woman who called herself Mrs. Kittredge was an imposter and that she and her co-conspirator would have succeeded in making off with the family jewels, had not the intrepid Miss Potter thwarted their escape by the simple expedient of—

But I shan’t rob you of the pleasure of reading this story for yourself. It is related in
The Tale of Cuckoo Brow Wood
, which tells what happened when Miss Potter went with three young people—Jeremy, Caroline, and Deirdre—to Cuckoo Brow Wood on May Eve, in search of fairies.

“You’ve completely missed the point,”
Crumpet said impatiently.
“The major’s foolish marriage cost him dearly. Folks in the village have not forgiven him. And he and Dimity Woodcock would be married by now if that other business hadn’t happened.”

“Too true,”
Rascal conceded, thinking that Crumpet, as usual, had got it right.
“Miss Woodcock won’t have him now.”

Tabitha’s eyes popped open.
“The major would have married Dimity Woodcock?”
she cried.
“How do you know?”

Crumpet smoothed her whiskers with a fine gray paw.
“You’re not the only animal in the village who keeps her ear to the ground, Tabitha.”

Rascal barked a laugh. Tabitha was an old dear, but she did put on airs. It was good to see her taken down a peg or two.

“Well!”
Tabitha made a loud harrumph.
“If that is true, I am sorry for it. But what makes you think she won’t have him, now he’s free?”

“Why, because of the scandal, of course!”
Crumpet replied in a catty tone.

Rascal nodded regretfully.
“Miss Woodcock would never consent to be the wife of a man who lost his head and married a London actress on a fortnight’s acquaintance.”
For that is what Major Kittredge had done. Not usually an impulsive man, he had allowed his fancy to run away with his common sense, and in consequence had suffered all sorts of ills and evils. He had lost the respect and admiration of the village, and he had lost Miss Woodcock.