The Tale of Holly How (3 page)

But go on she did, and perhaps she was saved by the energy she put into saving Hill Top Farm. To keep the house for herself and yet keep a farmer who could tend the place whilst she was absent, she needed to design an extension and oversee its construction—in spite of Mr. Biddle and all his objections and delays.

And if the old, run-down place were to become a real farm, there had to be farm animals: sheep, cows, pigs, horses, chickens. This was certainly a challenge for a lady who had never thought to become a farmer, but it was a challenge that Beatrix welcomed, for it gave her new things to think about, and a new future to look forward to.

Yes, Beatrix needed Hill Top, and Hill Top needed her. And although her parents complained that her new hobby would distract her from her family duties, even they had to admit that buying a farm was preferable to the awful prospect of a daughter’s marrying into trade!

The purchase of Hill Top had been completed in the autumn of the previous year, and Beatrix had come to Sawrey as often as she could get away from her parents. With each trip, she felt more at home in the village, although she wasn’t sure she would ever be accepted by the villagers themselves. The men seemed to resent her for buying a farm that might have been bought by a
real
farmer, and the women couldn’t understand why an unmarried lady from a wealthy family wanted to live in such a rural place, away from the intrigues and excitements of London. But Beatrix had little time to worry about them, because there was always more to do: overseeing the expansion of the house, rebuilding the dairy and pigsty, redirecting the farm track that went past the door, and acquiring a small herd of cows and the beginnings of a flock of sheep. And pigs.

She turned to look once more at the Berkshires rooting enthusiastically in the mud, and smiled to herself. Yes, the pigs would do, and the Herdwick ewes and lambs from Holly How, if they could be got. Yes. It would
all
do, she thought contentedly. It would do very well.

On the stone wall, Tabitha was the first to speak.
“Ben Hornby’s Herdwicks, coming to Hill Top,”
she remarked reflectively.
“Wonder if Tibbie and Queenie will be in the lot.”

“Now, that would be nice,”
Crumpet said.
“I’m not over-fond of sheep, but Tibbie is certainly pleasant.”

“Sheep,”
Felicia said in a scornful tone,
“are the stupidest creatures on God’s green earth. Not even smart enough to come in out of the rain. And they are always in need of grooming. They have no idea how to take care of themselves.”
She licked her right paw and smoothed her whiskers, of which she was very proud.

“They do their jobs, at least,”
Crumpet retorted smartly,
“which is more than some of us can say.”

Felicia’s sharp claws shot out, and Crumpet danced backward, squalling. Tabitha shrieked at the top of her lungs.

“S
top it,
I say!” the farmer roared. He threw another clod of dirt, and the animals leapt off the wall and scattered into the rockery.

Miss Potter burst into laughter. “What pickles,” she said. “I think I shall have to make a book about them.”

2

Lady Longford Calls on Miss Woodcock

Dimity Woodcock was in charge of the Sawrey Flower Show again, for the third year in a row. She didn’t remember volunteering, but there it was—the committee had simply seemed to take it for granted that she would do it, and (as usual) she hadn’t been able to say no.

Now, of course, the second thoughts were beginning to pile up, like ominous storm clouds over the western fells. Dimity was making a list of the judges, and already running into trouble. Mrs. Wharton’s judging of the dahlias had caused such an uproar last year that she couldn’t be asked back, even though she was already counting on it. If Mr. Threlkild awarded all the rose prizes to Mrs. Belcher again, the other rose fanciers in the village would be absolutely livid. And what to do about—

This gathering storm of second thoughts was broken up by the sound of wheels on gravel, and Dimity glanced out the library window. A phaeton and matched pair of smart-looking gray horses had just pulled up in front of Tower Bank House, where Dimity lived with her brother, Captain Miles Woodcock. In it were two female passengers.

Dimity’s eyes widened in surprise. One of the passengers was Lady Longford, of Tidmarsh Manor, the other her secretary-companion, Miss Martine. Lady Longford was rarely seen in Sawrey these days, and to tell the truth, nobody missed her. She had a razor-sharp tongue, an acid disposition, and a reputation for being mean-spirited and miserly. Since it didn’t seem very likely that her ladyship had come on a social call, Dimity concluded that she must have business with Miles. But she would be disappointed, for Dimity’s brother had gone to Manchester that morning and would not be back until the next day.

Lucky Miles, Dimity thought ruefully, putting her list into the desk drawer. She cast a quick look in the mirror, smoothed her brown hair, tucked her white blouse into her gray skirt, and went to tell Elsa that they would need a tea tray.

A few moments later, the guests had been shown to the sitting room and Elsa had brought tea and a plate of scones and tea cakes, on the best silver tray.

“I hope you have been well,” Dimity said, as she poured tea.

Lady Longford, a tall, strong-looking person with formidable black brows under the brim of a black bonnet, pressed her lips together. “I have not been entirely comfortable, but I fancy I am as well as may be expected for a woman of my age.” She frowned. “However, I did not come to discuss my health, Miss Woodcock. I am sorry that your brother is not here, but I trust that you will give him a message from me.” She accepted the tea cup that Dimity handed her but rejected Elsa’s warm and buttery scones. “I wish you to tell him that it is no longer necessary for the trustees to continue their search. I have located a person to take over Sawrey School.”

“To take over the school?” Dimity was so startled that the tea she was pouring for Miss Martine slopped into the saucer. “As head teacher, you mean?”

“Precisely, Miss Woodcock.” Lady Longford put up her lorgnette and peered at Dimity. “You do recall, do you not, that the school’s head teacher has retired?”

“Well, yes,” Dimity said. Of course she recalled it. Miss Crabbe had fallen down stairs and broken her leg, and the villagers had talked of nothing else for months. There had been other difficulties, as well—forgetfulness, shortness of temper, a tendency to make unsupported accusations—although the less said about these problems, the better, Dimity felt. In the end, the residents of Sawrey had agreed that it was not a bad thing that Miss Crabbe had retired from teaching and gone to live in Bournemouth with her two sisters, Pansy and Violet. And most felt that Margaret Nash, who had taught the infants class for the past fifteen years, was doing a simply splendid job as a temporary replacement in the junior classroom. It would be quite satisfactory, the villagers believed and Dimity concurred, if Miss Nash were chosen as the permanent head teacher, and it was widely expected that the four school trustees—of whom Miles was one—would shortly ratify her appointment.

Which was why Dimity was dismayed to hear that Lady Longford (who had a well-earned reputation for getting her way) had someone else in mind for the post. Feeling that she ought to find out as much as possible about Miss Nash’s competitor, she said, with a false note of bright interest, “I’d love to hear all about him. The person you have in mind, I mean.”

“I daresay,” Lady Longford said dryly. “Tell her, Miss Martine.”

Miss Martine leaned forward. In her forties, she was thin and meek looking, with scraped-back black hair and sallow skin. She spoke with a strong French accent and was said to be from Paris, although Dimity—who had visited France often as a child—suspected that the accent was counterfeit.

“Dr. Harrison Gainwell,” she said primly, “is a graduate of Oxford University, in Theology. Recently, he has been engaged as a teaching missionary in the islands of the South Pacific. He is now looking forward to a quieter, more reflective life. Dear Lady Longford has graciously invited him to be her guest at the Manor until he has found lodging suitable to his position at Sawrey School. Lady Longford will, of course, vouch for his character, reputation, and international experience, all of which are quite impressive.”

“No doubt,” Dimity murmured, thinking regretfully of Margaret Nash, who was a very fine teacher, admired by everyone, but whose educational experience was of a more local and limited sort. And whilst Lady Longford might not be a favorite of the villagers, she certainly wielded a great deal of influence in Claife Parish. Dimity was enough of a realist to know that the school trustees would have to give special consideration to any candidate her ladyship supported.

Lady Longford put down her cup. “I am certain that Dr. Gainwell will exceed the trustees’ highest expectations. Please tell Captain Woodcock that he plans to arrive on Wednesday. Today is Monday, so that will give the captain time to arrange an interview, perhaps Thursday or Friday.”

“An interview?” Miss Martine asked, in some surprise.

“I’m sure that the trustees will want to meet him before they agree to appoint him,” Lady Longford replied. To Dimity, she said, “Tell your brother that Dr. Gainwell will be glad to put himself at the trustees’ disposal.”

“Of course,” Dimity said with resignation. It really was too bad for Margaret, and for the school. And then, to fill the awkward gap that had opened up in the conversation, she added politely, “I understand that you have another guest. I hope you are enjoying her visit.”

“Guest?” Lady Longford frowned.

“Perhaps you don’t consider her a guest, then,” Dimity replied, wishing she had not brought up the subject. “Your ladyship’s granddaughter, Caroline, I mean. I understand that she has been staying at the Manor.”

Dimity had got this news from Will Heelis, who was her brother’s closest friend and Lady Longford’s solicitor. The girl, the only daughter of Lady Longford’s estranged son, had been sent from New Zealand on the death of her mother, her father having already died some time before. Lady Longford at first had refused to take the child, but when Will Heelis pointed out that there was no other living relative and Vicar Sackett implored her to do her Christian duty, she had reluctantly allowed herself to be persuaded. The girl had arrived at Easter.

But the situation could not be a happy one, Dimity thought. Tidmarsh Manor was a gloomy, uninviting house, and Lady Longford was very stern. It would be a bleak place for a solitary child who had lost both her mother and her father. Far better if she were allowed to go to Sawrey School with the village children, but that apparently was not to be permitted. There was rumor of a plan to send her to an Anglican convent school in the autumn.

“Ah, yes, Caroline,” Miss Martine said, with a sigh that managed to express mingled resignation and exasperation. “One does not mean to criticize, of course,” she murmured, casting her glance down. “Although Lady Longford has shown an extraordinary generosity in offering to—”

“I do not shirk my duty,” Lady Longford said grimly. “The girl will be at the Manor until other arrangements have been made for her education. In the meantime, Miss Martine has agreed to serve as her governess.”

“I see,” Dimity said, feeling a twinge of uneasy sympathy for the child who was Lady Longford’s “duty.”

“I am merely teaching her literature, music, and French,” Miss Martine put in, with a self-deprecating gesture. “Dr. Gainwell has kindly consented to tutor her in maths and natural history. Until she is sent to school, that is. We expect to find an appropriate place for her shortly.”

“I see,” Dimity said again, and then blurted out, “I was thinking of making a seaside visit next week.” Actually, she hadn’t been thinking anything of the sort, and it had just that moment occurred to her that the lonely child might like to get away from Tidmarsh Manor. “Only a day or two,” she added, “and only if the weather is fine. I should be delighted if you would permit Caroline to—”

“Quite out of the question,” Lady Longford said. “You would not find her at all congenial, Miss Woodcock. She is a secretive, sullen child.”

“Disobedient, as well,” Miss Martine said in a low, regretful voice. She sighed again. “And defiant, one is sorry to say. Her ladyship entered a subscription for her to the
Young Ladies Journal,
but she refuses to read it. One finds such ingratitude inexplicable, doesn’t one?”

“One does, I suppose,” Dimity murmured.

“Well, then.” Lady Longford put down her teacup and rose. “I think this concludes our business. Good afternoon, Miss Woodcock. Your brother may expect a call from Dr. Gainwell.”

“I’ll tell him,” Dimity said limply, and saw them out the door.

3

Caroline Longford Begins a New Journal

The cloudless July morning had turned cloudy by mid-afternoon. Caroline Longford had watched from her third-floor bedroom window as Mr. Beever brought the phaeton round by the front of Tidmarsh Manor and her grandmother and Miss Martine came down the steps, got in, and were driven off, under the shade of their black parasols. Without losing a minute, Caroline turned from the window, pulled the blank account book and pencil out from under her mattress, and flew down the back stairs and out the back-garden door, her long brown braid bouncing down her back. It was a rare thing for both of them—the prison warders, she called them to herself—to be gone from the house, and she didn’t want to waste a second of the precious time.

It wasn’t as if she didn’t have plenty of time to herself, of course. Miss Martine regularly fell asleep by the fire when they were supposed to be having morning lessons, leaving Caroline free to read and draw as she liked. In the afternoon, she was sent out into the garden with Dudley, Lady Longford’s spaniel, whilst Miss Martine and her ladyship read and napped. At tea, Caroline was required to pour, for Lady Longford (who was really her grandmother but refused to allow herself to be called Grandmama) seemed to think that pouring tea might somehow transform her into a lady—a frightful fate that Caroline refused to accept, even (or perhaps especially) in her imagination. After tea, she was sent upstairs to read until supper, when Mrs. Beever brought her a supper tray. After supper, she sat in front of the fireplace until it was time to go to bed, writing in her journal, a pretty leather-bound book with her name stamped on it in gold, given to her by her father.

But her writing had come to an unhappy end several days ago, when Miss Martine had found her journal and begun to read it.

“That’s mine!” Caroline cried hotly, springing to her feet and trying to snatch the book out of Miss Martine’s hands. “It’s my private writing. You have no right!”

“I have every right,” Miss Martine said, in her fake French accent, holding the little book over her head, out of Caroline’s reach. “Lady Longford has given you into my charge, young miss, and I will not permit you to hide anything from me. I intend to see what you are writing about.” Her dark eyes were full of a sly, jealous triumph. “Of course, if you prefer, we can take it to her ladyship, so that
she
may read all your shameful secrets and see what an ungrateful girl you really are.”

Letting her shoulders slump, Caroline had pretended to give in. But the moment Miss Martine had relaxed her guard and begun to turn the pages, Caroline had snatched the little book and thrust it into the hottest part of the fire, where it burst into bright flames.

“You young heathen!” Miss Martine cried, reaching for the poker to rake the book out of the fire.

But it was too late. The pages charred and curled, sending little flakes of burnt paper flying up the chimney as Miss Martine watched, white with fury. She would never know what Caroline had written: “Miss Martine is no more French than I am, and I am not French at all. And Grandmama Longford is a silly old fool who has been taken in by a mean, cruel woman who only pretends to like her.”

It was true. Miss Martine might be meek and submissive to Grandmama’s face, but when her back was turned, it was another matter entirely. Caroline had seen the malevolent gleam in her eye, the spiteful twist to her mouth, and was convinced that she had no one’s interests at heart but her own, whatever they were.

But whilst Caroline was glad that she had saved her writing from Miss Martine’s censorious eyes, she paid dearly for her act, for Miss Martine, in a rage, sentenced her to three days with only milk-and-bread for supper. Caroline hardly missed the food, but she was desolate without her journal.

Writing in it had been her salvation through the somber days after the train on which her father was riding flew off a trestle and plummeted into a New Zealand gorge, killing everyone aboard. It had comforted her through the interminable weeks whilst her mother grew sadder and sicker and finally died, and the even longer, darker months she waited to learn her fate from her father’s solicitors. At first, they reported that her grandmother—who had disowned her father when he refused to marry someone she had picked out for him—flatly refused to take her. Another place would have to be found, although they couldn’t seem to think where, since there was no other family to give her a home. At last Caroline learnt that her grandmother had agreed to give her a place to stay until a suitable school could be found, so she was put on a ship sailing for England. A rather nice solicitor, Mr. Heelis, met her at the dock in Liverpool and took her to Tidmarsh Manor.

And all during this awful time, Caroline had spilled her feelings onto the pages of her journal, her anger and fear and, yes, even her hope. Her hope that her grandmother might be kind and nice and would like her after all, and that she would not be sent away to school. Her hope that she would have friends in the village, and pets to play with, and—

But what was the use? Her hopes had all been dashed, and her precious journal was a pile of ashes. There was nothing for it but to start all over again, in the blank account book she had stolen from Mrs. Beever’s kitchen cupboard this morning. But this time, she vowed, she would not let her private writing fall into Miss Martine’s jealous hands—or anyone else’s, either. She would keep it where she knew it was safe. And even if it were found, no one but she would be able to read it, because she was going to write it in
code
. What kind of code, she hadn’t decided yet. But she would think of something.

So whilst Lady Longford and Miss Martine were drinking tea and telling Dimity Woodcock about Dr. Harrison Gainwell, Caroline was racing along the path that skirted Cuckoo Brow Wood—without Dudley, who was too fat and slow and grumbled a great deal when he was coaxed into going outside the garden. A few minutes later, she was scrambling up the steep, rocky incline of Holly How, (
how
was a Lakeland word for
hill
), to the very top, where shepherds, long ago, had built a tiny stone hut as a shelter against the summer rains and winter snows. A little distance below the hut, in the side of the hill, there was an old, unused entry to a badger sett, mounded about with the dirt that the industrious badgers had dug out of their tunnels and sleeping chambers. The day before, Caroline had hidden an empty biscuit tin just inside the entry, where she intended to keep her journal. Now, she had a new journal; all she had to do was invent the code.

And now, as the July breeze lifted the damp hair from her forehead, Caroline sat down on a sun-warmed stone beside the badger hole and made a list of every letter in the alphabet. Then, beside each letter, she wrote down the symbol or letter she would use to represent it.
M
would stand for
a, &
for
b, #
for
c,
and so on. It would take a while to learn this new alphabet, but she had a quick mind and an excellent memory. And just in case she forgot, she put the code key into her pocket. She would keep it with her always. Even if someone did discover the book, they couldn’t disclose its secrets.

As she worked, Caroline often glanced across the narrow valley of Wilfin Beck, where the little stream glinted in the afternoon sunlight like a shining silver thread. She didn’t much like Tidmarsh Manor, which she could see if she leaned forward and looked down and to her left. It was a dark, ugly house, full of selfishness and ill intentions, and she was sometimes awakened in the night by the angry wind slamming the shutters and snarling in the chimney. But she loved the surrounding hills and sheep-dotted fields, whose quiet serenity reminded her of home. The mountains might not be half so high nor the landscape half so wild as in New Zealand, but it was beautiful all the same.

From where she sat, she could also see the slate roof and whitewashed walls of Holly How Cottage, the small Manor farmhouse where Mr. Hornby lived. And she could see Stony Lane, which wound along the shoulder of Oatmeal Crag, on the other side of the beck. She would glimpse the returning phaeton-and-pair in plenty of time to run back to the Manor before her grandmother and Miss Martine reached the front door.

In fact, Caroline saw, there was a vehicle coming along Stony Lane just now, making its way up from the village. But as it came into clearer view, she could see that it wasn’t her grandmother’s shiny black phaeton, but rather a green-painted cart pulled by a large black horse. Then, behind her, Caroline heard the sound of a foot dislodging a rock. She turned sharply.

“It’s only me,” Jeremy Crosfield said. “Hope I didn’t startle you.”

“Not too much,” Caroline said, and went back to her work.

Jeremy was just her age, although his serious manner made him seem older. He was the one who had shown her the shepherd’s hut and the badger sett on Holly How and places where the best mushrooms grew, and the sweetest bramble berries. Jeremy, whom she had met one afternoon when she went on a reconnoitering expedition outside the garden, seemed to know a great deal about almost everything, which made him a useful person, in Caroline’s view. He lived with his aunt Jane in a small cottage near Cunsey Beck and always carried a sketchbook with him so he could draw pictures of animals.

Of course, Grandmama and Miss Martine had no idea about Jeremy, and Caroline knew better than to mention him. If they’d known, they would have forbidden her to see him. They had made clear that the village children were “beneath” her, an idea that Caroline thought was ridiculously old-fashioned and snobbish. At home in New Zealand, she’d been the same as everyone else on the sheep station. These days, Caroline found herself being angry a great deal of the time, and the idea that some people were better than others was just one of the things that made her angry.

Jeremy took a telescope out of the canvas pack on his back. “You can get a better look with this,” he said, gesturing at the pony cart on the road.

Caroline put down her journal and peered through the telescope. The horse had a white blaze on its nose and the green cart was driven by a dark-haired man in a gray shirt, with the sleeves rolled up. A yellow dog trotted beside the wheel.

“Mr. Chance, of Oldfield Farm. That’s a bit further up the road, past Holly How Farm. The dog’s name is Mustard.” He grinned. “Mr. Chance calls him that to make people think he bites, but he’s not really a bad sort.”

With an envious glance at the telescope, Caroline handed it back. “Is this new?”

“Miss Potter gave it to me. The lady who owns Hill Top Farm. I met her when she was drawing frogs for a book. She’s famous for her kids’ books, my aunt says.
Little
kids,” he added, with another grin. “But I wish I could draw frogs as well as she does.” He glanced at her journal. “I won’t interrupt your writing,” he added, taking a pad and pencil out of his pack. “I’ve come to sketch. But I did want to tell you about the badgers. The ones at the rock quarry not far from where I live.”

“What about them?” There were no badgers in New Zealand, but Jeremy had drawn a picture of one for her, when he’d shown her the sett—the badger burrow—on Holly How.

“A badger digger got them a day or so ago,” Jeremy said matter-of-factly. “I found the sett, dug up, and the badgers gone. I expect the cubs are dead and the sow—that’s the badger mother—will be used for badger-baiting.”

“Badger-baiting?” Caroline frowned.

Jeremy’s voice had gone hard. “A dog is tossed into a pit or a big box with a badger, and they fight until one of them is dead. People lay wagers on which will win.”

Caroline shivered. “It sounds hideously cruel.”

“It is,” Jeremy said fiercely. “It’s against the law, too. But nobody pays attention. After all, it’s just badgers, and the farmers don’t like them because they get into the grain and the gardens. So everybody turns a blind eye.” He sighed. “Sorry. There’s nothing to be done. I don’t suppose I should have told you.”

There seemed to be nothing more to say, so they fell into silence, Caroline writing in her new secret code, Jeremy sketching. After a while, Caroline even forgot that Jeremy was there, and became so absorbed in writing about the unhappy scene that had led to the burning of her journal that the tears began to spill down her cheeks. She was wiping them away with the back of her hand, hoping that Jeremy would not notice and think that she was just being a weepy girl, when she saw the black phaeton appear around the bend in the road. With a sigh, she put her journal into the biscuit tin.

Jeremy looked up from his work with a grin. “Want me to close my eyes so I won’t see where you’re hiding it?”

Caroline shook her head. “I want you to know where it is,” she said. “That way, if anything happens to me, you can come and get it.” She gave him a serious look. “Although of course, you won’t be able to read it, since you don’t know the code. Just burn it.”

Jeremy regarded her with a frown. “What do you mean, if anything happens to you?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Caroline said. She thought of her father’s train falling into the gorge, and her mother’s dying, and having to leave the sheep station and come to England to live with a grandmother who didn’t like her. She shrugged fatalistically. “You can’t tell what’s going to happen, that’s all. I have to go.”