The Tale of Castle Cottage Read online

  Beatrix, on the other hand, was an accomplished miniaturist, painting plants and the small animals she loved to collect—rabbits, mice, guinea pigs, frogs, and even beetles and tiny insects—as well as fossils, fungi, and lichen. And when Peter Rabbit became popular, she was able to earn quite a respectable sum of money from her art.

  But while Beatrix mostly thought of herself as a happy child and young woman, Bertram did not have the same experience. Beatrix was educated at home by a governess. But boys of the Potters’ social class were always sent away to school, so Bertram was packed off to The Grange, at Eastbourne, and three years later, to Charterhouse, in Surrey. A slight, delicate child, he had a woeful time of it. He was taunted by bullies, he couldn’t make friends, and he wasn’t very good at his studies. He would rather paint than do anything else. The headmaster’s reports made Mr. Potter scowl and mutter under his breath, while Mrs. Potter dabbed her handkerchief to her eyes and complained that no one understood her dear son, who would surely do better if he just had another chance. It’s not clear how many chances he got. But he came home without taking his exams (Beatrix mentions some sort of dreadful disgrace in her journal but doesn’t elaborate) and was then sent back to Eastbourne to prepare for Oxford.

  But Oxford was as big a disappointment as Charterhouse had been, for Bertram, a good-looking boy with a certain shy charm, clearly preferred his social life to his studies. Beatrix worried about her brother, for there was a streak of alcoholism in the family, and she feared—with good reason, it turns out—that Bertram had inherited it. But perhaps drinking was the only way the young man could rebel against the father whom he could never please and the mother who eternally hoped that he would improve. Always intensely attuned to the emotional climate in the family and continually hoping that everyone would be happy, Beatrix did what she could to shield her brother from the worst of their parents’ displeasure. She got into the habit of being in the middle, and that’s where she stayed.

  After his failure at Oxford, Bertram left home. First, he went abroad, as did many other young men. When he came back, he began taking long sketching trips to the Scottish border country where he and Beatrix had spent so many happy months as children. About the same time that the little books became popular and Beatrix began escaping into her new career as an author and illustrator, Bertram escaped, too, but more literally than she did. He bought a small farm called Ashyburn near Ancrum, a pretty village in the south of Scotland, and began spending all his time there, painting.

  He was painting, yes. And he (like his sister a few years later) was farming.

  But most important of all, Bertram Potter was hiding a secret, a calamitous, truly momentous secret. For in 1902, this only son of the wealthy, socially conscious Rupert and Helen Potter had secretly married a pretty, penniless young woman named Mary, whose background and family connections, it is fair to say, were not those that the Potters would have chosen. In fact, Mary Potter had worked in the textile mills and as a maid in her aunt’s boarding house. Her father was a wine merchant.

  Now, you and I are used to working for our livings, so the idea of having a job in a textile mill or a boarding house presents no special problem. In fact, it may seem quite admirable to us that Mary was able to look out for herself instead of depending upon her family. But the Potters, who saw themselves as creatures of a different order altogether, did not share this view. Bertram knew that his father would be apoplectic at the very idea of his throwing away his life on such a marriage, and his mother would suffer one of her attacks and have to be put to bed for a week. Or more.

  I think you can see where this is going. Lacking the courage to tell his parents what he had done, Bertram simply pretended he hadn’t done it. Nothing could be simpler, actually. He saw his parents as little as possible, coming to join them for a few days during their annual country holiday and taking the train up to London once or twice a year. Of course, he never invited them to his farm—and one wonders what he would have done with his wife if they had turned up there unexpectedly.

  But then, he and Mary were probably pretty safe. Mrs. Potter never visited her son’s farm, for the same reason she refused to come to Hill Top: Ashyburn was too remote, too primitive, and too dull for her refined taste. It was a very good thing that Bertram and Mary Potter had no children. A child—especially a boy—would have been an enormous complication.

  Well. This is a sorry business, as I’m sure you will agree. Parents who attempt to control their adult children’s lives. A daughter who is forbidden to marry the man she loves because he is too common. A son who runs off and marries the woman he loves, no matter that she is common, but hides the whole business from his parents as if it were a sordid, backstreet affair—and drinks too much, to boot.

  In our day, the Potter family would be labeled highly dysfunctional, and long-term individual and group therapy would be recommended. In Beatrix’s day, it would merely have been said, as Tolstoy famously wrote at the beginning of Anna Karenina, “Every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”

  Beatrix had known about Bertram’s marriage for some time, and even though she was horrified by the thought that he had hidden something so important from their parents, she had faithfully kept his scandalous secret to herself. She cared very much for her brother and would never find fault with him for choosing to marry the woman he loved: people ought to have that freedom.

  But Beatrix was a straightforward person who was deeply troubled by lies and deceit and tried to practice truthfulness in her own life, whatever the cost. She hated the idea that Bertram was living a lie, and while she told herself that she wasn’t bitter about what he had done, I’m sure her feelings were terribly complicated. Her brother was leading the life he had chosen—and if he had been honest with his parents, perhaps her own situation would have been different. But he hadn’t, and it wasn’t. If there was some secret bitterness in the recesses of Beatrix’s heart, I for one am not going to blame her for it.

  Now you know as much as I do about Bertram Potter and his marriage, which he has kept a secret for over ten years now. With this in mind, let us follow Beatrix and her brother into the house, where they are going for their tea.

  While Bertram looked over the drawings for her new book, Beatrix got out jam and bread and cheese and poured tea. Then they sat down to eat, enjoying each other’s company just as they had enjoyed their nursery teas so many years before.

  Bertram glanced around with a puzzled look. “It’s very peaceful here. And quite lovely, Bea. But I don’t see any construction. Papa said you were rebuilding something or another. Adding on new rooms.”

  “Up the hill, at Castle Cottage,” Beatrix replied, cutting a slice of cheese. “It’s the farm I bought several years ago—another twenty acres. A house, a barn, and some muchneeded pasture for the sheep. I’m enlarging the house.” She met Bertram’s eyes and spoke her heart. “Mr. Heelis and I would like to live there someday. In the present circumstance, that hardly seems feasible, but we can hope.”

  “Ah,” Bertram said gravely. “Yes, of course. I see.” He knew about her engagement, of course. She had told him in a letter, and they had discussed it at Christmas.

  “I’ve explained all this to Mama and Papa,” she added, “and more than once. But of course, they’re not in favor of my marrying, so they choose not to listen when I tell them about Castle Cottage.” She gave a wry chuckle. “But construction always takes forever. Perhaps they’ve just forgotten.”

  Bertram’s echoing chuckle held a note of bitterness. “Oh, they haven’t forgotten, Bea. You know better than that. They’re only pretending not to remember. That way, they can keep it from happening.”

  She nodded, wondering if she should confide all her misgivings about the engagement. But she was used to keeping things like that to herself. So she picked up the teapot. “More tea, dear?”

  Bertram nodded, and she poured another cup. “Of course,” he went on, his voice taut and angry, “the parents have never li
stened to either one of us. They only hear what they want. If it’s something we want, they simply ignore us. They are the only ones in the family who count for anything.”

  Beatrix didn’t answer. Bertram had said all this to her many times before. It was a frequent complaint of his.

  “Well, enough of that,” he said, cutting his usual tirade unexpectedly short. He stirred in sugar, then looked at her, frowning a little. “Mama said you were ill this spring.”

  Beatrix lifted her shoulders and let them fall. “It’s true, Bertram. I felt wretched all during March and April. I was in bed most of the time.” She gestured at the papers on the table. “That’s why I’m so behindhand with this book. It should have been finished by now.”

  “Your illness. It was physical or—?” He didn’t finish the sentence, but she knew what he meant, and she answered the question he hadn’t asked.

  “It was both. Mama and Papa don’t make any secret of the way they feel about my engagement. It was all very underthe-table, of course, rarely out in the open—except when the post brought a letter from Mr. Heelis. That always provoked some mean remark or another. But then I caught the flu and couldn’t seem to shake it.” She managed a small laugh. “I’m much better now, though. Truly, Bertram. I am always better when I can get out of London.”

  “You don’t look quite well yet, I’m afraid.” Bertram raised his cup and added, so softly that Beatrix almost didn’t hear him: “How you’ve stood to live with Mama and Papa all these years, Bea, I’ll never know. It must have been pure hell.”

  Her brother’s words surprised Beatrix. While he often talked about the way he felt about their mother and father, he rarely seemed to take her feelings into account.

  “Well, I wouldn’t call it ‘hell,’” she replied, “although it’s not been very pleasant. But whilst duty may be an old-fashioned concept, it’s still important—at least to me.” Hurriedly, because she hadn’t meant to sound critical, she added, “And since I don’t see any changes on the horizon, I just go on, day to day, doing what has to be done.” She smiled. “You know, stiff upper lip, soldiering on, all that sort of thing. We all have to do it, in one way or another.”

  The silence lengthened. Then Bertram put down his cup with a sharp clatter. “I say, Bea,” he burst out. “Do you truly want to marry Heelis?” When she didn’t immediately answer, he added urgently, “Come now. You must tell me the truth.”

  Surprised by his question, she kept on staring at him. “The truth? Yes, Bertram, I do. I don’t think it’s going to happen, but I want it from the very bottom of my heart.”

  He looked away. “He seems a decent sort,” he muttered.

  She blinked, surprised again. “You’ve met him?” Bertram had not been there when Will called on the Potters, first in London and again in that awful visit just a few weeks ago.

  “I haven’t met him, no.” He raised his eyes, clearly embarrassed. “I . . . I made inquiries, that’s all. Wanted to see what kind of a situation you might be getting yourself into.” He paused and added, in a reassuring way, “The men I talked to had nothing but praise for him.”

  “Well, I should think so!” Beatrix exclaimed hotly. “Mr. Heelis is admired by everyone who knows him. Really, Bertram—I don’t understand why you would do such a thing. If you had wanted to meet him, all you had to do was ask, and I should have been glad to arrange it. I—”

  Bertram raised his hand. “I know, I know. I just wanted to assure myself that you were doing the right thing. That Heelis had a good character, and all that. That he would make you happy.”

  The right thing! Well, I don’t know about you, but I find that remark insufferably patronizing. Who is Bertram Potter to decide whether his sister is doing the right thing? What if he had thought it was the wrong thing? What if he decided that Will Heelis’ character fell a little short? Or suspected that Heelis could not make his sister happy? What would he have done then? Lined up with his father and mother in opposition to the marriage?

  Beatrix sat back in her chair, folded her arms, and said the first thing that came to her mind. “None of the family made inquiries into Mary’s character before you married her.” But the angry words were no sooner out of her mouth than she regretted them. It was perhaps the worst thing she had ever said to him, and she was sorry.

  Urgently, she put out her hand. “No, Bertram, please. Forget I said that. It wasn’t fair. I do apologize.”

  “None of this has been fair,” Bertram said in a very low voice. “I’ve behaved badly. Mama and Papa have behaved badly. You’ve been a saint. I don’t see how you can bear any of us.”

  Struck by the genuine feeling in her brother’s voice, Beatrix leaned forward and took his hand. “Oh, I’m no saint,” she said with a little laugh. “But you know my philosophy.” She quoted something she had once written to a friend. “Believe there is a great power silently working all things for good, behave yourself, and never mind the rest.”

  “Ah, yes,” Bertram said. He squeezed her hand and released it. “Well, you have certainly behaved yourself, my dear.” He drew himself up with the air of someone who was making a declaration. “And now it’s my turn.”

  Beatrix frowned, not understanding. “Your . . . turn? Your turn for what?”

  “It’s very simple, Bea. I love my wife, but I have hated myself every day for the past eleven years. I have betrayed Mary and myself—and you. I have left you to carry the lion’s share of the burden at home. I have been a wretched coward.”

  This was all very true, Beatrix thought wryly, although his recognition was coming a little late. No, not a little late. Eleven years late. But there was no point in saying so, and recriminations were no help.

  “I am their only daughter,” she replied evenly. “And for good or ill, it’s a daughter’s responsibility to do what she can for her parents.”

  “Yes, and you’ve been doing that forever!” Bertram slapped his hand on the table. “That’s why I say it’s my turn, Beatrix. You’re right—I can’t do anything about taking care of them, given the circumstance.” He upended his cup, drained it, and pushed his chair back. “But I can be a man at long last. I can tell them the truth. About Mary. About our marriage.”

  Beatrix’s heart seemed to stop. “Oh, no! No, you can’t, Bertram!” she exclaimed in sheer terror. “Not after all these years! They will never get over it. It will destroy them.”

  “Better to destroy them than to destroy you and Heelis,” Bertram replied stonily. “They’ve got to be made to change their minds.”

  Beatrix bit her lip. Bertram had inherited his stubbornness from his father, and you could never get anywhere arguing with him. But perhaps logic could prevail. She pushed down the panic and focused on keeping her voice level and reasonable.

  “I don’t see how telling them about Mary is going to make any difference to me, Bertram. They’ll be furious at you. Papa will threaten to disown you, and Mama will scream and probably faint. But none of that will alter their attitude toward my marriage. If anything, it will only make things worse. There will be arguments and tantrums and demands for attention. And anyway, it seems to me that—”

  She stopped. She wanted to say that his decision was a selfish one, that he was only trying to make himself feel better, trying to seek forgiveness, perhaps even trying to redeem himself in Mary’s eyes. Poor, poor Mary, whose husband was too frightened of his parents to publically acknowledge the woman he loved and had married.

  All that was true. But she could tell by the look on her brother’s face that he had already made up his mind—and he was as stubborn as she was. At this point, nothing she could say to him would make a single bit of difference.

  He laughed harshly. “Make things worse? Well, maybe it will. If it does, I’m sorry, truly. But maybe it won’t. And anyway, how could things be any worse than they are now?”

  There was enough truth to that to make her chuckle helplessly. “Well, I suppose one might say that. But I just can’t see why you sho
uld want to upset the applecart, that’s all.” Especially when she was the one who had to pick all the apples up and put them back where they belonged.

  He stood and shoved his hands in his pockets, looking down at her. “I don’t know what is going to happen, Bea. But I did think it was important to see you and explain, before I did it. Look, dear. I really think you should be there. I plan to make my confession on Sunday afternoon, just at teatime. My date with destiny, you might say,” he added, with a crooked, self-mocking grin. “And then I shall go back to Scotland on the earliest possible Monday train.”

  “I should be there to hear your confession?” Beatrix suppressed a wild, half-hysterical giggle. Of course. Bertram would tell them and then—having cleared his conscience—he would escape to his farm and his wife, leaving her to clean up the mess he was leaving behind. He only wanted her there to help defend him, to stand between him and Papa and Mama the way she always had. She usually gave in to his requests—he was, after all, still her brother. But not this time. This time, he would have to fend for himself.

  She took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. “This is your confession, Bertram, not mine. If you are determined to tell them what you’ve done, you will have to face the music all by yourself. I will not be there to help. And that’s all there is to it.”

  Bertram was used to getting his way with Beatrix, and he gave her a surprised look, judging her strength. Then he gave it one last try. “You won’t change your mind?” he asked plaintively. “I’m sure I should feel so much more confident if you were there, lending me courage.”

  Beatrix heard the wheedling tone and chose to ignore it. “No, I won’t change my mind. But I will certainly wish you well—even though I don’t think it’s a good idea. In fact, I think it is a singularly bad idea.” She stood up and brushed her lips across his cheek. “I’m planning to go back to Lindeth Howe on Monday at teatime and stay through the end of the week. By that time, I expect the fuss will be over. You will have told them and left,” (she did not say escaped, but she thought it) “and they will have settled down, and everything will be as dull and boring as it usually is.”