The Tale of Hawthorn House Read online

  Miss Keller, obviously seeing that she had no choice, closed her eyes and nodded.

  28

  Jemima Takes Stock

  You can well imagine Kep’s weary frustration when he returned to the barn after chasing the fox. His paws were sore, and one ear had been ripped open when he tried to quarry Reynard under a thorn bush. But before he went off to have a bit of a lie-down and recover himself, he knelt down to peer under the feedbox in the barn to make sure that Jemima was safe.

  Yes, there she was, safe and sound, asleep on her nest with her head tucked under her wing, the very picture of a domestic duck. Gazing at her fondly, Kep thought that he would never have predicted that silly, harum-scarum Jemima would be so responsible. He shook his head sadly as he went away, thinking how dismayed and distraught she would be when those eggs hatched and whatever-it-was came out.

  Jemima, however, was only pretending to be asleep. When she peeked between her wing feathers and saw Kep watching her, a hot resentment welled up inside her. She understood that the collie had to do his job, but she was vexed that he had chased her fox away. What business was it of his if she enjoyed a few moments of pleasurable company? She deserved a few distractions while she did her duty, didn’t she? And she was tired of Kep’s constant surveillance, tired of his watchful eyes, scrutinizing her every move. Hatching eggs was a simple job that any duck could do by herself. It required no brains, no creativity, no imagination, only the willingness to apply one’s feathered posterior to the nest, day after day after tedious day.

  As you can see, our Jemima has had a change of heart, which is perhaps not surprising, in the circumstance, for direct experience can teach us a great deal that anticipation and expectation cannot. When Emily went to London, for instance, she found the City to be very different from the fairyland of her imagination. And now that the duck has had a full two months to reflect and take stock, she has to admit that the Puddle-ducks were right after all. There is nothing magical about hatching eggs. It is a boring, humdrum business, much better left to Bonnet, Boots, and Shawl, who aren’t very bright and have nothing else to do. If she had known just how long this was going to take and what was involved, she would most likely have elected to try something else—adoption, perhaps.

  To Jemima, the day (this would be Thursday, if you are marking your calendar) seemed to drag on forever. Hatching must be imminent, for she could feel movement beneath her, the insistent scritch-scratch of duckling feet and the tippy-tap of duckling bills, signaling that her babies were at least ready to emerge from their long (too, too long!) confinement in their eggs. Every ten minutes or so, she got up to check on their progress, gratified by the tiny cracks she could see in the round white eggs. She quacked some soft quacks of motherly encouragement and then applied her ear to the eggs, hoping to hear baby quacks in response. But not a peep could she hear, not a sound, nothing but the impatient scritch-scratch and the tippy-tap of babies, anxious to come out and explore the wide, wonderful world.

  But they didn’t. Thursday’s hours were just like Wednesday’s hours and Tuesday’s, and all the previous hours of all the previous days, which seemed to stretch endlessly, back to the beginning of time. Jemima had long since finished knitting the yellow shawls, which lay folded in readiness beside the nest. And she had read every single one of the romances she had brought with her, and read them again, and yet again, until she was bored with the silly stories and wishing she had borrowed a few Sherlock Holmes, which might at least have engaged her intellect.

  As Thursday night turned into Friday morning, all Jemima could do was doze and dream of the day—THIS day, it was devoutly to be wished!—when her eggs would have hatched, her ducklings would have been successfully reared, and she could pursue her own independent life, far from the constraints of nests and eggs and baby ducklings.

  She would be free, a free duck, able to take wing and fly in whatever direction she chose.

  And she had a pretty clear idea what direction that would be.

  29

  Miss Barwick Delivers

  If you will remember, the village had been a-buzz all day Thursday with the news of two impending marriages. Miss Potter was to marry Captain Woodcock and Miss Woodcock was to marry Major Kittredge. There were two consequential corollaries of these matrimonial matters: Elsa Grape would go to the vicarage, and the foundling gypsy babe would go to Raven Hall.

  Captain Woodcock, however, greatly altered these understandings. When he put in his unexpected appearance at the pub on Thursday night and announced in no uncertain tones that he was not going to marry Miss Potter (at least in the foreseeable future) and that Miss Woodcock was absolutely not going to marry Major Kittredge (“Never, do you hear!” he had exclaimed angrily. “Never!”), it was fairly evident that the village would have to regroup and reconsider.

  As I am sure you expected (if you are at all wise in the ways of villages), the men went straight home from the pub that night and told their wives about the captain’s extraordinary pronouncement, after which the couples discussed the situation long into the night. So you will not be surprised to hear that, as the next morning’s cheerful sun rose over Claife Heights and smiled benevolently down across its favorite cluster of tidy houses and gardens, everyone in the village already had formed an opinion (some had two or three!) about these various marital misfortunes.

  In the kitchen at Hill Top Farm, Mrs. Jennings had served Mr. Jennings his usual breakfast of eggs, black pudding, and tea, and was now preparing breakfast for Miss Potter’s pigs: ordinary pig-slop for most of them, but a special pig-pail with two boiled eggs and a cup of fresh milk, still warm from the cow, for Miss Potter’s favorite pig, Aunt Susan. With regard to Miss Potter’s pending marriage, Mrs. Jennings was disappointed, while Mr. Jennings was still hopeful. The captain had not said they would not marry, just that they would not marry now. And whilst Mr. and Mrs. Jennings respected Miss Potter and thought that she was doing her best by the farm, they shared the general feeling that it would be better if a man had overall charge. Men always had a better notion of farming than ladies, especially a London lady like Miss Potter, who had never even lived on a farm before she owned one.

  Down the hill at Tower Bank Arms, Mrs. Barrow was cooking breakfast for the inn’s two overnight guests: eggs (boiled and poached), sausages, broiled kidneys, mushrooms (baked for twenty minutes, with a knob of butter and some pepper, according to Mrs. Beeton’s recommendation), along with toast, muffins, tea, coffee, and cocoa. But Mrs. Barrow was an efficient cook, so in the midst of her duties there was plenty of opportunity to share last night’s news with the kitchen maid, Ruth, who was an ardent reader of romances.

  Ruth concurred with Mrs. Barrow, believing that Major Kittredge would make a fine husband for Miss Woodcock, and that it was a rotten shame that t’ village was so set against it and that t’ captain wouldn’t let ’em marry. And as for Miss Potter, Ruth expressed the heartfelt view that there couldn’t be anything more gratifyin’ than a romance between that dear lady and t’ captain, for Miss Potter’s hopes had been blighted once already, poor thing, when her parents wouldn’t let her marry t’ man she loved. Having thus agreed, Mrs. Barrow served up the breakfast and Ruth carried it in.

  Across Market Street, at Anvil Cottage, Sarah Barwick (who was known throughout the village as an early bird) had already finished the morning’s baking and was loading her bicycle basket for her bakery customers: two extra loaves of bread for Belle Green (Mrs. Crook had weekend guests— a pair of cyclists from Kendal), scones for the Wilsons in Castle Cottage, teabread for the Skeads at the post office, and Cumberland sausage rolls for Captain and Miss Woodcock at Tower Bank House. Miss Barwick was one of those “rational thinkers” who felt that women should have more freedoms, that they should take full charge of their lives, and that they should refuse to be bound by other people’s expectations. Her costume was the outward expression of this inward belief, for her working kit was a pair of corduroy trousers, cut full for maximum c
omfort and suited to pedaling her bicycle in even the dirtiest of lanes.

  She had already heard the Thursday news about Miss Woodcock’s engagement with a great deal of pleasure, for Dimity had mentioned her hopes and Sarah—who counted herself a very good friend—was happy to hear that they had been realized. She greeted the announcement of Miss Potter’s engagement with a little frown, however. She thought she knew Beatrix rather well, and her friend had not said one word about her engagement. What’s more, Sarah had not seen any indication of a special feeling between Beatrix and the captain when the three of them had met at the fête at the previous weekend. If Beatrix had been at home, of course, Sarah would have dropped everything and popped straight up to Hill Top to ask if it were true. But Beatrix had gone to London and wouldn’t be back until late on Friday, so the confirmation—or the denial—would have to wait.

  Since Sarah did not have a husband to carry the news home from the pub, she hadn’t a clue as to the previous evening’s events until Hannah Braithwaite, on her way to the village shop for a box of soap flakes, stopped to tell her. Miss Potter’s wedding would be delayed (but only slightly, since the captain was clearly eager to have it done as soon as possible, and everyone agreed that it was a highly desirable match). Miss Woodcock’s wedding was off completely, now and forever more, amen.

  “Off?” asked Sarah regretfully.

  “Off,” said Hannah. “My husband said t’ cap’n was positively neg’tive.” She leant forward and lowered her voice. “She’s not to have t’ babe, neither. T’ cap’n doan’t want his sister rearin’ a gypsy child.”

  “Well,” snorted Sarah, “I’d say that’s a pity, I would, indeed.”

  Thinking very hard thoughts about the captain, she got on her bicycle and rode off. She loved Dimity, but she did wish that her friend had more backbone and would stand up for what she wanted. Where her brother was concerned, Dimity practiced a doll-like compliance. She was too accommodating, too ready to do the man’s bidding, too much of a mouse. It was awful to think of her being forced to give up her heart’s one true desire, just to satisfy her brother’s narrow-minded worry about the major’s reputation.

  Now, Sarah herself had never been one to carry tales—in fact, she despised gossip and rarely repeated it. But as she went round the village, delivering her baked goods first to one house and then another, she could not help hearing gossip. And this morning, there was plenty of it, everywhere she stopped.

  At Belle Green, Mrs. Crook understood that Miss Potter was sadly disappointed that her wedding to the captain would have to wait a month or so (and well she might, since the captain was the best catch in the district). And of course, Major Kittredge had felt much chagrined when he discovered that the captain refused to allow him to marry Miss Woodcock, as well he might, since marriage to a good woman was the only way he could redeem his blackened reputation, and Miss Woodcock was a woman beyond peer, who could redeem the devil himself, if she had to.

  “Oh, poor Miss Woodcock,” said Tabitha mournfully, from her vantage point on the outer window ledge. “And so sad for the major, who is really a very nice man.”

  “I told you so, didn’t I?” Crumpet said cattily. She was sitting in the pot of rosemary below. “I told you that Captain Woodcock wouldn’t let her marry someone who has been married before, even if it wasn’t a real marriage.” She sniffed sarcastically. “And I suppose you’ll want me to believe that you knew all about Miss Potter and the captain.”

  “Of course I knew,” Tabitha lied. The truth was that she had spent all day Thursday cleaning mice out of the Belle Green barn, and as a consequence had heard no gossip at all. But she wasn’t going to give Crumpet the satisfaction of knowing that.

  Crumpet twitched her tail. “Bet you didn’t know a thing about it,” she said.

  “Bet I did!” Tabitha cried, showing her teeth.

  “Didn’t!”

  “Did!”

  “Let’s not go into that again, girls,” Rascal barked from the kitchen stoop. When Miss Barwick came out to get on her bicycle to make her next delivery, he was right on her heels, with the cats following after, eager for more news.

  When Miss Barwick arrived at Castle Cottage, Mrs. Wilson told her that the major was so angry about the rejection of his suit that he had decided to rejoin the Army, although what the Army would want with a one-eyed, one-armed major, Mrs. Wilson was sure she didn’t know. As to Miss Potter’s wedding, Mrs. Wilson had heard that it was only delayed by a few days, until the captain could arrange the sale of some of Miss Potter’s land (the bit across the Kendal Road) to Mr. Llewellyn, who’d had his eye on it when that lady bought it right out from under him. Which was not a neighborly thing to do, but very like Miss Potter, who seemed to feel that she was entitled to every parcel of land that came up for sale.

  “That’s odd, that is,” said Rascal. He and the two cats were waiting for Miss Barwick just outside the Castle Cottage door. “Miss Potter fancied that meadow particularly. She wanted it for her Herdwick sheep. I’m surprised to hear she’s selling it.”

  “She’s doing it because she wants to please the captain,” said Crumpet, swatting a fly.

  “And how could you happen to know that sentimental trifle?” inquired Tabitha scornfully. “You’re making it up.”

  “It is not a trifle,” Crumpet replied in a definitive tone. She narrowed her eyes. “And I am NOT making it up!”

  “Are!” squalled Tabitha.

  “Am NOT!” yowled Crumpet.

  “Girls, GIRLS, GIRLS!” barked Rascal.

  “Scat!” cried Mrs. Wilson, coming out of the door with her broom, and so they did.

  At the post office, Miss Barwick handed over the loaf of teabread (Mr. Skead’s favorite, which Mrs. Skead could not be bothered to make, because it took too long to soak the fruit in the tea, and the dough had to be set to rise three times). In return, she got the Anvil Cottage post and the news that Miss Potter and the captain had decided not to wait any longer than necessary and would be married just as soon as the banns could be published and the sale of one or two pieces of property arranged. Elsa Grape had already discussed her new employment with the vicar and was right this minute packing her bags in anticipation of Miss Potter’s taking command of the kitchen and housekeeping. Miss Woodcock, sadly, was prostrate with grief at her brother’s refusal to allow her to marry, whilst Major Kittredge, who knew better than to try to get the Army to take him back, had told his staff that he was joining the French Foreign Legion.

  “The French Foreign Legion!” yipped Rascal happily. The animals were sitting on the path, waiting for Miss Barwick to come out. “I’ll offer to go with him. Every officer needs a keen, quick-witted dog to carry his kit. And I’ve always fancied a trip round the world.”

  “I’m sure the vicar is happy that Elsa Grape is coming to do for him,” Tabitha remarked. “She’s a much better cook than Mrs. Thompson—her Yorkshire pudding is especially fine.” She frowned. “But I wonder how Miss Potter and Miss Woodcock will get along in the same house. I know they’re friends, but—”

  “If you ask me,” Crumpet said wisely, “the captain won’t want two women living with him. He will probably go to Hill Top Farm, and let his sister have Tower Bank House.”

  “Nobody asked you, Crumpet,” said Tabitha.

  Crumpet’s tail began to swell. “I have a right to my opinion, don’t I?” she asked hotly.

  “As long as you don’t force it on the rest of us,” Tabitha growled. “We don’t need your silly speculation.”

  “It’s not silly!” Crumpet defended. “It’s a perfectly logical solution to a—”

  “It is very silly,” Tabitha said. “A silly speculation from an exceedingly foolish cat who—”

  “Here comes Miss Barwick with her post,” Rascal put in hastily, before Tabitha could say another word. “Let’s see where she’s going next.”

  30

  Dimity Deals with Eggs

  There was one item left in Sarah Ba
rwick’s basket: a packet of four Cumberland sausage rolls for Captain and Miss Woodcock at Tower Bank House. Sarah parked her bicycle outside the kitchen door and knocked, with some trepidation. She didn’t want to disturb the house if Dimity was indeed ill. On the other hand, if Elsa Grape (a temperamental sort of person at best) was really packing to leave for her new post at the vicarage, the sausage rolls might save Dimity some work, when it came to luncheon. She was not the best of cooks.

  But to Sarah’s surprise, the door was opened by Dimity herself. She was wearing an apron smeared with egg yolk, and she had a spoon in her hand. “Why, good morning, Sarah,” she said happily, stepping back. “How nice to see you. Oh, are those the sausage rolls? Thank you so much for bringing them. Miles will be delighted.”

  “You’re welcome, I’m sure,” said Sarah, now rather puzzled. Dimity seemed to be bubbling over with good cheer this morning, when by all rights she ought to be crying her eyes out. She sniffed. The kitchen smelt of lemons. “You’re making lemonade?”

  “Lemon curd,” Dimity said happily, pushing the brown hair out of her eyes. “Miles is very partial to it.” She made a little face. “Although I must say, it is not as easy as Mrs. Beeton claims. It wants to go all lumpy.”

  Sarah saw behind her on the work table a confusion of pots and bowls, a scattering of caster sugar, several nearly nude lemons, broken egg shells and a puddle of rich yellow yolk, a large tin grater (much abused), an egg beater (likewise), and a butter crock. Mrs. Beeton’s famous cookbook lay facedown in what looked like more egg yolk. On the floor, there were several lemons, a broken egg, and a few bits of butter. And on the kitchen range, a double boiler, from which a little curl of steam arose.