The Tale of Hawthorn House Page 25

  Sarah suppressed a smile. When Dimity indulged in cookery, it was disastrous. Elsa Grape had been known to forbid her the kitchen, because of the amount of mopping-up required afterward.

  “And do you have time for tea, dear?” Dimity went on gaily. “If you do, we might as well have it here in the kitchen, since Elsa has gone to the butcher’s shop in Hawkshead.”

  Ah, thought Sarah. That explained it. When the cat was away, the mouse could cook up some lemon curd. Well, if cooking made Dimity feel better, she should by all means do it, regardless of the consequences. Anyway, she looked quite charming this morning, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright, her brown hair in untidy ringlets at the edge of her white collar. If Dim was grieving over the demise of her dream, her grief could not be read in her expression.

  “Yes, of course, I’ll have tea,” Sarah said, handing over the sausage rolls. “You’re the last stop on my route this morning. Elsa’s at the butcher’s? I thought the boy came round three times a week.”

  “He does,” said Dimity, dropping her spoon and the packet of rolls into a drift of sugar. “There’s no dealing with him, though,” she confided, fetching the teapot and two cups. “No beef, ever, only lamb, no matter how I beg and plead. And Miles tries to be brave and pretend it doesn’t matter, but of course he’s sick to death of lamb. It’s deplorable. So I have sent Elsa to the butcher, with instructions to be very stern about beef and pork.” She took down a plate. “Will you have a scone?” She laughed a little. “Although I’m afraid that’s rather like carrying coals to New-castle, isn’t it? I’m sure you’ve baked two batches of scones this morning, and sold half already.”

  “True enough,” Sarah admitted, “but you know I always say yes to Elsa’s. Her scones are better than mine, although you mustn’t tell her that.” As Dimity bustled about, she sat down at the table, pushed the grater and the egg beater aside, and took out a packet of cigarettes. Smoking, along with the trousers and the bicycle, marked her as a New Woman. “I’m glad to see you looking so chipper, Dim,” she ventured. “I heard you were ill.”

  Outside on the stoop, Tabitha breathed a sigh of relief. “Miss Woodcock is obviously quite well. Lucy Skead didn’t know what she was talking about.”

  “Ill?” Dimity laughed lightly, tossing her head. “My goodness, wherever did you hear that? I’ve never felt better in my life.” She pushed an ashtray in Sarah’s direction. “You see before you a happy woman.”

  “Happy?” barked Rascal. “After what she’s been through?”

  “Happy?” Sarah frowned. “Actually, I didn’t imagine you would be taking it like this. Everyone says you’re prostrate.” She lit her cigarette. “Well, not everyone, exactly. Lucy Skead said it, and Lucy always has the last word. I thought maybe you’d been knocked flat by the latest about the major.”

  Startled, Dimity looked up from pouring the tea. “Latest? What latest?”

  Sarah put on Lucy Skead’s high-pitched, rattling tone. “That he can’t have you and the Army won’t have him, so he’s gone and joined the French Foreign Legion, poor man.”

  “As I said, I’ll be glad to carry his kit,” Rascal put in. “I’m ready at a moment’s notice.”

  “The Foreign Legion?” Dimity threw back her head and laughed, long peals of laughter. “Dear me! Is that what people are saying?” She set down a plate of scones. “Oh, poor Christopher!”

  “That’s what Lucy Skead is saying,” Sarah replied. She cocked her head curiously. “It’s not true, then?”

  “No, of course it’s not true.” Dimity sat down, leaned forward, and heedless of egg shells and sugar, put her elbows on the table. “Christopher and I are to be married, Sarah. And if Baby Flora’s parents can’t be found, or if they don’t want her, we’re taking her to live with us.” She beamed. “There. Now wish me joy, for I shall be joyous, I promise. Christopher and I are to live happily ever after, just as in the fairy tales.”

  “Married?” Crumpet cried.

  “Married!” Tabitha shrieked.

  “No Foreign Legion for me,” Rascal said, and hung his head.

  “Married!” Sarah exclaimed delightedly. “That’s wonderful, Dim! And oh, yes, yes, yes, I wish you all the happiness in the world, crammed into the hugest basket and overflowing, and every joy your heart could ever possibly hold. But the villagers are saying—”

  “I am sure they are saying all manner of silly things,” Dimity replied, with a dismissive toss of her head. “I understand from Mr. Phinn—he actually deigned to pull a few weeds for me out of the pole beans this morning—that Miles may have made an injudicious remark or two at the pub last night.”

  Sarah tapped her cigarette ash into the ashtray. “Yes, I think he may have done,” she said with a wry smile.

  Dimity smiled blissfully. “But whatever he said, and whatever they think, it doesn’t matter, Sarah. Christopher and I have settled it between us, and with Miles. You would have been proud of the way I stood my ground. I was very strong-minded, exceedingly so. In fact, I don’t know if Miles quite knows what to make of it. I told him that Christopher and I intend to be married, with or without his blessing. And that is that.”

  “Dimity Woodcock, you are a treasure!” Sarah cried, clapping her hands. “Congratulations and best wishes and all that rot. No, seriously. I’m thrilled down to my toesies. To think that the mouse found the courage to roar at the lion!” She sobered. “I hope your brother wasn’t too deeply hurt.”

  Dimity sighed regretfully. “He’s not terribly pleased. But he’ll come round, I’m sure of it. He will be friends with Christopher yet, just you wait and see if he won’t.” Her mouth set in a determined line. “Anyway, I cannot let my brother live my life for me. If I couldn’t see that for myself, Beatrix made it very clear.”

  “There,” said Tabitha, quite serenely. “It was our Miss Potter who helped her see the light.”

  Sarah put out her cigarette and took up a scone. “I daresay that invoking Bea’s name made it easier for your brother.” She looked around at the mess Dimity had made of Elsa’s clean kitchen. “How is our Elsa taking it?”

  “Elsa?” Dimity laughed. “With remarkable grace. She doesn’t like the idea of my raising the baby—a gypsy child and therefore not fit to live with proper folk. But she’s glad to have me gone and out of the way. She’ll have Miles all to herself, the way it was before I came here.”

  “All to herself?” Sarah blinked.

  “Well, yes. She’s been with him for a very long time, you know.”

  “Yes, I know, but—” Sarah paused. “She’s said to be going to the vicarage. She hasn’t given in her notice yet?”

  “To the vicarage!” Dimity exclaimed anxiously. “I knew the vicar was looking for someone to come in and do for him, but I never imagined that Elsa would leave Miles. Heavens above! What will he do? And why would she?”

  “It’s all on account of Bea, I think,” said Sarah. She smiled. “Of course, I’m just spectacularizing, as Bertha Stubbs says, but I’m sure that Elsa doesn’t relish the idea of taking orders from our Miss Potter, who will certainly have her own ways of doing things here.”

  “Taking orders from—?” Dimity asked. “You’re saying that Miles and Bea—” Her eyes widened and her hands flew to her mouth, as the light suddenly dawned. “You’re telling me that they are going to be married? My brother and . . . and Beatrix Potter?”

  Sarah stared. “You didn’t know?”

  “Of course I didn’t know!” Dimity squealed. “Miles is always so closed-mouth about his personal affairs. He’d never discuss anything like that with me. But I couldn’t be happier, of course. Beatrix will be wonderful for him. I’ve been thinking and scheming and plotting how I could get him to see that it is a perfect match, and all along he . . . and she—”

  “The thing I don’t understand,” Sarah said slowly, frowning, “is why Bea hasn’t mentioned it to me. Not a word. Not even a syllable. Has she said anything to you?”

  “No, but then s
he mightn’t. She’s a very private person, you know. Most likely, she and Miles have decided not to tell anyone, hoping to keep it to themselves as long as possible.”

  Sarah nodded. “That’s certainly true. Well, it’s out now. The village is talking about nothing else—except that you are prostrate with grief, of course, and that the major has run off to join the Foreign Legion.”

  Dimity rolled her eyes. “Christopher will be so amused when I tell him,” she said. “But what shall we do about Miles and Bea, Sarah? We ought to surprise them.”

  “We should have a party,” Sarah said, finishing her scone.

  “We should, indeed!” Dimity exclaimed, and then laughed delightedly. “What am I thinking? We are having a party, tomorrow night. And Miles was positively insistent on inviting Bea.”

  “Well, then, that’s when they are planning to make the announcement.”

  “I am sure you’re right,” Dimity replied. “Originally, there were to be just four of us—Miles and Bea and Mr. Heelis and I. But I have invited Christopher, so there will be five.” She gave Sarah an intent look. “But that will leave poor Mr. Heelis as odd man out. You must come, Sarah, and then we shall be six.”

  “I?” Sarah flushed. She was not used to parties, which required dressing up and minding her manners. “I really don’t think—”

  “Of course you do! You like Mr. Heelis, don’t you?” Dimity frowned. “I don’t mean it in a silly way, Sarah. I just mean, you wouldn’t mind sitting beside him and making dinner-table conversation with him, would you? Mr. Heelis is very shy, but I’m sure you can draw him out, with your easygoing manner. And he is really very sweet.”

  Sarah thought for a moment. Will Heelis had been very kind to her when he helped resolve the legal tangles when Miss Tolliver bequeathed Anvil Cottage to her several years before. She had seen him since on one or two other legal matters, and he was always courteous and attentive. If ever she fancied a man—

  “Well, then, yes,” she said, suddenly making up her mind. (We must not inquire too deeply into all the factors that went into this decision, although I suspect that Mr. Heelis’ previous courtesies might have been a part of it.) “If you want me, I shall come—although I’m afraid I haven’t a thing to wear.” She looked down at her trousers and laughed. “I do have dresses, of course, but I don’t have any party frocks.”

  “Oh, that’s easy,” Dimity said. “We’re of a size, you and I. You can look through my closet and borrow anything you like.” She clapped her hands. “Oh, I’m so glad I’ve made the lemon curd, Sarah! We shall have it for dessert, with Elsa’s sponge and—” She stopped suddenly, sniffing. “What’s that smell?”

  Sarah, who was wondering whether Dimity might allow her to borrow her pink silk dress with the velvet ribbons and ivory lace, lifted her head and took in a deep breath. “It smells like something’s burning,” she said, and glanced quickly at the ashtray into which she had stubbed her cigarette to see if she had set something afire.

  “Burning!” Dimity jumped up and ran to the stove. “It’s the curd!” she cried in dismay. “I was supposed to be stirring it. It was already lumpy, but now the lumps are burnt!”

  Sarah got up and went to the stove to look. “Some housewife you’re going to make,” she said, shaking her head with a laugh. “Although when you’re married and living at Raven Hall, I don’t suppose you’ll ever have to go near the kitchen.” Raven Hall was fully staffed, with several cooks and kitchen maids. “Just as well,” she added. “I hear that the chief cook is a true terror.”

  “But I should learn to cook,” Dimity said, very seriously. Her brow was creased. “Every wife ought to know how to make tea and breakfast, in case of necessity.”

  “You might not want to start with lemon curd, though,” Sarah said, “especially if you’re going to forget to stir it— although it’s my fault, too. I kept you busy talking. If you want to make another batch, I’ll help.”

  “There aren’t any eggs left,” Dimity said disconsolately. “Elsa had a dozen when I started, but I broke several when I tried to separate the yolks from the whites, and then two or three rolled off the table and went smash on the floor. There aren’t any lemons, either.”

  “Yes, I see,” Sarah said, glancing down at the floor. “Well, I have plenty of eggs I can let you have, if you want to try again, and lemons, too. But we’d better clean up this mess before Elsa comes back from the butcher shop. You know how she feels about your cooking in her kitchen.”

  “I’ll clean,” Dimity said promptly, reaching for the mop. “You go get the lemons and eggs.”

  “P’rhaps I wouldn’t have liked the Foreign Legion,” Rascal said, watching Miss Barwick roll her bicycle down the garden path in the direction of Anvil Cottage. “It’s always seemed like an exotic idea, but the life might not have suited me after all.”

  “So!” Tabitha stood up and arched her back, twitching her tail victoriously. “Well, what do you say to all this, Miss Know-It-All? Our Miss Woodcock is marrying her major, regardless of the captain.” She looked around. “You were wrong, Crumpet. Admit it! Crumpet!”

  But Crumpet was not there. She had thought of something urgent she had to do at the other end of the village and had gone off to do it before the morning got a minute older.

  31

  And More Eggs!

  Dimity Woodcock and Sarah Barwick were not the only ones in the village who were concerned with eggs that morning.

  Jemima Puddle-duck had not spent a restful night. The occupants of some of her eggs seemed to be in a spirited mood, and she had been repeatedly roused from sleep by violent tremblings and tumblings and pushings and shovings beneath her. She got off the nest several times to try to puzzle out what was going on. Was this normal egg behavior? Did ducklings always act like jumping beans when they were getting ready to come out of their shells?

  But Jemima was completely inexperienced when it came to eggs, since (as you know) the Jennings boy had stolen the ones she laid in the garden and the fox-hound puppies had eaten those she laid at Foxglove Close. And because she had kept the current batch secret, she could hardly run to one of the other Puddle-ducks to ask. They probably wouldn’t be able to advise her, anyway, since they had as little experience of eggs as she did. And asking Mrs. Boots or Mrs. Shawl or Mrs. Bonnet was completely out of the question. She refused even to speak to those snobbish creatures.

  So she would simply have to be patient and hope for the best. She checked to make sure that the yellow knitted shawls were handy, as she understood that ducklings were rather damp when they came out of the egg, and she didn’t want them to catch cold. Then she settled back on the nest, put her head under her wing, and fell into an exhausted sleep, although she was startled awake every so often as one of her restless eggs nudged her uncomfortably hard. If it was this difficult to bring offspring into the world, she thought resignedly, it was a wonder that the race of Puddle-ducks had not died away altogether!

  Deirdre was also concerned with eggs that morning, but in a slightly different way. When the eight little Suttons sat down to breakfast, each of them had eaten a poached egg with their toast and tea. The two grown-up Suttons had eaten four eggs between them (with sausages and oat biscuits), so that the dozen eggs Mrs. Pettigrew had begun with at half past six were all gone. The tapioca pudding that was wanted for nursery tea required four eggs, so more had to be obtained. Mrs. Pettigrew gave Deirdre a basket and instructed her to stop at Hill Top Farm on her way back from the post office and ask Mrs. Jennings for two dozen.

  So at twenty past ten that morning, Deirdre, accompanied by two of the young Suttons (Libby and Mouse), presented herself at Mrs. Jennings’ door with the basket. When Mrs. Jennings went to the cupboard to fetch the eggs, she could find only sixteen. And since she was in the midst of washing the floor (Friday being Cleaning Day throughout the village, as Monday was Washday and Tuesday was Ironing Day and so on, all by general understanding), she told Deirdre to go down to the chicken coop and fet
ch the other eight herself.

  As the two little girls went into the barn, Deirdre went right to the nests to collect the eggs. Luckily, most of the hens had got their egg-laying over with early that morning and gone into the garden to look for bugs, so she found seven eggs without once getting her hand pecked by an angry hen. It was only when she got to the last nest that she found Mrs. Shawl still sitting on it, with her feathers puffed up in a ruff round her neck and a scowl between her eyes. Risking a stab, Deirdre put her hand underneath and pulled out a warm brown egg. She was putting it into her basket when Mouse gave a loud shriek. The cry so startled her that she dropped the egg and broke it.

  “Now see what you’ve done, you c-c-careless g-g-girl,” Mrs. Shawl cackled crossly. “All the hard work I’ve g-g-gone to, laying that g-g-gorgeous egg, and not a thing left to show for it. Well, there won’t be another until tomorrow.” And with a huffy harrumph! she jumped down and ran off to join her sisters in the garden.

  Deirdre hurried across the barnyard and into the barn, where she found Libby and Mouse on their knees and elbows in front of the feedbox, peering at Jemima’s nest.

  “What is it, Mouse?” Deirdre asked anxiously. “What’s wrong?” She was suddenly aware of the sound of a duck quacking—loud, hysterical quacks punctuated by deep gulps and sobs and squawks.

  Libby looked up. Her eyes were big as saucers, and she could barely speak. “Jemima’s eggs!” she whispered. “They’re hatching!”

  “They’re hatching,” Mouse said, “But they’re not—” She gulped. “They’re not ducklings!”

  “QUACK!” cried Jemima frantically. “My darling duCKLUCKLINGS! They’re—”

  “Not ducklings?” Deirdre scoffed, getting down onto her knees and peering under the feedbox. “Don’t be a silly Mouse. What else could they be? What—”

  And then she saw what Mouse was looking at, and her heart almost stopped.