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 h
er 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.”
Jeremy shoved his sketchbook and telescope back into his pack. “I’ll go with you as far as your garden.”
The two of them went away downhill, leaving Holly How deserted and alone once more, to enjoy its wide view of the peaceful Land between the Lakes and the soft touch of the warm afternoon breeze on its rocky flank.
4
Bosworth Badger Is Mystified
But Holly How was not deserted, for a rather substantial stripy fellow had just emerged onto his porch, eager for a bit of fresh summer breeze to blow the cobwebs out of his mind. The porch was the front entrance to The Brockery Inn, one of the most highly regarded hostelries in the Land between the Lakes, and the stripy fellow was Bosworth Badger XVII, The Brockery’s proprietor. The name “Brockery,” of course, was derived from the Celtic word broc, for badger, and throughout the Lake District, badgers (who were thought to be rather disagreeable creatures) were known as “brocks.”
The Tale of Holly How Page 3
