“Do you mind if we take the Crooks’ dog?” Beatrix asked. “I think he’d like to go with us.”
The farmer grinned. “’Spose if I said no, he’d just trot along behind. Jump in, Rascal.”
The narrow track of Stony Lane glistened in the afternoon sunlight as they drove along. The thick green hedge was filigreed with the delicate tracery of honeysuckle and blackberry and veiled with feathery plumes of travelers’ joy, whilst beyond the hedge, the green bracken climbed the shoulder of the hill. The little road snaked upward and out of the village and draped itself across the slope of Oatmeal Crag, above the emerald green water meadows on either side of Wilfin Beck, dotted with the plump white shapes of grazing sheep. Beyond lay a stubble-field where the men and their massive draft horses had just finished cutting the summer’s hay, the haystacks as golden and proud as temples in some exotic land. It had been a dry, hot summer thus far, the best kind of weather for haying, so most of the hay had been cut and stacked. The next regular farm chore, sheep-shearing, would begin in another week or so.
With Rascal on the seat beside her, every now and then giving her chin a quick lick, Beatrix looked around with pleasure. She had loved the countryside since her earliest childhood, when her family went to Scotland for their summer-long holiday. Then, nothing was sweeter than a long walk through the meadows and woods, listening to the wind through the fir trees and watching for a glimpse of the fairies that came out at night to dance on the green turf. Now, she loved to walk up Stony Lane to sketch at Moss Eccles Tarn, the small lake behind Oatmeal Crag. And she enjoyed riding through the countryside with Mr. Jennings, for he had farmed in this area for quite some time and was usually willing to share what he knew about the land and the people. When she first met the farmer, he seemed taciturn and withdrawn, but now that they were better acquainted, he was proving a regular gossip, and much friendlier than his wife.
Just now, he pointed with his pony whip at a tall, frowning house that stood well off to their right, on the other side of Wilfin Beck. It was built of gray stone, with a gray slate roof and narrow windows that gleamed like steel in the afternoon light. A fortress, grim and uncompromising, it was half-screened by gloomy fir trees, and behind it rose the dark wildness of Cuckoo Brow Wood.
“Tidmarsh Manor,” Mr. Jennings remarked. “Sad place, that.”
“Sad?” Rascal asked. He shivered and moved closer to Miss Potter on the seat. “I call it sinister.”
“Why so?” Beatrix inquired encouragingly.
“Why sinister? Because Dudley—Lady Longford’s spaniel—says there’s trouble brewing.” Rascal looked up at Miss Potter, whose pink cheeks were even pinker with the heat. “Dudley is fat and rude and nobody much likes him. But he knows what’s going on at the Manor.”
“If tha doan’t hush thi noise, Rascal,” Mr. Jennings said sternly, “tha can’st get down and walk.” To Beatrix he replied, “ ’Tis sad because Lady Longford’s husband died, and her son—t’ young Lord Longford—went off to New Zealand and bought a sheep station.”
“Really,” Beatrix remarked with interest, remembering that Dimity Woodcock had named Lady Longford as the person who had nominated a candidate for the school.
“Oh, aye. Great pity, ’twas.” Mr. Jennings pulled his brows together and pursed his lips. “Lady Longford had it in mind that t’ lad would marry t’ Kittredge daughter and take over t’ estate, which by rights he should’ve done, o’course.” He flicked a fly off Winston’s shoulder with a light touch of the whip. “But he didn’t like t’ girl, ’spite of t’ fact that t’ lands join, and raised a great protest against t’ marriage. His mother told him to go away and ne’er come back. So he ran off to New Zealand and married a sheep farmer’s daughter, and then got killed in a t’rrible train crash, and now there’s no one to keep t’ fam’ly line goin’ or manage t’ Tidmarsh estate.” Mr. Jennings concluded his speech with the satisfied air of a man who has managed to pack a great many complicated details into one brief narrative.
Beatrix flinched as if she had been touched by Mr. Jennings’s whip, for the story was rather too near her own. “Oh, dear,” she murmured, thinking that parents could be extraordinarily cruel when it came to managing their children’s lives. It did no good and caused nothing but pain, all round.
“There’s the granddaughter,” Rascal pointed out. “Of course, she’s half a New Zealander, Dudley says, which is the reason the old lady turns up her nose.”
“There would be somebody to inherit,” Mr. Jennings went on, “if Lady Longford would have her, but she won’t. T’ son had a daughter, y’ see. Now t’ girl’s father is dead and her mother, too. She’s stayin’ at t’ Manor, sin’ she has nowheres else to go. Caroline, she’s called.”
Caroline. It was the name of Beatrix’s favorite cousin, Caroline Hutton. She cast a glance back over her shoulder at the house, which stood gaunt and forbidding behind the firs, with an air of desolate isolation.
“It looks a lonely place for a child,” she remarked, feeling an immediate sympathy for the girl who was exiled there.
Perhaps because she herself had not had playmates in the usual way, Beatrix was not very comfortable with the village youngsters who tormented the ducks and chased cats and stole birds’ eggs. She was much more at ease with quieter children, especially with girls who enjoyed books and art—girls like herself, when she was younger. Now, she thought of how she would have felt if she had been shut up in that dark, menacing house, and shivered. If Caroline Longford was timid and impressionable, she might well be terrified, especially when the wind whistled down the chimneys and battered at the windows.
“Lonely? Oh, aye,” Mr. Jennings agreed. “Nobody on t’ place but a housemaid or two and t’ Beevers—Mrs. Beever cooks, Beever keeps t’ garden and drives t’ phaeton when it’s wanted. And there’s t’ companion to Lady Tidmarsh. Miss Martine. She’s giving t’ girl her lessons ’til she goes off to school.”
“The child needs an animal to keep her company,” Beatrix said decidedly.
As children, she and her younger brother Bertram had kept all sorts of animals in their third-floor nursery at Bolton Gardens, frogs and lizards and snakes and mice and even a bat and an obstreperous raven. Over the years, her pets—Punch, her frog; the splendid Belgian rabbit she called Peter Piper; and Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle, a dear little hedgehog who had died quietly just a few months ago—had become even more important to her. They had served as models for the drawings she used in her little books and had gone everywhere with her. On this trip, for instance, she had brought her pet rabbits and mouse, as well as a guinea pig named Tuppenny, about whom she wanted to make a story. In fact, she had already written it out some two years before, calling it The Tale of Tuppenny. But she had decided instead to do the Kitten book, set at Hill Top Farm. If Lady Longford’s granddaughter would like to borrow her guinea pig—
“Don’t think so,” Rascal said confidentially, into her ear. “Dudley says that Miss Martine doesn’t approve of—”
“Doubt she’d be allowed, Miss Potter,” Mr. Jennings said.
Beatrix frowned. Not allowed to have animals? That would be a hard thing, and a lonely life, indeed.
“Talkin’ of animals,” Mr. Jennings said, pointing again, “dust tha’ see t’ top of Holly How? Up there is a very old badger sett, older’n any others between t’ lakes, some say. Doan’t know how many badgers live there, but it’s home to rabbits, and likely a fox or two. Most of t’ setts between t’ lakes has been dug, some of ’em dug more’n once. But Lord Longford ’ud nivver let anybody meddle with t’ sett on Holly How, and auld Ben has carried on t’ way his lordship wanted. So there’s badgers there, I expect.”
Beatrix looked where the farmer was pointing, at a rocky hill outlined against the sky. She had studied and sketched quite a few wild creatures, but not badgers, who were nocturnal animals and quite shy. “The only badger I’ve ever seen,” she said thoughtfully, “was a very old, very fat badger in a traveling circus. I felt rather sorry for him.
They’re not much liked by farmers, I understand.”
“Some say they eat chicks and eggs in t’ hen coop,” Mr. Jennings replied, “but them ’re mostly careless folk who don’t shut up their chickens proper.” He paused, frowning. “Somebody dug t’ sett down by t’ Hill Top rock quarry a few days ago. Badger-baiters, most like. There’s some in this village that doan’t mind takin’ a chance on a fight ’twixt a badger and a dog.”
Rascal growled deep in his throat. His father had been tossed into a badger pit once, and although a stalwart warrior, had barely lived to tell the tale. Badgers were known as stout fighters who employed both tooth and claw—and they had long, sharp claws—against their foes. He himself was brave, but he should not like to go up against one.
“But the law prohibits badger-baiting,” Beatrix replied with a frown, not sure whether she felt sorrier for the badger or for the dog. “Not to mention that the diggers were trespassing on Hill Top property.” And that made the badgers her badgers, didn’t it? Not really, of course, since one couldn’t own a wild animal. But the idea that somebody would steal a peaceable animal out of its home made her angry and indignant.
“Did t’ law ever stop anybody who wanted to do a thing?” Mr. Jennings remarked with such scorn that Beatrix felt that her response had been naïve. Perhaps the village constable wasn’t interested in enforcing a law that protected animals. And as far as trespassing went, many of the poorer people in the district gathered berries and mushrooms wherever they could be found, and shot hares and rabbits and pheasants for their dinner tables. Who was to draw the line between poaching a rabbit for a meal and digging a badger for entertainment?
They went along a little way in silence, until the road crested the steep shoulder of Oatmeal Crag and began to creep cautiously down into the valley. They crossed Wilfin Beck at a stony ford where small fish flashed like quicksilver in the shallow water, and drove along a well-used cart-track toward a cottage, its whitewashed walls topped by a roof of gray Coniston slates. The front of the house was covered with pink roses, and there was a blue door.
“Holly How Farm,” Mr. Jennings said, as they drove down the track. “Hornby’ll be waitin’ for us. He’s glad to sell us those sheep.”
“I hope he’s not wanting to sell because there’s something wrong with them,” Beatrix replied.
Mr. Jennings shook his head. “Not a bit of it. Ben Hornby’s Herdwicks are t’ best between t’ lakes, b’yond a doubt. No, t’ truth of it is that his knees are allus givin’ him trouble these days—and then there was that bad business with t’ barn last winter.”
“The barn?”
“Aye. Caught fire and burnt to t’ ground. Disheartened him some, I expect. Told me he aims to retire and go to live with his daughter up Keswick way, although he’s keepin’ that dark, so doan’t go telling it around.” He chuckled dryly. “’Course, his daughter may not have him. Auld Ben’s not t’ easiest man in t’ world. Gruff and growly, much of t’ time.”
Rascal gave an ironic chuckle. “He’s like an old bulldog, always snapping and showing his teeth. Not one to suffer fools, gladly or otherwise.”
Mr. Jennings paused, as if he thought he might have said too much. “Auld Ben’s nivver a bad man, for all his tempers. And he’s fair. Whatever else tha may think of him, he’s fair.”
“When he quits farming,” Beatrix said thoughtfully, “will he put the farm up for sale?” Of course, she reminded herself, Hill Top Farm demanded every penny she could scrape together, and she had recently bought that two-acre pasture across the road. It was silly to be thinking of acquiring any more land. Still—
“T’ farm’s not his,” Mr. Jennings said. “’Tis a manor farm, let to him by Lord Tidmarsh under tenancy for his lifetime. Lady Longford might sell it when auld Ben quits, though. Now her son’s dead, there’s nae reason to keep t’ estate all in one piece.” There was a note of disapproval in his voice, for the farmers and villagers generally felt that the breakup of the large estates invited wealthy outsiders to come in and purchase property, creating instability. “Isaac Chance, at Oldfield Farm, just up t’ way a bit, tried to buy it, but her ladyship told him it’s Ben’s, long as Ben wants it.” He shrugged. “Expect Isaac Chance’ll put in his bid soon as Ben makes it known he’s leavin’.”
“I see,” Beatrix said, thinking that perhaps she should keep an eye on the situation. She probably had no business with another property—at least until she had managed to get Hill Top under control—but it was something to keep in mind. The cart had stopped in front of the cottage gate, and she climbed down, glancing around with an even greater interest. The farm looked to be in apple-pie order, buildings painted, fences mended, garden weeded and hoed—although behind the cottage and off to the right, she could see the ruins of a burnt barn.
Rascal jumped out of the cart and Mr. Jennings got out and looped the pony’s reins around the gatepost. “Auld Ben doan’t like to be kept waitin’. I see t’ door’s standin’ wide, so he’s expectin’ us.”
The blue front door opened directly into a kitchen with a large stone fireplace and a ceiling supported by two huge, hand-hewn oak beams. A plate, cup, knife, and fork sat on the table, ready for the next meal, and there was a pot of soup on the back of the kitchen range. It was a queer thing, though, Beatrix noticed, for the fire had gone out some time before. The range was cold.
Just as queerly, Ben Hornby was nowhere in the house. They went around to the back, and then to the barnyard and the garden, Mr. Jennings calling all the while.
“He’s prob’ly up at t’ fold with our sheep,” he said finally. “He promised he’d have ’em penned well a-fore we came, but happen he didn’t get round to it ’til now. We’ll just walk up Holly How to t’ fold.”
With Rascal at her heels, Beatrix followed Mr. Jennings along the narrow path. It zig-zagged across the steep green hill behind the ruins of the barn, ending about halfway up at a stone-walled enclosure snuggled against the hill at the foot of a rocky outcrop. But Ben Hornby wasn’t at the fold, either—and what’s more, the gate was open. There were sheep grazing on the hillside nearby, but the enclosure was empty.
“Perhaps he forgot,” Beatrix said, frowning. It was distinctly annoying to think that they had come all the way up here for nothing, especially when there were so many other things she might have done this afternoon. She could have continued the drawing she’d begun that morning, for instance, or gone to the house to see what Mr. Biddle was up to and make sure that he hadn’t touched the cupboards.
Mr. Jennings was shaking his head. “Forgot? Not auld Ben. Not likely. Least, not where sheep’re concerned. And he’s already been paid for two ewes and three lambs, which was what we agreed to.”
“Well, then, where is he?” Beatrix pointed at five nearby sheep, who were watching them curiously. “Those must be our sheep.”
A shaggy ewe left her lambs and came in their direction, baaing. “I’m glaaad you’re here,” she cried, raising her right foreleg in a stiff salute. “Something very queer has haaappened, and needs sorting out. You see—”
“I b’lieve they’re ours,” said Mr. Jennings, scratching his beard. “See t’ lug marks in their ears? The larger one’s Tibbie, if I recall a-reet, and them are her twin lambs, o’er there. And that one’s Queenie, and that’s her lamb. But I can’t think where Ben’s got off to.”
“Excuse meee,” the ewe bleated diffidently. “If you’d only allow me to tell you—”
“Don’t even try,” Rascal said. “They don’t understand, you know.” He gave Tibbie a searching look. They had met at the last sheep-shearing, if his memory served him correctly. He hid a grin, thinking that the last time he had seen her, she had been naked. She was much prettier in her wooly coat, although her fleece was certainly in need of a good wash.
“Baaa.” Tibbie sighed gloomily and lowered her head. “Anyway, there’s nothing to be done now. Perhaps if you haaad come—” Another deep sigh. “But even then, you couldn’t haaave cha
nged anything. It’s too late to shut the stable door after the horse has bolted, aaas the Norwegians say.”
“Changed what?” Rascal demanded crossly. Sheep were always so fatalistic, and Herdwicks were annoyingly proud of their Norwegian ancestry. “What’s going on here, Tibbie? Why aren’t you in the fold? Where’s old Ben?”
Tibbie rolled her eyes. “I suppose you’ll just haaave to see for yourself.” She began to climb up the craggy outcropping, with Rascal scrambling at her heels. “Not that it will do any good, of course.”
Beatrix was watching the animals clambering up the rocks. “Do you suppose Mr. Hornby might have been taken ill?” she said to Mr. Jennings. “Perhaps we should look around.”
“Suit thaself,” Mr. Jennings said curtly. He was obviously very much put out. “I’d say we go back down to t’ farmhouse and leave a note on t’ door. Happen Ben’s been called away somewhere, sudden-like, and meant to be back a-fore we came. His table was laid, and his supper was on t’ range.”
“But the fire was out,” Beatrix called over her shoulder. “It must have been yesterday’s supper.”
She spoke breathlessly, for she was already scrambling up the steep slope after the animals. A few moments later, she had reached the top of the craggy pile of rocks, where a few sparse bushes had managed to root themselves in the stony earth. The ground fell off into a deep gully, a small stream dancing and chattering below. It was not quite a cliff, but almost. Beatrix took one look over the edge and gasped.
“You see?” said the ewe, with a resigned sigh. “As I saaaid, nothing to be done.”
“How do you know until you go and look?” Rascal snarled, and launched himself down the slope of rock scree in a headlong, precarious slide.
“Mr. Jennings!” Beatrix cried. “Come quickly!” And she followed the little dog down the face of the cliff, arriving barely upright at the bottom.
But by the time Mr. Jennings had joined her at the foot of the steep slope, Beatrix already knew that there was nothing that could be done for the gray-haired, gray-bearded man sprawled, crumpled and unmoving, facedown on the rocks beside the stream.
The Tale of Holly How Page 7
