The Tale of Holly How

by ALBERT, SUSAN WITTIG

  “Oh, please, yes, Mrs. Beever,” Sarah implored. “Tell me if it meets with your approval.”

  “Well, if you think so,” Mrs. Beever said. She cut a generous slice of cake and took a large bite out of it, casting her eyes upward and chewing critically. “I daresay it’ll do, Miss Barwick.” She licked her lips and leaned forward, lowering her voice. “Just between you and me, her ladyship isn’t eatin’ hardly anything these days. Scarcely a bite. The trouble’s in her stomach, y’ see.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that,” Sarah said fervently. “It’s so terrible that she doesn’t have an appetite for food, especially when she has such a good cook in her kitchen.”

  Mrs. Beever accepted the compliment with a modestly down-turned smile. “Yes, very sick. Dr. Butters was here twice last week, and she always improves after he’s been, although he can’t seem to find out what’s ailin’ her. But she says your cake helps to settle her stomach—it’s t’ ginger, I’m sure. My old auntie, who knew all about such things, always used to swear by ginger for t’ mulligrubs and collywobbles. Ginger tea, ginger snaps, candied ginger, ginger cake. And since her ladyship fancied your cake ’specially, I vowed she should have it, although I’ll have to wait until Martine is lookin’ t’ other way and take it to her myself.” She became confidential. “Martine said she shouldn’t have it, y’see.”

  “I’m very glad her ladyship likes it,” Sarah said with genuine feeling. She frowned. “But why doesn’t Miss Martine think she should have it?”

  Mrs. Beever looked cross. “She says it’s because she don’t believe in them old folk remedies, like ginger. But if you ask me, it’s t’ price. Since her ladyship’s been ill, it’s Martine what manages t’ household accounts. She goes over ’em with a fine-tooth comb, lookin’ for things to cut out.” She pursed her lips. “Mean, she is, t’ most penny-pinchin’ person I ever did meet, except for when she wants something special just for herself, and then it’s naught but the best. That bread of yours, that fine white bread you brought—that’s for her, y’ see. She has it for her breakfast every mornin’, four pieces, toasted, with a special marmalade she gets from London and three rashers of bacon and a soft-boiled egg, two minutes and no more.”

  “My goodness gracious,” Sarah said, raising her eyebrows.

  Mrs. Beever’s voice was mounting in a scornful crescendo. “Brought up to her room, she has to have it, on a tray with a white cloth, like she was as good as her ladyship, and not a plain servant like t’ rest of us. While Beever and Emily and Harriet and me has my bread and my marmalade down here in t’ servants’ hall.”

  “Which is every bit as good, I’m sure,” murmured Sarah. “Probably much better.”

  “Well, of course it is,” Mrs. Beever said. Now fully engaged with her subject and growing huffier and more scornful by the minute, she pushed on. “And I had another girl here in t’ kitchen, y’ know, to do t’ washin’ up and scrub t’ floors and t’ like, and Martine sent her off. Not a word of proper notice, neither.”

  Harriet spoke up unexpectedly. “She give t’ push to Ruth last month, too, so now there’s only just Emily upstairs, to do all them beds, and t’ fires, and t’ floors and carpets and dust t’ furniture. ’Tis a good thing she’s not very bright, or she’d hate it.” The knife met the carrot with greater energy.

  “What a pity,” Sarah said. “How long has Miss Martine been with her ladyship?”

  “Too long, if you ask my opinion,” Harriet muttered, and gave the carrot such a great whack that it broke in two pieces. “We was all right here before she came. Not to say happy, o’course, but we was all right, and there was ’nough of us to get t’ work done proper, which there ain’t now, and more to eat, too.” She gave a loud sniff.

  “Nobody’s asking your opinion, Harriet,” Mrs. Beever said disapprovingly. “And if you know what’s good for you, my girl, you’ll keep a civil tongue in your head when you’re around that woman. Talk saucy to her and you’ll find yourself gettin’ t’ push just like Ruth, and I’ll be havin’ to do all your work my own self.” To Sarah, she said, “A year Martine’s been here. A year this month.” She sighed. “Not a good year, neither, sad to say. And now there’s this new man comin’ . . .”

  It was the moment Sarah had been waiting for. “You’re speaking of Dr. Gainwell, I suppose.”

  “Oh, you’ve heard ’bout him?” Mrs. Beever gave her an inquiring look. “Folks down in the village are talkin’, are they?”

  “To tell the truth, Mrs. Beever,” Sarah replied in a worried tone, “it’s all anybody’s talking about.” She leaned forward. “Everyone’s worried about Miss Nash, of course. We thought she was to have the position, and everyone knows what a good teacher she is. And now—” She held out her hands. “Well, I was hoping you might have some idea about what’s going on, and whether anything could be done.”

  Mrs. Beever pulled down her mouth. “I feel sorry for Miss Nash, I cert’nly do, and that’s a pure fact. When I heard about it, I was near twizzled up inside, as Harriet will tell you. Don’t seem fair that this man can step in and pull Miss Nash’s place out from under her. Right’s right, after all.” She appealed to Harriet. “That’s exactly what I said, now, wasn’t it, Harriet? Right’s right, after all.”

  “That’s what y’ said,” Harriet agreed. “Them are the very words.”

  “And all ’cuz Martine thinks he’s so important and wonderful.” Mrs. Beever threw up her hands. “But I don’t know what can be done, and even if I did, I couldn’t open my mouth. If Martine heard me meddlin’, she’d be down on me in a flash. Why, she’d prob’ly give me t’ push.”

  “Miss Martine?” Sarah frowned. “What does she have to do with this? It was her ladyship who recommended Dr. Gainwell to the trustees.”

  “That’s as may be. But her ladyship hasn’t never met t’ gentleman, I can tell you that. Not to speak ill of him, of course,” Mrs. Beever added cautiously, “for he’s said to have an Oxford eddy-cashun, and he’s a missionary and no doubt a godly man. But it does seem to me that her ladyship is going a bit too far, on just Martine’s say-so.”

  “I see,” Sarah said thoughtfully. “I wonder—how did it happen that Miss Martine came to Tidmarsh Manor to be Lady Longford’s companion? They were acquainted, I suppose. Longtime friends, perhaps?”

  “Friends?” Mrs. Beever snorted. “It wasn’t that way at all. Mrs. Stewart was before Martine, and a right nice person she was, too, calm in her disposition and patient with her ladyship, who can be trying at times.”

  “T’ say t’ least,” Harriet put in.

  “To say t’ least,” Mrs. Beever agreed. “Mrs. Stewart had been with her ladyship since before old Lord Longford died, y’ see, and we all liked her. But she had to go back to Carlisle to take care of her old mother. Her ladyship advertised through an agency, and Martine was the only one who answered.”

  “The only one?” Sarah asked, surprised.

  “I was mystified at that myself,” Mrs. Beever said, “but we’re a bit out of the way here, if somebody’s looking for grand society. And her ladyship has never been what y’ might call generous.” She glanced up at the clock on the wall and pushed back her chair. “Gracious me, just look at that time, and me not finished with t’ pheasant yet! Harriet, put down that knife and fetch a dozen potatoes out of t’ bin. It’ll be luncheon a-fore we know it, and t’ new gentleman here, and us not ready with t’ meal.”

  Sarah drained her teacup and put it down. “Thank you for the tea,” she said. “I hope the ginger cake does Lady Longford some good.”

  “So do I, Miss Barwick,” said Mrs. Beever devoutly, and hoisted herself up. “I truly do. A trial her ladyship may be, and a sore one at times, but we’d all hate to lose her.” She frowned. “Harriet, what did I tell you? Go and get those potatoes, girl. Right now!”

  18

  “Blood!”

  As Miss Potter and Miss Barwick drove the pony cart up Stony Lane on their way to Tidmarsh Manor, Sawrey Village w
as already beginning a busy summer’s day. Cottage windows were flung open wide to the softest of breezes on this fine summer’s day, quilts were hung to air in the sunshine, dust mops flapped from open doors, hearths were swept, ranges stoked, kitchens tidied. Youngsters were sent to the vegetable gardens to pull onions and cut lettuces for the noonday meal, wives walked down to the butcher shop in Far Sawrey to purchase their midweek knuckle of beef, and husbands bent to their various industries in workshop, barn, and field.

  Rose Sutton, the wife of the veterinary surgeon, opened the door to the surgery at the back of Courier Cottage and said good morning to young Jeremy Crosfield, who lived with his aunt near Cunsey Beck. Jeremy occasionally brought injured wild creatures to be repaired by Dr. Sutton. Today he was carrying a badger cub, a small, gray animal with a striped head and a short, round snout.

  “Oh, poor baby,” Rose said, clucking sympathetically, bending over for a close look. As the mother of six young Suttons and a regular assistant in her husband’s surgery, she was well acquainted with the needs of infants, human and otherwise. “He wants feeding up, he does. He looks as if he’s starving. And one hind leg’s been chewed, I see. Where’d you get him, Jeremy?”

  “Somebody dug out the badger sett at the Hill Top rock quarry,” Jeremy said with a kind of grim ferocity. “The mother and the other cub are gone. I found this little fellow wandering across the meadow. He’s almost big enough to survive on his own, but that bad leg needs to be seen to.” He stroked the badger’s stubby snout. “I thought p’rhaps Doctor Sutton could mend him. And tell me how to manage him until he’s old enough to manage for himself. I don’t have any money to pay,” he added matter-of-factly, “but I’d be glad to run errands and clean cages.”

  “Well, bring him in, then,” Rose said cheerfully, “and we’ll ask the doctor what’s best to be done.”

  At Belle Green, Mathilda Crook pegged her freshly washed sheets to the clothesline in the yard, with an ear cocked to the usual village sounds: the metallic clang-clang-clang of her husband’s hammer in his smithy just down Market Street from their house; the buzzy rasp of Roger Dowling’s carpenter’s saw in the joinery next to the smithy; and the irritated tone of Hannah Braithwaite’s voice as she called one of her children from the door of Croft End.

  Hanging the washing was a pleasant task on a warm day when there was just enough breeze to shake out the wrinkles, and Mathilda Crook dallied, keeping an eye out to see who might be passing up and down Market Street. She had some interesting news, and she was anxious to share it. If a suitable person did not happen along in the next little bit, she might just take off her apron and walk down to the post office, where she was bound to meet someone or other.

  But she didn’t have to. Next to Belle Green, at High Green Gate, Agnes Llewellyn put her granddaughter into her brand-new wicker pram, covered it with a cheesecloth drape to keep off the flies and thunderflies, and pushed it into the garden so Baby Lily could get some sunshine and fresh air. Lily’s mother had gone into Hawkshead to do some shopping, leaving the baby in her mother-in-law’s care. Agnes was always delighted to oblige, since Lily was her first grandchild and the object of enormous grandmotherly pride.

  Taking a basket, Agnes went to pick some raspberries for a tart for supper, noticing with annoyance that the magpies, those rascally birds, had been at the berries again. She picked all there were (not quite a cup) and went to see whether there were enough strawberries to eke them out. But the magpies had got them, too, the naughty things. She was turning to go back to the house when Mathilda Crook came hurrying to the fence, a damp shirt over her arm and several wooden clothes pegs in her hand.

  To Agnes’s annoyance, Mathilda didn’t say good morning or how are you or even inquire about the baby’s cradle cap, which Agnes had been treating with a salve made from elder flowers and calendula. “S’pose you’ve heard all about poor old Ben Hornby’s accident,” was what she said, in that irritatingly triumphant voice she used when she had some especially savory bit of news.

  Agnes was forced to admit that she hadn’t heard anything about Ben Hornby, accident or otherwise.

  Mathilda clucked pityingly, whether at Ben’s fate or at Agnes’s ignorance was not quite clear. “Tumbled down Holly How and broke his head on the rocks,” she said in an authoritative tone. “That’s what Miss Potter said, last night at supper. She and Jennings found the old man when they went to look at some sheep Miss Potter bought. Likely he’d had a bit too much to drink.”

  Agnes said she was greatly distressed to hear this, although she ventured the opinion that there might be some in the village and the surrounding countryside who would not be terribly unhappy to learn of old Ben’s demise.

  “Oh?” Mathilda asked. She made a show of shaking out the damp shirt and running her thumbs across the collar to press out the wrinkles. Her “Now, who would that be, Agnes?” was light and unconcerned, but Agnes could hear the curiosity burning in the question.

  She tossed her head. “You mean,” she replied, feigning great surprise, “you don’t remember what happened last winter? Why, I thought that you, of all people, Mathilda . . .” She let her voice trail off and shook her head as if in disbelief.

  Mathilda frowned. “What was it about?”

  “About cider,” Agnes replied knowingly, drawing it out. “December, it was.”

  “Cider?” Mathilda asked, puzzled.

  With great patience, Agnes said, “Why, the cider that Toby Teathor stole out of old Ben’s cider house, of course.”

  Mathilda was forced to admit that she couldn’t remember anything about Toby Teathor’s stealing cider, which gave Agnes the opportunity to be pitying in her turn.

  “Well, p’rhaps you never heard it. Mr. Llewellyn sold one of our cows to Isaac Chance, at Oldfield Farm, and Isaac was the one who told him. Toby was working for old Ben, and helped himself to a keg of Ben’s cider. Ben caught him red-handed and had him up before the magistrate. Expect Toby won’t be sorry to hear about the accident.”

  “Oh, that,” Mathilda said in an airy tone. “I thought you were talking about something important.” She gave the shirt a good shake. “Well, I s’pose I’d best get back to my clothes-hanging.”

  “And I’d best get on with these berries,” Agnes said, feeling put out.

  She carried the raspberries into the kitchen and put them into a bowl. Then she took off her apron, smartened up her hair, and pushed Baby Lily’s pram down Market Street to the village shop.

  The shop, which was located in Meadowcroft Cottage and run by Lydia Dowling (the wife of Roger Dowling, the village carpenter), stood at the corner of Market Street and the road that went east to the Windermere ferry and west to the market town of Hawkshead. It occupied two downstairs rooms, and was stocked with the sorts of things that the villagers needed on short notice: bacon and sausages, eggs, tea and coffee and sugar and snuff, tins of treacle and condensed milk, fresh vegetables and fruit from the village gardens and orchards, needles and threads and buttons, candles and boot-laces and hairpins and three-a-penny candies for the children. Lydia and Roger lived over the shop with their niece Gladys.

  Agnes parked Baby Lily beside the shop door, adjusted the pram’s wicker bonnet to keep out the sun, and went inside, where she found Lydia filling a jar with peppermint candies and Gladys measuring a length of white lace. Agnes bought a tin of tea, a packet of soap powder, and some red buttonhole twist, and then turned to see a small basket of luscious-looking red raspberries, displayed beside a box of dewy fresh lettuce, a pyramid of purple plums, and several heads of cabbage.

  “Fresh-picked?” she inquired cautiously, with a covetous look at the tempting raspberries.

  “This very mornin’, before breakfast,” Lydia Dowling assured her. “T’ magpies have been that bad, goin’ after them even a-fore they’re ripe. But I managed to get enough for Mr. Dowling’s dinner, and thought as how somebody else might as well have the rest, or t’ birds’ll get them, too. There’s not quite enough
there for a tart, but if you had a few to go with them—”

  “How much?” Agnes asked.

  “Tuppence ha’penny,” said Lydia.

  Agnes nodded. “That’ll be all right, then.” As she paid for her purchases, she remarked, “I s’pose you’ve heard about Ben Hornby’s accident. Had a bit too much to drink and fell down Holly How.”

  “’Twa’n’t no accident,” Lydia said firmly. She blew her dark, fly-away hair out of her eyes. “That’s accordin’ to Hannah Braithwaite, who got it from Constable Braithwaite, who went up to Holly How with Captain Woodcock, after Miss Potter and Mr. Jennings found t’ poor auld soul.” She paused to take a handkerchief out of her pocket and wipe her forehead. “My, it’s warm today. Wonder if it’s fixin’ to storm.”

  “It wasn’t an accident?” Agnes asked, her eyes widening.

  “Oh, you haven’t heard?” Gladys asked, with barely suppressed excitement. “Mr. Hornby was yarked hard, ‘crost the shoulders. And he was holdin’ a tobacco pipe in his hand when he died.” Gladys was a plump, full-figured young woman in her twenties, with thick auburn hair that she twisted into ringlets. She had a habit of smiling widely (flirtatiously, her aunt thought), so as to show off her very white teeth.

  “Gladys,” Lydia said, frowning. “I don’t know that you should be tellin’ folk what t’ constable—”

  “Oh, tush, Lydia,” Agnes said, waving her hand impatiently. “What does Mr. Hornby’s pipe have to do with it not bein’ an accident, Gladys?”

  “I’m sure Mrs. Llewellyn woan’t tell anybody, Aunt.” Gladys leaned across the wooden counter and lowered her voice. “It wa’n’t his pipe, y’ see. Mr. Hornby had bad trouble with his lungs and had to give up ’bacco years ago. And what’s more—”