The Tale of Applebeck Orchard

by Susan Albert

  Agnes picked up her empty basket. “No cause to bodder yer George aboot it,” she said loftily. “My Dick has gone to take Captain Woodcock his milk. They’ll manage t’ problem, ’tween ’em.” She looked over Mathilda’s shoulder and widened her eyes. “Why, Tildy,” she said, with a mournful relish. “Such a shame. And yer best ’broidered, too. It’ll nivver be t’ same agin, t’ poor thing.”

  Mathilda turned. To her dismay, she saw that her finest embroidered tea towel had fallen from the line and was draped across the blackberry bush, a large, juicy purple stain spreading across its snowy middle.

  Dick Llewellyn made it a regular practice to take a bottle of fresh milk from the High Green Gate cows to the Tower Bank House kitchen twice a week, where he gave it to Elsa Grape for Captain Miles Woodcock’s breakfast. This morning, however, the kitchen was dark and Elsa was nowhere to be seen. Dick ventured to put his head into the dining room to interrupt the captain, who appeared to be breakfasting on bread and jam and coffee. With him was Mr. Will Heelis, a well-respected local solicitor.

  “Elsa’s gone away again,” Captain Woodcock said, in response to Dick’s question. Dick understood and commiserated. He, too, went without hot meals when his Agnes was off visiting her sister in Carlisle. “This time, she’s taking care of her niece, who’s just had a baby,” the captain went on. “What’s more, she gave the maid the day off. Just leave the milk in the kitchen, Dick. I’ll put it away.”

  “I’ve summat to tell thi, Cap’n,” Dick said, and told his story. “I saw t’ barrier m’self,” he added. “Means bus’ness, it do. Noboddy can get on t’ path without rippin’ it down, an’ that woan’t be easy, I wager.”

  “Ah, yes,” the captain remarked thoughtfully. “Lester Barrow spoke to me about this last night at the pub. He was quite incensed about it.” To Mr. Heelis, he said, “Barrow is a member of the Claife Heights Ramblers Association, y’know. He says there may be trouble over the matter.”

  “I wudna be s’prised,” Dick said wisely. “Summat’s got to be done afore sumbody tears t’ barricades down or Mrs. Stubbs heaves a rock through Mr. Harmsworth’s window, as she’s promisin’ to do. And cert’nly afore next Sunday, when ever’body’ll have to walk t’ extra way to church.”

  “Right,” the captain remarked thoughtfully. “Well, it’s probably got to be done sooner than that.”

  Miles had been justice of the peace for Sawrey District for nearly ten years now. He’d lived here longer than that, of course, ever since he had retired from Her Majesty’s Army in Egypt in search of a quiet life in a green country under a sun that did not blister the hide off a fellow. He had chosen Sawrey for its peace and quiet, although he had to admit that there hadn’t been much of that lately. His position put him into the thick of things, requiring him to certify deaths, deal with disturbances, witness documents, and uphold property rights.

  And footpaths were an especially sore subject these days. Almost every time a piece of land changed hands, either the seller or the buyer made a determined effort to close off any footpaths through it, to which the Claife Ramblers—a group of fell-walkers who advocated free access to all the countryside—took immediate offense. There was nothing new about any of this, of course, especially in the Lakes, where walkers flocked to cross the wild moors and climb the fells. The poet William Wordsworth had flung down his pen and destroyed a wall blocking a path between Ulls water and Lowther Castle. And just twenty-three years before, in the summer of 1887, some 500 people stormed a blocked footpath at Fawe Park, near Keswick, not forty miles away. To hearten themselves, they sang their own version of “the Lion of Judah,” with the stirring words, “The Lions of Keswick will break every chain, and open the footpaths, again and again!”

  The captain was necessarily involved with this sort of thing because Parliament had passed a law, back in 1815, giving the justice of the peace the authority to determine whether the “highway, bridleway, or footway” in question should remain open or be “stopped up and disposed of.” In the past three years, Miles had been called to rule on four other footpaths in the district. Since he himself was an advocate of open access to fields and fells, he had in every case but one ruled in favor of keeping the footpath open. It was a devilish tricky business, and it all fell on his shoulders.

  “Seems to me you’d better get on it right away,” Will Heelis said. A solicitor who lived in the nearby market town of Hawkshead, Will was a tall, athletic-looking man with fine eyes, a strong jaw, and a shock of thick brown hair that fell boyishly across his forehead. He remained a bachelor, in spite of Miles’ efforts to pair him with his sister, Dimity. Instead, Dim had defied her brother and married Christopher Kittredge. “It will soon be the anniversary of the Keswick affair,” Will added, pouring himself another cup of coffee. “We might be listening to Ragsdale and his Ramblers singing ‘The Lions of Sawrey will break every chain.’ ”

  Miles shook his head glumly. “We certainly don’t need that,” he agreed.

  Will frowned. “I wonder what Harmsworth has in mind by closing the path. So far as I know, Applebeck Farm isn’t for sale.” In his legal work, he usually happened across all the land transactions in the district. He knew what was for sale or what had recently sold, and for how much.

  “This bis’ness will do nothin’ but cause hard feelin’s,” Dick Llewellyn said dourly, as he took his leave. “Thi’ll speak wi’ Mr. Harmsworth today, Cap’n?”

  “As soon as possible,” the captain promised. When his neighbor had left, he said to Will, “I don’t suppose you’d like to go with me to call on Harmsworth, would you? This afternoon, p’rhaps?” He was not exactly eager to make the call by himself. Not that he was afraid of the man, of course. But Harmsworth was known to be of intemperate moods. He might be less likely to go off the handle if Will came along.

  “I would, of course, but I don’t think it’s my place,” Will said seriously. “I’m known to be a supporter of the Freedom to Roam Bill.” Member of Parliament James Bryce had first introduced the bill more than twenty years before, with the idea of restoring open access to the countryside for any who wanted to walk there. It was reintroduced every year, and although it wasn’t likely to pass anytime soon, its friends kept trying. He paused, adding thoughtfully, “There’s no merit in this closure, I don’t suppose.”

  “I’ll have to investigate before I can answer that,” Miles said grumpily. Longing for his usual bacon and eggs, he buttered another slice of bread. “So far as I know, that path has been in regular use for decades. It saves quite a distance for both churchgoers and schoolchildren. P’rhaps the vicar knows something of its history.”

  Will looked thoughtful. “Why don’t you think of forming a footpath committee, Miles? The vicar could serve on it, perhaps, and three or four villagers—people with good heads who can be counted on to make a fair recommendation. It would take some of the burden off your shoulders.” He grinned. “I shouldn’t like to be the one to tell Adam Harmsworth to unstop that path. But if I had the weight of a committee behind me—”

  Miles nodded approvingly. “Jolly good idea, Will. I’ll see to it right away.” He cocked his head. “Will you serve?”

  “I shouldn’t like to,” Will said with a twinkle. “The committee might have to rule on a property that belongs to one of my clients. But you might consider asking Miss Potter. She’s one of the steadiest people I know.” He took out his watch and glanced at it. “I’d best be off. I’m headed for Windermere this morning.” Frowning, he pocketed his watch. “You’ve heard about the hydroplane factory that’s proposed for Cockshott Point, I suppose. A few of the local landowners are trying to find a way to stop it from being built. They’ve asked me for advice.”

  The captain stood. “No, I hadn’t heard. Cockshott Point, you say?” He frowned. “I’m all for the aeroplane, you know. The machine of the future, in my view. I suppose you heard that Charlie Rolls made a nonstop flight across the Channel and back in only ninety-five minutes. Ninety-five minute
s—imagine that!”

  “Indeed,” Will said, raising one eyebrow. “And then crashed his plane and died just a month later.”

  Miles nodded regretfully. “I’m all for the aeroplane,” he said again, “but I’ll be the first to admit that Windermere isn’t the place to fly them.”

  “Agreed,” Will replied. He shook his head. “But times are changing, Miles. The king’s death, the land tax that’s supposed to pay for naval armament, two new German dreadnoughts operational—I fear we’re in for difficulties. Without Edward’s steady hand at the helm, we’ll be lucky to avoid a war.”

  King Edward VII had died just two months before, after an attack of bronchitis. He had not begun his reign as a beloved monarch. In fact, when he took the throne in 1901, on the death of his mother, Queen Victoria, he had been greatly belittled as a “playboy” king. But in the brief decade of his rule, he had come to be admired and even loved, and his passing was widely seen as the end of a period of strength and stability. Uncertainty about the capabilities of the new king, George V, taken with unrest across the Empire, labor strikes at home, women’s suffrage, foreign competition, the constantly increasing German threat—all in all, most people felt that the ship of state was not sailing on an even keel.

  “It’s not like you to be pessimistic, Will,” Miles said, getting up to see his friend to the door. “You know what my sister is always saying to me. ‘Take a wife, Miles. It will improve your outlook on things.’ ”

  Will chuckled. “Who would have a crusty old bachelor like one of us, Woodcock?” He paused. “But of course, there’s Butters. He’s found himself a wife, and a pretty one at that. P’rhaps there’s hope for us.” He went to the door, then paused and eyed his friend. “Speaking of Miss Potter, I have been hearing that you and she may be—”

  “No,” Miles said definitively. “That’s been settled for some time. We remain good friends, of course, but she’s devoted to the memory of her fiancé, who’s been dead since before she bought Hill Top Farm. And to her books. And her parents. Oh, and her farms.”

  Miss Potter was a much-admired children’s author and illustrator who lived mostly in London but made frequent visits to the farm she owned—two farms, actually, for she had just last year bought Castle Farm, at the top of the village. Some months before, Miles had got it into his head that Miss Potter might be a suitable wife and mistress of Tower Bank House, and he had made one or two determined efforts in that direction. But to his disappointment, and not a little irritation, the lady seemed determined to remain a spinster for the rest of her life.

  This was really too bad. Since his sister had married, his housekeeper, Elsa Grape, considered herself to be the mistress of the house and came and went pretty much as she pleased, sometimes leaving important duties undone—such as had been the case this morning, when the captain discovered that there were no clean collars and cuffs in his shirt drawer. The Tower Bank household would run smoothly again only when there was someone to look after Elsa. The captain was in want of a wife.

  Miles pursed his lips. “And you, Heelis? I believe I recently heard that you and Miss Nash—”

  “You’ll hear all manner of things if you listen long enough.” Will shook his head ruefully. “This is the worst village for gossip I have ever seen. I’m an admirer of the way Miss Nash manages Sawrey School, and I helped her and her sister untangle a legal problem last winter, having to do with a little money from their father’s estate. But that’s as far as it goes. Anyway, Miss Nash has her sister to care for, you know, which complicates her life.” He turned the doorknob. “And now I really am off. Cheerio, Woodcock. Good luck with that footpath business.”

  When his friend had gone, Miles took his coffee and newspaper and went down the hall to the library, where he filled his pipe and settled in for a comfortable morning smoke and the paper. But he found it difficult to concentrate on the Times, which was just as well, really, for it seemed to be full of nothing but bad news. He was thinking of Adam Harmsworth, whom he had met only once, during a dispute over a horse. In that case, Harmsworth had been rude and irascible, but even the most petulant of landowners didn’t stop a footpath unless he had a very good reason to do so. Usually, it was done only when the landowner thought that no one would notice—which in this case was certainly not true.

  Miles sighed. Well, there was no point in speculating. He should simply have to go and see Harmsworth today and find out what the fellow had in mind and what could be done about it. That settled, he went back to the newspaper. But after a moment, his mind had wandered again, and he found himself thinking of Miss Nash.

  He was rather surprised to learn that his friend Will Heelis was not interested in the lady, for he had overheard Henry Stubbs telling Lester Barrow all about it. Miles was also quite relieved that there was no romantic entanglement—although he could not admit this, for the simple reason that he did not know it himself. Captain Woodcock, while remarkably astute about a great many things in the worlds of property, finance, and governance, was (like many British gentlemen) usually quite unaware of his feelings, unless they were so strongly negative or positive that they clamored for his notice. Although he knew Margaret Nash to be a competent and attractive young woman and thoroughly enjoyed himself in her company, he was not yet conscious of any deeper feeling for her, and no amount of urging from anyone else—from Dimity, for instance, who had somehow taken it into her romantic head that Miss Nash might make a suitable wife for her brother—would hurry him toward that awareness.

  In fact, Dimity’s urging was probably having the opposite effect, for Miles prided himself on knowing his own mind and would not be told what should be in it. He had replied to Dimity in no uncertain terms that such a relationship was out of the question, although when pressed for a reason, he could only say that Miss Nash’s sister was often ill and required constant looking after, and he preferred a wife who would put him first in her life.

  “And that, dear Dim, is that,” he concluded emphatically. “Let’s hear no more about it, shall we?” I regret to report that if he had looked just a little further into himself, he would have found that he took more pleasure in telling his sister to drop the subject than he did in dropping the subject. Perhaps he might also have seen that the idea of taking a wife who would have no other gods before him was decidedly self-centered. But no, I doubt that. I don’t think the captain would be able to see himself with that much critical detachment.

  In fact, I am sorry to say that (at this point, at least) you and I know a good deal more about Captain Woodcock than he knows about himself. But that’s neither here nor there, at least at the moment. Miles has stopped thinking about Will Heelis and Miss Nash, picked up the newspaper, and begun to read a letter to the editor from someone who feels that the current turbulence in human affairs was caused by the near-earth passage of Halley’s Comet, which has been visible in the sky since April.

  He wonders briefly if that was the reason that Elsa Grape had granted herself four days off in the past three weeks, and he reminds himself that he must either buy more collars and cuffs or have a very firm talk with her.

  But he fails to remember that the milk Dick Llewellyn had brought is still sitting on the kitchen table and, if it is not removed to a cooler place, will sour in the August heat.

  Captain Woodcock is most surely in want of a wife.

  3

  ʺIt’s a Conundrum!ʺ

  The handsome gray horse lifted his hooves smartly as he pulled Will Heelis’ gig out of Near Sawrey, in the direction of Far Sawrey and down Ferry Hill to the ferry landing on the west shore of Lake Windermere.

  Near and Far Sawrey—the names have puzzled many people. If you’re wondering how these two hamlets came to be so called, I can explain it very simply. Near Sawrey is nearer the market town of Hawkshead, whilst Far Sawrey (which is nearer Lake Windermere) is farther away, but only by a half-mile or so. Near Sawrey prides itself on having a pub, a bakery, a smithy, a joinery, and its own post office.
Far Sawrey boasts St. Peter’s Church and the vicarage, the school, a post office, the butcher, and the Sawrey Hotel, which also has a pub, of course, as well as a dining room and substantial accommodations for travelers. As you might imagine, there is a great deal of coming and going between the two hamlets, with almost all of the pedestrian traffic being carried by the Applebeck Footpath, which shortens the distance considerably.

  As Will crossed the bridge over Wilfin Beck, he looked off to the right. Yes, there it was: the ugly barbed wire barricade, studded with wooden stakes and coated with tar, that Adam Harmsworth had thrown across the footpath. Will frowned, thinking that he did not envy his friend Woodcock the task of ordering Harmsworth to take down the barrier, or telling the villagers (not to mention Roger Ragsdale and the Claife Ramblers) why they should remain, if that were the outcome. Either way, there would be trouble. He was glad that he was not the one who had to deal with it.

  Farther along, as he rounded the hill and came along the lake, Will was relieved to see the ferry making slow headway across the choppy waters of the narrow lake, its smokestack belching clouds of black smoke that showered soot on all the passengers. The old thing was doddery and unreliable—one never knew whether it would arrive on time, or at all.

  For longer than anyone could remember, a ferryboat had plied the lake between the western Lancashire shore and the eastern Westmorland shore, saving a very long trip around either end of the nearly eleven-mile-long lake, the longest in all of England. The earliest ferries were merely long wooden rowboats rowed by two or more men that crossed the lake in twenty to thirty minutes. The present ferry, a much more elaborate affair, was built in 1870. It was powered by a coal-fired steam engine and was large enough to carry a coach-and-four or even two coaches, if the lead horses were unhitched.

  The ferry’s design was not a happy one, however, for both the boiler and engine were located on the same side, and the boat had the tendency to list rather dangerously. In stormy weather, when the waves were high, it did not sail, for fear of capsize. Either the engine or the boiler was out of service often, and even in good weather, the crossing took the best part of an hour—more, if there was difficulty loading. Off-comers and day-trippers were known to speak contemptuously of the ferry: “Why, we could build a bridge in the time it takes that joke of a boat to go and come back again.”