by Susan Albert
Mr. Harmsworth looked down at his feet.
“Apologize to Miss Potter,” the captain ordered. “You understand that she can press charges against you, don’t you?”
At the words press charges, Mr. Harmsworth looked up. “Sorry, Missus.” His voice was low and sullen. “Din’t mean no harm.”
Miss Potter considered this for a moment, remembering what Miss Nash had told her, and also recalling the occasion when she had come upon Mr. Harmsworth beating the dog.
“I will accept your apology,” she said crisply, “on one condition.”
“Condition?” Mr. Harmsworth said dubiously.
“Yes. On condition that your niece be allowed to spend the afternoon with me. Tomorrow.”
“Gilly?” Mr. Harmsworth gaped. “Wot dost tha want wi’ Gilly? Her be but a poor girl, an’ not much of a hand at workin’ in the house, ’cept wi’ t’ butter ’n’ cheeses, which tha dusn’t need.”
If Miss Potter heard and took note of this, she gave no indication. “What I want with the girl is of no concern to you, sir,” she said, raising her chin. “I shall call at Applebeck Farm at half-past one tomorrow to fetch her. Please see that she is ready. She will be returned before tea.”
Mr. Harmsworth appealed to the captain. “But I doan’t see why Gilly should—”
“Consider it done, Miss Potter,” the captain said, paying no attention to the man’s protests. “If you like, I should be glad to accompany you to make sure that your request is carried out.”
“I’ll go, too,” Rascal volunteered, curious to know what Miss Potter wanted with the young girl. Not for dairy work, surely. At Hill Top, as everyone knew, Mrs. Jennings was a dab hand at butter and cheese. For a dairy worker, there was none better than Mrs. Jennings.
“I think there will be no difficulty,” Miss Potter said, and picked up the reins. “Mr. Harmsworth, I accept your apology. Please tell Gilly to expect me tomorrow. Half-past one.” She clucked to the pony, and Winston, having repented of his rash behavior, accepted her instructions, picked up his hoofs, and began to trot.
At Raven Hall, Peaches and Cream (who, since they were very young rabbits, had napped throughout the entire ordeal) were delivered without further incident and were promptly carried off to the nursery, where little Flora and baby Miles fell immediately in love with them. Nana, the nursery dog (named for Nana, the Darling children’s Newfoundland nurse in Mr. Barrie’s play Peter Pan), was also enchanted with the bunnies, but was prevented by Emily (the children’s real nanny) from close acquaintance with them. Beatrix gave each of the children a hug and a kiss and pronounced them the most beautiful babes there ever were, which pleased Mrs. Kittredge mightily, although it did not surprise her in the slightest, for she said the very same thing to herself every single time she looked at them, which was as often as possible. Like Mrs. Darling, she was frightfully proud of her children.
Leaving the bunnies to the tender mercies of Emily, Nana, and the children, Mrs. Kittredge took Beatrix downstairs, where she served tea in fine china cups and scones and bramble jelly on fine china plates in the conservatory overlooking the Raven Hall garden. You remember, I expect, that Mrs. Kittredge is the former Dimity Woodcock, Miles Woodcock’s sister, whom he forbade to marry Major Kittredge but had to relent when Dimity absolutely put her foot down on the subject. Dimity has been the mainstay of Vicar Sackett’s parish for many years, and though she does not have as much time to spend on parish work as she would like these days, she keeps informed. So this morning, as she poured tea and handed out scones, she brought Miss Potter up-to-date on the village gossip.
When it was her turn, Miss Potter recounted the events of her travels that morning, with an emphasis on its comic (rather than the potentially tragic) aspects, giving special attention to the heroism of Mrs. Kittredge’s brother, Captain Woodcock. And then she added, rather thoughtfully, “I am to meet a young person tomorrow, Mr. Harmsworth’s orphaned niece, Gilly. Miss Nash tells me that the girl would like to find a new place, away from Applebeck Farm. Of course, one does not like to meddle in family matters, but I confess that I do not find Mr. Harmsworth to be a very nice fellow.”
“Not very nice indeed!” Dimity exclaimed. “Closing off the footpath and firing at Miles and Major Ragsdale! And the house at Applebeck is a dreadfully gloomy old thing. Are you helping the girl find a new place?” She picked up the teapot. “Another cup?”
Beatrix accepted both the tea and another spoonful of bramble jelly for what was left of her scone. “I thought first of Lady Longford,” she said. “She had an upstairs position—but that was some months ago. And when I spoke with Mr. Harmsworth about the girl this morning, he said that she had a special liking for dairy work. I thought I would just mention it to you, in case you might know of something.”
“As it happens,” Dimity said thoughtfully, “our dairyman is looking for a helper. The girl would have to be able to milk, as well as do the butter and cheeses.” She smiled crookedly. “Our dairyman is a very nice person. I think the child might find it easier to please him than Lady Longford.”
“You might be right,” Beatrix said, for Lady Longford’s reputation as a difficult mistress was widely known. “As to milking, and butter and cheeses—I’ll see what I can learn when I meet the girl tomorrow. If her experience and attitude seem suitable, might I bring her over?”
“Of course,” Dimity said. “Now that’s settled, what shall we talk of next?”
Beatrix put down her plate. “Miss Nash told me that now that Dr. Butters has married, the village expects that the vicar and Mrs. Lythecoe will soon follow.” She laughed. “The village usually has it wrong, of course, but I hope in this case they’re right. Is there a chance, do you think?”
Dimity’s answer was interrupted by a greeting.
“Miss Potter!”
Beatrix looked up. It was Major Christopher Kittredge, Dimity’s husband. He had once been a good-looking man, but had come back from the Boer War without an arm and an eye and with a disfiguring scar on one side of his face, which had been horribly burned. But his cheerful manner and amiable temperament made it easy to overlook his appearance. In fact, people who knew him constantly forgot about it, and were often surprised when it was brought up. “Oh, yes, I suppose he is rather the worse for wear,” they might say. “But that’s what war is all about. One scarcely notices, does one?”
“Hello, Major,” Beatrix said warmly, and held out her hand. “How nice to see you!”
“Mr. Heelis told me you had arrived,” the major said, as Dimity poured him a cup of tea. “I saw him yesterday. We’re both working on the flying boat business.” He raised an eyebrow. “You know about that, do you, Miss Potter? It’s the kind of thing you’d be interested in, I’m sure. Heelis is taking quite a hand in the affair.”
“No, I don’t know about it,” Beatrix said, frowning. “Flying boats?”
“Oh, let’s don’t talk stuffy old business, dear,” Dimity begged, handing her husband a cup. “Miss Potter has a thrilling tale to tell you—all about being shot at on the Kendal Road. Her pony ran away and nearly collided with a draught horse pulling a wagon loaded with chickens. It’s lucky that someone wasn’t killed.”
“Shot at, Miss Potter?” the major exclaimed. “Who shot at you? Why?”
So Beatrix told her story. When she got to the part about the chickens flying every which way, and the constable holding Mr. Harmsworth so his feet barely touched the ground, and Roger Ragsdale looking as if he were marching in a dress parade, the major laughed so hard he had to put his cup down. But he sobered almost immediately, remembering that Miss Potter, as well as the boy driving the farmer’s wagon, had been in serious danger.
“I hope Woodcock deals sternly with that fellow,” he growled. “Closing off a public footpath, firing a shotgun in the direction of a heavily traveled road—Harmsworth must be out of his senses!”
“I wonder if all this has something to do with the haystack being burnt,” Dimity mused
. “I understand that Mr. Beecham has been implicated. At least, that’s what my housekeeper told me. Her son works at the Sawrey Hotel and hears all the local gossip.”
“Haystack?” Beatrix asked, frowning. “Mr. Beecham?” Which necessitated the telling of that story, as well. “Oh, dear,” she said, when she had heard it. “Old Thomas has done garden work for me since early spring. I rather like him, you know, even if he is a crusty sort.” Crusty, and not quite trustworthy, for she had caught him in a lie about the work. A lie, and a small theft, since he had put some seed potatoes in his pocket and taken them home with him. Still, she understood that he had little money. She didn’t begrudge him a few potatoes, although she would much rather he had asked.
She glanced at the clock and put down her cup. “If that clock is right, I really need to be on my way. I have an errand at Tidmarsh Manor this morning, and if I don’t hurry, I shall be late.”
Beatrix was getting into the pony cart when she remembered that Dimity had not finished telling her about the vicar and Mrs. Lythecoe, and that Major Kittredge had not related the business with the flying boats.
15
Hyacinth Takes a Test
“If yooou insist on goooing throoough with this training business,” intoned the owl, slowly and deliberately, “I suggest that yooou at least administer a test.”
“A test?” Bosworth asked uncertainly. “What sort of test?”
The two friends were sitting on the lower sun porch of the professor’s home, in the copper beech at the top of Claife Heights, enjoying glasses of the professor’s favorite ginger beer, which he himself made from a recipe passed down on his mother’s side of the family. It had stopped raining a little while before, and the air was mild and sweet-smelling.
“A test tooo see if your Hyacinth has the proper aptitudes,” the professor said. “Just because yooou think she can dooo all the things required of a wearer of the Badge does not mean she can, yooou know.” He sipped his ginger beer, frowning over his beak. “It would be rather inconvenient tooo appoint her tooo the post, only tooo discover that she is incompetent.”
“Incompetent!” The badger bristled. “That’s ridiculous. Of course she’s not incompetent! Hyacinth is a most able, most talented badger. She is observant and thoughtful and resourceful. She reads and writes with great skill and—”
“If that is the case,” the owl said sententiously, “yooou shouldn’t object to giving her a test. And then yooou will be sure. Before you invest a great deal of time in training, that is.”
Bosworth turned his glass in his paws. With a sigh, he said, “I suppose you’re right.” If nothing else, the test might silence the owl. When Hyacinth passed it, the professor would have nothing more to complain about.
“Of course I’m right,” said the owl complacently. “I am always right. And it’s only logical. Hyacinth should be tested.”
The badger considered this for a moment. “What kind of test are you thinking of, Owl?” How does one measure agility of thought, or the ability to deal with challenging situations, as those confronted in The Brockery every day? Or ingenuity, or resourcefulness? Keeping the History was only one of the tasks Hyacinth would have to carry out.
The owl smiled his owlish smile. “I should think it would be something having tooo dooo with memory and recall, shouldn’t yooou? Dates are of supreme importance. And lexical skill, as well—an historian must know how tooo spell. As tooo the rest of it—well, yooou can leave the details tooo me, my dear Badger.” The professor reached out with his wing to pat the badger’s shoulder in a comforting sort of way. “Testing is something at which I am an expert, yooou know. I have studied and taught extensively, and my work often involves tests of one kind or another.” He smiled again, smugly. “That is why they call me Professor.”
“Just don’t make it too hard.” The badger sighed again. Without thinking, he added, “I don’t want her to fail.”
The owl turned his whole head to give him a long, hard look. “That, my stripy friend,” he said in his most professorial tone, “is exactly the problem I am trying tooo illustrate.”
Pondering the implications of this, the badger was silent for a moment. Finally, he said, “I haven’t yet spoken to Hyacinth about the possibility of training her. I didn’t want to get her hopes up, in case . . .” His voice trailed off. He hated to admit that he was still hoping to hear something, anything, from the missing Thorn. “Well, just in case,” he said finally, and added, “How do you propose to administer a test to someone who doesn’t know why she’s being tested?”
“That is an interesting question,” the owl said. “I shall have tooo think about it for a moment.” And with that, he fluffed his feathers, settled his wings, and closed his great, round eyes, first one eye, then the other.
Ten minutes later, the badger realized that the owl had been waylaid by a nap, something which often happened at this time of day. He cleared his throat. When the owl didn’t move, he got up, took his friend’s glass, and set it quietly on the table. Then he leant over the owl and said, into his ear, “I’m going back to The Brockery, Professor. When you’ve come up with an answer, that’s where you’ll find me.”
As Bosworth made his way down the tree-trunk ladder that the owl kept for the convenience of his four-footed friends, he could hear the professor snoring.
Bosworth ambled home through the pleasant summer woodland, pausing here and there to investigate a promising community of earthworms or grubs in the rich, moist soil, snacking as he went, feeling the warmth of the sun and the kiss of the breeze on his black fur.
But he was not a happy badger. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more troubled he became by the professor’s proposal to test Hyacinth. Oh, he could see a certain wisdom in the idea. One did not want to invest a great deal of time and energy in attempting to train an animal who proved in the end to be unsuited to the task. But the professor’s plan also seemed to him to suggest a certain lack of confidence in the young badger. After all, his father had not proposed a test when he offered the Badge of Authority to Bosworth, nor had his father been tested, nor his grandfather, nor his great-grandfather, nor his great-great—
And then Bosworth was struck by an insight that was so astounding in its simplicity and clarity that it almost knocked him over. “Why, it’s because we are all males, that’s what it is!” he thought, flabbergasted at this sudden and unexpected understanding.
“My father just assumed that his son had the ability to do the job, as did his father and grandfather before him. None of them would ever have considered choosing any of their daughters. And Owl would never have suggested giving Thorn a test to see whether he was competent.” Bosworth kicked angrily at a clod of dirt. “But a female—now, that’s an entirely different kettle of fish, isn’t it? A female ought to be tested to see if she’s up to the job.” He sniffed in growing disgust. “Why, I call that arrogant, I do! I call that supercilious and condescending, and I don’t like it. I don’t like it, not one bit!”
And the more the badger thought about it, the less he liked it. It seemed to establish one set of rules for males, another for females. What was more, it seemed to put Hyacinth—whom Bosworth knew to be every bit as bright and energetic and resourceful as her brother—at a distinctly unfair disadvantage, and (if one were to generalize from this situation to others) to give male badgers a serious edge in any competition.
Now, this may seem to you to be rather ironic (it does to me), since Bosworth had certainly been patronizing enough when he considered suggesting to Hyacinth that he train her for a job that she could turn over to her brother, in the event of his return. And this sudden insight about male badgers having the advantage—well, I’m sure it’s old news to you, for the issue of discrimination has been openly debated in our society for several decades, at least.
But Bosworth, who had never before been called upon to consider the question, found it deeply troubling. Was it possible . . . Could it be . . . Had he risen to his
comfortable and authoritative place in the world entirely upon his gender? Had he gone through life with the idea that he had earned his success—and indeed, his triumphs—when all along these had come to him solely because he was a male?
Bosworth was still thinking these troublesome thoughts when he arrived at The Brockery. He had lingered so long in the woods that he had missed lunch, and Parsley, Primrose, and Hyacinth were in the kitchen, doing the washing-up. Bosworth put in his head, said hello, and quickly withdrew, because the sight of them made him oppressively aware of the way The Brockery’s duties were divided.
And then, as a kind of punishment, Bosworth set himself to a task that he truly detested and which, every year, he put off as long as he could. He donned a gray dust-smock to keep his fur from getting dusty, took a lighted candlestick in one paw and a notebook in the other, and put a pencil behind one ear. Then he struck off down one of the many corridors that angled away from the large dining hall, the central room in the occupied part of The Brockery. He would conduct his annual Survey of Renovation Requirements, an onerous and boring task and a very dirty one, to boot. It was something he needed to do, as manager of The Brockery, but he always put it off until he couldn’t put it off any longer. And today, this tedious job seemed a perfect retribution for all the privilege that he—a male—had enjoyed over the years.
To carry out the survey, Bosworth had to inspect every chamber in the sett, including all the hallways and corridors and inglenooks and crannies and parlors and bedsits and alcoves, in order to see what renovation and refitting might be needed. Since The Brockery had been excavated by many generations of badgers (none of whom ever bothered to draw a room plan or develop a decorating scheme), most of it was a bewildering labyrinth of rooms that were connected by dark, dusty corridors where few animals (other than the original badger-digger) had ever set foot. And no matter how thorough Bosworth had been when he made the previous surveys, he always managed to find himself in some remote part of The Brockery he’d never visited before. Many times, he would have been thoroughly lost had he not possessed the sketch map that had been drawn by his father after getting himself thoroughly lost on one of his annual inspections.
