by Susan Albert
“But I won’t be living alone, Grandmama,” Caroline said breathlessly. “That is the great beauty of it. You see, Miss Burns has taken a teaching position at a very fine girls’ school—Mrs. Alton’s School for Young Ladies—not far from the Academy. I can board at Mrs. Alton’s, and Miss Burns will look after me. And Mrs. King—” She clasped her hands. “Oh, Grandmama, this is the very best part!”
“I shall be teaching at the Academy during the coming year,” Mrs. King said genially. “I am willing to keep an eye on Miss Longford while she is there. I am also well acquainted with Mrs. Alton, where Miss Burns will be teaching. I can vouch for the school’s excellence. Boarding there will be ideal. As well as the supervision, Caroline will have the advantage of friendships with girls of her age, something she lacks here.”
“Miss Burns has taken a position elsewhere?” Lady Longford’s mouth had turned down at the corners and her voice was sepulchral. “She is leaving Tidmarsh Manor?”
“If your ladyship will recall,” Miss Burns said tactfully, “you were quite firm about engaging me on a year-to-year basis only, since you wanted the opportunity to look for a replacement, if you chose to do so.”
This is quite true, but very foolish on Lady Longford’s part, I have always thought. Adding to the bother of finding a suitable governess for a sixteen-year-old (the position would ordinarily end when the pupil approached eighteen) was the even greater nuisance of finding someone who would agree to come to such a remote place as Tidmarsh Manor, where there is practically no society worth mentioning and certainly no opportunity to escape to the opera or a museum. Had not Miss Potter strongly recommended Miss Burns and had not Miss Burns wanted an opportunity to see the Lakes, her ladyship might still be searching.
“I reminded your ladyship last month,” Miss Burns added in a deferential tone, “that our agreement would conclude in a fortnight. You said—”
“Oh, bother what I said,” Lady Longford snapped. “You cannot leave us, Miss Burns. I forbid it. Did you hear me? I forbid it!”
There was another silence. Mrs. King coughed. Miss Burns looked down at her fingers twisting in her lap. Caroline caught her breath.
“Miss Burns is correct, Lady Longford.” Beatrix spoke decidedly, since she had been in on this plan for several weeks—had in fact given a very strong character to Mrs. Alton on behalf of Miss Burns. “She is a teacher. When she understood that her contract was not to be extended here, she had a perfect right—in fact, she was obligated—to seek employment elsewhere.”
“But her contract will be extended here,” Lady Longford insisted. “Caroline is not going to London.” She thumped her walking stick on the floor, emphasizing her words. “I am delighted”—this, even though she didn’t sound one bit delighted—“that you, Mrs. King, have seen fit to recommend Caroline to the Academy, and that you are willing to look after her. It is gratifying to know that Miss Burns is so highly thought of that she has easily found other employment.” She sighed, putting on a falsely pained expression that wouldn’t fool anybody for a minute. “Of course, now that you have made all these careful arrangements, you are all probably expecting that I shall be forced to give my permission. But I shan’t. I cannot. And that’s all there is to it.”
“There is another reason, then?” pressed Beatrix.
Lady Longford sighed again, with even more pretended pain. “As you very well know, Miss Potter, I am not made out of money. In fact, I am nearly destitute. I scarcely have one penny left to rub against another penny. I may even be forced to sell some property.” She closed her eyes, adding piteously, “I am sorry to tell you this, but I simply cannot afford the tuition, not to mention the boarding expenses, and the traveling back and forth. It is all much too expensive.” Her eyes came open and her voice sharpened. “And it is not fair to badger an old, penniless lady for money. I don’t want to hear another word about it.”
Mrs. King frowned. “If Miss Longford’s tuition proves a hardship, the Academy may be able to grant her a scholarship.”
“And I think that the boarding costs might be negotiated,” Miss Burns said, “in view of the circumstance.”
“There, Grandmama!” Caroline said triumphantly. “Do you see? It needn’t cost so very much after all, especially since Miss Burns will no longer be my governess.”
“Charity!” Lady Longford pulled down her mouth. “A scholarship is charity, Caroline. I will not allow you to accept it. And since I cannot possibly afford the expensive tuition—”
“It is not so costly as your ladyship might think,” Mrs. King said.
“Excessive,” Lady Longford snapped, glaring.
“Not so much.” Mrs. King’s voice hardened.
“Exorbitant!” The two ladies were glowering at each other.
“Reasonable,” Mrs. King said loudly, “especially considering all the many advantages Miss Longford will—”
Lady Longford pounded her cane on the floor. “I shall not have my granddaughter going to school in London! It is far too costly, and accepting charity is entirely out of the question. Do you hear me? Does everyone hear me?”
Another silence. Out in the hallway, the clock struck twelve. Somewhere, a door slammed. From a distance came the sound of hammering.
Adroitly, Beatrix seized the chance. “Well, then,” she said brightly. “If cost is the only reason your ladyship is hesitating, I am sure that Caroline will be willing to pay her expenses herself, out of the funds from her parents’ estate.”
Lady Longford gasped. Miss Burns made a small noise. Mrs. King gave a dry chuckle.
“My . . . parents’ estate?” Caroline asked blankly. “I don’t understand. There was no estate. There are no funds.”
“Why, of course there are, my dear,” Beatrix replied. “Mr. Heelis told me so himself, just yesterday. The legal knots have all been untied and the money invested. I am sure that the principal will yield enough interest to—”
“Hold your tongue, Miss Potter,” Lady Longford commanded in a threatening tone. “Not another word.” If it had been anyone but Beatrix, I’m sure her ladyship would have boxed her ears.
Beatrix frowned. “I don’t understand,” she said perplexedly. “Have I let something slip? You mean, Caroline doesn’t know about the money? She doesn’t—” She put her hand to her mouth, letting her eyes go wide, the very picture of embarrassment. “Oh, dear! If I’ve spoken out of turn, I really must apologize. I didn’t know . . . I didn’t mean . . .”
Caroline pushed herself out of her chair. “Is it true, Grandmama? Did Papa and Mama leave money for me?” Her voice rose. Her hands were clenched, her cheeks were glowing red. “Money for my education?”
All eyes were fixed on Lady Longford.
Her ladyship cleared her throat. “It is true that a . . . a certain sum remained in your parents’ estate after all the property was sold up. It has been invested for your future.” She looked up at the ceiling. “There is no provision for withdrawals, however, so I did not see that you needed to be informed.”
“Informed!” Caroline drew herself up, her eyes flashing. “Of course I needed to be informed! And just how long did you plan to wait before you told me, Grandmama? Until you were ready to find a husband for me, as you tried to find a wife for Papa? The money was to be my dowry, I suppose. It would go to my husband when I married.” She tossed her head scornfully. “Well, what if I don’t choose to marry anyone, ever? What if I choose to have a career in music?”
Beatrix was uncomfortably reminded of her bitter confrontations with her own parents about her engagement to Norman—and since then, about the time she spent away from them, at Hill Top. But she was also impressed by the girl’s willingness to stand up for what she wanted.
Lady Longford pressed her lips together. “I am only trying to do what is best for you.”
Beatrix almost smiled. Her parents had said those very same words to her.
“What is best for me,” Caroline said resolutely, “is to study at the Royal A
cademy. Since you do not have the funds to help, I shall go to Mr. Heelis and tell him that I will use my own money to pay my tuition, as well as my board and room and travel expenses.”
Beatrix felt like exclaiming, “Well done, Caroline!” But instead, she only winked, and got a slight smile in return.
Lady Longford cleared her throat. “I wish,” she said petulantly, “that you would not go leaping to conclusions in such a hasty way, Caroline.” She glared at Miss Burns. “And that you had consulted me before you made other employment plans or—” She turned her attention to Mrs. King. “Or recommended my granddaughter to the Academy. However—” She stopped.
Everyone looked at her.
She cast her eyes toward the portrait of Lord Longford. Her voice became pious. “However, I believe that Lord Longford would be excessively gratified to know of his granddaughter’s acceptance, and that my poor darling would much prefer it if I—” She paused here, and regarded Beatrix with a reproving glance. “If I were the one who supported Caroline. Therefore, in deference to his lordship’s wishes—” She paused for effect. “I will pay the first term’s tuition and board and room. If Caroline distinguishes herself, she may continue. If not—” She looked down her nose at her audience and her tone became imperative. “If not, my support will be withdrawn and she will come home. Is that clear to everyone?”
Everyone knew, of course, that the good Lord Longford had nothing to do with her ladyship’s change of heart. It was Caroline’s threat to ask Mr. Heelis for her money that had forced her ladyship’s hand. And everyone knew that her ladyship, once committed, would continue to support Caroline. So everyone was pleased, and all showed it.
“Oh, thank you, Grandmama!” Caroline cried, and flung her arms around the old lady’s neck.
“Splendid decision,” said Mrs. King.
“I am so very glad,” Miss Burns added warmly.
Beatrix, for her part, leaned forward and whispered something in Lady Longford’s ear. Her ladyship looked up quickly. It seemed at first she would scowl, but then she actually smiled.
What Beatrix had said was, “And now we see you in your true colors.”
17
In Which We Are Surprised
While Beatrix was at Tidmarsh Manor, Captain Woodcock was presiding over a hearing into Mr. Harmsworth’s armed assault on the officers of the law and the general public, as well as the closure of Applebeck Footpath. The hearing was held in the library at Tower Bank House. Mr. Harmsworth appeared in the custody of Constable Braithwaite. Major Ragsdale, still in full kit, also attended, to face the charge of trespass.
The discussion of the issues was at times loud and heated (especially on the part of Mr. Harmsworth). The captain considered the question of the footpath, declared that its long history of public use warranted its continued use as a public thoroughfare, and instructed Mr. Harmsworth to immediately remove the barricades that were obstructing the path. Since the footpath was a public thoroughfare, the charge of trespass against Major Ragsdale was dismissed. Mr. Harmsworth was found guilty of armed assault and, after a stern lecture, placed on two years’ probation. The removal of the barricades was one of the conditions of his probation, which also required him to yield up his gun.
Mr. Harmsworth was surly. “And if I doan’t give up me gun? Or take down t’ barriers?”
“Your probation will be revoked. You will be remanded directly to gaol and your case put before the magistrate—who is a good deal less lenient than I. Constable Braithwaite will accompany you to see that my order is carried out.”
“But wot about me haystack?” Mr. Harmsworth glared at Major Ragsdale. “ ’Twas t’ Ragsdale ruffians wot burnt it down. They ought to pay me for t’ damage.”
“I say, now!” the major exclaimed, in high dudgeon. “That is entirely uncalled for! The Ramblers are gentlemen, to a man. They would never stoop to—”
“Who says they stooped?” Mr. Harmsworth demanded truculently. “They cud’ve stood on t’ road and tossed a burnin’ brand onto t’ haystack. No need at all to stoop.”
The constable stifled a chuckle.
The major hooted. “Of all the foolish—”
“I will have order in this court!” The captain banged his wooden gavel smartly on the library table. “Major, there’s no need for name-calling. Constable, escort Mr. Harmsworth to the footpath and see that the barricades are removed.”
When they had gone, he said to the major, “I imagine you are contemplating some sort of public victory celebration. But I hope you will not further inflame the situation.” He chuckled wryly. “Perhaps ‘inflame’ was not a good choice of words. All I meant to say was—”
“I quite take your point, Captain Woodcock,” the major said with a small smile. “I shall let the Ramblers know that their celebrations, if any, ought to be private. And between you and me, I believe you handled the case admirably. I congratulate you, sir.”
For a moment, the captain thought that the major was about to salute him. But he only pumped the captain’s hand and left, saying once again how very glad he was that the business had been concluded satisfactorily.
The captain went to stand by the window with his hands in his pockets, whistling tunelessly and staring out at the summer garden. It had stopped raining, and old Fred Phinn was stooped over, weeding the phlox, while Mrs. Stubbs’ cat watched him impassively. The captain had the uneasy suspicion that this was not the end of this affair, and I must tell you that he was right, but not for the reasons he supposed.
He wasn’t planning to go out again for a time, and since it was rather warm, the captain took off his coat, unbuttoned his collar, removed his cuffs, and rolled up his shirt-sleeves. He was thinking, and not very happily, that he should have to go to the kitchen and find himself something to eat. Elsa had been called away so suddenly that she had not prepared anything for him, which meant that he had eaten last night at the pub. He would have to eat there again tonight, and a pub lunch was not appealing. Perhaps a sandwich, although he was not sure there was any bread left and he had no idea where Elsa kept—
But someone was knocking at his front door. He stopped whistling and went to see who was calling.
“Why, Miss Nash!” he exclaimed in some surprise, for that was who it was. “Good afternoon!”
I am surprised that Miss Nash has come calling, especially since I know a little of the history of her heart. Of course, the captain knows nothing at all of her affections, for she has successfully kept them hidden from everyone, and most particularly from him. Indeed, he has not even seen her since the graduation of the junior class, at which (as one of the school trustees) he presided. He is vaguely aware that she looks pretty today, in a pink-and-white crepe de chine blouse and gray serge skirt, with pink two-button gloves and a neat, narrow-brimmed straw boater with pink velvet ribbons perched on top of her rich brown hair.
(If you are thinking that this is rather detailed description for a man who is only “vaguely aware” of the way the lady looks, you are right. Even a man who is acutely aware might not be able to tell you that her ribbons are velvet and that her blouse is made of crepe de chine, let alone number the buttons on her gloves. This is my description, since I want you to see what the captain is seeing, even though he could not begin to tell you the details himself. Authors have a way of slipping in bits like this, so you need to be wary.)
“Good afternoon, Captain,” Miss Nash said primly. “If you have a moment, I should like to talk to you about the need for some repair of the two stovepipes at the school. I feel it should be done before the term begins, to avoid any unnecessary interruptions. The money is available, but we shall need the trustees’ approval.”
“Of course, of course,” the captain said, wishing urgently that he had not taken off his cuffs and rolled up his shirt-sleeves. He led the way to the library. “Would you like a cup of tea? Elsa is out for a few days and the maid is off, but I’m sure I can manage.”
“Tea would be lovely,” Miss Nas
h replied, seating herself and taking off her pink gloves.
The captain paused on his way out of the room, remembering that there was something that Dimity always asked when it came to tea. “Milk or lemon?” he ventured.
Miss Nash smiled. “Milk, as long as it isn’t any bother.”
“No bother at all,” he assured her gallantly.
But of course the whole thing was an enormous bother, from start to finish. The fire in the kitchen range had not been tended all morning, so it had quite naturally gone into a sulk, and the water in the iron kettle that sat on the back of the stove was not nearly so hot as it ought to have been. The captain had no idea where Elsa kept the tea, and some determined rummaging through the cupboard was required to find it, cleverly hidden in a green metal canister labeled TEA. He couldn’t find the tea ball, so he put the loose tea in the teapot and filled it from the kettle (sadly, the water was only lukewarm). He was hoping the tea leaves would settle, although it’s been my experience that they never do. If there’s a tea leaf in the pot, it will find its way to my teeth and be displayed for all to see.
Another few minutes were required to find the sugar, cups, saucers, and spoons, and longer to locate the biscuits—only four of them, unfortunately, but perhaps that was enough, since they seemed a bit stale. He was elated to find the milk exactly where Mr. Llewellyn had put it on the kitchen table. It was warm (owing to sitting out all morning) and the thick cream had risen to the top, plugging the neck of the glass bottle. When he tried to pour the milk into a pitcher, the cream-plug stuck, then abruptly came loose, resulting in a flood on the kitchen table. There was only enough milk left in the bottle to half-fill the little pitcher, and not enough time (of course) to mop up the puddle on the table, so he left it where it was.
