by Susan Albert
“Why, thank you,” Beatrix said, and took the fish. She paused. “I wonder . . . I know this is a delicate matter, but I heard something today that troubled me very much.”
“No!” Rascal yipped. “Let’s just go, Miss Potter. You don’t want to offend this old rascal.”
Beatrix took a deep breath. “I don’t mean to be offensive, but—”
“This man,” Rascal said urgently, “he flies off the handle. You never know what he might—”
“Has t’ do wi’ that haystack o’ Harmsworth’s, don’t it?” Mr. Beecham demanded sharply. He raised the fishing pole in a threatening gesture.
“You see?” Rascal barked, inserting himself protectively between Miss Potter and Mr. Beecham. He growled low in his throat.
“That’s quite enough, Rascal,” Beatrix said sternly. “Yes, it does have to do with the haystack,” she said. “I shouldn’t like to think—” She stopped, half-wishing she hadn’t begun. The haystack was a police matter.
“Then don’t,” Mr. Beecham said roughly. He pulled his fierce gray brows together and thrust his head forward. “No biz’ness o’ yours, Missus.”
“I’ll defend you, Miss Potter!” Rascal cried. “This fellow won’t lay a hand on you. Not so much as a finger!” He planted his forelegs on the ground, baring his teeth and snarling fiercely.
“Rascal!” Beatrix exclaimed, irritated. She stepped in front of him. “If you don’t stop, I shall send you home. Do you hear, sir?”
Rascal put his ears back, intimidated by Miss Potter’s stern tone.
Beatrix returned to the subject. Since she had broached it, she ought to go on and not leave the matter hanging. “I was sorry to hear,” she said quietly, “that some think you might have been involved.”
Mr. Beecham clenched his fist. Rascal stiffened warily but was silent.
“I had nothin’ to do wi’ it, Missus,” the old man growled. “Harmsworth’s a fool and a cheat, and if somebody burned him out, I fer one wudn’t shed no tears. I wuz fishin’ that night, with a gent’lman from over acrost the lake, a charcoal burner. We wuz out here on the water when it happened. He’ll testify to that hisself, he will. And that’s wot I told the constable, when he asked me.” He grinned bleakly, showing broken yellow teeth. “So ye kin jes’ put the biz’ness right out o’ yer mind, Missus. Yer haystacks is safe wit’ me.”
“Don’t believe him, Miss Potter,” Rascal urged. “Everyone knows that this man is a liar!”
Now, Beatrix was an avid reader of newspapers and understood very well that people sometimes fabricated an alibi, even going to the trouble of bribing a friend to testify on their behalf. She knew better than to place much confidence in an alibi. Mr. Beecham’s angry, artless response seemed to ring with deep sincerity, but the old man had lied to her once before. What’s more, he had stolen those seed potatoes.
“I see,” she said cautiously. “Well, then, I shall rest easy about my haystacks. But I am told there were no storms that night, and no lightning. It seems that someone must have set that fire. Do you have any guesses as to who might have done it?”
“Guesses?” Mr. Beecham gave a sour chuckle. “Well, yes, I reckon I do, Missus. I’m guessin’ it was Harmsworth hisself, the scallywag.”
“Harmsworth?” Rascal yipped incredulously. “Burnt his own haystack? That’s nonsense!”
“Mr. Harmsworth?” Beatrix asked in some surprise. “What reason would he have?”
“Wants to close that footpath, don’t he?” The old man snorted. “What better excuse fer closin’ the path than somebody puttin’ a torch to his haystack? The fool prob’ly figgered he could get away with it.” He grinned wisely. “He don’t know Bertha Stubbs, though. She’s mad enough to put a rock right through his window—or put a match to his barn.” He gave Beatrix a significant look. “Anything else burns down at Applebeck, my money’s on Bertha Stubbs.”
Beatrix frowned, not liking the way Mr. Beecham was trying to shift responsibility. Bertha Stubbs made plenty of noise, but she was more bluster than bite. And anyway, Captain Woodcock had said that the footpath was being reopened, so Bertha would have no cause. But there was another question in her mind.
“Why would Mr. Harmsworth want to close the footpath, though?” she persisted. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
“You ain’t heard, Missus?” Mr. Beecham cackled. His breath smelled richly of garlic and beer, and Beatrix stepped back.
“Heard what?” she asked.
“Oh, forget it, Miss Potter,” Rascal said. “There’s nothing to hear.”
“Noisy lit’le feller, ain’t he?” the old man said, scowling down at Rascal. “Well, maybe the news ain’t got round the village yet.” He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Harmsworth’s got an offer to buy that orchard, y’ see. But only if he closes that path first. The person who’s after buyin’ it told him there ain’t no deal ’less’n the path’s closed. The buyer aims to put in some new trees and don’t want people treadin’ back and forth crost the orchard.”
So that’s it! Beatrix thought. She should have guessed. Footpath closures always seemed to come when a property changed hands, or was about to. “And who wants to buy it?” she asked.
Mr. Beecham gave her a shrewd look. “Aha. Happen you’d like to have it fer yerself, eh, Missus?”
“Yes, of course, I’d like to have it,” Beatrix said, being quite candid. “But I don’t want the upkeep of an orchard, and anyway, I can’t afford it. I purchased Castle Farm last year, and I have my hands full with new fences and drains and a barn roof.”
“Aye.” Mr. Beecham hitched up his trousers. “Ye’re known here’bouts as a canny farmer, Missus. Somebody who takes good care o’ her proppity. Ye’re a careful mistress but fair to yer workers, as I know very well fer meself.”
More than fair, Beatrix thought, remembering those potatoes. Anybody else would’ve made him turn out his pockets. “Thank you, Mr. Beecham,” she said. “I do my best.” She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Who wants to buy it?”
Mr. Beecham laughed rudely. “Why, who else in t’ world but her right royal ladyship, Missus?”
Beatrix stared at him disbelievingly. “Lady Longford?”
“Lady Longford!” Rascal barked. “What would she want with an apple orchard?”
“T’ very same,” Mr. Beecham said. “Offered to pay cash fer it, an’ a right purty price, too—long as t’ path is closed. Says she means to go into t’ apple biz’ness.”
Beatrix was silent for a moment, thinking about the claim that Lady Longford had made that very morning, as an excuse for not being able to send Caroline to study at the Royal Academy. She had maintained that she was nearly penniless, so destitute that she might be forced to sell some property in order to survive. But that had been a lie. She couldn’t be so very destitute if she could afford to buy Applebeck Farm—with cash.
“How do you know all this?” Beatrix asked, at last.
“’Cause Beever is my cousin,” Mr. Beecham said promptly. “Ye know Beever, d’ye?”
Beatrix nodded. She knew the Beevers very well. Mr. Beever was Lady Longford’s gardener and coachman. His wife was her cook-housekeeper.
“Tells me all sorts of things ’bout Tidmarsh Manor, Beever does.” Mr. Beecham shook his head disapprovingly. “Now, there’s a place I’d nivver work. Her ladyship pushes old Beever hard as a mule and don’t pay him near ’nough for all he does.”
Privately, Beatrix agreed, for Lady Longford was known far and wide as a demanding employer. But she did not want to say so out loud. “Thank you for telling me about the offer to buy the orchard,” she said instead. “I’m glad to have the information.”
But what should she do with it, now that she had it? she wondered, as she walked back up the hill to her farmhouse. Could Mr. Beecham be right? Was it possible that Mr. Harmsworth had burnt his own haystack to give himself an excuse for closing the footpath through the orchard, which Lady Longford wanted to buy? Or was this a c
lever ruse on Mr. Beecham’s part, designed to throw her—or anybody else who asked the question—off the track?
At Hill Top, she took the trout to the buttery at the back of the house, wrapped it in a damp towel, and put it on the cooling shelf. She glanced at the clock. It was only half-past eight and still light outdoors. This conversation with Mr. Beecham—perhaps it would be a good idea to discuss it with Captain Woodcock. She tidied her hair, put on the hat with the blue velvet ribbon, and set out down the hill behind the Tower Bank Arms—alone, this time, for Rascal had gone back to Belle Green to see whether dinner was ready. She had crossed the Kendal Road in front of Buckle Yeat Cottage when she saw Margaret Nash coming out of Captain Woodcock’s front door. Her cheeks were the same pink as her blouse, her hair was in slight disarray, and she was smiling dreamily to herself.
Now, you and I know how quickly Margaret’s life has changed and how astonished she is by everything that’s happened on this momentous day. Our Beatrix, of course, doesn’t know a thing—but she is about to find out.
“Beatrix!” Margaret cried, and hurried toward her, arms outstretched. “Beatrix, I have the most wonderful news! You’ll never in the world guess what has happened!”
Beatrix stared. Surely it had to be good news, for Margaret was smiling with such a happy excitement. “Why, no,” she said. “I don’t think I can. Tell me.”
Margaret’s eyes sparkled. “Miles—Captain Woodcock—and I, we’re to be married!”
“Married?” Beatrix stood still, feeling her eyes grow wide. “But how . . . when . . . ?”
“Today! It happened today! Isn’t it marvelous? And we’ve just come back from Raven Hall, and telling Dimity and the major, who had us both to dinner. And Dimity is as thrilled as I am and absolutely insists on having the wedding in their lovely garden. It turns out that she has been secretly hoping Miles would ask me and I never guessed a thing!” The words were pouring out in a happy torrent. “Oh, Beatrix, it’s too wonderful! And it’s all thanks to you!”
“To me?” Stunned, Beatrix could not think what in the world she might have done to bring Captain Woodcock and Margaret Nash so precipitously together.
“Yes, you!” Margaret laughed delightedly. “In fact, it’s all owing to you, every bit of it. If you hadn’t suggested that Annie go to Brighton to the sanitarium—”
“Annie likes the idea?” Beatrix broke in.
“She absolutely loves it! She’ll be coming to see you to get the particulars. She is terribly keen on going, which at first was something of a let-down for me, since . . . well, you know. It’s a little hard to let her go. And of course I had no idea that she was hoping to find a way to leave the village.”
“I understand,” Beatrix said. “But I still don’t see how Annie’s going to Brighton is connected to your marrying Captain Woodcock.”
“Well, it is,” Margaret said. “I was thinking of Annie’s going, you see, when I came here to talk to Miles about repairing the school stovepipes. He made us tea, but he dropped the tea tray, and I helped him clean it up, and he—” Her pink cheeks grew even pinker, and she looked away. “That’s when he asked me to marry him, when we were both on our knees picking up the broken crockery and I was mopping up the mess.” She giggled helplessly. “We must have looked very silly. But we didn’t think of that at the time. It just seemed so right and natural.”
“So you love him, then?”
“I have loved him for longer than I dare to think,” Margaret said. “Of course, I could not have told him that, or even imagined—” She stopped, then said in a wondering tone, “How could I have even dared to imagine?”
Beatrix smiled. “But I still don’t understand how—”
“Well.” Margaret took a deep breath. “After he asked me to marry him and I had said yes, we went to the kitchen to make another pot of tea, because the first one was broken, and he asked if Annie would be coming to live with us and I said no, because she is going to Brighton, and he said how glad he was she is able to be independent and live her own life.”
“Oh,” Beatrix said, and suddenly understood why Margaret had connected Annie’s move to Brighton with her own marriage. If Annie had insisted on staying here in the village, Margaret would not have felt free to encourage the captain’s proposal. When he brought it up, she might have discouraged him, or rejected him. And once discouraged or rejected, he might not have persisted.
Beatrix laughed again. “Well,” she said in a knowing voice, “that explains why you are wearing your best pink blouse and your lilac toilet water, I suppose.”
“I suppose it does,” Margaret acknowledged, “although I had no idea when I set out . . . I mean, I couldn’t have guessed that he . . .” Her voice trailed off and her cheeks grew even pinker. “I hope you don’t think—”
“I don’t.” Beatrix took Margaret’s hands. “And however it came about, I am so pleased—especially if I have played a tiny role. Captain Woodcock is a fine man. I am sure he will make you very happy.”
Margaret leaned forward and kissed Beatrix’s cheek. “I will do all I can to make him happy,” she whispered. “Now, please forgive me. I must run and tell Annie this news. She will be utterly astonished! And so pleased.”
Beatrix watched her go, thinking that Annie could be no more astonished than she was. Margaret and Captain Woodcock—to be married! It was a shocking surprise, sure to set the village on its ear the minute it was known. Why, the tongues wouldn’t stop wagging for months!
And who could blame Beatrix if, mixed into the surprise, there was a certain amount of envy? I could not, nor could you, I’m sure. First Dimity Woodcock had married Christopher Kittredge, the love of her life. And now Margaret Nash, the spinster schoolmistress, was marrying Captain Woodcock, whom she had loved, by her own admission, longer than she dared to think.
And I could not blame Beatrix, either, if there was a certain amount of sadness, mixed with the envy.
Could you?
20
At Applebeck
Of all the difficult days Gilly had spent at Applebeck, to day had been the very worst. After breakfast, her uncle had taken his shotgun down from its hooks on the wall and stormed out of the house, muttering under his breath about the footpath. A little later, as she churned butter in the buttery, she had been startled to hear the rattle of gunfire from the direction of the footpath. She had left her churn and run toward the house, where Mrs. Harmsworth was standing at the door, staring out.
“What’s happening?” Gilly cried, frightened. “Who’s that shooting?”
“Who cares?” Mrs. Harmsworth said, and lifted her chin. Her eyes were glinting. “Mebbee t’ fool has shot hisself. Now, git on back to t’ buttery and finish thi churnin’. When ’tis done, there’s t’ floors to be scrubbed and t’ stove to be blacked.” And with that, she turned and went back into the house.
Gilly knew that the Harmsworths were not happy together, but it was a shock to hear Mrs. Harmsworth talk about Mr. Harmsworth in that way, especially since Gilly doubted very much that Mr. Harmsworth had shot himself. It was more likely, angry as he was, that he had shot someone else.
There was nothing she could do about the situation, however, so she went back to the old stone buttery—a drafty place and cool, very pleasant in the summer but appallingly cold in winter—and tried to lose herself in the pleasures of sweet milk and rich cream and thick golden butter. She also took refuge in her favorite daydreams, which were her chief comforts through the long days—daydreams where she found employment elsewhere, with amiable people, in a clean and agreeable place, where she could have an hour to herself every day to read, and perhaps a little gray cat who would come and drink from the saucers of milk she would put out for him. But they were only daydreams, and Gilly was realist enough to know that, whatever happened to Mr. Harmsworth, there would be no escape for her. She would still have to live with Mrs. Harmsworth, who would continue to demand that she do all the work. All she could do was run away.
&nb
sp; Mrs. Harmsworth refused to wait the noon meal for her husband, saying that whatever fix he’d got himself into was no business of hers. She and Gilly had just sat down to bowls of potato soup and sausage and brown bread and cheese when they heard a clatter outside, and the sound of voices. It was Mr. Harmsworth, come to fetch some tools. With him was Constable Braithwaite, very stern, who had apparently come to see that the barriers at either end of the footpath were taken down. An hour later, Mr. Harmsworth was at the table, greedily tucking into his dinner, sullen and silent. In spite of Mrs. Harmsworth’s shrill questioning, he would not say a word about what had happened, or who or what had been shot, or why. His only words, at the end of his meal, were addressed to Gilly, who at Mrs. Harmsworth’s command, had already started the washing-up, in a basin at the far end of the table.
“Wot dost tha know ’bout Miss Potter, girl?” he demanded roughly.
Gilly turned to stare at him, her hands dripping. “Who?”
“Miss Potter.” He got up from the table and came toward her. “Owns Hill Top Farm.”
“I don’t know her,” Gilly said, and went back to her washing-up. Strictly speaking, this was true, although you and I know that upstairs, hidden under her straw mattress, is the book that Gilly won in the school spelling contest, written by Miss Potter. At the moment, Gilly is glad that she had not mentioned the book to her aunt or uncle.
“Then why dost she want to see thi tomorrow?” He seized her arm, his face ugly, his eyes narrowing to slits. “What nonsense hast tha told her aboot us?”
“See me tomorrow?” Gilly asked blankly. Why would a famous author want to see her? Did Miss Potter mean to take her book back?
“What all this?” Mrs. Harmsworth demanded. “What’s this aboot Miss Potter?”
Mrs. Harmsworth had never met Miss Potter, but she had heard plenty about her from the people at the butcher’s shop in Far Sawrey, where she queued up once a week for a joint. Miss Potter was a wealthy lady from London, who made books for children and who owned two of the best farms in the area—one of them, Hill Top, just on the other side of the beck.
