by Susan Albert
But Will has long since left the familiar country of formulaic phrases and conventional actions and has crossed the border into that bewildering no-man’s-land where people do the strangest, wildest, most utterly unpredictable things. Perhaps you have found yourself in this sort of situation before, where it is absolutely impossible to know what you are going to say or do until it is actually said or done, and then you are astonished at yourself.
And so is Will. He is amazed to find himself taking Beatrix’s hand, looking directly into her face, and asking a completely irrational question in an entirely rational tone: “My dear Miss Potter, how is that?”
“I beg your pardon,” she says, and is so startled by this unexpected question that she lifts her eyes to his.
“Tell me how you would choose to live your life—if you were free to choose.”
And with this impertinent, insolent, and terribly cheeky request, Will Heelis has opened a whole new chapter in his life, and in Miss Potter’s.
“Please.” She tries to retrieve her hand and can’t. “I don’t . . . I can’t possibly . . . I’m not sure . . .”
He refuses to relinquish her hand. “I think you are sure, Miss Potter. I know you are.” And of course he is right.
“It doesn’t matter what I would choose, Mr. Heelis. I can’t. Really,” she adds rather crossly, “it’s out of the question. It’s pointless to talk about it, so let’s not. And if you don’t mind, I should like you to let go of my hand.”
Perhaps you are thinking that Miss Potter should have rehearsed her second act. I most certainly agree. If I am ever put into this awkward position, I will be sure to have given some thought to what I will say after I have said “no,” for sometimes even a very firm “no” is not the last word.
Mr. Heelis thinks so, and is not going to take no for an answer. As I said earlier, he is a persistent man, even a stubborn man, when his feelings are aroused. And they have been corked up for so long that, now that they are loose, they refuse, like Aladdin’s genie, to be stuffed back into that ridiculous bottle. They emerge with a power and eloquence that astound him and catch Beatrix completely off her guard.
“I believe we must talk about it,” he says firmly, and continues to hold her hand. “I love you, Miss Potter—Beatrix—and I believe that you love me. Do you not?”
Beatrix turns her head aside. “I admit to a certain . . . deep fondness for you, yes,” she says reluctantly. “But our friendship must remain a friendship. I—”
“You have already said that.” He is impatient. “If you are deeply fond of me—if you love me, if you would choose to marry me if you were free to choose . . .” He stops, feeling that there might be one too many ifs in his sentence, but not sure which one should come out. “If you would choose to marry me, Beatrix, you should say yes, now. I am content to wait until your circumstances change, however long that may be.”
Uncertain, startled, she turns to look at him. “Wait?”
“Yes. Wait. Of course. What did you think? That I would carry you off to Gretna Green to be married next fortnight? I know that your parents prefer you to—”
“Mr. Heelis—”
He touches his finger to her lips. “Will, please. Call me Will, Beatrix.”
She pulls back, as if his touch is electric. Perhaps it is. How long has it been since a man touched her lips? Norman is said by all who knew him to be as shy and diffident as she, and they were so rarely alone—I wonder, did he ever even kiss her? Or even hold her hand? Or did their love affair take place only in their letters?
She takes a deep breath and steadies herself. “My parents will never consent to our marriage, Mr.—Will. It’s pointless even to speak of it.”
“Your parents—” He stops. He was going to say that her parents would not live forever, which is certainly true but sounded cruelly blunt. He settles for something quite different, and hits upon—perhaps by accident or perhaps even by some sort of divine intervention—the one thing that might move her.
He says: “Let’s not consider your parents, or their consent or refusal, not at the moment. Can we not simply agree that we love one another, and that we would like to be married, if, and when, the circumstances permit?”
She frowns. “I don’t believe—”
“I do. I believe it very much.” He pulls her hand against his chest, his eyes holding hers so that she cannot look away, his words urgent. “I believe that we love one another, Beatrix, and that we would like to be married—someday. Not today, not tomorrow or next week, but someday. And that’s all I need to believe at this moment.”
She tries to pull away, but is captive. “It’s too soon, Will. Let’s not—”
“Too soon?” He laughs lightly. “We have known one another for five years, Beatrix. Five years. And I have loved you almost since the beginning. Since that afternoon we drove back from Ambleside in the rain. Remember?”
And as he hears himself say these surprising words, he acknowledges their truth to himself. Five years. He has loved this woman for five years. He just hasn’t known it, that was all.
And if you think it is impossible for a person to love another person for five years and be entirely unaware of it, please consider that the Victorians made it a practice to imprison their disruptive, unruly feelings in the cellar of Dr. Freud’s unconscious until those feelings became so strong that they fought their way out and clamored relentlessly for acknowledgment. Which is what has happened here, I suspect. Mr. Heelis might have been slow out of the gate (five years!), but there is no stopping him now. He has the bit in his teeth, and this is the home stretch. He sees the finish line not far ahead, and he is having a strong go at it.
“Yes, I remember that afternoon.” She pulls in her breath. “Five years? It has really been that long?”
“That long. And it can be longer, as long as need be,” he says earnestly. “If only I have your promise, Beatrix.”
She bites her lip. “Just a promise? That’s all you want from me?”
“Yes, a promise. That’s all.” But a promise is everything, isn’t it? Especially for a woman like Beatrix and a man like Will. Once spoken, the promise is binding.
She seems to consider. The moment stretches on, lengthening until the nighttime silence is broken at last by a querulous Whooo-who-whooo?—Professor Owl, I am sure, inquiring as to the possibility of a dinner guest. Or perhaps, in some metaphysical way, he is posing a question to Beatrix. If not Norman Warne, my dear, who? If not Will Heelis, who? Who, who?
She deliberates a moment longer, and then another. And finally she lifts her chin, meets his eyes, and speaks quite firmly, as if she has at long last made up her mind. “Well, then, here is my promise. I promise not to marry anyone but you, Will Heelis.” She pauses, and her eyes glint in wry amusement. “There. That is my promise, and I freely give it. Will it do?”
He frowns. She hasn’t promised to marry him, now or in the future—has she? No. She has promised not to marry anyone but him. His frown deepens. Is she teasing? Is she having sport with him? Does she intend never to—
“There, you see?” she says with relish. She at last succeeds in reclaiming her hand and steps back. “It is not enough for you, after all your pretty speeches. I knew you wanted something more from me. Well, that’s all you are going to get. You are free to take back your proposal.”
“No, no,” he says hastily, feeling himself caught and bowled, and very handily so. His respect for Miss Potter rises even higher, if that were possible. “It is enough. It is more than enough. I am entirely satisfied. I—”
He stops, heartened. Really, it is all very logical. She has promised. And he knows Beatrix Potter well enough to know that she is a woman of her word. She will never break a promise. She will marry him, or she will never marry. Isn’t that what he wants? Well, not exactly, perhaps. But he knows it is the best he’s going to get, and he is content. His spirit suddenly lightens, and the moon seems to smile on them warmly and sweetly and with the fullest possible app
roval.
“Very well, then,” he says. “You have given your promise, and I accept it, with all my heart. Now you shall have mine.”
Her eyes widen, and he knows that she has not thought this far. “Oh, but, I don’t want—No, please, Mr. Heelis—Will! No promise! You really must look for someone who can make your home happy and comfortable and give you children and—”
He overrides her protest. “I promise to marry no one but you, Beatrix Potter.” The words are as sacred to him as if they were said at St. Peter’s, before Vicar Sackett and the entire congregation. He steps back. “There. Your pledge, and mine. We have agreed. To an engagement.”
“An engagement?” she whispers, and pales. “Oh, dear. This isn’t what I meant to do. Not at all!”
“Too late for that, my dear,” he says with a chuckle. “Re nege, and I shall sue you for breach of promise. And since I know my way around a courtroom, Miss Potter, you shall surely lose.”
“But I don’t want—I can’t possibly—My parents—”
“Yes, you do want,” he says firmly, putting his hands on her shoulders. “And whether you can or you can’t doesn’t enter into it in the slightest, not at the moment. Nor do your parents. It is only the two of us, Beatrix. No one else. And no one else needs to know. It is our secret.”
I’m afraid he is wrong, though. You know, and I know. And someone else knows—someone, indeed, two someones—for they are watching and listening at this very moment, and are likely to tell the exciting news to everyone they know.
He smiles down at her. “And now that we are well and truly engaged, I would like to kiss my fiancée. If she doesn’t mind, that is.”
And since the moon has discreetly retired behind a convenient cloud and the darkness wraps them like a cloak, this is the ideal moment for their kiss. About time, too, wouldn’t you say? I (and perhaps you) have been waiting for this moment through several books now, and had just about given up hope that it was ever going to happen. And here it is at last, hooray! We can stand back and watch and smile and enjoy it—not as much as our Beatrix and her Will, perhaps (it is their first kiss, after all, and aren’t first kisses always wonderful?), but enjoy it we certainly shall.
Except that we shan’t.
For Will doesn’t get to kiss his new fiancée, although this is not his fault. Just as he is bending to claim that most pleasurable privilege, he catches sight of something out of the corner of his eye. Beatrix sees it at the same moment, points, gasps.
“Fire!” she cries. “The buttery at Applebeck—it’s burning!”
Will wheels to look. Yes, fire! Flames are shooting out of the windows of a stone building a hundred yards down the footpath.
“I’ll run to the pub and get help,” Beatrix says breathlessly. “You go and see if there’s anyone in that building.”
And without another word, she is racing up the hill in the direction of the Tower Bank Arms. Will sprints in the other direction, toward the burning building.
He is nearly there when he remembers that he has not gotten his kiss.
22
In Which All Conundrums Are Resolved—Or Are They?
The Great Applebeck Fire, as it came to be called, took hours to subside. It was not extinguished by the impromptu fire brigade that turned out as soon as Miss Potter raced into the pub and raised the alarm. No—in spite of the stout efforts of the valiant men and women who formed a human chain and passed pails of water from Wilfin Beck and tossed them onto the burning building, the fire was doused by an opportune thundershower that happened by. It was kind enough to pour buckets of rain onto the burning building, and also managed to drench all our intrepid fire fighters before it went on its way, chuckling at the fine joke.
But by that time, I am sorry to say, the ancient timbers, rafters, and joists that supported the old slate roof had all burnt through. Whilst the stone walls still stood fairly firm, the roof caved in and the interior was completely gutted. The embers continued to smolder for long hours after the thundershower had wandered off into the western fells and everyone, exhausted with work and excitement and wet from head to toe, had gone home to indulge in a hot toddy, a good toweling, and bed. As they went, they speculated (naturally) about the cause of this second fire at Applebeck Farm within the space of a few weeks.
“ ’Twas t’ Ramblers!” cried Mr. Harmsworth, who had appeared at the fire in his trousers and muslin nightshirt, which he had not taken off when he was woken and told that the buttery was burning. “They set fire to t’ haystack, and they’re back again to burn me out!”
“Ridiculous,” snorted Major Ragsdale. He had heard the alarm and run over from Teapot Cottage. “Likely, your dairymaid left a candle burning. Happens all the time.” He shook his head reprovingly. “Careless dairymaids. Never look what they are doing.”
“Ask me, ’twas Bertha Stubbs,” whispered Agnes Llewellyn to Mathilda Crook, as they started up the path toward the village. “Her threatened to put a rock through his window, to get even fer closin’ t’ footpath. Reckon her figured a torch ’ud do a better job.”
Bertha Stubbs, too far behind them to hear what they were saying, had her own opinion. “ ’Twere t’ lightnin’,” she claimed loudly, although it was an indisputable fact that the storm had not arrived on the scene until the building was entirely engulfed in flames. “Reet dang’rous, that lightnin’.”
“ ’Twas Auld Beechie wot done it,” said Dick Llewellyn, confidentially, to Constable Braithwaite. “Who else has a reason fer wantin’ to cause Harmsworth grief? Had to be him.”
The constable, who agreed with Mr. Llewellyn’s assessment of the situation, left the scene of the crime and went directly to Mr. Beecham’s cottage on Cunsey Beck. He pounded on the door and called loudly, but nobody answered except an old yellow cat who screeched at him from the shed. Then, just as the constable was about give it up as a bad job and go home and dry off, Mr. Beecham came around the corner of the cottage, smelling of smoke and smudge and wet right through to the skin, like everyone else, and carrying a very nice wooden cheese ring under one arm and a wooden churn under the other. He had seen the fire from his cottage window, he explained, and hastened to fight it, as any good neighbor would.
The churn and the cheese ring? Oh, he had bagged—er, he had found them—just outside the burning building, and not wanting either to be damaged, had brought both along home with him, to be returned later. As for how the blaze began, it was his considered opinion that Mr. Harmsworth had set it, although he was at a loss to explain, now that the footpath was closed, why he would do such a thing, especially if (as Mr. Beecham claimed) the property was about to be sold.
And when Constable Braithwaite pointed out that Mr. Beecham himself had a jolly good reason for burning down the building, Mr. Beecham became indignant. He? Why, he had nothing to do with the fire! Nothing at all, and anybody who said anything else was either a liar or a bloody fool. He was only an innocent bystander who had done his very best to put out the flames and rescue valuable property, and had anybody thanked him for his strenuous efforts? No, of course they hadn’t. And with that, he told the constable to go on about his business, for it was getting on past midnight and he, Mr. Beecham, intended to pour himself a stout tot of rum and go to bed.
The constable was frustrated and out of temper. But there was little he could do, for it was as Captain Woodcock reminded us earlier: unless there is an eyewitness to an arson, or unless the arsonist stupidly leaves a piece of incriminating evidence behind, it is very difficult to gain a conviction. So the good John Braithwaite had to content himself with confiscating the churn and the cheese ring and telling Auld Beechie to keep well away from Applebeck. If there were any more fires, anywhere, he—the constable—would know where to look first, by Jove.
But in this case, there was an eyewitness, although this fact was not known until the following day.
Miss Potter spent the morning seeing to her various farm duties. She went out into the hay field to inspect t
he haystacks; went into the garden to pick three bunches of grapes and some plums; discussed the acquisition of a new tup for her flock of Herdwick sheep with Farmer Jennings; and reviewed Mrs. Jennings’ reports of the milk, butter, and eggs produced by the cows and hens, as well as the vegetables produced by the garden. These were pleasant tasks, and she always enjoyed them.
And since it was a day of blue skies and mild breezes, she saw no reason why the fire at Applebeck should keep her from meeting Gilly, as she and Mr. Harmsworth had agreed. So after the noon meal, she drove Winston the pony (with Rascal coming along for the ride) to Applebeck. When she arrived, Mr. and Mrs. Harmsworth were nowhere to be seen. But Gilly was waiting at the gate, wearing a patched white pinafore over a plain gray dress, her blond hair plaited into two braids. She had a book in her hand.
“Please climb in,” Miss Potter invited, after she had introduced herself.
Gilly, feeling deeply troubled, complied. “Is this what you’ve come for?” she asked, holding out the book. “It’s the one Miss Nash gave me for winning the spelling contest. I’ve loved reading it, but if you want it back—”
“Why, no,” Miss Potter said, smiling. “The book is yours to keep, of course. I am glad you won it, and very glad you like it.” She picked up the reins and clucked to the pony, who flicked his tail and tossed his head in a lively way, as though he was pleased to be out and about on such a pretty afternoon. “I have come just for you, my dear. I thought we might go for a drive. Should you like that?”
Gilly would like that very much. Other than her walks back and forth to school and to chapel on Sunday, she had been nowhere else but Applebeck, and she knew there was a great deal more to see. She felt rather shy as they drove off, but Rascal climbed into her lap and licked her face, and Miss Potter drew her out very quietly and skillfully, and before long Gilly found herself telling the story of her young life, where she had lived before she came to Applebeck, why she had come there, and what sort of work she did—keeping the buttery and making the cheeses, and doing the garden and the housework.
