The Tale of Applebeck Orchard

by Susan Albert

  “It sounds quite a lot,” Miss Potter commented. “You must work very hard.”

  “I enjoy most of it,” Gilly said truthfully. It wasn’t the work itself she minded, and the buttery had been a pleasant, quiet place—a place where she was usually left alone. “I don’t know what’s to be done now that the buttery has burnt, though,” she said sadly. She cast a sidelong look at Miss Potter. “Did you see the fire?”

  “I did,” Miss Potter said. “It was quite a blaze.”

  Gilly sighed. “It’s really too bad. I suppose all the dairy work will have to be done in the kitchen now.” Which meant that she would be under Mrs. Harmsworth’s thumb all day long. There would be no escape.

  “Miss Nash has told me that you might be interested in finding another position,” Miss Potter said. “Is that still the case?”

  “Another position?” Gilly turned to stare at her, not sure she had heard correctly. “Oh, yes,” she said, quite passionately. “I should love to leave Applebeck.” And then, thinking she might have gone too far, smoothed her pinafore and added, in a more careful, grown-up tone, “That is, I would like to consider another place, if there’s one available.”

  “I wonder, then,” Miss Potter said, “whether you would like to drive up to Raven Hall.” She pointed with her pony whip. “It’s just up there, in Claife Heights, and not very far. Mrs. Kittredge tells me that her dairyman is looking for a helper. Perhaps the two of you might have a talk and see if it is a position that would suit you.”

  Gilly was astonished. “Do you mean it?” she cried, clasping her hands and abandoning all pretense of being grown-up. “Oh, Miss Potter, that would be wonderful!”

  So Gilly spent the next hour meeting Mrs. Kittredge and Mrs. Kittredge’s dairyman, and the dairyman’s cows, and the cows’ calves, and showing the dairyman how she churned butter, and answering his questions about how she made cheese, until everyone (even the cows, although their opinions were not solicited) professed themselves quite satisfied that Gilly Harmsworth was a good choice for the position of dairymaid. Miss Potter enjoyed a pleasant tea with Mrs. Kittredge, and Rascal discovered a satisfyingly meaty mutton bone in the kitchen waste, and Winston had a satisfying spot of very green grass to munch on while he was waiting.

  Now, all that was left was to tell Mr. and Mrs. Harmsworth that their niece would be taking a place at Raven Hall, and that she would be leaving at the end of a fortnight. Miss Potter was not looking forward to this, because she was sure that there would be some sort of unpleasant confrontation. She also worried that it was not a good idea for Gilly to stay on at Applebeck for a whole fortnight. Still, the girl really ought to give notice, even though she was not a paid employee.

  But that was not what happened. After they left Raven Hall, Gilly—who was now sure that she could trust Miss Potter to give good advice—opened her heart and confided what she had seen the night before. You remember, don’t you? Gilly was sitting at the window of her attic when she saw the ghost in the gray cloak and black bonnet going down the path, except that the figure didn’t exactly move in the way the ghost had moved—and she had seen the ghost before and was sure. So Gilly crept down the stairs and followed.

  Only it wasn’t a ghost, of course. It was a real person, and Gilly had been so shocked when she saw who it was and what that person was up to that she was frozen for a few moments, watching. Then she ran back to Applebeck and raised the alarm, although by that time, of course, it was already too late, because the fire had been lighted in a box of rags and the entire interior of the buttery was in flames.

  Miss Potter heard Gilly’s story with increasing alarm and acted decisively. Instead of turning Winston onto the Applebeck lane, she drove straight up the Kendal Road to Tower Bank House. There, she introduced Gilly to Captain Woodcock, who (in his capacity as justice of the peace) listened carefully to the girl’s story, asked her a number of questions, and wrote down all her answers.

  “You realize, of course, that you may very well be called upon to swear to what you have seen in a court of law,” he told her when they had finished.

  “Yes, sir,” she said quietly. “It’s all true, sir, every word of it.”

  “We shall see,” he said. He looked at Miss Potter. “I think it would be best if you would go to Applebeck with us,” he said. “We will go in my motor car,” he added.

  “Of course,” Miss Potter said, and sighed, for she was not fond of riding in Captain Woodcock’s motor car, which went very fast (a bone-rattling eight miles an hour!) and made so much racket that it frightened the village animals. But she knew that the captain wanted to make this an official visit, and of course, his motor car had a very official look.

  That is why a short while later, the captain’s shiny teal blue Rolls-Royce pulled up in front of the Applebeck farmhouse, and four people—Captain Woodcock, Constable Braithwaite, Gilly, and Miss Potter—climbed out. When they arrived, Mr. Harmsworth was in the barn, milking. Mrs. Harmsworth was upstairs, packing her bags.

  Yes, packing. She thought she might go to Liverpool, where she had a cousin. Returning to Manchester didn’t seem like a very good idea, for she was afraid that someone might recognize her. Anyway, she was very glad to have the little hoard of money that she had wrung out of the household accounts (and stolen from her husband’s pockets), which amounted to enough to set her up as a seamstress—at least until her customers discovered that she couldn’t so much as darn a sock.

  As it turned out, however, Mrs. Harmsworth did not go Liverpool. Two hours later, Constable Braithwaite had installed her in the Hawkshead gaol, charged with two counts of the crime of arson. Confronted by Gilly’s low-voiced accusation, the stern countenance of Captain Woodcock, and the sullen acquiescence of her husband, who by this time knew very well what she had done, she had broken down and confessed. She had put on the gray cloak and black bonnet she’d found in the attic and had taken the old tin candle lantern she found in the barn, and had burnt down both the haystack and the buttery, out of pure spite against Mr. Harmsworth.

  But that isn’t all. Perhaps it will come as no surprise to those of you who are careful readers, and suspicious, to learn that a week later, when Constable Braithwaite went to Manchester to investigate Mrs. Harmsworth’s background, he discovered that Miss Westgate (her name at the time) had been discharged from her haberdashery position just hours before a fire destroyed not only the haberdasher’s firm but a whole block of merchants’ firms as well. She had been suspected of this arson at the time, but had disappeared before the investigation was complete.

  Well, now. This was a good piece of work, I must say, and Captain Woodcock can perhaps be forgiven for thinking that Miss Potter—who had brought him the necessary eyewitness—had pulled yet another rabbit out of her very capacious hat.

  “I do not understand how she does it,” Miss Nash heard him mutter later that evening, as he was telling her about the capture of the village arsonist, and the mystery that Miss Potter had solved. “I simply do not understand.”

  But Miss Potter was not quite finished.

  The next morning, Vicar Sackett came to call. He had heard the news about Mrs. Harmsworth and wanted to congratulate Beatrix for her part in identifying the arsonist. Like many others, he felt that if she had not been caught, she might have gone on burning things down, just to give herself a sense of importance. He dithered for a few moments, and then finally voiced his other reason for coming. Captain Woodcock had suggested that there be a committee to oversee any other footpath controversies. The vicar wondered . . . That is, he hoped . . . He was very anxious for Beatrix to serve on the committee.

  “I’m glad to help out,” Beatrix said. She liked the vicar, although she sometimes wished he were a bit more definitive. “Being asked to serve—it makes me feel as though I belong here.”

  “Oh, but you do belong here, my dear Miss Potter!” the vicar cried, in the most definitive tone Beatrix had ever heard him use. “Why, you are a very important part of our lit
tle village. The fires at Applebeck might have gone unsolved, if it hadn’t been for you.”

  Beatrix shook her head. “I’m sure that Gilly would have told someone what she knew, sooner or later. I only—”

  “No, Miss Potter,” the vicar said authoritatively. “You will not evade my thanks. You befriended the girl and earned her trust. It might have been months or years—or never!—before she felt able to tell someone else what she told you. Indeed, you do belong here, my dear. We wouldn’t know what to do without you!”

  And with those encouraging words still ringing in her ears, Beatrix drove Winston back to Tidmarsh Manor, where she spent a little time with Caroline and Miss Burns. Both of them were terribly excited about their upcoming move to London, where Caroline would attend the Royal Academy and Miss Burns would teach at Mrs. Alton’s School for Young Ladies.

  “I’m worried about my guinea pigs, though,” Caroline said, looking at the trio of energetic little animals—Nutmeg, Tuppenny, and Thruppence—who lived in a hutch in one corner of the schoolroom. “I don’t know who will look after them while I’m gone.”

  “Would you like me to keep them for you in London?” Beatrix asked. “I’ll give them walks in the garden and you can visit them whenever you like.”

  “Oh, Miss Potter!” Caroline cried, and flung her arms around Beatrix. “That would be wonderful. Thank you! And thank you so much for all you’ve done.”

  “Indeed,” Miss Burns said. “I’m quite sure that our situation would not have turned out so well if you had not intervened.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Beatrix said. “But I’m glad to have done what I could. And I shall look forward to seeing you both in London soon and to hearing that you are having a very successful year at your schools.”

  Then she went down to the drawing room, where Lady Longford was sitting in the gloom, with all the draperies pulled shut. Her ladyship (having heard from Mrs. Beever that the buttery at Applebeck had burnt the night before) was pouting.

  Beatrix wasted no time getting down to business. She seated herself directly across from Lady Longford. “I recently learnt,” she said briskly, “that you and Mr. Harmsworth have been discussing your purchase of Applebeck Farm.”

  Lady Longford scowled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh?” Beatrix raised her eyebrow. “Then you are no longer interested in the property?”

  Lady Longford eyed her guest warily. She had been very upset when she learnt, the previous year, that Miss Potter had bought Castle Farm. She had not wanted Castle Farm until she discovered that Miss Potter had bought it, of course, but she had regretted it ever since. After that experience, I don’t blame her for suspecting that Miss Potter might be casting an acquisitive eye on Applebeck. Her ladyship, who hates to be bested at anything, hates it most of all when someone buys an attractive piece of property out from under her nose.

  “I didn’t say I wasn’t interested,” she muttered.

  “Ah.” Beatrix gave her a prim smile. “I understand that your purchase is on condition that the Applebeck Footpath will be closed.”

  “Indeed it is,” said her ladyship haughtily, lifting her chin. “And it is a firm condition. I have no wish to have people of all sorts trekking across my land, damaging young trees, picking fruit, and leaving their greasy lunch wrappers to blow about. The path must be closed.”

  Beatrix spoke in a tactful tone. “Then I fear that your ladyship may wish to withdraw your offer of purchase. Captain Woodcock has ruled that the Applebeck Footpath is to remain open, as it has done for longer than anyone can remember. It will not be closed.” She folded her hands. “In any circumstance. No matter who owns it.”

  “Remain open!” Lady Longford cried, half-rising from her chair. “Why, I never heard such nonsense. Miss Potter, this is . . . this is—”

  “This is how it must be, I fear,” Beatrix said, with a little smile. “I am very sorry for your disappointment.” She allowed her smile to widen just perceptibly. “And if you are no longer interested in the property, I might consider making an offer. I understand that Mr. Harmsworth is quite anxious to sell.”

  There was a silence, as Lady Longford, who was stewing inside, considered the implications of this. At last she spoke.

  “If you think,” she said between clenched teeth, “that a little thing like a footpath is going to stop me from buying that property, you can think again, Miss Potter. I have made an offer for the property, and my offer will stand. Footpath or no footpath.”

  Beatrix pulled a long face, although in her heart she was delighted. She had told Mr. Beecham the truth: she could not afford to buy Applebeck, no matter how much she might want to own a producing orchard. And she knew that Lady Longford, for all her faults, was a capable landlord with a care for good farming practices. She would let the orchard and the old farmhouse to a capable farmer and orchardist who could make the most of both. Under her stewardship, the land and its creatures would prosper.

  Pleased at having outwitted her rival, Lady Longford gave a smug laugh. “I see, Miss Potter, that you are bitterly disappointed at not being able to purchase Applebeck yourself. Well, well. These things happen, my dear. Life’s little frustrations. We must just learn to live with them.”

  “I suppose,” said Beatrix, putting on a sorrowful face. She rose and took her leave, and she and Winston drove home through the dappled shade of morning, the sun blessing the lane ahead, the meadows spread like a green comforter around her. Her time at Hill Top was growing short, and there were a great many things she wanted to do. She was glad that the next few days were free of any other obligations, and she could simply relax and enjoy them—enjoy her garden and fruit trees, her Herdwick sheep and the cows and pigs and chickens, enjoy a few hours for sketching and another few hours for walking at Moss Eccles Tarn and Esthwaite Water.

  But enjoy, most of all, the secret she held warm and close to her heart: the pledge she had exchanged with Mr. Heelis the night before. It was lovely to know that she was loved. And while she knew that Mr. Heelis would come to regret his moonstruck promise and take it back when he had had some time to think, she would hold on to the memory of that night as long as she lived.

  The pledge that Beatrix and Will had exchanged the night before was not as secret as they thought, of course. You and I witnessed this momentous event, although I don’t believe we are likely to tell anyone, are we? But two others saw it, as well, and they are not quite so discreet as we. In a few days, the news will be all over the village—at least, among the village animals. The Big Folk may have to wait a little longer to find it out.

  The witnesses, as you might have already guessed, were Max the Manx and Fritz the ferret. They may seem an odd couple, perhaps, but many people keep cats and ferrets together and find that the two are quite companionable. This amiable pair had spent a very pleasant day together whilst Fritz put the finishing touches on Max’s portrait.

  When it was done and the canvas unveiled, Max was astonished, for there he was, portrayed in all his tailless splendor. He suddenly saw himself in a whole new light. “Why, it’s me!” he cried. “And I’m . . . I’m quite handsome!”

  “Of course you are,” said Fritz warmly. “Didn’t I say so? Didn’t I say that you are unique among cats? An impressive beast? Well, here’s the portrait to prove it!”

  Max sat staring at himself, purring deep in his throat and feeling himself grow proud and strong. Miss Potter had made pictures of some of the other cats in the village—Tabitha Twitchit and Crumpet and that lot—but Fritz had not chosen to paint them, for they were just ordinary cats. And in Max’s opinion (although I’m not sure that his view is to be trusted, since he is, after all, quite flattered by this artistic attention), Fritz’s talents were superior to those of Miss Potter. Why, just look at that expression! And the way those whiskers gleamed. And those amber eyes, and that glistening black fur . . . No, Miss Potter had never done anything as fine as this.

  After the
portrait was properly hung in Fritz’s gallery (where Max could come and look at it anytime he liked), they had celebrated with fresh-baked scones that Max borrowed from Sarah Barwick’s bakery, thick yellow cream Fritz had fetched from the Applebeck cow, and strawberry jam from the ferret’s pantry. Fritz, who had traveled in Cornwall, added a treacle topping and called the whole affair “Thunder and Lightning,” which he said was quite the Cornish treat.

  When they had finished, Max took one last look at his portrait. And then, feeling quite emboldened and pleased with his unique self, had gone out to look for a new job.

  Which was why, when Major Ragsdale returned to Teapot Cottage from fighting the fire in the buttery late that night, he discovered Max the Manx on his doorstep. At his feet were not one but two dead mice, both of them quite large. Max had met them at the hole under the pantry window, where the Teapot mice were accustomed to come and go. He had slaughtered them quickly, but let one go, with instructions to tell the others that there was now a cat on the premises and they had better watch their step.

  “I understand that you are in want of a cat,” Max said, offering a polite paw. “I brought these fellows to demonstrate my mousing talents. I am quite skilled,” he added. “And I have references. My most recent employment was at Hill Top Farm. Miss Potter would be willing to vouch for me, I’m sure.”

  The major was so delighted to see Max—and those two very dead mice—that it never even occurred to him that he ought to ask for a character.

  “My dear fellow,” he cried ecstatically, bending over for a better look. “Two mice? Bravo! By any chance are you a stray?”