The Tale of Briar Bank

by Susan Wittig Albert

  Mrs. Potter felt this, at least, with a dizzying relief, for if the announcement had appeared in the Times, everyone who was anyone would know what an inferior person the Potters’ daughter meant to marry. It would have been a social humiliation from which the Potter family could never recover. The appalling business had to be kept secret until Beatrix could be brought to see reason.

  There was no telling what might have happened, or how low the Potters might have been brought, socially speaking, by their daughter’s wretched insistence on having her own way. But fate intervened, and they escaped the appalling situation by a stroke of great good luck, or at least, that’s how Mrs. Potter saw it. Beatrix’s suitor (she could not bear to think or speak of him by name) fell ill and died, quite suddenly, only a month after he had caused the uproar. Very sad for his family, of course, and as a Christian, one had to regret the loss. But as a mother, Mrs. Potter offered thanks and rejoicing to a gracious heaven, only just barely managing not to do this where Beatrix could hear her. The importunate person was dead, the Potters were safe once more, and life in Bolton Gardens could go on with its usual respectable sedateness, under no threat of change or upheaval.

  But only for a little. The fellow was scarcely buried when Beatrix took it into her head to do another unthinkable thing. She had purchased a neglected farm in an unfashionable village located in an out-of-the-way corner of the Lake District, where there was no Society of any significance whatsoever and nothing at all to recommend it but some pretty views of mountains and lakes.

  Of course, it would have been one thing if Hill Top Farm had been merely an investment, even a bad investment. Women were not expected to have a very good head where property was concerned, after all, and Beatrix might have been forgiven for making a financial mistake. But it was altogether another thing when her daughter, having transferred her affections from an unsuitable person to an unsuitable place, began to behave as though she considered the farm the dearest place in all the world. She announced that she meant to renovate the old house and rebuild the barn and add to the flocks and herds (pouring money down a rat hole, in her mother’s opinion) and spend all her spare time there. And then—and then!—she bought yet another run-down farm in the neighborhood, and was constantly writing to Jennings, her farm manager, and to the solicitor who had handled the purchase—Heelis, his name was—about the place, which seemed to require a great deal of repair and renovation.

  So whenever Beatrix announced her intention to travel to the farm, Mrs. Potter did her best to raise as many objections as possible, as fervently as possible, and insist that Mr. Potter object as well. From her point of view, this was absolutely necessary, to keep Beatrix from shirking her responsibilities and running off to the country every few weeks.

  But Beatrix saw it all very differently, of course. Wouldn’t you, if you were in her shoes? As far as she was concerned, her mother was simply attempting to assert a dictatorial authority, as she had done throughout the whole of Beatrix’s life. The only way to resist was to do as she must, as quietly and as firmly as necessary. Hold fast to her intention, and the unpleasantness would be severe and distressing but short-lived. Give way once, and every future battle would be lost.

  So Beatrix (who was truly a dutiful daughter and couldn’t help feeling guilty for having replied as she did) went down to the kitchen to ask Mary to take up tea and toast, then climbed back up the stairs to her third-floor bedroom to pack her bag. In earlier years, her animals—the mice, rabbits, hedgehogs, and guinea pigs she used as models for the drawings in her little books—had always gone with her when she traveled. At the moment, she had no pets of her own, only a pair of guinea pigs named Thackeray and Nutmeg, whom she was taking to her young friend Caroline, at Tidmarsh Manor. She popped the little creatures into a wicker traveling cage and fastened the lid. Then she sent the cage and bag downstairs and asked the coachman to drive her to Euston Station, where after only a little delay, the train for the Lake District appeared. Beatrix settled herself and her possessions in the railway carriage, the whistle blew three times, the engine let out a big puff of steam, and they were on their way north.

  Beatrix closed her eyes and leaned her head against the seat back with a smile, feeling as she always did that the train’s shrill whistle signaled something magical: another escape, however brief, from dirty, dreary London and the prison of her parents’ house. The railway journey would be a long one, and tiring, but every weary moment was worth it. She was riding a magic carpet to a world that was entirely her own, far removed from London and the dragons that dwelt there.

  In the cage at Beatrix’s feet, the two guinea pigs held conflicting opinions about the business. “Hidy-ho, here we go, off on another adventure,” Nutmeg squealed excitedly, as the car jolted from side to side on the bumping, humming rails. “Where to this time, d’you suppose? And what shall we do when we get there?”

  “Who cares?” grumbled Thackeray, who was already sick to death of Nutmeg’s childish chatter. “Personally, I should prefer to arrive wherever we are going and stay. I do not care for adventures, and I am sick to death of being trundled from pillar to post as if I were a cabbage.”

  Nutmeg, who loved adventures, was not darkened by Thackeray’s gloom. She had been born in a hutch in Battle-sea, then taken from her mother with the rest of her brothers and sisters, and the lot of them bundled off to market. They were sold to a pet shop in the West End of London, which was where she had met Thackeray, whose very long hair (long enough to trail on the floor all round) was black streaked with elegant silver. In fact, his hair covered both ends of him so completely that Nutmeg sometimes found it hard to tell whether Thackeray was coming or going. He was forever combing himself with an ivory comb that he kept in his pocket along with his pipe, tobacco, and gold-rimmed reading glasses. Nutmeg’s shaggy fur, in contrast, always looked rumpled and unkempt, as if she’d just got up from a longish nap and hadn’t yet found her comb. But she didn’t mind. Her hair was a such lovely color—exactly the color of rich, spicy nutmeg—that she felt quite proud of it.

  Thackeray (his full name was William Makepeace Thackeray, after the author of Vanity Fair) had lived a different sort of life altogether, having spent most of it as a friend and companion to an elderly gentleman named Mr. Travers, a collector of rare books. Thackeray and Mr. Travers had enjoyed many evenings together before the fire, reading and reflecting on fine literature, and Thackeray had from time to time assisted Mr. Travers in the cataloguing of his collection. Upon Mr. Travers’ unfortunate death, Thackeray was crated up by Mr. Travers’ manservant and taken to the pet shop in South Kensington, where (horror of horrors!) he was put up for sale in the shop window, like a common animal. He had suffered there for nearly a week in the company of an enthusiastic creature with unruly brown hair and the ridiculous name of Nutmeg, at the mercy of unmannerly children who made faces at him through the glass or (worse yet) raced into the shop and poked their grubby fingers into his cage.

  But then Miss Potter had chanced to pass by. She noticed the guineas, bought them, and took them to her house in Bolton Gardens, which had been nice and certainly quiet enough, after the commotion of the pet shop and the humiliation of being put on display. Thackeray’s only complaint was that Miss Potter neglected to provide any reading matter. For him, a day without reading was an empty day, with no sort of satisfaction at all. He had been driven to read the newspaper in the bottom of his cage, and counted it a good day when there was something beside the classified advertisements: Flat to let, mod. cons., two flights, no pets or Ladies’ hats for sale, straw, felt, fancy veils, all colors. Not much food for thought there.

  And now they were on their way again. Nutmeg was lighthearted and gay. But the bouncing made Thackeray even more short-tempered than usual, and he growled deep in his throat every time the train gave a lurch.

  Hearing the noise, Miss Potter opened the top of the traveling cage and looked in. “All this to-ing and fro-ing must be a bit uncomfortable,” she sa
id, smiling down at them. “But I’m sure you’ll like it where you’re going. A pretty young girl is waiting for you at Tidmarsh Manor. There’ll be a lovely garden, and an outdoor hutch under the trees, and two other guineas, very nice ones. Their names are Tuppenny and Thruppence.”

  “Tuppenny and Thruppence!” Nutmeg exclaimed. “What clever names!”

  Thackeray rolled his eyes. “Clever, very clever,” he muttered darkly. “Small change. Exactly the sort of clever names a clever lady would give to a clever little pair of guineas.”

  “Really,” sniffed Nutmeg, “it would be nice if you were a little less sarcastic. Life is such an amazing adventure—we should all enjoy every minute of it.”

  “Sarcasm is in my nature,” retorted Thackeray. “And I for one could wish for a little more thoughtful conversation in those around me. I could also wish,” he added sulkily, “that the clever lady had thought to bring a newspaper.” The bottom of the cage was bare. “I miss the Times. Mr. Travers and I used to read it at the breakfast table.” He sighed regretfully. “I miss the breakfast table, too. We always had eggs and sausages.”

  “Have some sunflower seeds, my dears,” said Miss Potter, taking a small sack from her bag. “Perhaps they’ll make you feel better.” She put down a piece of folded newsprint in the bottom of the cage and spilled the seeds onto it.

  Now, it may seem strange to you that a grown-up lady would bother to talk to a pair of guinea pigs, but Beatrix did not consider this at all unusual. As children, she and her younger brother Bertram had collected animals, observed them, sketched them, held conversations with them, and told stories about them and to them. There had been Benjamin and Peter, fine rabbits both; Punch, the green frog; Judy, the adventurous lizard from Ilfracombe; a very dear hedgehog named Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle; a ring snake and some silly snails and any number of mice. Beatrix had been devoted to her animal friends in those long-ago nursery days, and still cared deeply for them. Not in a sentimental way, though, for she had always taken a scientific interest in her animals, watching closely in order to draw them, and listening intently in order to learn their ways, as any naturalist would do. Now, she took the same sort of interest in the animals who lived on her farm, the Herdwick sheep and the Galway cows, the pigs and chickens and ducks and dogs and cats, each of whom had its own habits, its own special interests and concerns. If she had any talent as a farmer, she often thought, it came from caring enough about the animals to pay them a close and careful attention.

  Beatrix closed the cage and looked out the railway-car window at the landscape flashing by. She, too, was growing tired of to-ing and fro-ing. She had always liked to travel—the childhood holidays she and Bertram had spent in Scotland were among the sweetest memories of her life—and she loved getting away to the Lake District, where she could spend happy days at her farm, walk through the moors and fells, and get reacquainted with the villagers. But her pleasure was always shadowed by the knowledge that the days would fly past and soon she would have to go back to Bolton Gardens, where the tall, gloomy house seemed to smolder with her mother’s anger and her father’s impatience. She sighed. It was too bad, really, that she couldn’t escape from her prison without thinking how soon she would have to return, and how gloomy and wretched she would feel when she got there.

  But Beatrix was by nature a cheerful and optimistic person, so she put Bolton Gardens firmly out of her mind and began to think ahead to the pleasant chores that awaited her. There was plenty to think about, too, not just at Hill Top but at Castle Farm, which had been sorely neglected. Her new purchase was going to require all sorts of attention before it could be what it once had been.

  Nutmeg was also thinking ahead. “Tuppenny and Thruppence,” she mused happily. “Why, that will make four of us, enough for a party or a picnic—even a parade! And there’s a garden and an outdoor hutch. Won’t that be fun?”

  But Thackeray, who wasn’t interested in parties or picnics and detested parades above all other things, did not answer. He had put on his reading glasses and was sitting in the corner, studying the editorial page of the Times.

  1

  Miss Potter Arrives

  It was a sunshiny morning when Beatrix began her journey from London to the Lakes, with bright skies and a mild southern breeze that might tempt one to take a longish walk or even a picnic to the park. The calendar declared it to be December, but there had not yet been a hard frost, and the gardens were still green.

  But the train had scarcely left the station on its eight-hour journey to the north than the weather took an extraordinary turn. An hour into the trip, the sky turned a dark pewter-gray. Two hours, and a fierce north wind began to blow. Three hours, and it was raining. Five, it was sleeting, and in the next hour the sleet blossomed into fat white flakes of snow. By the time the train puffed into the Windermere Station, the temperatures had tumbled and the mercury had dropped straight into the bottom of the thermometer and huddled there, as if wondering if it could ever get up the courage to rise again.

  The Lake District was only some 250 miles north of London, but when Beatrix alighted from the train at Windermere Station, she felt as if she had stepped into a different country. The ground was covered with a thick white snow and swirls of snow filled the air. The December wind had stripped November’s leaves right off the trees, so that the poor things stood naked and shivering, with nothing to protect their bare limbs from the blast. The sun, not liking what it saw, went away to hide behind a bank of very thick gray clouds, where it could get on with its business without having to be bothered by the look of things below.

  But while the other passengers complained mightily about the unexpected arrival of winter and its interference with their carefully laid plans, Beatrix was not troubled in the least. She loved the crisp, chill air, the clean white blanket that the storm had tossed over the summer-weary grass, and the brisk crackle and crunch of snow underfoot, so different from the ugly sulfurous stuff that fell on London. As she saw her bag and the guinea pigs’ cage onto the horse-drawn charabanc, she congratulated herself on having worn a warm woolen coat and sturdy boots and packed a thick hat, muffler, and mittens. She was not surprised when the charabanc reached the ferry across Lake Windermere and several lightly clothed travelers chose not to hazard the crossing, for the waves were a white-capped fury blown straight down the lake by a howling north wind.

  But Beatrix was determined to get to Hill Top, and the little steam ferry chugged and puffed so sturdily that they reached the far side without mishap (although Thackeray didn’t think so, for he was feeling quite seasick). By the time the horses pulled the charabanc to a stop in front of the Tower Bank Arms in Near Sawrey, the road was drifted hedge-to-wall with knee-deep snow. Dark had already fallen, and Spuggy Pritchard, who came to carry her bag, led the way with a lantern as they climbed the steep, snow-covered path to the farmhouse. But as Beatrix followed, she felt neither cold nor weary, and if she shivered, it was from excitement. The unusual weather had turned the tedious trip into a grand adventure, and she was almost home.

  But the very best moment of all came when she stepped inside the Hill Top farmhouse and closed the door on the snowstorm outside. The room was brightened by an oil lamp on the table and warmed by a comfortable fire in the fireplace, laid and lit by Mrs. Jennings, the wife of the farmer who managed the farm in Beatrix’s absence. A bubbling pot of lamb stew hung over the fire, a kettle steamed on the hearth, a fresh loaf of crusty bread waited on the table, and chucks of cheese and a fresh apple and a pear lay on a plate. The shadows flickered a welcome against the ceiling, the dishes in the old oak cupboards winked and gleamed happily, and the scent of lemon oil polish brightened the air.

  Beatrix took off her coat and hat and hung them on pegs beside the door. Then she picked up the wicker cage and put it by the fire. “First things first,” she said with a smile. “I imagine you two must be very tired and hungry.” She opened the cage and took out the two guinea pigs, one after the other, setting them in front
of the fire. “Are you ready for something to eat?”

  “Oh, yes, please!” squeaked Nutmeg happily, turning around to warm herself. “Oh, Miss Potter, is that an apple I smell?”

  “I suppose I could do with a bit of bread and cheese,” allowed Thackeray, toasting his frozen toes. He had forgotten all about being sarcastic and seasick, and was only thinking how hungry he was, and that without any trouble at all, he could manage a sandwich or two.

  Beatrix glanced at the table, which was covered by a bright red-and-white-checked cloth. “I think an apple, a bit of bread, and some of Mrs. Jennings’ cheese would be just right. I’ll fix you a plate.”

  And in less time than it takes to tell it, she had set a plate on the floor for her friends. For herself, there was a bowl of hot lamb stew, with buttered bread and slices of cheese and a fragrant ripe pear. Then she tucked up her skirts, joined Thackeray and Nutmeg on the blue rug in front of the fire, and they all ate hungrily while the rowdy, raucous north wind howled down the chimney, rattled the door latch, and huffed and puffed at the windows, trying to find a way in. But they were safe and warm. And Beatrix, home at last where her heart belonged, was quietly, ecstatically happy.

  Thackeray licked the last bit of cheese from his paw. “Well,” he said grudgingly, “I suppose things have turned out as well as might be expected. For the time being, anyway, although who knows what will happen tomorrow.”