The Tale of Briar Bank

by Susan Wittig Albert

  When the performance was over, everyone clapped approvingly. Beatrix clapped long and hard, and Mr. Heelis, quirking his eyebrow at her, followed suit, to the point where Caroline was called back for a short encore. Then Miss Burns took the girl off to say hello to Miss Barwick, who was having tea in the kitchen with Mrs. Beever, the Tidmarsh Manor cook. Beatrix and Mr. Heelis were left alone with Lady Longford, Caroline’s grandmother.

  Her ladyship was a tall, strong-looking person with graying hair severely drawn back, formidable dark brows, a perpetual frown, and a thin mouth. She dressed in black, even though her husband had been dead for some fifteen years. She was not well liked in the village, where she had a reputation for meddling in things that were not her concern—such as the business with Sawrey School, a few years before. To tell the truth, most people thought she was rather an old dragon.

  But Beatrix felt very strongly that she had right on her side—or rather, on the side of Mr. Sutton. So she began by saying that the village might be at risk of losing its veterinarian (without saying why), and related Dimity Kittredge’s idea—that is, the idea that Beatrix herself had encouraged Dimity to form. While her ladyship was digesting this, Beatrix added in an offhand way that Major Kittredge and Captain Woodcock had both paid their bills in full and had conveyed their hopes that the Suttons would continue to live and work in Sawrey, thereby setting an example for others. The Longfords and the Kittredges, the two major landowners in the district, had always been competitive, and Beatrix knew full well that Lady Longford always hated it when Major Kittredge made some sort of generous gesture, for she felt obliged to top it.

  “I see.” Lady Longford put on a dour look. “All these good-doing people—one wonders whether it is quite necessary.”

  “Oh, I should think so,” Mr. Heelis said firmly. “It would be a great pity if the village lost its veterinarian.”

  “Mrs. Kittredge hopes,” Beatrix added, “that everyone in the district who has used Mr. Sutton’s services will write a Christmas note, thanking him. And that they will pay whatever they owe, as well, as a special token of appreciation. As Major Kittredge has done,” she added significantly.

  Mr. Heelis cleared his throat. “I rather think you might have an outstanding balance with Mr. Sutton, Lady Longford. I seem to recall that he visited here frequently some months ago, to treat one of your coach horses. Isn’t that right?”

  “I suppose it is.” Lady Longford gave an elaborate, long-suffering sigh. “I believe that Mrs. Sutton has written to me about it. Well, since the amount is owing, I may as well pay it and be done with it. Mr. Heelis, fetch my cheque-book, if you please. And the bill. Both are in the right-hand desk drawer.” She scowled. “Although I shouldn’t be spending the money. I’ve suffered a great calamity, as you’ve no doubt heard. An expensive calamity. My hay barn burnt yesterday morning. To the ground.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard,” Mr. Heelis said. “Has the cause been determined?”

  Lady Longford pulled down her mouth. “Mr. Snig was in the cowbarn, milking. He said he saw a fireball descend from the heavens, strike the barn, and explode.”

  “A fireball!” Beatrix exclaimed. “A meteorite?” A fiery meteorite had fallen not long before in Yorkshire, causing a great deal of local consternation. A farmer had found the object—a ball of some fifteen pounds, with the appearance of burnt iron—half-buried in his newly plowed field.

  Lady Longford shrugged. “Perhaps. This morning, Mr. Snig and Mr. Beever were to sift through the embers to see if they could learn anything about the cause. If they have, I haven’t been told.” She wrote out the cheque and put it in an envelope and sealed it, writing Mr. Sutton’s name on the outside, along with the words “Thank you and Merry Christmas.”

  “Be so good as to give this to Mr. Sutton,” she said, handing the envelope to Beatrix. “It will serve as a Christmas card. And your delivery will save me a postage stamp.”

  The corners of Mr. Heelis’ mouth quirked almost uncontrollably, and it was all Beatrix could do to keep a straight face. But she only said, “I shall,” and tucked the envelope into her purse. Now that Lady Longford had joined the ranks, the rest of the villagers would be sure to follow suit. But they weren’t finished just yet.

  “I must congratulate you on Caroline’s playing,” Beatrix said. “She is talented.”

  “Indeed.” Mr. Heelis joined in warmly. “I was quite astonished.”

  “She does well enough,” her ladyship acknowledged. “For a beginner.”

  “Oh, much better than that,” Beatrix said firmly. “I wonder if you have thought of having a teacher for her.”

  Her ladyship frowned. “Miss Burns is perfectly capable of instructing the child in piano. I see no need to go to the expense of employing another teacher.”

  “I only bring it up,” Beatrix said, “because I understand that Mrs. Rachel King has agreed to take a few students. Only a very few, though.” She raised one eyebrow. “No doubt you’ve heard of Mrs. King.”

  Lady Longford, who hated to admit that she didn’t know everyone there was to know, especially anyone important, inclined her head in what might have been an assent.

  “Mrs. King!” Mr. Heelis exclaimed. “Ah, yes! I heard her play not long ago. An exceptional talent. Exceptional!”

  “She is recently down from London,” Beatrix said, “and living in Hawkshead. Everyone speaks very highly of her performance. I understand that she is a superb teacher, as well.”

  Lady Longford waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “No doubt. But Miss Burns is perfectly competent.”

  “That’s to the good, I suppose,” Beatrix said to Mr. Heelis, confidentially. “It’s not very likely that Mrs. King would accept Caroline.”

  Just catching Beatrix’s remark, Lady Longford hesitated, her eyes narrowing. Then, as if she couldn’t quite help herself, she leaned forward. “She wouldn’t accept Caroline? And why not, may I ask?”

  “Well, as you point out, the girl is just a beginner,” Beatrix said in an apologetic tone. “And Mrs. King does come from London. She will have her pick of students.”

  “But Caroline is off to a very good beginning,” Mr. Heelis said warmly. “I can tell you that.”

  “Exactly.” Her ladyship sniffed, offended. “Londoners have got a nerve, always thinking that they are superior to those who live in the country. As if we have no refinement. No appreciation of the arts.” She glanced up at the oil portrait of her dead husband. “Lord Longford always made the opening speech at the annual Ladies’ Lecture Series. He felt it was important to broaden people’s cultural understanding.”

  “And of course there is the matter of the expense,” Beatrix went on. “I am sure that Mrs. King can command—”

  “I daresay that whatever Mrs. King can command, her ladyship can afford,” Mr. Heelis interrupted soothingly. He smiled at Beatrix. “We do value the arts, you know, Miss Potter. Even here in the Lakes.”

  Lady Longford’s lips thinned. “Londoners,” she muttered darkly, shaking her head. “Always imagining that those who live in the country are nothing but barbarians.”

  “They are very mistaken, indeed.” Mr. Heelis was grave. “But I am sure that your ladyship will be glad to show Mrs. King how uninformed a viewpoint that is.”

  “I certainly shall!” Lady Longford exclaimed, and rapped her walking stick on the floor. “Very well, Miss Potter. Since you seem to be acquainted with this Mrs. King, I should like you to make arrangements for her to hear Caroline play. And if all goes well, and Caroline continues to improve under her tutelage, we shall arrange a small recital. What do you say to that?”

  “Well done, Lady Longford,” Beatrix replied enthusiastically. It could not be said that her ladyship’s heart was in the right place, but after a certain amount of prodding (and with a poke or two), she could be moved in the right direction.

  The clock struck, and Lady Longford stood, leaning on her stick, her dark silk skirt rustling. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must d
ress. Mr. Beever is driving me to Briar Bank House to express my condolences to dear Miss Wickstead.”

  “You know Miss Wickstead, then?” Beatrix asked, standing as well.

  “I do. Her brother brought her here to introduce us, and she later came to call. It was a lucky thing, you know—her finding her brother, after all those years. She felt very fortunate.” Lady Longford glanced at Mr. Heelis. “She is to inherit, I suppose.”

  “Yes,” Mr. Heelis said, “although the will has not yet been read out.”

  “Do you know how it happened that she and Mr. Wickstead were reunited?” Beatrix asked curiously, walking with Lady Longford to the drawing room door.

  “Miss Wickstead didn’t say. Only that the family came from Manchester.”

  “Ah,” Beatrix said thoughtfully. “My mother came from the Manchester area. Perhaps we shall discover a connection.” Of course, Manchester was a large city, and her mother’s family had lived in Stalybridge, a few miles away. The chance of shared acquaintance was slim.

  Beatrix and Mr. Heelis bade her ladyship goodbye. Mr. Heelis went outside to see to the horse and Beatrix went to the kitchen to fetch Sarah Barwick. Her report to Caroline and Miss Burns that Mrs. King was to be invited to listen to Caroline play was greeted with an incredulous delight.

  “I don’t know how you manage it, Miss Potter,” Mr. Heelis said, handing her into the sleigh. He handed her in first, Beatrix noticed with some consternation, ensuring that she would be in the middle. “I do believe that you would be able to persuade Lady Longford to do almost anything.”

  “I’ll agree to that,” Miss Barwick said. “Miss Burns was telling us how unfortunate it was that her ladyship refused to allow Caroline to have lessons—and now she’s gone and reversed herself. Well done, Bea!”

  “Thank you,” Beatrix said, settling herself. “But I haven’t done anything special, only just noticed that her ladyship does not like to be bested, which gives her a certain vulnerability. If one feels that one has to be at the very top all the time, one is likely to do whatever is necessary to stay there.”

  “Even if it costs money,” Mr. Heelis said, picking up the reins. And then they were on their way again, more soberly now that the funeral luncheon lay directly ahead.

  18

  At the Funeral Luncheon

  Briar Bank House was built in the symmetrical Georgian style of local stone and roofed with blue slate from a nearby quarry. It had a great many tall, narrow windows and the front was draped with wisteria vines and climbing roses. On a bright summer’s day, when the sun was shining and the roses were blooming, the old house wore a cheerful, expectant look, as if hoping for good things. But its native optimism was dampened by today’s wintry weather and the somber occasion, and the snow hanging over the eaves gave the place a frowning look. The sky had become overcast and the gray clouds, low and gloomy against the gray-blue fells, seemed to promise more snow.

  As they pulled up in front and Mr. Stoker’s boy took Mr. Heelis’ horse, Beatrix saw that the circular drive had been trampled to a mushy mess by people and their horses and conveyances. Inside, she knew, the guests would be dressed in dark colors, wear sober expressions, and speak in muted tones, as befitted a funeral luncheon. The gathering would include both villagers and gentry—Mr. Wickstead had lived long enough in the area to be acquainted with a great many people—and the house would be full. Everyone of consequence in the district would want to say a sentimental farewell to him and meet his sister, the new mistress of Briar Bank.

  Mr. Heelis carried Miss Barwick’s boxes and bags into the kitchen at the rear of the house, and Miss Barwick went along to help Mrs. Stoker organize the baked goods. Beatrix rang the bell beside the crepe-draped front door and was greeted by a pretty young maid wearing a black lace apron and black cap who took her coat. The butler showed her to the drawing room, where she hesitated just inside the door. Beatrix had never been an eager partygoer, and large groups made her feel shy. She preferred to find a quiet corner where she could observe the other guests without being noticed. She liked to study people’s faces and their mannerisms, to try to guess what sort of person was concealed behind the social façade of most men and women.

  Briar Bank’s new mistress, Miss Louisa Wickstead, was standing before an array of green ferns and white hothouse carnations, decorated with a large black crepe wreath. Beatrix would have introduced herself and offered condolences, but Miss Wickstead was surrounded by others at the moment, and Beatrix held back, watching. Perhaps five or six years younger than her brother, Miss Wickstead was a lady in her middle forties. She wore black, of course, as befitted the bereaved: a simple black bombazine, its severity accented, rather than relieved, by a ruching of black lace and a small black lace kerchief pinned over her light blond hair. She had once been beautiful and was still quite pretty, with a pliant softness of figure. But her delicate face, very pale, was shadowed, and her blue eyes seemed almost wary, like a rabbit startled among the lettuces, skittishly looking over its shoulder.

  Well, I should be wary, too, Beatrix thought sympathetically, if I were surrounded by a houseful of people, most of whom were total strangers, and if the only person I knew I could trust—my poor brother—was dead and buried. Miss Wickstead must feel very lonely. It didn’t help, either, Beatrix supposed, that everyone in the room knew that she was an heiress with a substantial property. There might be some who would have an eye on her fortune.

  Or on herself, Beatrix thought with an inward smile, seeing Dr. Butters leaning solicitously toward her, saying something in her ear. Miss Wickstead glanced up at him with obvious admiration. As well she might. Dr. Butters was a fine man, Beatrix thought, kind and thoughtful and much loved throughout the district. If Miss Wickstead was inclined to take a husband—after a suitable period of mourning, of course—and chose Dr. Butters, everyone would no doubt applaud her choice.

  There were two other gentlemen in the group, both very attentive to Miss Wickstead. One had a long, pointed nose, a red moustache, and reddish hair worn long and swept back from his forehead, rather like a fox, Beatrix thought with amusement. But a dapper fox, for he was elegantly dressed and held a white handkerchief in his hand, putting it often to his nose, as if it were perfumed. Beatrix heard him say that his name was Smythe-Jones, and that he was a fellow antiquarian who had been long acquainted with Mr. Wickstead and deeply admired his collections. He did not say, Beatrix noticed, why he happened to be in the vicinity at this particular time, or what it was he wanted.

  The other gentleman was stout and blond, with shrewd blue eyes and a cheery waistcoat the color of a robin’s breast. Beatrix didn’t recognize him, but he seemed to be an acquaintance of Miss Wickstead. Mr. Knutson, she called him, and indeed, he seemed to speak with a Scandinavian accent. He regarded the lady, Beatrix thought, with something of a proprietary interest, and she rather guessed that there might be some competition between him and Dr. Butters for Miss Wickstead’s favor. Or was it something else? Mr. Knutson looked at the lady with what seemed to be a disapproval, and she avoided his glance by turning her head away, biting her lip. She did not seem entirely comfortable in his presence.

  Of course, Miss Potter might have observed this pair with a greater interest if she’d had our advantage, for we know that there is a prior acquaintance between them and are likely to be just a little suspicious. I’m sure you remember what Pickles told Rascal after the inquest: that Mr. Knutson had visited Miss Wickstead at Briar Bank House whilst her brother was away at Kendal and all the servants were off on an unusual half-holiday. I wonder what went on that afternoon, and perhaps you are wondering, too. How is it that these two are acquainted? What is the nature of their connection with each other?

  But Beatrix—who has no reason to suppose that anything unseemly might be going on—reminded herself that she had no business poking her nose into people’s private affairs. What Dr. Butters and Mr. Knutson felt toward Miss Wickstead, or she toward either or both of them, might be of interest t
o someone like Sherlock Holmes or Dr. Watson, who were in the habit of finding mysteries everywhere. But it was no business of hers, especially on such a funereal occasion.

  Beatrix turned away. She had been at Briar Bank House before, when she and her father had come to see Mr. Wickstead’s collections, and knew how the ground floor was laid out. The double doors at one end of the large drawing room opened into a smaller dining room, where a substantial meal was laid on a damask cloth. A half-dozen tall black candles in silver holders were arranged in the center, surrounded by loops of green smilax and black ribbon. There was a great quantity of cold boiled fowl, a large pickled tongue sliced and ornamented with cloves and a splendid parsley ruff, several raised chicken pies, a ham sliced in paper-thin curls and embellished with scallions and radishes cut into the shapes of flowers. There were several plates of sausages and meat rolls, a tray of sandwiches, a tier of fresh fruits, and sweets and baked goods of all kinds, including Sarah Barwick’s Queen cakes, light and airy. It was the sort of elaborate display that might be expected of a ball supper, Beatrix thought, but would likely be criticized (by some) as a little too ostentatious for this occasion.

  Since there were far too many people to be seated, the food was to be taken on china plates and eaten standing. Wine was being poured by the butler and a man-servant. Those of the villagers who were not accustomed to drinking wine at luncheon regarded it doubtfully, while the gentry accepted without remark and were obviously pleased at the fine array laid out for them. Beatrix suspected that Miss Wickstead’s social standing in the district would be elevated by the way she had celebrated this occasion, and briefly wondered if that was her object. (Of course, you and I, having a little more reason to be suspicious of Miss Wickstead, might be inclined to think that it was.)

  The gathering in the drawing room included many people Beatrix recognized. In the corner, Mrs. Llewellyn, Mrs. Crook, and Mrs. Braithwaite, wearing their best winter hats, were surreptitiously discussing the furnishings and draperies, some of which appeared to Beatrix to be quite new. (The draperies and chair backs were swagged with black crepe in the approved fashion.) Mr. Llewellyn, Mr. Crook, and Constable Braithwaite, plates in their hands, were peering eagerly around the room as if they hoped that Mr. Wickstead’s treasure might be on display somewhere.