The Tale of Oat Cake Crag

by Susan Wittig Albert

  Still, Beatrix couldn’t help wondering. Perhaps the vicar (who had already put his fiftieth birthday behind him) was not the same man now that he had always been. To put it another way, he might have been a different sort of person in his youth, before he became vicar of St. Peter’s. People changed, and young men often sowed vast fields of wild oats. Beatrix knew this of her own experience, because she was well acquainted with her brother’s various misdemeanors over the years—his failing in school, his gambling, even (sadly) his excessive drinking. Was it possible that the vicar, as a younger person, had done things he now regretted? Had once led a life that he now kept secret?

  But that wasn’t the real question, and Beatrix knew it. Whatever the vicar had or had not done, the real question was whether the letter writer would dare to spread an ugly tale, true or false, around the parish. And whether Grace Lythecoe—a sensible woman, a kind woman and thoughtful, but a woman who cared a great deal about her position in the little community—had the courage to marry her vicar in spite of such malicious threats. Listening to Grace worry and fret out loud about the letters, Beatrix had begun to fear that she did not. She couldn’t be blamed, of course. To marry in defiance of others took an extraordinary courage, as Beatrix well knew. She could scarcely criticize her friend for failure of heart, when she herself was in a similar situation.

  And now, thinking further about the situation, she was very sorry that she had agreed to help. It was true that the village was small and that everyone knew everyone else’s business—which meant that somebody might have seen the person who put the first letter through Grace’s door or tossed the second letter over the fence. But it was also true that in order to find out who knew what, she should have to ask questions. And that might cause even more trouble for Grace and the vicar. Whoever was writing these letters might not be willing to stop—or worse, might not be willing to stop with the simple act of writing letters.

  “I’m sorry,” Will said ruefully. “I wish I could be of more help. But I’ll keep my eyes and ears open. I may be able to learn something.” He folded the letters carefully and handed them back to Beatrix. “Keep them in a safe place,” he said, standing.

  “You’re going?” Beatrix asked, feeling a wrench. It seemed as if he had just arrived.

  Reaching for his coat, Will smiled crookedly. “I must, or the Jenningses will talk. And then Mrs. Stubbs will talk, and Agnes Llewellyn and Mathilda Crook, and everybody else.” He bent and kissed her. “You know what gossips these villagers are.”

  Beatrix knew. Bertram might be able to keep his secret safe, on an isolated farm in the wilds of the Scottish border country. It was much harder to lead a secret life in Near Sawrey, where prying eyes were everywhere and the tongues never stopped rattling.

  Which was exactly why the vicar and Mrs. Lythecoe were in such danger.

  6

  “Welcome Back, Miss Potter!”

  The following afternoon was misty and quite chill, but Beatrix, who intended to pay a visit to Lady Longford at Tidmarsh Manor, was not one to mind a little damp. She asked Mr. Jennings to harness Winston the pony to the red-painted pony cart and bring it round to the door. Then she filled a small stoneware crock with some of Mrs. Jennings’ yellow butter and put it in a basket, along with a loaf of Sarah Barwick’s oatmeal bread. Mrs. Jennings’ butter was very good, although Beatrix felt that at least some of the credit ought to be given to Kitchen, the Galway cow, whose milk was extraordinarily rich.

  When Mr. Jennings knocked at the door to tell her that the pony was ready, Beatrix put on her coat and blue knitted hat, fetched an umbrella and the basket, and went out to the cart, where she found Rascal, the fawn-colored Jack Russell terrier who lived with George and Mathilda Crook. Rascal was a great admirer of Miss Potter, and when she was in the village, he always spent as much time with her as he could.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Potter!” he cried, leaping around her in joyful excitement. (Rascal knew better than to leap upon her, for she was very particular about muddy paws on her tweed skirt.) “Welcome back to the village. We’ve missed you!”

  “Hello, Rascal,” Beatrix exclaimed, bending over to pet him between the ears and feeling that, after all, life with animals was far less complicated than life with people, and infinitely more entertaining. “It’s lovely to see you, too. Winston and I are driving to Tidmarsh Manor. Would you like to go with us?”

  “Oh, I would!” Rascal barked. He spun around in a circle. “I would! I would!”

  She frowned down at him and her voice grew stern. “But I must remind you that you shall have to be civil to Dudley. If you can’t promise to behave yourself, you must stay behind.” Dudley was Lady Longford’s fat, indolent spaniel, who did nothing all day but lie around and beg for treats. As far as Rascal was concerned, he was a poor excuse for a dog and should be reprimanded for his unhealthy habits.

  But Rascal would agree to anything if it would mean that he could go along with his favorite person. He leapt into the cart. “Of course I’ll promise.” He sniffed at the basket Miss Potter had stowed under the seat. “But I hope Dudley doesn’t get any of this nice bread and butter. That fat fellow ought to lose a few pounds. He can barely waddle.”

  Beatrix went round to the pony and stroked his brown nose. “Hello, Winston. You’re looking very fit today.”

  “Thank you, Miss Potter,” Winston whinnied, and tossed his brown mane. “Welcome back to Hill Top. So it’s Tidmarsh Manor today, is it?”

  “Yes, and after that, Raven Hall, to call on Mrs. Kittredge,” Beatrix said with a smile.

  “Naaay!” Winston cried plaintively, stamping his neat hoof. “Please, Miss Potter! Not Raaaven Hall!”

  Beatrix chuckled. Winston was never happy about taking her to visit Dimity Kittredge, because of the very steep hill along the way. “You can stop worrying, Winston,” she said, climbing into the cart. “I’m just teasing you. We’re not going to Raven Hall. At least, not today.”

  To Rascal, she added, in a tone loud enough for Winston to hear, “You know, Rascal, it is always a delight to drive a willing pony. Some ponies make a terrible fuss about every little bump in the road, or shy at the sight of a mouse in the lane.” She picked up the reins. “But not our Winston. Oh, no! He is surely the steadiest, most trustworthy pony in the village. And because he is so cheerful and cooperative, he’ll find carrots in his manger when he gets back home.”

  If you are thinking that Winston ought not to be taken in by such compliments—well, I suppose you’re right. But I don’t imagine that Farmer Jennings, who is a rather matter-of-fact fellow, is any too free with his praise. Winston is probably quite hungry for a compliment, whilst a carrot or two can never go amiss. And Miss Potter, over the years, has had the misfortune to drive ponies who were not cooperative or cheerful as he, and who threatened to run off and overturn the cart whenever anything unusual crossed their path. She knows a good pony when she meets one, and is not at all sparing with her compliments.

  So if Winston pranced a little more proudly as they began their drive through the village, I think you can understand why. It was nice to know that Miss Potter considered him not only the steadiest of ponies, but cheerful and cooperative, as well. And if Miss Potter smiled, it was because she knew that Winston would do his very best to get them to Tidmarsh Manor and back again safely, a sentiment you will certainly understand if you have ever had a pony run away with your pony cart.

  Beatrix, Winston, and Rascal had not driven far when they met a young woman coming down the lane in their direction. It was Deirdre Malone, the Irish girl (now seventeen) who keeps the account books for Mr. Sutton, the village veterinarian, and helps Mrs. Sutton with the eight young Suttons, all of whom live rather cozily in Courier Cottage. If you didn’t already know that Deirdre was Irish, you might guess it from her bright green eyes, the freckles dusted generously across her nose, and the carroty tendrils escaping from under her gray cap, knitted from the handspun fleece of Miss Potter’s Herdwick ewes.
In one hand she held a bundle of the Courier Cottage post, for she was coming from the post office. The other held the hand of one of the multitudinous younger Suttons, who held to the hand of another young Sutton, who held to the hand of a third and then a fourth—a veritable crocodile of little Suttons.

  “Hello, Miss Potter!” Deidre called. “Welcome back to the village!” To the children, she said, “Boys and girls, say ‘welcome’ to Miss Potter.”

  “Welcome, Mith Potter!” dutifully lisped the crocodile in chorus. Several of the Suttons were missing their front teeth, owing to their age.

  “Thank you, children,” Beatrix said. She had a warm affection for the young Suttons and kept them supplied with books. She also had a great admiration for Deirdre, a resourceful and energetic young person. Not long ago, the girl had discovered that Mr. Sutton’s veterinary practice was losing money faster than he could earn it, because of Mrs. Sutton’s failure to insist on payment when service was rendered. She had come up with a plan to collect the overdue money (and thereby keep Courier Cottage from being foreclosed by the bank), and Miss Potter had helped her to carry it out. Between the two of them (although Miss Potter always said that the credit belonged entirely to Deirdre), the Suttons had been saved. Now, Deirdre managed the office for the doctor and made sure that arrangements for payment were made before the client and his or her animal friend had left the surgery.

  “You’re looking very happy, Deirdre,” Beatrix said. She gave her young friend a closer glance. Deirdre had not been an attractive child—a rowdy hoyden, she had been gangly and awkward—but she was becoming a beautiful young woman. Her eyes were sparkling and her smile seemed to hold a delicious secret, as if she knew something marvelous.

  “Yes, you are,” yipped Rascal. He had seen Deirdre wearing her secretive smile for several weeks. “You’re keeping something from us, aren’t you? Do you have a beau?”

  “Oh, I am happy, Miss Potter!” Deirdre burst out, and—rather like her old schoolgirl self—gave a little skip. “I’m about to burst with happiness and fly into a million little pieces, like a balloon that’s been blown too full of air.” She sobered a little. “I’m dyin’ to tell you all about it, when I can. Will you be here in the village for a while? May I come to see you in a few days?”

  “Of course you may,” Beatrix said warmly. She smiled down at the little Suttons. “Bring the children with you, too. I’m sure Jemima Puddle-duck would love to see them. They can play in the barnyard while we talk.” Several young Suttons had been present when Jemima hatched a nest of eggs that turned out not to be ducklings at all, but rather—

  But perhaps you haven’t read The Tale of Hawthorn House, so I shan’t spoil it for you. You must go and read it for yourself and find out what it was that Jemima hatched. You will be surprised, I’m sure. I was.

  “Thank you,” Deirdre said. “I can’t do it tomorrow, but perhaps the next? Around teatime?”

  “Lovely, my dear,” said Beatrix, and they said goodbye.

  “I wish I knew what sort of secret she’s keeping,” Rascal said, half to himself, as Deirdre led the crocodile of small Suttons in the direction of Courier Cottage.

  Miss Potter lifted the reins. “Well, whatever her secret, I’m sure it’s a pleasant one,” she remarked. “She looks so very happy. Come on, now, Winston. Let’s be on our way.”

  At the top of Stony Lane, Beatrix paused to look toward Castle Farm, which she had bought some little while ago. The cottage and gardens were currently let to Dick Llewellyn’s sister Rachel (the Llewellyns, Dick and Agnes, lived down the lane at High Green Gate). Beatrix had had the barn and fences repaired and pastured cows and sheep on the farm—Herdwick sheep, of which she was very fond, even though they were considered old-fashioned. Her purchase had pleased some of the villagers, those who were glad that the land had not been sold to off-comers and the old buildings torn down and replaced with modern cottages. It had also annoyed others, who felt that Miss Potter was turning into a land-grabber. But Beatrix paid no attention. Will Heelis had advised her to buy Castle Farm. It had been the right thing to do, whatever the villagers thought.

  She lifted the reins and Winston started up the hill again (this is not so steep a hill as the one to Raven Hall). But they had barely gotten under way when here came Sarah Barwick, flying down the hill on her bicycle. She had been out making deliveries of the bread and pastries for which she was becoming quite well known (Sarah is the owner of the Anvil Cottage Bakery), and was wearing her usual biking costume, a pair of green corduroy trousers (cut full for maximum comfort), and a green wool coat, with a brown muffler wrapped round her neck. Her cheeks were reddened by the wind.

  “Well, hullo there, Bea!” she cried, braking to a stop. “Welcome back to the village.”

  “It’s good to be here,” Beatrix replied, thinking how ironic it was that when she returned to London, nobody ever said, “Welcome back,” in quite the same way that the villagers did. At most, her mother might ask, in a complaining voice, “Why must you always stay away so long, Beatrix? You were needed here.”

  Sarah steadied her bicycle with one foot. “Will you be with us for a while this visit?”

  Sarah had arrived in the village at the same time Beatrix bought Hill Top, but the neighborhood men still professed themselves scandalized every time they saw her on her bicycle, and Agnes Llewellyn had been heard to quote the verses in Deuteronomy that said that women who dressed in men’s clothing were an abomination before the Lord. What really bothered people, of course, was the idea that women who rode bicycles could go anywhere they liked, which meant that they were independent, wherein lurked all manner of menace. Why, a wife might ride her bicycle all the way over to Outgate to see her sister and not arrive back home in time to make her husband’s tea, poor man, and him bone-weary and needin’ a bite after a day’s hard labor. And her gaddin’ out and about in the world, goin’ who-knows-where, and none at home to scrub his floors and wash his shirts! I don’t wonder that Sarah Barwick was viewed as a “dangerous” woman.

  “I’ll be here a week or so,” Beatrix replied in answer to Sarah’s question. She sighed, not liking to think of going back to London.

  “Only a week?” Rascal cried. “I was hoping you’d stay for a fortnight, at least!”

  Sarah fished in her pocket and took out a cigarette and a match. (This was another “dangerous” thing. Older women in the countryside sometimes smoked tobacco in clay pipes, but cigarettes were generally thought “fast.” The ladies—if that’s what they were—of King Edward’s set smoked cigarettes, and actresses, and women who fancied themselves artistic or modern.)

  “I suppose you’ve heard that there’s a meeting at the pub tonight.” Sarah drew on her cigarette and blew out a stream of smoke. “About the hydroplane, that is. According to Mr. Llewellyn, Mr. Baum has agreed to come and listen to what people say.” She grinned roguishly. “Ought to make for an exciting evening, I’d say. You’re coming, are you?”

  “I’ll be there,” Rascal promised. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “Shush, Rascal,” Beatrix said. To Sarah, she replied, “I’m planning to come. Right now, I’m on my way to Tidmarsh Manor to see Caroline Longford. I thought I would invite Lady Longford.”

  “Splendid idea, Bea!” Sarah said enthusiastically. “If Mr. Baum listens to anybody, it’ud be her ladyship—not that he will,” she added in a more somber tone. “That man! I’ve never seen anyone so determined to upset so many people by doing exactly what he wants to do.” She blew out another puff of smoke. “Although it’s not just him who’s doing it, of course. It’s that pilot of his. Oscar Wyatt. He’s the one who built the wretched machine. Flies it, too. Takes people for rides, if they pay him.” She scowled. “Can’t imagine why anybody ’ud want to go, much less pay for the trip. If God had wanted us to fly, he would’ve given us wings.”

  “Rides!” Rascal barked excitedly. “I should love to ride in that aeroplane! Why, from way up there, I could keep a
n eye on everything.” Rascal’s goal in life was to see and take charge of all that happened. Jack Russell terriers are born organizers, as you know if you’ve ever lived with one.

  “Oscar Wyatt?” Beatrix frowned. “Is he from this area? I don’t think I know him.”

  “From Manchester. That’s where they built the blasted thing.” She made a face. “Wish it had stayed there, too.”

  And just at that moment, they heard it: the loud, insistent drone of the aeroplane, punctuated with an occasional sputter and hiccup, as if the motor might be threatening to quit.

  “Hear that?” Sarah asked, rolling her eyes. “Every now and then the wretched thing just seems to want to stop running and fall out of the sky. And of course the thought of that makes me listen all the harder, and hope a little. Not that I want anyone to get hurt,” she added hastily. “I just want that racket to go away.”

  But it didn’t go away. The noise followed Beatrix all the way up Stony Lane, across Wilfin Beck, and over to Tidmarsh Manor. When she got there, she found that Lady Longford was taking her afternoon nap. This gave Beatrix and Caroline a chance to sit down for a quiet cup of tea and conversation about Caroline’s work at the Royal Academy of Music, where she had been studying since the beginning of term.

  “Do you like the Academy?” Beatrix asked. “Are you learning? Enjoying yourself?” She herself was not a great admirer of formal education, for she had been educated by governesses who for the most part allowed her to follow her own interests in her studies. She had always thought that school would have squeezed all the creativity right out of her. But Caroline—who at seventeen was grown up and entirely lovely—was not of that opinion.

  “Oh, Miss Potter, I love it!” she cried enthusiastically. “My teachers say I’m doing well, and I’m learning so much about so many things—not just about music, of course, although that’s terribly important to me. And I am ever so grateful to you for making it happen! Why, if it weren’t for you, I’d still be living here with Grandmama, instead of going to school in London.”