The Tale of Oat Cake Crag

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “Oh, no,” Beatrix objected. “I had very little to do with it, really.”

  From one point of view, this was perfectly true, since all Beatrix had done was to drop a few well-chosen words into a conversation the previous summer. But those few words (which had to do with the money Caroline had inherited from her father and which Lady Longford had intended to conceal as long as possible) had forced her ladyship to alter her position. From opposing her orphaned granddaughter’s studying in London, she changed her tune and accepted the idea. Now, of course, she insisted that it had been her idea in the first place. Whenever possible, she boasted that her enormously gifted granddaughter had been accepted to the Royal Academy of Music, and that she was the one who had made it all possible.

  From Caroline’s studies, the conversation wandered to her old friends in the village, to Deirdre Malone, who worked for the Suttons, and Jeremy Crosfield, who was teaching this year at the village school, taking a year from his studies before entering university. Beatrix mentioned the evening’s meeting at the pub, and said that she thought Jeremy might be there. At that point, she asked about Caroline’s plans for the future.

  “What do you want to do in the next few years?” Beatrix asked. It was a serious question, and Caroline answered it seriously—or seemed to.

  She hoped, she said, to take a trip to Europe when her studies were completed, and then perhaps to America, and after that, New Zealand, to visit the sheep station where she had lived as a little girl. And then return home and settle down to composing, which was her dearest love. At Beatrix’s request, she went to the piano and played one of her compositions, which immediately brought Lady Longford downstairs. Listening to Caroline play, of course (and occasionally criticizing her playing), was much more pleasant than lying upstairs alone.

  Beatrix was glad, because it gave her the opportunity, when Caroline had finished playing, to invite her ladyship to the evening’s meeting. “It will be held in the Tower Bank Arms,” she concluded, after explaining the reason for the assembly. “The villagers will all be there to express their views about the hydroplane. Mr. Baum will be there, too. You are especially invited, because—”

  “Nonsense,” Lady Longford interrupted peevishly. “You know I don’t go out at night, Miss Potter, especially in chilly weather. I don’t know why you should trouble to ask me. Caroline, pour me a cup of tea.”

  Her ladyship (who rarely said “please” and “thank you” and never begged anyone’s pardon when she interrupted them) was a tall, formidable-looking person with thin black brows and thin black hair, which she wore twisted into a fist-sized knob at the back of her head. Her husband had been dead for over a decade, but she continued to dress in black. It was a fashion dictated by Queen Victoria, who mourned Prince Albert for forty long years and set the style for every widow in the entire British Empire.

  Lady Longford had softened somewhat (but not very much) in the time Beatrix had known her, partly owing to the presence of young Caroline in the house. The girl was the only daughter of Lady Longford’s only son, who had wriggled out from under his mother’s thumb and escaped to New Zealand, where he married the love of his life and would have lived happily ever after, if he had not unfortunately died in a train accident. Heartbroken, Caroline’s mother had died not long after. Reluctantly (and only after being reminded by Vicar Sackett and Mr. Heelis of her familial duty), Lady Longford took her orphaned granddaughter into her care. Now she was glad, but she didn’t dare show it for fear of being thought sentimental—which at heart, of course, she was. That is often the way of sentimental people: they are compelled to pretend to be extremely hard on the outside, chiefly because they are soft on the inside.

  Caroline handed her grandmother a cup of tea. “But Grandmama,” she said gently, “tonight’s meeting is about the aeroplane. It’s noisy. Miss Potter says that the villagers are going to ask Mr. Baum to stop flying it over the lake.”

  Lady Longford took the cup. “Well, they won’t succeed,” she said darkly. “I’ve known Fred Baum for years. He’s silly and eccentric, but when he takes it into his head to do something, he is as stubborn as an old cart horse. That aeroplane is a horrible nuisance, but he will pursue it, no matter what anyone says.”

  Beatrix cleared her throat. “The villagers believe that if Mr. Baum will listen to anyone, he’ll listen to you.”

  Lady Longford pursed her lips. “I doubt it. Fred Baum thinks too highly of his own opinion.”

  “Nevertheless,” Beatrix went on, “they believe that you are the only one who can persuade him to take his aeroplane elsewhere. It’s dangerous to fly it here, where it harms people and animals. What’s more, I understand that Mr. Baum and his partner are thinking of starting an aeroplane route between Bowness and Grasmere. They seem to view it as a profit-making opportunity. If they’re successful—”

  “An aeroplane route!” Lady Longford exclaimed. She narrowed her eyes. “Fred Baum actually thinks he can make money from that flying contraption?”

  “Apparently he does,” Beatrix said. “I really hope that you’ll come to the meeting, Lady Longford. It would be an opportunity for you to let Mr. Baum know—”

  “Ridiculous,” her ladyship snapped. “As I said, I do not go out at night. Night air is bad for the lungs. Especially cold night air. And this is March, after all, the worst month for colds and fevers. It doesn’t matter how I feel about that aeroplane.”

  “Well, I’ve decided to go, Grandmama,” Caroline said with a toss of her head. “Mr. Beever can drive me. And I have met Mr. Baum several times, as you may remember. I shall be glad to tell him your opinion. Perhaps you would like me to invite him here, where you can tell him for yourself.”

  “Nonsense, Caroline,” her ladyship snapped. “Young ladies never go out at night alone, especially to a meeting in the village pub. Why should you want to do such a ridiculous thing? It’s unthinkable!”

  Caroline wrinkled her nose and laughed sweetly. “My very dear Grandmama, you are so old-fashioned! Why, I am practically grown up. And it’s not at all unthinkable, you know. Someone from Tidmarsh Manor really ought to be at the meeting. After all, it’s our village, too. What goes on in the district should concern us. Grandpapa took an interest in village affairs, didn’t he? He would have gone to the meeting, wouldn’t he?”

  Caroline’s questions took her ladyship quite aback. It was true that the late Lord Longford had been a staunch supporter of village projects and had always rather enjoyed playing the role of the village squire. Her glance went to his portrait, still draped with a black ribbon (just as the Queen had draped all of Prince Albert’s photographs), then back to Caroline, who—it must be admitted—certainly did look grown up, and very shapely and pretty with her long, light hair pinned on the top of her head.

  In fact, her ladyship thought, with a sharp, sudden pang, that Caroline looked at that moment exactly like her father, who had been sitting in that very same brown velvet-covered chair when he refused to marry the young lady she had picked out for him—a perfect match, it would have been, too. But when she insisted, her son had stamped out of the room and left Tidmarsh Manor the next morning, and she had never seen him again. If she were honest with herself, she should have to say that it was the one thing in her life that she most regretted. She should not have been so insistent. She really should have been more sensitive to—

  Beatrix put her teacup down on the table. “I plan to be at the meeting,” she said. To Caroline, she added, “If you would prefer to drive to the village with me this afternoon, Caroline, I should be delighted to have you stay all night at Hill Top.”

  Caroline smiled. “That’s very nice of you, Miss Potter. I’d like that very much.”

  “Good,” Beatrix said. “And you won’t have to trouble your grandmother to send Mr. Beever for you in the morning. Mr. Jennings can bring you home.”

  Lady Longford put down her cup. “I have changed my mind. I shall go to the meeting after all. I find that I wish to talk to
Mr. Baum.” She snorted. “Hydroplanes, indeed! What an idea! Caroline, you may tell Beever that we shall want the carriage this evening.”

  Beatrix did not go directly back to Winston, Rascal, and the pony cart. Carrying her bag with the butter and the loaf of bread, she went around to the back of the house and knocked at the kitchen door. It was opened by Mrs. Beever, a stout person in a gray dress, white apron, and white ruffled cap, somewhat askew on her fuzzy hair.

  “Why, if it isn’t Miss Potter from Lonnon,” Mrs. Beever exclaimed happily, “come round to my kitchen her very ownse’f! Welcome back to t’ village, Miss Potter. Do come in an’ have a cup o’ tea an’ a bite of summat.”

  A smile wreathed her round face. Beatrix had been a favorite of Mrs. Beever’s ever since she had helped Lady Longford escape from the sinister clutches of Miss Martine, her ladyship’s companion. Mrs. Beever had feared that Miss Martine (who pretended to be French but was about as French as I am, which is to say not at all) was about to seize full command of Tidmarsh Manor, send the staff packing, and install her own hand-picked servants—until Miss Potter came to the rescue.

  “I’d be glad of a cup, Mrs. Beever,” Beatrix said, although to tell the truth, she had already had all the tea she wanted. It was information she was after just now, and Mrs. Beever, who was always willing to gossip, was sure to be a good source. She held out her bag. “Oh, and I’ve brought you some bread and some of Mrs. Jennings’ butter.”

  “Won’erful!” Mrs. Beever exclaimed. “Mrs. Jennings makes a verra fine butter.”

  In a moment, tea was poured and scones and black currant jam were set out. The conversation moved at a lively pace from the weather (previously mild, turning chilly) to Caroline’s return from London (“Such a growin’ girl!”) to the health of Mrs. Beever’s sister’s daughter, who had a new baby. (“Zora, they named her. Canst tha imagine?”)

  And then Beatrix remarked, rather casually, “I understand that Mrs. Lythecoe and the vicar are to be married next month. What do you think of it, Mrs. Beever?”

  Mrs. Beever’s grin showed a broken tooth. “’Tis a verra fine match, in my opinion.” She added slyly, “Although I’d wager that t’ vicar has made t’ better part of t’ bargain.”

  “Oh, really?”

  Mrs. Beever nodded vigorously. “Mappen that Mrs. Lythecoe will take a firm hand in t’ vicarage, which is sorely needed, if tha asks me. Not to speak ill o’ Mrs. Thompson,” she added in a pitying voice (although of course that was exactly what she was doing). “But t’ poor ol’ thing is in over her head, she is.” (Please note that Mrs. Thompson is no older than Mrs. Beever.) “That big house, managing t’ tweeny and all t’ cookin’—it’s jes’ too much for her, it is,” she added with exaggerated sadness.

  Hazel Thompson was the vicar’s resident cook-housekeeper. She had never been known for her prowess in either field of endeavor, but over the past few years, her skills had visibly deteriorated and the tweeny (the girl who worked both upstairs and in the kitchen), told of many lapses. Visitors to the gloomy old vicarage could not help but remark the dust in the corners and the lamentable lack of buttons on the vicar’s shirts. Those unfortunate enough to be asked to dinner were distinctly unimpressed by Mrs. Thompson’s culinary efforts, to the point where the vicar himself found it necessary to apologize.

  “I see,” Beatrix said thoughtfully. “Yes, I suppose Mrs. Lythecoe will feel it necessary to make a few changes when she and the vicar are married. I wonder how Mrs. Thompson will feel about her new employer. The new Mrs. Sackett, that is.”

  “Employer?” Mrs. Beever exclaimed sarcastically. “Hazel Thompson ain’t nivver been one to take direction from anyboddy. Even t’ Rev’rend Sackett, poor man. She nivver listens to ’im. Jes’ goes on doin’ wot she wants to do, allus and betimes, same as if she was mistress of t’ house all by her ownse’f.”

  Beatrix drained her cup and set it down. “Then I don’t suppose Mrs. Thompson is entirely pleased that the vicar is getting married.”

  Mrs. Beever laughed shortly. “Doan’t suppose she is, now, do I? Wouldn’t surprise me in t’ least if t’ new Mrs. Vicar finds another cook-housekeeper reet soon after t’ weddin’, an’ pore ol’ Hazel finds hersel’ out in t’ lane w’ her satchel.” She picked up the pot. “More tea, Miss Potter? Another scone an’ jam? Or some of Mrs. Jennings’ butter?”

  Beatrix declined, thanked her hostess, and then thanked her again. In fact, she was truly thankful, for Mrs. Beever had given her something important to think about.

  Just how unhappy was Mrs. Thompson at the prospect of the vicar’s marriage to Mrs. Lythecoe and the potential loss of employment?

  And to what lengths would she go to stop that from happening?

  7

  Tales of a Disappointed Dragon Census-Taker

  As Miss Potter was calling at Tidmarsh Manor, Thorvaald the dragon was happily making himself at home not far away, at Briar Bank, the very old, very large, and mostly abandoned badger sett that was home to Bailey Badger and Thackeray the guinea pig.

  Thorvaald wasn’t a stranger at Briar Bank, of course. In fact, it had been his official address for centuries before Bailey Badger was born. He had been assigned by the Grand Assembly of Dragons to guard a hoard of Viking gold hidden there, in a distant chamber in the farthest corner of the sett. But please don’t assume that this was some stirring adventure, fraught with danger and enlivened by derring-do. It had been an excessively boring assignment and Thorvaald had slept through most of it. Treasure-guarding, as he said, was about as exciting as doing the washing-up.

  And then, through a series of tragic-comic misadventures, the dragon had at last been released from his gold-guarding assignment. Or rather, he had released himself from it, by the simple expedient of depositing his priceless Viking gold with the British Museum—by air mail, if you can imagine such a thing. He dropped it at the foot of a bobby, dozing against a lamppost just outside the museum.

  “ ’Twere magic, that’s wot ’twere,” said the incredulous bobby, according to an article in The Times. “Just fell out of the sky, it did, in a pair o’ leather satchels.” (You’ll find the full story of the here-and-gone gold hoard in The Tale of Briar Bank.)

  But if our dragon thought that giving away the gold would free him from his obligations to the Grand Assembly of Dragons, he was wrong. The Assembly felt that the gold did not belong to Thorvaald, and he had no business donating it to the museum. Moreover, the members of the Assembly were greatly annoyed at him for his part in the death of Illva, his fiery supervisor, who had flown into a barn. (Throughout the Land Between the Lakes, the resulting explosion and fire were reported to have been caused by a meteorite.) It was a good thing that the dragons didn’t know everything that happened that day. If they had, they would have done more than reprimand Thorvaald. They would probably have canceled his flight permit and put out his fire.

  But it was clear to the Assembly that they had to do something to curb Thorvaald’s juvenile enthusiasms and instill a greater sense of duty and discipline in the young dragon. So they assigned him to the census, sending him hither and yon, investigating reports of dragons. All of these had proved to be wild-goose chases, or wild-dragon chases, as the case may be, including his trip to Scotland, where he was supposed to discover whether the Loch Ness monster was real or a figment of someone’s fertile imagination. Thorvaald’s failures to discover and document the whereabouts of dragons had not, I fear, impressed the Assembly, who felt that he probably hadn’t worked as hard as he might have done. In fact, one of the senior dragons had been heard to remark that he ought to be hauled home and put to work waiting tables in the dining hall, where the dragon-master could keep an eye on him. He was thoroughly in disfavor—in the doghouse, a modern person might say—and he knew it.

  So Thorvaald was taking a few days off to think about how he might reestablish himself in the Assembly’s good graces. He should have to do something important and soon, or he would forever find himself assig
ned to fruitless tasks like the census—or worse, waiting tables in the dining hall. There was so much to be accomplished in this world: deeds to be done, wrongs to be righted, knowledge to be gained. Like many young dragons, Thorvaald was an idealist. He earnestly wanted to do his bit, to make his mark. He wanted to create a reputation for himself in the Wide World. But he could do none of these things if he were condemned to the life of a mere census-taker.

  While he reflected on these matters, Thorvaald was happily content to serve as a portable stove, warming the parlor at Briar Bank on a chilly night, or to stoke up his steam boiler to heat the tea kettle, or to provide a light for Thackeray’s pipe or for the kitchen fire, when it went out. He also served as a foot warmer in the evenings, so that the badger and the guinea pig could keep their toes cozy while Thackeray was reading aloud or Bailey was telling a story.

  Bailey enjoyed this very much and often thought that he had missed a great deal in his earlier life, shunning companionship and playing the role of the curmudgeonly bachelor badger. Tonight, as he glanced from Thackeray to Thorvaald, he was happily reminded of the Seventeenth Rule of Thumb: Hold a true friend with both paws. His life was so much more enjoyable now that he could share it with others, although there was sadness, too. Thorvaald was only visiting and would be gone again before many days. Hold a true friend with both paws, the Rule said, and went on, but be willing to let him go when the time comes. That time was not tonight, however, and Bailey was intent on enjoying his dragon as long as possible.

  Thorvaald even added a few tales of his own to the telling, for his census work had taken him to some rather interesting places in search of undocumented dragons. He told about flying across the Pacific to the island of Hawaii to watch Mauna Loa’s lava fountains erupt and the rocks glow cherry-red and flow in curling, scarlet ribbons toward the ocean. No dragon there, although the sight of all that molten rock had certainly warmed his soul. Thorvaald had experimented with a few of the rocks to see if he could melt them, but his fire just wasn’t hot enough. He would have to leave that sort of business to Mauna Loa, who seemed to be very good at it.