The Tale of Oat Cake Crag

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “Drawin’ is his passion,” Deirdre said. Beatrix already knew this, for the first time she had met Jeremy, he had been drawing a cat, and quite a good one, at that. She had been working on her frog book at the time, and he had shown her where to go to find frogs to draw, so she had named her book The Tale of Jeremy Fisher.

  It hadn’t been long before the hours Deirdre and Jeremy spent together had become the highlight of their days. But it had been a much longer time before they could agree to be married, because, as she said rather shyly, “There was so much to be worked out.”

  The “so much” was mostly money, Beatrix suspected. Two could not live as cheaply as one—that was a fallacy. Did they think they could manage to live on Jeremy’s salary as a teacher, assuming that he would stay on at the village school? But that was an impolite question. Instead, she asked another. “Have you spoken to Mr. and Mrs. Sutton?”

  Deirdre, as you may remember, was an orphan, claimed five years before by Rose Sutton (such was the practice at the time) to help with the children, in return for room and board and the privilege of going to school. Sometimes, these arrangements did not work out well, and the orphan was sent back. But not this time. The Sutton children thought of Deirdre as their sister, and the Suttons considered her their daughter. And since she had no real parents, the Suttons would have to speak for her.

  “They were a little surprised,” Deirdre admitted. “An’ they didn’t think it was a good thing—in the beginning. They feared I was too young, an’ we wouldn’t have enough money. But we kept talkin’ to ’em and lettin’ ’em know we were serious, and they finally agreed, especially after Jeremy was asked to stay on and teach at the school.” She grinned engagingly. “The Suttons like Jeremy, o’ course. An’ they married when they were young, even though Mrs. Sutton’s parents didn’t approve. And now just look at their fine family.”

  Indeed, Beatrix thought to herself. It was a fine large family. And then she asked the question that was at the top of her mind.

  “But what about Jeremy’s art? And his university education. I thought . . . that is, I hoped ...” She stopped. She had understood that Jeremy was simply taking a year to work on his drawing and painting skills before going off to university. After all, Major Kittredge had promised to help support him while he finished his studies. If he were to marry, that avenue would be closed to him. But it was his decision, wasn’t it? What rights did she have in the matter? None at all, of course.

  Deirdre sobered. “To tell t’ truth,” she said quietly, “that’s why I said no at first, Miss Potter. And kept on sayin’ no all t’ way through Christmas and t’ winter. I thought he ought to go to university, since Major Kittredge is so keen to help, an’ I promised to wait an’ work an’ save as much as I could until he was finished. But he says he would rather draw an’ paint than spend his time studyin’ in books, and would rather teach an’ live in t’ village than go off to Cambridge.” She colored prettily. “An’ marry me, o’ course. I told him I thought he was wrong to miss his chance, but he says he knows what he wants.”

  “And what do you want?” Beatrix asked softly. It was the same question she had asked Caroline, who had not told her all the truth.

  “Me?” Deirdre met her eyes in an utterly straightforward way. “I want Jeremy to be happy,” she said simply. “If livin’ here an’ teaching at t’ school an’ bein’ married to me makes him happy, that’s what I want. I’ve asked him over an’ over, an’ that’s what he says.” She sighed and looked down at her hands, capable hands with blunt fingers and close-trimmed nails. “T’ won’t be easy, I know. I’ve promised to help by goin’ out to work—Mr. Sutton wants me to stay on at the surgery, at least for a while. An’ we’ve found a cottage in Far Sawrey that will be vacant come June. Slatestone Cottage. Just a little place, but it’s clean an’ not too far from Jeremy’s school an’ has a vegetable garden an’ even a little shed where he can paint.” She smiled a little. “I know you’ve wanted Jeremy to be an artist, Miss Potter. You’ve helped him an’ encouraged him. I promise not to do anything to stand in the way of his art.”

  Well, there it is. And I must admit that I cannot help comparing Deirdre’s feelings about Jeremy to Caroline’s. Caroline was full of romantic dreams of white bridal gowns and babies in ribbons and pinafores (cared for by Deirdre and the nanny’s helper) and tea under the awning. In fact, now that I think about it, all her dreams had Caroline herself at the center of them, with husband and children and servants on the periphery, like a young girls’ dolls.

  Deirdre’s dreams, on the other hand, are centered on Jeremy: what he wants, what will make him happy. Some of us might say that perhaps she is too focused on him, at least for our modern sensibility. Where are her own desires? Her own wishes? Isn’t there something she wants for herself, not for Jeremy?

  But I hope we won’t be too judgmental. Deirdre, like Beatrix and Caroline and all the others in this story, are creatures of the time and place in which they live, and we cannot fault them for not seeing beyond the walls of their dwelling. Even Sarah Barwick, that Modern Woman who wears men’s trousers and smokes cigarettes, is a person of her time, for if she lived in our day and age, she would surely be aware that while trousers are a good thing, cigarettes are not. In any event, I am glad to see that Deirdre is so clear-eyed and realistic when she speaks about her marriage. When it comes to marriage, realism goes farther than romance, and Deirdre seems prepared to work. And although every marriage is held together by mutual love and respect, work—especially when two people find something they want to work for together—can be a remarkably strong glue.

  And so the conversation turned to wedding dresses and curtains for the new cottage. When Beatrix asked Deirdre what she and Jeremy would like for a wedding present, she was quick to say, “Oh, pots an’ pans, for sure, or dishes for every day! Nothin’ fancy, please, Miss Potter.” Then she looked down at Beatrix’s blue rug and smiled. “Unless it’s a little blue rug, like this one. It’s so pretty.”

  This remark made Beatrix smile, for it was so like Deirdre. She made a mental note to obtain an identical blue rug for the floor of Deirdre’s and Jeremy’s cottage, and perhaps a nice serving dish, as well. This made her think what sort of wedding presents she would like, if she and Will were to be married—a thought that she immediately pushed away. But not that far. It lingered, like a curious spectator, at the edge of her awareness, as she and Deirdre talked about village matters, about the little Suttons and their father’s veterinary practice, and about the aeroplane, which, Deirdre said, had fallen into the lake that morning.

  “It did?” Beatrix asked, astonished. “Into the lake?”

  “You haven’t heard? Mr. Alter, one of Mr. Sutton’s clients, was waitin’ at the landin’ to catch the eastbound ferry, when he heard the engine sputter-like and saw the thing go down in the water.”

  “Was anybody hurt?”

  “I don’t think so. But they say the wing is busted, and the tail, too. No tellin’ when it’ll be flyin’ again. Weeks, maybe.”

  “Well, that will be some relief,” Beatrix said. “It’s a mercy it didn’t fall on someone’s house.”

  After Deirdre had finished her tea and left, Beatrix sat at the table looking out of the window, watching the gray March twilight creep ghostlike across the garden. She was lost in thought, reflecting on the young and innocent love between Deirdre and Jeremy, the recent weddings of her friends, Dimity Woodcock and Margaret Nash, and the happiness that Grace and the vicar had found together later in their lives—if the mystery of the letters could be solved. The world seemed to be full of people who met and fell in love and married. But sadly, it was a world from which she was excluded, because, as Mrs. Thompson had put it so aptly that morning, she was a martyr to duty. “We must do what we must,” Mrs. Thompson had said, her voice heavy with resignation, “whether we like it or not.” But did that have to exclude any possibility that she and Will might find happiness together?

  She sat
awhile longer, thinking. Then, when the room darkened, she brought the paraffin lamp to the table and lit the wick, loving as she always did the circle of warm light that fell like a blessing across the red-checked cloth. She poured herself another cup of tea, sat down, and took Bertram’s letter out of the pocket of her skirt. She reread it for the dozenth time. Then she got up and went for pen, ink, and paper.

  It was time to write a letter to her parents.

  19

  “Read This!”

  There is always more than one side to every story—and when the story is a love triangle, there are, by definition, three sides to it. (At least. Life being what it is, sometimes there are more.) We’ve already heard Caroline’s side of this story, and Deirdre’s. Now, I think, it must be Jeremy’s turn.

  Poor Jeremy. He was not physically injured when Lady Longford whacked him so soundly with her cane. He is a tall, strong young man, and it would take more than an old lady’s smacks to cause any serious damage. But his spirits were very low, and he was blaming himself for what had happened. It was his fault, he told himself. He should have been more sensitive to Caroline’s feelings. He should have known better. He had injured one of his oldest and dearest friends.

  Head down, hands in his pocket, Jeremy looks nothing like the self-satisfied boy who started off for Tidmarsh Manor that afternoon with a Peter Pannish air of “How clever I am. Oh, the cleverness of me!” Occupied with his unhappy recriminations, he reached the end of Tidmarsh Lane and turned toward the village. At that moment, a small fawn-colored terrier—full of Bosworth’s birthday cake and the good fellowship of his animal friends—scrambled over the stone wall and rushed up to him.

  “Hullo, Jeremy!” Rascal barked. “Nice to see you today! I’ve been having the most wonderful time at The Brockery.”

  Jeremy Crosfield was another of Rascal’s favorite people. In Rascal’s informed opinion, Jeremy had always been much nicer than the other village boys, who teased small dogs and tied rattles to their tails and were often cruel. Jeremy had made something of himself, too—going away to grammar school (none of the other boys had ever done that!), becoming an artist, and now teaching at the village school. Unfortunately, though, the little dog didn’t see much of Jeremy these days. The boy seemed to spend much of his time at Courier Cottage, where the Suttons lived. Rascal didn’t like to go with him, because Mr. Sutton had adopted a fierce black dog with huge white teeth, abandoned by a client who did not pay his bill. Rascal, who rarely admitted to being afraid of anything, was more than a little afraid of the fellow.

  “Hullo, Rascal,” Jeremy said unhappily. “Well, I’ve put my foot in it this time.”

  “Uh-oh,” Rascal yipped. “What happened?”

  Jeremy looked down at the dog, who was always so perky and cheerful. He was glad that Rascal had happened along. He needed to give voice to his thoughts, needed someone to talk to—someone who would never tell anybody what he said.

  “Well, to start with,” Jeremy said, “I never meant to propose to Caroline, and it was wrong of her grandmother to think so.”

  “You proposed to Caroline?” Rascal barked incredulously. “You and Caroline Longford are getting married?”

  He knew, of course, that grownup people did this, all the time—people as old as Miss Potter and Mr. Heelis, or the vicar and Mrs. Lythecoe. People were forever falling in love and saying their vows in the church and moving into their own houses and having babies, like Major Kittredge and Miss Woodcock, who was now Mrs. Kittredge and a mother.

  But Rascal had never imagined that Jeremy might get married. The boy had always seemed to him to be a free spirit, liking nothing better than to ramble through the woods and fells—with Rascal himself by his side—looking for plants and animals to draw. People who got married didn’t have time for rambles or drawing pictures. They were too busy fixing things around the house, or taking care of babies, or digging in the garden. And he somehow couldn’t imagine Jeremy living happily at Tidmarsh Manor, under the stern gaze of that crepe-hung portrait of old Lord Longford.

  Jeremy kicked at a stone. “I feel that I’ve been tarred by the wrong brush, Rascal,” he muttered. “I’ve always understood who I am, you see. I’m not a gentleman’s son. I’ve always known that Lady Longford would never consider me as a proper suitor for Caroline. Anyway, I didn’t think of it because . . . well, because I don’t care for Caroline. At least, not in that way.”

  “Oh, good,” Rascal said, much relieved. “You’re not getting married. Sorry—I misunderstood.” There would be rambles, after all, and fun. Things would go on as they had in the past, and all would be well.

  “And I had no idea—not the remotest sort of a glimmer—that Caroline might care for me.”

  “She does?” Rascal asked, skipping to keep up. “Caroline Longford loves you?” Not that this was surprising. Jeremy (in Rascal’s experience) was an exceedingly lovable person. But Caroline had gone to London. In Rascal’s experience, Big People who went into the Great Wide World rarely came back to live in the village, where there was so little excitement.

  Jeremy kicked at another stone. He had begun to understand what was behind Caroline’s anguished wail, “Then you don’t love me?” Like her grandmother, Caroline had completely misunderstood his intentions. She must have assumed—perhaps from the moment he had asked to call on her—that he was coming to tell her that he loved her.

  “I don’t think she really loves me,” he went on, talking mostly to himself. “But she thinks she does, which amounts to the same thing.” He looked down at Rascal. “Doesn’t it?”

  “How should I know?” Rascal replied ruefully. “I don’t have any idea what goes on in the minds of ladies. I don’t have time for romance.”

  This was true. Rascal was fully employed (and then some) as Near Sawrey’s Chief Dog. His job was a twenty-four-hour, seven-day-a-week assignment that required him to monitor strangers in the village, settle disagreements among other dogs, and sleep with one eye open on the porch at Belle Green, on guard against trespassers and evildoers. He had his duty, and romance would only get in the way.

  “I’m sure she’ll get over it,” Jeremy said, although he wasn’t. He knew that he had never tried to mislead Caroline about his feelings for her. But he also knew Caroline, too, and pretty well. He had perceived, several years before, that she was developing a certain romantic streak, a tendency to dream about the future. It hadn’t crossed his mind, though, that her romantic dreams might center on him. What a thick-headed clod he had been!

  Now, you and I might say that if Jeremy hadn’t intentionally led Caroline on, he couldn’t be held responsible for her misunderstanding. But that didn’t keep him from feeling absolutely rotten about it, and cursing himself for causing her pain. Or (which was even worse, he thought) causing a rift between Caroline and Deirdre. He knew that the two girls didn’t see each other very often these days—Caroline had become quite the lady and Deirdre was . . . well, Deirdre, and still as hardworking and down-to-earth as ever. Nobody would ever call her a lady, and she would laugh in their faces if they did. But lady or no, she was a splendid girl. As far as Jeremy was concerned, she was pretty nearly perfect.

  “What I really hate,” he said out loud, “is the idea that Caroline will be angry at Deirdre, and think that she is the cause of it all, when getting married was totally my idea, not Deirdre’s. She kept saying no, over and over again, until I finally wore her down.”

  Now, Rascal was really confused. “You are getting married after all?” he growled. So that was what was behind all those visits to Courier Cottage! Jeremy had been visiting Deirdre. Fierce black dog or no, he told himself, he should have gone along, to keep an eye on the two of them.

  The boy bent over, picked up a stone, and shied it at the hedge. “Happiest day in my life when she said yes,” he said and grinned. “Just wish we had a little more money coming in. With the cottage and all—well, it’s going to be a near thing.” He looked down at the dog and brightened even m
ore. “But if I can sell a painting every fortnight or two, it’ll help matters considerably. And if I can just get this awful business with Caroline smoothed out, I’ll be happy.”

  “Well, if you’re happy, I’m happy,” said the dog. Still, he was doubtful. To him, it seemed like a risky proposition. But he was just a dog—what did he know?

  By this time, they had reached the top of the village. Mrs. Crook was out in the yard at Belle Green, calling for Rascal, so the dog excused himself and trotted home to see what was wanted.

  Jeremy himself didn’t have far to go, only to the Llewellyns’ house next door, where he was boarding. He let himself in at the back, for, like the other homes in the village, High Green Gate was never locked. Inside, it was dim and silent. Mr. Llewellyn had gone to Carlisle two days before to visit his ailing father, and Mrs. Llewellyn was probably out calling. She went out a lot in the late afternoons, and often had tea with her cousin, who was the housekeeper at the vicarage. The two of them seemed to be very close.

  Still feeling unhappy about the ugly scene at Tidmarsh Manor, Jeremy wandered through the quiet rooms. High Green Gate was a pleasant house, situated on the shoulder of the hill with a view of the buildings on the other side of the street below, the joinery and the smithy and Rose Cottage and the shop that Miss Potter (in one of her books) had called Ginger and Pickles. But while the house itself was nice enough, even Jeremy, boy that he was, could see that Mrs. Llewellyn was not a careful housekeeper. The sitting room was littered with newspapers, odd bits of clothing, a plate with a stale slice of bread left on it, and various cats, most of them napping. One, an orange tabby named Treacle, had recently given birth to kittens, and was curled contentedly on a pillow, nursing them. They were being watched by a rather plump calico with an orange-and-white bib. When Jeremy came in, she looked up and meowed.