The Tale of Cuckoo Brow Wood

by ALBERT, SUSAN WITTIG

  “I thought you would like it,” Mrs. Kittredge said with satisfaction. She put her hand on his arm. “Is it not all that I described to you, and more, Augustus? Is it not worth all the trouble you have been put to, all the discomfort of your railway journey?”

  “Indeed, indeed,” replied the man. “An extraordinarily desirable location, Diana. I can see them now—a dozen holiday villas, each of the most modern architecture and construction, arranged above the shoreline, just there.” He made an expansive gesture. “And each villa shall have its own boat dock, so that the residents can keep their own yachts. And a garage for their motor cars, of course.” He pressed his lips together. “I foresee the need for a new road along the shore, so that the villas can be easily reached from the ferry landing.”

  “The hotel, Augustus,” Mrs. Kittredge put in eagerly. “Don’t forget the hotel. Tourists will simply flock to it. Why, there’s even a resident ghost!”

  Beatrix pulled in a startled breath. A dozen holiday villas strewn along the unspoilt Windermere shoreline? Raven Hall made into an hotel? The thought was unthinkable.

  But not, it seemed, for Mr. Augustus Richardson. He smiled up at Mrs. Kittredge, a smile that seemed to have a certain edge to it. “And Major Kittredge—he has agreed to the syndicate’s proposal? The investors want assurance that their project is going forward. The drawings are even now being prepared. Timing is everything in matters of this sort, you know, and every moment Major Kittredge delays is costing money. Villas do not sprout up overnight.”

  Don’t they? Beatrix thought darkly. They seemed to her to pop out of the ground like toadstools. Why, just the previous year, an entire row of modern houses—little more than bungalows, really—had erupted along the road to St. Peter’s, in Far Sawrey. Their gardens were still raw and muddy, but they were fully occupied, and there was a rumor that even more were to be built.

  The lady heaved a dramatic sigh. “I cannot tell you that Major Kittredge is in total agreement. Not yet. After all, the family has owned the land for a very long time, and he has the idea that there will be Kittredges here forever. I suppose it would be better if you did not mention the hotel. The villas are enough for him to swallow just now.”

  Mr. Richardson frowned and tapped his walking stick on the ground. “I didn’t realize that the Kittredge line was to be extended. An heir is expected, then?”

  “Oh, good heavens, no!” said Mrs. Kittredge, with a flutter of eyelash and a gay little laugh. “It’s just that . . .” She gave him a sideways glance. “He hopes, you see.”

  “And I hope,” Mr. Richardson said significantly, “that you will be able to persuade him to agree to the villas. Soon, Diana. Very soon.”

  Mrs. Kittredge tossed her head in a careless way. “Oh, I shall, Augustus, never fear. I have a way, you know, of working on him. And now that you are here to explain the whole business to him—especially the part about how much money the Sandiford Syndicate will pour into the Kittredge purse—I am sure that the affair will move more smoothly.”

  “I daresay, Diana. I have every confidence in your skills of persuasion.” He chuckled. “I’ve often said that you are a witch, you know. An enchantress.”

  Whatever Mrs. Kittredge might have said to this remark was unfortunately lost in the shrill whistle of the approaching steam ferry, and the two prepared to board.

  As they left the spot where they had been standing, however, Beatrix noticed that something had been left behind: a white calling card, dropped, perhaps, when Mr. Richardson pulled the spyglass out of his pocket. She stooped, picked it up, and then, without the slightest twinge of guilt, tucked it into the pocket of her gray woolen skirt and went to lead her pony onto the ferry.

  8

  The Vicar Tells a Lie

  At the same moment that Miss Potter was boarding the ferry, Vicar Samuel Sackett sat down at his desk in the vicarage at Far Sawrey, took up his pen, and returned to the essay he was writing: a scholarly work on the sufferings of Job. The piece was nearly finished. Only the conclusion remained, in which he would argue that life constantly presents us with unexpected and unwelcome challenges, and that while we may never understand the purpose of suffering, we can only do our best. It was an argument that the poor vicar was taking to heart, for he himself had been suffering greatly for the past several months.

  The week before Christmas, Vicar Sackett had received a letter from a distant cousin, Harold Thexton, saying that he and his wife Gloria were traveling through the Lake District and would be delighted to drop in for a brief visit at any time that was convenient to the vicar. However, since they planned to be in the area on the following Tuesday, it seemed that time would be the most convenient for themselves, if it would not too terribly inconvenience the vicar.

  Now, it happened that the following Tuesday was Christmas Eve, a dreadfully inconvenient time to entertain guests at the vicarage, what with the carol singing and the festive decorations and the choir party and the gifts to be collected and distributed to the village poor. Since there was no Mrs. Sackett—the vicar had lost his dear wife to scarlet fever shortly after their marriage—all these duties fell upon him, in addition to the burden of several additional holiday worship services. If the vicar were honest, it was most definitely not the best time of the year to receive guests. Nor could he recall a branch of the family that went by the name of Thexton, although it was to be admitted that the Sackett family tree had a great many odd branches and there might have been a Thexton offshoot or two among the distant twigs on his father’s mother’s side.

  However, the vicarage had several guest rooms and the vicar’s housekeeper and cook, Mrs. Thompson, could just as easily turn out dinner for three as for one. So Vicar Sackett swallowed his reluctance and extended a cordial invitation to Mr. and Mrs. Thexton to join him for a few days over the holidays. When they arrived, he learnt that Mr. Thexton, a burly gentleman of middle age with a drooping mustache and an affected manner, was a great-great-nephew of the vicar’s grandmother’s sister, that is, on the Lessiter side of that family. In the course of their conversation, it emerged that he was engaged in writing a book about the folklore of Cumbria, and that he and Mrs. Thexton were traveling about the area so that he might collect local folktales.

  The Thextons had planned to leave shortly after Christmas, but were prevented by a snowfall. (Mrs. Thexton was fearful of traveling when the roads were covered with ice and snow.) By the time the snow had melted, however, the lady had contracted a nasty cold, and their departure was delayed once again. Her recuperation took rather longer than expected (she had a delicate constitution and was unfortunately susceptible to bronchial ailments), so that the vicar felt obliged to extend his hospitality until the beginning of March, at which time it emerged that Mr. Thexton had uncovered a promising vein of local folklore and thought he should like to stay and mine it—that is, if dear Cousin Samuel would not object to their company for just a little while longer. They would be very good and as quiet as a pair of little mice, promised Mr. Thexton, and would not impose upon the vicar in any way.

  Vicar Sackett was by nature a mild-mannered man much preoccupied with reading, writing, and the cares of his little flock, and as a rule did not take much notice of what was going on immediately around him. However, even the vicar could not fail to notice, at the beginning of April, that the Thextons were still in residence at the vicarage, and that he was beginning to feel . . . well, just a little weary of their company. It wasn’t that he didn’t like them—the pair did possess a certain charming and ingratiating amiability—and he was, after all, a man of the cloth whose Christian duty it was to be tolerant of all sorts of people.

  But the vicar’s tolerance was severely tested. Mrs. Thexton’s sensibilities being most delicate, pipe smoke made her violently ill. The vicar had to go out into the garden to smoke his pipe, or on days when the weather forbade, into the unheated porch. Mr. Thexton, however, might comfortably smoke his cigar in the parlor, for Mrs. Thexton quite enjoyed cigar s
moke, which the vicar detested.

  And although she was an attractive woman, Mrs. Thexton could in no sense be likened to a quiet little mouse. In fact, she talked so continually and so volubly about such a variety of inconsequential subjects that she put the vicar in mind of Alfred Lord Tennyson’s famous babbling brook: “Men may come and men may go, but I go on forever.” The vicar began to fear that Mrs. Thexton would indeed go on forever, and that as long as she was a resident in the vicarage, he should have to hear about the lamentable felt hat that Miss Woodcock had worn at Sunday service; the difficulty of finding cerise velvet ribbons in Hawkshead or Alceon lace in Kendal; and the relative inferiority of cod as an entrée, as compared to pheasant or sirloin of beef.

  Mr. Thexton, on the other hand, had only one subject of conversation—his researches—and the disagreeable habit of reviewing his most recent findings at breakfast, whilst the vicar was reading his newspaper, or of popping into the study with them, just at the moment the vicar was about to wrestle into submission the most unyielding paragraph of his Sunday sermon. Mr. Thexton, as it turned out, had a profound interest in the supernatural, a passion which the vicar, a man of God, might under other circumstances have shared. But Mr. Thexton’s fascination with the supernatural seemed to be directed toward—of all things—fairies, elves, and other such creatures, and on that score, the vicar was forced to confess ignorance. This did not, unfortunately, discourage Mr. Thexton, who seemed determined to bring to light all evidences of the past or present existence of fairies in the Lake District, so that he could put them into his book.

  Other things vexed the vicar. Mrs. Thompson, who kept a careful eye on the accounts, reported that the cost of the vicarage’s table had risen sharply, in inverse proportion (as the vicar himself had noticed) to the alarming decline in the stock of port in the vicarage’s cellar. Worse, certain unfamiliar charges—cigars and an ebony walking stick, a cashmere shawl and pair of lady’s boots—appeared on the vicarage accounts in several shops in Hawkshead. Pressed by the vicar, Mr. Thexton assured him that repayment would be made as soon as expected funds arrived. And it was, although not promptly, and several new charges brought the total to an even higher amount.

  Faced with this evidence, the vicar began to suspect, with a growing horror, that the Thextons belonged to that dreaded race of spongers: free-loading parasites who lived at the expense of others and who, once comfortably established, could not be got rid of.

  Altogether, it was enough to try the patience of Job. And while Samuel Sackett did not pretend to saintliness, he knew himself to be a man of peace—not a coward, exactly, but . . . well, a man with something of a timid nature, who deeply disliked confrontation. But clearly, it was time that something—several somethings, actually—were done.

  So he closed all of the vicarage accounts in Hawkshead, with instructions that they were not to be reopened until personally authorized by himself. He locked the wine cellar and directed Mrs. Thompson to serve cod three times a week. And finally, he suggested that the Thextons might move down to the Sawrey Hotel, where there was rather more interesting society, or to the Tower Bank Arms, which carved a fine joint of roast beef every night. But Mrs. Thexton sighed and said that she found country hotels most shockingly boring, so he did not pursue the subject. He did, however, take to spending longer and longer hours in his study, where he was writing—as if from his personal experience—a scholarly article on the sufferings of Job.

  And it was there, on the same bright April afternoon that Miss Potter had overheard Mrs. Kittredge and Mr. Richardson discussing the construction of holiday villas, that Mr. Thexton found him.

  “I have just learnt,” Mr. Thexton said with an air of suppressed glee, “that a nearby estate is one of a very few ancient houses of Cumberland which possess a relic granted to it by fairies.” His thick walrus mustache bristled with excitement. “A goblet, I understand.”

  The vicar put down his pen. “You are speaking of the Luck of Raven Hall, I believe.”

  “I am indeed!” Mr. Thexton exclaimed. “And I must say, Cousin Samuel, I take it rather hard that you did not tell me about this yourself. It would have advanced my researches substantially.”

  “I didn’t think of it,” the vicar confessed. “I haven’t thought of it in years, as a matter of fact—perhaps because there has been so much very bad luck there.”

  The story of the Luck of Raven Hall was known throughout the Land between the Lakes, and the vicar reported it as he had often heard it. The Luck was a large glass goblet enameled in gilt, red, blue, and green. It was said to have belonged to the fairies—the Oak Folk, Lakelanders called them—who lived among the ancient trees of Cuckoo Brow Wood, where the Kittredge family estate was located. Soon after Raven Hall was built, on the eve of the wedding of the eldest Kittredge son, a dairymaid went out to milk a cow. When she sat down to milk, however, she discovered to her consternation that her bucket had a hole in it.

  At that moment, a trio of Oak Folk approached, dressed in oak leaves, wearing acorn caps, and carrying a beautiful goblet. They promised that if the maid should milk the cow into the goblet and give the milk to the bride to drink, they would bless the marriage, and the Kittredges’ descendants for all time. But if the goblet were broken, the marriage would be doomed, and with it, the luck of Raven Hall.

  Having given this warning, the Oak Folk danced off into Cuckoo Brow Wood, leaving a last fairy caution ringing in the air:

  If that glass should break or fall Farewell the luck of Raven Hall.

  “And the goblet has been preserved intact?” Mr. Thexton asked eagerly.

  “Yes, although one can’t say the same thing for the Kittredge family fortunes. What with one thing and another, it’s been a very rough go. The son whose marriage was blessed fell off his horse and died, and his son was struck by lightning. A few years ago, three members of the family died in an accident, and more recently, a servant girl drowned in the nearby tarn, the housekeeper went mad, and the steward made off with some of the valuables. And the major himself was horribly wounded in the war.” He might have gone on to relate the details, but Mr. Thexton wasn’t listening.

  “What an extraordinary opportunity!” he trumpeted. “How wonderfully providential! Fairies, fairies all around us! I tell you, Cousin Samuel, if it’s the very last thing I do before I leave the Lake District, I must lay my eyes upon the Luck of Raven Hall.”

  The vicar knew a golden opportunity when he saw one. “The last thing?” he asked hopefully. “I shall do my utmost, then, to enable you to see the Luck before you leave.”

  Mr. Thexton leaned forward, his eyes gleaming. “You can make that possible? When?”

  “When were you thinking of leaving?” the vicar inquired.

  “How soon can I see the Luck?” countered Mr. Thexton.

  Now, the vicar was happily aware that an invitation to tea at Raven Hall—to celebrate the return of Christopher Kittredge and introduce his new wife to the villagers—lay in the top drawer of his desk, unanswered. He had not replied to it because it would have been rude to go without the Thextons and he found it most unpleasant to think of going with them.

  But the case had altered. He was now eager to introduce Mr. Thexton to the mystery of the Raven Hall Luck and see the back of his cousin and his cousin’s wife. He said: “Well, then, if you are intending to go so soon as Monday, I believe it might be possible to arrange it for this weekend. If, however, you should wish to delay—”

  “This weekend!” chortled Mr. Thexton, rubbing his hands. “This very weekend! Oh, my, yes! Yes, indeed, Cousin Samuel. Yes!”

  And then the vicar did something he had not done since he was a small boy, and something he hoped he would not live to regret. He lied.

  “I should not like to hasten your departure,” he said, childishly crossing his fingers behind his back. “Monday, is it, then?”

  Mr. Thexton sighed. “Yes, Monday,” he said, with the air of a man who knows he has made a hard decision but inte
nds to stand by it.

  The vicar rose with alacrity. “I will inform Mrs. Thompson that you and Mrs. Thexton will be leaving on Monday morning, and ask Mr. Cantrell to be here by nine to drive you to the ferry. And I will immediately send up to Mrs. Kittredge at Raven Hall to see if it is convenient for us to call on Saturday. She and Major Kittredge were recently married, you know. I believe they are receiving guests.”

  Seeming not to hear, Mr. Thexton closed his eyes. “The Luck of Raven Hall,” he murmured blissfully, savoring the words as though they were sweet to the taste. “I shall see it on Saturday! And perhaps I shall even hold it in my hands!”

  “Yes,” said the vicar in a prayerful tone, as he went out and shut the door. “You shall see it on Saturday. And on Monday, please God, you shall be on your way.”

  9

  Caroline and Jeremy Make a Bargain

  On Thursday morning, Jeremy went early to school, so Caroline didn’t get to talk to him about Saturday’s plan or ask him to help Deirdre catch a frog. And when she tried to speak to him at recess and lunchtime, there were always others around. She decided to wait, since she wasn’t exactly eager to be overheard discussing a fairy-hunting expedition, or finding a frog to trick Harold Beechman. She and Jeremy both took the same path home. She’d talk to him then.

  So when class was dismissed, Caroline walked up the road with Deirdre until they reached the stile over the stone fence. Then she said goodbye, climbed over, and dawdled along the path, which slanted across the meadow to Wilfin Beck and then set off upstream, to Tidmarsh Manor and Holly How Cottage beyond. The stream, in full spring spate, flung itself playfully down the rocky fell, rolling and tumbling and laughing and chuckling as it skirted the shadows of Cuckoo Brow Wood and hurried toward the open meadow. There it slowed its breakneck pace and for a time became thoughtful and quiet, as if it were pausing to wonder where in this great, wide, wonderful world its journey might be taking it. Caroline loved to walk beside the stream, for it reminded her of New Zealand, which now seemed far away and lost to her forever. The sharp edges of last autumn’s homesickness had dulled and the longing was not so bitterly keen, but there was still something in her that wept for home, and the little laughing stream never failed to comfort her.