The Tale of Cuckoo Brow Wood

by ALBERT, SUSAN WITTIG

  Lady Longford gave a peremptory laugh. “Just like his father, the major is. Every virtue of brains and breeding except the sense to marry well. Mrs. Kittredge was an actress, someone told me. He married her straight off the stage.”

  Beatrix thought she might have guessed. Mrs. Kittredge had quite a dramatic flair.

  “An actress.” Her ladyship’s voice was heavy with disapproval. “When he might have had our dear little Miss Woodcock.”

  Oh, poor Dimity, Beatrix thought in dismay. It was difficult enough to lose the person one cared for; to lose him in full sight and knowledge of a village was immeasurably worse. And now that the major had returned home with a wife, Dimity’s loss was no doubt on the tip of everyone’s tongue.

  Lady Longford sighed. “One does pity Miss Woodcock, Miss Potter. She must have felt the marriage to this . . . person as a shocking rejection. However, it may all turn out in the end, and to Miss Woodcock’s better advantage.” She gestured with her gold-handled lorgnette in the direction of Dimity, who was standing quite close to Mr. Heelis at the window, looking out over the lake. “Quite a romantic couple, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Dimity turned just then and looked up at Mr. Heelis, and Beatrix saw clearly her light, lithe figure, the brown hair ruffled around her face, the bright eyes, the thoughtful expression. Mr. Heelis, who was very tall, bent to say something in her ear, and Dimity nodded in a serious, considering way.

  Beatrix had known Mr. Heelis since her first days at Hill Top Farm, and had thoroughly enjoyed their acquaintance, which had included a winter’s walk during her December visit and a comfortable tea at the Sawrey Hotel. She had not thought of him as having a romantic interest in Dimity, but now that she did, it made a certain sense. Mr. Heelis was a friend of Captain Woodcock and a frequent visitor to Tower Bank House, and Dimity was an attractive woman. A very attractive woman.

  Beatrix bit her lip, aware of a sharp feeling deep inside. What was it? Disappointment? Longing? A sense of loss?

  Yes, that must be it. The loss of the only love that would have completed her life. Norman, whose loss was still a raw wound, a painful memory evoked by the sight of two people discovering their love for each other. And if she would be brutally honest with herself, there was a certain envy mixed with the pain, for Dimity was free to encourage Mr. Heelis if she liked. No one would object to the match, as Beatrix’s mother and father had so angrily objected to her marrying Norman. Dimity was free to follow her heart, without any delays or postponement, other than suited her and Mr. Heelis.

  Lady Longford had turned her sharp gaze on Beatrix. “Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Potter?” she repeated, raising her eyebrows.

  “I suppose,” Beatrix said, not quite sure what she was agreeing to. Very firmly, she put the thought of Dimity and Mr. Heelis aside and changed the subject, to bring up something that had concerned her since she had heard about it from Sarah Barwick. “If you don’t mind my asking, Lady Longford, I wonder whether you have taken any decision about Caroline’s education.”

  “I don’t mind your asking at all.” Lady Longford raised her lorgnette and regarded Beatrix through it. “I have become rather fond of my granddaughter. I see a certain promise in her, although one that requires refinement. She has not lived up to my expectations in school this year, whether through inadequate preparation or lack of attention, I do not know. Perhaps she is simply dull-witted.”

  “Dull-witted!” Beatrix exclaimed in shock. “Surely not! Caroline is highly intelligent!” Beatrix knew this for a fact through her acquaintance with Caroline the previous autumn.

  Lady Longford did not acknowledge the interruption. “And while the school provided a transition from Caroline’s sketchy education in New Zealand,” she went on, “it has had the unfortunate effect of encouraging her to associate with the village children. They are not, as I am sure you will agree, Miss Potter, suitable companions for the child. She was a hoyden when she came to me; she has become rather more so, I fear. Why, just today, I had to forbid her to go running off into Cuckoo Brow Wood with that servant girl of the Suttons and the boy who lives at Holly How Farm.” She paused and added firmly, “I have decided that Caroline needs a governess.”

  Forbid her to go into the woods? Beatrix wondered. Did that mean that Caroline hadn’t been able to go with Deirdre and Jeremy on their expedition? That was too bad.

  Beatrix frowned. Lady Longford was a strong, formidable woman with an intimidating manner that was obviously intended to strike alarm into anyone who had the temerity to disagree with her. But Beatrix’s long experience with her own dictatorial mother had taught her that there were times when she simply had to say what she thought and refuse to allow herself to be bullied. And she and Lady Longford had had some dealings the previous year, when her ladyship’s health—and perhaps her life—had been threatened by her unscrupulous companion. Lady Longford might not always show it, but she respected those who stood their ground.

  “I do not mean to be impertinent, but I cannot agree with your ladyship about the village children,” Beatrix replied. “Some of them are rather boisterous, certainly. But Caroline is a sensible girl, and there is nothing dull-witted about her. I should trust her to choose her friends wisely.” She thought with a pang of her own solitary childhood, and added, in a softer tone: “And besides, the child is apt to be lonely, left entirely to herself.”

  “Well!” Lady Longford drew herself up sharply. “I expected you, of all people, Miss Potter, to understand Caroline’s situation. However common her beginnings in New Zealand, my granddaughter is to be a lady. She requires a lady’s upbringing for a lady’s social responsibilities.”

  Beatrix stiffened, hearing in Lady Longford’s harsh, strident voice the same nagging tones she heard at home. From her earliest childhood, her mother had continually reminded her that she must learn to act like a lady. Mrs. Potter herself spent the greater part of every day keeping up her own social responsibilities, driving out in her carriage to sip tea with other ladies or dressing for the many dinner parties the Potters enjoyed. Beatrix had not been allowed to play with other children and had been raised by nannies and educated by governesses until she was nineteen, because that’s how young ladies were raised. And when she had wanted to marry Norman Warne, Mrs. Potter had refused to allow it, because the Warnes were not of the Potters’ social class and Norman worked for a living. If that was what it meant to be a lady, Beatrix had long ago rejected the idea—not only rejected it, but positively rebelled against it. And that was the kind of life Lady Longford intended for her granddaughter!

  But Beatrix had learned that it was possible to get around Lady Longford, if it were done in the right way. In the least impertinent tone she could manage, she said, “I might be able to suggest some possible candidates for governess, if your ladyship would like.”

  Lady Longford inclined her head. “Most kind, Miss Potter,” she said, a glint of victory in her eye. “I should certainly be willing to give special consideration to anyone you might care to recommend. As long as she is of good family,” she added.

  Good family! Beatrix thought acidly to herself. No doubt her ladyship meant to employ a governess who would instruct Caroline in exactly the sorts of behaviors “good family” entailed. “I shall give the matter careful thought,” she said. “Perhaps I’ll write to my own former governess.”

  “Do,” Lady Longford said, and swept away with a rustle of skirts. Beatrix looked after her, glad that her feelings could not be read on her face. If she had anything to do with it, Caroline would have something in her life besides instruction in how to conform to her ladyship’s social expectations.

  After the shattering of the Raven Hall Luck, the party never seemed to regain its sparkle, and within the hour, Captain Woodcock, accompanied by his sister and Mr. Heelis, came looking for Beatrix. The four of them said goodbyes and polite thanks and went back down the wide stone steps, through the portico, and down the path to the place where the captain’s motor car was parked.
The mist had blown away, the sun had come out, and the late afternoon sky was very blue.

  On the path, they caught up with Sarah Barwick. She had come with the Crooks but they had gone home early, and when the captain invited her to ride back to the village with them, she was only too glad to accept. Beatrix, Dimity, and Sarah all squeezed into the back seat, with Beatrix in the middle. Mr. Heelis sat in front with the captain and the two of them discussed the business of the villas as they began the drive back to the village.

  Straining to listen over the clatter of the motor car’s engine, Beatrix learned that Mr. Heelis had introduced himself to Mr. Richardson, pretending to be interested in investing in the Sandiford Syndicate. Mr. Richardson, however, had informed him that the syndicate was closed to new investors and asked, with a frown, how he had come to hear of the business.

  “I told him there were rumors flying everywhere,” Mr. Heelis told the captain, “just to see how he would respond. He said that rumors couldn’t be trusted.”

  “I spoke with him, too,” Captain Woodcock said, “and he told me the same thing. But he also admitted that there was truth behind the rumor, although he wouldn’t say whether any contracts had been signed. I spoke to Kittredge, as well,” the captain added, “although I couldn’t put my objections to him openly, of course—not as a guest at his reception. I daresay he took my meaning, however. We really must have a serious talk with him before this thing goes any further, Will. Appeal to his sense of family and duty. Let him know that he will face vocal opposition to any building on that shore. We can’t let him go forward without knowing how deeply people are likely to feel this thing.”

  “Exactly my thinking,” Mr. Heelis said. “Unfortunately, I must go to Carlisle on business on Monday, and won’t return until Wednesday. The earliest we can see him is Thursday or Friday, unless you want to talk with him yourself.”

  “You’re his solicitor—and his friend,” the captain said. “I think a meeting must wait on you.” He shook his head bleakly. “Although by the time we see him, the contracts may have been signed and the business underway. I tell you, Heelis, this is shaping up to be a nasty affair, with no easy way out. I—” Beatrix would have dearly liked to hear more, but the captain had lowered his voice at the same time that he had speeded up the engine, and she had to give up the effort.

  In the meanwhile, in the back seat, the conversation was all about the mysterious Mrs. Kittredge. To their great surprise, Dimity and Sarah had learnt (as had Beatrix) that the major’s new wife had been an actress before they were married. Sarah was excited by the news while Dimity seemed resigned and rather saddened, as if her faith in Major Kittredge’s judgment might be weakening.

  Sarah turned eagerly toward Beatrix. “Did you see how it happened that Mrs. Kittredge dropped the goblet, Bea?”

  “Oh, yes,” Dimity put in. “You were standing close by. What happened?”

  “I’m not sure,” Beatrix said. “I think I saw—” She broke off, recalling what she knew she had seen: Mrs. Kittredge with her hand extended and the goblet in it. Mr. Thexton, leaning forward, saying something, saying—what?

  “I beg pardon?” Dimity said, and added, helplessly, “Really, this motor is so loud I can scarcely hear myself think. A horse is ever so much quieter.”

  Beatrix raised her voice. “When it happened, I thought Mrs. Kittredge had simply been startled. But now that I think back—” She stopped, not quite sure whether she ought to say it, but feeling somehow that it ought to be said. Finally, she said, “I have the impression that it might not have been as accidental as it seemed.”

  Dimity turned to stare at her. “Not accidental? Why, whatever can you mean, Beatrix?”

  “I think she might have dropped it intentionally.”

  “Oh, surely not!” Sarah exclaimed, her eyes widening. “Break the Luck on purpose? Really, Beatrix, that can’t be right!”

  “I don’t believe the major’s wife would deliberately destroy a Kittredge family heirloom,” Dimity said loyally. “Why would she do such an awful thing?”

  “To prevent Mr. Thexton from finishing what he had started to say,” Beatrix replied uncomfortably.

  Sarah’s eyebrows were raised so high that they disappeared behind her fringe of bangs. “Really? But what on earth could Mr. Thexton be saying that would cause her to do such a horrible thing?”

  Beatrix took a deep breath. “He had been wondering aloud where he had seen her before. And then he said, ‘By thunder, I remember now! I do know you, of course I do! You are Irene—’ ”

  Dimity looked at her blankly. “You are—Irene? But Mrs. Kittredge’s name is Diana. I took special note of it when we were introduced.”

  “Yes, I know,” Beatrix said. “That’s the name I heard Major Kittredge call her. Diana.” Mr. Richardson had called her that, as well.

  “So what do you think it means?” Sarah demanded, puzzled. “Could Irene be a stage name?”

  “I suppose that’s possible,” Beatrix said, “although I’m not sure why she should be so dreadfully alarmed at someone’s recollecting a mere stage name.” And Mrs. Kittredge had been dreadfully alarmed. Her eyes had held a shocked look and her face had turned absolutely white. Beatrix looked from one to the other. “It’s already known, isn’t it, that she was an actress before she married Major Kittredge?”

  “Oh, widely known, I should say,” Dimity remarked, with just the barest hint of malice. “One of the guests mentioned that a cousin or someone had seen her on the stage. She only smiled and tossed her head. She seemed to take it as a compliment.”

  “So she wouldn’t be startled by Mr. Thexton’s recognition of her as an actress,” Beatrix said seriously.

  “I doubt it,” Dimity replied.

  “Well, it’s certainly a mystery, if you ask me,” Sarah said, opening her bag and taking out her cigarettes. “Who is Irene? And what does Mr. Thexton know about her?” With a dramatic flourish, she lit a match and applied it to the tip of her cigarette. “I don’t suppose we’ll ever know, will we?”

  But Sarah Barwick, who was so often right, was on the wrong track this time.

  22

  Miss Potter Counts Her Sheep

  Beatrix had been back from the Raven Hall reception just long enough to go upstairs and change into her farm clothes, then come back downstairs to put on the shoes she always wore outdoors. She smiled as she slipped her feet into the sturdy leather clogs made for her by Charlie Brown, a cobbler in Hawkshead. The old-fashioned clogs were magical, like Cinderella’s glass slippers, but in reverse. They didn’t take her to a glamorous ball or marriage with a prince, but to her real, true life. The minute she took off her smart leather town shoes and put on the clogs, she became a woman born to the country, rather than to the city, the kind of woman she longed to be.

  But would she ever be able to trade her city self—responsible for looking after her parents and their social obligations and their big city house—for the freer, more interesting life she lived at Hill Top? The answer, sadly, was “probably not.” Sarah Barwick would call her old-fashioned, but Beatrix had been raised to honor her family commitments, which meant that she would leave her parents only to marry. But the man to whom she had given her heart was dead, and she could not imagine loving another—certainly not the sort of gentleman her parents would find acceptable! That kind of man would never understand what Hill Top Farm meant to her. No, she was sentenced to living a double life, shuttling between the city and the country, until her mother and father were both gone. And by that time, she told herself with a rueful self-irony, she’d be too old to care where she lived.

  But Beatrix was a practical person. She stayed cheerful by focusing on what she had and what she could do, rather than making herself unhappy by longing for what she would never have or couldn’t do. When the manuscript of The Tale of Peter Rabbit was rejected by all six of the publishers to whom she sent it, she had published it herself and sold out two printings straightaway—at which point the Warne co
mpany had offered for it. She had met Norman and he had requested more books, and more, and the books had earned enough to buy Hill Top.

  And that was the way she intended to deal with everything else in her life—her family responsibilities, her life in London, her life on the farm. There was no predicting what surprises the future might hold, or the way one failure might lead to an even greater success. One could only meet each day as it came, and let the future take care of itself.

  She took her shepherd’s crook out of the umbrella stand and reached for the woolen jacket that hung on a peg beside the door. It was nearly half past seven in the evening, but the sun wouldn’t set for another hour and the reception’s sandwiches and cakes would do for her supper. It was too wet to work in the garden, but not too wet to walk through the sheep meadow and look over her flock, which now numbered some fourteen ewes and lambs. She was anxious to see how they were getting on.

  The sky overhead had cleared, the sun was dropping into a pool of lemon and lavender clouds behind the western fells, and the air was as sweet and clean as a freshly laundered sheet. Looking up, she saw two white-fleeced sheep on the flank of the hill to the east of the house. They looked like a pair of cotton puffs, grazing on the lush green grass. The others were probably on the far side of the hill.

  As she went down the walk, Rascal ran around the corner of the house. “Wait for me, Miss Potter!” he yipped. Behind him, running to catch up, came Deirdre, her eyes shining.

  “Miss Potter!” Deirdre called breathlessly. “I have something t’ tell you! Something wonderful!”

  “Well, tell away,” Beatrix invited, and listened as Deirdre spilled her story, all about a fairy glen, and a riddle pinned to an oak tree with a silver knife, and an invitation to come back on May Eve. “My goodness,” she said at last, not quite sure how much of the tale to believe—although it was quite obvious that Deirdre herself believed every word. “You have had a magical adventure, haven’t you?”