The Tale of Cuckoo Brow Wood

by ALBERT, SUSAN WITTIG

  But forward or backward, perfectly woven or irretrievably tangled, the children always had a great deal of fun, and the mothers and fathers who cheered them on enjoyed the spectacle immensely. After all, when they were children, most of them had danced that very same Ribbon Dance around that very same May Pole in that very same school yard on this very same day, and perhaps that memory was as fresh and sweet as the happy scene before them, a reminder of a gay and innocent time, before the grownup cares of work and family began to weigh on their shoulders.

  So as far as the village was concerned, May Day was one of the very highest points of the year, the day when winter’s chilly gloom faded into the past and all of the Land between the Lakes could look forward with cheerful smiles and light hearts to a season of sunshine, clear skies, warm breezes, and bright flowers.

  May Day morning could not arrive soon enough.

  33

  Major Kittredge Learns the Truth

  But behind all this happy flurry of preparations, another, darker game was afoot. Immediately after breakfast on Monday morning, Captain Woodcock and the vicar drove through the rain to the vicarage and confronted Mr. Thexton with what they knew—without, of course, mentioning the source of their information.

  At first, and with a great deal of outraged sputter and vehement indignation, Mr. Thexton denied the whole thing. But when he saw Captain Woodcock’s threatening expression (which seemed to suggest dungeons and thumbscrews) and heard the detailed report of the conversation in the Raven Hall garden, he became rather more cooperative. In fact, he may even have thought that since he and Mrs. Kittredge (or rather, Mrs. Waring) had been entirely alone on the occasion of their talk, she must have decided to make a clean breast of things. It must be she who now accused him of attempted extortion—an idea that Captain Woodcock did not attempt to discourage. So, convinced that he had been betrayed by the woman he was attempting to blackmail, Mr. Thexton decided that he had no other choice. With the hope of making it easier on himself when he stood in front of the magistrate, and to discredit his accuser, he agreed to tell as much as he knew about the Waring marriage.

  Which turned out to be just enough. Mr. James Waring, who had indeed survived the blast that had wrecked his ship, resided at a London address which Mr. Thexton was able to provide. Captain Woodcock immediately dispatched a telegram of inquiry—without revealing the circumstances, except to say that a woman meeting his wife’s description was living in the Lake District.

  The answer arrived within a few short hours. Mr. Waring confirmed that he had married a red-haired actress named Irene some five years previously, and that they remained legally married. She had left her lodgings, leaving no forwarding address, and he had been searching for her frantically. He was posting a photograph of his wife with the hope that it would confirm that she was the lady who had been discovered living in the Lake District. He would be arriving at the Windermere Station on Wednesday and would bring with him a copy of the marriage certificate, in case further proof were required. He was prepared, he said, to take her back immediately and without question.

  The photograph—a wedding photo—arrived by the Tuesday morning post, and when Miles Woodcock and Will Heelis opened the envelope and studied it, there was no doubt in either of their minds. Mr. Thexton had been correct in his identification. Mrs. Irene Waring and Mrs. Diana Kittredge were, regrettably, the very same person. (Mr. Thexton himself was conveyed to the Hawkshead gaol, to await to magistrate’s hearing. Mrs. Thexton, saying not a word, packed her bags and left the vicarage, leaving Vicar Sackett feeling that his prayers had indeed been answered.)

  So, just after luncheon on Tuesday, armed with the tell-tale photograph, Will took himself off to Raven Hall for a quiet talk with his old friend Christopher Kittredge. They met in Major Kittredge’s study, and when Will was sure that they were alone and that the door was securely shut, he told the major the full story, from beginning to end.

  The major was at first incredulous and disbelieving, as I daresay you would be, if someone told you, completely out of the blue, that the person you thought you had married was already married to someone else. But when he had read James Waring’s telegram for the third time and looked at the photograph for the second and third and fourth, the major had to agree that the woman he had thought was his wife was legally married to another man. He paced back and forth in front of the fire, his incredulity turning into a sense of tearful injury.

  “She has stabbed me in the back,” he muttered brokenly, taking out his handkerchief and wiping his eyes. “I thought she loved me. How could she wrong me so unmercifully? How could she betray me?”

  Will had no answers to these rhetorical questions and felt that he wasn’t very good at this sort of thing. He stuck his hands in his pockets and said nothing.

  Finally, after a few moments of this sort of tearful blame, the major’s injury turned to anger, first at the lady’s unfeeling deception and betrayal, and then at himself, for jumping into marriage with a woman about whom he knew next to nothing—in which, of course, he was entirely right, for he had taken the decision without the proper thought.

  “If I hadn’t acted so hastily,” he said in a tone of bitter self-accusation, “if I had waited, had insisted on learning more about her, I wouldn’t be in this situation. I gave in to my passion, and to her flatteries. I failed to look any further than her beautiful face and her attractive figure. I never asked myself who she was or where she came from, or why she wanted to attach herself to me. It is my fault. All my fault.”

  Will, now feeling completely out of his depth, tried to say something that might make his friend feel better, something to the effect that a man in love rarely asks such questions, and that Kittredge ought not blame himself for being merely human.

  But the major, anguish written all over his face, overrode him. “No, don’t try to excuse me, Will,” he said brokenly. “I should have known better. No woman in her right mind could love a man like me, face hideously scarred, missing an eye, missing an arm. Diana—Irene, rather—had to have wanted something else from me, my money, my property, my name. How could I have failed to see through her?” His tone was bitter with self-reproach. “How could I have been such a conceited, dull-witted dolt?”

  At last Will found his voice. “Please don’t reproach yourself, Christopher. You have been ill-used, yes. But you’re not unique. It’s happened to other men before you. The responsibility for her falsehoods is entirely with her, not with you. The question you must answer now is whether you want to press charges against the lady for fraud. You would be perfectly within your rights to—”

  “No, no,” Kittredge said, giving his head a violent shake. “I don’t want to make this ugly business even uglier by dragging it into the public view. I’m at fault, too, for not insisting that we wait and get to know each other better. I must share some of the blame.” He eyed Will worriedly. “I’m not obliged to go to law on this, am I?”

  “Technically, yes,” Will said. “Bigamy is a serious crime. But I’ve been consulting with Captain Woodcock, and both of us are of the opinion that—unless you want to have the lady prosecuted for fraud—it may be best to simply send her back to London with her husband. That might be punishment enough.”

  “Yes, I suppose,” Kittredge said gloomily. He fell silent, and I don’t suppose that we want to inquire what was going through his mind.

  Finally, Will spoke. “What’ll it be, Christopher? Do you want to decide now, or take a day or two to think things over?”

  Kittredge straightened his shoulders and tightened his mouth, a man who has decided that it is time to face the music. “It’ll do no good to put it off. I’ll tell her to pack her things, give her enough money to tide her over, and send her off with Waring.” He gave Will an oblique glance. “Once she’s gone, what then? It’s as if we were never married?”

  “Yes,” Will said, “although I would feel better if she would sign this affidavit.” He reached into his pocket and took it out
. “It simply states what we know and requires her to acknowledge the facts with her signature. Of course, we have Waring’s telegram, and the letter that accompanied the photo. I will see to it that he signs a similar affidavit, but it would be better to have hers, too.”

  Kittredge nodded glumly. “Very well. I suppose I will let her keep the gifts I’ve given her, except for the family jewelry, of course.” His eyes widened. “The jewelry, by Jove!” He went quickly to the wall, took down a large painting, and twirled the lock. After a moment, he let out an audible breath. “It’s all here. For a moment, I wondered if she had somehow managed to make off with it. It’s worth tens of thousands of pounds, you know.”

  Will nodded. “I suppose you’ll want to revoke the last will and testament you executed recently.” He hesitated. “And then there’s that business about the villas.” The villas. They had hung like a dark cloud at the back of his mind for days. “Will you go on with that?”

  “I shouldn’t think so. It was Diana’s idea.” The major stopped, his mouth painfully twisted. “That is to say, Irene, Mrs. Waring. She was the one who suggested the scheme and brought Richardson and his syndicate into the business. I must confess I didn’t like the fellow very much, and put off signing the agreement he brought from London—luckily, as it turns out.” He put his hands into his pockets and went to the window that looked out over the lake. “Father was never keen on developing this land, you know,” he added in a lower voice. “He always thought it should be left as it is, especially as there has been so much commercial development on the east side of the lake. I was beginning to feel badly about violating his wishes. You’ve given me a reason to back out of the arrangement, Will.”

  So there would be no holiday villas on the shore of Lake Windermere, at least not now—and with luck, not ever. Will felt a very great relief. “Well,” he said, “I’m sure many will be glad that there will be no building on that shore.” He got up to go. “I’m to meet Waring’s train at the station tomorrow morning. If Mrs. Waring would be ready at nine, I can take her with me, and see that both of them take the next train back to London. If there’s no doubt in your mind that this is the right way to handle the situation,” he added.

  “There’s no doubt,” the major said shortly. “Yes, do stop by. I’ll see that she’s ready, with her bags.” He turned around. “One more thing, Will. You said that the scheme—Thexton’s blackmail, that is—was discovered when someone overheard his conversation with my . . . with Mrs. Waring. I should like to know who overheard it, if I might, and in what circumstance.” He cleared his throat. “I’m concerned that this person might . . . well, that he might not be inclined to keep this in confidence. It’s a private matter, and deeply embarrassing. I don’t want the entire county talking about it until I myself am ready to make some sort of public statement.”

  Will smiled briefly. “As to the circumstance, it took place at the foot of your garden, where Mr. Thexton and Mrs. Waring had gone for privacy. Miss Potter—the lady who purchased Hill Top Farm two years ago—happened to be sketching there. She’s the one who overheard the conversation.”

  “Miss Potter?” The major frowned for a moment, and then his expression cleared. “Ah, yes. Miss Potter. The lady who makes the children’s books. She was at the reception on Saturday, as I recall.”

  Will nodded and went on. “She had walked up through Cuckoo Brow Wood and was not aware that Fern Vale Tarn lay adjacent to your garden. She overheard the conversation inadvertently. I gather that she felt she could not escape without embarrassing them—and by the time she understood what they were talking about, it was impossible to declare herself.” He hesitated. “Don’t worry that she will spread the tale around, Christopher. You can trust her not to speak of it.”

  The major’s nod was gloomy. “Saturday.” He sighed. “The afternoon the Luck was broken. It seems such a short time ago.”

  “In fact,” Will replied, “it was the breaking of the Luck that alerted Miss Potter. That evening, she told me she thought Mrs. Waring might have dropped it in order to forestall Mr. Thexton, who was on the point of announcing her real name.”

  “If I am ever able to recover from this, I am sure I will be grateful to Miss Potter. I loved Diana, or rather the woman I thought she was. But somewhere down deep inside, I think perhaps I never really trusted her.” The major shook his head. “I wonder if I shall ever be able to trust again.”

  “I believe you shall,” Will said quietly. “You have many friends here, Christopher. Friends who can be trusted to be exactly as they seem.” He thought of Dimity Woodcock, and the happy relief on her face when he had told her that the major, in effect, had never been married. Kittredge had a friend in Dimity. “The next months are bound to be difficult. I hope you will count on all of us to help.”

  “I shall,” said Major Kittredge. “Thank you, Will. And thank Miss Potter for me. Tell her that I am grateful to learn the truth—however much it hurts.”

  “Of course,” Will said warmly. “I’ll be seeing her within the hour.”

  “Oh?” The major raised an inquisitive eyebrow. His lips quirked. “Do I detect—”

  “No,” Will replied, in a firm voice, “you don’t. The lady is still grieving over the death of her fiancé. All other thoughts are very far from her mind.”

  Kittredge nodded. “Well, then,” he said. “Be sure and give her my thanks. It is better to know the truth than to be deceived.”

  34

  Lady Longford Receives Callers

  Beatrix had not forgotten that she had promised Mr. Heelis to go with him on Tuesday afternoon to call on Lady Longford and try to persuade her to help Jeremy Crosfield. She was not especially looking forward to the meeting—Lady Longford was a prickly sort of person, and not at all likable—but she felt strongly that something should be done to help the boy. And anyway, there was the problem of getting Caroline out of Tidmarsh Manor for their May Eve fairy hunt. Besides, she was eager to learn from Mr. Heelis whether the photograph proved that Mrs. Waring and Mrs. Kittredge were the same person, and what had transpired during his talk with Major Kittredge.

  Mr. Heelis arrived shortly before two o’clock, driving a bay horse and a smart red-wheeled gig. Beatrix put on her straw hat, climbed in, and as they drove up Stony Lane in the direction of Tidmarsh Manor, Mr. Heelis told her about the photograph and what the major had decided.

  “Kittredge asked me to convey his thanks to you for discovering the truth,” he said. “He was deeply saddened—and angry, too, of course—but I think there may be some relief there, as well. He has decided to drop the building project.” He turned and his smile lightened his eyes. “You may rest easy, Miss Potter. There will be no villas on the shore of Lake Windermere.”

  “I’m happy for that,” she said heartily. “And perhaps, in the long run—” She stopped. “I don’t mean to sound harsh. It is just that, when everything is said and done, the major may be glad to escape that marriage.” She was thinking of Dimity, too, and wondering how things would turn out for her. And for Mr. Heelis, too. She hoped he would not be too bitterly disappointed if Miss Woodcock and Major Kittredge renewed their friendship.

  “I fully agree, Miss Potter,” Mr. Heelis said firmly. “It is my opinion that Irene Waring—for that’s her real name—would have brought Major Kittredge nothing but grief. Sad to say, but he is well rid of her.” And then they were driving up to Tidmarsh Manor, and there was no more time to discuss the matter.

  Tidmarsh Manor was a square, forbidding-looking place, overshadowed by ancient yews. Its windows turned blank, empty eyes onto the world and its chimneys rarely showed a trace of smoke, because Lady Longford believed that fires were a waste of money, except on the coldest of days. In Beatrix’s estimation, it was not an hospitable place for a child, and she hoped that Caroline was able to find her own comfort, somehow or other. She ought to have friends in the village. She might be the lady of the manor someday, but the manor was a part of the village (at least traditiona
lly), and the stronger the connection between them, the better for all concerned.

  Emily, the maid, showed them into the library, where Lady Longford was writing letters, with Dudley, her ancient spaniel, sprawled on the floor at her feet. Every time Beatrix had seen the dog (who was named for the late Lord Longford), he was cross and out of sorts. He was also growing very fat, for Lady Longford fed him ginger biscuits, which were obviously doing him no good. (Actually, he didn’t like ginger biscuits very much, but like Lord Longford, he found it hard to say no to her ladyship.)

  Dudley raised his head and gave a menacing growl. Her ladyship looked up from her letter and put down her pen, also looking cross, as if she was not pleased at being asked to interrupt her letter writing to receive callers.

  “Well, Heelis,” she said shortly. She nodded at Beatrix, with slightly more politeness. “Miss Potter, too. What brings you here this afternoon?” In a dry tone, and with a lift of her eyebrow, she added, “Together.”

  Beatrix understood. If Mr. Heelis had come on solicitor’s business, he would have come alone. The fact that he was accompanied suggested to Lady Longford that the call was of a personal nature, and no doubt made her ladyship suspicious.

  “Tea, mum?” asked Emily.

  “Yes, of course we’ll have tea, you silly girl. But there’s no need for cake. Bread-and-butter will do.” Lady Longford waved Emily away. She frowned at Mr. Heelis. “Well, Heelis? I’m waiting.”