“Oh, very fine,” Mr. Spry muttered under his breath. “And modern, yes, indeed. Quite modern. Water and gas, paved street. Carriage house, quite large, with a loft over. Extra-size building lot.”
Pressing her lips together, Mrs. Lythecoe inclined her head. “I am glad to hear that you are so admirably accommodated, Mr. Roberts. Miss Potter and I must be going along now. Delighted to meet you, Mr. Spry.”
“You don’t sound delighted,” Crumpet commented dryly. “And I certainly don’t blame you. At the very least, the man is a housebreaker. He was trying to—”
“One moment, please,” Mr. Roberts said, stepping in front of them. “I understand that Aunt Tolliver gave you a spare key for safekeeping, Mrs. Lythecoe, and I should like to have it. Spry was here with me earlier, just after the funeral, so he has already had the ha’penny tour, as it were. But there are a few points we need to clear up before he writes the advert.” He made a face. “Unfortunately, I have no key, and the cottage seems to be very tightly locked up. I’d be obliged if you’d let me have yours.”
Mrs. Lythecoe straightened her shoulders and pressed her lips together. “I regret to say, Mr. Roberts, that I am not able to give you the key until Miss Tolliver’s will has been read out and the matter of the inheritance is settled. I understand that this is to take place at the solicitor’s office tomorrow morning. When I am assured that you are the legal heir, I shall be glad to give you the key.”
“You can’t—But . . . but that’s nonsense!” Mr. Roberts rose to his tiptoes, his face becoming as red as a rooster’s. “I am the last Tolliver. There’s nobody left but me! Anvil Cottage is my cottage, and I demand that you give me the key, this instant!”
“Demand all you like, Mr. Roberts,” Mrs. Lythecoe said between her teeth, “you shall not have the key.” She took Beatrix’s arm. “Now, if you will excuse us, Miss Potter and I have business elsewhere.” And leaving Mr. Roberts staring incredulously after them, and Mr. Spry muttering “Most extraordinary, most extraordinary!” into his beard, they swept away.
“My goodness,” Beatrix said, when they had gone a little way. “I certainly admire the way you spoke to that disagreeable little man!” She could not help adding, with a chuckle, “He is very like a rooster, isn’t he? Brown waistcoat, red tie, yellow suit. All that’s wanted is a red hat.”
“A rooster! You have it exactly!” Mrs. Lythecoe laughed, and then sobered. “But I’m afraid that Mr. Roberts can be very disagreeable, when he gets it into his head that he wants something. Miss Tolliver had as little as possible to do with him. She was quite attached to Anvil Cottage, and I would be truly surprised if she left it to him—although I can’t think who else she might have left it to.” They had come to the corner of Market Street, and she paused. “Dimity Woodcock has invited me to tea at Tower Bank House this afternoon. I shall look forward to seeing you there, Miss Potter.” She put out her hand, her gray eyes warm.
“Thank you,” Beatrix said with genuine feeling, taking her hand. Turning toward Belle Green and reflecting on Grace Lythecoe’s firmness in the face of that dreadful man, Beatrix thought that she should not like to have her for an enemy.
And Grace Lythecoe, for her part, walking in the direction of Rose Cottage, smiled once again at Miss Potter’s remark that Mr. Roberts was very like a rooster. The lady might be shy when it came to meeting strangers, but there was nothing wrong with her powers of observation.
6
Dimity Woodcock Serves Tea
Dimity Woodcock had spent the early part of the afternoon, as she had promised herself, pulling groundsel along the front path and raking the leaves that had fallen on the grass. At four, she changed her dress, combed her hair, and went downstairs to the small sitting room, with windows overlooking the garden. A fire burned on the hearth, its glow reflected in the oaken furniture that had belonged to the Woodcock side of the family. Vases of fall asters and bowls of late roses brightened the room, and tea was laid on a white damask cloth. Elsa Grape, a plain, sturdy woman with the proprietary air of one who has served the family for a long time (as indeed she had, having been hired by Dimity’s brother the day after he settled himself at Tower Bank House) came in with a tray of cakes.
“Ring if ye want more hot water, ma’am,” she said. “Mrs. Lythecoe sent to say that she might be a bit late, and I meant t’ tell thi that Harry the Fish Man only had trout, so that’s what’ll be for dinner tonight, with t’ gooseberries, instead of t’ char. And oh, yes, Jane Crosfield brought t’ woolen skirt with t’ tear that she darned for the, and a reet good job of it she made, I must say. Tha can’t hardly see the t’mend at all.” She surveyed the tea tray critically. “Should we have more sponge?”
“Don’t we have enough already?” Dimity looked at the laden table, where seven china cups and saucers were set out. “We’re only four, you know. Just the vicar, Mrs. Lythecoe, Miss Potter, and myself. Mr. Woodcock has business in Hawkshead and will not be back until dinner.”
“Oh?” Elsa asked. “Must be important, to keep t’ cap’n from tea with t’ vicar.” She paused, and raised her eyebrows. “T’ bisness wouldn’t be about poor Miss Tolliver, would it?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Dimity said, and began counting the spoons. Elsa’s greatest flaw was her indomitable curiosity. She was determined to find out what was going on in the household, even when nothing was going on; Dimity, consequently, was determined to keep Elsa from discovering anything, even when there was nothing to discover. The game had amused the two of them for the past ten years, and neither wanted to give it up.
“Humph,” Elsa remarked in a slightly acid tone, and departed for the kitchen.
Not long after, the bell rang, and Elsa was back. “T’ vicar is here, ma’am, with Miss Crabbe and Miss Nash. He met them on their way home from school, and says if it’s no trouble, might they come to tea and meet Miss Potter.”
“Oh, by all means,” Dimity said, flustered. She would be very glad to see Margaret Nash, but she hoped that Miss Crabbe would not take it into her head to lecture them in her headmistressy way, as she sometimes did, and which was most unpleasant. And it was rather awkward to have Myrtle Crabbe to tea, without having invited her sisters, Pansy and Viola. She sighed. To make amends, she should have to have all three of the Misses Crabbe to lunch. And it would have to be on a Saturday or Sunday, since Myrtle was at school the other five days. Village life might seem simple on the surface of things, but underneath, it was very complicated.
But Dimity hid these distracted reflections behind a bright smile and held out her hand as the trio came into the room. “Vicar,” she said cordially, “and Miss Crabbe and Miss Nash. How very kind of you to come and meet Miss Potter.”
Miss Crabbe was looking tidier and less distraught this afternoon, and more fully in command of herself, which also meant that they were more likely to be lectured. “Where is Miss Potter staying?” she asked, as Dimity poured tea. “Milk and sugar, if you please.”
Margaret Nash smiled at Dimity. “Lemon for me, please, Dimity.”
“Just sugar,” said the vicar. Today’s walking stick was dark oak, carved with heavy clumps of leaves and acorns. He leaned it against the wall and rubbed his hands together. “Miss Potter is staying with the Crooks at Belle Green, I believe. Isn’t that right, Miss Woodcock?”
“Yes,” Dimity said, pouring. “We can only hope for the best, of course,” she added obliquely.
“I suppose I might have a word with George,” the vicar said doubtfully as he took the cup Dimity handed him, “although I’m not sure it will do any good. He is not entirely happy with the idea of women farmers. And there was that unfortunate business with Silas Tadcastle.”
“I’ve forgotten,” Miss Crabbe said, “just who Miss Beatrix Potter is, although I’m sure I’ve heard the name any number of times.” She stirred her tea vigorously. “Political, is she?”
“Some sponge, vicar?” Dimity asked. “Mrs. Grape wanted you to know that she made it espec
ially for you.”
“Why, how nice,” said the vicar, taking two pieces. “Please thank Mrs. Grape. Her sponge is always most delicious.”
“I believe you’re thinking of Beatrice Potter, Miss Crabbe,” Margaret Nash said tactfully. “She is a Socialist, and spells her name with a c.”
“Our Miss Beatrix Potter writes and illustrates children’s books,” Dimity said, “and spells her name with an x. A bit of sponge cake, Miss Crabbe? Or perhaps a jam tart?” To the vicar, she added, “Miss Potter’s new book is there on the table. Thank you so much for lending it to me. I found it quite delightful.”
“You’re most welcome,” the vicar said, picking up the book. “Here it is, Miss Nash, the book I was telling you about. The Pie and the Patty-Pan.”
“Jam tart, I think, Miss Woodcock.” Miss Crabbe’s eyebrows rose. “I didn’t know you enjoyed children’s literature, Vicar,” she went on archly. “We shall have to ask you to read it to our classes—if it is not too political, that is. I always say that we should not bother the children’s heads with political matters.” She leaned forward. “What was the unfortunate business with Silas Tadcastle that you mentioned?”
The vicar was saved from answering the question when the bell pealed and Elsa reappeared at the sitting-room door. “It’s Mrs. Lythecoe, ma’am,” she said. “She says to say that Mrs. Rose Sutton dropped in to return a tray she borrowed, and she thought it’ud be lovely if Mrs. Sutton was invited to welcome Miss Potter, ’specially since Mrs. Sutton is t’ veterinarian’s wife and if Miss Potter aims to have cows and sheep and pigs and such at Hill Top they’ll cert’nly become acquainted, so t’ sooner t’ better.”
“Of course,” Dimity said, counting the cups. “Do ask them in, Elsa.” Really, it was of no use to try to give a small tea party in a village. One might as well put out all the china and resign oneself to a crowd.
“So Miss Potter’s bought Hill Top, has she?” Miss Crabbe’s thin eyebrows went higher. “What’s to become of the Jenningses? I suppose she’s going to turn them out.”
“Dear Dimity,” Grace Lythecoe said from the doorway. With her was a disheveled, youngish woman with bright hazel eyes, chapped lips, and reddened hands that looked as if they spent a great deal of time in hot water. Dimity was well acquainted with Rose Sutton, who might be a trifle harum-scarum at times but was one of the hardest working women in the parish. Not only did she keep the accounts for her husband Desmond’s practice, but she helped to make up his medicines and manage his supplies, as well as deftly managing a houseful of small Suttons—five, at last inventory, although from the look of Rose, the count would be going up soon.
“What does Miss Potter think she will do with a farm?” Miss Crabbe was asking the vicar in a skeptical tone. “Really, I can’t understand these political women, always wanting to make people notice them by doing one outrageous thing or another.”
“I don’t believe our Miss Potter is especially political,” the vicar said uncomfortably.
“I’m afraid I can’t stay very long,” Rose Sutton said, taking the cup and saucer Dimity handed her, “as I must see to the children’s tea. But I did so want to thank Miss Potter for her thoughtfulness. My Lizzy received one of the books she sent when scarlet fever closed Sawrey School. It kept all the little ones quiet for days.” She stirred in sugar, then glanced around brightly. “I wonder, if I may be so bold as to ask, what anyone’s heard about Miss Tolliver’s will. My husband heard that Mr. Heelis has it in his office, but no one seems to know if the draper from Kendal is to inherit, or someone else altogether.”
Everyone looked expectantly at Dimity, for Captain Woodcock, as Justice of the Peace, always knew what was going on. Dimity cleared her throat. “My brother told me just that much at breakfast this morning,” she said apologetically. “The will is to be read out tomorrow. I’m afraid I don’t know anything more about it than that.”
“Miss Potter and I were coming back from the post office this morning,” Grace Lythecoe said, choosing a jam tart, “when we met Mr. Roberts. He demanded the key to the cottage.”
“Demanded?” the vicar asked, raising his sparse gray eyebrows. “Oh, dear.”
“Oh, yes,” Grace said in a dry tone. “I must say, he became quite unpleasant. There was a house agent with him, a Mr. Spry, from Kendal. Mr. Roberts has apparently engaged him to sell Anvil Cottage. He said he expects to dispose of it quickly.”
“You didn’t give him the key, I hope,” Dimity said anxiously, thinking that this was something Miles ought to hear. He might want to tell Miss Tolliver’s solicitor.
“Of course not,” Grace replied. She smiled. “I don’t know whether I should repeat this, but Miss Potter remarked that Mr. Roberts looked like a rooster. Very apt, I thought.” Rose Sutton giggled, Margaret Nash laughed out loud, and the vicar chuckled.
Miss Crabbe, as might be expected, was not amused. “That’s the trouble with political women,” she said, with a disapproving harrumph. “They are much too quick with their criticism. And the Socialists are quite the worst of the lot. Nothing seems to suit them.”
“Miss Crabbe,” said the vicar diplomatically, “Miss Potter is not a political person, but an artist, and quite well known. She writes and illustrates children’s stories.” He held up a copy of The Pie and the Patty-Pan. “This is her latest. It appeared just last week.”
“Well, I do hope she keeps Socialism out of her books.” Miss Crabbe lowered her chin and peered at the vicar over the tops of her gold spectacles as if he were one of her juniors. “Especially if she’s going to suggest that people are like animals. What sort of example does that set for the children?”
“I’m afraid I shouldn’t have mentioned it,” Grace said, with an apologetic glance at Dimity.
The doorbell rang again, and a moment later, Elsa opened the door with a flourish and announced, “Miss Potter and Mrs. Crook.” To Dimity, who was mentally tallying up the numbers, she confided, “I’ll bring more china straightaway, ma’am, and another kettle of hot water.”
Dimity hurried to greet the guest of honor, but Mathilda Crook put herself forward. “I told Miss Potter that tha’d likely be having several to tea,” she said energetically, “and tha wudn’t mind if I popped in for just a minute. T’ more t’ merrier, as my old mother used to say. In Sawrey, we nivver stand on sermons.” She glanced around the crowded little room. “Just look, Miss Potter, at t’ girt gang o’ folk! How nice of ivverboddy to come!” Having cast herself in the role of the gracious hostess, Mrs. Crook went to the tea table and took the last cup.
The next few moments were filled with the sort of confused hubbub that attends the arrival of a celebrated guest. In this case, however, the guest was shy and hung back by the door, looking as if she wanted to make her escape as soon as possible. But finally she was lured to a chair beside the fire, introductions were managed, Elsa produced another cup and saucer and the kettle, and Dimity handed the last of the cakes around. Rose Sutton thanked Miss Potter for the book her little Lizzy had received, Margaret Nash reported that Clara Jennings had told her schoolmates that Miss Potter had given her cat the enchanting name of Miss Felicia Frummety, and the vicar asked Miss Potter to sign his niece’s copy of The Pie and the Patty-Pan, which apparently its author had not yet seen.
“The amount of detail in your pictures is nothing short of miraculous,” the vicar said admiringly, when Miss Potter had written an inscription on the flyleaf. He opened the book to the third page. “This drawing of the post office door, for instance. It’s exactly like, down to the very detail in the fanlight.”
“But tha’s put Lydia Dowling’s tiger lilies along t’ post office path!” Mathilda Crook exclaimed in a horrified tone, peering over Miss Potter’s right shoulder. “And tha’s drawn them much too tall. Why, they’re as tall as t’ post office door!”
Miss Potter seemed abashed by the criticism. “But I meant the door to seem small, you see,” she explained, “the same size as the little dog. The tiger
-lilies suggest the scale.”
“Confusing, is what it is,” Mathilda Crook said, with a frown. “Things ought to be t’ same as they are.”
“It’s artistic license, Mathilda,” Margaret Nash commented. “In pictures, things are never exactly as they are in real life.”
“And here is Bertha Stubbs’s parlor,” the vicar went on hurriedly, turning the page, “with Miranda Rollins’s little dog Duchess climbing up to look into the cupboard for the mouse pie. Why, it is exact in every detail, down to the red cushion on Mrs. Stubbs’s loveseat.” He turned another page. “And here is Duchess and Bertha Stubb’s tabby cat Crumpet—whom you will recognize even though she is called Ribby Pipstone—sitting down to a fine mouse pie.”
Miss Crabbe frowned over Miss Potter’s left shoulder. “But this is not Duchess,” she said, planting a disapproving finger on the drawing of the dog. “This is Darkie, for she has a black coat, whilst Duchess is brown. And why has the cat’s name been changed, I wonder. If one is drawing from life, one should render one’s subjects exactly.”
Dimity saw that Miss Potter’s cheeks were by now quite red. “I think,” she said, coming quickly to the rescue, “that Duchess is a prettier name for a story-book character than Darkie. And Ribby Pipstone is a very clever name.” Then, with a hasty change of subject, she added, “You had a lovely morning for a walk around Hill Top Farm, Miss Potter. Did you find everything as you expected it?”
“Yes,” Miss Potter replied. “It’s a beautiful place. Mr. Jennings and I discussed some repairs to the dairy and the pigsty. I should like to enlarge the garden, too, although perhaps not right away.”
Miss Crabbe sat down on the sofa beside Margaret Nash. “I suppose the Jenningses will be leaving.” She pursed her lips disapprovingly. “Where are they to go? There are no cottages to let nearby.”
The Tale of Hill Top Farm Page 8
