“I wonder,” Josey said thoughtfully, “whether you have considered asking Teasel to come and live with you, Tom. That would be rather nice, don’t you think? And I’m sure Miss Potter wouldn’t mind.”
Tom brightened. “Why didn’t I think of that? Come on, Teasel!”
“Where?” Teasel asked, bewildered.
“To a wonderful place where you’ll have the very best food, and wine with dinner, and a dry place to sleep,” Tom replied. “And best of all, there are no owls, or scythes, or stoats. Come on!” And with that, he scampered off across the meadow in the direction of Belle Green.
Teasel stood still, looking after him. “What do you think?” she asked Josey, in a hesitant tone. “Should I go with him?”
“Do you love him?” Josey asked. She herself had never loved anyone, other than Miss Potter, that is, and did not feel quite equal to giving advice.
“I . . . I think so,” Teasel said, looking a bit unsure. “It was all very sudden, though. Tom rather swept me off my feet, and I didn’t have time to tell Acorn that I was breaking our engagement.”
“Well, if it’s true love, I suppose you should go with him,” Josey said. “And if you’re going, now’s the time. We must get back in the hutch before Miss Potter returns.” And she started off after Tom.
“Who is Miss Potter?” asked Teasel, running to catch up.
“You’ll see,” Josey said. “You’ll like her, I’m sure. She’s kind, and she takes very good care of us.”
The rabbit felt quite proud of herself for having the presence of mind to fetch Tom, so that their exit would not be discovered. It wasn’t until they got back to the hutch that she realized that when Miss Potter saw two mice instead of just one, she would look for the way Teasel had got in. She would quickly discover the way they had gotten out.
But Josey was quite clever indeed, and in a few minutes, she had taken care of the situation—or at least, so she hoped.
16
Behind the Walls of Castle Cottage
Beatrix and Mrs. Lythecoe left Anvil Cottage and walked up the lane in the direction of Castle Cottage, which sat on the hill above the post office. They went along in silence for a moment, until Mrs. Lythecoe said, “Well, Miss Potter, what do you think of Miss Barwick?”
Unaccustomed to being asked to frankly express an opinion about another person, Beatrix hesitated. “I rather like her,” she said finally. “Some might think her a bit brusque, but I admire a woman who is firm in her judgements. And she is certainly direct—no beating about the bush.” Directness was something that Beatrix valued a great deal. She had never seen any purpose in saying things just because another person wanted to hear them—which accounted for her habitual silence in Bolton Gardens, where she could not say the things that her mother and father expected to hear, and where anything she did say was more likely than not to be taken as impertinent.
“I liked her, too,” Mrs. Lythecoe said, and chuckled. “A no-nonsense sort of person, isn’t she? I wonder how George Crook will take that short skirt. She’ll be a bit modern for his taste, I suspect.” Her chuckle became a laugh. “First a lady farmer, and now a woman who displays her ankles. What’s the world coming to?”
Beatrix, imagining the expression on George Crook’s face when he saw Sarah Barwick’s short skirt, had to join the laughter. After a moment, she said, “I wonder what sort of business she means to operate. Do you suppose she’s a seamstress, or perhaps a milliner?”
“Oh, I hope not,” Mrs. Lythecoe replied, raising her eyebrows. “Most of the Sawrey ladies sew for themselves and their children, and they certainly don’t go in for high fashion. As for hats, there’s a perfectly good shop in Hawkshead. If that’s the sort of thing Miss Barwick has in mind, she’ll be greatly disappointed, I fear.” She paused, and added, almost to herself, “And I do wonder about her connection to Miss Tolliver. She’s obviously not a relative, and only a recent correspondent, apparently. And it seems they’ve never met. So how in the world did she come to inherit Anvil Cottage?”
Beatrix, having no answer to that, looked up to see where they were going. They had left Market Street and were walking up a narrow private lane, approaching a foursquare eighteenth-century house that was rather in need of repair and repainting. It was built in the same style as the farm house at Hill Top, with a slate roof, gray walls, and peaked porch. It sat against the green hillside, overlooking a tangle of overgrown garden and the Post Office meadow. Beyond, Beatrix could see the Tower Bank Arms and the roof of Hill Top Farm.
“It’s a pretty house,” she said, “or it would be, if it were better taken care of. Have the Crabbe sisters lived here long?” Beatrix, who usually went out of her way to avoid an argument, was more than a little apprehensive about the meeting. If Viola and Pansy proved to be anything like their sister, the encounter might be unpleasant.
“They came here when they were young women,” Mrs. Lythecoe said. “The farm belonged in their father’s family, I believe. The pastures are let to the neighboring farmers now, and the barns, too. It’s quite a lovely place, although the garden has gone rather wild, as you can see. None of the sisters care to garden.” She smiled. “You’ll like Pansy and Viola, I think, although both are a bit . . . well, eccentric. I enjoy them, though, and count them among my friends.”
They had reached the house, and Beatrix stood aside as Mrs. Lythecoe raised the brass knocker and dropped it. After a moment, the door was opened by a young girl in a dark cotton dress and white ruffled apron. She bobbed a curtsey, with a mumbled “G’ afternoon, mum.”
“Good afternoon, Laura,” Mrs. Lythecoe said cheerfully. “Please tell your mistresses that Mrs. Lythecoe has come calling, with their new neighbor from Hill Top Farm.” She stepped in. “We’ll show ourselves into the sitting room, thank you.”
The small sitting room was crowded with a piano, a dark green settee, three overstuffed chairs filled with bright-colored cushions, several tables cluttered with photographs and bric-a-brac, and two large potted palms. In a few moments, an apparition darkened the door, a short, round woman of perhaps fifty, her yellow hair curled in massive ringlets in what had to be (Beatrix thought in some amazement) a blonde wig. Her substantial bulk was loosely swathed in a chiffon tea gown of an astonishing chartreuse color, and beneath its flowing sleeves, her plump arms were covered, wrist to elbow, with jingling bangles. She wore a gold pince-nez on a ribbon around her neck.
“Why, Grace!” she cried. “So delighted!” She raised her voice and shouted over her shoulder. “Viola! Guests!” She came forward, lifting her pince-nez to peer at Beatrix. “And who, may one ask, is this?”
“This is Miss Beatrix Potter,” Mrs. Lythecoe said. “She is the author and illustrator of a number of very fine children’s books. She has just purchased Hill Top Farm. Miss Potter, allow me to present Miss Pansy Crabbe.”
Beatrix found herself seated on the slippery horsehair settee, very like the one in her mother’s drawing room. She allowed her attention to wander as Mrs. Lythecoe and Miss Crabbe chatted amiably about village matters. In a few moments, out in the hall, there was a clatter and rattle, and the maid wheeled a tea tray into the room, followed by the second Crabbe sister.
Where Miss Pansy was short and round and soft as a suet dumpling, Miss Viola was thin and willowy, with very white hands and long, polished nails, and she moved with an exaggeratedly graceful motion. She wore a heavy oriental kimono of black china silk covered with gold-colored figures of peacocks and tied with a gold silk sash. Her hair was dead black, parted in the center, and drawn dramatically back from her face and secured in a chignon at the back of her neck. Her lips had been rouged and her dark eyes, very large, sparkled brilliantly in her pale face. Beatrix remembered that she was accustomed to give dramatic readings, and thought that she certainly looked the part.
“We are so very glad to meet the new owner of Hill Top Farm,” Miss Viola said in a shrill soprano voice. She poured tea into porcelain cups and handed them round. �
��Our windows look down to your orchard, you know, Miss Potter. We can see the village children raiding your apple trees.”
Taking the proffered cup, Beatrix glanced toward the partly raised sash window, curious to see what her orchard might look like from this height, and wondering which trees the children raided. She could see little, however, except for an untidy tangle of vines and the shadow of a black cat sitting placidly on the outer sill.
“It’s a pity our sister Myrtle isn’t here,” Miss Pansy said, settling her large, round self comfortably into her chair. “She will want very much to meet you, Miss Potter—especially since you write for children. She is a teacher, and the headmistress of Sawrey School.”
“Yes,” Beatrix said. “In fact, I have met her, briefly.” She looked to Mrs. Lythecoe for a cue as to how to go on.
“That, I am afraid,” Mrs. Lythecoe said, “is the real reason we have come.” She put down her teacup and sat forward. “This is all rather awkward, and I am very sorry for it. However, both Miss Potter and I feel that you need to know what has happened, and give us your advice.” She glanced at Beatrix. “Miss Potter, could you tell them about your meeting with Miss Crabbe, please?”
Feeling wretchedly uncomfortable, Beatrix put down her cup and related what had happened at the Crosfield cottage that morning. When she finished, there was a long silence.
Outside, Crumpet, sitting under the window, looked up at Max the Manx, on the windowsill. “You see?” she said in a low voice. “What did I tell you?”
“Not good,” Max growled, deep in his throat. He was a solid, stocky all-black cat, with a noticeable absence of tail, a trait that was shared by most Manx, caused (as Max himself was fond of explaining) by Noah himself, who shut the ancestral tail in the door of the ark. Max was also rather a pessimist. “Not good at all,” he repeated morosely. “But there’s nothing to be done. Miss Myrtle is quarrelsome, you know. She does just what she wants, and Lord help everyone else.”
“There’s many a slip twixt does and will do,” Crumpet said enigmatically. “We have to find a way to stop her from going to the constable.”
Inside the room, there was shock and consternation. “Oh, dear!” Miss Pansy exclaimed in distress, raising a plump hand to her round mouth. “Oh, dear, dear, dear!” The yellow curls trembled all over her head.
Miss Viola’s eyes grew larger and darker. “I am appalled, Miss Potter,” she said, her reedy voice quavering. “I scarcely know what to say, except that I’m sure that our Myrtle wouldn’t have behaved in such a disgraceful fashion if she hadn’t been under a terrible strain. Please accept our apologies.” With a dramatic flourish, she put her hand in the region of her heart and pressed. “Our most heartfelt apologies.”
Beatrix relaxed a little. “There is no need for apology,” she said. At least they weren’t going to blame her for what had occurred.
“We were sure,” Mrs. Lythecoe said, “that you would want to know. And to tell the truth, we hoped that perhaps you might agree to . . . well, help us keep Myrtle from carrying out her plan.”
“Her plan to go to the constable, you mean?” Miss Viola asked. Her rouged lips were tight and puckered, as if she were tasting something tart.
Beatrix nodded. “If there were only some proof, even a little scrap, no one could object. But there seems to be none, other than your sister’s feeling that the boy is guilty.”
Miss Viola sat up straighter. “And Myrtle’s feelings,” she said, “can no longer be relied upon.” She turned to her sister, and her voice became tinged with bitterness. “We must acknowledge that, Pansy. Sadly, we must acknowledge that.”
“Oh, but, Viola,” Miss Pansy cried, anxiously fluttering a chartreuse sleeve, “don’t you think you are stating the matter too harshly? Myrtle has always been such a forceful person, so firm of spirit.”
“But it is her forcefulness that makes these episodes so very difficult!” Miss Viola said. “Both of us love her, Pansy, but this is getting entirely out of hand.” She turned back to Beatrix, a pained expression on her pale face. “These are private family matters, and you may feel that we should not discuss them with a stranger such as yourself, Miss Potter. But our sister has already involved you in her affairs—most unfortunately, of course, but there it is. I feel you are owed the whole truth.” Whether you like it, her tone implied, or not. “And of course, Grace is the widow of our own beloved vicar, and is a trusted friend. We know that both of you will respect our confidences.”
Beatrix, taken aback and not at all sure that she wanted to hear any more of this unpleasant truth, whatever it was, gave a murmur that might be taken as assent. Mrs. Lythecoe said quietly, “Of course, Viola.”
Outside, Crumpet leapt up to join Max on the windowsill, so she could hear a bit more clearly. “The whole truth?” she said to Max. “There’s more to this situation than meets the eye, I suppose.”
“You don’t want to know, Crumpet,” Max replied in a gloomy voice. “Things have gone on in this house that would curl your whiskers.”
“But Viola,” Pansy protested, “I don’t really think—”
Miss Viola turned back to her sister. “Please recall if you will, Pansy, the scandalous scene last month over the money she thought she had left out to pay the baker’s boy. And then there was the unnerving disagreement over what happened to the gold locket that dear Aunt Adrienne gave you, which is yet to be found.” She dropped her voice to a throaty whisper. “And Myrtle’s diary, of course. What a dreadful debacle!”
“Ah, the diary,” Max said, with a heavy sigh. “Accusations and recriminations and denouncements. You’d have thought that it was as valuable as the crown jewels, the way she went on.”
Intrigued, Beatrix looked from one of these oddly paired sisters to the other, feeling that there must be a fascinating story behind the oblique references to money and lockets and diaries. Obviously, something unsettling was happening behind the walls of Castle Cottage, and the sisters were deeply troubled by it.
Miss Pansy sighed heavily, her round face a mass of misery. “Yes, the diary. Most unfortunate. And all too reminiscent of Dear Mama’s irrational behavior. Oh, Viola, I do hope we are not going to have to go through that again! That would be too dreadfully appalling!”
“We won’t go into that just now, Pansy,” Miss Viola said in a warning tone, and Beatrix understood that there were still more secrets, and darker ones. She had the feeling that Viola, at least, was afraid. But of what? Not of their sister, surely.
“Irrational behavior?” Crumpet asked. “They’re talking about their mother? What was wrong with her?”
“In the last year of her life,” Max replied, “old Mrs. Crabbe was as mad as a March hare. She actually tried to kill Myrtle. Of course, they made out that it was an accident—although how you can accidentally hit someone over the head with an iron skillet is beyond my powers of comprehension. Anyway, Myrtle took Mrs. Crabbe up to Carlisle and put her into a hospital—a lunatic asylum. She died the next year, stark, raving mad.” Max glanced darkly at Crumpet. “There. I told you it would curl your whiskers.”
“For pity’s sake,” Crumpet marveled, astonished by these sensational revelations. She flicked her tail. “All this was going on, and the sisters managed to keep it a secret—in this village?”
“They brought a girl up from London to see to the house,” Max said, “and when Mrs. Crabbe got worse, they sent her back to the city and took on the work themselves. When the old lady was safely in the asylum, they told everyone she had gone to visit her sister, and continued with their lives just as if nothing had happened. It was Myrtle who made them keep it secret. She was determined that the truth wouldn’t get out.”
“And now it sounds as if the other two fear for her state of mind,” Crumpet commented.
“As well they might,” Max said ominously. “As well they might. You have no idea what it’s like around here, Crumpet.”
Inside, the conversation was continuing. “The worst of it is,” Mis
s Viola said with a dramatic gesture, “that these episodes are no longer confined within the family. Myrtle accused Bertha Stubbs of taking her attendance book, and involved Margaret Nash in the disagreement as well. And there was her unfortunate quarrel with Abigail Tolliver over the letter. And now this business about the Roof Fund.” She shook her head despairingly. “Two pounds! I suppose there will have to be an investigation of some sort.”
Beatrix frowned. Beside her, Grace Lythecoe stiffened. “A quarrel with Abigail?”
Miss Pansy’s ample bosom rose and fell in a heavy sigh. “Myrtle decided to have a change of scene for herself, Grace. A warmer climate, where there are not so many annoyances, including her sisters.” She pushed back a lock of yellow hair that had fallen across her cheek. “I rather think she would be glad to be rid of us, actually. She planned to make application to a school near Bournemouth, and went so far as to inquire of the school council there. But—”
“But Miss Tolliver apparently refused to sign the reference letter after Myrtle had prepared it for her,” Miss Viola said, cutting the story short. She put her cup down and straightened, her expression dark. “Miss Tolliver said that she did not feel that Myrtle’s health was up to it. Myrtle has been . . . quite upset about the matter.”
“What you’re telling us,” Mrs. Lythecoe said quietly, “is that what happened with Miss Potter this morning is not an isolated affair.”
“Yes,” Miss Viola replied, with theatrical huskiness. “That’s exactly what we’re saying, Grace. Things are progressing from bad to worse, and very quickly, too.”
“We’re at our wits’ end,” Miss Pansy said desperately. “We’ve tried reasoning with her—”
“—appealing to her better nature—”
“—reminding her of her position at the school and in the village—”
“But none of it seems to help,” Miss Viola concluded, with a dramatic sigh. Her hands fluttered into her black silk lap. “We have tried to be gentle and considerate, but when we raise even the smallest question, she complains that we are undermining her authority. As Pansy has said, we’re at our wits’ end. She pays no attention to us at all.”
The Tale of Hill Top Farm Page 17
