The Tale of Hawthorn House

by Susan Wittig Albert

  Emily could scarcely blame her employer for the way things had turned out. All the arrangements had been completed before Flora’s birth, and Miss Keller had left believing everything satisfactorily settled. Mrs. Graham, the midwife, had undertaken to foster the child: the best of possible outcomes, Emily agreed—although sadly, as I said before, because she truly wanted to take the baby with them. The Grahams already had three little girls of their own, and Mr. Graham’s earnings as a lorry driver provided a comfortable cottage, two good milk cows, and three pigs. Little Flora would grow up happily there, a prospect that had reconciled Emily to the pain of giving her up.

  But it was Mr. Graham who had thrown the spanner into the works. When he learnt that the baby was another girl, he flatly refused to have her. “’Tis boys we wants,” he had said to his wife. “Give us a boy and you can keep ’im. But doan’t give us nae more worthless girls.”

  So Mrs. Graham had brought little Flora back to Hawthorn House just as Emily was ready to leave, and now the baby wouldn’t stop crying, and Emily had got to her wits’ end, which, according to her former employer, was not very far.

  “You are a silly girl,” Lady Longford had scolded whenever Emily had committed some minor infraction of a Tidmarsh Manor rule. “A foolish, spoilt girl with no more brains than a ha’penny bun, and wretchedly conceited into the bargain.”

  Of course, we can’t permit Lady Longford to have the last word on Emily, but it is certainly true that the girl was thinking less about Baby Flora and more of her own disappointments: of her portmanteau packed and ready, of the train ticket Miss Keller had bought her, of the shilling for the hansom cab she was to hire when she arrived in London. She wrung her hands and fresh, hot tears pooled in her eyes and ran down her cheeks. Miss Keller was expecting her, and she must go to London, she really must!

  But how, now that Mr. Graham had sent Flora back? Take the infant with her on the train? That might be the only alternative. But Miss Keller had made it very clear that their life in London would not permit her to care for an infant and—

  BANG!

  The kitchen door flew violently open and a woman stepped inside, although it might be more accurate to say that she blew in on a gust of sudden wind that lifted her bodily over the threshold and deposited her in the middle of the kitchen, her clothing tossed and tumbled and twisted about her. This was curious, since the August day had, up to that moment, been sultry and very, very still, without the slightest whisper of wind, and since country people never, ever came into a kitchen without pausing at the door to knock and yoller.

  Emily stared, shocked into open-mouthed silence, as her visitor shook herself. She was shorter than Emily by a full head, and roundly plump, with untidy gray hair and soft features, like a sweet-faced cloth doll. But her expression was as keen as a knife, her chin was firm, and her blue eyes piercing. Despite the warmth of the summer’s day, she was dressed in a rag-bag jumble of bright plaid and paisley woolen scarves and knitted shawls, with layers of pinafores, some white, some yellow, some printed with flowers and decorated with rows and rows of buttons, on top of a bright red petticoat. Peeking out from under all this were heavy wood-and-leather pattens, and on her arm hung an old-fashioned woven reed basket covered with a blue-checked cloth.

  “Who—” Emily faltered.

  “You might call me Mrs. Overthewall,” the woman said cheerfully, “but then again you might not.” Her voice was creaky, like a hinge that wants oiling. She set down her basket and unwound a paisley scarf, then a plaid one, then one allover green. “I’ve come to visit.”

  “Very kind, I’m sure,” Emily said, in a formal tone, “but Miss Keller is away and—”

  “Flora is crying.” Mrs. Overthewall pulled her scant gray eyebrows together in a stern frown. “She has been crying for several hours. Sev-er-al,” she repeated with forbidding emphasis.

  “I’m afraid so,” Emily said guiltily, so taken aback that she did not think to ask how Mrs. Overthewall knew the baby’s name. “She has been . . . well, cross. I was just going up to see to her.”

  “Allow me,” Mrs. Overthewall said, and went toward the stairs, still carrying her basket.

  Alarmed, Emily put out her hand. “Oh, no, really, please! Don’t trouble yourself!” But Mrs. Overthewall paid no attention, and Emily’s eyes grew round as she watched the woman go up the stairs—not walking, not running, but twinkling smoothly and gracefully, which was all the odder because it is virtually impossible to twinkle in wood-and-leather pattens, as you will know if you have ever worn them. They are something like the Dutch wooden shoes, except that the tops are leather. You are far more likely to clomp than twinkle.

  And then, before Emily could draw in another breath, Mrs. Overthewall was twinkling down the stairs again.

  “The matter is taken care of,” she announced with a calm authority. “You have missed today’s train, my dear Emily. But the next one leaves at nine o’clock in the morning. You shall be in London by teatime.”

  Emily stared, an uncomfortably insistent idea elbowing itself into her reluctant awareness.

  “Are you a—” She bit her lip. She could not bring herself to say the word.

  “Don’t be impertinent,” said Mrs. Overthewall, in a tone remarkably like that of Lady Longford. “I advise you to take the earliest ferry, so as to be at the station on time.”

  Emily gulped. “But I . . . but you can’t possibly . . .”

  “Of course I can,” said Mrs. Overthewall, with extraordinary firmness. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed Emily on the forehead. Her voice softened. “And so can you, my child. And so you must, and that’s an end to it. Now, I’m off.”

  And exactly as if it had been waiting on her word, the door flew open, slamming so violently against the wall that the dishes danced. The wind hurtled in and gathered up Mrs. Overthewall, twirling her twice so that her shawl and mufflers wrapped themselves firmly around her and her basket. And then it whirled her out the door and slammed it shut behind her.

  Emily stared at the closed door, her heart thudding in her chest. She turned and ran as fast as she could up the stairs to Flora’s cradle. It was empty.

  Now half sick with fright, Emily ran to the window and flung it open. The nettles along the garden path were bent nearly double by the wild wind, and the neglected roses flung their petals into the blustery air. Mrs. Overthewall twinkled swiftly over the gravel, her mufflers and shawls and pinafores and petticoats swirling about her in a kaleidoscope of magical colors. When she reached the stone wall at the back of the garden, she rose to the top, where she turned, looked up at Emily, and blew her a kiss.

  “Don’t worry,” she called. “And don’t miss your train, dear girl!” And with that, she flew off the wall and was gone.

  Emily blinked, closed her eyes, and looked again. Of course, it might have been a trick of the light or cloud or wind or an overwrought imagination. But even though she could plainly see the stile and the stone fence and the hillside beyond, Mrs. Overthewall was nowhere in sight.

  She and her basket and Baby Flora had utterly vanished.

  1

  The Village Goes to a Fête

  SATURDAY, 22 AUGUST, 1908

  A century ago in the English Lake District, late summer was filled, dawn to dark, with hard work. There was more to do than could easily be done: hay to cut and stack and cure and cart; oats to cut and bind and stook; sheep to wash and shear and full fleeces to roll and tie; Damson plums and red raspberries and blackberries to gather and make into jams and jellies; and vegetables to harvest and lay by. If the weather was fair and fine, the work went quickly and the villagers were in general good spirits. If it was cold and damp, the hay spoilt, rats and birds got into the grain, fruit dwindled on branch and vine, and everyone felt low-spirited and cross.

  But all through the August in which our story takes place, the weather had been fine. Much too fine, I fear. The sky was relentlessly blue and cloudless, and the winds blowing down from the western fells
and up from the broad midlands were so hot and dry they might have blown in from the Sahara. Across Esthwaite Water, a heat haze veiled the shoulders of Coniston Old Man. The Galway cattle and Herdwick sheep would have been glad of green grass, the currants had shriveled into hard knots, and everyone in the twin hamlets of Near and Far Sawrey lamented the sad state of their flowers and vegetables, especially since the Summer Fête was upon them.

  This annual event was held in Post Office Meadow and attracted not only the local folk but visitors from as far away as the market town of Hawkshead to the west and Bowness and Kendal to the east. The Sawrey fête had earned quite a reputation around the Lake District, for it featured a garden show. The villagers were known for their remarkably green thumbs, with dahlias, cauliflowers, and roses numbering among their specialties, and they all looked forward to displaying their prize specimens. The hot rainless summer had made gardening difficult, but as usual, the village gardeners remained undaunted.

  The Summer Fête is always held in Near Sawrey, for Far Sawrey has the October Fête. If you’re wondering how these hamlets came by their names, it is very simply explained: Near Sawrey is nearer the market town of Hawkshead, while Far Sawrey (which is nearer Lake Windermere) is farther away by a half mile or so. Although their residents might not own to it, both hamlets are of nearly equal size and importance. Near Sawrey boasts the pub, the bakery, the smithy, and the joinery; Far Sawrey prides itself upon St. Peter’s Church and the vicarage, the village school, and the Sawrey Hotel. Each has its own post office, and each feels itself much superior to the other, as of course it is.

  The posters announcing the Summer Fête had been displayed for weeks: at the ferry landings on both sides of Lake Windermere, in shop windows in Hawkshead and Bowness, on notice boards and gateposts and tree trunks. The week before the event, the cottages on Market Street were blazoned with bright bunting, and a Union Jack was hung over the door of the Tower Bank Arms. On Friday, village children had erected a flowery arch at the entrance to the meadow, and streamers and ribbons and banners fluttered everywhere.

  And by the time the sun rose over Claife Heights early on Saturday morning, curious to see what was going on, it beamed down on a meadow in which stalls and booths and tables had sprung up like mushrooms around the large white central tent, where the exhibits were displayed and the judging took place. At the far end, a wooden platform for dancing, singing, and reciting was in the final stages of completion. And everywhere there was such a cheerful noise— men hammering, children shouting, women singing, birds calling, hens cackling, dogs barking—that I shouldn’t wonder if the sun had put its hands over its ears until it had risen high enough to be above it all.

  For the people who pinned their hopes on a prize, the exhibits were the entire reason for the fête. They were entirely devoted to scrubbing, polishing, grooming, arranging, and otherwise perfecting their entries. But others had more to do.

  Grace Lythecoe was managing the cake stall, Hannah Braithwaite the jellies-and-jams, George Crook the vegetables, and Lydia Dowling the jumble.

  Dimity Woodcock and Major Christopher Kittredge had overall charge of the event, the major taking responsibility for sports, games, and entertainment and Miss Woodcock the stalls, the judging, and the evening dance.

  Music was provided by the Village Volunteer Band (Lester Barrow on trombone, Mr. Taylor and Clyde Clinder on clarinet, Lawrence Baldwin on coronet, and Sam Stern on the concertina). The Hawkshead Morris Men, kitted out in gay vests, ties, sashes, and hats, would be dancing twice during the afternoon and once in the evening.

  Everyone had something to do. And everyone benefited in the end, for the proceeds would be used to complete (at last!) the repairs to the Sawrey School roof.

  Throughout the morning, the trio of judges moved from table to table inside the Exhibit Tent, sniffing, tasting, poking, and pinching. At two o’clock, the prizes were announced. Betty Leach’s golden pompoms took the honors, as did Joseph Skead’s cauliflower and Henry Stubbs’s honey. And the Barrow children’s rabbit—a flop-eared bunny named Rhubarb—was pronounced the best of the best and a blue ribbon was proudly pinned upon his cage.

  Mrs. Lythecoe’s cake stall was the first to sell every item. Sarah Barwick had generously donated seed wigs and sponges, while other village ladies sent shortbread, ginger-bread, and tea cakes, every last crumb of which had vanished by three in the afternoon, to the disappointment of those who arrived at five minutes past.

  The jams-and-jellies stall was next to clear out, with Bertha Stubbs’s gleaming jars of marmalade and Elsa Grape’s chutney (made from a recipe Captain Woodcock brought back from India) going first. Agnes Llewellyn’s green gooseberry jam, which is too tart for most people’s taste, went home with Vicar Sackett, who bought it to spare Agnes the embarrassment of having to take it back, unsold, when Hannah Braithwaite closed the stall.

  It took a bit longer for George Crook at the vegetable stand to unload the last of Roger Dowling’s Brussels sprouts. And it was after four by the time Lydia Dowling got rid of the last two bits of jumble: a beaded egg cozy donated by Annie Nash and an emerald-green scarf knitted for Captain Miles Woodcock by his former nurse, Mrs. Corry, whose eyesight was not of the best. I regret to say that Henry Stubbs bought it to top off his scarecrow.

  “Well!” exclaimed Lydia, surveying the ravaged jumble table. “Though I says it as shouldn’t, I’d call it a right success.”She rattled the box of coins as she handed it to Miss Woodcock. “Haven’t counted it yet, but must’ve took in all of four quid.”

  “That’s grand, Lydia,” Dimity said, taking the box. “You’ve done splendidly. I always say that jumble is hardest of all. Just pricing it is a challenge.”

  Lydia rolled her eyes. “T’ biggest job is fendin’ off t’ stall workers ’til we open for business. Let ’em at it early, and they’ll grab all t’ good stuff afore anybody else has a chance.”

  Christopher Kittredge hurried up. “Pardon, Miss Woodcock, but you’re wanted at First Aid. One of the Banner boys bloodied his nose in the potato sack race, and his mother can’t be found.”

  Dimity always turned pink when Major Kittredge spoke to her. But she only said, “Oh, dear. The poor child!” and hurried off, tucking the coin box into the string bag she carried over her arm.

  The major surveyed the empty jumble table. “Well done, Mrs. Dowling,” he said with a smile. “I wouldn’t have wagered that we’d get rid of that green . . . er, that we would sell everything. You must be very persuasive.”

  Major Kittredge had only one arm and one eye and his face was visibly scarred—war wounds suffered in a skirmish with the Boers in ’01—but Lydia thought he was still quite the handsomest man in the village, even if his reputation wasn’t all it should be. She ducked her head, muttering a pleased “Thank’ee, sir.”

  The major had no idea that anyone, least of all a woman, considered him handsome. In fact, when he looked into his mirror, he looked quickly away again, feeling that he was ugly enough to frighten children and horses and that he should become a hermit after all. But he was determined not to yield to this unhealthy impulse, so when the Vicar asked him to give Miss Woodcock a hand with the annual fête, he’d agreed. One hand was all he had, he said with a rueful chuckle, but perhaps one would do.

  He was glad he’d said yes. The fête gave him a chance to involve himself in village matters, as his father and grandfather had always done. It was an opportunity to try to redeem himself, for he knew that most in the village disapproved of him. And it gave him a chance to spend some time with Dimity Woodcock. His face might be altered almost beyond recognition, but if Dim found him repugnant, she was kind enough not to let on.

  With a goodbye to Lydia Dowling, the major walked over to see whether Lester Barrow had finished setting up the dartboards for the evening’s tournament. All looked in good order, but to the west, the blue sky had turned dark and thunderheads threatened the fells. They’d be in for a good soaking shortly—a boon to fields and
farmers, but hardly welcome to fête-goers. Bad news if it poured with rain on the one day when every villager hoped for clear skies, and none more than the major. It was his first fête since he’d come home to Raven Hall after the war, after that long stay in hospital and that blasted business with—

  The major broke off with a shudder. Losing his heart, and his common sense, to that woman had been a disaster.

  A damned, downright, undeniable disaster.

  2

  Village Affairs, from Other Points of View

  The major was too busy with his thoughts to notice the two cats—one a calico, the other a gray tabby—sitting side by side on a wooden bench. But they certainly noticed him.

  “Major Kittredge is remembering that woman he thought was his wife,” Tabitha Twitchit observed in a condescending tone. “He should never have married her.”

  “A sad bit of business,” returned Crumpet, although she couldn’t help feeling that Tabitha might show a little more sympathy toward the major. It hadn’t been his fault that the woman wasn’t the person she pretended to be.

  “An actress, a beautiful woman, but dangerous,” Tabitha went on, as if Crumpet didn’t already know all the facts of the case. “Lucky for him, she turned out to be someone else’s wife, so their marriage was never a legal one. He is well rid of her.”

  “It was an expensive lesson,” remarked Crumpet. A smooth gray tabby with a red collar and a golden bell, she was younger and sleeker than Tabitha. It was her opinion that Tabitha’s age (she was fifteen, which is seventy-eight cat years) was slowing the older cat down. It was high time she retired from her position as president of the Village Cat Council—but of course, Tabitha would never do that of her own accord, not while she felt so superior to every other animal in the village.