“It won’t be for long, I expect,” she said, steadying her voice with an effort. “You’ll find her mother quickly, I’m sure. And Elsa’s had children—she can help me. Between us, we will manage quite easily.”
Miles studied her for a moment. “Well, then,” he said finally, “keep her if you like.” He frowned down his nose in mock severity. “She won’t cry in the night, I hope.”
“She doesn’t cry loudly,” Beatrix put in. “I’m sure she won’t disturb you, Captain.” To Dimity, she added, “Mrs. Jennings could supply you with milk and a baby bottle.”
“We’ll need nappies, too,” Dimity said, cuddling the baby happily. She brushed her lips across the soft hair. “And infants’ clothing. Perhaps Mrs. Hopkins will be willing to share out of the Mums’ Box.” She frowned. “Was anything left with her, Beatrix? Any clothing or supplies?”
“Oh, dear,” Beatrix said, “I almost forgot!” She reached into her bag, took something out, and put it into Miles’ open hand. “There was no clothing, just the note and the hawthorn sprig. And this. A scarab ring.”
Dimity saw that Beatrix had given Miles a ring, a heavy signet ring, set with a large cornelian, the color of blood.
“It is indeed,” Miles said, turning it in his fingers. “See the Egyptian carving?” He held the ring up. “Lends credence to Elsa’s gypsy theory, I’d say. This is the sort of jewelry the Romany people favor.”
“Both the stone and the setting seem quite unique,” Beatrix said. “It occurred to me that it might be traced to its owner, which—”
“Which might lead us to the baby’s parents!” Dimity exclaimed excitedly. “Of course, Bea!”
“It’s certainly most unusual,” Miles said. “Yes, p’rhaps it can be traced.” He glanced at Beatrix and shook his head ruefully. “You’ve done it again, Miss Potter.”
She looked at him, her blue eyes wide. “Done what, Captain Woodcock?”
He chuckled. “Brought us a mystery. This is getting to be a habit, you know.”
“But surely this one won’t be too hard to solve,” Dimity said, feeling the baby’s warmth against her. “The mother must be simply frantic. She must be moving heaven and earth to find this precious child.”
I am sorry to tell you, however, that this was not the case.
7
Where Emily Went and What She Found There
Stories that involve quite a number of people (as this one does), may not always progress in a chronological order. To learn why Flora’s mother was not moving heaven and earth to find her daughter, we must turn the calendar from Sunday back to Friday, and follow Emily Shaw as she took the up train from Windermere Station.
Emily had never before ridden on the railway, and the prospect was thrilling. The trip, however, was not. The train was noisy, smoky, and crowded. The ten-hour ride was punctuated at random intervals by frightening bumps and lurches, and when they went round a curve, the car shook itself and threatened to tip right off the rails. A person (Emily could not call him a gentleman) had made unwelcome advances in the carriage, and if it had not been for the intervention of a kindly clergyman, she did not like to think what might have happened.
She also did not like to think what had happened the day before, when Mrs. Overthewall (whoever or whatever she was!) had come into the house and snatched up Baby Flora. As she recalled it, Emily remembered herself shrieking “No, no, no!” and chasing the old lady until her breath gave out and she collapsed from exhaustion. Of course, that was not at all the way it happened, as you very well know and could testify if the magistrate called you as a witness. But perhaps you, too, have had the experience of remembering an event in an entirely different way than it actually transpired. Sometimes we have compelling reasons for not recalling the truth—and Emily no doubt had her reasons.
In any case, the trip was long and wearisome, Emily’s eyes were red with weeping, and her heart was sore. She was relieved when at last (after several confusing changes of trains), she reached Earl’s Court Station and the beginning of her exciting adventure in London. London, the place she had been longing for. London, her heart’s dream! Now that she was here at last, things would be better.
But like the railway journey, London was not at all what Emily had expected. She imagined it as a fairyland of twinkling lights and lilting music, peopled with fine lords and beautiful ladies. But the streets were full of ordinary people, scurrying along with their heads down and their shoulders hunched. The air was a sulfurous, stinking yellow, thick and heavy with coal smoke and filled with the deafening roar of motor lorries—ten, hundreds, thousands of them, all speeding recklessly only inches away from the kerb, so that she had to cling to the buildings for safety, lest one jump the kerb and run her down. And when at last she was able to summon a hansom and climbed in and gave the address, the driver whipped up the horse and they flew along the streets so fast she was sure they’d all be killed, she and the driver and the horse as well. By the time they’d got where they were going and she was let out, her knees were like noodles and her fingers were trembling so that she could scarcely get the fare from her purse.
The address Miss Keller had given her, on Lime Tree Place, was in an area of South Kensington called Bolton Gardens. The name of the street had conjured up images of pleasant houses surrounded by lacy-leaved lime trees and pretty gardens filled with blooming flowers. But the dull, dark brick house before her stood in a long, stolid row of identical dull, dark brick houses, and there was not a lime tree to be seen, much less a garden of blooming flowers. Her eyes widened as she read the words engraved on the brass door plate:
No.3 Lime Tree Place
Miss Pennywhistle’s Select Establishment
for Young Ladies of Excellent Family
Select Establishment? Oh, dear. The cabman had let her out at the wrong address! She put down her carpet bag and looked anxiously at the slip of paper on which Miss Keller had written the street and number.
No, here was where she was meant to be, although by this time Emily felt so confused that she scarcely knew where “here” was or what business she had with it—as I daresay you would feel, if you were plucked out of a hamlet in the country and plunked down on an unfamiliar street in one of the largest cities in the world, without the least idea of what to expect. She took a deep breath, lifted the heavy brass doorknocker, and let it fall. Why in the world had Miss Keller given her this address?
She was still asking herself that question when Miss Keller herself opened the door. Saying nothing at all, only putting a finger to her lips, she pulled Emily inside. Emily began to speak, but Miss Keller shook her head violently and motioned to her to bring her valise and follow. They went up a carpeted flight of stairs and then another, narrower and uncarpeted. The third and fourth were was so steep that Emily was quite out of breath by the time they reached the top, where they went down a long hall and entered a chilly garret room. It was completely bare except for two narrow cots, two black trunks, one green-painted wooden chair, and a broken scrap of mirror on the wall beside the window.
Miss Keller shut the door behind them. “Put your things in the trunk,” she said shortly. “You are to share this room with Dora, the head housemaid. She will show you your duties. I believe you are to take the third floor.”
The head housemaid? The third floor? It sounded as if Emily herself was meant to work as a housemaid here! She looked around, aghast. She had thought she would be Miss Keller’s maid in Miss Keller’s own home, and take care of Miss Keller’s hair, clothes, and jewels. To be sure, Miss Keller had not gone quite so far as to promise all this, but—
“You must be tired,” Miss Keller said. She frowned and added uneasily, “I trust all went well with the arrangements.”
The arrangements. Emily took a deep breath. Now was the time to say that Mr. Graham had refused to take Baby Flora because she was a girl, not a boy, and that something else— something truly incredible—had happened at Hawthorn House. She opened her mouth to say all
this, but the words wouldn’t come. How could she possibly describe Mrs. Overthewall? Wouldn’t Miss Keller think she was lying?
She cleared her throat and tried again, knowing that if she didn’t tell the truth now, she might not have another opportunity. But again her voice failed her.
Miss Keller, taking silence for assurance, seemed relieved. “Well, then, that’s all right,” she said, and put her hand on Emily’s shoulder. “You’re a strong, resourceful girl, Emily. I knew it would be hard for you to do what had to be done—especially since you had grown so fond of the child. But I was sure you could manage it. And I am sure you will do well here. It is a new beginning for you.”
Emily tried again to speak, but the weight of Miss Keller’s hand, once so reassuring, now seemed heavy and oppressive. If she had been thinking more clearly, she might have stopped to wonder why Miss Keller had asked her to come to London—had, in fact, quite insisted on it. But she wasn’t thinking at all clearly. In fact, it was all she could do to keep from bursting into tears.
Miss Keller squeezed her shoulder, just a little too hard for comfort. “Very good, my girl,” she said, in a more kindly tone. “Now, wash your face and tidy your hair and take yourself down to the kitchen. Cook has saved a bowl of soup and a cup of tea for you. In the morning, you shall meet Miss Pennywhistle, and Miss Carew, who teaches music, and Miss Mapes, who instructs in literature and needlework. I myself teach French.” She gave a careless wave of her hand. “The teachers like to know the servants—because of the girls, you understand. The boarders who are our pupils.” She met Emily’s eyes with a direct look. “Their moral characters must be protected, at all costs.”
“Yes, miss,” Emily said, and gulped.
Miss Keller turned to the window, which showed only a bleak array of soot-streaked roofs and a grainy patch of gray sky. Not looking around, she said, “I am sure you understand that it would be terribly unwise to speak of what transpired at Hawthorn House. That is in the past now, and must stay there. No one must know, and especially the other servants, such as the one who shares this room.” She turned back to look directly at Emily, and now her eyes were hard, her voice cold. “You may be tempted to speak of it, but I assure you that it would not be in your best interest to do so. Do you understand me?”
Our Emily wasn’t the cleverest of girls, perhaps, but she was certainly clever enough to hear the veiled warning. If she spoke about Baby Flora, it would go badly for her. Well, she didn’t intend to say a word. She might be turned out, and then what could she do? Without a character, no one would hire her. She would never find another place in London.
And she daren’t go back to the village, either. Once it was known what had happened at Hawthorn House, her reputation would be blackened. Worse, the constable would come into it, and she might go to gaol! So she had to carry on, even though London was not at all what she had expected, and Miss Keller did not seem like the same person she had known.
“Yes, miss,” she said humbly. “I understand.”
“That’s a good girl,” said Miss Keller. Her face softened. “Off you go, now.”
8
Jemima Counts to Ten
“I wish to hatch my own eggs; I will hatch them all by myself,” quacked Jemima Puddle-duck.
Beatrix Potter, The Tale of Jemima Puddle-Duck
Back in the Hill Top barn, Jemima Puddle-duck is still sitting on her nest, counting the hours until her beautiful eggs finally hatch. Is there any progress to be reported? None yet, I regret to report. But eggs being eggs, we know that something is bound to happen soon—don’t we?
Of course, if this had been your nest and your eggs, I am sure that you would not have settled down to the tedious business of hatching without taking some thought as to how to mark the time. You might have pinned a calendar to the wall in order to know what day it was and calculate how many were left until your eggs hatched. You might also have brought postage stamps and envelopes, for writing to your friends so they would be informed of your absence and would not bother to call on Thursday afternoon, as usual. And your pocket watch, so as to know when it was teatime.
But while our Jemima is devoted and dedicated, she is not the most discerning of ducks. She had brought her knitting and a few lending-library romances and several crossword puzzles to help her pass the time. To make things neat and cozy, she had put up a peg for her bonnet and shawl, spread a nice little red rug beside her nest, and hung a picture of dear old Queen Victoria (she was not fond of King Edward, who was quite the playboy). But she had not thought of a calendar (much less a pocket watch and postage stamps), so she had no idea of what day this was, or when her eggs would hatch. And she had not told any of the other creatures what she was doing. She intended her beautiful new family to be a surprise.
Unfortunately, however, Jemima’s project was about to be revealed, for Jackboy, the loudmouth magpie, was shouting the news to all the animals in the barnyard. But Jackboy was a clown, and his speech was so odd that few could understand him.
“Plucky ducky missy sitzie long time,” chirped Jackboy, hopping along the top of the fence.
“Pardon moi?” Aunt Susan, Miss Potter’s fat black Berkshire pig, looked up from her muddy wallow in a corner of the pig sty. “I didn’t quite catch that.”
Miss Potter was fond of saying that Aunt Susan had such full, round cheeks that she looked as if she had the mumps, although I think it is doubtful that pigs catch the mumps. More likely, Aunt Susan had been stuffing herself again. She was Miss Potter’s favorite pig and had come to live at Hill Top when she was a tiny piglet, small enough to fit into one of Miss Potter’s pattens. She was quite the pet, sleeping in a basket beside Miss Potter’s bed and drinking milk from a baby bottle until she was big enough to look after herself.
Now fully pig-size (and then some), Aunt Susan still enjoyed kitchen privileges: biscuits and brown bread and beans and rice pudding from the Hill Top table, all stirred together in a bucket and moistened with warm, fresh milk from Kitchen the cow, and one or two eggs added to the mix. Which is why Aunt Susan was the fattest, laziest pig in the Hill Top barnyard, and why she was always thinking ahead to the next meal.
“Eggsie-peggsie in a nestie-pestie,” Jackboy remarked informatively, stretching his black wings.
“I think,” hazarded Dorcas, “the fellow is babbling about eggs.” Dorcas was a clever, enterprising pig, slimmer, speedier, and not nearly so docile as Aunt Susan. Whenever she could, Dorcas pushed her way under the fence and darted into the woods (if you have ever seen a pig run, you will know that “dart” is exactly the right word). When she was safely out of sight in the woods, she always trotted straight to her favorite oak tree to root for acorns until someone fetched her home to tea.
“Eggs?” Aunt Susan murmured. She rolled over onto her right side, setting in motion a muddy tidal wave. “I am very fond of eggs. I have been known to eat them raw, but I prefer fried or scrambled.” She closed her eyes, grunting dreamily. “Poached eggs are very good, too. And shirred eggs, and soft-boiled and baked. And creamed with chipped beef on toast, and deviled, and smothered and—”
“Ducksie-wucksie,” remarked Jackboy in a confidential tone. “Quacksie-hatchie-missie-blissie.” And with that, he flew away.
Dorcas scratched her piggy ear with one hind hoof. “I always imagine that there is some great significance in Jackboy’s tales, but they are probably just nonsense. It sounds as if he is talking about ducks and eggs.”
“There is no nonsense about eggs,” said Aunt Susan firmly. “They are extremely significant. Chicken eggs, duck eggs, goose eggs, guinea eggs, partridge eggs—delightfully tasty, each and every one of them.” She shuddered. “Except, of course, when they are served with pork sausages or bacon. Then they are incredibly inedible.”
As you can see, some of the barnyard animals had other things on their minds than the absent Jemima. But there was someone else who cared, and who listened closely to the magpie’s maniacal chatter. This was Kep the
collie, who was deeply troubled by the duck’s disappearance.
For centuries, collies have been bred as herding dogs. Their job is to keep all the barnyard creatures safe, to ward off predators, and assist the shepherd in rounding up wayward animals. Kep, like other collies, took his work very seriously. He was on the job day and night, paying close attention to the comings and goings of every animal on the farm. Not an easy task, I’ll warrant, but one for which he was suited by nature and training.
Collies are different from all other animals in this regard, you see. Most creatures have learned to pay no attention to the sudden disappearances of friends, who may be here one minute and gone the next. In fact, there’s an important reason for this apparent nonchalance. It cannot be comfortable to think that one’s missing comrade—a chicken or a pig or a goose or a duck, or even a cow or a sheep—might reappear in a day or two on the Hill Top dinner table, roasted and basted or steamed, seasoned, stewed, sauced, or stuffed. Oneself might be next! So one learns to turn a blind eye and a deaf ear, to bury one’s head in the sand. One cultivates the fine art of ignorance.
But Kep was constitutionally unable to do this, and had been deeply troubled by Jemima’s absence. He suspected that she harbored a certain fondness for the fox, and feared that (foolish duck that she was, so easily beguiled) she might have agreed to run away with him. He had already spent quite some time searching, so when Dorcas happened to mention that Jackboy might (or might not) be chattering about ducks and eggs, he cornered the magpie beside the barn.
“Jemima Puddle-duck has been absent without leave for some weeks,” Kep said, fixing Jackboy with a stern stare. “She is of average height and weight, with white feathers, a yellow beak, yellow legs, and orange-colored webbed feet—last seen wearing a shawl and poke bonnet. If you have any information concerning the whereabouts of this missing duck, it is imperative that you inform me at once.”
The Tale of Hawthorn House Page 7
