Tabitha nodded. “Yes, but you’d never know it to look at our Miss Potter. She prefers plain to fancy, and if she has a loose shilling in her pocket, she spends it on the farm.”
Bertram scrutinized his sister. “I must say, Bea, this place agrees with you. You’re looking pink and pretty.” He tamped the tobacco into his pipe and found his matches. “You’ve gained weight, too. You were too thin, I think.”
“I love it here,” Beatrix said, from the bottom of her heart. “The village is infinitely interesting, like the world in miniature. And there is such a wonderful largeness and silence in the fells that I can scarcely get enough of it. I only wish that Norman might be here to share it with me.” She had long ago forgiven Bertram for not taking her side in the awful family row over her engagement, but she couldn’t hold back a sigh. “I’m sure he would have loved it every bit as much as I do.”
“Poor Miss Potter.” Tabitha gave a romantic sigh. “So alone. She needs someone to take care of her.”
“Yes, she does,” agreed Crumpet. She gave Tabitha a knowing glance. “Miss Woodcock has a plan.”
Tabitha leaned forward. Her eyes glinted with interest and her tail twitched. “What sort of plan? How do you know?”
Crumpet smiled mysteriously and only shook her head, for Bertram was speaking.
“I agree,” he said. “Norman would have enjoyed being here—or anywhere, if you were there.” He pulled on his pipe, blew out a stream of smoke, and looked off into the distance. “Being with someone you care for—someone who cares for you—makes all the difference.”
Beatrix nodded, trying to swallow. Her throat hurt too much to speak.
After a moment, Bertram said, very quietly, “I’m sorry about leaving you stuck with Mama and Papa, Bea. It’s not fair to you, and I know it.”
“If that’s what he’s doing,” Crumpet said tartly, “it isn’t at all fair. He ought to do his part, and not leave it all to his sister.”
“What is Miss Woodcock’s plan?” Tabitha asked eagerly.
“I—” But Crumpet stopped because Miss Potter was speaking.
“I don’t suppose men are generally of much help with aging parents,” she said, pulling off her straw hat and fanning herself with it. “There isn’t a great deal you could do for Mama when she goes to bed with one of her sick headaches. And no one can please Papa—not you, not I, not the government, nor God in heaven.” She chuckled wryly. She tried to make light of things she couldn’t change, and she had long been accustomed to make excuses for her brother’s absences from home. But she was glad of Bertram’s words, and even gladder of the genuine apology she heard in his voice. She would remember it on those horrible days when resentment got the better of her.
“I suppose,” Bertram went on, “that between the parents, the farm, and your books, you are kept too busy to think about things much. It’s good you’ve had so much success with your art.” He puffed on his pipe. “A kind of consolation prize, as it were, for having to look after Mama and Papa. And of course richly deserved, on the merits,” he added hastily.
Beatrix slanted her brother a look. His large landscapes, while very fine in their way, had not yet found an enthusiastic public. But she saw nothing in Bertram’s face that made her uncomfortable. You and I might have considered his remark unforgivably condescending—“consolation prize,” indeed!—but it did not trouble her. She knew he was entirely happy for her success, which was all that she asked.
“Who would have thought that the world would make so much out of a few foolish bunnies?” she mused. “It all seems very odd, when I stop to think of it, especially the sideshows. The rabbits are doing well, and soon there will be a Puddle-duck doll, if the manufacturing problems can be sorted.” She chuckled. “The tea sets are in demand, too, which is amusing. Just think of all the little girls serving pretend scones on Peter plates.”
The little books had resulted in a great many merchandise offshoots, and each sale earned Beatrix a royalty— individually quite small, but taken together, it all mounted up in a surprising way. It might mount up to a good deal more, if only her publisher would pay the proper attention to the licenses, and not muddle so many of the opportunities. But Mr. Warne, Norman’s brother, rarely listened to her suggestions.
“Everything I earn goes into the farm, of course,” she added. “I’ve rebuilt the barn and bought more sheep, all thanks to those ridiculous rabbits.”
“But rabbits aren’t ridiculous!” Crumpet cried, lifting her head. “They’re very good exercise!”
“Her rabbits only run as far as the edge of the page,” Tabitha said. “You’ll not get any exercise out of them.” She batted a paw at Crumpet. “I want to hear about Miss Woodcock’s plan, Crumpet!”
“Later,” Crumpet said. “Later.”
“To think that your farm is built on books and bunnies.” Bertram’s dark eyes crinkled at the corners. “It’s good that you have such a head for business, Bea. Much better than mine, of course.” He puffed on his pipe. “You’re planning more books, I suppose.”
“Two for next year,” Beatrix replied. “There’s to be a sequel to the bunnies, and a tale about the village shop. Ginger and Pickles.”
“Wait!” Crumpet frowned. “Why is it Ginger and Pickles? Why not Crumpet and Tabitha?”
“Tabitha and Crumpet,” Tabitha snarled.
“You might call it Two Bad Cats,” Bertram said, with a glance at the quarrelsome pair. He lapsed into silence, smoking and looking off into the distance.
Beatrix fell silent, as well. She felt comfortable with her brother. Even when they didn’t talk, the silence was easy, for each of them knew what the other was thinking. To Beatrix, Bertram had seemed more content these days, and not so perpetually out of temper. Healthier, too. He had put on weight and his color was better. Living in Scotland must agree with him, although it was too bad that he had to be alone. That must have been what was behind his oblique remark: “Being with someone you care for—who cares for you—makes all the difference.”
But Beatrix had no more congratulated herself on knowing what was in her brother’s mind than he said something that not only astonished her, but proved her completely and utterly wrong.
“I say, Bea.” Bertram cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I must tell you something. But I . . . that is, I— Well, I don’t quite know how to begin.”
Beatrix was alarmed. Had he got himself into some sort of serious trouble? Did he need money? There had been a great many scrapes and difficulties in the past, and like a big sister, she had always stood up for him. She would do that now, no matter what.
She tried to laugh. “Remember what Miss Hammond used to say when we were children. ‘Truth is the beginning of every good thing, both in heaven and in earth.’ ” She swallowed. How stiff that sounded, and priggish, and older-sisterish. She wished she could take it back. “Come, Bertram, tell me,” she said, more lightly. “Is something wrong? What can I do to help?”
“No, there’s nothing wrong. Actually, things are perfectly all right. But I—” He folded his arms, not looking at her. “I will tell you, but first you must promise not to tell the parents.”
“Uh-oh,” Tabitha said softly. “Doesn’t sound good.”
“That’s the thing about humans,” Crumpet replied. “They keep secrets.”
“Animals do, too,” Tabitha retorted with a nasty look. “When are you going to tell me about Miss Woodcock’s plan?”
Beatrix looked at Bertram, feeling the apprehension rising inside her. Her brother had that guilty, defensive expression he always wore when he had to confess and apologize for something he had done. It was a familiar look, and it brought back unhappy memories of past misdeeds and penitent confessions. But she would promise.
“Yes, yes, of course, dear. I won’t say a word.”
The silence stretched out between them—uneasily now, as Beatrix thought of all the terrible things he might be about to say. He was in debt and needed money. He had lost hi
s farm and would have to come back to Bolton Gardens to live. He had been caught cheating at cards. He was desperately ill with some dreadful—
“I’m married, Bea.” He let out his breath in a rush. “I’m married.”
“Married!” Beatrix whispered. The world seemed suddenly to have stopped turning.
“Married?” Crumpet meowed sarcastically. “Is that all? From the look on his face, I thought he was going to say that he’d murdered somebody.”
Bertram squared his shoulders. “I am telling you because I feel that someone in the family should know, in case anything should happen to me. But the parents are not to know. Not yet.”
“I . . . I hardly know what to say,” Beatrix managed at last. The only son, married without his father’s consent, his mother’s blessing!
“I know what’s in your mind, Bea,” Bertram said unhappily. “But Papa and Mama would not have given their consent, so there was no point in asking for it. And no point in telling them after the fact, either. Mary—my wife—is a wonderful person, but they could never allow themselves to recognize her worth.” He pulled on his pipe, his voice laced with bitterness. “She doesn’t belong to their social class, you see. She isn’t a lady. No fine carriage, no silk dresses, no servants to fetch and carry.” He stared down at his pipe, then knocked it against the tree, emptying it. “We met when she was working as a serving girl in her aunt’s hostelry, where I had taken rooms.”
“A hostelry?” Beatrix asked weakly.
Tabitha’s eyes widened. “A Potter has married a barmaid? No wonder he doesn’t want to tell his parents.”
“The barmaid at the Tower Bank Arms is one of my best friends,” Crumpet remarked. “She understands my fondness for steak and kidney pie.”
Tabitha rolled her eyes. “But gentlemen don’t marry bar-maids, Crumpet. If the Potters knew, it would destroy them.”
“Yes, a hostelry,” Bertram said angrily. “And she’s worked in the textile mills, as well.” He hit his pipe once more against the tree, and broke it. He stared down at the pieces in his hand, then tossed them away. “You’re not going to look down on her, too, Bea? You, of all people?”
Beatrix put her hand on her brother’s arm. Astonished as she was, she understood how he felt, and shared his pain. Their father could be scathing in his remarks about the “lower classes.” And their mother looked with scorn at people she thought beneath her. She had been disagreeable enough about Norman and his family, who were “in trade.” She would be unspeakably disagreeable about Mary. Bertram was right to spare himself—and of course, his wife.
His wife. Suddenly Beatrix felt cold and alone. Until this minute, she hadn’t understood how much it had meant to feel that Bertram was . . . was with her, at least in some way. Now he wasn’t. He was with his wife.
She mustered all the assurance she could. “If you love her, I am sure that Mary is truly worthy. I only wish I could have been at your wedding. When did it take place?”
He didn’t look at her. “Mary and I met the year you came up to Scotland with me, to see the farm. We married not long after.”
She stared at him blankly. “But that was . . . good heavens, Bertram, that was six years ago!”
“Yes, six years, almost.” He hunched his shoulders. “I . . . I meant to tell them when you . . . when they made such a fuss about you and Norman Warne. I thought if I told them about me, they might have to let you marry him.”
Beatrix pressed her lips together mutely.
“I even tried, once,” Bertram went on miserably, “when we were all on holiday in Wales, after Norman’s proposal. They were still furious at you, of course. Remember?”
“Yes, I remember,” Beatrix whispered. She would never, ever forget. It had been an agonizing time. Her mother wouldn’t speak to her, her father—
But that pain, awful as it was, had been erased by an even greater agony. Norman had fallen sick and died, in the space of a few weeks. She was left with nothing. Nothing.
“Papa and I went out walking together,” Bertram continued, “and that was the only thing he could talk about—this marriage you wanted to make, and how unsuitable it was for you. I tried to tell him about Mary, but I couldn’t get a word in edgewise. And the longer he went on about you and Norman, the harder it was for me. I knew how furious he would be, and I was . . . I was afraid.”
His voice broke and he swallowed hard, his bony Adam’s apple bobbing against his collar, and Beatrix thought how young he looked, and how utterly wretched.
“I . . . I’m weak, Bea. I can’t tell you how much I admired your courage, standing up to them the way you did, insisting that you would accept Norman’s proposal, that you would wear his ring. But that made me feel even worse. I . . . I was a coward. I promised Mary I would tell them, and I failed her. I failed myself. I failed . . . you. If I had told them, it might have changed things.”
Beatrix blinked away the tears. “No, Bertram. St. Peter and all the angels could not have persuaded them.” She gave a sad little shrug. “And anyway, things would still have come out the same.” She let out her breath in a long, sad sigh. “Norman would still be . . . gone.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Bertram said gloomily. “Anyway, that’s what I told myself, after Norman died. But that didn’t make me feel better then, and it doesn’t now. I could have done the right thing, for once in my life. I didn’t. I was a coward then. I am still a coward.”
“Six years,” Beatrix said softly, and asked what she dreaded to know. “Do you . . . do you and Mary have children?”
“Not yet,” Bertram said shortly. “When that happens, I suppose I shall have to break down and tell Papa.” He chuckled sourly. “His only son, married to a commoner, bringing common children into a common world onto a common farm! It will send him into an apoplectic fit.”
Beatrix looked down at the gold engagement ring she meant to wear forever and chuckled sadly. “It might at that. He stumped around for weeks after our quarrel, red as a beet and muttering under his breath. And Mama went right on sulking even after Norman died and I was out of danger.”
“That’s because it wasn’t just Norman,” Bertram growled. “The danger, I mean.”
Beatrix frowned. “What did you say?”
“It wasn’t just Norman, of course,” Bertram said again. “It wouldn’t matter if the Prince of Wales offered for you, Bea—Mama means you to stay at home until both she and Papa are dead, so you can take care of them. Didn’t you know that?”
“I suppose I did,” Beatrix said slowly. “I just didn’t—”
“You just didn’t think of it that way. You’re too sweet-natured to see how unreasonably selfish Mama is. And hypocritical. She says ‘He’s not the right man for you,’ when what she really means is, ‘I don’t intend you to marry.’ ”
“Such a wicked old lady!” Tabitha exclaimed. “How can Miss Potter go on in the face of such selfishness?”
“Some Big Folk are very good at making their families miserable,” Crumpet replied with a sigh.
Beatrix did not say that Bertram was changing the subject, although he was. She only put on a smile and said, determinedly cheerful, “Anyway, you’ve proved my point, Bertram. Telling them about your marriage wouldn’t have made any difference. Whatever Mama’s reasons, you couldn’t have changed her mind.”
But that wasn’t to say that it wouldn’t have made a difference to him, she thought. If he had told the parents three years ago, he wouldn’t be carrying the guilty burden still. It had to eat away at his happiness, and Mary’s. But there was no point in telling him something he already knew. She put on her hat and took his arm.
“And all that’s over and done with, dear. Water under the proverbial bridge. You are a married man and I am an old maid, and so we shall forever be. You have your Mary, and I have my books and my farm. Now, let’s go back to the house and have a cup of hot tea and one of Sarah Barwick’s scones. I want to tell you about the baby I found on Saturday—”
“A baby?” Bertram exclaimed with an incredulous laugh. “Did you say ‘baby’?”
“I did indeed. I shall tell you all about her, and you shall tell me all about Mary. I want to know everything about your wife. Is she pretty? Does she like farming? Is she a cheerful person?” She paused, surveying him with a mock-critical look. “She must be a very good cook, for you have fattened up nicely.”
Bertram threw back his head and laughed. “You certainly know how to make a fellow feel better, Bea.” And then, for the first time since they were children, he put his arm around her shoulders and hugged her. “You’re a brick, d’you know? The fellow who gets you will be counting his lucky stars.”
Her brother’s arm warm across her shoulder, Beatrix laughed, too. She pushed away the pain and said, in a very clear, very firm voice, “That’s not going to happen, Bertram. You’re the only one in this family lucky enough to marry.”
“It seems amazing to me that she can laugh over such a thing,” Tabitha said in a wondering tone.
Crumpet gave Tabitha a wise look. “She might be wrong, you know. If Miss Woodcock has her way, Miss Potter might yet have a husband.”
Tabitha shot out a frustrated paw. “Miss Woodcock! Miss Woodcock! When are you going to stop hinting and tell me what you’ve heard?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Crumpet said in a superior tone. “Maybe today, maybe tomorrow. Maybe never.”
This, of course, completely enraged Tabitha. With a furious yowl, she struck out at Crumpet, catching her claw in an ear. Crumpet bit down hard on Tabitha’s paw. And then they were rolling over and over on the ground, spitting and snarling and shrieking.
“Those cats can’t seem to get along,” Beatrix remarked as she and Bertram walked away. “I wonder what set them off this time.”
If Beatrix had known, she would have found the idea very funny, for Miss Woodcock’s scheme was something to which she had not given a moment’s thought.
The Tale of Hawthorn House Page 9
