The Tale of Hawthorn House

by Susan Wittig Albert

  And this poacher was someone Miles knew: an old man nearing eighty, bandy-legged, slope-shouldered, scrawny-armed, but with bright, birdlike eyes that missed nothing. He was dressed in a sacking jacket, brown corduroy trousers held up with a rope belt, and leather boots nearly worn through at the toe.

  “Hullo, Hawker,” Miles said.

  Even though he was responsible for upholding the law, Miles could not bring himself to blame—much less arrest— these fellows, especially the old ones. Hawker had labored well enough in his time, but his prime was past and he was no longer able to work. He still had himself and his old wife to support and no children to help, though, and what was he to do for food? A few potatoes, some green vegetables from the garden, and a hare or a pheasant every other day would feed him and his wife handsomely. And the owner of Hawthorn House—Villars, who was still in India, as far as Miles knew—would never miss the birds or rabbits Hawker put into his game bag.

  Hawker thrust the wire coil into the pocket of his coat. “Hullo, Cap’n,” he said with a toothless grin, and saluted, clicking his heels together like the old Army man he was. “Wasn’t expectin’ to see you.”

  “Nor I you,” Miles replied dryly. “Having a pleasant walk?” He would say nothing about the wire and the bag, nor would Hawker. He glanced at the clouds blowing down from the fells. “Seems we may get some rain this afternoon.”

  “Aye,” Hawker agreed, hitching up his trousers. He jerked his head toward the house. “To let again, is it? Tha’st come to have a look?”

  Miles made a noncommittal sound. It wouldn’t hurt to let Hawker think he was here on property business. “Has the recent resident gone?”

  Hawker nodded shortly.

  “What can you tell me of him?”

  “Her,” Hawker said. “A lady, ’twere.”

  “Ah,” Miles said. A lady? In this decrepit old place? “A married lady, then?”

  “Marrit?” Hawker shrugged. “As to that, I cudn’t say. Alone, her was, ’cept for Mrs. Hawker and a girl to do fer her.” He tilted his head, a crafty look in his eyes. “Tha’rt in-t’rested in knowin’ about t’ lady?”

  Miles reached into his pocket, took out a shilling, and held it up. When the old man reached for it, he pulled back his hand, making a fist. “When you’ve finished telling.”

  “Not much to tell.” Hawker shrugged. “Her come from Lon’on and went back to Lon’on. Stayed here all by hersel’, ’cept for Missus Hawker to cook and t’ girl to keep house.” He frowned up at the stone walls. “No kind of place fer a lady, is what I says. Haunted, ’tis.”

  “Old houses have their tales,” Miles remarked.

  “Aye. But t’ tales are true, when it comes to this house,” Hawker said in an ominous tone. “ ’Tis haunted, fer sure.”

  “About the lady,” Miles prompted.

  “Aye. Stuck-up, her was. Stayed in her sittin’ room. Wouldn’t come t’ kitchen.” He spat disgustedly. “Wouldn’t even talk to t’ missus face-to-face. Allus sent a note.”

  Miles could understand the offense Mrs. Hawker must have taken at not being invited to discuss the menus, and it did seem queer that the mistress had never come to the kitchen. But Mrs. Hawker was deaf as a stone, and it might have been easier to communicate by note. “What was the lady’s name?”

  Hawker’s shrug was eloquent. “T’ missus just called her ‘mum.’ ”

  “How long did this mystery lady live here?” And how was it possible, Miles wondered, that the village hadn’t found out about her?

  “Not long.” The old man shrugged. “Come at May-tide and left a se’nnight ago.”

  May through August. Make it nearly four months. “Do you know where in London she came from or returned?”

  A firm shake of the head. “I only spoke to her onct, through t’ window. I offered to do a bit of gardenin’ and weed-cuttin’.” He gestured at the derelict lawn. “Thought she might fancy t’ place tidied a bit. But she said it wasn’t hers and she wasn’t payin’ to keep it.”

  Which settled one question, Miles supposed. The house had been temporarily let. “What about the servant girl? Did she come from London with this mystery lady?”

  Another head shake. “Local, she was.”

  Ah. They were making progress. “Her name?” Since the mistress had gone back to London, the girl would be looking for another post. She was obviously the one who had contact with the mystery lady, and most likely, the one who had pawned the ring. He’d talk with her and get her to tell all she knew.

  Hawker scowled. “I doan’t know all t’ gals in t’ village, now, do I? All of ’em looks alike to me. T’ missus called her ‘girl.’ That’s what she was, and that’s what I called her. Didn’t see her but onct or twice.”

  Feeling frustrated with the difficulty in getting any substantial information out of the fellow, Miles glanced up at the house. Its vacant windows reflected the lowering sky, and the unkempt weeds around it were dry and dead. “Seems an isolated place for a London lady’s holiday,” he remarked thoughtfully. City ladies avoided remote country houses as they would the plague. They feared being alone, and feared loneliness above all other ills of the human spirit. “Did she entertain many visitors?”

  “Visitors?” Hawker shook his head. “Never, so far’s I know. Kept to hersel’. Never walked out. Sent me or t’ girl to Hawkshead for t’ needfuls.”

  “What about the post?” Ladies were devoted to their correspondence. A lady on holiday would normally write and receive any number of letters, all of which would be posted through the village post office.

  “Post?” The old man gave a shrug. “Nivver saw a post. Only saw t’ five shillin’s a week t’ missus was paid. Good money, fer cookin’ two meals a day. ’Tis all I know,” he added significantly, and thrust out his hand.

  No visitors, no post—it all seemed very odd to Miles, especially given the condition of the house. It could not have been a pleasant sojourn for a lady from London. And there was one more thing—

  “What do you know about a baby?”

  “A babe?” Hawker pulled his chin. “Missus nivver said awt ’bout a babe.” He looked up at the house and frowned. “A babe wudn’t last long in this place. T’ Thorn Folk ’ud carry it off.”

  “The Thorn Folk?” Miles asked, frowning. He thought of the gypsy band, camped not far away. Was “Thorn Folk” some sort of local name for gypsies?

  Hawker stared at him, incredulous. “Nivver heard of t’ Hawthorn Folk? They lived in t’ hawthorns, which was cut down by t’ major so he could see t’ lake out his windows.” He shook his head darkly. “Cruel, cruel business, to evict t’ Folk.”

  “Nonsense,” Miles said scornfully. “There are no such things as fairies.”

  The old man’s face paled at such irreverence. “Nae, Cap’n!” he protested, aghast. “ ’Tis truth! I’ve seen ’em with me very own eyes!”

  Many people, even educated people, professed to be charmed by the fanciful folktales of the Land Between the Lakes, and evenings were spent telling and retelling the local legends. But Miles had never been one of that lot. As far as he was concerned, this was just another example of the ignorant foolishness of silly, superstitious people. Utter stuff and nonsense.

  “I have reason to believe,” Miles said crisply, “that a baby was born in this house. Is it possible that your wife would not have known?”

  Hawker shrugged. “I s’pose ’tis. T’ missus was only in for a few hours in t’ afternoon, to cook lunch and dinner. And her doan’t hear.” He grinned. “Her doan’t hear me, even.” He held out his gnarled old hand. “ ’Tis all I know, Cap’n.”

  “Thank you.” Miles put the shilling into Hawker’s hand. “And now I should like to speak to Mrs. Hawker.” The old woman might be deaf, but she could not have worked in the house for four months without noticing something. Babies needed milk, nappies, blankets, bottles. They needed someone to care for them. It would be worth another shilling or two to hear Mrs. Hawker’s account.
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br />   But the old man was shaking his head. “T’ missus went to Liverpool,” he said, thrusting the coin into his pocket. “Sister’s dyin’.” He grinned crookedly. “First time t’ missus been away from home since we was married.”

  Miles read the old man’s thought in his face. Hawker missed his wife, with whom he had no doubt lived some sixty or more years and who kept his table and washed his clothes and was company in the evening beside the fire, despite her deafness. But he was enjoying his solitude, and was none too anxious for her return. At that moment, there was a loud SNAP at the back of the shrubbery, and a thin, despairing squeal that shimmered into a sad silence.

  Hawker smiled. “Ah,” he said softly.

  Miles shivered involuntarily. He was fond of the hunt, but not the kill. “Since I can’t talk to your wife, perhaps I can find the girl—the servant girl who worked here. Any suggestions as to where I might locate her?”

  “Can’t say.” Hawker pulled his thin gray eyebrows together. “But I can say where her’s gone.”

  “Well, then, where?” Miles asked impatiently.

  “Why, to Lon’on.”

  “London!” Miles exclaimed. A local girl going up to London—a highly unusual event. Unprecedented, to his knowledge.

  “Aye.” The old man did not look as if he approved of what had happened. “Friday mornin’, ’twas. Carried her bag up to catch Puckett’s cart on t’ Kendal Road. Said her was goin’ to Lon’on.” He spat. “Goin’ to t’ devil, is what I say.”

  And with that, they parted ways. Hawker returned to the shrubbery to tend his snare. Miles thought of going into the house, but in the end, shrugged into his mackintosh and walked back along the cart track, his head down and his hands in his pockets. Someone in the village almost certainly knew who among the local girls had gone off to London. He would stop at the pub tonight and see if he could learn her name. A suspicion was forming in his mind, as dark as the clouds that now hung over his head, spitting cold rain. It seemed likely to him that the missing girl was Baby Flora’s mother, and that she had callously abandoned her infant daughter in order to free herself to go to the City.

  Angrily, he clenched his hands in his pockets. What sort of mother could so far forget her maternal instincts as to abandon her child to the tender mercies of utter strangers? Granted, the mother herself was young, and no doubt overwhelmed by the troubles that must have seemed to engulf her. But there were those who would have been glad to help, had she only turned to them instead of running away to London. The vicar for one, he and his sister for another.

  And she could not be allowed to get away with this. Child abandonment was a criminal act, the lowest, basest, most despicable deed imaginable. He would find her, by Jove, and see that she was brought to justice!

  Captain Woodcock’s passionate determination is altogether commendable and necessary in a man who is charged with maintaining law, order, and the King’s peace. I daresay that you and I would be very glad to have him on our team, if we found ourselves in a ticklish situation.

  The good captain does, however, have his blind side, although he wouldn’t own up to it. For one thing, he cannot see the terrible wrong he would do his sister if he prevented her from marrying Major Kittredge, or the pain his action would inflict on the one person he cares most for in this world. For a second, he cannot see whether he is headed in the right direction or the wrong, as far as the investigation he is conducting is concerned.

  And for a third, he cannot see that one of the Folk, amused by his rash and foolish denial of their existence, is dancing down the path beside him, tweaking at his clothing and his hair (he thinks it is the wind, yanking so), and laughing and making faces at him as he trudges along.

  To paraphrase the Bard: There are more things in heaven and earth, Captain Woodcock, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

  20

  The Hawthorn Folk

  Belief in elves and fairies, as well as in witches, wizards and the supernatural in general, remained strong in remote districts of the Lake Counties until well into the twentieth century.

  Marjorie Rowling, The Folklore of the Lake District

  Now, if you do not believe in fairies, or if you have a great many important things to think about and do not wish to clutter your brain with idle fictions, you may wish to skip this chapter. It is about the life of the Folk and whether this has much to do with the actual plot of our story is not yet clear.

  But if you believe in fairies (as did Miss Potter, from her childhood to the end of her life), or if you are willing to suspend your disbelief for the space of time it takes to read a few pages of this book, you are invited to continue reading, and good luck to you.

  As you probably guessed, it is Mrs. Overthewall who is having a good laugh at the cynical Captain Woodcock. The poor man cannot see her at all, even when she pulls at his sleeve or his hair and sings in his ear and dances along the path beside him. And since we know that Emily and Deirdre and the three young Suttons have had a conversation with the creature, and that Miss Potter caught a glimpse of her as she went over the garden wall, I think we shall have to admit a certain corporeality to her being. That is to say, she is real, at least to those who do not doubt her.

  And yet it is not surprising that, as far as the Captain Woodcocks of the world are concerned, Mrs. Overthewall and her kind do not exist. For it is an unfortunate truth that the more educated one is, and the more concerned one is with facts and laws and reputations and things one can hold and count and put in the bank, the less likely one is to be aware of elemental realities, such as the Thorn Folk, or the Beech or Oak Folk, or all the other Tree Folk at large.

  But this cannot mean that these elemental realities do not exist. Take a simple analogy—the water in Wilfin Beck, for instance, the picturesque brook that flows along the eastern border of Hill Top Farm. In the summer, it sparkles in the bright sun, chuckling happily to itself about the delicious fun it will have when it reaches the wild freedom of Lake Windermere, whilst in the winter, it turns to solid ice, cold and silent under the leafless willows. Which of us, in the summer, would deny the existence of ice? or in winter, the fact of sparkling, chuckling water?

  But that, alas, is exactly what Captain Woodcock is doing when he denies the existence of the Tree Folk. And that is why Mrs. Overthewall is laughing at his poor, pitiable foolishness, and teasing him and taunting him for his blindness. (I may as well tell you now that it is a good thing she is amused, for when she is not amused, she flies into a temper and hurls things about and—well, it is not something we should like to see!)

  To a great many people, it has seemed entirely natural that the trees—which are, after all, of such vital importance to our life and well-being—were inhabited by nature sprites, who were generally kind-hearted and well intentioned toward humans. This ancient belief reaches back many centuries, to the times when people all over the world worshipped trees; celebrated them in legend and lore; burned their wood for fuel and used it for many necessities; employed their roots, bark, and leaves for healing; and found in trees the deepest and truest mystery and magic of the natural world. For the Lakelanders who lived so companionably with Nature and understood her so well, it seemed the most natural thing in the world that the trees were inhabited by Folk. They understood it to be indisputably true in the very same way that we understand the land to be inhabited by people and animals, the lakes and streams by fish, and the air by birds.

  And just as there are all sorts of trees, there are all sorts of Tree Folk. In the Land Between the Lakes, three were most loved and respected: the Beech Folk, the Oak Folk, and the Hawthorn Folk. The beech was known as the “Magical Mother of the Woodlands,” for it nurtured and sheltered smaller trees and its leaves, nuts, and wood were used in divining; its folk were respected for their ability to see far into the future.

  The oak, the sturdiest and strongest of trees, was used for boats and bridge timbers and the rafters of houses; its Folk were regarded for their strength and r
esiliency. In fact, Miss Potter herself wrote a story about an Oak Fairy, for two little girls in New Zealand. In the story, the Oak Fairy was dismayed when her oak was cut down and sawn into timbers to build a bridge. But when she saw what a fine, brave bridge her tree had built, and how it served the people who used it, she went to live there contentedly—“and may live there through hundreds of years,” Miss Potter added, “for well-seasoned oak lasts for ever—well seasoned by trial and tears.”

  But it was the hawthorn, the symbol of fertility and new birth, that held a special place in the hearts of Lakelanders. The thorn bloomed at May-tide, when flower festivals and weddings were celebrated with the “gathering of the May,” as the thorn’s lovely white flowers were called. Thorns were planted beside the village well to protect its waters, and since a thorn could live for four hundred years, the villagers could be sure their water would be safe for a very long time. Planted beside a house, a thorn protected the dwelling from lightning. Its berries, brewed in a tea, were known to comfort and protect the heart. It was called the “bread and cheese” tree, for its leaves were thought to be as physically sustaining as a hearty meal and as spiritually sustaining as a prayer. And since the thorn presided over childbirth, a sprig was always hung over the cradle or in the byre where calves and foals were born. It was regarded as the protector of all newly born creatures, human and animal alike.

  It is no wonder, then, that the people held hawthorn trees (and their Folk-dwellers) to be sacred, and cared for them and celebrated them at particular times of the year. They understood that a very high price would be exacted from any who cut down a thorn without a very good reason and without first asking permission, both of the tree and the tree-dwelling Folk. In this scheme of things, cutting down a living tree was the equivalent of committing murder.

  But that is exactly what Major Villars had done—out of ignorance, of course, although that is certainly no excuse. When he bought Hawthorn House, there were three very old, very large hawthorns growing in front. The major decided to cut them down in order to have a wider view of the lake. Two men came in a pony cart loaded with saws and chains and bill-hooks and other instruments of destruction, and whilst the major looked on, giving orders, began their work. The Hawthorn Folk, who had been taking a nap (it was March, and still weeks away from bloom-time), were wakened by the sound of the trees sobbing and crying as the axes and saws bit into them. And then all three trees came down with a crash, and the Thorn Folk were out of a home.