The Tale of Hawthorn House

by Susan Wittig Albert

  And when the trees were gone—well, how would you feel if your house was pulled down suddenly around your ears, and when it was reduced entirely to rubble, you were left with no place to go? And not just your house, either, but your best friend! “Surely it’s cruel to cut down a very fine tree!” Miss Potter wrote in The Fairy in the Oak. “Every dull dead thud of the axe hurts the little green fairy who lives in its heart.”

  Hurts? Why, of course it hurts! Imagine having your arms chopped off, and then your legs, and then . . . well, we don’t like to imagine it, not at all, so we won’t. But the Thorn Folk not only felt the pain of their trees but had to watch them being killed and then, enraged and saddened beyond the telling of it, took refuge in several younger hawthorns at the edge of Thorny Field, where they immediately began crafting their curses. And can we blame them? Their dear, familiar trees were gone, destroyed, murdered— yes, murdered!—without so much as an apologetic “I am very sorry I must do this, but it’s all for the best, you know.”

  Now, while Tree Folk are generally beneficent, they can be spiteful and vindictive when the occasion demands. And since this occasion certainly seemed to demand retribution of some sort, the Thorn Folk rolled up their sleeves and set to work with a will. They cursed the house because they had never liked the ugly, ill-proportioned hulk. They cursed the garden, which had never grown anything worth eating, anyway. And they cursed Villars, the arch-criminal, the villain, the murderer.

  And the sad fruit of their curses gratified them. The house sat vacant and derelict after Villars was recalled to the Orient. It became the Folk’s favorite haunt, especially on moonlit nights, when they brought hammers and pot lids and willow whistles and rattles and made a great din, to discourage human habitation. Nettles and thistles and groundsel invaded the garden and (brutes that they are) elbowed out the roses and lilies. And when, some three years later, the Folk heard that Villars had been run over by a carriage in Bombay and had his leg cut off, they felt enormously gratified, as I daresay you and I might feel, if we were not such civilized and noble human beings.

  Oh, but I’ve almost forgotten the most important thing! The Folk made a vow (which is different from a curse) concerning babies. Hawthorn trees are known to protect infants, so the Folk decreed that any baby born in Hawthorn House would come under their special protection. If they didn’t like the way the child was being treated, they would fetch it and raise it as their own, or give it to a human of their choice, or even (since Folk magic can be quite powerful) turn it into something quite nice, like a baby hawthorn tree, and plant it where it would get plenty of sunshine.

  And that is why, when Mrs. Overthewall heard Baby Flora crying for several hours on end, she came and took her out of her cradle. She intended to give her to the Suttons, since they were already experienced with babies. But when that idea was rejected by the unanimous vote of the three oldest Sutton children (“No more babies!”) and by Deirdre Malone, their young nursemaid, Mrs. Overthewall agreed that Miss Potter was an excellent alternative choice. And even though she was saddened when she heard that Miss Potter could not keep the baby and had given her to Miss Woodcock, she knew she had done the right thing. Babies definitely did not belong at Hawthorn House.

  There is more to be learnt about Mrs. Overthewall and about the Thorn Folk of the Land Between the Lakes. But I expect that you are anxious to be getting on with our story. And since it is about time for Deirdre to hear from an absent friend, that is what we shall turn to next.

  21

  Deirdre Receives a Letter

  At ten every morning, rain or shine, Mrs. Sutton sent Deirdre across the village to the post office in Low Green Gate Cottage. This was an important task, as you might imagine, since Dr. Sutton was the only veterinarian in the district and sent and received a great many invoices, payments, and supplies by post. It was a pleasant chore in fine weather, and usually involved taking a small Sutton or two in the perambulator for a breath of fresh air.

  On this day, which would be Wednesday, in case you’re keeping track, the weather was as fine as it could possibly be. The Tuesday afternoon and evening rain had ended, the air was sweet, with a just-washed smell, and the houses and gardens looked as fresh and pretty as watercolor paintings under a blue sky flecked with whipped-cream clouds. There was no perambulator to push today, since the smallest Suttons had gone with their mother to visit a friend, but Libby had come along. And as the two girls swung down the hill past the Tower Bank Arms (playing Alice and the Rabbit), they were joined by Rascal (who had to become the puppy that Alice played with after she ate the cake in Rabbit’s house and grew very small).

  At the post office, Deirdre handed over the outgoing letters and waited while Mrs. Skead, the postmistress, collected the post for Courier Cottage. Libby stopped outside to see what was growing in Mr. Skead’s garden (and whether there was anything they might pretend was Alice’s mushroom), while Rascal had a brisk encounter at the door with Mrs. Skead’s calico cat, Cleo, who reminded Rascal very much of the Cheshire cat.

  “These fer Dr. Sutton,” Mrs. Skead said, handing the bundle across the counter, and then a single envelope. She sniffed. “And this’n fer thi, Deirdre. All t’ way from Lon’on, and marked ‘PRIVATE,’ as if a body ’ud snoop in t’ mail.” She frowned at Rascal. “Leave that cat be,” she said crossly, “or tha’ll get thi nose clawed proper.”

  Rascal, who had once experienced Cleo’s sharp claws, felt that discretion was the better part of valor and followed Deirdre outdoors. Besides, he wanted to know about Deirdre’s letter.

  “Look what I have,” Deirdre said, holding up the envelope so Libby could see it. “From London!”

  “From London!” Rascal barked. “Ripping!”

  “I wish someone would send me a letter,” Libby said, forgetting all about Alice and the mushroom. “Who wrote it?”

  Deirdre turned it over in her fingers. This was the very first letter she had ever received in all her life, and she had no idea who in the world might have sent it. Perhaps it was meant for someone else, and Mrs. Skead had given it to her by mistake. (Mrs. Skead had many fine qualities, but she was sometimes careless. The Suttons’ post often included letters to someone else, and the Barrows and the Llewellyns were forever returning letters that should have come to the Suttons. People had got into the habit of going through their letters before they left the post office, so the wrong ones could be handed back.)

  But there was no mistake this time. The handwriting and spelling were not of the best, but the envelope clearly bore Deirdre’s name, with “Courier Cottage” written underneath and in the lower left corner “VERY PRIVATE.” Which was probably meant to keep somebody from trying to read what was inside by holding the envelope up to the light, as Deirdre had seen Mrs. Skead doing once or twice before.

  Deirdre opened the envelope carefully, not wanting to tear it, and took out a folded piece of thin notepaper. Glancing down at the bottom, she saw that it was signed “Yrs. Friendley, Emily.”

  Deirdre shivered with pleasure. Why, the letter was from Emily! And all the way from London!

  Emily had worked as a housemaid for Lady Longford at Tidmarsh Manor, where Deirdre’s friend Caroline lived. Emily sometimes had tea with Deirdre and Caroline in Mrs. Beever’s kitchen at the manor—that is, until late last spring. One afternoon, when Caroline had been summoned to the drawing room to wind yarn for her grandmother, Emily told Deirdre that she had given in her notice. Glancing over her shoulder to make sure that Mrs. Beever wasn’t listening, she whispered excitedly that she had a new place, at Hawthorn House.

  “Hawthorn House!” Deirdre had exclaimed, shocked. “But it’s been empty for years. And it’s haunted!”

  Emily shook her head pityingly, as if Deirdre had said something childish. “Haunted? Don’t be silly.” And then she had glanced at Mrs. Beever, who was beating eggs at the opposite end of the kitchen, to make sure she couldn’t hear. “Promise not to tell,” she had whispered. “The lady I’m to work f
or insists on bein’ private.”

  Of course Deirdre had promised. In fact, the confidence had made her feel very proud, for Emily was already sixteen and quite grown up, as anybody could easily see. She had been a chubby girl, but she now possessed the curvaceous figure of a woman, and a pretty woman, at that. One afternoon in early spring, she had whispered to Deirdre and Caroline about a certain gypsy lad who loved her passionately and begged her to go off with him, which she might have done, if Mr. Beever had not chased him away.

  “Oh, how sad!” Caroline cried and clasped her hands. Deirdre, though, was not so sure. She felt that sometimes Emily made things up, although she didn’t hold it against her. Romantic fancies could be much more satisfactory than the bleaker realities of everyday life.

  “Aye, truly,” Emily said with a sorrowing look. “He was ever so fine and handsome. And he loved me ever so much.”

  When Mrs. Beever heard them whispering, she said that Emily should stop prattling and take the linens upstairs, for there would be plenty of time for lads when she had a wiser head on her shoulders and knew better than to trust a gypsy.

  Still, Deirdre thought that Emily’s head was quite wise enough, and felt closer to her than she did to Caroline, who was more nearly her age but seemed younger. Deirdre and Caroline had been friends when they both attended the village school, but Caroline would be a lady when she grew up and could do exactly as she pleased all day long. Deirdre and Emily, on the other hand, would never be ladies. They would have to work to get their livings, and doing what they pleased would have to wait on the half-holidays that they got only every now and then. Deirdre felt as if she had found a friend in Emily, and would’ve liked to hear more about the handsome gypsy lad, and how Emily felt after Mr. Beever chased him away.

  So since Hawthorn House was not far away and Deirdre had always wanted to go inside (she had never before been in a haunted house), she had stopped in to visit one Saturday afternoon shortly after Emily began working there. She knocked with some trepidation, because the garden was so overgrown and the place so very dilapidated.

  At first, Emily hadn’t seemed all that glad to see her. She wasn’t supposed to have callers, she said. But after a few minutes she relented and took Deirdre around the house, and then they went to the kitchen for a cup of tea and some biscuits.

  The inside of Hawthorn House was something of a disappointment. It was not what Deirdre had imagined, which was something like Miss Havisham’s house in Great Expectations, full of spiders and cobwebs and stopped clocks and decaying furniture covered with dust sheets, like ungainly ghosts. The house was certainly large and old but clean enough, and there seemed to be no cobwebs or stopped clocks, although massive, old-fashioned furniture crowded the rooms, with shabby draperies at the windows and worn rugs on the floors. Emily explained that her employer had taken the place as a holiday house on a temporary let and was not at all troubled by the unattractive furnishings or the derelict garden. And before Deirdre left, she had reminded her that she and Lady Longford were the only ones who knew where she was, and cautioned her not to tell.

  “Your mother doesn’t know?” Deirdre asked, surprised.

  “Mum’s dead,” Emily replied shortly. “Dad, too. And my sister’s gone to Carlisle. T’ only fam’ly I have is my aunt, Mrs. Crook, and I stay away from her. She carries tales.”

  Since this was a fair description of Mrs. Crook, Deirdre understood. “And the gypsy lad?” she prompted eagerly, thinking of Emily’s love and loss. “What have you heard from him?”

  Emily made a short, dismissive gesture, which gave Deirdre to know that she was not to mention this again. “Remember now,” Emily said, frowning, “not a word of where I am.”

  “I’ll remember,” Deirdre had promised, and then, impulsively, had hugged Emily. “Orphans have to look out for one another,” she said, feeling very grown up indeed. She had hoped to get to Hawthorn House to see Emily again, but had not been able to—and here was a letter from her, from London, of all places!

  “Well?” Libby demanded anxiously, standing first on one foot and then on the other. “What does it say, Deirdre?”

  “Yes!” Rascal barked, jumping up on his hind legs. “Read it, Deirdre. Read it!”

  Deirdre shook her head. “The envelope says ‘VERY PRIVATE, ’ which means that nobody can read it but me.”

  “But at least tell me who it’s from,” Libby begged. “That’s not private, is it?”

  “It’s from a friend,” Deirdre said abstractedly, already halfway into the letter and shaking her head a little at Emily’s spelling.

  Dear Dierder,

  I take pen in hand to inform you that I hav come up to London, where I am starting a new life in my employer’s employ. It will be a good life, I am shure, once I get used to it. But I am sore trubbled by something that happened at Hawthorn House before

  I came away, and you are the only person I trust to tell. I want you to know it was not my falt that Baby Flora was took. If any evil is said about me in the village, please let them know I have always tryed to be good. Mistakes were made, but I’m not a bad person.

  Yrs. Friendley,

  Emily

  P.S. Tell them don’t bother to look, as they will not fine me.

  Deirdre’s eyes widened and she hurriedly read through the letter a second time. Baby Flora? Why, that was the name of the baby that the old lady had offered to them—to her and the three older Suttons—on fête day, and that had afterward been left on the Hill Top doorstep!

  Deirdre had learnt Flora’s name just the previous afternoon. She had been in the Sutton kitchen when Elsa Grape dropped in to gossip with Mrs. Pettigrew, the Suttons’ cook. Mrs. Grape had told Mrs. Pettigrew that Miss Potter had brought the baby to Miss Woodcock, and that much to everyone’s surprise, a valuable ring had been discovered in the basket, and a note saying that the baby was called Flora. Baby Flora had dark hair and dark eyes and was the picture (Mrs. Grape said this several times, making a great point of it), the very picture of Major Kittredge of Raven Hall, although she was sure that a gypsy was involved in the business somehow.

  Deirdre did not quite understand what that was supposed to mean. But Mrs. Pettigrew obviously understood, for she shook her head darkly and muttered that those to the manor born always thought the world was made for their enjoyment, which they took where and however they liked, regardless of the right or wrong of it.

  And then Elsa Grape said that Captain Woodcock was making every effort like the kind-hearted gentleman he was (she stressed the word “gentleman”) to get to the bottom of the affair. But he hadn’t had any luck, for the gypsies wouldn’t own up and he couldn’t find anybody who would admit to knowing who the poor lorn bairn was or who her mother and father were or where she came from or how she got to Miss Potter’s doorstep.

  But now, as Deirdre read and reread Emily’s letter, it seemed clear that Baby Flora must have come from Hawthorn House, and that her friend knew something about it. She pulled in her breath, a sudden, painful question echoing sharply in her mind. Was Flora . . . could she possibly be . . . was she Emily’s baby?

  Deirdre’s first reaction was to scoff at the idea as ridiculous. Emily wasn’t that sort of girl. A bit flighty, perhaps, and not always very prompt when it came to following Lady Longford’s instructions. But she went to church every Sunday morning and—

  Deirdre caught her lower lip between her teeth. How did she know what sort of girl Emily was—really? She only knew her from their snatches of teatime conversations in Mrs. Beever’s kitchen, and from what Emily said about herself. And as for going to church, why, all of Lady Longford’s servants were required to go every Sunday morning, like it or not. As Deirdre knew from her own personal experience, sitting in the Sunday pew didn’t mean that you were perfect, or that you didn’t sometimes do things you were very sorry for afterward.

  And like most girls who grew up in the country, Deirdre had never been shielded from the facts of life. Living with a veterinari
an’s family that produced a baby almost every year, she had gained a rather more detailed understanding of what was involved with bringing babies into the world than might be expected of a girl her age.

  Catching her lower lip between her teeth, Deirdre thought back rapidly over what she remembered: Emily whispering excitedly about the gypsy lad who had loved her ever so much, Emily abruptly leaving Tidmarsh Manor, Emily working and living in seclusion at Hawthorn House. Much as she didn’t like the thought, it was possible, she had to admit.

  Deirdre read the last sentence of the letter again— Mistakes were made, but I’m not a bad person—and shook her head. Maybe Emily didn’t like to think of herself as a bad person, but you were judged in this world by your deeds, not what you said. The villagers, when they learnt about this (as of course they would, since this sort of gossip flies like thunder through a village, being heard in every quarter at the very same instant) would be very quick to judge.

  And Deirdre herself had some very strong views on the subject. It was her firm opinion that no loving mother would give up her baby under any circumstances, no matter how badly she wanted to go to London and start a new life. She would stay right here and do whatever was needed to give her child a good home. She would raise and love it, no matter what people said. Deirdre pressed her lips together, feeling the hot anger well up inside her. How dare Emily do this! It wasn’t right!