The Tale of Hawthorn House

by Susan Wittig Albert

  And of course, there was tomorrow’s visit to the Warne offices in Bedford Street, which was bound to be yet another unpleasantness. Going there was like opening a raw, painful wound. Even though Norman had been dead for three years, it still seemed that he should be waiting to greet her with a smile and an affectionate word. And she felt his absence as keenly as she had his presence.

  Norman had been the youngest of the three brothers who managed the publishing company founded by their father, Frederick Warne. It had been Norman who offered to publish The Tale of Peter Rabbit (“the bunny book,” he called it with a chuckle) and had insisted that her illustrations be printed in color, despite the extra expense. It was Norman who encouraged her to think of ideas for more books, until she was writing and drawing two a year. And it was Norman who invited her to participate in the entire production process, not only writing and drawing and correcting the proofs, but helping to choose the paper, the end papers, the book bindings and cover designs—all the little details that turned each book into a miniature work of art, perfectly sized for a child’s small hands. Beatrix always felt that her success was as much Norman’s as hers, a product of his sympathetic and thoughtful guidance. She had loved him for it, and she missed him still, missed him more than she could possibly say.

  But tomorrow, she would be meeting with Harold, the older Warne brother. The two of them had not been particularly close when Norman was alive, and that had not changed. In Harold, she often felt a subtle resistance to her ideas, and he certainly did not pay as much attention to business as Norman had. Beatrix was fond of Harold’s family, and she had no intention of leaving the publishing house to which Norman had devoted himself. In fact, she had even made arrangements to bequeath her copyrights to the company in the event of her death. Still, it would be nice to feel that one’s concerns were attended to without having to raise one’s voice or stamp one’s foot, she thought. And she certainly wished that her royalty payments were more dependable.

  But the meeting at Warne’s turned out to be cordial enough. She gave Harold her final corrections to The Roly-Poly Pudding. They discussed her scheme for The Tale of the Flopsy Bunnies (a sequel to Peter Rabbit and Benjamin Bunny) and the general outline of the Ginger and Pickles tale, which she was already sketching out as a Christmas present for Harold’s little girl, Louie. They also talked about the patented Puddle-duck doll, which was being made up to see whether it could be economically manufactured without losing its charm. And before she left, Fruing, the middle Warne brother, gave her a cheque for fifty pounds and promised the same amount in October and December.

  Leaving the office with the cheque in her pocket, Beatrix was pleased. Things didn’t cost as much in the Lakes as they did in London, and the fifty pounds would take care of the waterworks she was planning, with a bit left over to add a new cow to the herd. As she stopped at a pleasant tea room for a salmon mayonnaise, a scone, and a cup of tea, she was looking forward to the afternoon, which she planned to spend with Annie Moore, her friend and former governess. She had a copy of The Tale of Jemima Puddle-Duck to share with the Moore children, and Miss Burns’ package for Mrs. Moore. When she had finished her lunch, she hailed a cab and set off for Wandsworth, where Annie lived.

  The afternoon was a delight. Annie was only three years older than Beatrix, but she had made her own way in the world before Mrs. Potter hired her as Beatrix’s governess. Two years later, Annie married Edwin Moore and started her family, which now amounted to eight children. Beatrix visited when she could, often carrying a basket with a rabbit or a pair of guinea pigs, and when the youngsters were ill or she was away on holiday, she wrote them letters, some of which she had made into books.

  Today was a special treat, for Noel was home for a visit. He was the boy for whom Beatrix had written the picture letter that later became Peter Rabbit. Stricken with polio at nine and left with a limp, he was now grown to a handsome young man who hoped to become an Anglo-Catholic priest. Four of the girls played for Beatrix—Freda on the piano, Norah the cello, Joan the viola, and Marjorie the violin— while Eric told her about his plan to become a civil engineer and travel the world, like his father. And then Beatrix took her four-year-old goddaughter Beatrix on her lap and read Jemima Puddle-Duck aloud to her and six-year-old Hilda, promising to send them a copy of the Roly-Poly Pudding when it came out in the fall. When Annie opened the package Beatrix had brought from Tidmarsh Manor, it turned out to be a set of linen napkins that Caroline had embroidered in cross-stitch—proving, Annie said with a laugh, that Miss Burns was properly educating Caroline in the art of being a lady. To which Beatrix replied tartly that she hoped fine sewing was not the only thing Caroline was learning from Miss Burns. “A little botany would be nice,” she said, “not to mention geography.”

  Altogether, it was one of the most enjoyable afternoons Beatrix had spent in a long time. When she left to go back to South Kensington, she was still smiling, remembering the young Moores’ bubbling energies and their mother’s pleasure in all their accomplishments. But there was a sadness in her, as well, for she and Annie were very nearly the same age. If things had been different, she, too, might have had children and a loving husband.

  Of course, Annie had a hard time making ends meet, and her husband (who might have been more loving and less argumentative) was often away from home, leaving her to raise the children by herself. It was not an altogether enviable situation, and Beatrix, who had always been a solitary person, did not really want to exchange places with her friend. If she had children, she wouldn’t have her books. If she had a husband, she wouldn’t have the farm. It was as simple as that.

  But she paid a price for those treasures. Annie had her brood, and Bertram his wife, and here she was, alone. She sighed. Was this how it was going to be for the rest of her life? Would her books and her farm and her animals have to make up for human companionship, for support, for love? But when she heard the self-pitying undertone in that question, she shook herself and stopped it off at once. It did not do to spend one’s energy pondering life’s imponderables. She hailed a cab to take her back over the Thames.

  A few blocks from home, she let the cab go and made one more brief call, leaving a copy of her book in Gilston Road for a little boy who was too ill to be sent away to school. The bell at St. Mary The Boltons had just chimed five when she started home, but a slow drizzle—chilly for August—was dropping a pall of mist over the streets and the afternoon was already as bleak and gray as winter twilight. Golden light spilled graciously from the windows of houses, and Beatrix could see people inside, setting out tea things or tending fires or simply sitting, reading. As she walked past St. Mary’s churchyard, she thought of families and warmth and companionship, and it was all she could do to push back the self-pity. She put up her umbrella and began walking faster.

  Now, both you and I know that every so often some incredibly bizarre things happen in this remarkable world of ours. In fact, if you are inclined to believe in the Folk (or fairies or elves or angels or any other supernatural being you fancy), it will not seem strange to you that occasionally these beings intervene in our lives, and even though we cannot see them, direct us in the way they mean us to go. And sometimes, if we are very obstinate or pig-headed or simply not paying attention, setting us on the right path takes a bit of muscle and a hard shove or two.

  However that may be, it was at just this point in our story that the Folk may (or may not) have intervened. You see, St. Mary’s is built on what had once been a farm and market garden called The Boltons, set in the midst of lush green fields. There was nothing left of this rural landscape, nothing except for three hawthorn trees, already old when the farm was young. At the very moment when Beatrix walked under those ancient hawthorn trees, she found herself, quite without thinking, turning into the churchyard and taking the path that goes through it, so that she came out on the far side of the church. (I daresay you have done such a thing once or twice in your life: You were so busy with your thoughts tha
t you did not notice where you were going, and suddenly waked to find that you had taken a wrong turn and gone quite out of your way.)

  That is what happened to Beatrix, who was surprised to find that she had not walked past the church but through the churchyard and out the opposite side. And then her glance fell on someone she knew, and she was even more astonished. This girl trudging along the sidewalk on the other side of the street, her arms filled with packages and a dark woolen shawl thrown over her head, could not possibly be—

  But she was.

  Yes, indeed, she was Emily Shaw, our Emily, whom Beatrix had last seen serving as Lady Longford’s maid at Tidmarsh Manor, the very same Emily who had abruptly left her post and gone to work at Hawthorn House, and then, as Caroline had reported, to London, where she was now employed at Miss Pennywhistle’s. The very same Emily (if Beatrix had only known it, which of course she did not) who had written a letter to her friend Deirdre, back in the village.

  Call it coincidence or fate (or the intervention of the Thorn Folk), as I said, some remarkably odd things happen in this bizarre world of ours.

  Beatrix stood for a moment, hesitating. She had lived a sheltered life, it was true, but she was an avid reader of the newspapers and no stranger to the social problems of her day. A girl who had left her village and employment in the Lakes and ventured to the city might have done so because she had made up her mind to go and see the world, and was happy to be out and about in such a lively place as London, where the streets and alleys were full of amusements and diversions. A greeting from an acquaintance might be a very welcome diversion.

  On the other hand, Emily Shaw might have come to the City because she had something to hide. If that were the case, she would not be pleased to be greeted by someone who recognized her. She might even think she was being spied upon—and Beatrix, who valued her own privacy so highly that she had for years kept her journal in a secret code, understood that motive. Perhaps she should simply walk along home and let Emily go about Emily’s private business.

  But Beatrix was by nature curious, and she truly wanted to know why Emily Shaw had come to London. Almost before she realized what she was doing, she had crossed Gilston Road, dodging a horse-drawn lorry and a motor car with an annoying horn, and was walking only a few paces behind the girl. Had Emily come to work? Had she found a position, a place to stay? Was she living with someone—a lad, perhaps? If so, she would not be the first young girl whose heart’s dream had drawn her away from hearth and home, to follow after someone who seemed to offer her everything she had ever hoped for. And she would not be the first, or the last, to discover that a heart’s journey can be a sad and weary journey, not at all as it was imagined to be.

  And then Beatrix’s curiosity was overtaken by sympathy, for as she drew closer, she saw that Emily’s dress was thin, her shoes poor, and her shawl skimpy. Worse yet, the girl had no umbrella, and the mist gleamed wetly on her shawl. And that was the very moment at which the heavens chose to open and send the rain down as if it were being poured out of a pail. (More fairy business, this?) Emily flinched, pulling her shawl up over her head in a futile effort to keep from being truly soaked. Beatrix stepped forward, holding her generous umbrella over both of them.

  “Hello, Emily,” she said. “The afternoon is very wet, I’m afraid.”

  Emily’s head jerked around and her eyes widened incredulously. “Miss . . . Miss Potter!” she stammered. “How . . . what . . .”

  “When I am not at the farm, I live just down the street and around the corner,” Beatrix said. “At Number Two Bolton Gardens, with my parents. They’re away on holiday just now, so I’m staying there by myself tonight.” She smiled in a friendly way. “Are you living in this neighborhood now?”

  “I . . . I—” Emily swallowed, and went silent. A moment after, in a low, reluctant voice, she said, “I have a place as an upstairs maid. At Miss Pennywhistle’s Select Establishment.”

  “Oh, yes. Miss Pennywhistle’s,” Beatrix said. “I know it.”

  It was a grim place, one of dozens of similar boarding establishments all over the City that accepted the daughters of Army officers and government officials who were obliged to go to India and did not want to take their children with them. French was offered in such places, and music, and the history of English kings and queens, and fine sewing and sometimes art, but not much in the way of real education. Beatrix had sometimes seen a crocodile of Miss Pennywhistle’s girls, holding hands and walking two by two down the street, under the watchful eye of their headmistress. The sight had always made her glad to be educated at home, where her governesses had generally allowed her to follow her own unconventional interests.

  Miss Pennywhistle’s could not be a very congenial place and Beatrix doubted that the “select young ladies” enrolled there were pleasant to the servants. Still, Emily had a situation, which meant that she also had a bed to sleep in and food to eat and was earning something—not much, probably, but something. And judging from the parcels in her arms, she was running an errand for her mistress.

  Knowing this, Beatrix should have gone on, but it was raining so hard that she was loath to leave poor Emily without an umbrella. Impulsively, she said, “My house is quite nearby and I was just on my way home to tea. Would you have time to stop for a cup, Emily? You needn’t stay long, of course—and I’m sure I can find an umbrella that you may take with you when you leave.”

  For a moment, Beatrix thought the girl was going to say no. And then she turned her head, looked up with tear-filled eyes, and said, so low that Beatrix could barely hear her, “Oh, yes, Miss Potter. Oh, yes, please.”

  24

  The Fox, the Duck, and the Shot in the Night

  I hope you have not forgotten the fox, even though it has been a good while since he appeared in our story. When we last saw Reynard Vulpes, he had been to dine with his friends at The Brockery. There, he had learnt Jemima’s whereabouts— inadvertently, as it happened. Young Thorn had let it slip that she was confined to the barn, where she was sitting on a nest of eggs. And the look on Bosworth’s face had told the fox (who was as clever as they come and could read other animals like a book) that the badger feared that his intentions were dishonorable.

  Were they?

  Perhaps. Or perhaps not. Who knows? Certainly not Reynard, for like many of us, who understand others better than we understand ourselves, the fox was not at all sure how he felt about Jemima. She was the duck who got away, a distasteful fact that certainly sharpened his appetite. Worse yet, she and that wretched collie—and Miss Potter, too, come to that—had made him look an utter fool. Word about the misadventure had traveled far and wide, and even farther, now that Miss Potter’s book had achieved best-sellerdom. No question about it—the surest and most satisfactory way to redeem himself would be to raid the barn, snatch Jemima out from under the collie’s nose (Miss Potter’s, too), and eat her and her eggs on the spot, leaving a pile of bloody feathers and broken shells in testimony to his superior hunting skills. Reynard had no doubt that Jemima would taste just as good as the countless other ducks he had eaten. Foxes ate ducks. What could be simpler and easier than that?

  But this particular truth, as truths often are, was complicated. The embarrassing fact of the matter was that over the course of the duck’s visits to Foxglove Close, Reynard had grown almost too fond of her—not as a duck to be sauced or stewed or sautéed and served up at table, but as a duck who appreciated his talents as a gourmet cook, a duck who would laugh at his stories, a duck with whom he might enjoy an interesting dinner-table conversation. Reynard’s solitary life was beginning to pall. He wanted company. He wanted companionship. He wanted . . . well, to be honest, he wanted Jemima.

  But this was an unconventional, unorthodox, and even unnatural thought, so the fox (much as you or I, when confronted by some inexplicable paradox within ourselves) preferred not to think it. Instead, he made his way to Hill Top Farm the next morning (that would be Wednesday), where he lurked in the bush
es and waited and watched as the animals went about their business. He saw the Herdwick sheep and their lambs, the Galloway cows and their calves, the mother pigs with their piglets, the hens with their chicks— all models of maternal domesticity. He also saw Mustard, the old yellow dog, napping in the sunshine beside the barn door, and Kep the collie patrolling the barnyard boundaries. There was no sign of Jemima, who was no doubt penned up, as Thorn had said, in the barn.

  So the fox went off to find luncheon, which he did with the help of a young and inexperienced rabbit whom he met on the bank of Wilfin Beck. Then he retired to Foxglove Close, where he drank a cup of Turkish coffee, enjoyed a pipe of his favorite tobacco, and caught up on the newspapers. He napped until the moon floated up over Cuckoo Brow Wood, at which time he took himself down to the barn, where he crept along the outside wall, sniffing until he came to a point directly behind Jemima’s secret nest.

  Ah, here she was! He stopped, closed his eyes, leaned against the wall, and inhaled deeply, smelling her scent— the fragrance of warm duck feathers, that unmistakably sweet-sour odor that spells d-u-c-k. This odor (which might have offended some delicate noses) was like attar of roses to our fox, who stood stock-still, inhaling deeply. Whether this was an emotional response or simply hunger, we are not permitted to know, but it is certainly true that he found the scent entrancing.

  But the fox did not linger long in sweet enjoyment of Jemima’s perfume, for the next moment, he heard the sound of barking. Kep the collie was rounding the corner of the barn at a gallop, shouting and snapping his teeth. Deciding that prudence was the better part of valor, Reynard took to his heels. Anyway, he now knew what he had come to find out: the whereabouts of his duck. His reconnaissance mission was a success, and he could call again when the dog was out on other business. (And yes, you are right to notice that the fox thought of the duck as “his,” although in what sense he is using the term is not entirely clear.)