The Tale of Hawthorn House

by Susan Wittig Albert

  Of course, one creature’s odiferous stench is another creature’s perfume, so we should not be surprised that while Kep had found Reynard’s scent “filthy,” the duck had quite a different reaction. She had been dozing and dreaming on her nest, as she did much of the time (hatching is a boring business, after all, especially if it is too dark to read and you are not allowed a candle). In her dream, she was back at Foxglove Close with her dear friend, the sporting gentleman. He was offering her a whole plateful of the most exquisite Turkish Delight, and when she had eaten it, he escorted her to her own private boudoir, which was furnished with soft pillows spread with paisley shawls.

  But now she is wide awake, no longer dreaming, and suddenly aware of the scent of . . . was it? Can it be? Yes, she is sure of it! The heady odor that hangs around her like a delicious fog is the favorite cologne of Mr. Vulpes, her very own sandy-whiskered sporting gentleman!

  Now, Jemima knew very well that it would be smart to forget the fox, but his gracious charm, his delightful wit, his generous warmth all lingered in the duck’s romantic heart. And even though Kep had made it brutally clear who Mr. Vulpes was and what he had wanted of her, none of the collie’s warnings or admonitions made any difference. The truth—the irrefutable, indisputable truth (which she should have been ashamed to admit, but was not)—was this: that she cared for Mr. Vulpes. She yearned to leave her nest and these stupid eggs and run away with him. And why else would he have come, if it were not to fetch her?

  Who knows what foolishness this simpleton duck might have got up to that night if it had not been for Kep the courageous? His barking awakened old Mustard, who had been sleeping just inside the barn, and both dogs were chasing the fox around the garden, howling and baying and making a furious noise. Mustard could not see very well in the dark, however, and blundered into the cucumber frame, adding the smash of breaking glass to the general clamor.

  All this fracas woke Winston the pony, who began to mutter imprecations against rude fellows who stayed up all night, romping and roistering about the garden while respectable working animals were trying to get their sleep.

  On the rafter over Winston’s head, Chanticleer the rooster also awoke. Thinking that he had somehow slept through the dawn, he raised his voice and announced with authority that the day had begun. (Why he thought this, I don’t know, since it was still pitch-black outside, but there’s a rooster for you.) Mrs. Boots and Mrs. Shawl, who knew exactly what time it was and that it was not time to get up, began to cackle with loud vexation, telling Chanticleer exactly what they thought of inconsiderate roosters.

  Upstairs at the Jenningses’ end of the Hill Top farmhouse, the barking dogs and crowing rooster and cackling hens awakened Baby Pearl, the youngest Jennings, who began to scream at the top of her baby lungs. Mrs. Jennings, in her hurry to comfort her daughter, knocked over the bedroom washstand, breaking the china pitcher and basin into smithereens.

  At nearby Tower Bank Arms (which is very close to the Hill Top farmhouse, as you know if you have ever been to the village), the windows were open on this warm August night, and the Barrows (father and mother and two small Barrows) were asleep upstairs. Mrs. Barrow heard the barking, the crowing and cackling, the crashing of glass and china, and thought that a thief must have broken into the pub through the scullery window. She roused Mr. Barrow, who got up and fetched his bird-hunting gun from the closet whilst she ran to fling herself over the bodies of her children, to protect them from their horrible fate.

  Now, Mr. Barrow is a crack shot, and no one brings home more red grouse or pheasants in season than he. He has even won prizes for his shooting at the Hawkshead sporting competition held each year in April, so it must not be said that he is unskilled with his gun. But having never confronted a burglar before, he was understandably nervous (as I daresay you or I would be, in the circumstance). He tripped over his pyjama leg and fell flat on his face. His shotgun discharged, the thunderous blast blowing the glass out of the pub’s front door and frightening Tabitha Twitchit and Crumpet, who were innocently hunting voles under the rosebushes in the Buckle Yeat garden next door, and startling the clan of bats who lived in the Buckle Yeat roof. The cats, thinking that Mr. Barrow was firing at them, cried out in alarmed protest and climbed up the beech tree. Mrs. Barrow, thinking that the burglar had killed her husband and that she and her children were next to be slaughtered, added her voice.

  And since this is a village and each house is cheek-to-jowl with its neighbor, the alarm was instantaneous. Up Market Street at Croft End Cottage, Constable Braithwaite was startled out of a pleasant dream (we shall not report its subject) by the shattering roar of Mr. Barrow’s shotgun, followed by the ear-splitting shrieks of female and feline voices. Fearing the worst, the valiant constable sprang out of bed, pulled his trousers on under his red flannel nightshirt, and ran at top speed down Market Street to the pub, brandishing his truncheon and shouting “Stop, thief!” loudly enough to frighten off the most foolhardy of villains and waken the soundest of village sleepers—which of course he did. The thief (that is, the fox, who had come calling on Jemima) was nowhere to be seen, but all along Market Street, people were waking up, jumping out of bed, and hurrying to their windows to find out who had been shooting and who had been shot.

  And when at last the constable returned up the street to Croft End, he had to answer the questions everyone shouted at him out their windows, until the village was finally satisfied that there was no danger. No one had been injured, and the only serious casualties seemed to be a cucumber frame, two pieces of Hill Top china, and the front door of the pub. Still, it was a full half hour before Market Street had gone back to its slumbers and Mr. Barrow had persuaded Mrs. Barrow that she and the two little Barrows would not be murdered in their beds.

  When the hurly-burly began—and especially when she heard the roar of Mr. Barrow’s shotgun—Jemima had been very frightened for the fox’s safety. But as the cacophony abated and Kep’s barking and Mustard’s baying sounded fainter and farther away, she knew with relief that Mr. Vulpes was safe. He was very fast, he knew the lay of the land better than any dog, and there were any number of dens where he could find refuge. Mustard would never even see his back, and not even Kep was fast enough to catch him.

  Winston went to sleep, Chanticleer settled back on his rafter, the hens stopped clucking, and there was silence at last. Jemima heaved a heavy sigh. If she were allowed to choose, she would leave off this tedious undertaking and follow her friend. But she could feel the new life stirring beneath her. Soon there would be ducklings. She would be a mother, and she could not, must not, would not abandon her babies in pursuit of her own pleasures.

  But after what had happened tonight, Jemima was now beginning to think outside of her nest. She would not be a mother forever, for it was in the nature of ducklings to grow up and leave her with an empty nest. Once her babies were hatched, it would be only a matter of hours before they were running about the barnyard. In only a few short weeks they would be completely on their own, ready to join the rest of the Puddle-duck flock. Oh, they would come back to her now and then to show off a new accomplishment, or to consult about a particular social problem, or just to tell her they loved her. But basically, they would be their own ducks, with their hopes and their own dreams, and she would be free to have a life of her own, at last. At last!

  Jemima took a deep breath, stretched her wings, and resettledherself on the nest. She would prove to Kep and the Puddle-ducks, and especially to Miss Potter, that she could be a good mother, even though it meant denying herself, momentarily, at least.

  But as soon as her obligation to her ducklings was satisfied, she would be responsible to no one but herself. She could fulfill what she now admitted was her heart’s dearest wish: to be with her own dear sporting gentleman, the one in green tweeds, with beautiful sandy whiskers.

  25

  Captain Woodcock Learns the Latest

  The shotgun blast in the night was not the only thing the villag
e had to discuss on Thursday morning, and by Thursday noon, all the various bits and pieces of gossip had been neatly sorted and conclusions reached, proving once again that there is nothing like a village for managing everyone’s affairs.

  There was both bad news and good news, certainties and uncertainties, and something for everyone.

  The bad news was that Miss Woodcock was to marry Major Kittredge and adopt Flora, the foundling infant. There was great dismay over this, because it was widely felt that the major’s reputation was forever tarnished by his decision to marry that London actress, and that poor Miss Woodcock, who was widely acknowledged to be the nearest thing to a saint most people had ever met, would be tarred by the same wicked brush. In the general opinion, this marriage was a monumental mistake.

  The good news was that Captain Woodcock was to marry Miss Potter. Cheers were heard when this got abroad, although not perhaps for the reason one might think: that everyone wished the couple well and desired their marital happiness. Instead, it was generally believed that the reins of Hill Top Farm belonged in a man’s hands, not a woman’s—and what more capable hands than those of Captain Woodcock?

  It was also felt to be good news that Elsa Grape (a proud person who would never in the world allow herself to be managed by Miss Potter, when Miss Potter became Mrs. Woodcock) was going to work at the vicarage, where the vicar had been in serious want of managing for some time, witness the hems of his trousers and the elbows of his sweaters and the sad want of sweets at the vicarage tea.

  But far as the ancestry of the foundling infant was concerned, the village was still in doubt. Some said (darkly, with a frown) that the mother was a gypsy and the father was the major, and Miss Woodcock ought to have a care how she threw her life away on a man who didn’t deserve it. Others suspected that the mother and father were both gypsies, and that Miss Woodcock ought to have a care about taking in a gypsy child, since it was bound to bring her nothing but grief. None were quite certain how the gypsy (or half-gypsy) child got to Miss Potter’s doorstep: some blamed the gypsies themselves, while a few of the older folk insisted that the Folk surely had a hand in it. But whilst there was a great deal of uncertainty about Flora’s ancestry, the village had a very firm opinion as to her future. Gypsy children did not belong in the village. She should be sent to the parish workhouse, to grow up with the other foundling children.

  Captain Miles Woodcock, who never paid the slightest attention to village gossip, was quite unaware that his marital destiny, and that of his sister Dimity, had been decided. He was, however, anxious to confirm what he had learnt from Hawker in the garden at Hawthorn House, and find out whether anyone in the village knew which of the local girls had just gone off to London. In his own mind, he was calling this problem “The Case of the Missing Mother,” and felt he had resolved it quite nicely. Baby Flora was the daughter of a servant girl who had given birth to her at Hawthorn House and had then run off to London, leaving the infant behind. All he had left to find out was her name.

  The captain had intended to look further into the matter on Tuesday evening but was prevented by an unexpected bit of business that took him off to Manchester. So it was Thursday night before he could drop in at the Tower Bank to see what he could learn. The pub—the front door of which had been recently and hastily repaired—smelt of fried fish, strong malt ale, and tobacco smoke. Men crowded around the bar, around the backgammon table, and around the dart board, and every so often a cheer would go up. The evening was off to a rousing start.

  “Hullo, Cap’n,” said Lester Barrow cordially, swiping the bar with his cloth. Lester was a hefty man whose red plaid waistcoat barely buttoned about his middle. “Good evenin’ to ye, sir.”

  Miles sat on a stool and put his elbow on the bar. “What happened to your front door?”

  Lester Barrow ducked his head. “Bit of an accident with a shotgun,” he muttered. “Had a prowler last night.”

  “A prowler?” the captain asked, frowning. As the King’s justice, he felt he should be aware of any breach of the peace—although of course he had been away from home the previous night and had thus missed out on the general melee.

  “Well, not to say a prowler exactly, sir,” said Lester Barrow, reddening. “T’ missus thought it was a prowler, only t’ constable reckoned it to’ve been a fox or t’ like, up at Hill Top. T’ dogs went through a cucumber frame, and the Jenningses’ washbasin got tipped, and t’ missus thought it was t’ scullery window bein’ broke.”

  “Ah,” Miles said, only rather dimly understanding. “Well, then. I’ll have a half-pint, if you please.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. The villagers were terrible gossips, the men as much as the women, and he wasn’t anxious to call attention to his investigation. “And some information.”

  “If I’ve got it,” Lester said, pouring the ale and sliding the glass across the polished surface. He raised his own glass in salute. “Congratulations, sir,” he added with a sly smile. “We’re all for it.”

  “Thank you,” Miles said, wondering vaguely why he was being congratulated. “P’rhaps you might know a housemaid who went up to London a short time ago, in Puckett’s cart. I mean,” he corrected himself, “that she took the cart to the ferry. I assume that she went by train to London.”

  “Puckett’s cart, eh?” Mr. Barrow raised his voice over the din of voices. “Auld Puckett! Hey, Puckett! Get thisel’ over here, man. T’ cap’n wants a word.”

  Miles winced, not wanting his request made so publicly. But a wizened old man dressed in brown sacking was turning away from the darts board, squinting through the tobacco smoke. It was Puckett, who had previously worked in the charcoal pits but resorted to driving his cart for hire when he fell off his roof and broke his leg.

  “A word?” Puckett piped, in a high, thin voice. “T’ cap’n’s not goin’ to arrest me, is he?”

  This question provoked raucous laughter among the darts players, who seemed to find the idea exceptionally funny. They elbowed each other, guffawing. “T’ cap’n aims to make thi license that auld cart, Puckett,” one said. Another added, “Puckett’s goin’ to be fined for carryin’ contraband hither ’n’ yon, like t’ auld smuggler he is.”

  “He wants to ask somethin’ verra important, Puckett,” bellowed Mr. Barrow over the clamor. “Git thisel’ over ’ere, old man.”

  At the word “important,” a hush fell over the crowd, and curious heads turned in Miles’ direction. So much for carrying out his investigation in private, he thought ruefully. He motioned to Lester Barrow to refill the old man’s half-pint, and said, in a low voice, “I understand that you conveyed a certain serving maid down to the ferry one morning recently. Going up to London, she was—or so I’m told.”

  Old Puckett drained his mug thirstily, put it on the bar, and wiped his gray mustache with the back of his gnarled hand. “Aye,” he allowed. “That I did, sir.” He scowled. “Bad bus’ness, her goin’ to Lon’on. Told her so, I did. Said, ‘Girls got no business in t’ City.’ But her didn’t listen.” He shook his head sadly. “Females nivver listen to me. Fer as they’re concerned, I’m jes’ an auld man laid up wi’ a gammy leg.’ ”

  “Who was she?” Miles asked. “What’s her name?”

  “Name?” The old man lifted his brown cap, scratched his head, and glanced craftily at his empty mug. “Name? Well, now, I—”

  Miles sighed, resigned. “Another half-pint,” he said to Lester Barrow. When it was brought, he picked up the mug before Puckett could grasp it, holding it just out of the old man’s reach.

  “Her name,” he said firmly.

  “Ah,” said Puckett. He pursed his lips, frowning. “Well, then. If I remember a-reet, her name was Em’ly.” He put out his hand for the mug. “Em’ly,” he said again, louder.

  Miles moved the mug away. “Emily who?”

  The old man frowned. “I doan’t know, now, do I?” he said crossly. “Who keeps a tally of t’ village girls?” He pushed his thin lips in and out, regarding
the glass. “Must’ve come from Hawthorn House, though. ’Twas Hawker who carried her bag to t’ road and put it on t’ cart.”

  Well, thought Miles, at least they were speaking of the same girl.

  “Em’ly from Hawthorn House?” asked a deferential voice at Miles’ left elbow. “That ’ud be her ladyship’s Em’ly, I do b’lieve, sir. Em’ly Shaw.” The speaker was another man, not so old and stooped as Puckett, with the tanned face and hands of one who worked out of doors. Miles knew him by sight: Matthew Beever, gardener and coachman at Tidmarsh Manor.

  “Emily Shaw, you say?” Miles asked in surprise. He’d had a brief acquaintance with the girl in the previous year, when she testified as a witness in the trial of a woman who had made an attempt on Lady Longford’s life. A pretty girl, and intelligent, if flighty. But all girls her age were flighty, he supposed.

  “Aye, Em’ly Shaw,” said Matthew Beever. He shook his head. “Naughty, her was,” he said darkly. “Verra naughty. Carryin’ on wi’ that gypsy lad. Girls nivver come to no good, goin’ on that way.”

  At last they were getting someplace, Miles thought with satisfaction. “Tell me,” he invited.

  Pressing his lips together, Beever glanced at old Puckett’s glass and then up at Miles. Miles signaled to Lester Barrow. Thus fortified, the gardener spilled the story.

  Emily Shaw, while she was still in Lady Longford’s employ, had been seen walking out with a lad from the gypsy camp. One of the other servants had reported this, which had led Beever to keep a close watch. When he found them talking together late one evening behind the barn, he had summarily banished the boy and had forbidden Emily to see him again.