Dimity looked up at him, her eyes shining. “Of course I do, Christopher,” she replied. “I’m not going to change my mind.” She turned to look directly at her brother. “I don’t care a fig what the villagers are saying, Miles. And while I love you and will be forever grateful to you for giving me a home, I don’t care a fig what you say, either.”
“Dimity!” the captain exclaimed, astonished. “You can’t mean that!”
Dimity looked down, biting her lip. “No, I don’t suppose I do, not really. What you think matters very much to me, Miles. I—”
“There you are, then!” said the captain triumphantly. “You’ve been a dear sister, Dimity, and we’ve always got on quite well. You’ve always done what I wanted, haven’t you? What I suggested,” he amended in a different tone, as if “wanted” might have been a bit too direct.
“I’ve always done what you’ve wanted, because it’s been something I wanted, too,” Dimity replied. “We have never disagreed.” She hesitated. “Except about little things, of course, like the rose-and-ivy wallpaper in the front hall, and whether to hire a new gardener or carry on with Fred Phinn until he can’t pull weeds any longer.”
Christopher’s heart sank. Was she saying—
Dimity reached for Christopher’s hand. “This is different, Miles. You and the village may say whatever you like, but Christopher and I mean to marry. We have not yet discussed a date, but I hope it will be within the next few months.”
The next few months? Christopher felt his heart leap up within him again, and it was all he could do to keep from shouting with joy. The next few months! The best he might have hoped for—if he dared to hope at all—was a year, perhaps even two. But a few months! By thunder, there were things to do! A wedding to be planned, a honeymoon to be arranged, changes to be made at Raven Hall—
“I cannot believe you would act against my wishes,” the captain said sourly, shoving his hands into his pockets.
“It is very hard, Miles,” Dimity confessed in a low voice. “I wasn’t sure that I could do it. But when Beatrix asked me to imagine living my life with Christopher and then imagine my life without him, I knew what I had to do.”
The captain looked up sharply. “You discussed this . . . this private matter with someone outside the family?” His eyes grew dark. “With Miss Potter?”
Christopher was taken aback. He knew who Miss Potter was, of course. She was the sharp-eyed, sharp-witted lady who had unraveled the mystery of the woman he had thought was his wife. Now, it seemed, he was even deeper in her debt, if it had been her counsel that led Dimity to agree to marry him.
“Why, yes, of course I discussed it with her,” Dimity replied defiantly. “And I’m glad I did, for she could advise me out of her own personal experience. Her parents forbade her to marry because they felt the man she had chosen was not worthy. She didn’t want me to go through my whole life regretting that I had not stood up for myself.” She slid a glance at Christopher. “For us,” she said firmly, and Christopher felt his heart warm.
“Us” was a beautiful word, he thought happily. Perhaps the most beautiful word in the language. Such a small word, but so full of meaning, so rich with significance, so—
“But that is the very reason why you must not be swayed by her advice!” the captain exclaimed heatedly. “She can scarcely be objective.” He appears to have forgotten (although I am sure that you have not) that just thirty minutes ago he had been thinking with pleasure of Miss Potter’s great good sense, with the thought of marrying the lady. Now, perhaps, he is reconsidering.
“Nevertheless,” Dimity replied, “she was helpful. If it had not been for her—” She stopped. “I am sure that you don’t mean to be patronizing, Miles. I know that you have a deep respect for Miss Potter—and for me. I know how much you love me, and how much you want to make me happy.”
The captain blinked. If we were to open his head and peer inside, we would no doubt find it rather like a laundry tub full of a confused welter of swirling thoughts swishing this way and that, but dominated by a stunned incredulity. How could it be that his docile, always-agreeable sister was acting contrary to his wishes? From their earliest years together until the present day, he could remember no time when she had not been deferential, when she had not followed his lead, when she had refused to do what he wanted. This—this refusal was something straight out of one of Ibsen’s dramas, out of A Doll’s House. What had got into her? Had Miss Potter somehow infected her with a modern view of feminism and female rights?
With a start, he heard Dimity say, in a voice he hardly recognized, “Now that the matter of our marriage is settled, Christopher and I should like to have some time alone. We have things to discuss.”
Miles swallowed. He hated to capitulate. He hated the thought that the village would know that Kittredge had bested him. And most of all, he hated the thought of his sister marrying the man. But he had to face the fact that he had no real authority over her. And even if he had, even if she agreed to do what he said, she might hate him forever.
He took a deep breath and put out his hand to the major. “I suppose this calls for congratulations, then,” he said stiffly. He narrowed his eyes. “You will be good to her, Kittredge. If you’re not, I shall drag you out and thrash you within an inch of your life.”
“I will be good to her, Woodcock,” Christopher said. “If ever I fail in this resolve, I give her leave to come straight to you and tell you so.” Thus, locking eyes, the two men shook hands.
Dimity kissed her brother on the cheek. “Thank you, Miles,” she whispered. “You have made me very, very happy.”
“Well, then,” the captain said, assuming a heartiness he did not feel. “Before I go off and leave you two alone, we should drink a toast. Dimity will have her usual sherry, I suppose. Whiskey for you, Kittredge?”
Christopher looked down at Dimity. “I’ll join Dimity in a sherry, I think.”
Dimity lifted her chin. “I believe I should like a whiskey,” she said.
27
Miss Potter Takes Charge
When we took leave of Miss Potter, she had just met Emily Shaw on the street and invited her to stop in out of the rain for a cup of tea. Number Two Bolton Gardens was only a few blocks away. Since the servants were gone, Beatrix took her shivering guest to the kitchen, which was nicely warmed by the fire in the range. She put Emily in the warmest chair, hung up her wet shawl to dry, brewed tea, and set out bread-and-butter and cheese, along with some tea-cakes she had bought for herself.
The girl was rather pretty, Beatrix thought, now that her cheeks were turning a brighter color. Her fair hair fell forward over a serious face, and her gaze was thoughtful. She was not much like the flibbertigibbet Lady Longford accused her of being—although perhaps her recent experiences, whatever they were, had brought her a new maturity.
Emily ate as if she had not eaten well for the past few days, and after a few minutes Beatrix got up to renew the supply of bread and cheese. When she sat back down, Emily said, with a nervous laugh, “I suppose tha’rt curious to know what I’m doin’ here in London, miss.”
Beatrix busied herself by slicing the cheese—a mild yellow cheese that she had brought from the farm. “I am, rather,” she admitted candidly. “I’m a curious person by nature, and I love stories.” She didn’t look up. “You don’t have to tell me, Emily. But if you do, I should rather hear the truth.”
The silence went on so long that Beatrix decided either she had offended Emily or that Emily had nothing to tell. The fire crackled pleasantly, and in the upstairs hallway, the tall clock wheezed and began to strike the hour: four hollow bongs, solemn and dignified, fading into silence.
As if this were a signal, Emily raised her head and listened until the clock had finished striking. Then, in a torrential spill of words in which facts and feelings were so confused and incoherent and tangled up with one another that Beatrix could scarcely make it all out, she related what had happened, first at Hawthorn House and the
n at Miss Pennywhistle’s. And as she spoke, she began to cry, her sobs making it all the harder to understand her.
Beatrix listened, at first with surprise and then with a growing wonderment as she tried to fit the pieces of this puzzling, perplexing story together. The more she understood, the more astonished she became, until she was almost dumbfounded by the series of adventures and misadventures that Emily was relating. How had these things happened? How could a tiny baby be treated with such disregard? How could a mother give birth and then simply go on with her life as though nothing had happened? These and other questions tumbled through her mind as she listened, until at last Emily seemed to have got to the end of her tale.
“And now I’m not sure what to do,” Emily concluded miserably, wiping the tears from her eyes with her sleeve. “I’ve made so many mistakes, I don’t know where to start makin’ amends. There’s t’ babe, o’ course, but what can I do about her now? I don’t want to stay on at Miss Pennywhistle’s, because t’ girls are so cruel and t’ work’s so hard. But if I leave, Miss Pennywhistle won’t give me a character, and without a character I can’t get another place.” She gulped back a sob. “And I can’t go back to t’ village, ’cause o’ what people will say.”
“I see,” Beatrix said quietly. There were so many questions still to be asked about the baby, but she doubted that Emily had the answers. In fact, there were several things that Emily could not know, since they had happened after the baby left her care. She didn’t know, for instance, that Miss Woodcock now had custody of the baby, or that the blue hand-woven cover had been traced to the midwife, Mrs. Graham, who could now be questioned about the baby’s birth.
And Beatrix herself didn’t know (for Captain Woodcock had not yet had the opportunity of telling her) what you and I know: that the signet ring found in the baby’s basket had been traced to Hawthorn House, and that the captain had already learnt of Emily’s interrupted friendship with the gypsy lad.
Emily looked around the kitchen, taking in the shining pots and pans hanging from the rack, the gleaming range and scrubbed pine work table, the dresser full of china. She turned to Beatrix, a question in her eyes. “Dusta think I could get a place here, miss? Wudsta be willin’ to speak for me?”
“I suppose I could, yes,” Beatrix said slowly. As it happened, the upstairs maid had given notice the day before her parents left on holiday. When the family was once again at Bolton Gardens, a search would have to be made for her replacement. Hiring the servants was Beatrix’s job and was not something she looked forward to with great enthusiasm. If Emily was willing to take the post, Beatrix might be willing to hire her—as long as the present perplexities could be resolved. “Would you like to work here?”
Emily pondered this for a moment. “Yes,” she said slowly. “London isn’t t’ place I thought it ’ud be. I’d rather go back to t’ village, but I doan’t have a place there. And I’m sure people are sayin’ bad things about me. I’d be very grateful to work for you, miss,” she said humbly. “If it was possible.”
Beatrix saw the opportunity Emily had presented her. “Be that as it may,” she said sternly, “you must appreciate that we cannot consider your employment until these other matters have been resolved. For that, you shall have to return to Miss Pennywhistle’s. And to the village. Not to stay, necessarily. But to straighten things out.”
Emily turned pale. “Must I, miss?” she whispered. She looked down at her hands, twisted in her lap. “I was hopin’ that perhaps I wouldn’t have to—”
“Indeed you must,” Beatrix said firmly. “None of us can go forward until we have faced up to the past.” Then, relenting a little, she added, in a softer tone, “I will come with you, if you like.”
Emily nodded. “Yes, miss, please. Oh, please.” She closed her eyes, the tears trickling down her cheeks, and murmured brokenly, “What would’ve become of me if you hadn’t seen me walkin’ down the street and took charge?”
“You mustn’t hope for too much,” Beatrix cautioned. “Things may not turn out happily, you know. A serious crime has been committed, Emily. The law must come into it, I am afraid.”
Emily was sobbing again, her shoulders shaking. “I’ve made such a horrible muddle of things, Miss Potter. I promise to do better. I really do!”
Beatrix thought fleetingly of the impertinent bunnies, who were always getting into trouble and promising to do better, without much effect. “I fear that we all make that promise from time to time, my dear.” She gave Emily a steady look in which rebuke was mixed with sympathy. “It’s a pity we can’t keep it.”
And with that, Beatrix fetched her umbrella, and she and Emily, once more burdened with her parcels, set out through the chilly rain.
None of the select young ladies were in evidence when Beatrix and Emily arrived at Number Three Lime Tree Place. To the maid who opened the door, she said, very firmly, “Miss Potter and Miss Shaw to see Miss Keller. Privately, please.”
They were allowed inside, and within three or four minutes, ushered up the stairs to a second-floor schoolroom. Palely lit by high windows that afforded no view, the room had a high ceiling, a bare wooden floor, four mostly bare walls (one bore twin photographs of King Edward and his mother, Queen Victoria), and a single fireplace with what remained of a small fire. It contained three rows of student desks and benches, a teacher’s wooden desk, a blackboard, a rack of rolled-up maps, and a globe. It was a chilly, desolate room, smelling of chalk dust and damp soot, and Beatrix, shivering as she looked around, thought that it was not at all conducive to creativity or real learning. If a student managed to think an independently creative thought in this place, the poor thought would likely shrivel and die for lack of nourishment.
The door opened and a woman stepped through. Her face was plain, her dark hair twisted into thick coils on the top of her head. She wore a tailored white blouse with a narrow navy tie and a neatly gored navy serge skirt—the uniform, Beatrix guessed, of the school’s instructors. She carried herself rigidly, as if to ward off any possible adversity, and there was a wary look about her, reminding Beatrix of an animal fearful of a trap. Her dark eyes, large and intense, went immediately to Emily.
“Why are you so late, Emily?” she demanded sharply. “Cook sent you out hours ago! Miss Pennywhistle will not be pleased to hear that you have been dawdling about your errands.” Her gaze flicked to Beatrix, taking in her proper hat, her trim brown jacket and skirt, her gloves. “And who is this, if I may ask? Have we met?”
Beatrix introduced herself. “I reside not far from here with my parents,” she added, “and also in the village of Near Sawrey, where I understand you recently went on holiday.”
Miss Keller’s lips thinned. “I see,” she said warily. To Emily, she said, “You may take those parcels to the kitchen now, Emily. Cook will be needing them.”
Emily looked at Beatrix, who nodded soberly. With an air of relief, as though she was glad to escape hearing what she knew was about to be said, the girl quickly left the room, not looking behind her.
“Shall we sit down?” Beatrix said, and suiting the action to the words, pulled out a student chair. “I am sure that you are curious as to what I have come about.”
Miss Keller sat down, narrowing her eyes. “I must caution you not to believe anything Emily Shaw may have told you. The girl has a habit of making up fantastical stories. She is not to be trusted.”
Beatrix gave a small cough. “Is that right? Emily’s tale did not seem particularly fantastical, except in one respect. In fact, it corresponds very nearly to what I already know to have occurred. But perhaps I should tell you what she has said, and you can correct any misstatements.”
Beatrix related what Emily had told her. And then, since Emily had not known the whole story, added a summary of the events that occurred after she herself opened the door and found the baby on her doorstep.
With each sentence, Miss Keller’s face grew paler and paler and her eyes wider and wider, and by the end her face was d
ead white and she was fighting tears. She fumbled for a handkerchief in the pocket of her skirt.
“I didn’t know!” she cried. “Emily told me nothing of this!”
“She was afraid,” Beatrix said simply. “She thought you would not believe her. And of course she had no idea what transpired after she came away.”
Miss Keller blew her nose into her handkerchief, sat up straighter, and set her mouth in a hard line. “Well, I hardly see that I can be blamed for anything that happened. I made every provision, took every care. When I left to return to London, all the arrangements were settled.” She lifted her chin. “And I cannot see why any of this is your concern, Miss Potter. If you think that you can come here and—”
“I have made it my concern because the child was left on my doorstep,” Beatrix said in a caustic tone, “which surely entitles me to have a share in the proceedings. In any event, this matter must be settled without delay. I must ask both you and Emily to go back to Sawrey with me tomorrow. If we take the earliest train, we shall be in the village by teatime.”
“Impossible!” Miss Keller exclaimed. Her manner was heated. “I have an important position here. I cannot simply go and come on a whim. My students need me. And Miss Pennywhistle would not permit—”
“This is not a whim,” Beatrix interrupted. “It is an urgent necessity, and moreover, it is a weekend. If Miss Pennywhistle is reluctant to permit you to take a short leave, I shall be glad to explain what is behind your request. When she understands the significance of this matter, I am sure she will—”
“Tell Miss Pennywhistle!” Miss Keller exclaimed shrilly. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, no. No, no—that won’t be necessary.”
“Well, then,” Beatrix said in a decided voice, “we are agreed. We three shall be going to the Lakes tomorrow.” She rose and went to the door, paused, and turned. “Emily tells me that she wishes to give in her notice here, effective immediately. She will be staying with me tonight. I shall send for her bag later this evening.” She fixed Miss Keller with a steady look. “And I shall call for you in a cab at seven tomorrow morning, Miss Keller. I trust you will have made your explanations to Miss Pennywhistle and be ready to join me.”
The Tale of Hawthorn House Page 23
