The Tale of Castle Cottage

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “Farmer Jennings says that Miss Barwick must be making money hand over fist in that bakery of hers,” meowed Felicia Frummety. The other village cats went by such names as Puss or Porridge or Max, so Felicia’s name, which had been given to her by Miss Potter, made her think herself a bit better than the rest of them. (This is ironic, of course, because frummety is nothing more elegant than wheat boiled in cow’s milk with a little sugar and cinnamon, so Felicia has nothing to feel superior about.)

  “I don’t see why Miss Barwick’s business affairs should be of any concern to Mr. Jennings,” Crumpet growled. “Or to you, Felicia. You should be paying attention to the job you’re hired to do. Didn’t I hear Miss Potter complaining that a rat stole ten fine eggs right out from under the turkey hen the other night? She said he tunneled under the coop and took the eggs down the hole.”

  “It was the hen’s fault entirely,” Felicia retorted in a lofty tone. “She slept the whole time, and when she woke up, her eggs were gone. I had nothing at all to do with it. I wasn’t even there.”

  “Precisely my point,” Crumpet spat. “You had nothing at all to do with it, when you should have been there with your fangs bared, just waiting for that rat to make his move. Rats are beastly—and where there is one rat, there’s a gang. They must be kept at bay, whatever the cost.”

  Felicia shuddered. She was in charge of rat patrol in the Hill Top barn and dairy, but she found rodents appallingly distasteful and would do almost anything to avoid coming in actual physical contact with one of the horrid creatures. In fact, she was so derelict in her duty that Miss Potter and Mrs. Jennings had once had to bring in a team of more efficient cats to handle the rats, which led to a problem of quite another sort. You might remember this story; it is told in The Tale of Cuckoo Brow Wood, where the unlikely hero, stout, mild-tempered Ridley Rattail, arrested and deported (trussed, in a beer barrel) the arrogant Cat Who Walked by Himself.

  But Felicia was not inclined to listen to a lecture from Crumpet, whose authority, she thought, ended at the edge of the Hill Top property.

  “Oh, hush,” she said crossly. “I want to hear what this is about.” She leant forward to hear the conversation.

  “I didn’t expect you to write to me, Sarah,” Beatrix was saying as she spread a little more mustard on her pork pie. “I know how busy you are at the bakery.” Around a mouthful of pie, she added appreciatively, “Really, my dear, this pie is delicious. I’m sure you must be selling hundreds.”

  “You see?” hissed Felicia. “What did I tell you? Making money hand over fist.”

  “Which is none of your business,” retorted Crumpet. “You should be attending to those beastly rats.”

  Beatrix raised her voice. “Crumpet and Felicia, you are interrupting our conversation. Do be quiet.”

  “I’m happy to say that I’m selling quite a few of these pies,” Sarah replied. “You’d be surprised at how many housewives find that a nice pork pie is just the thing for the husband’s tea—especially on washday or ironing day, when she’s all fagged out. About as fagged out as you look, Bea,” she added candidly. She was beginning to be a bit worried by her friend’s appearance. Beatrix was always so determinedly cheerful, but she certainly didn’t seem so today.

  Beatrix sighed. “I suppose I am still a bit under the weather. It’s all I can do to go back and forth to Lindeth Howe, where my parents are on holiday. And I’m hurrying to finish a book. I’ve been pasting galley proofs into the dummy today. I’m dreadfully behindhand with it—the pen-and-inks aren’t quite done yet—and the editor is beginning to fret that it won’t be finished in time.”

  Sarah finished her milk and put the glass down. From the beginning of their friendship, she had been impressed by Beatrix’s seemingly infinite creativity. She produced dozens of stories and hundreds of drawings—as well as taking care of those demanding parents of hers, and not just one but two farms! Sarah sighed enviously. It was all she could manage to produce a dozen loaves of bread and three or four batches of sticky buns every morning. And the pork pies, of course. She had practically no time for anything else—which was exactly how she had got herself into such a muddle with her accounts.

  But that was neither here nor there at the moment. “Another book?” she asked curiously. “What’s this one about?”

  “Pigs.” Beatrix chuckled. “It’s called The Tale of Pigling Bland.”

  “Pigs?” Crumpet meowed incredulously. “Not cats? What can you be thinking, Miss Potter?”

  “I don’t know if you remember,” Beatrix went on, “but a few years ago, Mr. Jennings bought some pigs from Mr. Townley.”

  “I remember!” Felicia cried with excitement. “I was here when they arrived. All but one of them were pedigreed, with papers. Mr. Jennings insists on that—says pigs with papers always fetch a better price when it’s time to sell.”

  “Mr. Jennings was busy and couldn’t get them,” Beatrix continued, “so I went to fetch them. When Mr. Townley was loading them into the pony cart, I noticed a tiny one, a perfectly lovely Berkshire girl pig, jet-black, with twinkly eyes and a little turned-up nose. I just had to have her, which annoyed Mr. Jennings no end.”

  “In fact,” Felicia confided cattily to Crumpet, “he said that Miss Potter should have had better sense than to bring her home. She wasn’t worth feeding.”

  This brought Beatrix to her feet. “Felicia Frummety,” she said sternly, going to the wall, “that is enough of that noise.” She picked up the cat and deposited her unceremoniously on the ground. “I’m sure that rat who made off with the turkey eggs is hiding somewhere nearby. Go and find him.”

  “Good enough for you,” Crumpet cried triumphantly, as Felicia flicked her tail in annoyance and stalked off.

  “You, too, Crumpet,” Beatrix said crossly. “Away with both of you, and leave us in peace.” She shooed the gray cat off the wall and sat down again to resume her story. “But I fed the little pig and kept her in a basket beside my bed. Aunt Susan, I called her—a lovely pet, quite plump. And a patient model. She used to nibble my boots when I went into her pig sty to draw her.”

  Sarah smiled. That particular pig had been the talk of the village, for she had a habit of shoving the door open with her pink nose and trotting into the house to beg a bowl of bread and milk. She glanced down at her pie. “You’re not put off by eating pork pie while we talk about your pig?”

  “Not in the least,” Beatrix said, picking up her napkin. “I’ve always been practical when it comes to such matters as bacon and hams. Anyway, I promised myself I would write a pig book before I was finished, and this is the one. The adventures of Pigling Bland and Pig-wig, the little girl pig he rescues from captivity.”

  Sarah shot her a surprised glance. “Before you’re finished? You’re not thinking of quitting, are you?”

  Beatrix gave a little shrug. “The publisher doesn’t want me to, of course. But the real animals here on the farm are more interesting to me than paper animals. And with the remodeling work on Castle Cottage under way, and my parents at Lindeth Howe—” She sighed. “They seem to want to make things harder.”

  “I’m sorry, Bea.” Sarah leaned over and patted her friend’s hand. It was unusual for Beatrix to criticize her mother and father. “Why can’t they take a holiday house here in the village, so you wouldn’t have so far to go?” Lindeth Howe was on the eastern side of Windermere, which meant that Beatrix had a two-and-a-half-mile walk on this side, a half-mile walk on the other, and a ferry ride in the middle. Sarah knew that it must be taxing.

  “They won’t come here because Mama finds the village society dull,” Beatrix replied. “And to tell the truth,” she added candidly, “I would rather have them a bit out of the way. If they were closer, we would surely get into rows.”

  Sarah picked up an apple and bit into it. “And how is the remodeling work at Castle Cottage going?”

  “Very slowly, I’m afraid. I can’t see why the workmen can’t move along a little faster. Mr. Heelis has
been keeping an eye on things,” Beatrix added. “I’m to meet him there this afternoon.” She paused, smiling wistfully. “I shall be very glad to see him, I must admit. We haven’t been able to spend any time together for over a fortnight.”

  Sarah heard the eagerness in her friend’s voice and smiled. She very much approved of Beatrix’s engagement to William Heelis, which had stunned everyone in the village when news of it had got out some months before. Mr. Heelis, a solicitor from Hawkshead, was handsome, comfortably well-off, a keen sportsman, a nimble-footed folk dancer, and extremely eligible (if exceedingly shy). For years, everyone in the district had wondered whom he would take as his wife. Miss Potter, on the other hand, was an off-comer, eccentric (a female farmer?), and sometimes brusque. Their engagement had come as an immense shock, and some of the villagers still weren’t over it.

  “Doan’t believe it meself,” proclaimed Bertha Stubbs, when she heard the news.

  “Nivver happen,” asserted Elsa Grape.

  “Ridic‘lous,” sniffed Agnes Llewellyn, adding pointedly, “Mr. Heelis should be lookin’ for a wife who is more of his kind, not an off-comer from London.” Agnes had someone in mind, in fact: her young niece, a beautiful girl who would make a perfect wife for a handsome and much-admired solicitor.

  Sarah herself had heard all this gossip, for she delivered her baked goods to almost every kitchen in the district and was invited in for countless cups of tea. She never carried tales, of course, but she had heard them all, in a number of versions, most of which were more or less accurate. This in itself is quite remarkable, when you stop to think about it, for village gossip almost never gets anything right.

  Miss Potter, it was said, had accepted Mr. Heelis’ proposal on the night the Applebeck Farm dairy burnt to the ground. (This, at least, was true, as you can read for yourself in The Tale of Applebeck Orchard.) It was further rumored that Miss Potter and Mr. Heelis had attempted to keep the engagement a secret from her tyrannical parents, which was why she wasn’t wearing his ring. But they were thwarted when Mr. Heelis’ cousin had let the cat out of the bag, resulting in a tremendous family row. Her parents had at last been forced to accept the idea of an engagement, but never, no, never a marriage! At least, not until they were both dead and their daughter was no longer needed to care for them—which would certainly be another decade or two.

  And then, to complicate matters still further, it was whispered that if Miss Potter’s parents disapproved of Mr. Heelis (he was, after all, merely a country lawyer), Mr. Heelis’ family did not approve of Miss Potter, either! The Heelises, it seemed, objected to the Potters’ strong connections to commerce, for the Potter money came from the family’s Manchester calico business. (I daresay you will find this as ironic as I do, since the Potters forbade their daughter to marry Mr. Warne because he was in the publishing business.)

  What was more, the Heelises were high church, and their family tree boasted several Anglican clergymen, rectors, and country parsons. The Potters, on the other hand, were Dissenters (very low church) and Miss Potter herself was known to favor the Quakers.

  And if this weren’t enough, Miss Potter was five years older than Mr. Heelis (oh, dear!), and more than a bit eccentric besides. One of the Heelis cousins was said to have encountered her in the lane, with pattens on her feet and a woolen shawl over her head, carrying a butter basket filled with roadside flowers. The cousin thought she had met a “common villager” and was astonished when she was told that this was the famous Miss Potter, author, illustrator, and farmer.

  All things considered, the Heelises were said to feel that this was not a match made in heaven.

  And in fact, it didn’t seem likely that a wedding date would be announced soon, although the entire village was sure that the coming marriage was the reason that Miss Potter had commissioned several rooms to be built on to Castle Cottage. She and Mr. Heelis must intend to live there, which was why Mr. Heelis had been making frequent trips to see the new construction. Mr. Bernard Biddle, the building contractor who was managing the work, had been heard to grumble that he could not abide interference from anybody, not from Mr. Heelis and most certainly not from Miss Potter.

  Sarah folded her napkin with a sigh. Well. Since the subject had come around to Castle Cottage, it was time to speak up. Her visit was not just a friendly drop-in. She had come on a mission, and not a particularly comfortable one.

  She took a deep breath. “Bea,” she said quietly, “what would you do if you suspected that somebody was stealing from you?”

  “Stealing?” Crumpet meowed incredulously. The two cats had not gone very far, of course. They had settled onto the grass on the other side of an untidy patch of foxgloves and daisies, conveniently out of sight but within earshot. “A thief, in this little village? Oh, dear! Oh, poor Miss Barwick!”

  “Well, if she is making that much money from her buns and pork pies,” Felicia observed in a moralistic tone, “she’s bound to attract thieves. Just like that turkey hen, I suppose. Sound asleep on her nest whilst that ratty fellow made off with her eggs. Miss Barwick is going to have to take better care of her money.”

  Beatrix leaned forward. “Stealing from you?” Her eyes widened in surprise. “Stealing baked goods? Stealing money? I’m so sorry to hear that, Sarah. Do you have any idea who it is?”

  “The same filthy rat that got the turkey eggs is my guess,” Crumpet growled. “Rats are notorious thieves, and if it’s baked goods Miss Barwick is missing, he’s the obvious culprit. I think I’ll pay an after-hours visit to the bakery. That rat wants a bit of minding, he does.”

  Sarah frowned. “Stealing from me? Whatever gave you that idea, Bea? It’s true that I have been missing a bit here and a bit there in the past few days, but nothing to fret about.”

  Beatrix shook her head, looking puzzled. “I thought you just asked—”

  Sarah cast a look over her shoulder to make sure that no one was listening. She leaned forward and lowered her voice.

  “What I asked,” she replied, very seriously, “was what you would do if you suspected that somebody was stealing from you.”

  3

  Three Spoons, a Broken Engagement, and a New Baby

  Miss Potter and Miss Barwick were not the only ones enjoying a lunch out-of-doors on this fine July afternoon. A little distance away, the denizens of The Brockery have brought a picnic hamper to the rocky ledge at the top of Holly How. It is a splendid spot, for Holly How (in the Land Between the Lakes, how or howe means “hill”) affords a panoramic view of green meadows and darker green fell-sides, as well as glimpses of the blue slate roofs and chimneys of Near Sawrey and the silvery glint of Esthwaite Water beyond.

  From his place in the blue sky far above Holly How, the sun beamed down happily, delighted that this group of creatures had emerged to join him for an hour or two as he crossed the green hills of the Lakes on his daily journey. Indeed, the sun found it quite personally gratifying that so many of The Brockery’s residents had come out to bask in the warmth of his gaze, so he encouraged the birds to sing a little louder and the breeze to blow a little less boisterously in order that the picnickers could enjoy their outing even more.

  Now, in case you are new to the Land Between the Lakes and are wondering what kind of group this could be and why the sun is so pleased to see them out-of-doors at midday, I will tell you that it is made up of a quartet of badgers, a pair of rabbits, and a little hedgehog—animals who usually go out in the daytime only on very special occasions. Each and all are residents of The Brockery, one of the oldest badger setts in all of northern England. It is also by far the largest, an enormous labyrinth of winding tunnels and passageways and burrows built beneath the hill, so extensive that the farthest-flung chambers are rarely visited, if only because they are so far away that you need to carry a compass and pack a lunch.

  The Brockery’s badgers long ago decided that their dwelling was far too large for a single family, so they turned it into a hostelry, feeling that it was not a good
thing for so many bedrooms to stand empty when so many creatures were in want of a roof. They acted in accordance with the Fifth Badger Rule of Thumb: It is a great pity for warm and dry shelter to be vacant and unoccupied when there are so many needy animals outside in the cold and damp. (Badger Rules of Thumb are not strict laws but rather guidelines for personal and community behavior that badgers have adopted in order to get along in this topsy-turvy world. They are rather like the Ten Commandments, although perhaps more frequently observed.)

  Over the years, The Brockery has gained a wide reputation for its generous hospitality, and it is a rare breakfast, tea, or supper that does not see the table lined with hungry animals. Some are permanent residents, whilst others are transients stopping for a night or two on their way north to Carlisle or south to Liverpool or Manchester. Sometimes unnoticed guests make free of the unused rooms and chambers, preferring to come and go as they please, taking their meals out and neglecting to sign the guest register. This is especially true of the occasional adder, who slips in surreptitiously and leaves without saying goodbye. And spiders, beetles, and worms, who tend to keep to themselves out of fear of being stepped on or mistaken for lunch—although there are very firm rules about who or what may be eaten while in residence.

  Most guests, however, appreciate the hostelry’s community life, observe the rules, and contribute to the extent they are able. They pay for their room and board by helping with chores, washing dishes, or sweeping the hearth. A few barter, offering, say, a half-dozen peppermint patties from the Tower Bank Arms or a small bottle of ink liberated from the Sawrey Hotel or a pair of plump marrows from the garden at Belle Green. (Animals are just like people, you know. They like to pick up souvenirs on their travels and share them with friends while they brag about where they’ve been and what they’ve seen.)