Beatrix cut a slice of bread. “But perhaps just Annie might go, by herself. That way, you wouldn’t have to move house. Moving is always such a trial.”
“By herself?” Margaret said, and chuckled. Annie would never go anywhere without her. Why, she’d be helpless, just helpless. Where would she live? How would she live? Of course, there was the money from their father’s estate, but it wouldn’t be enough. She should have to work, and—
“It’s a nice thought,” she added, trying to be tactful, “but I really don’t think it would do, Beatrix.”
To Margaret’s surprise, Beatrix held her ground. “It might do, Margaret.” She cut another slice of bread. “Actually, it might do very well. An acquaintance of mine, a nurse, has just opened a sanitarium on the south coast, near Brighton. She has been looking for someone to help with music and entertainments—it’s important for the patients to keep their spirits up, of course, and she considers music to be highly therapeutic. I thought immediately of Annie and would love to recommend her. It would be the same sort of work she is doing here—teaching piano, leading a singing group—but in a warmer climate. And of course, she’d be meeting new people.”
“Oh, but Brighton is so far away!” Margaret exclaimed. If there were difficulties—if Annie got low-spirited or sick, as she often did in winter—she herself should have to go and rescue her, and that would be very hard to manage during school term.
“It is far away,” Beatrix agreed with a little laugh. She put the bread slices on a plate and opened the jam. “About as far south as one can get without falling into the Channel, wouldn’t you say? Of course, the sun doesn’t shine there every day of the year, but there’s not the snow and ice we have here.” She poured two cups of tea. “You know, it might be better for both you and Annie,” she added delicately. “To spend some time apart, I mean. The winters here do feel rather . . . well, claustrophobic at times. Don’t you agree?”
Margaret colored and looked away. Beatrix was a thoughtful, generous person, but she had a reputation for managing things in the village, and Margaret hated the idea of being managed. She supposed there was something in what Beatrix was saying, but she was reluctant to admit it.
She cleared her throat. “I suppose I do tend to be a bit protective. But in this case—” She stopped.
“And perhaps Annie depends on you just a bit more than she actually needs to,” Beatrix said. She chuckled ironically. “But here I am, the pot calling the kettle black! My parents do rather keep me close, and I feel obliged to help them all I can. I know just how you must feel.” She looked at the table. “Oh, milk. I knew I was forgetting something. Do you take it, Margaret?”
“Lemon for me,” Margaret said, helping herself, and took the opportunity to change the subject. “Actually, I wanted to mention something important to you, Beatrix. It’s about Mr. Harmsworth’s niece, who’s come to live with him. I’m always reluctant to interfere in family matters where the schoolchildren are concerned, but this is rather a special case.”
“Mr. Harmsworth of Applebeck Farm?” Beatrix asked, surprised. “The man who closed off the footpath? I didn’t know he had a young niece.”
“It’s a dreadful thing about that footpath, isn’t it?” Margaret’s mouth firmed. “I very much hope Captain Woodcock can get the path reopened. He’s seeing Mr. Harmsworth today.” She had heard this bit of news from Agnes Llewellyn at the village shop, when she went in to buy a sausage.
“I do, as well,” Beatrix agreed. She frowned. “I know that some landowners are nervous about being invaded by great hordes of fell-walkers, who leave the gates open and drop greasy lunch wrappers along the way. But the path through Applebeck Orchard isn’t a fell-path. It’s a path used by local people, coming and going from one Sawrey to the other—and especially to church.”
“And to school,” Margaret said regretfully, thinking about how many extra steps she would have to walk next term, if the captain couldn’t settle the business. She leaned forward. “But it was Mr. Harmsworth’s niece that I wanted to tell you about, Beatrix. Gilly, her name is. She’s fourteen and recently orphaned, and her uncle is apparently her only relative. She came to school for the last few months of term and finished with the other older children this spring. She was an excellent scholar. In fact, she took first prize in our spelling bee, and was awarded a copy of The Tale of Jemima Puddle-duck—the one you donated to the school.”
“How nice,” Beatrix said. “I’m glad the book was used in that way.”
“Yes, but . . .” Margaret sighed. “Oh, dear. I’m not sure I know what I should . . .”
“Please,” Beatrix said. “Do go on.”
“Well, you see, Gilly spoke to me before the end of term about wanting to find employment, away from Applebeck Farm. She’s unhappy, living there with her uncle and aunt. She’s made to work very hard, apparently.”
“I’m sure that Mrs. Harmsworth is glad to have some help with the household,” Beatrix said.
“No doubt,” Margaret said dryly. “Although it appears that ‘some help’ does not exactly describe what Gilly is asked to do. And whilst she didn’t tell me so directly, it is my impression that both Mr. and Mrs. Harmsworth are stern disciplinarians. Mr. Harmsworth particularly. I worry that she’s being ill-treated.”
Beatrix’s face darkened. “I saw the man once,” she remarked in a low voice, “beating a dog. We had a few words about it.”
Beating a dog. Margaret shuddered. It was her experience that if a man would beat a dog, he would strike a child. She took a deep breath. “As I understand it, in addition to the housecleaning and laundry and garden, Gilly also does the work of the farm’s dairymaid, who was recently let go. And she’s not being paid, of course. She would like to go into service elsewhere, and I promised to help. I wondered if you knew of a place coming open.”
I am sure that you and I are horrified at the thought of a fourteen-year-old girl leaving school and taking on the adult responsibilities of cooking and cleaning, not to mention churning butter, and making cheeses. Most of our fourteen-year-olds spend their spare time in the malls, or sending text messages to friends on their cell phones. And of course, they are not even allowed to have a job until they are sixteen.
But in this era in England—and in America, too—girls of fourteen and even younger regularly left their homes and families (if they were lucky enough to have a family) and went into service. A fortunate few found positions on large estates where every member of the staff had his or her special duties and an able servant could look forward to what we nowadays think of as “career advancement,” up the ladder of domestic service. The unfortunate many had a worse fate. They worked—and were appallingly overworked—in smaller private homes, where they were responsible for laying and lighting the fires, making the beds, mopping the floors and dusting the furniture, cooking the meals, and doing the washing-up. These “maids-of-all-work,” as they were appropriately called, might earn nine pounds a year, including a room-and-board allowance. In today’s American currency, considering inflation, this would amount to something like a $100 a month, $25 a week, $3.57 a day, or about 21 cents an hour.
Beatrix frowned. “But even if the girl could find another place, what makes you think the Harmsworths will let her go? As things stand, they are getting someone to cook and clean house and do the dairy work—and it’s only costing them her room and board. In the circumstance, I’m sure they’d prefer to keep her.”
Beatrix bit her lip with a troubled look, and Margaret wondered whether she was thinking of herself. Beatrix certainly didn’t have to cook and clean and perhaps she wasn’t overworked. But at the heart of it, her situation might not be so very different from Gilly’s. Mrs. Potter seemed to treat her daughter as an unpaid servant, and it was clear that neither Mr. nor Mrs. Potter was willing to let her have a life of her own choosing.
Margaret gave a dispirited sigh, feeling that most women, no matter their social class, were destined to be unhappy. But she was o
ne of the lucky ones, wasn’t she? She couldn’t marry the man she loved, but she had Annie to look after, and the school and the children as well. She sat up straighter.
“P’rhaps you’re right,” she said. “P’rhaps the Harmsworths won’t let her go. But I feel I ought to give it a try, somehow. Do you know of anyone who’s looking for a servant? I asked at the Tower Bank Arms—I thought Mrs. Barrow might be in need of a housemaid. But she is not.”
Beatrix tilted her head to one side. “The last time I visited Tidmarsh Manor, Lady Longford mentioned that she might be looking for an upstairs maid. I don’t think there would be any dairy work, if that is not to Gilly’s liking.”
“Tidmarsh Manor would be perfect!” Margaret exclaimed happily. “Could you find out if the place is still open? I wouldn’t want to get Gilly’s hopes up—or open the subject with the Harmsworths—unless there was a real possibility.”
Beatrix gave her a considering look. “I’m going to Tidmarsh tomorrow to see Caroline. If you like, I’ll speak to her ladyship about the situation and let you know what I find out.”
“Yes, I would like that, very much,” Margaret said warmly. “How is Caroline? You’ve heard from her?” Margaret knew Caroline Longford from the months she had spent at Sawrey School, before Lady Longford had employed Miss Burns as the girl’s governess.
“I had a letter from her a few weeks ago, and one from Miss Burns, as well. Caroline is advancing quickly in her musical studies. You know she’s been studying piano with Mrs. King?”
Margaret nodded. “Annie says that Mrs. King is an excellent teacher. Caroline must be doing well indeed.”
“So it seems,” Beatrix said thoughtfully. “Mr. Heelis mentioned that he heard her play one of her own compositions and was quite impressed.” She gave Margaret a direct look. “Caroline wrote me that she wants to study composition. She hopes to become a composer.”
“A composer!” Margaret said blankly. “But there are no women composers!”
“There’s Ethel Smyth,” Beatrix reminded her. “And Dora Bright. Both of them have had their music performed— although I’m sorry to say that I’ve never had the opportunity to hear it myself.”
“Perhaps,” Margaret replied doubtfully, remembering a newspaper article Annie had read to her. The writer (a man, of course) had been at pains to argue that women’s genius is not creative, but reproductive; ergo, they could play someone else’s music (a man’s) but they could not compose. “But there certainly aren’t many, and their work isn’t widely performed,” she added. “And where would Caroline study? I don’t suppose musical composition is something one can teach oneself.”
“The Royal Academy of Music has admitted women for many years,” Beatrix replied. “Mrs. King has encouraged Caroline to apply there.” Her voice became dry. “Women are not admitted to the study of composition, but Mrs. King apparently feels that Caroline’s talent is so striking that the administrators might be persuaded to relax the rule. She has already written a recommendation.”
“A recommendation!” Margaret gasped. “Does Lady Longford know?” She answered her own question. “Of course not. She would never have permitted it. There’s the cost, for one thing.” Lady Longford had the reputation of being the most parsimonious person in all of the Land Between the Lakes. She would never agree to pay Caroline’s tuition at the Royal Academy—let alone her living expenses in London, where she would have to go to study. “And of course there’s the question of a chaperone,” she added. “Her ladyship would not permit her granddaughter to go to London by herself. Not in a hundred years.”
“I’m afraid you’re right on all counts,” Beatrix said. She gave a rueful smile. “Lady Longford has no idea that any of this is brewing. Miss Burns and Caroline have both asked me to be there when they tell her. They apparently think my presence will blunt her ladyship’s wrath.” The smile became a chuckle. “I don’t hold out much hope of that, I’m afraid.”
“Nor do I.” Margaret sighed. “You’ve taken on quite an assignment. Two, actually. Seeing about a position for Gilly and telling Lady Longford that her granddaughter wants to be a composer.” She shook her head. “I certainly don’t envy you, Beatrix. Her ladyship will not want to let Caroline go.”
I find myself wondering (and perhaps you do, too) why Margaret does not see the similarity between her attitude toward Annie and Lady Longford’s attitude toward Caroline. She might, for instance, have said something like, “I’m having the same difficulty imagining letting Annie go.” But she didn’t, and I don’t suppose we can blame her. Margaret loves her sister very much. Perhaps she will hold on forever, thereby denying both Annie and herself the ability to live independent lives, which would be a very great pity, in my opinion.
Beatrix nodded. “I am sure you’re right about Lady Longford,” she said. “I foresee storms on the horizon.” She smiled and picked up the teapot. “Let me pour you some more tea.”
“Thank you, no,” Margaret said, and stood. “I’m on my way to visit Mrs. Lythecoe.” She smiled. “Now that the village has got Dr. Butters married, they’re hoping for the vicar and Mrs. Lythecoe.”
Beatrix accompanied her to the door. “You’ll think of what I said about Annie?” she asked. “I’m sure your only consideration is what is right for her, but the sanitarium might be just the thing.”
“I’ll think about it,” Margaret replied (rather stiffly, I’m afraid), and said goodbye.
And now that the vicar has come into our story, perhaps it is time we paid him a visit. We’re in luck, it seems, for Captain Woodcock has just arrived to talk with him about the footpath situation that is troubling everyone in the village. And I for one would like to listen in.
8
The Captain and the Vicar Confer
“Good day, Vicar!” Miles called from the garden gate. He could see Vicar Samuel Sackett bending over a rosebush. He was wearing his old gray sweater, the one with both elbows out and two buttons missing, and he had his pruning shears in hand. “A fine morning, isn’t it?”
The vicar looked up from the rosebush. “Why, good morning, Captain! Indeed, a fine morning, very fine. Do come in, won’t you? I didn’t hear your motor car.”
“I walked,” Miles replied. His blue Rolls-Royce—the only motor car in the district—attracted a great deal of notice when he drove it out, and was usually accompanied by a crowd of small boys and dogs. He was not so eager for attention this morning, and since the sun was shining and the sky was quite blue, he had decided that a pleasant walk on a summer’s day would be just the ticket.
“Walking is a fine way to get about,” said the vicar approvingly, who always went everywhere in his parish on foot, usually carrying one or another of his large collection of walking sticks. “What would you say to a cup of tea, Captain? Mrs. Thompson can bring it to my study.”
“I would say yes, if we could have it in the garden,” Miles said, a bit uncomfortably. Mrs. Thompson, the vicar’s housekeeper, was known to listen at doors. He added, half-apologetically, “I should rather like our conversation to be private. If you take my meaning.”
“Ah, yes.” The vicar gave a rueful sigh. “I appreciate your concern.”
In fact, the vicar was beginning to feel that perhaps he really ought to do something about Mrs. Thompson. She was taking a greater interest in his well-being than she had since she had come to work at the vicarage some eight or nine years before. This morning, for instance, she had almost insisted on getting her hands on his sweater, in order to repair the sleeves and replace the buttons. He had had a difficult time convincing her that he liked it exactly as it was, with the elbows out and the buttons gone, for he never buttoned it, anyway. And although Mrs. Thompson was a fine housekeeper and a reasonably good cook, she had begun to monitor his activities rather closely of late. She was always near at hand when he wanted something, nearer than was comfortable, and she seemed to anticipate his requests in a way he found disturbing. In a word, she hovered. The vicar had begun to
think it was time to make a change.
But Samuel Sackett, who was gentle and scholarly and often rather vague, was not a decisive man. In fact, he was a ditherer. When his duty had to be done—that is, when he felt strongly about a certain issue or when matters were urgent—he was uncompromising in his pursuit of what he knew to be right and good. But the thought of sacking Mrs. Thompson because she listened at doors or hovered over him whilst he ate his dinner was enough to give him indigestion for a week, not to mention the profound alarm he felt at the thought of hiring someone to replace her.
But he did not have to face that particular calamity this morning. He went to the door, put in his head, and called, “Tea for two, Mrs. Thompson, if you please. We shall have it in the garden.”
He returned to his guest and the two sat down at a table in a quiet corner, beside an extravagant cabbage rose laden with fragrant, luscious pink blossoms. They occupied themselves with conversation about various inconsequential parish matters until Mrs. Thompson brought a tray.
“ ’Tis a bit chilly,” she said, leaning over the vicar with a solicitous smile and speaking in the rather loud voice she had lately adopted, as though he were hard of hearing. “Windy, too. Wudn’t tha rather have thi tea in t’ study, Vicar?”
“It’s quite warm enough, I believe,” Miles put in, when the vicar hesitated. “Thank you, Mrs. Thompson.” After she had departed, scowling, he added, diffidently, “I wanted to consult you about the Applebeck Footpath. I shouldn’t like our conversation to get back to Mr. Harmsworth.”
The vicar poured. “Ah, yes. The footpath. A bad business, to be sure, very bad. I saw the tangle of wire and staves, all tarred over, when I went to St. Peter’s yesterday. The people of Near Sawrey will have farther to walk to get to church. And of course, the children, walking to school.” He frowned as he set the teapot down. “Appalling, really. Not at all the sort of thing one likes to see happen in our village.”
Susan Wittig Albert Page 10
