The Tale of Hawthorn House (20 page)

Emily shook her head in despair, feeling that Miss Keller did not understand, could never understand all she was feeling. And I daresay that Miss Keller was wrong about Emily being a grownup. For although she had worked for her living since leaving the village school at thirteen, some three years before, Emily was still a very young girl. She lacked the experience of life that might have helped her to keep these horrid things from happening. She did not yet know enough to cope with the gypsy lads and the Miss Kellers and the Miss Pennywhistles of this world. She only knew enough to measure what she had lost.

And if we were to look into Emily’s heart, we would see that it was filled with sadness and grief and confusion—and a great many anguished recriminations.

What had she done? Oh, oh, oh, what
had
she done?

How could she have done it?

And what would happen to her now?

17

The Hand-Woven Cover: Part One

When Beatrix and Dimity left Tidmarsh Manor that afternoon, they drove a little way up the road to Holly How Farm, where Jane Crosfield and her nephew, Jeremy, lived. Rascal could hardly restrain his excitement. He and Jeremy had enjoyed many tramps through the woodlands and meadows, up and down the fells—but that was before Jeremy went away to school. He must be home on holiday now, and Rascal was eager to see him again.

They were greeted at the door by a small, dumpling-shaped woman with a cheerful face and fly-away brown hair. “Why, if it isn’t Miss Potter and Miss Woodcock!” she exclaimed, a faint Scottish brogue coloring her speech. “And Rascal, too. How nice. Sit ye down and have a cup of tea, do.” She bent down to stroke the dog’s ears.

“You’re very kind,”
Rascal barked politely, and made a little bow to Snowdrop, Miss Crosfield’s white cat. Snowdrop, who was not partial to dogs, went to sit on the windowsill beside the pot of red geraniums.

As they entered the kitchen of the traditional farmhouse, Beatrix looked around with pleasure, thinking what a pleasant contrast it was to Tidmarsh Manor. The house was built like many others in the district, with a pebbly mortar on the outside, blue slate on the floors and the roof, and roses growing over the front door. But what set it apart from the others were the beautiful pieces of weaving that hung on every wall and the large wooden loom in the corner of the kitchen. In fact, it was on that very loom that Jane Crosfield had woven the tweed for the woolen skirt Beatrix was wearing at this moment, from fleeces donated by Tibbie and Queenie, the Herdwick ewes who lived at Hill Top Farm.

“Thank you, Jane, but we’ve just had tea at the manor,” Dimity replied, in answer to Jane’s invitation.

“That’s every reason to have another, wouldn’t ye say?” Jane retorted, with a merry grin.

At that, they all laughed. As they sat down at the table and Jane poured tea from a steaming pot, Beatrix said, “How is Jeremy, Jane? He’s on holiday, is he?”

“School holidays, aye,” Jane replied, going to the oven in the old-fashioned cooker that was set into one side of the large fireplace. A pan of currant buns, looking as if they had recently come out of the oven, sat on top. “But he goes back Monday fortnight. And just now, he’s stayin’ in Hawkshead to help Dr. Butters with his rounds. He will be sorry to have missed the both of ye.”

“Oh, no!”
Rascal exclaimed, disappointed.
“I so wanted to see him.”
To Snowdrop, he said, with just a touch of anxiety,
“Is he much changed?”
Jeremy was a pupil at Kelsick grammar school in Ambleside, some fifteen long miles away. Most of the year, Jeremy boarded near the school.

“He’s a young man now,”
Snowdrop said, washing a spot of dust from her white paw.
“I suppose that’s what school is for,”
she added, sounding resigned.
“Changing a boy to a man.”

“I wish it wouldn’t do that,”
Rascal said, aware of a keen sadness. Somehow he had never considered the question of growing up. In Rascal’s mind, Jeremy would always be a happy boy browned by the summer sun, sharing his bread and cheese with a small brown terrier beside a tumbling beck high on a rocky fell, the wide world spread invitingly at their feet, the future endless and bright and always exactly the same as the present.

“Wishing won’t make it so, one way or another,”
remarked Snowdrop philosophically. She jumped down from the sill and went outside to say hello to Winston.

“I hope your nephew did well in school last term,” Beatrix said. Jeremy was an artist and lover of nature, and a great favorite of Beatrix’s. She had helped to persuade Lady Longford that it would be a good idea to send him for more schooling to prevent him from being apprenticed to Mr. Higgens, the Hawkshead chemist. And she had provided some of the money he needed for books and art supplies, as well. She was always eager for news of his progress.

“I’m pleased to say he’s doin’ beautifully,” Jane replied happily. “Both of us are truly grateful for your help.” She transferred the currant buns to a china plate and set them on the table. “His school marks are as high as anybody could wish, Miss Potter. Ye’d be that proud of him, indeed ye would!” she added, and put a bit of bun on a plate for Rascal, who gobbled it down.

“We’re all proud, Jane,” Beatrix said, adding sugar to her tea. “But I hope he’s finding time to do some painting.”

“Oh, aye,” Jane said happily. “Just let me show ye.” She stepped into the next room and brought out a watercolor of a flock of sheep grazing in a green meadow beside a small stream. “Lovely, isn’t it?” She sighed. “Fair makes me think I’m sittin’ right beside Wilfin Beck, it does. And look— there’s the wee dog. Rascal, that’s you!”

Rascal stood up on his hind legs to inspect his painted self. He was sitting on his haunches, watching the trout swim round in the crystal water. He felt quite proud.
“Fancy me, in a painting,”
he said in wonderment. He would have to tell Tabitha, who was always lording it over him because Miss Potter had put her into a book.

“It’s wonderful!” Dimity exclaimed.

“It is, indeed,” Beatrix said, taking the painting and examining the way Jeremy had washed the color across the sky. “His work is coming along very nicely. Please give him my compliments, Jane, and say that I’m very pleased with what he’s done.”

“Me, too,”
Rascal put in, wagging his tail excitedly.
“Tabitha will be so envious!”

“Just look at the beastie,” Jane said, shaking her head at Rascal. “’Tis for all the world like he knows it’s him in the painting.”

“Why, of course he does,” Beatrix said. “Dimity, perhaps you could show Jane what we’ve brought.”

Half-reluctantly, Dimity took out the brown paper parcel she had brought and opened it, unfolding the blue-and-white rectangle of cloth and laying it on the table. “We wondered what you can tell us about this, Jane.”

“Well, now, this
is
lovely,” Jane said, fingering the cloth. “Very fine work, I’d say, Miss Woodcock. Done by an expert weaver.”

“The pattern is distinctive, don’t you think?” Beatrix asked. “A twill, isn’t it?”

“Aye,” Jane said, picking it up for a closer look. “A dornick twill. Can ye see how the run changes direction? My old gran—she was Scottish, she was—used this sort of weave for tablecloths.” She looked up, curious. “Where did this come from?”

Beatrix and Dimity exchanged looks. “We don’t exactly know,” Beatrix said. “We were hoping you might be able to tell us whether someone in the district is likely to have woven it.”

“Well, if it was,” Jane said briskly, “it could only have been woven here, on this loom, which it wasn’t.” She paused, smiled, and added, “O’ course, old Sally Frost might’ve woven it.”

Dimity folded the woven cloth and rewrapped it in the brown paper. “Sally Frost. Let’s see—she’s Mrs. Graham’s mother, isn’t she?” To Beatrix, she added, “Mrs. Graham is one of the local midwives—or used to be. I don’t think she’s working now.”

Jane nodded. “Aye. Old Sally lives with her daughter and son-in-law, at Long Dale, on Glade Lane. The old dear is half-blind, though. Not weavin’ now, I should think. But if she wove this, I’m sure she’ll be pleased to own to it.” She looked from one to the other, curiously. “Why are ye askin’?”

Dimity looked down and said nothing.

“It has to do with a baby,” Beatrix said, and told the story.

Jane’s eyes widened. At the end of the tale, she shook her head. “Babies are precious,” she said sadly. “Babies are a gift of God.” She looked up, her eyes filled with tears. “Who would give a baby to a stranger? Couldn’t its own mother keep it?”

That plaintive question was still hanging in the air as Beatrix and Dimity took their leave.

18

The Hand-Woven Cover: Part Two

By the time Beatrix and Dimity left Holly How Farm to go to Long Dale, the blue sky had darkened, Coniston Fell was draped in a cloudy veil, and a chilling breeze blew from the west. Rascal explained that he had decided to stay and see what sort of business the badger on Holly How was getting up to and barked a polite “thank you” before he ran off. Winston the pony explained that his bones predicted rain and he preferred to go straight home to the Hill Top barn. But Miss Potter explained that she and Miss Woodcock had other plans, and since Miss Potter held the reins quite firmly, Winston did what was asked. But he heaved a heavy sigh, letting her know that he wasn’t to be held to account when all three of them got soaking wet.

For most of the afternoon, Dimity had been very quiet, and Beatrix remembered her earlier impression: that her friend found herself in the midst of an intensely private dilemma, and that it at least partly involved the baby. As they started back in the direction of the village, Dimity startled Beatrix by spilling the story of what had happened that morning: Major Kittredge’s confession of love, his proposal (and his idea that they should adopt the baby), and her refusal.

“Miles will never consent to the marriage, Bea,” she said disconsolately. “I had to tell Christopher that there’s no point in even thinking about it.”

Dimity and Christopher Kittredge?

Beatrix was taken suddenly aback. “But I thought you were interested in Mr. Heelis!” she exclaimed. Mr. Heelis was a frequent visitor at Tower Bank House, and she had assumed that he called to see Dimity. And since Beatrix knew that Mr. Heelis and Dimity’s brother were the best of friends, she had thought it a perfect pairing. She had even envied Dimity, who was free to marry him, if she chose.

“Mr. Heelis?” Dimity managed a sad little laugh. “Whatever gave you that idea, Bea? He’s just a friend, although a good one. And I daresay Miles would never object to
him
.”

“I see,” Beatrix said slowly. “I was wrong.” And with that realization came another thought—not a thought, exactly, more like a feeling, and a rather disturbing one at that. It was a feeling of sudden lightness, as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She felt . . . glad to know that she had been wrong. Why?

But Beatrix put the feeling away, for she didn’t understand it, and anyway, it had nothing to do with Dimity. “Why does your brother object to the major?” she asked, and then answered her own question. “I suppose it has to do with his marriage.”

Dimity nodded sadly. “Miles says that Christopher’s reputation has been ruined, and that if I should ally myself to him, I would be tarred with the same brush.”

“There’s something to that, I suppose,” Beatrix said, thinking that at least the captain’s refusal was stated honestly. It wasn’t hypocritical, like her mother’s rejection of Norman. But why was it that people thought they could tell other people whom they should love? What gave anyone the right to dictate to someone else’s heart? How could Captain Woodcock presume to rule his sister’s life this way?

She turned to Dimity. “Do you love the major, then?”

Dimity sighed. “I’ve loved him since before he went to war, Bea. I’ve never loved anyone else. I never will.” She laughed. “Not even Mr. Heelis, dear as he is.”

Beatrix flicked the reins and Winston moved faster. If she had it to do over—if she had to decide between Norman and her parents—she would do the same thing. But Dimity’s situation was very different. Captain Woodcock did not need Dimity in the same way Mama and Papa needed her. Dimity owed her brother a sister’s respect and affection. She did not owe him obedience.

Beatrix took a deep breath, conscious that she was about to say something very important. “If you love the major, you must marry him, Dimity.”

Dimity gulped down a sob. “But I don’t think I could oppose Miles on this,” she said. “I—”

Beatrix was firm. “But this is not your brother’s business, Dimity. You and Major Kittredge are adults. You are obliged only to yourselves.”

Dimity’s eyes were suddenly bright and hopeful, and she put her hand on Beatrix’s arm. “Oh, Bea, do you think so? Do you really?”

“I do, really.” Beatrix sighed. “I do envy you, Dimity. You have the freedom to choose according to your own wishes. That is not to say that you mustn’t consider your brother’s feelings. But you must put yourself first—at least, I hope you will.”

Dimity thought for a moment, and then the happiness dimmed. “I wish it were that easy, Bea.” She shook her head. “I just cannot imagine myself going against Miles’ wishes. It feels like . . . like a death, somehow.”

“That’s exactly it,” Beatrix said softly. “A death.” She paused. “But as you think about this, imagine living your life with the man you love—and then imagine your life without him. That’s an even worse death, isn’t it?”

After that, there was nothing more to be said.

 
Bordered by a stone wall on one side and an ancient hedge on the other, Glade Lane slanted steeply uphill toward Oatmeal Crag and Long Dale Farm, where the Grahams lived— and where Beatrix hoped to learn something about the blue-checked cloth that had been in the baby’s basket.

“You said Mrs. Graham used to be a midwife,” Beatrix remarked as Winston put his shoulder into the harness for the uphill climb. “She’s isn’t working now?”