The Tale of Hawthorn House (32 page)

“That’s odd, that is,”
said Rascal. He and the two cats were waiting for Miss Barwick just outside the Castle Cottage door.
“Miss Potter fancied that meadow particularly. She wanted it for her Herdwick sheep. I’m surprised to hear she’s selling it.”

“She’s doing it because she wants to please the captain,”
said Crumpet, swatting a fly.

“And how could you happen to know that sentimental trifle?”
inquired Tabitha scornfully.
“You’re making it up.”

“It is not a trifle,”
Crumpet replied in a definitive tone. She narrowed her eyes.
“And I am NOT making it up!”

“Are!”
squalled Tabitha.

“Am NOT!”
yowled Crumpet.

“Girls, GIRLS,
GIRLS!
”
barked Rascal.

“Scat!” cried Mrs. Wilson, coming out of the door with her broom, and so they did.

At the post office, Miss Barwick handed over the loaf of teabread (Mr. Skead’s favorite, which Mrs. Skead could not be bothered to make, because it took too long to soak the fruit in the tea, and the dough had to be set to rise three times). In return, she got the Anvil Cottage post and the news that Miss Potter and the captain had decided not to wait any longer than necessary and would be married just as soon as the banns could be published and the sale of one or two pieces of property arranged. Elsa Grape had already discussed her new employment with the vicar and was right this minute packing her bags in anticipation of Miss Potter’s taking command of the kitchen and housekeeping. Miss Woodcock, sadly, was prostrate with grief at her brother’s refusal to allow her to marry, whilst Major Kittredge, who knew better than to try to get the Army to take him back, had told his staff that he was joining the French Foreign Legion.

“The French Foreign Legion!”
yipped Rascal happily. The animals were sitting on the path, waiting for Miss Barwick to come out.
“I’ll offer to go with him. Every officer needs a keen, quick-witted dog to carry his kit. And I’ve always fancied a trip round the world.”

“I’m sure the vicar is happy that Elsa Grape is coming to do for him,”
Tabitha remarked
. “She’s a much better cook than Mrs. Thompson—her Yorkshire pudding is especially fine.”
She frowned.
“But I wonder how Miss Potter and Miss Woodcock will get along in the same house. I know they’re friends, but—”

“If you ask me,”
Crumpet said wisely,
“the captain won’t want two women living with him. He will probably go to Hill Top Farm, and let his sister have Tower Bank House.”

“Nobody asked you, Crumpet,”
said Tabitha.

Crumpet’s tail began to swell.
“I have a right to my opinion, don’t I?”
she asked hotly.

“As long as you don’t force it on the rest of us,”
Tabitha growled.
“We don’t need your silly speculation.”

“It’s not silly!”
Crumpet defended.
“It’s a perfectly logical solution to a—”

“
It is
very
silly,
” Tabitha said.
“A silly speculation from an exceedingly foolish cat who—”

“Here comes Miss Barwick with her post,”
Rascal put in hastily, before Tabitha could say another word.
“Let’s see where she’s going next.”

30

Dimity Deals with Eggs

There was one item left in Sarah Barwick’s basket: a packet of four Cumberland sausage rolls for Captain and Miss Woodcock at Tower Bank House. Sarah parked her bicycle outside the kitchen door and knocked, with some trepidation. She didn’t want to disturb the house if Dimity was indeed ill. On the other hand, if Elsa Grape (a temperamental sort of person at best) was really packing to leave for her new post at the vicarage, the sausage rolls might save Dimity some work, when it came to luncheon. She was not the best of cooks.

But to Sarah’s surprise, the door was opened by Dimity herself. She was wearing an apron smeared with egg yolk, and she had a spoon in her hand. “Why, good morning, Sarah,” she said happily, stepping back. “How nice to see you. Oh, are those the sausage rolls? Thank you so much for bringing them. Miles will be delighted.”

“You’re welcome, I’m sure,” said Sarah, now rather puzzled. Dimity seemed to be bubbling over with good cheer this morning, when by all rights she ought to be crying her eyes out. She sniffed. The kitchen smelt of lemons. “You’re making lemonade?”

“Lemon curd,” Dimity said happily, pushing the brown hair out of her eyes. “Miles is very partial to it.” She made a little face. “Although I must say, it is not as easy as Mrs. Beeton claims. It wants to go all lumpy.”

Sarah saw behind her on the work table a confusion of pots and bowls, a scattering of caster sugar, several nearly nude lemons, broken egg shells and a puddle of rich yellow yolk, a large tin grater (much abused), an egg beater (likewise), and a butter crock. Mrs. Beeton’s famous cookbook lay facedown in what looked like more egg yolk. On the floor, there were several lemons, a broken egg, and a few bits of butter. And on the kitchen range, a double boiler, from which a little curl of steam arose.

Sarah suppressed a smile. When Dimity indulged in cookery, it was disastrous. Elsa Grape had been known to forbid her the kitchen, because of the amount of mopping-up required afterward.

“And do you have time for tea, dear?” Dimity went on gaily. “If you do, we might as well have it here in the kitchen, since Elsa has gone to the butcher’s shop in Hawkshead.”

Ah, thought Sarah. That explained it. When the cat was away, the mouse could cook up some lemon curd. Well, if cooking made Dimity feel better, she should by all means do it, regardless of the consequences. Anyway, she looked quite charming this morning, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright, her brown hair in untidy ringlets at the edge of her white collar. If Dim was grieving over the demise of her dream, her grief could not be read in her expression.

“Yes, of course, I’ll have tea,” Sarah said, handing over the sausage rolls. “You’re the last stop on my route this morning. Elsa’s at the butcher’s? I thought the boy came round three times a week.”

“He does,” said Dimity, dropping her spoon and the packet of rolls into a drift of sugar. “There’s no dealing with him, though,” she confided, fetching the teapot and two cups. “No beef, ever, only lamb, no matter how I beg and plead. And Miles tries to be brave and pretend it doesn’t matter, but of course he’s sick to death of lamb. It’s deplorable. So I have sent Elsa to the butcher, with instructions to be very stern about beef and pork.” She took down a plate. “Will you have a scone?” She laughed a little. “Although I’m afraid that’s rather like carrying coals to New-castle, isn’t it? I’m sure you’ve baked two batches of scones this morning, and sold half already.”

“True enough,” Sarah admitted, “but you know I always say yes to Elsa’s. Her scones are better than mine, although you mustn’t tell her that.” As Dimity bustled about, she sat down at the table, pushed the grater and the egg beater aside, and took out a packet of cigarettes. Smoking, along with the trousers and the bicycle, marked her as a New Woman. “I’m glad to see you looking so chipper, Dim,” she ventured. “I heard you were ill.”

Outside on the stoop, Tabitha breathed a sigh of relief.
“Miss Woodcock is obviously quite well. Lucy Skead didn’t know what she was talking about.”

“Ill?” Dimity laughed lightly, tossing her head. “My goodness, wherever did you hear that? I’ve never felt better in my life.” She pushed an ashtray in Sarah’s direction. “You see before you a happy woman.”

“Happy?”
barked Rascal.
“After what she’s been through?”

“Happy?” Sarah frowned. “Actually, I didn’t imagine you would be taking it like this. Everyone says you’re prostrate.” She lit her cigarette. “Well, not everyone, exactly. Lucy Skead said it, and Lucy always has the last word. I thought maybe you’d been knocked flat by the latest about the major.”

Startled, Dimity looked up from pouring the tea. “Latest? What latest?”

Sarah put on Lucy Skead’s high-pitched, rattling tone. “That he can’t have you and the Army won’t have him, so he’s gone and joined the French Foreign Legion, poor man.”

“As I said, I’ll be glad to carry his kit,”
Rascal put in.
“I’m ready at a moment’s notice.”

“The Foreign Legion?” Dimity threw back her head and laughed, long peals of laughter. “Dear me! Is that what people are saying?” She set down a plate of scones. “Oh, poor Christopher!”

“That’s what Lucy Skead is saying,” Sarah replied. She cocked her head curiously. “It’s not true, then?”

“No, of course it’s not true.” Dimity sat down, leaned forward, and heedless of egg shells and sugar, put her elbows on the table. “Christopher and I are to be married, Sarah. And if Baby Flora’s parents can’t be found, or if they don’t want her, we’re taking her to live with us.” She beamed. “There. Now wish me joy, for I shall be joyous, I promise. Christopher and I are to live happily ever after, just as in the fairy tales.”

“Married?”
Crumpet cried.

“Married!”
Tabitha shrieked.

“No Foreign Legion for me,”
Rascal said, and hung his head.

“Married!” Sarah exclaimed delightedly. “That’s wonderful, Dim! And oh, yes, yes, yes, I wish you all the happiness in the world, crammed into the hugest basket and overflowing, and every joy your heart could ever possibly hold. But the villagers are saying—”

“I am sure they are saying all manner of silly things,” Dimity replied, with a dismissive toss of her head. “I understand from Mr. Phinn—he actually deigned to pull a few weeds for me out of the pole beans this morning—that Miles may have made an injudicious remark or two at the pub last night.”

Sarah tapped her cigarette ash into the ashtray. “Yes, I think he may have done,” she said with a wry smile.

Dimity smiled blissfully. “But whatever he said, and whatever they think, it doesn’t matter, Sarah. Christopher and I have settled it between us, and with Miles. You would have been proud of the way I stood my ground. I was very strong-minded, exceedingly so. In fact, I don’t know if Miles quite knows what to make of it. I told him that Christopher and I intend to be married, with or without his blessing. And that is that.”

“Dimity Woodcock, you are a treasure!” Sarah cried, clapping her hands. “Congratulations and best wishes and all that rot. No, seriously. I’m thrilled down to my toesies. To think that the mouse found the courage to roar at the lion!” She sobered. “I hope your brother wasn’t too deeply hurt.”

Dimity sighed regretfully. “He’s not terribly pleased. But he’ll come round, I’m sure of it. He will be friends with Christopher yet, just you wait and see if he won’t.” Her mouth set in a determined line. “Anyway, I cannot let my brother live my life for me. If I couldn’t see that for myself, Beatrix made it very clear.”

“There,”
said Tabitha, quite serenely.
“It was our Miss Potter who helped her see the light.”

Sarah put out her cigarette and took up a scone. “I daresay that invoking Bea’s name made it easier for your brother.” She looked around at the mess Dimity had made of Elsa’s clean kitchen. “How is our Elsa taking it?”

“Elsa?” Dimity laughed. “With remarkable grace. She doesn’t like the idea of my raising the baby—a gypsy child and therefore not fit to live with proper folk. But she’s glad to have me gone and out of the way. She’ll have Miles all to herself, the way it was before I came here.”

“All to herself?” Sarah blinked.

“Well, yes. She’s been with him for a very long time, you know.”

“Yes, I know, but—” Sarah paused. “She’s said to be going to the vicarage. She hasn’t given in her notice yet?”

“To the vicarage!” Dimity exclaimed anxiously. “I knew the vicar was looking for someone to come in and do for him, but I never imagined that Elsa would leave Miles. Heavens above! What will he do? And why would she?”

“It’s all on account of Bea, I think,” said Sarah. She smiled. “Of course, I’m just spectacularizing, as Bertha Stubbs says, but I’m sure that Elsa doesn’t relish the idea of taking orders from our Miss Potter, who will certainly have her own ways of doing things here.”

“Taking orders from—?” Dimity asked. “You’re saying that Miles and Bea—” Her eyes widened and her hands flew to her mouth, as the light suddenly dawned. “You’re telling me that they are going to be married? My brother and . . . and Beatrix Potter?”

Sarah stared. “You didn’t know?”

“Of course I didn’t know!” Dimity squealed. “Miles is always so closed-mouth about his personal affairs. He’d never discuss anything like that with me. But I couldn’t be happier, of course. Beatrix will be wonderful for him. I’ve been thinking and scheming and plotting how I could get him to see that it is a perfect match, and all along he . . . and she—”

“The thing I don’t understand,” Sarah said slowly, frowning, “is why Bea hasn’t mentioned it to me. Not a word. Not even a syllable. Has she said anything to you?”

“No, but then she mightn’t. She’s a very private person, you know. Most likely, she and Miles have decided not to tell anyone, hoping to keep it to themselves as long as possible.”

Sarah nodded. “That’s certainly true. Well, it’s out now. The village is talking about nothing else—except that you are prostrate with grief, of course, and that the major has run off to join the Foreign Legion.”

Dimity rolled her eyes. “Christopher will be so amused when I tell him,” she said. “But what shall we do about Miles and Bea, Sarah? We ought to surprise them.”

“We should have a party,” Sarah said, finishing her scone.

“We should, indeed!” Dimity exclaimed, and then laughed delightedly. “What am I thinking? We
are
having a party, tomorrow night. And Miles was positively insistent on inviting Bea.”

“Well, then, that’s when they are planning to make the announcement.”

“I am sure you’re right,” Dimity replied. “Originally, there were to be just four of us—Miles and Bea and Mr. Heelis and I. But I have invited Christopher, so there will be five.” She gave Sarah an intent look. “But that will leave poor Mr. Heelis as odd man out. You must come, Sarah, and then we shall be six.”