The Cottage in the Woods (12 page)

At last, Friday evening arrived, and I looked forward to accepting the vicar’s supper invitation as a kind of reward for my suffering. I took some care with my appearance, more as a way of reviving my spirits than with any hope of impressing anyone with my great beauty. I had never seen myself as anything other than a plain, unremarkable she-bear. My snout was too short, and it was said that my eyes were too intense to be really pleasing, but I trusted the principle that no one who was healthy and well groomed could look too bad. And so I combed my fur, and dabbed my throat with rose water, and put on my good bonnet. The one shadow on my horizon was that I must travel again through the great woods along the front drive. I told myself how unlikely it was that whoever or whatever had followed me the week before would still be lying in wait, but I could not altogether erase my uneasiness.

I opened the front door and hesitated. As I looked down the drive, trying to magically divine any untoward presence, a deep voice from behind startled me. “Going out, Miss Brown?” I jumped, turning, only to find myself looking directly into Mr. Bentley’s snout.

“Oh!” I said, nonplussed.

“Are you going out, Miss Brown?” he repeated. He was wearing his coat and top hat as if prepared for town himself.

“Yes,” I said. “Alone.”

“Wouldn’t you prefer some accompaniment, Miss Brown? How far are you going?”

I wondered how I could answer him without speaking to him, but could think of no way to do so. “I’m going to the vicarage. Alone,” I repeated.

“Imagine. I am going just that way. In fact, I was going to stop and say hello to the vicar myself. What a happy coincidence.”

I made no response, but walked out the door and started down the drive. Mr. Bentley fell into step beside me. I walked faster, but Mr. Bentley easily kept up with me. I could go no faster without breaking into a run, and I was unwilling to make myself absurd, so I slowed down and took another tack. “Really, Mr. Bentley, meaning no disrespect to you, of course, but I prefer to be alone.”

“Of course,” he repeated, and tipped his hat to me. He halted as I walked ahead, and then fell into line a little way behind me and began whistling off-tune through his teeth. This state of affairs seemed no less absurd than trying to outrun him, but at least it spared me from further conversation with him. Despite this, I felt his presence keenly, and as he whistled the silly tune, it seemed as if he were practically breathing down my neck. At last, facing him, I said, “Really, Mr. Bentley, you are almost treading on my heels. Do you mind?”

Again he stopped and tipped his hat, and I went on. I had gone a little distance when I heard him call out to me. “Miss Brown? Excuse me, Miss Brown?”

Exasperated, I turned to him. He was a good thirty paces behind.

“Is this far enough, do you suppose? Or shall I make it a bit farther?”

He was too distant for me to see it well, but I was certain that there was a smirk on his face. I resumed walking, perfectly aware that he was laughing at me, and not knowing whether to be offended or to laugh at myself. A smile started at the corners of my mouth unbidden, but I took great care that he should not see it. This bear was too clever by half, and I refused to let him get the better of me.

I put my head down, concealing my face in the shadow of my bonnet, and continued without further comment.

And so things went, without another word, until I arrived at the vicarage, next door to the little church. It occurred to me then that at least I had not been troubled by the thought of anyone stalking me in the woods. Nevertheless, when I tapped the door knocker, I fervently hoped I would be admitted before Mr. Bentley caught up with me. I hoped in vain. Mr. Bentley reached the door just as it was opened by a harried young girl in a servant’s uniform. She showed us into a cozy parlor full of knickknacks and overstuffed furniture, with a cheerful fire blazing on the hearth. Though the flowered wallpaper was a bit faded, and the cushions a trifle worn, still the room seemed redolent of many companionable hours spent within its walls. Reverend Snover welcomed us effusively, and introduced his wife, a white-haired, apple-cheeked little woman. Her eyes shone bright and merry, and her wrinkles etched lines of both sorrow and laughter on her face. I was drawn to her immediately as she enfolded my paw in her hands and greeted me in her kindly way. Mr. Bentley seemed well acquainted with the two of them, and fell into conversation with them straightaway, so that I wondered how many evenings he had spent here.

“Jonathan, how fortunate that you have come by!” the vicar
enthused. “You must join us for supper. We’ll have Maggie set another place directly.”

For a moment I cringed inwardly, my heart sinking as I saw the evening ruined, but I was granted a reprieve.

“I do beg your pardon,” Mr. Bentley responded, “but I just stopped to say hello. I’m afraid I must be on my way. I’ve a little party to attend on the other side of town.”

Reverend Snover looked taken aback, but quickly regained his composure. Clapping Mr. Bentley on the shoulder, he answered, “Of course. Of course,” then added under his breath, “Be careful! And if I can be of any help …” He let the sentence trail off as they shook hands and Mr. Bentley took his leave.

I did not immediately know what to make of this exchange. It was only later that I connected Mr. Bentley’s “little party to attend on the other side of town” with the covert warning I had overheard Fairchild giving Cook that there would be “the Devil to pay” that Friday night in Bremen Town. Such was my ignorance at the time that I was merely relieved that he wouldn’t be staying, and then forgot the matter altogether amid the pleasantries of the evening.

Reverend Snover made a grand host, with a memory as sharp as a pin, generously sharing a wealth of anecdotes from his teaching days at the university: stories of my father and mother, and Mr. Vaughn, as students, and of their exploits there. I marveled at his portrayals of my parents as young people, only a few years older than I was myself. He told tales of great academic achievement and lively intellectual exchange, of parties and pranks. I laughed aloud when he told me about a whole flock of sheep found shut up in the lecture hall, the culprits suspected
but never identified. I could hardly imagine that my parents had ever been so young themselves.

The harried little maid served a simple but tasty supper: roly-poly pudding, boiled potatoes and carrots, and apple pie for dessert, all with that home-cooked flavor. The good reverend went on painting his retrospective with such broad strokes of warmth and humor that I laughed away the evening. Only after dessert was over and we sat gathered about the fire did the laughter mellow into quiet conversation, and Reverend Snover did his best to draw me out about my life with Papa and about how I was faring in my new position with the Vaughns. As tempted as I was to pour out my heart to him, something stayed me. I barely knew these people yet, and I still feared to be disbelieved if I cast aspersions on an old family servant like Nurse. I told him of Papa raising me after Mama died, and about his years as headmaster at his small school. I spoke a little of my education at Miss Pinchkin’s Academy for Young Ladies. As for the Vaughns, I talked only of Teddy and how much I enjoyed him. I believe Reverend Snover may have known that some trouble afflicted me, but, if so, he left it to me to choose whether to share it in my own good time—for which I was most grateful.

The evening slowly drew to a close, and though we had only shared a short time together, they gave me the feeling that they would watch over me like the grandparents I had never had, and my heart warmed toward them. I had just had a flash of panic about going out into the darkness when Reverend Snover insisted upon walking me home. Too relieved to protest, I tied my bonnet under my chin and wrapped myself in my shawl, thanking Mrs. Snover for her kind hospitality as she saw us to the entryway. Even as we spoke, events were conspiring to drastically
change the course of the evening. First, a frantic knock at the door. The maid moved as if to answer it, but the vicar waved her away and answered it himself. I was startled to see Fairchild standing there, hat in hand, asking quietly if Reverend Snover could speak to him.

“Excuse me, would you, my dear?” the reverend said to me. He stepped outside and closed the door. I could hear their low, urgent voices, but I could not discern anything that was said. The interview lasted but a minute, and then the reverend came back inside and turned to me. “I’m afraid there is a problem. Some gentlemen in rather desperate circumstances require my assistance. I wonder if you might lend a helping hand. I warn you, there could be trouble involved.”

Trouble involved? I was mystified, and a little excited, by the urgency in his voice. Trusting to his judgment, I asked, “What can I do?”

“Do you play, my dear?” he asked.

“Play?” I repeated.

“The pianoforte, or the organ. Do you play? We have need of an accompanist. My wife is not musically inclined.”

“Yes, I play a little,” I answered. “I could accompany you.”

“Good. Good. That will be splendid. We’re having a rehearsal of the men’s choir, you see. Just come into the sanctuary with us, and—please!—whatever happens, don’t say a word. Hurry. This way.” He lit a lantern and stepped out into the night.

Following him to the little church, I wondered what could be transpiring that a choir rehearsal could require such urgency and secrecy, but I dared not ask. Inside, Fairchild awaited us with a tense gathering of Forest folk, a score of men, bears, badgers, and others, among whom I was astonished to see Mr.
Vaughn and Mr. Bentley. As the reverend led me to the organ, they all filed into the choir loft, lighting the tapers and quickly distributing hymnals. I observed that Mr. Bentley looked totally altered from the dapper, sanguine gentleman I had lately seen: his neckcloth was dirty and disarranged, his expression strained, and his movements clumsy. He was squeezed in closely on either side by Mr. Vaughn and Fairchild, as if they were holding him up. I wondered briefly if he could be drunk.

“Page 102,” Reverend Snover announced. “ ‘Blest Be the Tie That Binds.’ ” There was a flurry of page turning, and I began to play. One by one the assorted gentlemen chimed in uncertainly and sang. At least one could call it singing; it was vocal, and occasionally someone hit a random right note, but the effort was dissonant and distracted. It would not have surprised me then to learn the truth: that there had never been a men’s choir before that night.

“Louder! Louder! With confidence!” the vicar called out. We were rounding in on verse three when the door banged open and several constables stepped in. “Keep playing,” the vicar hissed to me as he conducted the motley choir. The discordant chorus continued as the constables looked the group over and the chief constable bellowed, “May I have a word with you, Reverend?”

I kept playing until the vicar signaled me to stop, then he called out, “What can I do for you fine gentlemen?”

The chief constable, whom I was to hear of later as Constable Murdley, swelled noticeably with self-importance and obvious malice. He was a burly human, looking for all the world like a bullmastiff in uniform. “We’re looking for some troublemakers, Reverend. Traced them this way from the other side of Bremen Town. They’ve been disturbing the peace and assaulting
good citizens in the streets. We think one of them was injured. Have you seen any criminal types hereabouts, or seen anything unusual at all?”

“Criminal types!” the vicar said. “Saints preserve us! No, I’ve seen no criminal types. Has anyone here seen anything unusual at all?” The assembled choir looked innocently at each other and solemnly shook their heads. No, they had seen nothing unusual.

Suddenly the mention of Bremen Town impacted me with its full meaning. I had heard Fairchild telling Cook that “the society” would be instigating some sort of trouble on the other side of town. I could only suppose that these hardy souls who made up the “men’s choir” might be the “criminal types” the constable was looking for. Perhaps they had interfered with the society’s plans in some way, and it seemed there had been a fight. It came to me too that Fairchild had said the whole constabulary, and even the judge, were hand in hand with the society. A chill unsettled me as I realized what was at stake with this little charade, and my paws began to tremble so that I was uncertain whether I would be able to play again if called upon. I clenched them tightly in my lap and waited.