The Cottage in the Woods (23 page)

“They’ve no shame at all!” I heard one bear say as I went back to playing the hymns.

“How can we stop it?” others began to ask.

“We can’t, but maybe we can beat Babcock at his own game. Mr. Weatherby,” inquired Mr. Vaughn, “what if I asked you to work for me? With you as our editor, we can set up our own printing press, have our own newspaper, tell people what’s really going on. We can work out of my basement if we’ve nowhere else. I’ll be the backer.”

“I would be pleased and honored to become your editor, sir,” said Mr. Weatherby. “If we can publish our own paper, we can shed some light on the ugly facts!”

There were cheers and cries of approbation. “And we’ll deliver them!” cried one, and the others quickly joined in. “We’ll all deliver them!”

It was an exhilarating moment, and I happened to be playing “Take Up Thy Cross” when the weasel watching at the door gave us the signal that someone was coming. My heart seemed to do a somersault, and I lost my place as I realized that this was where the intrigue really began. Reverend Snover gave me a reassuring smile, and I tried to focus on the page in front of me, knowing that these men were counting on me to play my part, and I must not let them down. “Page 160!” I called out, and everyone started humming along, frantically flipping pages, joining in with the words when they found the place. By the time the door opened and Chief Constable Murdley walked in, there was some semblance of a choir singing, with Reverend
Snover conducting, and me silently thanking Papa for all those years of piano lessons. Constable Murdley made himself comfortable in a back pew and settled down to listen, leaving us to wonder why. Did he still harbor suspicions about the men’s choir, after all, or did he just like music? If it was the latter, he was doomed to disappointment. I played all four verses with the choir limping along in something like three-part harmony, and then Reverend Snover shouted out the next hymn number and we went through the whole process again with “He Leadeth Me, O Blessed Thought” and “Rise Up, O Men of God.” Still, Constable Murdley sat and listened, and Reverend Snover stopped the proceedings a few times to correct some minor points, or to encourage the tenors or baritones to sing out, apparently for a touch of realism. I admired his panache, a little surprised to find such a talent for subterfuge in an elderly man of God. I myself was making enough nervous mistakes to cast doubt on the whole endeavor, but no one seemed to notice. I could feel the perspiration dampening my brow as the charade went on for another half hour. At last Constable Murdley stood up and ambled out the door appearing satisfied with himself. Breathing a sigh of relief, I played on until the watch weasel signaled that the constable was well out of range.

“Now, then,” Reverend Snover commenced. “Where were we?”

“The new printing press,” put in Mr. Vaughn. “I’ll order the machinery delivered with all possible speed. It may be a month or more before we’re set up and ready to print. In the meantime, if Mr. Weatherby would look into hiring or training whatever staff he will need, the rest of us can be on the lookout for likely stories, stories that the
Town Crier
would never print. We will give our citizens the plain truth.”

“The
Plain Truth
! A great name for our paper!” called out an enthusiastic badger, amid cries of agreement.

Mr. Vaughn smiled and nodded. “So it is. So it is.” And so it was decided.

The meeting was soon over, and it seemed to me that, despite Constable Murdley’s interference, the men’s choir had gone from a discouraged group of martyrs to a hopeful band of mutineers in the course of the evening.

“Until next time, friends,” said the reverend. “Keep your eyes and ears open and your lips closed. And look out for one another. God go with you.”

Though I found myself in this period of my life greatly occupied by work and study, I did have one amusement left to me, and I looked forward to it all the week long. It had become the regular custom for me to dine on Saturday evenings at the vicar’s, along with Mr. Bentley and whatever interesting company the Snovers had assembled. Reverend and Mrs. Snover seemed to know all the most colorful characters in the town and countryside, and none of them were nearly so dull and straitlaced as I had at first feared they might be. I had met a charming old lady there, Lavinia Hubbard, following the opening of the first gallery show of her paintings. Hers was a fascinating story of having been discovered at the age of seventy-eight by a great art connoisseur. Her cupboard, which had once been bare, was now full to overflowing. She often came to these soirees with the Little Crooked Man, a fearsome literary critic by the name of Snark, whose twisted perspective of the world he had adapted into a flourishing career. We were often joined by some of the
local Enchanted creatures, and Mr. Bentley and I were always included in the mix as the young people. I had become accustomed to similar gatherings when Papa had occasionally invited his circle of scholarly friends in for an evening at our home. Though much of their conversations had gone over my head, I enjoyed grasping at their meanings, and I felt it a special treat to be included.

On the night of the first snowfall, Mr. Bentley and I, accompanied by Cook, and Harry with his musket, were heading to the vicarage. Cook was coming to help out the Snovers’ maid, Maggie, for the evening, and Harry was our faithful guardian. We had come to the vicar’s front door when a strange bear in a black greatcoat entered ahead of us. In the friendly confusion that results when everyone is arriving at once and taking off their outer accoutrements, the young stranger seemed to hold himself apart, but the vicar immediately pulled him into the chattering circle and introduced him as Reverend Abraham Wright, his new curate. “Fresh out of seminary! Here to assist an old man in his ministerial duties. He’ll increase the spiritual quality of the parish by one with his presence, and by many with his salutary influence.”

Reverend Wright looked awkward and embarrassed, but smiled stoically and nodded to the company at large. Despite his obvious youth, he wore an air of considerable gravity. It was as if the social occasion were not a thing to take lightly, but a challenge requiring unyielding strength of character to survive. He was tall and spare, with his fur brushed back severely, and his classical features were overwhelmed by a thick pair of spectacles, so that he looked ecclesiastical and bookish. I was just imagining what sort of literature he might generally like to read when
we heard a loud knock—more of a kick, really—and cheerful voices calling out. When the maid opened the door, I beheld a donkey, a dog, a cat, and a rooster, each of them a little bony and gray with age. Our hostess introduced them as Wallace, Zeke, Tallulah, and Ernest, respectively, the Bremen Town Musicians. Intrigued, I quickly observed that their motions were all in unison, as if keeping time with some inaudible metronome. I selfishly hoped that they would favor us with a musical performance later in the evening, but even more I was curious about the turns their lives had taken since that fateful night when their house had been burned to the ground.

As we all went in to dinner, Reverend Wright shyly offered me his arm, and I could not refuse without being rude. I took my seat next to him, expecting very little of him by way of conversation. Indeed, he was rather quiet, but I noticed he took an intense interest in each speaker as the conversation traveled about the table. He seemed to be divining their deepest characters, so that I felt reluctant to draw attention to myself by contributing to the discourse. Nevertheless, his attention did focus on me, and there it remained, until I began to wonder whether something was actually amiss with my apparel or grooming. Mr. Bentley, who sat across from me, broke the spell by inquiring whether Reverend Wright planned on joining the men’s choir. It was an innocent enough question on the surface, but one with an important meaning for those brave souls resisting the injustices of the Anthropological Society. A hush fell over the table. All eyes turned to the curate. I could not help but wonder if he had any inkling of the troubles in this seemingly peaceful little parish. He looked around, taking in the whole gathering, cleared his throat, and stated that his singing voice was possibly
the worst in three counties, but that he would consider it his duty to assist the men’s choir in such ways as he could. Mr. Bentley and Reverend Snover exchanged quick glances, the reverend almost imperceptibly nodding in the affirmative. From this I inferred that the curate did indeed understand the true nature of the men’s choir, and was committed to their cause. After that, I was inclined to be sympathetic to him.

Mrs. Snover, in her grandmotherly way, made an effort to draw him out, asking questions about his background and family. It was then that he artlessly confessed that the bishop had suggested to him that he take a wife. I was suddenly stricken with the thought that his attention to me had some deeper purpose, and I felt myself blushing furiously. Thankfully, no one could see it. Though some of the girls at Miss Pinchkin’s Academy had thought of nothing but love and marriage, I had always held myself separate from such ambitions. I thought I must take care now to keep my conduct to him cordial, but not encouraging.

As the evening progressed, the conversation turned from the usual lively topics of religion and politics to more eclectic subjects. There was some debate about the validity of the research techniques of those controversial historians the Brothers Grimm. When that subject was exhausted, there was hearsay and gossip about the habits and eccentricities of the aristocracy. I enjoyed listening to the give-and-take, though I did not contribute much myself. One might have expected some inhibition in consideration of the clergymen in our midst. In reality Reverend Snover and his good wife seemed to possess such largeness of spirit that all foibles were seen as endearing, and all subjects food for thought. In such a welcoming environment, ideas flowed
freely about the company. Only Reverend Wright was reserved. His face remained impassive, but his eyes took everything in with manifest interest, always seeming to return to me when he thought I wasn’t looking.

Mrs. Snover noticed my discomfort and, turning to Reverend Wright, claimed his attention by asking him whether he had much association with the sons of the nobility while at seminary.

Blinking several times, as if making an effort to switch his focus to her, he answered, “Well, yes, I suppose you could say that. My roommate in my last year was the second son of a baron, but of course younger sons in this land inherit nothing; they are simply commoners.”

Here Reverend Snover, who had been listening to the exchange, broke in, saying, “Ah, yes, but commoners with a difference. Ask our own Mr. Bentley here. He is the younger son of a viscount, and has grown up among lords and ladies. What do you say, Mr. Bentley, has your background given you an advantage?”

I was so stunned by this revelation that I very nearly choked on my sweetmeats as every eye turned to Mr. Bentley.

Mr. Bentley did not seem at all pleased by this attention, and he thought for a moment before he spoke. “For myself, I have had many advantages, not least of which was a rigorous education. Of course, I have also had the example before me of my elder brother, so petted and indulged as the heir that he really had no chance to learn self-discipline or self-reliance. I now consider myself much the more fortunate of the two, as a simple commoner.” He said this with a searching look in my direction, as if to elicit my response, and I returned it with a reassuring smile. Though I had been momentarily put off by
the disclosure of his noble ancestry, his pronouncement served to dispel any fear that he was not still the same, congenial Mr. Bentley that I had perceived him to be. I only hoped he would volunteer more about his history, as I did not like to question him, despite my curiosity.

“Remarkable that you have not suffered any of the weakness of character generally displayed by those of the upper classes …,” Reverend Wright proposed, trailing off into silence as he apparently realized that he had just insulted Mr. Bentley’s entire family and perhaps many of his acquaintances as well.

“Yes. Isn’t it, though,” Mr. Bentley replied evenly.

“Oh, do excuse me if I’ve offended. I’ve such a talent for saying the wrong thing,” said the flustered curate. He closed his mouth abruptly and looked at his plate. I felt sorry for him, as I believed that he had meant no harm.

“I suppose that people and creatures come in all stripes, whatever their station in life,” said Mrs. Snover, in an attempt to smooth things over. “And what a dull world it would be if they did not! Of course, here in the Enchanted Forest, the popular tendency is to blame everything on magic.”

“Yes, and whose magic?” Mother Hubbard joined in. “Why, the way people tell it, the whole land is just teeming with witches, wicked fairies, and evil old crones, all of them casting spells and curses, poisoning apples, eating small children. You’d think little old ladies were the most dangerous characters in creation!”