The Tale of Castle Cottage (8 page)

As you will know if you have ever lived in one, there is no keeping a secret in a village. Word had gotten out about the engagement, and Beatrix had almost become accustomed to people’s curiosity about it. She liked and admired Mrs. Rosier, whose birding skills were second to none, but she heard the slight hesitation and wondered what it meant. She didn’t want to ask, though. Instead, she delivered the little speech she had been giving when people offered their best wishes.

“Thank you. We’ve set no date for the wedding, though. There are my parents’ needs to be considered. They are elderly and my father is in ill health. And we’ve nowhere to live at the moment,” she added in the offhand way she had practiced. She didn’t want to give the impression that it was only her parents who were keeping them from marrying.

Mrs. Rosier tilted her head curiously. “Then you and Mr. Heelis don’t intend to live at Hill Top?”

“I’m afraid it’s rather small,” Beatrix replied. “I want to keep it just as it is, as a place where I can paint and read.” She had already talked her decision over with Will, who had agreed that she should do as she pleased with the house and the farm. “Mr. Biddle is renovating Castle Cottage,” she went on, “where we mean to live when we marry.”
If
we marry, she almost added, but didn’t.

“Oh, dear.” Mrs. Rosier rolled her eyes. “I fear that I’ve had my own unfortunate experience with our Mr. Biddle, who paid almost no attention to my instructions and made it easy for one of his workmen to—” She broke off with a sigh.

“To what?” Beatrix asked sharply, thinking of what Sarah had told her.

Mrs. Rosier shook herself. “I shouldn’t really like to say, my dear. No sense in stirring up a hornet’s nest, especially since nothing can be proved. But it seems that our Mr. Biddle is sweet on Ruth Safford, the barmaid at the Tower Bank Arms.” She nodded in the direction of the pub. “He’s probably there right now, drinking in her charms. Take my word for it, Miss Potter—if your marriage depends upon Mr. Biddle’s finishing the cottage, you and Mr. Heelis had better plan to wait another year or two.” She held out her hand with a bright smile. “Now, I really must get on. I’m told that a pair of great crested grebes are nesting on Esthwaite Water, and I’m off to snap their picture. Best wishes, Miss Potter. I am sure that you and Mr. Heelis will be quite, quite happy. Ta.”

And with that, she hurried away.

Still wondering just what Mrs. Rosier might have been hinting at, Beatrix went on past the joiner’s and Mr. Crook’s blacksmith’s shop, where Mr. Crook was clanging away at a red-hot iron bar while his helper pumped the forge bellows. Then, a little way up the lane, Beatrix met Hannah Braithwaite, who was just leaving Croft End Cottage to go and have tea with Elsa Grape at Tower Bank House.

Beatrix inquired about the health of Mrs. Braithwaite’s children, both of whom had been sick with summer sore throats. Mrs. Braithwaite inquired if Miss Potter had any idea when the renovations at Castle Cottage would be finished, by which she really meant to ask when the wedding would take place. Beatrix (who understood the unspoken question perfectly) replied that Mr. Biddle was not yet able to give her a completion date, and Mrs. Braithwaite sighed and said that was always the way of it, wasn’t it? What with bad weather and lack of supplies and unreliable workmen who came and went as they jolly well pleased, building anything always took three times as long as it jolly well should.

Then, with the air of one who was confiding a deeply held secret, Mrs. Braithwaite added that Mr. Braithwaite had told her that Mr. Biddle had given the sack to one of the carpenters up at Castle Cottage and hadn’t hired another. Which only meant more delay, she was sorry to say.

Beatrix, who was only half paying attention to this chitterchatter, perked up her ears, for Mrs. Braithwaite was married to Constable John Braithwaite and might therefore know what she was talking about.

“Sacked a carpenter?” she asked. “Who? Do you know why?”

“‘Twas Lewis Adcock, from over in Far Sawrey,” Mrs. Braithwaite replied. “Mr. Braithwaite said Mr. Biddle said t’ man couldn’t be trusted.”

“Mr. Adcock?” Beatrix was shocked. “Why, the man worked for me at Hill Top last year. I found him not only to be a skilled carpenter but exceedingly trustworthy.”

“Folks do speak well o’ t’ man,” Mrs. Braithwaite replied with a little shrug. She hazarded a smile. “I cert‘nly hope sackin’ Mr. Adcock woan’t delay t’ work at Castle Cottage, Miss Potter. I’m sure you mean to put t’ house to a good use. Will you be lookin’ for a new tenant, or will you . . . ?”

She paused, inviting Beatrix to say that she and Mr. Heelis would be occupying Castle Cottage as soon as they were married.

Beatrix was tempted to tell Mrs. Braithwaite that her plans for the house were nobody’s business but her own. But she left the question hanging in the air, smiled as sweetly as possible, and escaped as soon as she could, still wondering whether Mr. Adcock was Sarah’s thief. It was too bad that Sarah couldn’t tell her who had sold the door handles to Henry Stubbs.

She was turning the corner when Mathilda Crook came down the lane with a basket containing a bundle of mail and a jar of currant jelly. The mail was destined for the post and the jar of jelly for the postmistress, Lucy Skead, who knew all the latest village gossip and was always glad to share what she knew, especially when she was primed with a jar of jelly or a basket of fresh buns, as Mrs. Crook never failed to be.

Beatrix, who by this time was rather out of temper with interruptions, inquired about Mrs. Crook’s summer garden, and Mrs. Crook inquired about the health of Miss Potter’s mother and father. Of course, what Mrs. Crook really wanted to know was whether the Potters showed any signs of either relenting or dying, in order that Beatrix could marry Mr. Heelis.

Beatrix replied that her mother was enjoying fair health and spirits during her summer holiday, thank you, and that her father was as well as could be expected.

Mrs. Crook smiled and observed that Mr. and Mrs. Potter were indeed fortunate to have a daughter who so generously dedicated her life to looking after them, and Beatrix bit her tongue to keep from saying anything even halfway truthful.

And then at last Beatrix was able to be on her way. She walked briskly up the hill until she reached Castle Cottage, where she unlatched the gate and went into the unkempt garden, surveying the scene with a heavy sigh. She had seen no point in keeping up the garden, and it was looking shamefully neglected, full of weeds and brambles. She noticed an unhappy stand of rhubarb, a climbing rose that desperately wanted pruning, and a scattering of forlorn daisies nearly smothered with weeds. There was a broken urn, pieces scattered on the ground, and nearby was a wooden bench, the slats splintered. But worst of all were the untidy stacks of boards and piles of roof slates and plumbing pipes and other building materials. Surely there ought to be a neater way to store supplies—in the barn, perhaps, where they would be out of the weather. And the rubble ought to go into the dustbin, oughtn’t it? The place was a mess. Simply a mess.

Beatrix had paid a great deal less for Castle Farm than she had paid for Hill Top, and even though the buildings and fences all needed improvements, she thought it a very good buy at the price—only £1,573, not counting her investment in repair and renovation. Its twenty acres adjoined some she had already purchased and included some pastures and a pretty woods. Will, who had arranged the purchase, suggested that she allow the tenants to stay on, which she had done for a time, and their rents had paid some of the bills. But when the necessary renovations to the barns and outbuildings and drains were finished and it was time to begin on the house, she had helped them find another place. Castle Cottage was now vacant—a very good thing, she thought as she looked around, for it would be impossible for anyone to live with this construction mess and noise all around them.

Noise. Beatrix cocked her head, but if she was hoping to hear the sound of busy hammers and industrious saws, she was disappointed. There was nothing at all to be heard except the sound of men’s rough laughter. As she picked her way through the littered garden and around the corner of the house, she saw them. It was well past lunching, but two workmen were sitting on a pile of rubble, smoking and trading jokes. Mr. Maguire, who was supposed to make sure that the crew stayed on the job and did the work the way it was meant to be done, was nowhere in sight, nor was Mr. Biddle.

This was most annoying, she thought, frowning. She hated confrontations, but it was time she had a talk with Mr. Biddle. There was Sarah’s unsettling report about the theft of the door handles. And there were Mrs. Rosier’s ominous hints of something amiss. She squared her shoulders. She had several urgent questions for the man. Their conversation must not be put off.

At that moment, the two workers looked up and saw her and elbowed one another into silence. One—a bearded fellow in a leather jerkin over a dirty blue work shirt—lifted a tin cup in salute.

“Halloo there, missus,” he called. “Fine afternoon, ain’t it?” Both of them burst out laughing uproariously, as if he had said something very clever and funny.

At that moment, a man came around the corner and spoke sharply to the fellows, then turned and came toward Beatrix. It was Mr. Maguire, Mr. Biddle’s second-in-command, with whom Beatrix had spoken a time or two. He was a lean, sinewy man with dark hair and powerful arms, his bare sleeves rolled past the elbows. He wore brown work pants, a leather apron with pockets for tools and nails, and he carried a folded wooden rule in his hand. He looked harassed and (she thought) rather guilty, perhaps because he smelled strongly of beer and knew he should not be drinking on the job.

“Sorry, Miss Potter,” he said gruffly. “The men di‘n’t mean nothin’.” He paused, eyeing her. “Was you wantin’ to go in t’ house?”

“I . . . I don’t suppose Mr. Biddle is here,” Beatrix said uncomfortably.

Remembering what Sarah had told her, she felt stiff and awkward. Of course, Sarah herself had said that it could very well be untrue. Bertha Stubbs was very good at manufacturing news when she ran out of the real thing. Beatrix badly wanted to get to the bottom of things, which she might do by simply asking Mr. Maguire a direct question or two. But she couldn’t do that without speaking to Mr. Biddle first.

“Mr. Biddle?” Mr. Maguire hesitated, then said, almost reluctantly, “Maybe I’m talkin’ out of turn like, but truth is, me an’ t’ boys was wonderin’ ourselves. He was s‘posed to be here at eight this mornin’. Hasn’t been heard from all day.” He gave her a crooked smile. “But if you was wantin’ to walk through t’ house and see what’s been done, I’d be glad to—”

“No, no,” Beatrix interrupted him. “I’m waiting for Mr. Heelis. We’ll walk through the house together. But thank you, Mr. Maguire. I appreciate the offer.”

Her spirits sinking, she turned away. The whole business was terribly disheartening. She was beginning to feel that the house would never be finished and the garden would always be a wreck. But perhaps none of this mattered, for at this moment, in her deepest heart of hearts, she had almost given up hope that she and Will would ever be able to marry. Her father might not live much longer; he was ill and required the attention of a nurse. But her mother (who was likely to live for another twenty years or more) maintained that she would always need her daughter close at hand. Will had been terribly patient so far, but heaven only knew how much longer that would last. He was younger than she by five years, a good-looking man and widely respected by all who knew him. He deserved a wife who could make a home for him. It wasn’t fair to keep him waiting.

Beatrix turned to find Mr. Maguire watching her—almost furtively, she thought, and wondered if he was trying to cover up for Mr. Biddle. She almost said something, but he stepped away, gave a little wave, and went back to his work.

She looked past him at the old house. It almost seemed to be frowning crossly at her, as if it were telling her to stop this silly business of trying to pretty it up, to remedy its many glaring flaws. It didn’t look much like a home, she thought bleakly. It didn’t even look as if it
wanted
to be a home. Its windows were like blind eyes, the new construction at the eastern end looked like the bare bones of an emaciated skeleton, and the scabby gray limewash on its old walls was peeling away as if it were infected with a horrible skin disease.

“I am not worth fixing,” it seemed to say. “I am what I am, and there’s no changing me. So you might as well go away and stop wasting your time.”

Her unhappy thought was interrupted by the chug-chug of a motor coming up the hill—Will’s motorcycle, which he frequently rode over from Hawkshead, where he and his partner had their law office. The motor stopped, and Beatrix’s heavy heart lightened at the sight of him, climbing off his motorcycle, pulling off his leather helmet, straightening his tweed jacket and his brown tie. She was glad to see him, oh, she was glad! Now that he was here, they could go through the house and make a list of what needed to be done. And she would ask him to go with her to talk to Mr. Biddle, so she wouldn’t have to face that unpleasant task alone.

Beatrix walked to the gate and waited, and when Will strode to meet her, she held out her hand, putting on her best and bravest smile, although she didn’t feel at all brave at the moment.

But Will was not smiling. He wore an uncharacteristically troubled look, and his brown eyes were dark. “Sorry to be late, my dear,” he said, running a hand through his hair, matted and damp from the helmet. “Afraid I was delayed at the office. Have you been waiting long?”

Will Heelis was tall and slender, with the look (as one friend put it) of a “rather sweet old-fashioned English gentleman of the kind that one reads about in Dickens.” His hair was brown, and even though he tried to keep it neatly combed back, it often fell across his forehead in a boyish shock. His eyes were brown and crinkled at the corners when he smiled. He was a keen sportsman and loved to fish and hunt and bowl and dance—country dancing, that is. He was one of the Hawkshead morris dancers, who put on exhibition dances at many of the local fairs. He was reserved and modest, and his shyness often kept him from enjoying formal parties and social occasions, where people who scarcely knew one another were expected to chat without saying anything at all substantial.