The Tale of Cuckoo Brow Wood (18 page)

Mrs. Lythecoe put up her umbrella and called to Sarah to join her under its shelter. It was beginning to rain.

 
Up Market Street, at Croft End, Hannah Braithwaite was admonishing her eldest daughter to watch the baby carefully, mind that the children stayed well away from the lamps, and keep little Jack from going into the garden and getting his feet wet.

Then she went to fuss with her hair (which always frizzed so in the damp) and make sure that her husband’s boots were presentable. John, the village constable, had argued that his blue dress uniform with its splendid brass buttons would be just the thing to wear to the reception, but Hannah had stood her ground. John was now dressed in his black wedding suit and a high starched collar. He blushed when Hannah told him he looked “mortal handsome,” and received her affectionate kiss with a shy pleasure.

“Haven’t been at Raven Hall since t’ servant girl drowned there,” he said. He frowned. “I’ll call that back. I was summonsed there when t’ steward made off with t’ silver. Great lot o’ janglement o’er that business, there was, some sayin’ one thing, some another. But the chap didn’t profit, after all. Fell ’neath a lorry and was cut to shreds by t’ wheels.” His frown became a scowl. “Only bad luck at Raven Hall.”

“Let’s nae talk ill on such a grand day,” begged Hannah, fastening the buttons on her blue bombazine, which she hadn’t worn since her sister’s wedding.

“Nae grand at all,” her literal-minded husband objected, with a glance out the window. “Ower-kessen’d, it is. Gloomy as t’ inside of a barn.”

“Mappen it’ll be grand at Raven Hall,” Hannah replied in a comforting tone, and smoothed her skirt. “There’s to be a gae lot o’ sandwiches an’ cake. An’ champagne.”

“There’d better be champagne,” John said grimly, running a finger inside his collar. “I’d hate to’ve got trussed up like a roast goose fer cider.”

 
 
Across the Kendal Road, in one of the Sunnyside Cottages, Margaret Nash and her sister Annie had brushed their hair until it shone and then topped it with their Sunday-best hats, both of wide-brimmed straw, Margaret’s trimmed with lace and silk roses and Annie’s with a red velvet bow. They were enjoying a cup of tea in the kitchen as they waited for Mrs. Holland. Had the weather been nice, the three of them would have walked to Raven Hall. But since it had turned off damp, they were riding with Frances and Lester Barrow, in their old victoria. The four ladies could stay dry under the folding hood, whilst Lester drove.

“I’m anxious to meet her,” Annie said. “Mrs. Kittredge, I mean.” She leaned forward. “But I must confess to being a little nervous at the prospect of seeing him. Do you remember when he went off to war?” She sighed tragically. “So handsome, he was. And now he has only one eye and one arm.”

“Of course I remember,” Margaret said. She had once been madly in love with Major Kittredge (as had every unmarried woman of any age in the entire area). She had been distressed when she’d heard of his wounds and hoped very much that the new Mrs. Kittredge would make him happy. She frowned. “Where are your gloves, Annie?”

“I have to look for them,” Annie said distractedly. She shook her head. “So much misfortune at Raven Hall. One would almost think the place was cursed.”

“Cursed!” Margaret scoffed. “You’ve forgotten about the Raven Hall Luck.” There was a knock at the front door, and Margaret rose to gather up the cups. “Let Mrs. Holland in, will you? And do find your gloves, Annie. You can’t go without them, and we don’t want to be late.”

 
 
At Tower Bank House, Miles Woodcock opened the front door to find Will Heelis, holding his hat in his hand.

“Just about ready?” Will asked.

“Dimity’s putting on her best,” Miles said, stepping back to admit Will, who was driving to Raven Hall with them. “I never saw her make such a fuss about a tea party.”

“And with good reason,” his sister said in a reproachful tone, coming down the stairs. “It’s a very important social occasion, and everyone will be there.” She was wearing a champagne-colored silk dress with a lace yoke and high lace collar, the gored skirt falling neatly over her hips, the hem just brushing the instep of her shoes. Her wide-brimmed hat was heaped with ivory flowers and draped with tulle.

Will glanced past Miles, his face lighting. “Hello, Dimity,” he said shyly. “What a pretty frock you’re wearing this afternoon.”

Dimity lowered her head, and Miles saw that she was blushing. “Thank you, Will,” she said, pulling on her gloves. “Shall we wait in the library while Miles dresses? Miss Potter will be joining us, as well.”

“I’ll go and change, then,” Miles said. “Shan’t be a minute.” But he was in no great hurry as he went up the stairs, leaving the two alone. There was plenty of time before the reception, and he was glad to give Will and Dimity a little time in private.

Although his sister was now at the age when she was in danger of being thought a spinster, Dimity still preserved an attractive and youthful appearance, with ivory skin, large brown eyes, and smooth brown hair. Miles had very much enjoyed their life together for the past twelve or so years, for his sister was not only a pleasant but a sensible companion, with vast resources of goodwill and energy. She managed the Tower Bank household with the same care and attention that she applied to her work in the parish, where she was praised far and wide as an indispensable volunteer. Dimity might occasionally seem a bit dithery, but she hid a great common sense behind that sometimes vague exterior.

Miles took off his shirt and put on a freshly laundered one, adding cuff links, collar stays, and tie. For some months, he had thought that it wasn’t fair to his sister to monopolize her life as he did. Although Dim had fended off several possible suitors in the past few years, he was sure that she would prefer a loving husband and a household of her own to life with a stodgy old brother. What’s more, his service as Justice of the Peace took him away at odd hours and brought a parade of strangers into the house. Even when he was at home, he was generally reading or attending to business. And whilst Dim brought a sister’s sweetness and loving concern into his life and was an elegant hostess besides, he supposed he could manage without her.

Miles put on his waistcoat, buttoned it, and added his fob watch and chain. Of course, he knew that Dim had once had her heart set on Kittredge, but the major’s marriage had put that entirely out of the picture, and Dimity was far too sensible to spend any time grieving about the past. It was high time that serious thought be given to her future, and Miles had begun to do just that. His friend Will Heelis would without a doubt make Dimity a fine husband, far more suitable than Kittredge. Will was a partner in a successful law firm, so there was no question about his being able to support a wife. A bachelor, he lived with his two spinster cousins, Cousin Fanana and Cousin Emily Jane, at Sand-ground, in Hawkshead, where the Heelis family—a large, gregarious lot—often gathered for dinners, picnics, and family parties. Will was an avid sportsman, and he and Miles often enjoyed golf, tennis, bowling, and shooting together—an asset, as Miles was comfortably aware. Dimity certainly would not consider marrying a man her brother disliked.

Miles shrugged into his jacket and straightened its lapels, reflecting happily that there could never be any question about Will’s judgment, his amiability, or the steadiness of his temper. Wherever Heelis was asked to deal with matters of property, estates, or family legal questions, there was no one more admired. He was attractive, too, which no doubt mattered to Dimity, as it would to any woman: tall and lean, he had a pleasant face with strong, regular features and his brown hair fell across his forehead in a boyish shock. The handsomest bachelor in the district, some called him, and wondered aloud why he had not married.

The answer, Miles knew, was Will’s shyness in the company of ladies. Dimity should have to encourage him, something she seemed reluctant to do. Oh, she was friendly enough—the two were on first-name terms now, which was definitely a step forward. But she was not . . . well, flirtatious. That is, Miles thought regretfully, she did not look at Will with the kind of affectionate regard that would fire a fellow’s romantic interest—at least, not yet. He should have to have a talk with her, and soon. She would undoubtedly be glad that her brother was taking an active interest in her future.

Miles inspected his reflection in the mirror, frowning a little. He was eager to renew his acquaintance with Major Kittredge and find out just what the man intended to do with his property. He was also increasingly curious about Mrs. Kittredge, and of course about Augustus Richardson. After Miss Potter had given him the name of the syndicate and the fellow’s calling card—it had been a deuced lucky chance that she had overheard the conversation—he had sent off several letters to London bankers and brokers whom he knew, requesting information about Richardson and the Sandiford Syndicate. With luck, there might be a response by mid-week.

He smoothed his hair. He would try to find a moment, privately, to tell Heelis what Miss Potter had overheard. But he didn’t want to spoil the afternoon for Dimity. She was looking quite lovely in that party dress of hers, and he intended to give Will every opportunity to appreciate her charms.

Back downstairs, Miles was glad to see that Miss Potter had joined them. She, too, was smartly dressed for the occasion, in a gray velvet-trimmed suit and blue and gray striped blouse, with a bunch of blue violets in her lapel and blue silk flowers on her gray straw hat. Miles smiled as he welcomed her, noticing that the violets were very nearly the color of her eyes, and that her hair curled quite becomingly around her face. Inviting her to go with them had been quite a clever idea, if he did say so himself. He would serve as her escort, which meant that Dimity and Will would necessarily find themselves a couple.

“Are we ready, then?” he asked warmly, extending his arm to Miss Potter. “All aboard for Raven Hall.” He smiled down at her. “And I’ll remember my promise not to drive too fast—not above ten miles an hour.”

“I’m sure the village chickens will thank you with all their hearts,” Miss Potter murmured, taking his arm and smiling up at him. “As will the flowers on our hats.”

Miles felt himself unaccountably warmed by that smile.

19

Raven Hall

It was not possible to ride to Raven Hall in Captain Woodcock’s Rolls-Royce without attracting a great deal of attention. Even though the captain held the speed to eight miles an hour, the motor car bounced along the narrow road with a fearful clatter that sent cats and dogs and chickens flying in panic and excited the boys, who ran alongside, waving their caps and screaming. Beatrix had expected that she and Dimity would be seated in the rear, but to her surprise, Captain Woodcock had insisted that she ride beside him, in the front passenger seat, leaving Dimity and Mr. Heelis to take their places behind. There was rather more of a breeze than she liked—she had to hold her hat on with one hand to keep it from being blown off—but she had to admit to a certain excitement, and perhaps even a thrill or two, as the motor car rattled along the road through Far Sawrey and then turned up the lane that zigged and zagged all the way to the top of Claife Heights, where the fir trees thinned and Beatrix saw Raven Hall, close up, for the first time.

The large house, constructed of gray stone and roofed with a darker gray slate, was a Victorian version of a medieval castle, complete with battlements and crow-stepped gables and turrets wearing conical candle-snuffer caps. Located at the crest of the Heights, Raven Hall looked out over Lake Windermere to the east, with Cuckoo Brow Wood, like a rusty green cloak, pulled up around its shoulders on north, west, and south. Beatrix knew that the old house was supposed to be a fine example of baronial Gothic, but she couldn’t help feeling that there was something sinister about it—not just dark and gloomy, but . . . wrong, somehow. Perhaps it was in the proportions, which seemed not quite right, or in balance of gable and turret.

“No wonder the housekeeper went mad and the poor servant drowned herself,” Dimity said, getting out of the car. She stared up at the house towering over them. “I’m sure I’d do both, if I had all those rooms to look after.”

“Come, now, Dim,” her brother said with a laugh. “Raven Hall isn’t nearly as grandiose as Wray Castle.”

“I’d go even madder at Wray,” Dimity retorted, adding gaily, “Thank goodness I’m in no danger of being responsible for the housekeeping at either place.”

Wray Castle was another baronial residence only two miles or so up the lake, but larger and grander—and much uglier—than Raven Hall. Beatrix joined the others in their laughter but did not mention that her father and mother had rented the castle for a two-month holiday when she was sixteen. She could not think of a good word to say about the place, which was cold and gloomy and abominably uncomfortable. The owner’s wife had refused to live in the Gothic horror under any circumstance and the architect had drunk himself to death before the thing was finished. When the Potters rented it, Wray Castle had been empty for some time—and ought to stay that way, Beatrix thought.

“Come, Miss Potter,” Captain Woodcock said, holding out his arm with a charming smile. “We’ll go in together, shall we?”

A little puzzled by the captain’s attentions but not wanting to offend by refusing, Beatrix took his arm and they walked through the stone portico and up the wide stone stairs to the front door, where they were shown up an ornate staircase and into an imposing baronial hall. The room, which was already quite crowded with guests, was brilliantly lighted by hundreds of wax tapers in glittering crystal chandeliers and wall sconces, illuminating a long refreshment table spread with a damask cloth and laden with an enormous quantity of cold chicken, salmon, lobster, game pie, sandwiches, and cakes of all kinds, including Sarah Barwick’s beautiful Tipsy Cake. Frock-coated servants with silver trays circulated through the crowd, offering wine and champagne, and in the minstrels’ gallery, high up the wall at the far end of the long room, a quartet of formally dressed musicians—two violins, a flute, and a cello—played a Bach fugue, the strains of which were almost drowned out by the voices of guests. A fire blazed in a huge stone fireplace on one wall of the room, and the opposite wall was opened out by a series of large bay windows furnished with velvet cushions, giving a magnificent view of the lake over the trees that spilled down the steep slope below.