The Tale of Hawthorn House (24 page)

“Aye, truly,” Emily said with a sorrowing look. “He was ever so fine and handsome. And he loved me ever so much.”

When Mrs. Beever heard them whispering, she said that Emily should stop prattling and take the linens upstairs, for there would be plenty of time for lads when she had a wiser head on her shoulders and knew better than to trust a gypsy.

Still, Deirdre thought that Emily’s head was quite wise enough, and felt closer to her than she did to Caroline, who was more nearly her age but seemed younger. Deirdre and Caroline had been friends when they both attended the village school, but Caroline would be a lady when she grew up and could do exactly as she pleased all day long. Deirdre and Emily, on the other hand, would never be ladies. They would have to work to get their livings, and doing what they pleased would have to wait on the half-holidays that they got only every now and then. Deirdre felt as if she had found a friend in Emily, and would’ve liked to hear more about the handsome gypsy lad, and how Emily felt after Mr. Beever chased him away.

So since Hawthorn House was not far away and Deirdre had always wanted to go inside (she had never before been in a haunted house), she had stopped in to visit one Saturday afternoon shortly after Emily began working there. She knocked with some trepidation, because the garden was so overgrown and the place so very dilapidated.

At first, Emily hadn’t seemed all that glad to see her. She wasn’t supposed to have callers, she said. But after a few minutes she relented and took Deirdre around the house, and then they went to the kitchen for a cup of tea and some biscuits.

The inside of Hawthorn House was something of a disappointment. It was not what Deirdre had imagined, which was something like Miss Havisham’s house in
Great Expectations
, full of spiders and cobwebs and stopped clocks and decaying furniture covered with dust sheets, like ungainly ghosts. The house was certainly large and old but clean enough, and there seemed to be no cobwebs or stopped clocks, although massive, old-fashioned furniture crowded the rooms, with shabby draperies at the windows and worn rugs on the floors. Emily explained that her employer had taken the place as a holiday house on a temporary let and was not at all troubled by the unattractive furnishings or the derelict garden. And before Deirdre left, she had reminded her that she and Lady Longford were the only ones who knew where she was, and cautioned her not to tell.

“Your mother doesn’t know?” Deirdre asked, surprised.

“Mum’s dead,” Emily replied shortly. “Dad, too. And my sister’s gone to Carlisle. T’ only fam’ly I have is my aunt, Mrs. Crook, and I stay away from her. She carries tales.”

Since this was a fair description of Mrs. Crook, Deirdre understood. “And the gypsy lad?” she prompted eagerly, thinking of Emily’s love and loss. “What have you heard from him?”

Emily made a short, dismissive gesture, which gave Deirdre to know that she was not to mention this again. “Remember now,” Emily said, frowning, “not a word of where I am.”

“I’ll remember,” Deirdre had promised, and then, impulsively, had hugged Emily. “Orphans have to look out for one another,” she said, feeling very grown up indeed. She had hoped to get to Hawthorn House to see Emily again, but had not been able to—and here was a letter from her, from London, of all places!

“Well?” Libby demanded anxiously, standing first on one foot and then on the other. “What does it say, Deirdre?”

“Yes!”
Rascal barked, jumping up on his hind legs.
“Read it, Deirdre. Read it!”

Deirdre shook her head. “The envelope says ‘VERY PRIVATE, ’ which means that nobody can read it but me.”

“But at least tell me who it’s from,” Libby begged. “That’s not private, is it?”

“It’s from a friend,” Deirdre said abstractedly, already halfway into the letter and shaking her head a little at Emily’s spelling.

 
Deirdre’s eyes widened and she hurriedly read through the letter a second time. Baby Flora? Why, that was the name of the baby that the old lady had offered to them—to her and the three older Suttons—on fête day, and that had afterward been left on the Hill Top doorstep!

Deirdre had learnt Flora’s name just the previous afternoon. She had been in the Sutton kitchen when Elsa Grape dropped in to gossip with Mrs. Pettigrew, the Suttons’ cook. Mrs. Grape had told Mrs. Pettigrew that Miss Potter had brought the baby to Miss Woodcock, and that much to everyone’s surprise, a valuable ring had been discovered in the basket, and a note saying that the baby was called Flora. Baby Flora had dark hair and dark eyes and was the picture (Mrs. Grape said this several times, making a great point of it), the very
picture
of Major Kittredge of Raven Hall, although she was sure that a gypsy was involved in the business somehow.

Deirdre did not quite understand what that was supposed to mean. But Mrs. Pettigrew obviously understood, for she shook her head darkly and muttered that those to the manor born always thought the world was made for their enjoyment, which they took where and however they liked, regardless of the right or wrong of it.

And then Elsa Grape said that Captain Woodcock was making every effort like the kind-hearted gentleman he was (she stressed the word “gentleman”) to get to the bottom of the affair. But he hadn’t had any luck, for the gypsies wouldn’t own up and he couldn’t find anybody who would admit to knowing who the poor lorn bairn was or who her mother and father were or where she came from or how she got to Miss Potter’s doorstep.

But now, as Deirdre read and reread Emily’s letter, it seemed clear that Baby Flora must have come from Hawthorn House, and that her friend knew something about it. She pulled in her breath, a sudden, painful question echoing sharply in her mind. Was Flora . . . could she possibly be . . . was she
Emily’s baby
?

Deirdre’s first reaction was to scoff at the idea as ridiculous. Emily wasn’t that sort of girl. A bit flighty, perhaps, and not always very prompt when it came to following Lady Longford’s instructions. But she went to church every Sunday morning and—

Deirdre caught her lower lip between her teeth. How did she know what sort of girl Emily was—really? She only knew her from their snatches of teatime conversations in Mrs. Beever’s kitchen, and from what Emily said about herself. And as for going to church, why, all of Lady Longford’s servants were required to go every Sunday morning, like it or not. As Deirdre knew from her own personal experience, sitting in the Sunday pew didn’t mean that you were perfect, or that you didn’t sometimes do things you were very sorry for afterward.

And like most girls who grew up in the country, Deirdre had never been shielded from the facts of life. Living with a veterinarian’s family that produced a baby almost every year, she had gained a rather more detailed understanding of what was involved with bringing babies into the world than might be expected of a girl her age.

Catching her lower lip between her teeth, Deirdre thought back rapidly over what she remembered: Emily whispering excitedly about the gypsy lad who had loved her ever so much, Emily abruptly leaving Tidmarsh Manor, Emily working and living in seclusion at Hawthorn House. Much as she didn’t like the thought, it was possible, she had to admit.

Deirdre read the last sentence of the letter again—
Mistakes were made, but I’m not a bad person
—and shook her head. Maybe Emily didn’t like to think of herself as a bad person, but you were judged in this world by your deeds, not what you said. The villagers, when they learnt about this (as of course they would, since this sort of gossip flies like thunder through a village, being heard in every quarter at the very same instant) would be very quick to judge.

And Deirdre herself had some very strong views on the subject. It was her firm opinion that no loving mother would give up her baby under any circumstances, no matter how badly she wanted to go to London and start a new life. She would stay right here and do whatever was needed to give her child a good home. She would raise and love it, no matter what people said. Deirdre pressed her lips together, feeling the hot anger well up inside her. How
dare
Emily do this! It wasn’t right!

Now, perhaps you are thinking that Deirdre may be leaping to conclusions, and that she shouldn’t be so quick to judge Emily, since there are two sides to every story and the facts in the case are not yet entirely known. But please consider that Deirdre herself is an orphan who must make her way alone in the world, and that she often imagines how different her life might be if her own loving mother were walking beside her. I daresay you won’t blame her too severely if she is angry with a young woman who seems to have thrown away something very precious, something that she herself would cherish.

And now that Deirdre knew this terrible thing about Emily (or thought she did), what should she do? She stood for a moment, frowning down at the letter in her hand. Perhaps she should ask Mrs. Sutton for advice. Or Vicar Sackett, who was a very kind man and knew lots of people in London whom he could ask to look for Emily. Or Captain Woodcock, who was Justice of the Peace and would know what the law had to say about such matters. Or—

Libby tugged at her sleeve. “What is it, Deirdre?” she asked, concerned. “Who is Emily Shaw? Did somebody die?”

“Did somebody die and leave you some money?”
Rascal inquired hopefully. He always liked to look on the bright side of things. But right now, he was thinking that it was too bad he couldn’t see that letter. He remembered Emily Shaw, who used to work at Tidmarsh Manor, and he wondered why she was sending a very private message to Deirdre.

Deirdre thought for a minute more. She didn’t want to talk to Mrs. Sutton, or the vicar, or the captain. She would talk to someone who might have a very good idea of what to do. She pocketed the letter, tucked Dr. Sutton’s post under her arm, and reached for Libby’s hand.

“Come on, Libby,” she said, setting off at a speedy pace. “Let’s go and visit Miss Potter. You, too, Rascal. She’s always glad to see you.”

“Oh, good!” Libby exclaimed, skipping to keep up. “Maybe she’s writing a new story!”

At Hill Top, Deirdre had been knocking for several minutes on Miss Potter’s door when the door to the left came open, and Mrs. Jennings put her head out.

“Needn’t knock,” she said shortly. “Her’s gone off to Lon’on. Woan’t be back ’til Friday.” And with that, she pulled her head back in and shut the door.

Deirdre sighed. Friday was two whole days away. What should she do in the meantime? Perhaps she should talk to Miss Woodcock, who had charge of Baby Flora. Or—

She stopped, suddenly discouraged. It was no good talking to anybody, really. Emily had not put an address on the letter, and London was a gigantic city. No matter how many people went looking, they’d never find her. And even if she were found, there was no guarantee that she could be made to tell the truth—whatever the truth was.

Deirdre sighed. There was not a thing that anyone could do, not the vicar, not Captain Woodcock, not even Miss Potter (who sometimes seemed to be able to do quite magical things). And since that was the case, she would keep the letter to herself, and hope that Emily was able to find it in her heart to do the right thing. Whatever the right thing was.

She put her hand on Libby’s shoulder and summoned a smile. “I’m sure Miss Potter wouldn’t mind if we went down to the barn and visited Jemima Puddle-duck for a few minutes.”

“Oh, let’s!” Libby exclaimed excitedly. “Maybe her ducklings have hatched.”

“And I’ll just pop in and have a word with Kep whilst we’re here,”
Rascal said, and trotted ahead of them down the path to the barn.

22

Kep Turns Detective

At the barn, Kep the collie was sitting on his haunches, basking in the sweet morning sunshine. He was also keeping a close eye on an unruly trio of piglets who were rooting along the fence, looking for a means of escape from their pen. He glanced up to see a small fawn-colored terrier trotting toward him, while Deirdre Malone and the eldest Sutton girl loitered along the path, admiring the flowers.

“Hullo, Rascal,”
he said pleasantly.
“Haven’t seen you for a while. What’s the news?”
Kep had a working dog’s low opinion of most of the village dogs, lazy lay-abouts with little to do but eat, sleep, and bark at the village cats. Rascal, on the other hand, was a valued friend, since he always knew what was going on in the village—a boon to Kep, whose duties usually restricted him to the vicinity of the farm. And if Kep wanted to hunt rabbits, Rascal (rabbit hunter
par excellence
) was always ready to lend a paw.

“Everyone is talking about Baby Flora.”
The terrier sat down beside the collie. He liked Kep very much, although he often wished that his friend wouldn’t take everything so seriously. Did he ever smile, or go off on holiday?
“I s’pose you’ve heard that she’s now in Miss Woodcock’s care, whilst the captain looks for her mother.”

Kep nodded. Tabitha Twitchit, another valuable source of information, had already relayed what she had overheard in the village kitchens, so he knew something of what was going on.
“I can understand why a mother pig might lose track of her little ones,”
he said, with a reproving glance at the pig in question, who was blissfully napping in the mud.
“But the Big Folk ought to keep better watch over their babes.”