The Tale of Holly How (12 page)

The vicar spoke in a placating tone. “Well, well, I’m sorry to hear that. It is very wrong of Caroline to be disobedient. But what child hasn’t, from time to time? And I’m sure that your ladyship appreciates the girl’s difficult situation. She is a stranger in a strange place, bereft of all that is familiar and comforting. The loan of Miss Potter’s little pet seems to me quite providential, exactly what the poor child needs to help her feel at home. And perhaps it will make her more mindful of her duty.” He smiled earnestly at Lady Longford. “A little animal—it is a small thing, after all, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Indeed.” Lady Longford pressed her thin lips together. “It is such a small thing that I doubt it will have the substantial benefits you suggest.”

The vicar’s mouth drooped sadly.

“But if Miss Potter is willing to lend the creature, and if the girl will engage to care for it—”

“Of course she will, of course she will,” exclaimed the vicar. “And I think—forgive me, please, for being so bold as to venture an opinion—but I believe, I truly do, that this will be a turning point for the child.”

Miss Martine gave a delicate cough. “My dear Lady Longford,” she said, “I really do not think it appropriate to—”

“Thank you,” Beatrix said briskly, determined not to allow any intervention. “I’m glad that it’s been settled.” She picked up the cage. “If I may, I should like to take the animal to Caroline and tell her what must be done for him.”

“Oh, very well.” Lady Longford gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “Ask Emily to show you upstairs. Miss Martine will remain here. We are awaiting the momentary arrival of Dr. Harrison Gainwell, who is to be the next head teacher at Sawrey School.”

The vicar shifted. “I fear that her ladyship somewhat anticipates,” he said with an uneasy gravity. “Dr. Gainwell is indeed a strong candidate, very strong, and would be a credit to any school. However, the trustees feel that our dear Miss Nash—”

“Dr. Gainwell has my unqualified support,” Lady Longford interrupted shortly, raising her chin. “And I am sure that he will have yours as well, Vicar.” She looked at Beatrix through her pince nez. “You must be anxious to get back to your farming duties, Miss Potter. I won’t detain you.”

“Thank you so much for your thoughtfulness, Miss Potter,” the vicar managed politely. Beatrix heard the note of desperation in his voice and knew that Tuppenny’s victory over Miss Martine was a small thing in comparison to the battle royal that was about to be waged over Dr. Harrison Gainwell. Understanding that the interview was concluded, she picked up the guinea pig’s cage and left the room with a feeling of positive relief. She was very glad that
she
was not one of the school’s trustees.

16

Caroline Meets Miss Potter

Caroline Longford looked up as Emily opened the door and a strange woman stepped into the room, carrying a wicker basket. She was a plump, rosy-cheeked person with quite remarkable blue eyes, dressed in tweeds and sturdy shoes. She wore an air of imperturbable practicality.

“Who are you?” Caroline asked suspiciously, narrowing her eyes. In the months she had been at Tidmarsh Manor, she had seen her grandmother, Miss Martine, the Beevers, and the two maids—never a visitor. She slid a book over what she had been writing and put down her pen.

“I am Miss Potter,” the lady said, in a light, pleasant-sounding voice. “I own Hill Top Farm, down in the village, and I come up from London, when I can, to see how the farm and the animals are getting on.”

“Oh,” Caroline said, recognizing the name. “You’re the lady who gave the telescope to Jeremy. The one who draws frogs and puts them into books.”

“Frogs and rabbits and hedgehogs and mice,” Miss Potter said, raising the lid on the wicker basket. “So you know Jeremy, then. I’m glad. He’s a sensible young man.”

“What’s that?” Caroline asked curiously, coming close and looking into the basket. In it was a small creature with very long, silky fur—mostly orange, with bright glints of gold and patches of golden brown—a twinkling nose, and shiny black eyes that looked up at her with great apprehension. He wasn’t a mouse or a rat, and he didn’t have ears like a rabbit. She had never seen anything like him.

“He’s a guinea pig,” Miss Potter replied. “Guinea pigs come from South America, you know, and they make wonderful little pets. This one is called Tuppenny. He’s quite a fine fellow—at least, that’s his personal opinion. And even though he tends to self-conceit, I really must agree.” She smiled. “I wonder if you might like to take care of him for a fortnight or so.”

The smile seemed to transform Miss Potter’s face, and Caroline was aware of a kindness and sympathy in her china-blue eyes, quite unlike anything she had experienced since she came to England. It dissolved her suspicion in a flash, and made her think of the happy security she had known when her mother and father were alive, when she felt safe and cared for. It was almost as if Miss Potter were an old friend of the family,
her
family,
herself,
not her grandmother or Miss Martine.

That Miss Potter should have this comforting effect on her was surprising, but it was so wonderfully welcome and so immediately penetrated her natural reserve that Caroline didn’t for a moment question it, or Miss Potter’s offer. She thought fleetingly that perhaps she was dreaming, or that Miss Potter was some sort of fairy godmother, like the one who had come to Cinderella. But she was wide awake, so it couldn’t be a dream. And Miss Potter and the guinea pig—who was making little snuffling noises—were quite undeniably real. And anyway, Caroline didn’t believe in fairies.

“I can keep him? For a whole fortnight?” She reached into the basket and stroked the whisper-soft fur. “What a dear little creature he is,” she said, half under her breath, “and what a beautiful color.” She paused, remembering Oliver, the orange tabby cat who had lived in the barn at the sheep station, and felt a sudden pain of homesickness so sharp that it made the tears come to her eyes. “Of course. I’d love to take care of him.”

And then she withdrew her hand and pinched her lips together, brought back with a jerk to the bleak reality of things. “But it will never work. Miss Martine won’t let me. She has no patience for anything, not even poor old Dudley.”

“Dudley?” Miss Potter asked.

“Grandmama’s spaniel. He’s old and disagreeable, although some of that is Miss Martine’s fault. She pinches him when Grandmama isn’t looking, which makes him very cross and apt to snap. She pinches me, too, when I’m disobedient.” Caroline stopped. She never talked on like this to anyone, let alone a stranger. What had come over her?

Miss Potter’s blue eyes had darkened at the mention of pinches, but she said only, “I’m glad to say that your grandmother has already given her permission.”

Caroline was dumbfounded. “She
has?
”

“Yes, she has, and has given instructions to Miss Martine.” Miss Potter added, as if in apology, “Tuppenny is only a loan, however, until I have to go back to London. But if you like him, and would like to have a guinea pig of your own, we’ll see if it can be arranged.”

Caroline seriously doubted that Miss Martine would permit
that,
but perhaps she shouldn’t be so quick to judge, since Miss Potter was apparently capable of miracles. “Thank you,” she said. And then, feeling that this wasn’t quite enough, added, “You are very kind.” She paused. “May I take him out and hold him?”

Miss Potter nodded, and in a moment, Tuppenny was nestled in Caroline’s cupped hands, making a soft gurgling sound. “I think Jeremy would like to draw him,” she said after a minute. “He draws animals, too, you know. Rabbits and squirrels and mice. Whatever he sees.”

“Yes, I know,” Miss Potter said. “Jeremy’s quite a good artist. Where did you meet him?”

“On Holly How, where I go sometimes when I’m supposed to be walking Dudley in the garden. I’d love to know some of the other children in the village,” Caroline went on hesitantly, “but Grandmama doesn’t think I ought to. It’s because she imagines I’m better than they are, which is a lot of rubbish. She doesn’t think much of me, either, though.” She could taste the bitterness in her words. “I’m only in the way, especially now that Dr. Gainwell is coming. She’ll be glad to have me go off to school.”

She stopped. There she went again, talking and talking, and saying nothing of any importance at all. But Miss Potter was looking at her with an expression of interested kindness, and there was that feeling of having known her for a very long time. Caroline felt she could say anything to her, and she would be neither surprised nor critical. She would simply . . . listen.

Miss Potter stood silent for a moment, her head cocked to one side, regarding her seriously. Then she said, very slowly and thoughtfully, “It is a sad thing, Caroline, but mothers and grandmothers do not always know all they ought to know about daughters and granddaughters. It is not something they should be blamed for, exactly—the fault is in the way their own mothers and grandmothers brought them up. But this means that we must find our own way toward being happy and useful, even when it is not the expected way.”

Caroline was so astonished at this that she could say nothing at all.

Miss Potter lifted her hand and touched Caroline’s cheek. “You must look out for yourself, my dear, and be as brave as you can. If there is any way that I can help, I would be glad to do so. And now,” she went on briskly, without waiting for a reply, “let me tell you what you will need to know in order to properly care for this little fellow. He is inordinately fond of freshly cut grass. He delights in apples, too, and carrots, and celery. But bread and butter are not good for him, and no matter how he begs—he is quite an accomplished beggar—do not in any circumstance allow him to have a lump of sugar. And you should ask Mr. Beever if he can find you a large, deep box for him to live in, and put some hay in the bottom of it, and a dish of water, and—”

For the next few minutes, their attention was fixed on Tuppenny. When they had finished, Miss Potter straightened up. “Well, now. I must go. I’ve brought a friend with me, and we’re going to Holly How to look for my sheep.”

“You’ve lost them?” Caroline asked.

“I don’t think so,” Miss Potter said cheerfully. “See that you take good care of Tuppenny, my dear.”

“I will,” Caroline said. She pulled herself up quickly. She had been about to fling her arms around Miss Potter and thank her, but she stopped herself in time, and merely held out her hand and said, in a formal way, “Thank you for letting me look after Tuppenny. I will be very good to him.”

“I’m sure you will,” Miss Potter said with a smile, and left.

As she went down the stairs, Beatrix thought about the girl, and wondered. She was a serious child, with an intelligent, listening look—a self-reliant girl, not the sort to be terrified by the wind rapping at the shutters, or even by Miss Martine, glowering at her from the fireside whilst she did her lessons. Not a pretty girl, if one judged by the standard of accepted prettiness, which was dimpled and snub-nosed, with a pink and white complexion and golden ringlets. This one was brown haired and olive skinned, with a sharp nose, firm brows, and a definite mouth—strong features that would undoubtedly come into their own when she was a woman, but which were considered very much a drawback for children. Like Beatrix’s own nose, which had been criticized by no less famous a personage than the great portrait painter, John Millais. He had once told her that her face was spoilt by the length of her nose and upper lip.

And what was that she had glimpsed on the paper that had been only half-covered by the book Caroline had hastily slid over it? It had looked very much like code writing, something that Beatrix understood very well.

For when she was just a little older than Caroline, she had begun keeping a journal, in her own privately invented code, so that nobody else—and most especially her mother—could read it.

Beatrix smiled, remembering.

17

Miss Barwick Has a Conversation

This was the fourth week in a row that Sarah had made a delivery to Tidmarsh Manor, and she was beginning to feel like a regular at the kitchen door. Mrs. Beever was a cheerful and gossipy sort. Sarah always looked forward to having a cup of tea and a bit of a chat with her in the big old barn of a kitchen, which had been built back in the days when the Manor cook prepared meals for dozens of family and servants.

Today, however, Sarah had an ulterior motive for her visit. The more she reflected on what Dimity Woodcock had said about Lady Longford’s candidate for Sawrey School, the more she wanted to know the inside story. Both of the Beevers—Mr. Beever worked in the garden and drove her ladyship’s phaeton—had been in service at the Manor for over two decades. If Mrs. Beever was willing to talk, she could probably give a behind-the-scenes glimpse into what was going on.

“Well, and there you are, Miss Barwick!” exclaimed the stout Mrs. Beever, her round face brightening as she looked up from two large pheasants she was jointing. “I was about to give you up for lost, and fearin’ that I’d have to add another baking to t’ day’s work, with a guest expected and all.” She scowled at a girl who was scraping carrots over a basin at the far end of the kitchen table. “You can get along a little faster with those carrots, Harriet. That knife isn’t a feather, y’ know. Put some muscle into it, my girl.”

“Yes, Mrs. Beever.” Harriet heaved a heavy sigh, but Sarah did not notice that the knife scraped with any greater force.

“I would have been here earlier,” Sarah explained, “but my bicycle tire went flat, so I drove up with Miss Potter, from Hill Top. She brought something for Lady Longford. For her ladyship’s granddaughter, that is,” she corrected. She put her basket on the table, removed the red checked napkin that covered it, and took out two loaves of bread and a large ginger cake, wrapped in white paper. “And here you are. The bread you ordered, and Lady Longford’s cake, baked fresh this morning.” She took out another package. “And a half-dozen muffins, extra, for Mr. Beever’s tea. I’m sure they’re not as good as your own,” she added, “but they might save you some work.”

“Well, now,” said the cook warmly, “that’s very kind of you, I’m sure, Miss Barwick. Her ladyship does appreciate your ginger cake. She has it along with a glass of ginger beer, for her stomach, you know. The poor lady has a world of trouble with that stomach of hers, and it’s not gettin’ better.” She dropped a pheasant leg into a bowl and covered the naked bird with a cloth. “These flies,” she said crossly. “There’s no end to ’em. I had a packet of flypapers in t’ pantry, but I’ve mislaid it, and now I’m payin’ t’ price. Mislaid that new kitchen account book, too. It’ll be my head next.” She went to the range where a kettle boiled. “You’ll have tea, won’t you?” And then, without pausing for an answer, said, “Miss Potter’s the lady who writes and draws, isn’t she? And what’s she brought for our young miss? One of them animal books of hers?”

“Not a book,” Sarah said, pulling out a chair and sitting down at the kitchen table. “A guinea pig.”

“A guinea pig!” Harriet’s knife stopped altogether, and her eyes grew large. “One o’ them lit’le furry creatures what squeaks and runs about? Lor’, I’d pay a fortnight’s wages for one of them, I would.”

“You won’t have a fortnight’s wages to spend if you don’t smarten up with that knife, my girl,” Mrs. Beever said darkly, pouring boiling water into a china teapot. To Sarah, she said, “A guinea pig, is it?” She gave a short laugh. “Well, Miss Martine is the one who looks after Miss Caroline. She’ll put her foot down on that plan, for sure. Miss Potter will just have to carry her guinea pig back home.” She opened a tin and shook several biscuits onto a plate.

“Oh, that would be a great pity!” Sarah exclaimed. She frowned. “Why would Miss Martine refuse to let Caroline have a pet? I had a guinea pig once. It was only a little creature, very gentle and clean. Not nearly the trouble of a dog or a cat or even a rabbit.”

“Why?” Mrs. Beever pulled her brows together into a scowl. “Because Martine is a mean, heartless woman and a troublemaker, that’s why.” She cast a stern glance at Harriet. “Tales are not to be carried outside this kitchen, of course.”

“Oh, of course,” Sarah murmured. “I won’t say a word, I promise.”

“Not meanin’ you, Miss Barwick.” Mrs. Beever poured them each a cup of tea. “It’s Harriet here needs remindin’. But she’d be a fool to let Martine catch her carrying tales, she would. That woman has ears like a hawk. Eyes, too.” Her voice took on a self-pitying note. “And not an ounce of sympathy in her soul for poor folks who work their fingers to the bone to make her comfortable, even though she landed on her feet when she came here, and no mistake.” She lowered her bulk into a chair and eyed the ginger cake. “Wonder if I shouldn’t try a bite or two of that cake before it’s sent up to her ladyship.”

“Oh, please, yes, Mrs. Beever,” Sarah implored. “Tell me if it meets with your approval.”

“Well, if you think so,” Mrs. Beever said. She cut a generous slice of cake and took a large bite out of it, casting her eyes upward and chewing critically. “I daresay it’ll do, Miss Barwick.” She licked her lips and leaned forward, lowering her voice. “Just between you and me, her ladyship isn’t eatin’ hardly anything these days. Scarcely a bite. The trouble’s in her stomach, y’ see.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” Sarah said fervently. “It’s so terrible that she doesn’t have an appetite for food, especially when she has such a good cook in her kitchen.”

Mrs. Beever accepted the compliment with a modestly down-turned smile. “Yes, very sick. Dr. Butters was here twice last week, and she always improves after he’s been, although he can’t seem to find out what’s ailin’ her. But she says your cake helps to settle her stomach—it’s t’ ginger, I’m sure. My old auntie, who knew all about such things, always used to swear by ginger for t’ mulligrubs and collywobbles. Ginger tea, ginger snaps, candied ginger, ginger cake. And since her ladyship fancied your cake ’specially, I vowed she should have it, although I’ll have to wait until Martine is lookin’ t’ other way and take it to her myself.” She became confidential. “Martine said she shouldn’t have it, y’see.”

“I’m very glad her ladyship likes it,” Sarah said with genuine feeling. She frowned. “But why doesn’t Miss Martine think she should have it?”

Mrs. Beever looked cross. “She says it’s because she don’t believe in them old folk remedies, like ginger. But if you ask me, it’s t’ price. Since her ladyship’s been ill, it’s Martine what manages t’ household accounts. She goes over ’em with a fine-tooth comb, lookin’ for things to cut out.” She pursed her lips. “Mean, she is, t’ most penny-pinchin’ person I ever did meet, except for when she wants something special just for herself, and then it’s naught but the best. That bread of yours, that fine white bread you brought—that’s for
her,
y’ see. She has it for her breakfast every mornin’, four pieces, toasted, with a special marmalade she gets from London and three rashers of bacon and a soft-boiled egg, two minutes and no more.”

“My goodness gracious,” Sarah said, raising her eyebrows.

Mrs. Beever’s voice was mounting in a scornful crescendo. “Brought up to her
room,
she has to have it, on a tray with a white cloth, like she was as good as her ladyship, and not a plain servant like t’ rest of us. While Beever and Emily and Harriet and me has
my
bread and
my
marmalade down here in t’ servants’ hall.”

“Which is every bit as good, I’m sure,” murmured Sarah. “Probably much better.”

“Well, of
course
it is,” Mrs. Beever said. Now fully engaged with her subject and growing huffier and more scornful by the minute, she pushed on. “And I had another girl here in t’ kitchen, y’ know, to do t’ washin’ up and scrub t’ floors and t’ like, and Martine sent her off. Not a word of proper notice, neither.”

Harriet spoke up unexpectedly. “She give t’ push to Ruth last month, too, so now there’s only just Emily upstairs, to do all them beds, and t’ fires, and t’ floors and carpets and dust t’ furniture. ’Tis a good thing she’s not very bright, or she’d hate it.” The knife met the carrot with greater energy.

“What a pity,” Sarah said. “How long has Miss Martine been with her ladyship?”

“Too long, if you ask my opinion,” Harriet muttered, and gave the carrot such a great whack that it broke in two pieces. “We was all right here before she came. Not to say happy, o’course, but we was all right, and there was ’nough of us to get t’ work done proper, which there ain’t now, and more to eat, too.” She gave a loud sniff.

“Nobody’s asking your opinion, Harriet,” Mrs. Beever said disapprovingly. “And if you know what’s good for you, my girl, you’ll keep a civil tongue in your head when you’re around that woman. Talk saucy to her and you’ll find yourself gettin’ t’ push just like Ruth, and I’ll be havin’ to do all your work my own self.” To Sarah, she said, “A year Martine’s been here. A year this month.” She sighed. “Not a good year, neither, sad to say. And now there’s this new man comin’ . . .”

It was the moment Sarah had been waiting for. “You’re speaking of Dr. Gainwell, I suppose.”

“Oh, you’ve heard ’bout him?” Mrs. Beever gave her an inquiring look. “Folks down in the village are talkin’, are they?”

“To tell the truth, Mrs. Beever,” Sarah replied in a worried tone, “it’s all anybody’s talking about.” She leaned forward. “Everyone’s worried about Miss Nash, of course. We thought she was to have the position, and everyone knows what a good teacher she is. And now—” She held out her hands. “Well, I was hoping you might have some idea about what’s going on, and whether anything could be done.”

Mrs. Beever pulled down her mouth. “I feel sorry for Miss Nash, I cert’nly do, and that’s a pure fact. When I heard about it, I was near twizzled up inside, as Harriet will tell you. Don’t seem fair that this man can step in and pull Miss Nash’s place out from under her. Right’s right, after all.” She appealed to Harriet. “That’s exactly what I said, now, wasn’t it, Harriet? Right’s right, after all.”

“That’s what y’ said,” Harriet agreed. “Them are the very words.”

“And all ’cuz Martine thinks he’s so important and wonderful.” Mrs. Beever threw up her hands. “But I don’t know what can be done, and even if I did, I couldn’t open my mouth. If Martine heard me meddlin’, she’d be down on me in a flash. Why, she’d prob’ly give
me
t’ push.”

“Miss Martine?” Sarah frowned. “What does she have to do with this? It was her ladyship who recommended Dr. Gainwell to the trustees.”

“That’s as may be. But her ladyship hasn’t never met t’ gentleman, I can tell you
that.
Not to speak ill of him, of course,” Mrs. Beever added cautiously, “for he’s said to have an Oxford eddy-cashun, and he’s a missionary and no doubt a godly man. But it does seem to me that her ladyship is going a bit too far, on just Martine’s say-so.”

“I see,” Sarah said thoughtfully. “I wonder—how did it happen that Miss Martine came to Tidmarsh Manor to be Lady Longford’s companion? They were acquainted, I suppose. Longtime friends, perhaps?”

“Friends?” Mrs. Beever snorted. “It wasn’t that way at all. Mrs. Stewart was before Martine, and a right nice person she was, too, calm in her disposition and patient with her ladyship, who can be trying at times.”

“T’ say t’ least,” Harriet put in.

“To say t’ least,” Mrs. Beever agreed. “Mrs. Stewart had been with her ladyship since before old Lord Longford died, y’ see, and we all liked her. But she had to go back to Carlisle to take care of her old mother. Her ladyship advertised through an agency, and Martine was the only one who answered.”

“The only one?” Sarah asked, surprised.

“I was mystified at that myself,” Mrs. Beever said, “but we’re a bit out of the way here, if somebody’s looking for grand society. And her ladyship has never been what y’ might call generous.” She glanced up at the clock on the wall and pushed back her chair. “Gracious me, just look at that time, and me not finished with t’ pheasant yet! Harriet, put down that knife and fetch a dozen potatoes out of t’ bin. It’ll be luncheon a-fore we know it, and t’ new gentleman here, and us not ready with t’ meal.”

Sarah drained her teacup and put it down. “Thank you for the tea,” she said. “I hope the ginger cake does Lady Longford some good.”

“So do I, Miss Barwick,” said Mrs. Beever devoutly, and hoisted herself up. “I truly do. A trial her ladyship may be, and a sore one at times, but we’d all hate to lose her.” She frowned. “Harriet, what did I tell you? Go and get those potatoes, girl. Right now!”