The Tale of Oat Cake Crag (26 page)

The vicarage kitchen was quite large, for it had originally been built for a vicar who had a substantial family and quite a few servants to feed. It was located in the basement, as many kitchens were in those days, to keep the smells of cooking from the more delicate noses of those upstairs. It had a stone floor, a high ceiling and tall windows, a monstrous black iron range, a long pine worktable, and heavy oak dressers full of pots and pans and serving dishes. There was a smaller table, spread with a cloth, beside a window. Beatrix, sensing that her visit was rather an occasion for Mrs. Thompson, allowed herself to be seated there. It wasn’t long before napkins and china plates and silver were laid and tea was poured and a plate of scones was set out. These proved rather crusty and a challenge to chew (as we have heard, Mrs. Thompson is really not a very good cook), but Beatrix made the effort, even managing, truthfully, to compliment the cook.

“My, these scones are quite something,” she said in an admiring tone.

“I’m so glad tha likest them,” Mrs. Thompson replied, beaming. “Scones are a specialty o’ mine.” She paused, obviously hungry for gossip. “Tha’rt in t’ village for a time, Miss Potter?”

“I’m not sure,” Beatrix said, thinking of the letter in her pocket. “I may need to go back to London on a family matter.” But Bertram had said that it would be better for her to stay away until her parents were calmer, and perhaps he was right—she certainly hoped so. “In any event,” she added, “I hope to be here for the vicar’s wedding.” She stepped into her subject bravely, with both feet, watching Mrs. Thompson carefully for any sign of displeasure or vexation. “I’m sure it will be an occasion to be remembered. Don’t you agree?”

Mrs. Thompson sighed gustily. “Ah, t’ weddin’.” She rolled her eyes with exaggerated feeling. “ ’Twill not be a fancy weddin’, I understand. But t’ whole parish has been asked to t’ ceremony. And t’ reception’s to be here at t’ vicarage.”

“Oh, dear,” Beatrix said sympathetically. “I’m sure it will be a great deal of work for you. But I know you will manage.”

“Oh, ’t won’t be me by m’self,” Mrs. Thompson said with a wave of her hand. “Sarah Barwick from t’ bakery is helpin’ out, and Mrs. Kittredge’s cook from Raven Hall. T’ vicar wanted to be sure that I had plenty of help wi’ t’ cookin’.” Another deep sigh. “Such a kind man, he is.”

Beatrix nodded, thinking that the vicar had likely asked Sarah and the Raven Hall cook to help out in order to avoid serving scones like the one on her plate, which she hadn’t quite finished. But of course she didn’t say that. Instead, she said, “Oh, he is indeed. A very kind man. You must be pleased that he is finding happiness so late in life. And pleased for Mrs. Lythecoe, too.” She paused and looked around. “I understand that she lived here in this very house when her first husband was the vicar, many years ago.”

“Aye, that she did.” Mrs. Thompson picked up the teapot. “An’ didst tha know that t’ vicar and Mrs. Lythecoe’s first husband were cousins?”

“I’ve heard that,” Beatrix said noncommittally.

“O’ course, it doan’t perturb me none,” Mrs. Thompson said pragmatically, “although it be a bodderment to some. Bertha Stubbs is up in arms.” She picked up the pot. “Another cuppa?”

“Please,” Beatrix said, and held out her cup. “Mrs. Stubbs doesn’t like it?”

“Not a whit.” Mrs. Thompson poured. “Says it’s a sin. Says somebody ought to’ve said so when t’ banns was read out.”

Beatrix phrased her question delicately. “Does Mrs. Stubbs plan to do anything to try to prevent it?”

“Oh, I doubt it.” Mrs. Thompson put down the pot. “Bertha’s a good’un for talk, but when it comes down to doin’, mappen not so much.” She shook her head. “Anyway, wot could she do? T’ weddin’s set.”

“It would be terrible if something should happen to endanger the vicar’s happiness,” Beatrix said firmly.

“Oh, aye,” Mrs. Thompson replied with genuine feeling. “Truly, Miss Potter, I
am
happy for t’ dear, sweet vicar. An’ I’m sure Mrs. Lythecoe will do her verra best to make him happy.” She gave a mournful sniff. “ ’Tis a tragedy that I woan’t be here to do for t’ two of ’em.”

“Won’t be here?” Beatrix asked in some surprise. “You’re . . . leaving?” Grace had particularly said that (even though she had discussed the matter with Mrs. Belcher) the vicar had not yet given Mrs. Thompson her notice.

“Aye. I’m leavin’, and verra sorry to say so.” She sighed heavily. “’ Tis mi mum, poor ol’ dear. She lives in Ambleside, all by her lone self, an’ I’m her only daughter. She’s been askin’ an’ wantin’ me to come an’ live with her. I’ve kept puttin’ her off and puttin’ her off, ’cause I truly love our vicar and felt it was mi duty to stand by him and be sure he was well fed and looked after.”

She cast a slantwise look at Beatrix, who murmured, “Very commendable, Mrs. Thompson.”

Mrs. Thompson looked gratified. “But I can’t put Mum off any longer. She’s gettin’ on in years an’ needs me t’ do her cookin’ an’ laund’rin’ an’ cleanin’. I’m that worrit about her, truly I am. So I’ve wrote an’ told her I’m comin’ to live with her, just as soon as t’ weddin’ takes place.” She lowered her voice, speaking anxiously. “I haven’t told t’ vicar yet, Miss Potter, so I hope tha woan’t go an’ say anything to him—or to noboddy else. I made up my mind only this mornin’, y’see. Mr. Biddle took t’ letter to t’ post just before tha knocked at t’ door. So it’s fresh in mi thoughts.”

“Oh,
dear
Mrs. Thompson,” Beatrix said, “I am truly sorry to hear about your mother. Of course you must do whatever you feel is right.” She smiled a little, thinking of her own situation. “It is not always convenient for daughters to do what their mothers want or feel they need, but there is duty to be considered.”

“Ah, duty,” said Mrs. Thompson, shaking her sadly. “I’ve been a martyr to duty my whole life, Miss Potter. First ’twas Mr. Thompson’s mum, and then Mr. Thompson hisself, both in poor health ’til they died. I did my duty by them two, an’ then by mi mum for a while, and then I came here when t’ dear vicar asked me, near nine years ago. I’ve loved ev’ry minute of t’ work here, an’ am that sorry to leave.” She bit her lip and the tears welled in her eyes. “But yes, tha’rt right. We must do wot we must, Miss Potter, like it or not.”

Deeply touched, Beatrix put her hand over Mrs. Thompson’s hand and pressed it. “You are a good daughter, Mrs. Thompson. I’m sure the vicar will miss you dreadfully. And of course, I won’t repeat a word of this to him. Not a word. I promise.”

She did not promise, however, that she wouldn’t say a word to Mrs. Lythecoe. In fact, she had already decided to stop at Rose Cottage on her way back to Hill Top. It would very much relieve Grace’s mind to know that there would not be a confrontation over Mrs. Thompson’s leaving.

“Thanks,” Mrs. Thompson said mistily, and wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron. “I’ve been wrackin’ my poor brain to think of someone t’ dear vicar might get on with after I’m gone, an’ I think I’ve thought of someone. Mrs. Lythecoe—that is, Mrs. Sackett-to-be—might like to have her, too, since t’ two of ’em know one another quite well.”

“Oh, really?” Beatrix asked, hardly daring to hope. “Who?”

“Mrs. Belcher,” Mrs. Thompson said. “Maggie Belcher. She lives over in Kendal now, but she had t’ post here at t’ vicarage some years back. She’s a dear person, an’ a verra good housekeeper. Keeps things neat as a pin, she does.” She smiled a little. “O’ course, her scones aren’t quite up to mine an’ I can’t recommend her steak an’ kidney pie, which is t’ vicar’s favorite. But then—” She gave a rueful shrug, as if to say that one couldn’t be all things to all people, and the vicar and his new bride would just have to endure steak and kidney pie and scones of a lesser quality.

Beatrix allowed herself a private smile. Sometimes, if one leaves well enough alone, things really do sort themselves out. It was looking as though there would be no difficulty here at the vicarage. Mrs. Thompson would depart for Ambleside to do her duty, Mrs. Belcher would take her place, and Reverend Sackett and the new Mrs. Sackett would live happily ever after.

Or would they? As Beatrix left, she thought that she rather liked Mrs. Thompson (and so do I, although I am glad I didn’t have to eat any of those scones, which look like small brown rocks laid on the plate). She was relieved to know that the housekeeper had nothing to do with the poisoned pen letters, for Mrs. Thompson obviously had no motive to write such things, and her high regard for the vicar would surely not allow her to speak ill of him in any way.

But if Mrs. Thompson didn’t write those letters, who did? she wondered.

And how would she ever find out?

While Miss Potter is visiting with Mrs. Thompson, Parsley, Hyacinth, and Hyacinth’s mother, Primrose, are busy getting ready for a party—and trying to keep their preparations from coming to the attention of the badger who is to be the honored guest. We will not ask Bosworth’s age, for that would be impolite. But he has been a part of Miss Potter’s story since 1906, and he was already in his middle years at that point. I am told that wild badgers live some twelve or fourteen years, so our badger is getting on, although still in good health and certainly in fine spirits—all the more, perhaps, from having relinquished some of his many duties. He is enjoying the privileges of the senior badger, without the responsibilities.

In the Brockery kitchen, Parsley and Primrose had been cooking and baking at top speed for several days. Parsley had made a honey cake and decorated it with some pretty blue violets that one of the visiting hedgehogs had brought from the woods, as well as the requisite number of blue candles, to match the violets. Primrose had made various kinds of sandwiches and was baking her specialty seed wigs, as well as shortbread and gingersnaps, scones made with dried fruits (raisins, dates, prunes, apricots), cheese scones, and vanilla slices, as well—rich, thick, vanilla custard layered on top of a baked pastry sheet, topped with baked pastry, and then frosted. For the scones and tea biscuits, there were all sorts of jams and jellies: pear and ginger jam, orange marmalade, bramble jelly, rose geranium jelly, and lemon curd. There was popcorn and nuts and bowls of dried berries. And for drinks, nettle beer and ginger beer for the elders, and lemonade for the youngsters. It was going to be a magnificent party.

Early in the afternoon, Bailey took the supposedly unsuspecting Bosworth out for a mushroom-seeking ramble through Penny Woods. This gave Hyacinth, Thackeray, and the rabbit twins the opportunity to decorate the dining hall with balloons and paper streamers and a large hand-painted sign over the mantle that said HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BOSWORTH! The hedgehogs had gathered armloads of early-spring daffodils, violets, and heartsease, and arranged them artfully in thimble vases, with curly fern fronds and pretty green leaves. When everything else was ready, Primrose and Parsley brought in the food and arranged it on the table, buffet-style, with plates and silverware and napkins. It was to be a stand-up party. As the guests arrived—friends, neighbors, and several special guests invited for this special occasion—they stacked their wrapped gifts on the mantle and around the fireplace. And since there were dozens of guests, the stacks of gifts were quite impressive.

As I said earlier, Bosworth had heard whisperings about the party (he might be old, but there was nothing wrong with his hearing), so it wasn’t a surprise. He knew that everyone around him was up to something, and tactfully chose to ignore it all. But when he walked into the dining room at two in the afternoon and saw the brightly colored balloons and streamers and the HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BOSWORTH! sign over the mantle, and the towering pile of gifts, and the food and the birthday cake and the candles and the flowers, and above all, the special guests, he was overwhelmed with astonishment. He had expected a birthday party, but not this sort of elaborate birthday party.

“Happy birthday, Bosworth!”
rang out a happy shout from all of the guests in unison, at the top of their lungs. The shout was very loud because the room was so full that the guests were standing elbow to elbow, oh, so many of them! There were some whom we know: the Professor, naturally, and Reynard the fox (Jemima Puddle-duck’s friend); Fritz the ferret, in the company of his friend Max the Manx; Rascal, Tabitha, and Crumpet from the village; Thackeray and Bailey and Thorvaald. And a great number of other friends and acquaintances, besides: a pair of red squirrels, three brown hares, a prickle of hedgehogs, a bevy of beetles, a voluntary of voles, and a sleuth of spiders. All were happy to be invited, all had brought gifts (even if only an acorn or a berry or a curious rock). And all were on their best behavior.

“Happy birthday, Uncle Bosworth!”
came another chorus, and at this, Bosworth had to blink back the tears. For these were the animals he held dearest in all the world, Parsley and Primrose and Hyacinth, and oh my goodness, Thorn and Buttermilk, as well! Thorn, Hyacinth’s brother, who had once lived at The Brockery (and whom Bosworth had for a time considered to be next in line for the Badge), and Buttermilk, his wife, had come all the way from their sett at Brockmoor, near Underbarrow. They had brought with them three cubs from their first litter: Tansy, Turnip, and Rhubarb. The cubs were now a year old and rowdy, but respectful of Uncle Bosworth, who was immensely charmed by them.