by Susan Albert
This was indeed a dark moment, but things were about to get darker. Mr. Harmsworth had not chosen his new wife for her beauty or her dowry, or because he had fallen desperately in love with her. His motives were much simpler than that, and he made no effort to disguise them. He had watched Miss Westgate at her work and felt that she was a strong and capable woman. And because she expressed such a firm interest in his apple business, he had got the notion that she would willingly join him in his efforts to make a success of Applebeck. I think you can see that there was more than a little self-deception on both sides.
At any rate, when the newly married Mrs. Harmsworth arrived at Applebeck, she discovered that her husband had discharged both the maid-of-all-work and the dairymaid and had used their wages to buy a cider press. You can imagine the effect of this decision on Mrs. Harmsworth, who was not consulted. Any illusions about her new husband were quickly dispelled, and Mrs. Harmsworth realized that Mr. Harmsworth was every bit as bleak and unhappy as his house.
Mrs. Harmsworth was not of a cheerful nature to start with, and these experiences only embittered her further. It was not long, then, before she began taking matters into her own hands. She blamed her husband for her present circumstances and took pleasure in finding little ways to get even with him, such as pouring out a quart of good milk or loosening the bung on an apple cider keg or smashing a nest of eggs. She wrung every penny she could from the inadequate household allowance that her husband gave her (which no doubt accounts for the perennial shortage of candles, matches, sugar, and tea at Applebeck Farm). She even pilfered his pocketbook from time to time, especially after he’d just got back from the pub and was in no condition to recall how much he had spent. She tied this hoard of money into a blue kerchief and hid it under a floorboard in her bedroom upstairs, thinking ahead to the day when she would have enough to go somewhere—to Liverpool, perhaps, since it wasn’t a good idea to go back to Manchester—and set herself up in business as a seamstress. It wasn’t that she was particularly skilled in needlework, or that she had any very practical plan for her future. It was just that she needed to imagine herself doing something, anything, other than living at Applebeck.
Things became a little more comfortable for Mrs. Harmsworth when Gilly arrived and was given many of the housekeeping tasks. She kept a sharp eye on the girl and a sharp tongue, too, with a shrill, “Gilly, do this,” and “Gilly, do that,” and “Hurry up, Gilly!” every few moments. And on the occasions when Gilly did not move smartly enough or did not follow her orders exactly, Mrs. Harmsworth would give her a lash or two with a small riding crop she kept for this purpose. Perhaps the mistress thought she was doing her duty by minding the servant. But I think it more likely that she was merely taking out her frustrations on someone who was lower in the Applebeck pecking order than herself.
Unfortunately, having Gilly to order about did nothing to ease Mrs. Harmsworth’s resentments against her husband. In fact, her anger had become volcanic, constantly steaming away under the surface, sometimes erupting violently, lava-like. She had stopped speaking to her husband, glowered at him across the table, banged the dishes and plates whenever he was in the room, and flew into frequent fierce rages. And since Mr. Harmsworth paid no attention at all to his wife, it was easy for Mrs. Harmsworth to turn her wrath on Gilly, who had learnt to duck when the crockery came whizzing through the air.
Mr. Harmsworth, for his part, did not notice whether Mrs. Harmsworth loved him or hated him. If he was disappointed in his wife’s refusal to join in his efforts to make the apple business pay, he didn’t reveal it. He was the same stolid, unmoving creature from one day to the next, keeping his eyes on his work, speaking only to give an order or complain that something was not done right. In all the months Gilly had lived there, she had seen him aroused to excitement only once. That was the night the haystack burnt, when he had rushed out across the field with a bucket to put it out, which was of course very silly, for by that time the fire was roaring away, and nothing but the heaviest downpour of rain could have doused it, and perhaps not even that.
After that night, he lapsed back into his usual gloomy silence, although Gilly could sense a simmering anger inside him, as if the fire that had burnt the haystack had somehow gotten inside the man and could not be put out. She was not surprised when he put up the barricades, or when he threatened Captain Woodcock with his shotgun. She would not be at all surprised if he fired it, either, and the idea frightened her nearly to death—which, I suppose (although I don’t know for certain), is the reason she wanted to talk to the captain.
I think you will agree that the situation at Applebeck Farm must have been a terribly unpleasant one. For Gilly, it was intolerable, and her resentment was growing by the day. What’s more, she suspected that her uncle intended to keep her working at Applebeck for as long as he could—for her whole life, if she did nothing to keep that from happening. After all, he was getting a very good bargain. He paid her nothing, not even the few pence a day she had asked for. She ought to be glad, he said, that someone had been willing to take her in, so that she didn’t have to go to the parish poorhouse—that was payment enough, by itself. And he was doing his duty just by providing her with clothing, a bed, and food. Why, he had even allowed her to finish school. She should be grateful for that!
In the circumstance, it is no wonder that Gilly thought of running away. But she was a practical girl, and knew that unless she could get her hands on enough money to tide her over, she might find herself in an even worse situation. Or she could take out her resentment (which was every bit as fierce as Mrs. Harmsworth’s) by some other means. Embittered servants often engaged in criminal acts, like the young woman who stole a large sum of money from the wealthy lady who employed her and went off to Paris to live on the Rue d’Artistes. Or the odd-job boy who was convicted of setting fire to his master’s barn and stealing his master’s silver whilst everyone was engaged in fighting the fire.
So now you know what is going on at Applebeck Farm, with Mr. and Mrs. Harmsworth, and with Gilly, and why Gilly is so anxious to find somewhere else to live and work.
But when we followed Gilly into the house, the captain went off up the hill. I don’t think we should let him get too far away before we catch up to him.
11
The Captain and the Major Make a Plan
After Captain Woodcock left Applebeck Farm, he walked up the hill and down the road, striding fast, staring straight ahead, scarcely paying attention to where he was going. But while he was angry (as much at himself for having lost his temper as at the man who had provoked him), he had not lost his ability to focus on the problem and formulate a plan. And when he calmed himself enough to look up and take a breath, he saw that he had arrived at the very place he had meant to visit next: Teapot Cottage, the tiniest dwelling in the village.
Teapot very much resembled a cozy Cotswold stone-built cottage, but with slate rather than thatch for the roof, and was screened from the lane by a virtual forest of hawthorn. Inside, this miniature hideaway was blessed with all the hand-hewn beams, secret crannies, and odd little inglenooks that any Romantic’s heart might desire. And outside—well, there was Major Roger Ragsdale in his garden, the sleeves of his shirt rolled to the elbow, his collar open. He was hoeing the soft earth around his cabbages, which were aligned with military precision in the straightest of straight rows. The garden was small, like the cottage, but the major’s cabbages were amongst the largest in the district, and sweet and juicy as well. They always took top honors at the Harvest Festival held in Far Sawrey in late September. They had better, if they knew what was good for them.
The captain stopped beside the green-painted gate through the neatly trimmed hedge. “Good day, Ragsdale,” he called, not quite sure whether it was morning or afternoon and not wanting to pull out his watch to see.
“Ah, Woodcock,” returned Major Ragsdale, looking up. He was a short, slender, and very brisk man with a military manner and a neatly trimmed pencil musta
che. He spoke in clipped, military tones. “I say there, old chap, you’ve come along just at the right moment. Hoeing cabbages is hungry work. I was thinking of going in and having a bite of sandwich. Would you care to join me?”
Which is why we find Captain Woodcock taking off his tweed jacket and hanging it on the chair in the tiny kitchen of Teapot Cottage, where Major Roger Ragsdale (Ret.) lived all by himself. It was a good thing he did, too, for there wouldn’t have been room for a Mrs. Ragsdale, or anything larger than a cat. (And a cat would certainly have served, for the cottage was plagued by a gang of mice which had grown rather too familiar with Major Ragsdale’s larder.) The cottage was called Teapot because its tiny sitting room had once served as a tiny tearoom, operated by a very tiny and very old lady who always wore a mobcap and a black dress with a lace fichu. She served crumpets and scones and tea to weary day-trippers who were glad of a bite and a sip, even if they had to practically sit on one another’s laps to get it.
“I’ve come on an errand, actually,” the captain said, sitting down at the narrow table, which was wedged between the wall and the door with barely room for a pair of chairs. He watched Major Ragsdale cut precise slices from a loaf of fresh-baked bread and cover them with exactly sliced cold beef and mustard, rings of silver onions arranged carefully on top. “It has to do with the Applebeck Footpath, as you might have guessed.”
“Ah,” said Ragsdale. “Right ho. Yes, I did guess, I must say.” He pursed his lips and pulled his neat black brows together. The effect may have seemed rather comic, but you would not want to laugh at Major Ragsdale, who had served with distinction in the Boer War and had been with Baden-Powell at the Siege of Mafeking.
“I understand that you’re planning something,” the captain said.
“Ah, you’ve heard about our march, then.” The major beamed. “Capital response from the Ramblers, capital, Woodcock. Exactly what I would have expected of the chaps, eh, what?”
He gestured toward a wall hung with framed photographs of men dressed for a climb in the Alps: tweed knickers, stout boots, woolen socks, and felt hats, leather kit bags slung over their shoulders. The photos showed them climbing steep fells, negotiating narrow tracks, and happily posing in front of pubs, tankards in one hand, walking sticks in the other. Above the display was a large framed photograph of Major General Baden-Powell, in full regimental dress.
“Look at them, Woodcock,” the major said fondly. “Like the finest British soldiers, these men. Always up for a stirring challenge, in war and in peace. Superb lot. Superb. Baden-Powell would be proud of them.” He topped both sandwiches with a crisp spear of pickle and poured them each a cup of strong, hot tea.
“I have heard about your march,” the captain agreed—rather diffidently, since the major outranked him. But they had both left the Army some time ago, he reminded himself, so the matter of rank (a habit that was hard to break) was neither here nor there. He squared his shoulders. “I have heard,” he repeated, more firmly. “And I am asking you to call it off.”
“Call it off?” Chuckling, Ragsdale pulled out his chair and sat down. “Sorry, Captain. Not for anybody’s money. The march is on for eleven hundred hours tomorrow. Seventeen Ramblers have pledged to attend. Tonight, we’re to meet at Tom Patchett’s house to make placards and signs. Mrs. Patchett and several ladies have volunteered to paint a banner, bless ’em.” He picked up his sandwich in both hands. “And I have arranged for a reporter to be here, from the—”
“There’ll be no march, Major Ragsdale,” interrupted the captain, very firmly. “By eleven hundred hours, you will be in the custody of Constable Braithwaite, charged with attempted trespass.”
The major stared. “Trespass!”
“Trespass,” the captain replied.
The major put down his sandwich. He tilted his head, narrowing his eyes and studying the captain as if he was not sure that he had heard the word correctly. “By Jove, Woodcock,” he said at last. “I do believe you’re serious.”
“I am.”
“But an arrest won’t—That is to say, it isn’t the thing to—”
“It is the very thing,” the captain said, now with great firmness. “I want you at the north end of the footpath at nine in the morning, Major. The constable and I will meet you there. You will attempt to take down the barricade—”
The major shook his head. “It’ll take more than one man to pull down Harmsworth’s barricade. I’ve had a close look. Bloody stout, it is. Built like the barriers Baden-Powell laid down before Mafeking to foil the Boer attack—wire, wood, tar, the lot.”
“I didn’t say—” the captain began.
“Won’t do, Woodcock,” the major said authoritatively. “One man won’t do. You want that barricade down, you want my chaps, that’s who you want. All I have to do is say the word, and they’ll have it away in a tick. And then they’ll march down the path to the south end and pull that one down, as well. The thoroughfare is reopened, the village restored to order.” He smiled. “The unpleasantness is over and done with in a hurry, old man. Right ho. Chop-chop.” He picked up his sandwich again.
“I didn’t say you would take it down,” the captain explained patiently. “I said you would attempt to take it down. It comes to the same thing, in the eyes of the law, you see, but without the bother. You make the attempt—no more than putting out your hand and shaking a bit of wire. The constable arrests you. No unpleasantness, no exertion. The whole business is over in a jiffy, and all very simple. No marches, no songs, no protest.” He paused for emphasis. “And no journalists.”
“Nonsense. Never been arrested before, never will be arrested. I will not submit to arrest for any reason. Looks bad on the record. If you want those barricades down, you want my men. Got it?” He added, with significance, “Captain.”
The captain sighed. “I appreciate your point, Major. But it really is a simple—”
“An arrest on one’s record is not simple,” the major said with great firmness.
“It won’t be on your record.” The captain leaned forward. “Look, Ragsdale. I’ve had a quick look into the history of that footpath. I’m going a bit out of bounds here to tell you this, of course. But it’s very likely—in fact, I believe that I can promise to dismiss the attempted trespass charges against you and order Harmsworth to reopen the path. Of course, I’ll hear whatever evidence the fellow pleases to offer, but at the present time, I see no merit in his case. None at all.”
“Dismiss the charges?” The major frowned. “Nothing on the record? And the barricade will come down?”
The captain took a deep breath, feeling that he had gone farther out than he liked on a very thin limb. “You have my word, Ragsdale.”
“And what if Harmsworth objects to my ‘attempted trespass’? What if he defends his barricade?”
The captain remembered Harmsworth’s shotgun, then as quickly dismissed the thought from his mind. “I will be there. The constable will be there.”
The major gave him a dark look. “When we Ragsdales put our hand to the plough, we do not readily sheathe the sword, Woodcock. If I am assaulted, I shall return the blow in kind.”
“You won’t be assaulted,” the captain said confidently. He frowned. “One thing we ought to clear up, though. I take it that none of your Ramblers had anything to do with that haystack being burnt.”
“Of course not!” Ragsdale exclaimed heatedly. “My men are gentlemen. None of them would do such a cowardly thing. And anyway—”
“And anyway, the haystack being burnt is no defense for the closing of the footpath. Although that is precisely the reason Harmsworth gives for doing it.”
“You’ve talked to him, then?”
“Before I came here.” The captain chuckled darkly. “Not an altogether prepossessing fellow, I should say. Surly.”
“Well, then,” began the major.
“Well, then,” the captain preempted him. “There will be no need for signs or banners, and I will greatly appreciate it if you
will tell your Ramblers to keep to home tomorrow. I don’t want anyone inciting to riot, on either side. I don’t even want Harmsworth on the scene, if we can help it. So. We shall meet at nine o’clock. You will put your hand on that barricade. Braithwaite will arrest you. I’ll take you in custody and the constable can fetch Harmsworth to my house, where we’ll hold the hearing. With luck, the whole business will be over and done in a matter of an hour or two. When the reporter arrives, you can tell him that it’s all been taken care of.”
“Well, then,” said the major again. He picked up his sandwich in a gesture of capitulation. “Shall we have our lunch, Captain?”
“Very good,” said the captain, feeling that he had accomplished this entire bit of business about as well as it could have been accomplished. He took a bite and chewed appreciatively. “Jolly good,” he said. “Splendid sandwich, Major. Simply splendid.”
And with that, the two men stopped talking about the campaign they had laid out for the morrow and began talking about the major’s cabbages and the captain’s plans for a fishing trip to Derwentwater with Mr. Heelis. And in another twenty minutes, lunch over, the captain was on his way home.
We shall follow him for a bit, as he strides, jauntily now, along the Kendal Road, across the bridge over Wilfin Beck, past Hill Top Farm and the Tower Bank Arms and the village shop, which Miss Potter immortalized in Ginger and Pickles. He is swinging his walking stick with a great flourish and whistling tunelessly between his teeth, entirely satisfied with his plan for tomorrow’s trespass. Law and order, that was the ticket. Devise a strategy, develop a plan, carry it out with good sense and sound judgment, and peace and harmony will be restored in the land. All will be well. All will indeed be well.
Ah, Captain Woodcock, Captain Woodcock. Wouldn’t it be nice if everything worked out exactly as we planned? Life would be so simple, and we should all be so very happy.