by Cathy Gohlke
“Yes. Exactly.”
Aunt Miranda turned. Claire could see the battle behind her aunt’s eyes, the struggle to maintain her secrets and the desire to breach those walls. “Perhaps,” her aunt ventured, “we’re more kindred spirits than we know.”
Claire’s heart swelled. She knew she shouldn’t allow it, would live to regret the breach in her own walls, but a tiny flame of hope flickered and she didn’t put it out.
Miranda slipped into a chair by the library fire, its grate empty now that warm evenings were upon them. It was the perfect perch to observe Claire and the cluster of unruly children surrounding her in the circular turret.
“‘When Mary Lennox was sent to Misselthwaite Manor to live with her uncle everybody said she was the most disagreeable-looking child ever seen. . . .’”
Hearing Claire read to the children, seeing their roving eyes transform to rapt faces or the intent posture of their backs as they leaned into the story, turned back years for Miranda. So easily could she imagine Christopher sprawled there among them, chiming in favorite, familiar lines as she’d read them aloud.
Aimee nestled into Claire’s side, beneath her elbow. Now that her dark night had passed, and once the little girl learned of Claire’s search and vigil for her, she seemed to have opened her heart to Claire and attached herself in a new way. Miranda knew Claire still stood wary, fearful of being hurt, but to her credit she made deliberate efforts to reach out to Aimee, to include her and even single her out sometimes.
Miranda breathed deeply, grateful to witness such change in her niece and in the children, even in herself. Watching Claire grow into her role with the children, albeit haltingly and not without its setbacks, felt like passing the torch to her niece.
I’m nearly fifty, but feel eighty or more. Is it the grief . . . the desperate missing of Christopher? It was almost too painful a question, and yet, surprising to herself, Miranda didn’t think it was her grief. She found herself smiling and even laughing at the antics and quips between the children, loving them as she’d not planned. She wished to enter into their games and songs. Even now, a part of her longed to sit on the floor, cross-legged, in their midst, absorbing The Secret Garden with them. She wished to dream, to plan what they’d plant and grow together . . . but her emotional and physical energy seemed entirely drained. She felt old and tired. A good night’s sleep made no difference. She always needed more.
Miranda fingered the brooch on her dress. Something was wrong—she knew it. But she didn’t know what and couldn’t explain it. Perhaps if she didn’t mention her unsettled feeling, if she ignored it, in time it would pass.
May turned into June. Aimee loved the early-summer evenings best. She waited all day for the moment Mademoiselle Claire would open the book and begin to read about Mary Lennox and her formerly grumpy cousin, Colin Craven. She loved how Colin was being transformed by the garden, how he stretched his limbs and did all manner of things he’d believed impossible.
Best of all, she loved Dickon—good, kind Dickon, who could speak with the animals. How she wished one of the boys in the house were Dickon. She could imagine Mr. Dunnagan as Ben Weatherstaff, but she could never imagine Nancy as kindhearted Martha. Even Mademoiselle Claire could not live up to that.
Mademoiselle Claire was unpredictable, and that worried Aimee. Sometimes she pulled Aimee close beside her as she read. There were moments when it seemed she spoke and lived the story only for Aimee. Other times mademoiselle seemed very far away, her brow wrinkled over things that could have nothing to do with the story. Aimee no longer felt that Mademoiselle Claire didn’t want her, but she didn’t understand her teacher.
Some of the words in the story were difficult. They weren’t as clear as Mrs. Heelis’s stories, which had pictures to help. And although Dickon seemed well able to communicate with the animals, they didn’t speak in a language Aimee could comprehend, not as they did in Mrs. Heelis’s stories. Aimee confided this to Claire one afternoon as she sat, coloring, in the library.
“Do you miss your visits with Mrs. Heelis?” Claire put down her pen and tilted her head.
“Oui, certainement,” Aimee sighed, looking up, “but Madame Langford said it is better if I don’t go there.” A flush rose over Aimee’s cheeks. “It is because I went searching for the fairy caravan, you know. She said such things aren’t real, that fairies are pretend, that animals do not speak, and I should not go to such dangerous places alone.”
“You can understand that, surely. She has your best interests at heart.”
“Oui, je comprends, mais . . . ,” Aimee whispered, “I think she is wrong. I think she has forgotten, as the grown-ups did in Peter Pan.” She shrugged. “I miss Madame Heelis. I miss her house and her stories. I miss Mademoiselle Ruby. She gave me jam and bread anytime I visited, you know.”
Claire smiled. “Yes, so I heard.”
Aimee nodded, sighed dramatically, and went back to her coloring.
Claire received no quarter from Mrs. Newsome in the matter of tucking into the picnic basket early. The older woman gently placed a tea towel filled with warm and fragrant currant buns and a little jar of Lyle’s Golden Syrup in Claire’s knapsack, a gift to give their unsuspecting hostess.
“Can’t we eat some on the way?” Claire taunted, childlike.
“There’s a Peter Rabbit bun for each of you in this napkin. You may stop for a picnic with Aimee along the way, but don’t dawdle. I’ve telephoned Ruby, and she’s expecting you both for early tea. Mrs. Heelis should be home from checking on her lambs by then. She’s all about breedin’ those darlin’ Herdwick sheep of hers these days, but you’ll find her fascinating. Try to get her talking about her young days.”
“Peter Rabbit buns?” Claire smiled. “That’s cute. I’m not sure they won’t be lost on our neighbor. You said she’s ancient and grumpy, that all the children call her Auld Mother Heelis behind her back.”
“She still writes stories now and again—she’s written a dozen or more—and her paintings are marvelous. You’ll love them, even if your personalities are not precisely what they call ‘kindred spirits.’”
Claire didn’t expect “kindred spirits.” She just hoped to get through the afternoon.
They walked the back road, hand in hand, nibbling their currant buns, and passed silver birches waving lithe and graceful limbs. As they climbed over the fell to the Heelis farm, Claire knew she’d no cause to grumble. It was a lovely day, one of the few in the Lake District with brilliant blue skies and no afternoon shower. Aimee licked the glaze from her fingers, then pulled her picture from her pinafore pocket. She smiled and skipped, parading her drawing of newborn lambs for Mrs. Heelis up and down the path, so excited that Claire laughed despite herself.
“Wait until you see the pictures, mademoiselle, and her farm animals! They are lovely—the most cunning little rabbits and, oh my, the sly fox! And, oh, what a stupid, stupid duck lives there!”
Claire smiled at the child’s chatter, not always certain whether Aimee meant the animals on the Heelis farm or in the owner’s drawings. She wondered if Aimee knew where to draw the line, either. But something about her reference to the “stupid, stupid duck” struck an ages-old memory for Claire. Just as they approached the farmhouse, Claire asked, “Aimee, do you know what Mrs. Heelis’s first name is? What her Christian name is?”
“Oui! But of course! Don’t you know?” Aimee laughed.
“I’ve never met her.” Claire knocked on the door.
“But you’ve read her books! Mrs. Newsome reads them to me all the time. She says they were the very favorite of Master Christopher when he was a boy no older than me.” Aimee leaned conspiratorially toward Claire and gently chided, as if Claire should know better, “Mademoiselle, children all over the world know Beatrix Potter!”
Ruby flung wide the door.
“Welcome, Miss Claire, little Miss Aimee! We’ve been expectin’ you!”
But Claire had not expected to be ushered into the home of Bea
trix Potter, renowned children’s author and illustrator. Such a privilege had never occurred to her.
While Aimee was interviewed and her drawing critically received by the famous lady, Ruby took Claire on a tour of the home. Each room held mementos and figurines, practical pieces of everyday childhood and housekeeping that had inspired well-loved and classic stories. There were the dolls, Lucinda and Jane, and even the wonderful dollhouse that Mr. Warne had built for his niece, the very one that had inspired Beatrix’s Tale of Two Bad Mice. The gardens ran amok with kittens and ducks just like those that had crept into the stories of Tom Kitten and Jemima Puddle-Duck.
Stories and bits of stories lingered in every corner—on the mantelpiece, in the parlor, in the kitchen. After tea, Mrs. Heelis invited Claire to join her upstairs in her inner sanctum, to see where she wrote and drew and to tell about her own writing—for she’d heard from Aimee that Claire was a great novelist. Claire felt as if she’d swallowed shoe leather. What could she say? That she wrote shallow stories with forced dialogue set in worlds of which she knew nothing? That she copied ideas and plots from literary lights?
Before they sat, Mrs. Heelis was called to the door to speak with her head shepherd—something about a Herdwick that had fallen into a ravine.
In that lady’s absence, Claire boldly ran her hand over Beatrix Potter Heelis’s writing desk and marveled at the stories that had been composed there, the countless letters written, the imaginings that must have come while sitting in the very chair behind it.
To think that Beatrix Potter Heelis had not traveled to exotic lands or rubbed elbows with literary giants like those frequenting Shakespeare and Company, but had taken her inspiration from such humble, everyday surroundings . . . It gave Claire a great deal to ponder.
All this time Aimee had been entertained by the world’s most beloved children’s writer and illustrator, and Claire had not given her the time of day.
“Do you like my desk, young woman?”
Claire started. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Heelis. I was just—just . . .” What could she say? But the truth was simple. “I wanted to touch the desk of a real writer. I’ve loved your stories since I was a little girl.”
Mrs. Heelis sank into her desk chair. “You’re not a real writer?”
Claire stepped back, groaning inside. “No, ma’am. Aimee was misinformed.”
Mrs. Heelis raised her eyebrows and waited.
“I want to write. . . . I scribble.” Claire nudged the braided rug with her toe. If only she could slide beneath its bound edge. “I mean, I write, I do . . . I journal for the Mass Observation Project, and I’ve tried writing fiction. But it simply isn’t going anywhere.” She shrugged. “It doesn’t sound real—not like yours.”
“My stories are full of talking squirrels and ducks and rabbits that wear clothes, take tea.”
“I mean what you write sounds true to your stories—true to your characters. My characters are real people, but they—they aren’t like any people I know. They aren’t like the characters or stories of writers I admire.”
“As I was growing up, my brother and I weren’t allowed many acquaintances, let alone friends. My pets and those animals I observed in nature became my friends. My animal characters are my friends. They are just who and what they would be if the animals in your garden could really, truly talk.”
Claire tried, but she wasn’t sure she understood.
“Young woman—for to me you are a very young woman—listen carefully and remember what you will: Write stories of those you know, the life you live, in your own voice.”
“I can’t imagine anyone would be interested in that.”
“Of course they will not, if you are not.” And Beatrix Potter Heelis turned toward her desk and took up her pen, as clearly dismissing Claire as if she’d walked out of the room.
It was just as well. Claire had no idea how to respond. She believed she’d been told something profound, perhaps obvious—at least to Mrs. Heelis. But Claire needed time to think about her words. “Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. Heelis, for taking the time . . .”
But Mrs. Heelis was deep in thought, her pen moving quickly across her page.
Claire slipped from the room and down the stairs. Ruby stood with one hand on the banister, beside Aimee, already dressed for her journey, holding their empty basket over her arm.
“I’m so sorry, Ruby. We’ve stayed longer than we should. Thank you for having us. Please thank Mrs. Heelis when . . .” Claire didn’t know how to finish.
“When she comes up for air—I know.” Ruby smiled.
Dusk was creeping in by the time Ruby ushered Aimee and Claire out the door and down the lane. Aimee chattered on and on about the praise Mrs. Heelis had given her drawings, about her insistence that she never allow grown-ups to tell her how to draw, that she must always draw with the joy and whimsy of her nature, though Aimee wasn’t altogether certain what that meant. Mrs. Heelis, she said, had advised that she study the fur of animals, the wings of the smallest birds, the way a fern bends toward the light, for herself, then draw just what she saw.
All the while, all the way home, Claire silently berated herself. If she’d only known, if she’d only listened to Aimee and Mrs. Newsome, if she’d not assumed that no important thing could happen in the Lake District now that Wordsworth and Coleridge and Ruskin were dead and buried.
If she’d opened her eyes to real life around her, she might not have missed forming a vital relationship with a real-life author. Despite that good lady taking the time and pains to receive her, to give her writerly advice, Claire had gotten the distinct impression that Mrs. Heelis didn’t much like her.
Why should she? She surely knows I’ve resisted bringing Aimee to visit and that Aimee is in need of love and attention. And beyond that, I clearly know nothing of writing, not real writing. Claire sighed. She was trying to do better on all fronts, but in the midst of trying she’d worn blinders, focused on her to-do list.
Claire squeezed Aimee’s hand, taking note of the little girl’s bright eyes, her dimpling smile, the way she leaned into Claire’s side as they walked. Is this what Mrs. Heelis meant—this writing about the life I know, the life I live? It’s personal, intimate, and yet who will want to read about that? Claire forced herself to return to the moment.
“Aimee, your pictures are so much better than I ever realized. I’m not really an artist, you know—”
“But you are, mademoiselle! I saw your nature journal. Il est superbe!”
Claire smiled. She could kiss the child. “What I mean to say is that I could bring you some flowers and ferns from the high fell to draw as Mrs. Heelis suggested, the next time I go out climbing with the older class.”
“When I must nap,” Aimee pouted.
“Well, yes, but that’s necessary, isn’t it?”
“Non, I am too big to nap. I could keep up with the others. You would see if you allow me to try.”
“Well, perhaps you and I should try on our own first, to make sure you can keep up. How would that be?”
“Oui, mademoiselle! That would be splendid!”
Claire’s heart lifted, and she vowed to make certain she found the time—made the time—for this expedition. Is loving and being loved like this? A leap of faith followed by a reaching out and taking in?
They’d crossed over the fell and trooped through the pasture, nearly reaching the road when goose bumps prickled Claire’s skin. A sudden thrashing in the brush across the road and a flash of dark movement brought her up short. The jerk nearly pulled Aimee off her feet.
“What is it, mademoiselle? What is the matter?”
“I don’t know. Nothing, maybe nothing, but . . .” Claire peered through the dusk. “Is anyone there?” No sound. “I said, is anyone there? Show yourself!” She spoke in her most authoritarian voice, though she knew it quavered.
“Who is there, mademoiselle?” Aimee whispered, her voice trembling.
Claire knew she must not frighten the little
girl.
“Maybe no one. Come, I think we should hurry along.”
Twice more before they reached the grounds of Bluebell Wood, Claire felt as if someone was near, someone was watching. Surely this is the product of my overactive imagination! An afternoon of talking ducks and mischievous squirrels and dolls in houses that come to life could do that to anyone! Couldn’t it?
Chapter Twenty-One
TWICE IN JULY, the Home Guard alerted Bluebell Wood of German prisoner escapes from nearby Grizedale Hall. Josef begged Fräulein Claire not to go out walking alone, to allow him to accompany and protect her. His offer, made public at the luncheon table, only infuriated Gaston, who proclaimed himself Mademoiselle Claire’s official protector.
“What do you two suggest?” Jeanine teased. “A duel?”
Josef ignored her. “We need to make certain that women and children are safe within these walls, that any escaped prisoners will find themselves in deep regret if they cross these boundaries.”
“Well, I do lock the doors and windows come evening,” observed Mrs. Newsome, clearly trying not to smile.
“That is very good,” Gaston agreed. “But we need to do something about the grounds. I concur this time with Josef.”
Lady Langford raised her eyebrows, but Josef ignored that, too. “We must not only concern ourselves with escaped prisoners; we must remain vigi—vigilant in case of invasion.”
“The Home Guard is patrolling,” Bertram said. “They’re trained for such things; you are not.”
“Ja, trained, this is true, but they cannot be everywhere. I am talking about protecting our land and our women.”
Lady Langford raised her eyebrows once again.
“Do you, Madame Langford, give us leave to protect the women and children of Bluebell Wood? We could prepare this afternoon.”
“It might take longer than one afternoon,” offered Gaston. “I have a plan.”
“And I have another.” Josef was not to be outdone.