The Tale of Briar Bank

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “No,” she said, very softly. “You haven’t offended me. Thank you, Mr. Heelis. It’s quite all right. Truly.” She smiled, if a little crookedly. “I shall try not to mind if you think of me as a female Sherlock Holmes.”

  And with that, her fingers tightened on his, or seemed to. It was almost imperceptible, this tightening. Had he really felt it? Or only imagined it?

  Outside, a rooster crowed, breaking the silence. On the range, the kettle began to hiss.

  Miss Potter repossessed her hand. “The kettle,” she said, and turned quickly to fetch it.

  And since we have already taken the liberty of looking into Will’s heart, perhaps we shall have another look, for what has just happened has had rather a surprising effect on him. Will is not in the habit of holding ladies’ hands. In fact, he has done so only twice in his entire adult life, and one of those hands belonged to his cousin. That he has done so now—quite without intending to, or consciously willing it—utterly astounds him. He feels as if he has been turned to stone. Or perhaps he feels rather that he was stone, and now he has been turned to life. Actually, he doesn’t know how he feels, for there is such a confused, incoherent chaos of feelings whirling around inside him that he can scarcely pick out any. He has to sit there and pretend that nothing at all has happened, other than his impulsively taking Miss Potter’s hand for five or ten seconds or an hour and her fingers tightening on his—or did they?—before she pulled her hand away.

  Beatrix, for her part, feels a similar confusion. Did Mr. Heelis really intend to take her hand, or was it only a thoughtless, impulsive gesture? She blinks the tears away. And why are her eyes wet? Is it because no other man but Norman has ever taken her hand, and that so very long ago that she remembers it only in the way we remember dreams? And then, in a guilty flash, she remembers returning the pressure of Mr. Heelis’ fingers. She presses her lips together, the color flooding her face and neck. How could she have done such a thing? She’d been disloyal—and not just to her beloved Norman, but to Sarah Barwick, who hopes for happiness with Mr. Heelis.

  And if it seems to you that these two people are making far too much of a simple, innocent gesture, and that things would be so much easier and quicker if they would just fling their arms around each other and kiss and get on with the business of falling in love (that is what they’re about, isn’t it?), please remember that this is impossible. Miss Potter and Mr. Heelis live in a time and place and belong to a social class in which the expression of feeling is much more limited than it is in our own. There is nothing in their experience that gives them permission to do what you and I would certainly find quite natural and uncomplicated, and everything that teaches them that passionate emotional exhibits are not only wrong but very likely immoral, if not downright sinful. And if you think that’s sad, well, so do I. But it is their time and their place, and they live and breathe within it just as we live and breathe within ours, and if we want to know them, we shall have to allow them to be as they are, and not as we would like.

  And there may be something positive to be said for the social conventions that keep them from the quick and easy. The longer they postpone the mutual acknowledgment of what they have just discovered, the richer and deeper and more intense it is likely to be. And enduring, too, I daresay. How many times have you impulsively flung your arms around someone, only to discover the next day or the next week that you never wanted to see him or her again? The longer the delay, the more likely it is that whatever happens, when it happens, will be lasting.

  When it happens? I hear you saying, with an ironic laugh. More likely, if it happens. And look what occurred when Beatrix gave in to her parents and agreed to delay her marriage to Norman. He died.

  Sadly, I shall have to agree. When we seize time by the forelock, we have at least the forelock in our hands, however briefly. Well, there are things to be said on both sides of the argument.

  Miss Potter and Mr. Heelis, however, did not seize anything. There was an awkward silence in which the ticking of the clock could be distinctly heard. To cover her feelings, Beatrix paid a great deal of attention to pouring hot water from the kettle into the teapot—and a good thing, too, for her hand was shaking. Mr. Heelis, trying to act as if nothing at all out of the ordinary had happened (or if it had, that he had not noticed), got up from the table, and ambled nonchalantly to the guinea pigs’ cage.

  “I see you’ve brought your friends,” he remarked casually, bending over and putting out a finger.

  “Be careful!” Beatrix warned. “Thackeray—”

  “Ouch!” Mr. Heelis jumped back.

  “—bites,” Beatrix said, with a helpless laugh. She set the kettle back on the range. “Oh, dear. I’m so sorry.”

  “Just startled me,” Mr. Heelis said, nursing his knuckle. “No damage done.” He laughed wryly. “A fierce guinea pig, no less.”

  “Fiercer and fiercer,” Thackeray muttered. “If I could, I would leave this place and—”

  “Do hush, Thackeray!” Nutmeg shrilled. “If you don’t behave yourself, Miss Potter is going to decide that we’re not suitable for Miss Longford. We’ll have to go back to London. There’ll be no Tuppence and Thruppenny, no afternoons in the garden—”

  “Nag, nag, nag,” growled Thackeray. “How I’m to put up with you for the rest of my life, I don’t know.”

  “I’m taking them to Caroline tomorrow,” Beatrix said. “On my way up to Briar Bank House. At least, that was my intention. But now I’m not sure I ought to leave Thackeray with Caroline. He’s becoming very ill-tempered.”

  “It has nothing to do with temper, ill or otherwise,” Thackeray retorted. “It simply has to do with preferences. I do not prefer fingers in my face. Nor would you, I daresay, Miss Potter.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Mr. Heelis, coming back to the table. “Briar Bank. You’re going to the luncheon, then?”

  Beatrix nodded, relieved to be back in a more neutral conversational territory. “I want to pay my respects to Miss Wickstead.” She set out sugar on a tray and, remembering that Mr. Heelis took lemon, added several slices. “It’s odd, I must say. I didn’t know Mr. Wickstead had a sister.”

  “Neither did I,” Mr. Heelis said. “He told me that she found him by tracing the records of the orphanage near Manchester, where he grew up. A lucky reunion for him. Lucky for her, too, in the circumstance. She’s to have a tidy little inheritance.”

  Beatrix put the tray on the table. “Speaking of money, there’s something I should like to ask you about. It has to do with the Suttons.”

  Mr. Heelis raised his eyebrows. “That mortgage business, p’rhaps?”

  She felt relieved at not having to explain. “You know, then?”

  “I know they’re in rather a difficult patch.” He tilted his head to one side. “Mr. Sutton spoke to you about it?”

  “No, Deirdre Malone told me.” Beatrix related their discussion and Deirdre’s scheme. “I volunteered,” she added, “and now I’m not sure it was the right thing to do. I said I would discuss the situation with Lady Longford. She owes the largest amount—almost a third of the total. If she pays what she owes, the rest are likely to follow suit.” She cast a quick glance at Mr. Heelis’ face, to see whether he was disapproving. As Lady Longford’s solicitor, he would know whether this was a good plan or a bad one. “It won’t be quite enough to cover the mortgage,” she added, “but perhaps something can be worked out with the bank.”

  “I don’t see that there’s anything wrong with that scheme at all,” Mr. Heelis said thoughtfully. “If the village wants to have a veterinary—and surely that’s a good idea—he ought to be supported. Lady Longford is perfectly capable of paying what she owes, and ought to have done before now. Probably just overlooked it, or enjoys being supplicated.” He grinned. “I have no doubt that you’ll help her see her duty, Miss Potter. Do you remember when you talked her around to providing Jeremy Crosfield’s school tuition? Good job, that.”

  Beatrix had to return the smile. “
Well, I rather think you played a role in it. Jeremy writes that he is enjoying his studies and doing well, and asks to be remembered to you.” She picked up the china teapot and began to pour.

  “He’s a good boy,” Mr. Heelis said. “I’m glad he’s doing well.” He paused. “I’ve just thought of something, Miss Potter. The snow is deep, and it’s likely to be a bit difficult getting up to Briar Bank House tomorrow. I have my sleigh here—it seats four easily, with room to spare—and a horse, and was thinking of staying the night here in the village. How would it be if I took you to Briar Bank? We could stop at Tidmarsh Manor and get Lady Longford to handle that business.”

  Beatrix found it necessary to take a deep breath. Her first answer—an impulsive yes, oh, yes!—was just barely restrained by common sense and the thought of her friend. “Miss Barwick asked for a lift,” she said. “She’s taking baked goods. And I’ve promised Deirdre that she can ride as far as Tidmarsh Manor, to visit Caroline. I’m sure there won’t be room—”

  “Of course there’s room,” Mr. Heelis interrupted eagerly. “Room for all four of us, as well as all Miss Barwick’s bakery stuff.” He glanced at the guinea pigs. “And your friends, too.” He looked at her, his brown eyes smiling. “We shall be quite a gay party, in spite of the sad occasion. Say you will, Miss Potter.”

  Beatrix looked down and picked up her cup. “I’m sure that Miss Barwick will be glad of the extra room,” she said, in a voice that sounded prim even to her ears. “Yes. I think it is a good idea if we all go together.”

  “Well, then,” Mr. Heelis said heartily. “It’s settled. I shall come for you at—shall we say, ten? That will give us time to do our business with Lady Longford and get up to Briar Bank House in time for the luncheon.”

  “Ten it is, Mr. Heelis,” Beatrix said, trying very hard to ignore the pleasure she felt bubbling up inside her. “I shall let Deirdre know. And I am sure that Miss Barwick will be quite delighted. Thank you for your offer.”

  If Mr. Heelis heard the unusual emphasis that Miss Potter placed on the words Miss Barwick, he did not let on.

  “You’re very welcome,” he said, and drank his tea. “Now, are we ready for our visit to Castle Farm?”

  “Quite ready, I should think,” Beatrix said, and went to get her coat.

  14

  Bailey’s Story: Episode Three

  It does not do to leave a live dragon out of your calculations, if you live near him.

  J.R.R. Tolkien, The Hobbit

  It took quite some time for Bailey to awaken from his nap and prepare to go on with his story. But only about as much time, I am glad to say, as it took for Mr. Heelis and Miss Potter to mutually discover their attraction for each other, although neither of them has any idea what to do with the discovery. And since their inspection of the barn at Castle Farm has nothing in particular to do with our story, we shall leave them to it, while we return to the badgers to see what we have missed.

  In fact, we find things just about where we left them, except that the storytelling has removed to the library, where a fine fire is blazing merrily, Bosworth and Bailey are installed in comfortable leather chairs in front of it, and Thorn has just opened a bottle of Bosworth’s nettle beer, which he brewed himself in The Brockery kitchen.

  “I say, Bosworth, old chap,” said Bailey, holding up his mug of beer to the light. “This is a bit of all right.” He wouldn’t have admitted it, but it did feel rather fine to be in company, with such a nice glass of something. It felt good to have his toes warm, too.

  “I should be glad to send you home with a bottle or two,” said Bosworth amiably. “Well, then. Shall we begin?”

  “We had got to the part about the incinerator,” Thorn said, and shivered. “Or fire-pot or flame-thrower or whatever it is that makes a dragon breathe fire.”

  “You had just mentioned the dragon’s name,” Bosworth added. “And were about to tell us how you met him.” He reached for a pen and pad. “I think I shall take notes, if you don’t mind.”

  “Be my guest,” Bailey said, wiggling his toes.

  And so, with Bosworth scribbling madly, Bailey related the story of his encounter with the dragon, whose name, as he has reported, was Thorvaald. Or rather, I should say that the dragon’s name is Thorvaald, for according to all the eminent authorities on dragons, they live for a very long time. In fact, for all I know, Thorvaald is living there still, in the Land Between the Lakes, and will go on living there long after you and I are dead—a thought I find rather more comforting than not. I must confess to being happy to live in a world in which dragons are at least a possibility, and I should be glad to adjust my calculations if I found one residing in my vicinity.

  However that may be and whatever your opinion about dragons, what follows is the story Bailey told and Bosworth recorded—an interesting tale, and entertaining, and perhaps even thrilling. Or perhaps not, measured against the car crashes and gunfights and murder noir of our own age—but there it is. It is also, or so Bailey says, entirely true. That, I cannot guarantee, I’m afraid.

  The Tale of Bailey the Badger

  and the Dragon of Briar Bank

  Nothing very much out of the ordinary happened for some time after Bailey watched Mr. Wickstead carry off the treasure he had found hidden in Briar Bank. And as the days and weeks went along and no one from the village arrived with shovels, eager to dig for buried treasure, the badger felt much less apprehensive. He stopped looking over his shoulder when he was out gathering mushrooms and acorns and crabapples, and the episode began to fade into the background of memory, as a forbidding mountain diminishes in size the farther we go away from it, becoming much less threatening than when we are nearby.

  Bailey’s thoughts were full of a great many other things, anyway, for he had made up his mind to begin a project that he had really meant to undertake the previous year, and indeed, the year before that and the year before that—an enormous venture that his father (and before his father, his grandfather and great-grandfather) had always meant to undertake but had somehow never quite got around to, either. This was the cataloguing of the Briar Bank library.

  To prepare for this monumental task, Bailey had laid in a large supply of small white cards, as well as a case of clever wooden drawers with brass drawer-pulls within which the cards might be arranged in alphabetical order, ingeniously threaded (through holes in the bottom of the cards) on brass rods, so that if a drawer was accidentally overturned, the cards would not fall out. He also acquired the necessary pen-holders and nibs and bottles of ink and sheets of blotting paper and flannel pen wipes and extra candles—all the things a badger is likely to need in order to catalogue a very large collection of books. He planned to write the title of each book at the top of a card, along with the name of the author, the date of publication, the name and location of the publisher, and the condition and approximate value of the book, as well as anything else he knew about it, such as how it had come to be in the collection, to whom it had previously belonged, and so forth.

  Being a thoughtful and methodical badger, Bailey began his work in the very farthest section of the library, in the chamber that was most distant from his living quarters. Here were shelved the very oldest books, those collected by his forebears in the dim, distant reaches of Briar Bank’s history, when the library was first begun. Bailey had never spent a great deal of time in this chamber, for the books were written in languages he could not read—nor, as far as he knew, could his father or his grandfather before him. These books, not having been consulted for a very long time, were about as dusty as books can be. As a consequence, they had all to be removed from their shelves and stacked on the floor in order that the shelves, as well as the books themselves, might be thoroughly dusted. So Bailey tied on an apron, got his feather duster and a supply of clean flannel cloths, and set to work.

  It was while he was engaged in this tedious and somewhat sneezy task that he became aware of a strange sound: a low sort of grumbling, rumbling growl, like contin
uous thunder in the very far distance, or the noise a railway train makes underground, or the snoring of one of Mr. Llewellyn’s large draught horses, asleep in the barn on a winter’s night. For a time, Bailey barely heard the noise, for it hovered around him like the ghost of a sound, at a level just below his conscious awareness. Then, having become aware of it, he heard it but managed to ignore it (I am sure you understand how this is accomplished), because he was busy with dusting and examining a great many fine old books he had never before examined and pondering the very many strange words that were printed in them and wondering if it would be worth his while to learn the language so that he could read them.

  But at last Bailey became so aware of the noise that he could hear nothing but the noise, which he now seemed to feel grumbling in his bones, and he began to be very curious about what was causing this rumble—as well as a little apprehensive. He put his duster down and, holding his candle high in the air, walked all around the chamber, clockwise, one thoughtful step at a time. He stopped, listened a little more, then walked slowly around it again, counterclockwise. Finally, finding that the noise was decidedly louder at the back of the room than it was at the front, he set his candle on a shelf and began an inch-by-inch examination of the back wall.

  And that was when he found the door, concealed behind a section of tall shelves and exactly the same color as the wall into which it was tightly fitted. Indeed, Bailey would not have noticed the door at all, had he not already pulled the books from the shelf to dust them, thus revealing the bare wall. Seeing the door, he was greatly surprised, since he had always been of the impression (indeed, he could swear that his father had actually told him) that this particular room lay at the end of the corridor of library rooms and that there was nothing at all beyond it except the unpenetrated innards of Briar Bank.