The captain did not reply to this. Instead, he looked down the table at his wife. “My dear, will you ring for Mrs. Grape? I believe we are ready for our dessert. What are we having?”
“A Charlotte Russe,” said Mrs. Woodcock proudly, having also got that recipe from Mrs. Beeton. In case you don’t know, this is an elaborate dessert in which a mold is made of ladyfingers, filled with a vanilla custard and decorated with fruit, berries, and whipped cream. Some say that it was created by the French Chef Marie-Antoine Carême and named in honor of his Russian employer, Czar Alexander, others that it took its name from Queen Charlotte, wife of George III. Mrs. Woodcock, being British, inclined to the latter view.
After the dessert was handed round and they had all begun to eat it, Mr. Heelis remarked, as if quite casually, “I understand that the vicar and Mrs. Lythecoe have set their wedding date.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Woodcock said happily. “It is to be on April twentieth. Not quite a month away.” Now that she is married, she feels it the most blessed state in the world and wishes that everyone else could enter into it, too.
“Seems like a good match to me,” Mr. Heelis commented. “I suppose everyone in the village is delighted.”
“Universally,” agreed Mrs. Woodcock.
“Not quite,” said Captain Woodcock.
“How so?” asked Mr. Heelis, all ears. (You can probably guess that he, like Miss Potter, is playing detective.)
“I’ve heard it said,” the captain replied slowly, “that a few people object on the ground that Mrs. Lythecoe was married to the former vicar. Apparently, it seems a bit . . . well, incestuous. Or something equally ridiculous.”
“Miles!” exclaimed Mrs. Woodcock, scandalized. She framed the word incestuous with her lips, but could not bring herself to say it aloud.
“But the two vicars were not related, were they?” Jeremy asked curiously.
“Cousins, as it turns out,” the captain replied.
“Is that right?” Mr. Heelis raised an eyebrow. “I’d never heard that.”
“First cousins,” said the captain. “Reverend Sackett was appointed to the living after the death of Reverend Lythecoe, who was his mother’s sister’s oldest son. I heard this,” he added, “from the vicar himself, several years ago. At the time, it was not widely known, I believe.”
“And it is now?” Mr. Heelis asked, frowning.
“Well, I don’t know about ‘widely,’ ” the captain said. “But I’ve heard talk of it, yes. As I said, a few seem to disapprove.”
“But who?” Mrs. Woodcock persisted.
“And why?” Jeremy asked, frowning. “I mean, what business is it of theirs who anybody marries?” There was a tone in his voice that suggested a deeper sort of interest, perhaps personal. This makes me a little curious, and I wonder if there’s something in Jeremy’s life that we don’t know about. We shall have to look into it, I think. Perhaps it is part of our story.
“What business?” The captain gave a short laugh. “Why, nobody’s business, of course. The marriage violates no laws. But that doesn’t keep people from objecting. Specifically,” he added, in answer to his wife’s question, “I overheard Henry Stubbs and George Crook discussing the matter at the pub.”
“Which probably means that it is their wives who object,” Mrs. Woodcock said darkly. “I shall have to ask Elsa. Bertha Stubbs and Mathilda Crook spend far too many afternoons with her in our kitchen, gossiping.” It was an activity she had been longing to curtail but had not thought it prudent whilst she and Elsa were negotiating more important matters, such as authority over the menu. (The captain’s sister, Dimity, who had charge of her brother’s household until her marriage to Major Kittredge, had not been courageous enough to challenge Elsa, who over the years had assumed full control in the kitchen.)
Mr. Heelis made a mental note to ask Mrs. Woodcock how her inquiry turned out. Aloud, he said, “Please also tell Mrs. Grape, from me, that her Charlotte Russe is delicious.” Mrs. Woodcock brightened. “Elsa will be very glad to hear that.” She looked around the table. “Now, then. Would you like to have coffee before you go?”
I said that we were going to a meeting this evening, and so we are. But unfortunately for us, and for all those in attendance at the Tower Bank Arms, Mr. Baum failed to put in an appearance, so everyone went home disappointed and more than a little disgruntled.
The disappointment did not dawn for some time, however. It had clouded up before sunset, and by the appointed hour, an intermittent March rain was falling. This did not reduce the attendance, and as the hour grew near, more and more villagers—both men and women, because the women had very strong opinions on this subject—streamed into the main room of the pub. The space is not large, as you will know if you have visited the place, and it wasn’t long before the room was packed so tightly that not another person could have squeezed in. The air was thick with tobacco smoke and the familiar fragrances of garlic, onions, and wet wool and filled with the buzz of voices and the music of Sam Stem’s merry concertina.
At last, pub owner Lester Barrow sent his oldest son to stand by the door and tell people that they could not come in until someone went out, and to hold the door open in order to bring in a breath of cooler, rain-washed air. Lester did this with some regret, naturally, for the more people who packed themselves into his pub, the more half-pints of ale he would sell in the course of the evening. He was enough of a businessman not to miss this chance.
Some of the people crowding the pub were villagers whose names and faces are familiar to us. Lady Longford (as you know, she changed her mind and decided to come) had arrived early and was seated at a table in the front of the room, with her granddaughter, Caroline. Jeremy, seeing Caroline (who had been his friend during their days together at the village school), made straight for the table and sat down beside her. Within a moment, the two were deep in conversation.
Beside the bar stood Major Kittredge, master of Raven Hall. The major had lost an arm and an eye fighting with the Boers in South Africa, but those losses only seemed to add to his stature in the district, especially since his marriage to Captain Woodcock’s sister, Dimity, a match that everyone had heartily approved. The major, wearing his customary black eye-patch, was chatting with Roger Dowling, the village joiner. Joseph Skead (the sexton at St. Peter’s) and his wife, Lucy, the village postmistress, sat at a nearby table. In the corner sat George Crook, the blacksmith, and his wife, Mathilda, as well as Constable Braithwaite, who was not wearing his blue serge uniform, since he was not on duty. Mr. Sutton, the veterinarian, was there, and the Jenningses as well (Miss Potter’s farmer and his wife). Oh, and Miss Potter herself, seated in a chair near the fireplace. With a smile and a warm greeting (but not as warm as he would have liked to make it, since this was a public place), Mr. Heelis joined her, as Captain Woodcock motioned to Sam Stem to stop playing his concertina, stepped up on a bench, and convened the meeting.
Of course, the minute everyone grew quiet and began to look around, they saw that Mr. Baum had not yet arrived. Major Kittredge made a motion to wait for fifteen minutes, and Lester Barrow happily seconded it, giving latecomers a chance to throng the bar and get their half-pints. But in fifteen minutes, the absent man had still not arrived, and people had begun to whisper that he had deliberately stayed away—an insult, of course, to Lady Longford, who had made a special effort to come.
Scowling, Captain Woodcock waited another ten minutes, then called the meeting to order, saying that even if Mr. Baum wasn’t there to hear it, everyone ought to have a chance to speak. He requested that speakers limit themselves to three minutes each, and set his pocket watch on the bar, where he could see it.
He invited Lady Longford to speak first (an acknowledgment of her importance in the village). She, however, declined to speak at all, since Mr. Baum was not there to listen. She was clearly irritated, glaring at the captain as if it were his fault that Mr. Baum had not arrived and was heard to mutter that she was sorry she had come out on su
ch a night, on a fool’s errand.
The captain next invited Major Kittredge to speak. The major summed up the problem in a few terse words: “The issue is whether we are to lead our accustomed quiet lives here, or be bombarded daily with an infernal noise. I hereby move that we form a committee to discuss this matter with Mr. Baum, and present our views forcefully. Woodcock, I suggest that you chair it.”
“Second the motion!” Roger Dowling shouted. “But Major Kittredge ought to be on the committee, too.”
“Moved and seconded,” the captain announced. “Is there any discussion?”
There was, and plenty of it. One after one, the village men stood up and said what was on their minds. They were irritated and angry at the noise, concerned for the health and safety of their animals, and offended at the idea that the absent Mr. Baum—someone they knew, one of their neighbors—would so blatantly disregard their safety and comfort.
And as it sometimes happens in meetings like this, the more people stood up to speak, the angrier everyone became, and by the time the last person had spoken, the room was crackling with rage. These wrathful fires continued to burn as the captain adjourned the meeting and people began to leave the pub.
A group of men came out of the door and paused in front of the pub, heads together, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched against the mist.
“I’m givin’ that fool Baum a piece o’ my mind when I see him,” growled the normally staid Roger Dowling. “ ’Twere reet bad-mannered o’ ’im to agree to talk wi’ us tonight an’ then stay away.”
“Ought to give ’im a good smack on t’ head wi’ a big board,” avowed George Crook. He grinned darkly. “That ’ud set ’im straight.”
“Mappen that’s wot I’ll do next time he gets on me ferry,” said Henry Stubbs, the ferryman.
“Smack Baum on t’ head an’ then throw him overboard,” laughed Lester Barrow, who had come out just then. He had a great deal to laugh about. His ale kegs were empty and his till was full. “That’d put an end to t’ aeroplane business.”
“Mebbee sumbody’s a’reddy done that,” suggested Roger Dowling slyly, “an’ that’s why he’s not here.”
The men looked from one to another, a trifle uneasily, then Lester Barrow laughed again, scoffing this time. “Doan’t be silly, Roger. Baum stayed away ’coz he already knew wot he’d hear an’ he had no intention o’ listenin’. Anyway, if Baum decided not to go on wi’ the project, that pilot o’ his—Oscar Wyatt—he’d find a way. That aeroplane is here to stay, like it or not.” Barrow turned and went back into the pub to count the cash in his overflowing till.
But Roger Dowling wasn’t finished. “Wotever may be up wi’ Baum,” he growled, “that aeroplane ain’t here to stay. We canna have machines buzzin’ in t’ air over our heads, scarin’ animals and frayin’ nerves. We’re goin’ to fix it, we are.”
“Aye?” George Crook asked skeptically. He and Roger had been friends for a long time—his blacksmith’s forge was next door to Roger’s joinery—but he was a careful man who hated to go out on a limb. “Wot dusta mean by ‘fix’?”
“An’ who is ‘we’?” Henry Stubbs asked. “I hate that flyin’ machine as much as th’ next ’un, but—” He stopped, looking wary. Henry was full enough of talk, but wasn’t always willing to put his muscle where his mouth was.
Roger looked over his shoulder to make sure that no one was listening. “I’ll tell thi wot I heard from Baum’s odd-jobs man. Baum sacked ’im last week and he’s mad enough to chew horseshoe nails. T’ fella says mebbee we woan’t have to listen to that aeroplane much longer.”
“That ’ud be auld Paddy Pratt, now, wouldn’t it?” asked Henry. Paddy was a well-known village character who hired himself out at the homes of the local gentry, doing repairs, lending a hand with the garden, running errands. He was generally liked but not much trusted, at least by those who knew him well. “Paddy Pratt is nivver up to awt good. Goosey, he is. Dunno as I’d trust any bright ideas that started wi’ him.”
“Jes’ hear me out,” Roger said. “But afore I tell thi wot’s afoot, tha’ll have to swear not to tell nawt to noboddy.”
“I’ll listen,” George said. “And I’ll promise. If Paddy’s got a way to scotch that aeroplane, I’m all fer it.” And with that, the three of them faded into the dark.
At that moment, Captain Woodcock, Mr. Heelis, and Miss Potter came out of the pub together.
“It’s too bad Baum wasn’t here to listen to village opinion,” Mr. Heelis said regretfully.
“Yes, indeed,” Miss Potter agreed. “Why do you suppose he stayed away?”
“Kittredge and I shall find out when we speak to him tomorrow,” promised the captain. He smiled at Miss Potter. “Now that you’re back in the village, I do hope you’ll join Mrs. Woodcock and me for tea one afternoon.”
Miss Potter returned the smile. “Why, thank you, Captain. I should be glad to.”
When the captain had gone, Will Heelis leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Earlier this evening, I heard from Captain Woodcock that Bertha Stubbs and Mathilda Crooke are opposed to Mrs. Lythecoe’s marriage to Reverend Sackett. It seems that they are offended because she was previously married to the vicar’s cousin. It crossed my mind that this might have something to do with those letters.”
“Well, if that’s their objection, it’s very silly,” Beatrix replied. “Thank you, Mr. Heelis. I’ll see what I can find out.” She held out her hand, quite properly. “Good night.”
He pressed her fingers with a quite improper passion, then raised his hat and smiled. “Good night, my dear Miss Potter. Good night.” (You and I know that these two are engaged, but I doubt if anyone looking on would have suspected a thing—and their secret is safe with us.)
Beside the road, Jeremy Crosfield was handing Caroline into her grandmother’s carriage. “I should like to come and see you in a day or two,” he said as she settled her skirts. “It’s been a long time since we’ve had a chance to talk.”
Lady Longford frowned. “I do not see the need—”
“Of course you may come, Jeremy,” Caroline said, smiling warmly. “Grandmama, Jeremy and I will go out into the garden, so as not to disturb you. I’m sure it won’t be too cold.”
“Thank you,” Jeremy said, avoiding Lady Longford’s barbed glance. “Day after tomorrow, then? At four? I’m finished with school by that time.”
“Day after tomorrow,” Caroline promised happily. “At four.”
“Harumph,” her ladyship said, and raised her voice. “Drive on, Beever!”
Jeremy stood in the dark and watched the carriage drive off, the lantern swinging on its hook, casting swaying shadows through the dark. He was thinking—what is he thinking? He is surely remembering Caroline when they were both students at the village school: she a leggy, lonely young girl, longing for her native New Zealand; he shy and awkward and conscious that she was the granddaughter of the wealthiest woman in the district.
Or perhaps he has forgotten their shared past (how long ago? five years, six?) and is thinking only of the present, reflecting that this grownup young lady, with her clear gray eyes and sweet smile, her fair hair pinned up on her head, is the most charming girl he has ever seen, charming and utterly, utterly desirable.
He has asked permission to call—I wonder: is it just a friendly visit, for old times’ sake? Or is he actually imagining that he might court this lovely and accomplished young lady? After all, he now has a paid position. He is a teacher, which is a situation of some honor and standing in the village, especially when it is held by a man, even a young man. There is no reason why, if he chooses, he might not advance to headmaster, at Sawrey School or Hawkshead, or somewhere nearby.
But I am sure you are aware that Jeremy has no status at all in the eyes of Lady Longford, who still thinks of him as that runny-nosed urchin whose aunt resides in one of her farm cottages and earns a poor living spinning and weaving. No, not in the eyes of Lady Longford. If Jeremy has courtship in
mind, I foresee complications.
But our young friend does not seem to be troubling himself with the thought of complications, at least not at this moment. Whistling softly, his hat pushed back at a jaunty angle on his head, Jeremy pushes his hands into his pockets and, with a little skip, turns to go across Kendal Road and up Market Street. He has been boarding with Mr. and Mrs. Llewellyn at High Green Gate since the beginning of the school year, for it is not nearly so far to walk from there to the school as it is from the outlying cottage at Holly How Farm, where his aunt lives. He enjoys boarding with the Llewellyns. Mrs. Llewellyn is rather a sourpuss and fault-finder, but Mr. Llewellyn is always cheerful. He allows Jeremy to do the milking before school—a chore Jeremy enjoys—in exchange for his board and room.
Ah, Jeremy, young Jeremy. What are your dreams? Are you reaching above yourself?
And yes, I do think this is part of our story, and an important part, I believe—although I wasn’t sure of it until just now.
9
A Badger Makes a Chilling Discovery
The villagers were not the only ones in attendance at the meeting. Throughout the evening, Rascal was stretched out on the floor beneath Lady Longford’s table. He was pretending to be asleep, but he kept one eye half-open, watching the door for Mr. Baum’s arrival. Tabitha Twitchit and Felicity Frummety, taking mental notes of all that was said, were crouched together on the hearth near Miss Potter’s feet. Crumpet had a better view from her place on the bar, where she kept an eye on the captain’s pocket watch, flicking the tip of her tail faster and faster as the speakers approached their three-minute limit. (The captain noticed this, and said to his wife when he got home, “The oddest thing, my dear. There was a gray tabby cat with a red collar on the bar, and she actually seemed to be keeping time with her tail.”)
The Tale of Oat Cake Crag Page 11