The Tale of Oat Cake Crag

by Susan Wittig Albert

  Of course Lucy knew. She always did, although what she knew was not always the exact truth. “He tumbled down t’ face of Oat Cake Crag,” she said. “Jus’ like t’ poor Scottish soldier, all those years ago.” She leaned forward. “People are sayin’ that it’s a punishment for that aeroplane. If t’ good Lord had’ve wanted folks to fly, he’d’ve give us wings.” She lowered her voice confidentially, although there was no one else in the post office. “T’ question I want to know is wot he was doin’ up there on t’ crag in t’ first place. An’ whether somebody helped him down. A strong, healthy man in his reet mind doan’t just take it into his head to step off a rock when ’tis forty feet to t’ bottom.” She narrowed her eyes. “If tha take’st my meanin’, Miss Potter.”

  Beatrix did. What’s more, she supposed that everyone who came into the post office this morning would take Lucy’s meaning, too, which meant that by the time the village sat down to tea, everyone would be speculating about whether someone pushed Fred Baum off the top of Oat Cake Crag, or whether he was not in his “reet mind” and went up there in order to jump. It was all very mysterious.

  And there was nothing that the village loved more than a mystery—unless it was a romance.

  12

  Miss Potter Investigates: At Belle Green

  Beatrix didn’t linger to discuss these shocking possibilities with Lucy Skead. She did take a moment to open the letter from Warne, and was happy to find the overdue cheque enclosed. She didn’t open the other, though. She was anxious to get on with what she had decided to do. So she walked on up the hill to Belle Green, where Mathilda Crook, wearing a white apron over her gray dress and a smudge of flour on her cheek, opened the door and invited her into the kitchen.

  “I’m jus’ doin’ a little bread-bakin’, Miss Potter, so if tha dustn’t mind, tha cans’t sit at t’ table wi’ a cup of tea whilst I finish kneadin’.” She poured the tea, then attacked the mound of white dough, turning it deftly and pummeling it once again. “It’s me mum’s soda bread recipe, which she always baked plain. But I like to put in a few dried herbs from the garden. Needs no risin’, which makes it quick.”

  “I’ve always enjoyed your bread, Mrs. Crook,” Beatrix said with a smile, adding, “I’ve told my mother how very good it is.”

  Now, it was true that Mrs. Crook’s soda bread with herbs was very good, although Beatrix had not thought to mention it to her mother, who would not in any case have been impressed. Mrs. Potter had never baked a loaf of bread in her life—or cooked a meal, for that matter. Cooking and baking were best left to the cook one hired for that purpose. I hope you’ll forgive Beatrix’s little fib, for it didn’t hurt anyone and certainly pleased Mathilda Crook to no end, which was exactly Beatrix’s intent, of course.

  “Hast thi, then?” Mathilda beamed. “Well, now, that’s nice, Miss Potter. And how are they? Thi mum and dad, that is.” She turned and pummeled and pummeled and turned (but gently, for soda bread does not require a great deal of kneading), then shaped the dough into a large round loaf.

  “As well as can be expected, for their ages, thank you,” Beatrix replied. “I’ll let them know you’ve inquired.”

  Mathilda was by now mightily pleased. Mr. and Mrs. Potter had rented a summer house not far from the village some years ago, and had brought their servants, their horses, their coach, and their coachman. Their well-staffed holidays were still spoken of with something like awe in the village. She felt deeply complimented at the thought that she would be mentioned to them.

  “Well, if it isn’t Miss Potter!” exclaimed Rascal, dancing through the door. He had slept in that morning in his bed in the pantry, worn out with the excitement of Mr. Baum’s accident the night before. “So good to see you!”

  “Good morning, Rascal.” Beatrix leaned over to pet the little dog. “Oh, by the way, Mrs. Crook, I wonder if you might be willing to do some mending for me.” She put her parcel on the table and opened it. “My favorite tablecloth needs darning, and I’ve always admired your almost invisible work. What do you think?”

  “Let me jus’ finish this, and I’ll have a look,” Mathilda said. She placed the round loaf on a greased and floured baking tray, patted it back into shape, cut a deep cross on the top, then put it into the oven. She wiped her hands and sat down at the table. “Now, let’s see.” She bent over the tablecloth. “Oh, my goodness, yes. An easy job.” She reconsidered quickly. “Well, easy enough, p’rhaps, but cert’nly it’ll take some time.”

  “I’ll be glad to pay you whatever you think is right,” Beatrix said. She sat back in the chair. “Now, catch me up on the village news, Mrs. Crook. I’ve been away too long.”

  “Have you heard about Mr. Baum?” Rascal asked excitedly. “He fell off Oat Cake Crag last night!”

  Mathilda frowned down at the dog. “If tha’st goin’ to bark, Rascal, tha can’st go out t’ door,” she said sternly. “We doan’t need thi noise in t’ house.”

  With a sigh, Rascal went under Miss Potter’s chair. Mathilda poured herself a cup of tea and sat down at the table. She was very glad to oblige with news, although since she had not yet been to the post office, she had not heard about Mr. Baum. Rascal knew it was pointless to try to make himself understood. And Beatrix didn’t bring up the subject, either, but contented herself with sipping her tea and listening to Mathilda carry on about a dozen trivial things, from the sore throats that were plaguing the village schoolchildren to the performance of Jeremy Crosfield as the new junior teacher and the new Mrs. Woodcock’s difficulties (now smoothed over) with the longtime Tower Bank housekeeper, Elsa Grape.

  At last, Mathilda ran out of steam. “That’s about all I know,” she concluded, picking up the teapot. “More tea, Miss Potter?”

  “I believe I shall,” said Beatrix. She did not really want more tea, but they had not yet got to the question she had come to ask. Whilst Mathilda poured, she added, “But you’ve said nothing at all about Mrs. Lythecoe’s marriage to the vicar, Mrs. Crook. Everyone in the village must be delighted to know that Mrs. Lythecoe will be back in the vicarage again.” She paused. “She lived there earlier, I’ve been told. When her first husband was the vicar at St. Peter’s.”

  Of course, this was all said very sweetly and innocently as Beatrix stirred sugar into her tea and declined milk and lemon. Mathilda, however, was frowning.

  “Oh, aye,” she said darkly. “She lived at the vicarage years ago. When she was married to t’ vicar’s cousin, on his mother’s side. Reverend Lythecoe.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Beatrix said with interest. “Cousins? How very nice for Mrs. Lythecoe—to already be acquainted with Reverend Sackett’s family, that is.”

  “Nice!” Mathilda exclaimed hotly. “I doan’t call it ‘nice’ mese’f. I call it disgraceful. Against t’ law, too. T’ pair of ’em ought to know better, old as they are.”

  “Against the law?” Beatrix opened her eyes wide. “Why, whoever told you that, Mrs. Crook! Marriage between first cousins is discouraged, but there is nothing said against a woman marrying her deceased husband’s cousin. Or a man marrying his deceased cousin’s widow.”

  Mathilda gave her an uncertain look. “But Bertha said ...”

  Beatrix laughed lightly. “Oh, this is Mrs. Stubbs’ notion, is it?” She rolled her eyes. “Well, you know Bertha Stubbs. She doesn’t always get things right.”

  Beatrix was being kind, for it was widely known across the village that Bertha Stubbs got almost everything wrong. What was worse, once she got something into her head, it was almost impossible to get it out, however mistaken it might be.

  “I s’pose,” Mathilda acknowledged doubtfully. “But dustn’t thi think it’s a little . . . well, close? Bein’ married to two cousins, I mean, one after t’ other.”

  “I don’t think it’s close at all,” Beatrix said firmly. “I think it is splendid that Reverend Sackett is about to find true happiness.” She gave Mathilda a direct look, by now certain of her ground. “I very much hope you
will not help Bertha Stubbs spread this dreadful misinformation amongst the villagers. You won’t, will you, Mrs. Crook?”

  Feeling cornered, Mathilda dropped her eyes. “Well, now—”

  “Oh, good,” Beatrix said with evident relief. “I knew I could count on you. You are always so fair-minded and concerned for the welfare of others.” This assertion was patently untrue, for Mathilda Crook was not at all fair-minded and rarely exhibited any special concern for others. But Beatrix saw no harm in appealing to her better nature. She paused, looking straight at Mathilda. “I don’t suppose you know anything about the letters, do you?”

  “Letters?” Mathilda asked. By now she was thoroughly irritated that Bertha had led her down the wrong path with that silly business about cousins. She would set Bertha straight the next time she saw her. “Wot letters?”

  Beneath Miss Potter’s chair, Rascal stirred. “Letters,” he said thoughtfully. “You wouldn’t be talking about—”

  “Hush, Rascal,” Mathilda commanded. “Wot letters, Miss Potter?”

  “The letters Mrs. Lythecoe has been receiving,” Rascal muttered. Well, naturally. If the cats know about the letters, all the other village animals are likely to know, too. Tabitha was right when she said that Crumpet could never keep a secret, and she isn’t much better. And then, of course, there’s Caruso, who sings so loudly that he can be heard up and down the street. Who knows what secrets he’s spilling into the air?

  “Oh, nothing,” Beatrix said, glad to drop the subject. She knew Mathilda well enough to tell from her expression that she was completely in the dark. She sniffed the air. “That’s not your bread burning, is it?”

  “S’cuse me whilst I check,” Mathilda said. Going to the oven gave her a chance to slightly recover herself, and she returned to the table and her guest, this time with a new—and entirely unexpected—topic of conversation. “We’ve been talkin’ about Mrs. Lythecoe and t’ vicar getting’ married, but I understand that we’ll soon be able to congratulate thi an’ Mr. Heelis, Miss Potter.”

  Beatrix’s stomach knotted. “Congratulate . . . me?”

  “Aye.” Mathilda smiled coyly, feeling that she had the upper hand over her guest, which was much more pleasant than being on the defensive. “It’s still s’posed to be a secret, is it?” The smile broadened into a chuckle. “Well, thi knowst our village, Miss Potter. ’Tis impossible to keep a secret, especially when it’s got to do with a weddin’!”

  Now it was Beatrix’s turn to deny. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She spoke with great outward firmness, although within, she felt a great confusion. “There is to be no wedding.” This much, at least, was true, for while she was secretly engaged, there had never been any talk of a wedding—not one word. However much she and Mr. Heelis might desire it, both of them knew that marriage simply was not possible, in the circumstance.

  “No wedding just yet, perhaps,” Rascal amended, putting his muzzle on the guest’s foot. “But we’re on your side, dear Miss Potter.” Rascal and his friends the cats knew all about Miss Potter and Mr. Heelis, of course, and were entirely in support of the engagement. “We hope it can happen, soon.”

  “No weddin’?” Mathilda asked, disappointed. Miss Potter, who was known to be honest and straightforward, had spoken with an exceedingly firm tone. “You’re sure ’bout that?”

  “No wedding,” Beatrix repeated. “Of course I’m sure. I should know, shouldn’t I?” She frowned sternly. “And I’ll thank you to say as much to anyone else who repeats such a wicked tale.”

  “Aye. I’ll be sure to say jus’ that.” Mathilda raised an arch eyebrow. “ ‘Miss Potter says there’s to be no weddin’,’ ” she said, and smiled with the air of one who has triumphed over an unwary opponent. “ ‘And she’s asked me to say as much.’ Them’ll be my words, Miss Potter. My very words. You can count on me to set ’em straight.”

  The knot in Beatrix’s stomach tightened. The fat was in the fire now. Mathilda would say that there would be no wedding, with a wink and a nod that implied exactly the opposite, and before long, everyone would be talking about it—if they weren’t already, that is.

  Her heart sank. She would have to tell Will that their secret was out of the bag. And then what? If people were already talking about it behind their backs, it wouldn’t be long before they were asked point-blank about it. Should they deny it? How long could they deny it? And what would happen if the rumor spread beyond the village? What would happen if her parents heard it?

  Beatrix was swept by a sudden panic. She could not stay another minute. “I must be going,” she said. She stood, adding, “Please let me know when you’ve finished the tablecloth, Mrs. Crook.”

  “Oh, aye,” Mathilda said, beaming. Her equanimity was entirely restored, now that she had the upper hand. She was thinking that as soon as her guest was out of sight, she would rush right next door to tell Agnes Llewellyn what Miss Potter had just said.

  Rascal, who knew Big People as well as they knew themselves (which sometimes isn’t saying much), understood exactly what Mrs. Crook had in mind and sensed Miss Potter’s dismay. “I’ll walk down the hill with you, Miss Potter,” he said, feeling that she needed a friend.

  Which is why Rascal was with Beatrix a few minutes later, when she took her brother’s letter out of her pocket and opened it. She had read only a few words when he heard her sudden exclamation of shock and alarm. “Oh, no! Oh, no!” She stopped stock still in the middle of the lane to read the rest of the letter.

  “What is it, Miss Potter?” he cried, looking up at her. “Is someone sick? Has someone died?”

  No. No one was sick, and no one had died. But Bertram’s news really couldn’t be worse. The very same scrap of village rumor that Mathilda Crook had just repeated so triumphantly to Miss Potter had already reached the ears of her parents.

  My very dear Beatrix,

  You will not be happy to learn what I am about to tell you, but I’m afraid there’s no way around it, so I shall simply jump right into the very unpleasant middle.

  Our parents have heard from a certain Mr. Morrow in Hawkshead (a solicitor, I understand) that you and Mr. Heelis are secretly engaged. I am sure that you can guess their reactions. Mama has been put to bed by the doctor after a fit of screaming hysterics, and Papa is stamping around the drawing room like an enraged hippopotamus. Really, the idea of your being married is quite preposterous, and they should know that you have no such silly scheme in mind. I must tell you that this business is making my visit exceedingly unpleasant, and if I could, I would leave this instant for Scotland. But someone must hold the fort until your return, and I suppose it must be me, for which I am sorry, but there it is.

  I am not writing to ask you to come straight home. I regret to say this (for my usual unabashedly selfish reasons), but I believe it would be wise for you to remain at Hill Top until Papa and Mama are calmer. This may take several days. I do, however, hope that you will write to them as soon as you receive this letter. Tell them in no uncertain terms that you do not intend to be married (what an absurd idea!), and that they really must not allow themselves to be troubled with idle rumors spread by uninformed and possibly malicious persons. They will no doubt feel better when they hear from you, and that will make the situation here a bit more bearable for

  Yr much-beleaguered brother,

  Bertram

  Beatrix was horrified. She couldn’t help being annoyed at Bertram’s tone of immature self-pity (“Someone must hold the fort,” “yr much-beleaguered brother,” and the like), but her exasperation was swept aside by the appalling news that her parents had learnt her secret—long before she was ready to tell them herself. Under other circumstances, she might have smiled at the image of her father stamping around like an “enraged hippopotamus” (very apt), or shaken her head at her mother’s “screaming hysterics,” but neither of these were at all amusing, in the circumstance.

  She folded her brother’s letter and put it back in her pocket, bit
ing her lip in consternation. What should she do? Write and tell them that it was just village gossip and didn’t bear repeating? They would likely believe her, for even her brother thought that she was too old, too unattractive, and too confirmed a spinster to win a husband (“The idea of your being married is quite preposterous”). She narrowed her eyes. It would serve Bertram right if she wrote to the family and told them that it was all quite true. Whoever this Mr. Morris was, his facts were accurate. She was engaged to Mr. Heelis and they would be married—someday, when it was convenient—and everyone would just have to get used to the idea.

  She sighed heavily. But what would be the point of such a letter? It could only cause another family row, even worse than the one over her engagement to Norman. She could not imagine a time when her parents would agree that it was “convenient” for her to marry anybody, let alone a country lawyer who had no standing in the London society in which they moved.

  But she also could not imagine writing them a letter in which she denied her engagement. She hated lying and dissembling and pretending that everything was one way, when it was another way altogether. But that’s what her life in London had become, hadn’t it? Nothing but pretense and make-believe. Sometimes it seemed that she could be her own true self only in this little village. If only she could stay here forever, hidden away from the rest of the ugly world!

  But she couldn’t. This was only a respite, a temporary retreat—and now that the villagers had got wind of her engagement, it wasn’t even that. She sighed again and thrust her hands into her pockets. “Come on, Rascal,” she said, and picked up the pace.

  “I’m coming,” the little dog said, hurrying to keep up with her. “But where are we going?” For Miss Potter had now turned aside from the way back to Hill Top. They were headed in quite a different direction, along a path that struck off cross-country, in the direction of Claife Heights.