Will was acquainted with the gypsy bands that traveled through the district in their wooden caravans, mostly in the summer, camping in vacant fields, selling horses and other wares and offering itinerant labor. They found this traditional way of life much harder these days. Many of the farmers who had once eagerly bought their horses or relied on them for help with harvesting or shearing now regarded them as nuisances or worse, and no longer welcomed them as laborers. Men like Kudakov were finding it harder to locate work to support their families—a shame, Will thought, for there was certainly work to be done and families to support.
“Perhaps it wasn’t to Kudakov’s purpose to tell me the truth,” Miles said. “He claimed total ignorance where the infant was concerned.”
Will glanced at the ring. “Yet this piece is certainly something a gypsy would favor. What did he say when you showed it to him?”
“I didn’t, since he denied knowing anything about the child. I was hoping he would say she was theirs—although why they would abandon one of their own has me mystified. That’s not like them. They are especially affectionate toward their children—as well they might be,” he added dryly, “since they raise them to work. Even their daughters.”
Will could have pointed out that the local folk raised their children to work, boys and girls alike. But he only said, “The baby doesn’t belong to a local family?”
Miles shook his head. “Dimity says not, and she would know. She has charge of the Parish Mothers’ Box.” He gave Will a pointed look. “Dimity is certainly enjoying herself with this infant, even though she has only temporary custody. I’m sure she will be a wonderful mother to her own brood. She’s awf ’lly domestic, you know.”
Will had a dim suspicion that he was missing the point, which seemed to have something to do with Dimity and infants. “The Mothers’ Box?” he hazarded tentatively.
“Clothing, nappies, that sort of thing. A sort of traveling infant-kit. Dimity sees that it goes wherever there’s a new baby. She’s very good that way. I tell her it’s because she’s frustrated about not having one of her own.”
“Ah,” Will said. “You’re telling me that there are no new babies in the parish.”
It must be observed in justice to Will that he had never knowingly been the target of anyone’s matchmaking, and so entirely failed to notice that he was supposed to imagine Dimity as a potential mother for his own children. He merely wondered whether there might be something more to the remark about the box and let it go, feeling that if Miles had anything very important to tell him, he would say it straight out, rather than beating about the bush.
“Right-o.” Miles put down his cup with what seemed to be disappointment. “And if Kudakov is to be believed, there are no infants among the gypsies, at least none that they’ve lost track of. So we must look elsewhere.” He paused. “I was hoping you could suggest how we might identify the ring.”
Will pushed back his chair, happy to have something concrete to deal with. “Let’s drop in on Mr. Aftergood, shall we? He does a fair bit of pawning. If he’s seen the ring, he’ll remember it.”
The door to Mr. Aftergood’s tiny shop was located up a narrow stone stair behind the Crown and Mitre Hotel, under a painted sign that read KURIOS & KNICK-KNACKERY. Crammed to the ceiling with dusty treasures, strange carvings, and odd lots of furniture, the place reminded Miles of the Old Curiosity Shop in Dickens’s novel by that name. The light inside was dim and opalescent, and the air seemed filled with a perpetual, dusty twilight.
Mr. Aftergood came toward them with jerky, shuffling steps as if he were one of his own mechanical curios, wound up and set into motion. He was a tiny old man in a coat and trousers of rusty black that were much too large for him, with a dirty red silk kerchief knotted under his chin, gold-rimmed glasses pushed up on his head, and deep wrinkles that nearly hid his eyes. He peered at them as Will explained why they had come, then took the signet ring and looked at it for a very long time.
“Mmm,” he said at last, in a hoarse, cracked whisper, addressing himself to Will. “Oh, aye, sir. I may’ve seen it before, may have. Curious, isn’t it, sir? And very fine. Oh, yes, very fine, sir, very.” He gave it another appreciative look. “Likely to’ve been brought back from Egypt, I do believe, sir.”
“My friend and I couldn’t quite make out the engraving on the scarab,” Will said. “Will you have a look?”
“On the scarab, sir?” Mr. Aftergood picked up a jeweler’s loupe, fastened it over his head, and peered at the ring. “Indeed, sir, I can make it out, but it’s hieroglyphics, sir, and I don’t speak Egyptian.” He gave a crackly chuckle. “Bless me, I don’t speak Egyptian, now, do I, sir?” This seemed to tickle his funny-bone. “Don’t speak Egyptian, no, sir,” he chortled. “Never have, sir, never will.”
“No, nor I, Mr. Aftergood,” Will said amiably, and joined in the laugh.
Still chortling, the old man brought the ring close to his eye, turning and squinting. “Howsoever, I can read the engraving on the back of the stone. Plain English, it is, sir, although I don’t hold with scratchin’ mod-ren names on ancient stones. I don’t for a fact, sir, don’t for a fact. Not respectful, sir. Not respectful of fine old stones, sir.”
Miles frowned, annoyed with himself for failing to look on the back of the stone. “What does it say?”
Mr. Aftergood put the ring on the counter. “Says the same thing it said the last time I saw it.” He scowled. “Says ‘To R.K., Forever,’ sir. That’s what it says, sir. What it says, for a fact. ‘To R.K., Forever.’ ”
Will picked up the ring, examined the engraving, and handed it to Miles.
“R.K.,” Miles muttered, rewrapping the ring and putting it into his pocket. Now they were getting somewhere! These had to be the owner’s initials.
“You say you have seen this ring before, Mr. Aftergood,” Will said. “Do you recall the circumstance?”
The old man tapped a yellowed fingernail against a tooth, looking doubtful. “The circumstance. The circumstance,” he whispered. He scratched his head, as if he were trying to locate the spot in his brain where the fact was stored. “The circumstance.”
“You saw it here, at the shop?” Will prompted.
Mr. Aftergood pondered, squinted, scratched, and finally nodded, very slowly. “May have, sir. May have.”
“Recently?” Miles asked, feeling a bit like charades. “Or long ago?”
“Not that long ago, sir, not that long ago,” the old man said. He closed his eyes, as if he were consulting an inner calendar of dates but could not quite recall the page on which the occasion had been jotted down.
Miles sent Will an interrogatory glance, and Will gave a quick little nod. Miles reached into his pocket. “P’rhaps this might help you remember.” He put a shilling on the counter. “A small consulting fee.”
The old man’s eyes opened slightly. “Why, I b’lieve ’twas brought in by a girl, sirs.” He paused significantly.
“A girl?” Miles asked in some surprise. He added another shilling to the one on the counter.
“A girl, sirs. A girl.” The old man scratched his head again, and then brought forth the fact as if it were one of his curios, blowing off the dust, rubbing it up with his sleeve, and laying it on the counter in front of them. “Left for a week, sirs, and redeemed,” he said, with a note of triumph. “Redeemed with interest, I’m pleased to say. Redeemed!”
“Well, then,” Will said cheerfully, “you will be able to show us your pawn book, won’t you? It will have the girl’s name in it, and an address.”
Mr. Aftergood hung his head apologetically. “Don’t keep a pawn book, sir,” he whispered. “Don’t do much pawning these days. Just now and then.”
Miles bristled, about to say that perhaps a trip to the magistrate would persuade the pawnbroker to observe the law requiring him to keep his pawn book. But Will signaled silence and turned back to the old man.
“Well, then, Mr. Aftergood, perhaps you can describe the girl, and tell us where she was s
taying.”
“Yellow hair, young, pretty,” the old man said. He slid both coins off the counter and clinked them into his pocket. “A lady’s maid, I’d say. Respectable, as you might say, sirs, rather than otherwise.” He peered over his glasses. “If you take my meaning, sirs.”
Miles leaned forward, frowning darkly. “It did not occur to you that the ring might be stolen?”
The old man shrugged his thin shoulders, as if to say that whether the ring was stolen or not was no business of his, now, was it?
“Well, then,” Miles said, “do you have any idea where this girl might live?”
The old man shook his head. “Left the ring and said she’d call back t’ redeem it. And so she did, sir. So she did.” A bell rang in the back, and he lifted his head, listening. “That’d be my Anna. My wife. Wants her tea, I’m afraid.” He grinned, showing two gold teeth. “A right terror without her tea, Anna is, sir. I daren’t delay.” And without another word, he turned and shuffled off.
“A right terror,” Miles snorted disgustedly, as they made their way through the dusty aisle to the door. “We didn’t get much for those two shillings, did we?”
“He pointed out the initials,” Will said, “which I’d missed. And there’s the bit about the girl.”
“But we don’t know where she lives,” Miles said.
Something stirred in a heap of rags by the door, and a pair of bright eyes emerged out of the shadows—bright eyes in a dusty, lively face, under a mop of uncombed hair. It was an urchin, boy or girl, Miles could not make out which. She, or he, was accompanied by the largest black cat he had ever seen, with eyes like glowing green fire.
“I’ll tell ye where she lives,” said the child, and stuck out its grubby hand.
Miles frowned down at the dirty face. “How do you know that?”
“Carried her parcels there m’self, din’t I?” chirped the child. He jumped out into the light, and Miles saw that he was a boy. At least, he was wearing trousers, of some sort of sacking material, held up with a pair of red braces. Under the wrapping of scarves, his shirt was marginally clean, and he was barefoot.
“Carried her parcels right the way home, din’t I? Right to t’ door, though it was a far way t’ go ’n a far way t’ come back.” He picked up the cat, which draped itself across his shoulder like a furry black stole, purring loudly. “Give me thruppence, too, din’t she?”
“Did she?” Miles put his hand in his pocket and took out a thrup’nny bit. He held it up. “Yours, if you’ll tell us where she lives. Truthfully, now.”
The boy reached for the coin, but Miles held it just out of reach. “Where?”
The boy put his head on one side. “’Tween Hawkshead and Near Sawrey, down Broomstick Lane, left at t’ corner. Hawthorn House.”
“Done,” Miles said promptly, handing over the coin.
“Well done,” said Will with a grin, and added another to it.
They left the boy jubilantly pocketing the coins and went down the stairs. “Hawthorn House,” Miles said, when they reached the street. “That’s near the gypsy encampment.”
“Right,” Will said. “The boy earned his pence, I’d say. It’s a good three miles there and back.”
“But I thought the place was vacant,” Miles said, as they walked along the cobbled street. “I hadn’t heard it was let.” Which was odd. When someone moved into a house in the district—especially an important house—word got out. If someone was living at Hawthorn House, they had kept their residence secret.
“Nor had I,” said Will. “The place is no longer in good repair. Had a rather unfortunate appearance, I always thought, with all those silly towers and turrets and pepper pot chimneys. Originally built for a gentleman from Bristol, as I recall, back in the ’forties. When he died, it was sold to an Army man.” He thought a minute. “Villars, wasn’t it?”
“Ah, yes,” Miles said. “Villars. Major Rodney Villars. I met him a time or two, although he didn’t live there long.” He chuckled dryly. “Just long enough to cut down the hawthorns that gave the place its name—which scandalized the villagers, of course. You know how they feel about trees. They predicted dire events, at least one of which came to pass. Villars went off to India and lost a leg in a carriage accident there. He’s not been back since, and the place has developed a reputation for hauntings.”
“And that’s where the boy delivered the parcels for the girl with the ring,” Will remarked. “I wonder how she came by it. And how it got into the basket with the baby.”
“I wonder, as well,” Miles replied. “I think I shall go there this afternoon, when I’ve finished my business, and see what I can learn.”
Will grinned. “Intending to motor, are you? The last time I went that way, the lane wasn’t fit for an automobile. Best to walk, if you value your tyres.”
“Blast,” Miles muttered. “I should have brought my horse.” He paused. “Don’t forget—Saturday night. Dimity will be most glad to see you, old chap. Most glad.”
“Right-o,” Will agreed cheerfully, and went on his way.
And just between you and me, if Will thought of Dimity Woodcock at all, it was only to wonder why her brother brought up her name so often, and with such an odd emphasis.
12
Beatrix Says Goodbye
On Tuesday morning, Beatrix got up before dawn to give Bertram a hearty breakfast of sausages and eggs and drive him to the Windermere ferry in the farm’s pony cart, pulled by Winston, the farm pony. At the landing, she bade Bertram safe journey and watched as the steam ferry, belching black smoke and heavily loaded with a charabanc, six passengers, and four horses, carried him across the lake. For a long time, he stood at the stern, waving.
She watched him go with a huge, hard lump in her throat. Bertram was the only one in her family—the only one in the whole, entire world—who truly understood her. They were alike in so many ways, the two of them, and it had always been comforting to know that they were of one mind when it came to dealing with Mama and Papa.
But now they were no longer quite alike. Bertram was married. Beatrix could barely comprehend what he had done—not just marrying, but marrying someone of whom his parents would not approve and keeping his marriage secret. More, she could not ignore the sharp pang of envy she felt. Her brother now had a life of his own, separate, independent, apart from the family, apart from her. It might be a life based in secrecy and veiled in falsehoods, which must surely compromise the sweet innocence of its pleasures. But Bertram enjoyed love every day of his life, and companionship, and someone to share the work, the joys, and the pain. He had all these, and she did not. They were no longer alike.
Still, Beatrix couldn’t bring herself to resent him, or even to judge him harshly for his refusal to face their parents’ disapproval. Yes, perhaps he had been cowardly. And yes, it would have been better to stand up to the parents like a man, own that he was married, and take the consequences. But Papa was formidable, and Mama could be appallingly disagreeable. All Bertram wanted was what she herself wanted: peace and quiet and relief from the constant bombardment of their parents’ likes and dislikes. What he had done, he had done, and she would not fault him for it.
Beatrix lifted Winston’s reins. Bertram’s situation, while dramatically changed from what she had imagined, changed nothing of her own. Norman was dead, and she would never have someone to share her life. She would never have love— but she had her farm, her books, and her animals, all of which together made up for a very great deal of everything else.
No, nothing had changed. Yet, at the same time, everything had changed, the whole world had changed! Bertram had found someone to love, someone to care for and be cared for in return. He was married. She felt suddenly bereft, as if a chapter had ended in her life, one that could never be reopened.
But Beatrix was not a person to dwell in the past. There was work to be done at the farm. She clucked to Winston, who put his shoulders into the harness willingly, although Ferry Hill was notorio
usly challenging. (Many unprincipled ponies refused to pull their load up its steep slope, and even Captain Woodcock’s motor car had difficulties.) Winston stopped only once, near the Sawrey Hotel, where Miss Potter pulled him to the side of the road to allow a faster-moving trap to pass, heading in the direction of Near Sawrey. The pony took the opportunity to investigate a fresh bit of green grass, nibbling for a moment, exchanging a friendly greeting with a robin who happened by, and then getting on with the job.
It was a beautiful morning in the Land Between the Lakes, and there were a great many things for a pony—and a farm lady—to do.
13
Major Kittredge Takes a Major Risk
The trap that went speeding past Miss Potter and her pony belonged to Major Kittredge. He was driving faster than he ought for a reason—a very good reason. We are about to find out what it was.
Christopher Kittredge was no fool. He had seen Captain Woodcock’s narrowed eyes and darkening expression as he and Dimity were waltzing at the fête on Saturday night— dancing to the romantic “Blue Danube,” which Christopher had particularly requested the band to play as a change from the country dances that filled the program. If the captain’s look could have killed, Christopher would have been dead by now, although he would have died a happy man, he thought, remembering how lightly and gracefully Dimity had moved and how warmly and sweetly she had smiled.
Now, a sensible man, or one less brave, might have been daunted by the captain’s obvious disapproval. But as he had proved during the war, Christopher Kittredge was exceedingly brave, and he had been emboldened by the experience of holding Dimity in his arms. His heart was now telling him what to do: “By Jove, Kittredge, it’s time to buck up and be a man!”
His heart also told him that he should act upon his convictions, seize time by the forelock, and strike while the iron was hot. (Odd, how hearts always seem to speak in clichés.) So he got his horse and trap and was driving as fast as he could up the road to Near Sawrey and Tower Bank House. He hoped to find the captain out and the captain’s sister in, because he had something important to say to her that he did not want her brother to hear. He had composed a carefully reasoned speech of apology and entreaty, and his heart was telling him that there was no time like the present to deliver it.
The Tale of Hawthorn House Page 12