The Tale of Hawthorn House

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “Really,” Beatrix said, with interest. She did not share her ladyship’s low opinion of Emily. She had met the girl during the unfortunate experience with Miss Martine, who had intended to get her hands on Lady Longford’s fortune. Emily was inexperienced and easily taken in, but when she learned to trust her own judgment, she would do well.

  “Yes,” Caroline said. “I saw her riding in Mr. Puckett’s cart, on her way to the ferry landing. Miss Burns and I went out to sketch very early on Friday morning. We were crossing Kendal Road when Emily and Mr. Puckett happened along. I asked her where she was going. She said she was off to London. She was very excited. She said it was her heart’s dream.”

  Dimity shook her head. “She will find the city a very different place than the village.”

  “Yes,” said Beatrix. “I am not at all sure she will be happy there.”

  At that moment, Miss Burns hurried out with the package for Mrs. Moore, Beatrix promised to deliver it safely, and they all took their leave.

  16

  At Miss Pennywhistle’s Select Establishment for Young Ladies of Excellent Family

  If Emily Shaw had heard Lady Longford’s remark—“Horrid things happen to giddy young girls”—she would have been compelled to agree, at least in part. She might not have thought of herself as giddy, but it was certainly true that horrid things were happening to her.

  And Miss Potter’s prediction was sadly accurate. Emily was not at all happy. Now that she had time to reflect on what had happened, she felt that she had betrayed Baby Flora by allowing her to be carried off (although she could not think exactly how she might have prevented it). And she could not help feeling that she herself had been betrayed by Miss Keller, who had promised her an exciting life in London, and fine clothes and expeditions and pleasures.

  Or at least Miss Keller had seemed to promise these things, although Emily, trying to remember exactly what had been said to her, was no longer quite sure. Had Miss Keller deliberately deceived her? Or had she been too eager to believe in such good fortune, and hence deceived herself ? However that might be, Emily now understood that not a single one of the promises Miss Keller had made (or seemed to make) would come true. Miss Keller was only a lowly teacher in Miss Pennywhistle’s Select Establishment, and could promise nothing at all.

  Emily understood this the day after her arrival, when Miss Keller took her to the parlor to be introduced to Miss Pennywhistle.

  “This is Emily,” Miss Keller said. “She comes to us from—”

  “Thank you, Miss Keller,” Miss Pennywhistle said in a prim, dismissive voice. “I believe you have other duties. You may leave us now.”

  “But I thought—” Miss Keller began. She looked anxiously at Emily, then back at Miss Pennywhistle. “I feel I should stay and explain—”

  “I am perfectly capable of making all necessary explanations, thank you,” said Miss Pennywhistle, with a do-not-argue-with-me look. Miss Keller hung her head and went away, leaving Emily with the distinct impression that of all the select personages at Miss Pennywhistle’s Establishment, Miss Keller was among the least select.

  “You are a fortunate young person,” said Miss Pennywhistle, looking down her nose and curling her R’s with a royal flourish. She was a very tall, very thin, very dark woman with a long face and cold dark eyes. “Miss Keller has told me that you proved useful as a maid-of-all-work whilst she was on holiday in the Lakes, and that you are particularly good with a smoothing iron.” She sat down behind the table that served as her desk. “This is altogether unusual, you understand. Our girls ordinarily come to us through one of the London agencies. But since Miss Keller is so eager to vouch for your suitability, I am willing to give you a trial.”

  And then, without stopping to ask whether Emily had any questions or objections or any feelings at all on this subject, Miss Pennywhistle began to rattle off Emily’s duties.

  “The maids are up at five A.M. Before breakfast, you will carry coals and ashes, clean grates, and lay fires. You will fetch hot water for our third-floor young ladies’ baths, and towels and linens. After breakfast, you will assist Dora in the making of beds and the cleaning of floors. On Wednesdays and Fridays, you will assist Mrs. Hodge in the laundry, and particularly with the ironing. We have twelve young ladies in residence at the present time, so you will appreciate that there is quite a lot of fine ironing to do. As for the rest of the day, your duties will be distributed where they are needed. The young ladies are to have their hot water again at six. Your tea is at five. Your supper is at eight, after which you will turn down the young ladies’ beds and arrange their night-things.”

  She gave Emily a critical look. “Your hair is not suitable. Pull it back and pin it. And straighten your shoulders. You look as if you are tired already and the day has scarcely begun. The clothing you have received—your dress, apron, and cap—will be charged against your account. You will take your instruction from Dora.” She picked up her pen and a sheaf of papers. “That is all. You may go now.”

  Emily stared at her. Lady Longford had not been a kind employer, but Emily had never been asked to carry coals and ashes or help in the laundry. And Mr. Beevers, who looked after the garden, had always fetched the hot water because her ladyship thought the buckets too heavy for Emily to carry.

  “You may go,” Miss Pennywhistle repeated. And when Emily did not move, she threw her pen down on the desk. “What is wrong with you, girl?” she demanded. “Why are you staring at me like that? Have you no manners?”

  And then, answering her own question, she said in an acid tone, “No, I expect you do not, coming from the Lakes. No breeding, and none to be expected.” She rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Why Miss Keller is so eager to have you here with us, I don’t know. I don’t know how long you will last, either, if you persist in standing around with your hands dangling at the ends of your arms and your mouth hanging open in the middle of your face.” She waved her pen. “Off with you, girl! Dora is waiting to show you your tasks.”

  And even though Emily had meant to ask such questions as “When is my half-holiday?” and “Am I required to attend worship?” and “What shall I be paid?”—normal, everyday questions that you or I would be sure to ask anyone who proposed to employ us—she found herself standing in the hall, outside the closed parlor door, with Miss Keller hovering at her elbow.

  “I trust you said nothing about what transpired at Hawthorn House,” Miss Keller said in a very low voice.

  “No, miss,” Emily said.

  Of course she hadn’t. She could not even begin to think about what had happened at Hawthorn House, let alone speak of it. She could still feel the warm weight of Flora in her arms, smell the baby’s sweet-sour scent, hear her tiny milky sigh. Emily’s arms felt achingly empty, her heart desperately hungry.

  She looked at Miss Keller, tears springing to her eyes. “Don’t you ever wish—”

  “No, I do not,” said Miss Keller, taking her arm very firmly. “And neither do you, Emily. We are both grownups, you and I. We do what we must in order to get on in the world. What we must do now is go forward, not back. However much we may regret our mistakes, we must soldier on.”

  Emily shook her head in despair, feeling that Miss Keller did not understand, could never understand all she was feeling. And I daresay that Miss Keller was wrong about Emily being a grownup. For although she had worked for her living since leaving the village school at thirteen, some three years before, Emily was still a very young girl. She lacked the experience of life that might have helped her to keep these horrid things from happening. She did not yet know enough to cope with the gypsy lads and the Miss Kellers and the Miss Pennywhistles of this world. She only knew enough to measure what she had lost.

  And if we were to look into Emily’s heart, we would see that it was filled with sadness and grief and confusion—and a great many anguished recriminations.

  What had she done? Oh, oh, oh, what had she done?

  How could she have done it?


  And what would happen to her now?

  17

  The Hand-Woven Cover: Part One

  When Beatrix and Dimity left Tidmarsh Manor that afternoon, they drove a little way up the road to Holly How Farm, where Jane Crosfield and her nephew, Jeremy, lived. Rascal could hardly restrain his excitement. He and Jeremy had enjoyed many tramps through the woodlands and meadows, up and down the fells—but that was before Jeremy went away to school. He must be home on holiday now, and Rascal was eager to see him again.

  They were greeted at the door by a small, dumpling-shaped woman with a cheerful face and fly-away brown hair. “Why, if it isn’t Miss Potter and Miss Woodcock!” she exclaimed, a faint Scottish brogue coloring her speech. “And Rascal, too. How nice. Sit ye down and have a cup of tea, do.” She bent down to stroke the dog’s ears.

  “You’re very kind,” Rascal barked politely, and made a little bow to Snowdrop, Miss Crosfield’s white cat. Snowdrop, who was not partial to dogs, went to sit on the windowsill beside the pot of red geraniums.

  As they entered the kitchen of the traditional farmhouse, Beatrix looked around with pleasure, thinking what a pleasant contrast it was to Tidmarsh Manor. The house was built like many others in the district, with a pebbly mortar on the outside, blue slate on the floors and the roof, and roses growing over the front door. But what set it apart from the others were the beautiful pieces of weaving that hung on every wall and the large wooden loom in the corner of the kitchen. In fact, it was on that very loom that Jane Crosfield had woven the tweed for the woolen skirt Beatrix was wearing at this moment, from fleeces donated by Tibbie and Queenie, the Herdwick ewes who lived at Hill Top Farm.

  “Thank you, Jane, but we’ve just had tea at the manor,” Dimity replied, in answer to Jane’s invitation.

  “That’s every reason to have another, wouldn’t ye say?” Jane retorted, with a merry grin.

  At that, they all laughed. As they sat down at the table and Jane poured tea from a steaming pot, Beatrix said, “How is Jeremy, Jane? He’s on holiday, is he?”

  “School holidays, aye,” Jane replied, going to the oven in the old-fashioned cooker that was set into one side of the large fireplace. A pan of currant buns, looking as if they had recently come out of the oven, sat on top. “But he goes back Monday fortnight. And just now, he’s stayin’ in Hawkshead to help Dr. Butters with his rounds. He will be sorry to have missed the both of ye.”

  “Oh, no!” Rascal exclaimed, disappointed. “I so wanted to see him.” To Snowdrop, he said, with just a touch of anxiety, “Is he much changed?” Jeremy was a pupil at Kelsick grammar school in Ambleside, some fifteen long miles away. Most of the year, Jeremy boarded near the school.

  “He’s a young man now,” Snowdrop said, washing a spot of dust from her white paw. “I suppose that’s what school is for,” she added, sounding resigned. “Changing a boy to a man.”

  “I wish it wouldn’t do that,” Rascal said, aware of a keen sadness. Somehow he had never considered the question of growing up. In Rascal’s mind, Jeremy would always be a happy boy browned by the summer sun, sharing his bread and cheese with a small brown terrier beside a tumbling beck high on a rocky fell, the wide world spread invitingly at their feet, the future endless and bright and always exactly the same as the present.

  “Wishing won’t make it so, one way or another,” remarked Snowdrop philosophically. She jumped down from the sill and went outside to say hello to Winston.

  “I hope your nephew did well in school last term,” Beatrix said. Jeremy was an artist and lover of nature, and a great favorite of Beatrix’s. She had helped to persuade Lady Longford that it would be a good idea to send him for more schooling to prevent him from being apprenticed to Mr. Higgens, the Hawkshead chemist. And she had provided some of the money he needed for books and art supplies, as well. She was always eager for news of his progress.

  “I’m pleased to say he’s doin’ beautifully,” Jane replied happily. “Both of us are truly grateful for your help.” She transferred the currant buns to a china plate and set them on the table. “His school marks are as high as anybody could wish, Miss Potter. Ye’d be that proud of him, indeed ye would!” she added, and put a bit of bun on a plate for Rascal, who gobbled it down.

  “We’re all proud, Jane,” Beatrix said, adding sugar to her tea. “But I hope he’s finding time to do some painting.”

  “Oh, aye,” Jane said happily. “Just let me show ye.” She stepped into the next room and brought out a watercolor of a flock of sheep grazing in a green meadow beside a small stream. “Lovely, isn’t it?” She sighed. “Fair makes me think I’m sittin’ right beside Wilfin Beck, it does. And look— there’s the wee dog. Rascal, that’s you!”

  Rascal stood up on his hind legs to inspect his painted self. He was sitting on his haunches, watching the trout swim round in the crystal water. He felt quite proud. “Fancy me, in a painting,” he said in wonderment. He would have to tell Tabitha, who was always lording it over him because Miss Potter had put her into a book.

  “It’s wonderful!” Dimity exclaimed.

  “It is, indeed,” Beatrix said, taking the painting and examining the way Jeremy had washed the color across the sky. “His work is coming along very nicely. Please give him my compliments, Jane, and say that I’m very pleased with what he’s done.”

  “Me, too,” Rascal put in, wagging his tail excitedly. “Tabitha will be so envious!”

  “Just look at the beastie,” Jane said, shaking her head at Rascal. “’Tis for all the world like he knows it’s him in the painting.”

  “Why, of course he does,” Beatrix said. “Dimity, perhaps you could show Jane what we’ve brought.”

  Half-reluctantly, Dimity took out the brown paper parcel she had brought and opened it, unfolding the blue-and-white rectangle of cloth and laying it on the table. “We wondered what you can tell us about this, Jane.”

  “Well, now, this is lovely,” Jane said, fingering the cloth. “Very fine work, I’d say, Miss Woodcock. Done by an expert weaver.”

  “The pattern is distinctive, don’t you think?” Beatrix asked. “A twill, isn’t it?”

  “Aye,” Jane said, picking it up for a closer look. “A dornick twill. Can ye see how the run changes direction? My old gran—she was Scottish, she was—used this sort of weave for tablecloths.” She looked up, curious. “Where did this come from?”

  Beatrix and Dimity exchanged looks. “We don’t exactly know,” Beatrix said. “We were hoping you might be able to tell us whether someone in the district is likely to have woven it.”

  “Well, if it was,” Jane said briskly, “it could only have been woven here, on this loom, which it wasn’t.” She paused, smiled, and added, “O’ course, old Sally Frost might’ve woven it.”

  Dimity folded the woven cloth and rewrapped it in the brown paper. “Sally Frost. Let’s see—she’s Mrs. Graham’s mother, isn’t she?” To Beatrix, she added, “Mrs. Graham is one of the local midwives—or used to be. I don’t think she’s working now.”

  Jane nodded. “Aye. Old Sally lives with her daughter and son-in-law, at Long Dale, on Glade Lane. The old dear is half-blind, though. Not weavin’ now, I should think. But if she wove this, I’m sure she’ll be pleased to own to it.” She looked from one to the other, curiously. “Why are ye askin’?”

  Dimity looked down and said nothing.

  “It has to do with a baby,” Beatrix said, and told the story.

  Jane’s eyes widened. At the end of the tale, she shook her head. “Babies are precious,” she said sadly. “Babies are a gift of God.” She looked up, her eyes filled with tears. “Who would give a baby to a stranger? Couldn’t its own mother keep it?”

  That plaintive question was still hanging in the air as Beatrix and Dimity took their leave.

  18

  The Hand-Woven Cover: Part Two

  By the time Beatrix and Dimity left Holly How Farm to go to Long Dale, the blue sky had darkened, Coniston Fell was dra
ped in a cloudy veil, and a chilling breeze blew from the west. Rascal explained that he had decided to stay and see what sort of business the badger on Holly How was getting up to and barked a polite “thank you” before he ran off. Winston the pony explained that his bones predicted rain and he preferred to go straight home to the Hill Top barn. But Miss Potter explained that she and Miss Woodcock had other plans, and since Miss Potter held the reins quite firmly, Winston did what was asked. But he heaved a heavy sigh, letting her know that he wasn’t to be held to account when all three of them got soaking wet.

  For most of the afternoon, Dimity had been very quiet, and Beatrix remembered her earlier impression: that her friend found herself in the midst of an intensely private dilemma, and that it at least partly involved the baby. As they started back in the direction of the village, Dimity startled Beatrix by spilling the story of what had happened that morning: Major Kittredge’s confession of love, his proposal (and his idea that they should adopt the baby), and her refusal.

  “Miles will never consent to the marriage, Bea,” she said disconsolately. “I had to tell Christopher that there’s no point in even thinking about it.”

  Dimity and Christopher Kittredge?

  Beatrix was taken suddenly aback. “But I thought you were interested in Mr. Heelis!” she exclaimed. Mr. Heelis was a frequent visitor at Tower Bank House, and she had assumed that he called to see Dimity. And since Beatrix knew that Mr. Heelis and Dimity’s brother were the best of friends, she had thought it a perfect pairing. She had even envied Dimity, who was free to marry him, if she chose.

  “Mr. Heelis?” Dimity managed a sad little laugh. “Whatever gave you that idea, Bea? He’s just a friend, although a good one. And I daresay Miles would never object to him.”

  “I see,” Beatrix said slowly. “I was wrong.” And with that realization came another thought—not a thought, exactly, more like a feeling, and a rather disturbing one at that. It was a feeling of sudden lightness, as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She felt . . . glad to know that she had been wrong. Why?