“Sent ’im packin’, I did,” he reported gruffly. “Heard he went south to work in t’ hops fields, and not a minute too soon.” He shook his head. “Girls that age got no sense. Her’d been mine, I wud’ve whipped her. Them gannan-folk are nivver up to no good.”
Miles didn’t hold with corporal punishment, although he understood Beever’s concern. Still— “You don’t know whether things went any further than talking?” he asked.
“Who knows?” Beever peered up at Miles from under bushy gray eyebrows. “But when her up and left that fast, I sez to Missus Beever it didna look reet t’ me. Leavin’ Tidmarsh where her was known and gan to Hawthorn House— leastwise, that’s what her said. Sounded fishy to me. Hawthorn House’s stood empty these last years, since t’ Thorn Folk curst it. Why ’ood her want to gan there, if not to hide hersel’ away?”
The Thorn Folk. Miles made an impatient noise. One would think someone as sensible as Beever would see how ridiculous it was to further those old superstitions. “So you think the girl—”
“Who knows?” Beever said again. He glanced regretfully into his glass, then up at Miles, who shook his head. “Ah, well,” he said, and drained the last drop. “Gone up to Lon’on, has her? I doan’t wonder.” And with that, he stood up.
“Thank you,” said Miles, feeling that the evening had not been a loss. Between Beever and old Padgett, he had made a little headway, after all. He now knew the name of the girl who had worked at Hawthorn House, and who (presumably) had pawned the cornelian signet ring. But one important piece of information was missing. “You have no idea where in London she might have gone?” he asked.
Beever shook his gray head, then brightened, thinking of something else. “Congratulations, Cap’n.” He offered a rough hand. “Her’s a fine lady, I sez. Betimes a bit short in her manner. Not one to suffer fools. But fine, all t’ same. Good luck, sez I, and so does t’missus.”
Miles shook the proffered hand, very confused as to pronouns. Who was the mysterious “her”?
“Congratulations?” he asked. “What’s this about, Beever?”
Beever broke into a loud laugh, which was echoed by old Padgett and Lester Barrow, on the other side of the bar, and by those who had gathered around them.
“What’s this about?” Beever gasped, after a moment. “Why, Cap’n Woodcock, ’tis about yer weddin’, that’s what.”
“My . . . wedding?” Miles asked inarticulately. “What wedding?”
“Yer weddin’ to Miss Potter,” Lester Barrow said, grinning. “T’ village has been talkin’ of nothin’ else—except, o’course,” he added, “your sister’s weddin’.” He sobered. “There’s talk o’ that, too.”
“My wedding to . . . to Miss Potter!” Miles felt his mouth drop open.
“Why, aye!” said Mr. Llewellyn, of High Green Gate Farm. Llewellyn was Miles’ near neighbor, and rented part of his pasture land. “Aye, and grand news it is, too, Cap’n! ’Tis good that a man gets charge o’ Hill Top at last. Miss Potter’s fine in her way—I doan’t say a word agin’ her. But her spends too much time in Lon’on, and t’ farm suffers fer it.” He leaned forward and said, with a confidential air, “Tha’ll take good care o’ her affairs, I’ll warrant. And if tha decides to sell that parcel on t’ other side of t’ Kendal Road, why, I’d have an interest.”
And even Mr. Jennings, Miss Potter’s tenant farmer, held a positive view. “I’ll be pleased to work fer thi, sir,” he said, shaking Miles’ hand vigorously. “Not that I doan’t like Miss Potter, but it’s just not t’ same, workin’ fer a lady.”
By this time, Miles was so completely confounded that he hardly knew how to answer. He made one or two starts, but barely got his mouth open when he was congratulated by Henry Stubbs, the ferryman, followed by Roger Dowling, the joiner, and Mr. Skead, the sexton at St. Peter’s—all offering their jubilant congratulations. It was clear that the match met wide approval throughout the village.
And then it got worse. Lester Barrow—a man who was so parsimonious that he would skin a flea for a ha’penny— began handing out free half-pints. Mrs. Barrow appeared with several bowls of roasted chestnuts, and the men in the pub gathered around, glasses upraised, and began to sing “For he’s a jolly good fellow.” This was followed by three resounding huzzahs, so loud that the glasses rattled behind the bar.
At last there was a moment’s silence, and Miles raised his hands.
“Thank you,” he said, conscious that the men of the village had just paid him—still an outlander, even though he had lived there for some fifteen years—an enormous compliment. He could only be grateful, but he had to nip this rumor in the bud, if that were possible. “However, I must tell you that your congratulations are completely undeserved. While I admire and respect Miss Potter to the greatest degree possible, we have not agreed to marry. I have no idea how this tale got started, but I ask you to help me put paid to it, here and now.”
The silence was so profound that we might have heard a mouse cough, had there been a mouse in the corner. Then old Padgett said incredulously, “Her’s turned thi down, sir?” Wide-eyed, he appealed to Beever. “Miss Potter’s turned down our cap’n?”
“The question has not been asked,” Miles replied, with the awkward feeling that whatever he said would only make matters worse. “Someone has been spreading untrue gossip.”
Henry Stubbs leaned over to old Padgett and remarked, wisely, “He’s sayin’ that congratulations are primmy chure.” Henry’s hold on the English language was almost as slippery as that of his wife Bertha’s. “He’s sayin’ they ain’t pronounced it yet. They’re keepin’ it unner their hats.” This produced another cheer from the gathered crowd.
Miles was floundering now, confused and uncertain. “It is not my intent to ask the question,” was what he meant to say, but even as he formed the words, he bit them back. The idea had suddenly struck him, like a bolt of lightning accompanied by a tooth-rattling clap of thunder, that asking Miss Potter to marry him might not be such a very bad thing, after all.
And with the thought came a great happiness and surprising lightness of spirit. Why, the idea was exactly right! Miss Potter would suit him admirably. She was of an age to know her mind and be settled in her choices. For a woman, she had eminently good sense, and to top it off, she had her own fortune and property. As for himself, he found her attractive, sweetly serious, even tender. He could surely be of help to her with her farm responsibilities, and she would be able to manage Elsa Grape much more strictly than did Dimity. They would be very comfortable together. Yes, indeed, it was a wonderful idea, a perfect idea. Why hadn’t it occurred to him before this?
“Tha’rt sayin’ the property across t’ road won’t be for sale?” Mr. Llewellyn asked, in a tone of great disappointment.
Miles smiled. “I am only saying, gentlemen, that this is not yet the time for celebration.” Feeling quite pleased with himself, he turned to Lester Barrow and added, “Another round of drinks, Mr. Barrow. On my account, if you please.”
He was making his way to the door when little Mrs. Barrow plucked his sleeve. “I just want to say,” she said nervously, “that I’m pleased to hear ’bout Miss Woodcock and t’ major. I know what everybody is sayin’, that she’s throwin’ hersel’ away on someone who doan’t deserve her. But I person’ly think t’ major’s a fine man, and verra brave to give his arm and his eye to his country. I wish ’em both t’ best, I truly do, and t’ babe as well, poor bairn.”
Miles frowned. “Pardon me, Mrs. Barrow. What exactly is it that you have heard about my sister and Major Kittredge?”
“Why, that they’re to be married,” she said, looking flustered. “Everybody in t’ village knows it. They mean to take t’ babe to live with ’em, too—t’ gypsy babe who was left with Miss Potter.”
There was a sudden hush as everyone in the pub turned to hear his response, but Miles scarcely comprehended. He felt as if he had been slapped in the face, or (more accurately) struck over the head w
ith a cricket bat.
Dimity had gone against him? It could not be allowed!
“Rubbish!” he declared. “My sister knows I would never permit such a thing.” He looked around at the assembled throng. “Never, do you hear! Never!”
And with that final lordly pronouncement, he brushed past Mrs. Barrow and through the door, slamming it shut behind him.
Now, you and I, from our modern vantagepoint, know how unfair (and usually futile) it is to attempt to impose our opinions on another, particularly where matters of the heart are concerned. But at the time of our story, this was a lesson that many people—including our own cool-headed, thoughtful Captain Woodcock, so admirable in so many ways—had yet to learn. Outside in the dark, this representative of the King’s law and order stood for a moment, breathing deeply of the clean, smoke-free air, shaking his head to clear it.
Dimity and that . . . that Kittredge fellow! What in the world could she be thinking? Why, the man’s reputation was utterly tarnished. It could never be redeemed! If Dimity married him, she should have to accept a share in his humiliation. And the idea that she would adopt that foundling child, that gypsy child? The whole business was out of the question, and the sooner he set her straight, the better.
He pushed his hands deep into his pockets and strode home in a violent temper, the pleasure that had risen inside him when he thought of marrying Miss Potter all but blown away by the storm of anger that raged in his head and his heart.
Meanwhile, back in the pub, the villagers’ assessment of the situation was undergoing rapid revision. Miss Woodcock was not going to marry the major after all, because the captain would not permit it. The captain and Miss Potter would be married at some future date, but for the present, their engagement was a secret, which meant that Elsa Grape would probably stay where she was, and the vicar would have to find someone else to manage his hems and elbows. As to the fate of the foundling infant—well, it now seemed virtually certain that she would be sent off to the parish workhouse, where she belonged.
Yes, indeed. There is nothing like a village for managing everyone’s affairs.
26
Miss Woodcock Takes a Stand
Major Christopher Kittredge, quite unaware that anyone other than himself and the woman he loved might have taken an interest in their possible marital arrangements, had spent the past two days in London, dealing with his banking and property affairs. This activity was challenging, because the major was the last of the Kittredges and had inherited a number of family properties that required his attention.
But this challenge was as nothing compared to the challenges of the heart. All the while the major was telling his bankers this and his estate agents that and his business managers the other thing, his mind was full of Dimity Woodcock and the recollection of how willingly she had come into his embrace, how easily and sweetly she had said yes.
But the sweetness of Dimity’s yes was mixed with the pungent bitterness of her no, which was what the major tasted in his mouth as he took the train to the Lakes, arriving late on Thursday evening. Things changed when he got back to Raven Hall, however, where the butler handed him the cream-colored envelope that had been delivered just a few hours before, from Miss Woodcock.
The major held it in his hand for a moment, hardly daring to breathe. Was she offering him a ray of hope, a slender thread of possibility? Or was she telling him that no was the final answer? If that was it, perhaps he would leave Raven Hall and go back to the Army—if the Army would have him. One-eyed, one-armed majors weren’t in great demand these days.
At last he could stand the suspense no longer. He tore open the envelope and read the note inside. (He did not read it out loud, so we will have to wait to find out what it says.) Then, although his dinner was already growing cold on the table, he called for his horse and rode as if the devil were after him through the night to Tower Bank House, reaching the village just about the time the men in the pub were congratulating the captain on his marriage to Miss Potter. In fact, the major rode past the pub very shortly before Captain Woodcock quit it in a deplorable temper, having learnt that the village expected his sister to marry the major.
When Christopher was shown into the library at Tower Bank House, he went straight to the sofa where Dimity was sitting and folded her into his embrace, from which I think we can gather that her no had become a yes. He had already kissed her once and was about to kiss her again when her brother came striding down the hall and burst into the room. Feeling awkward (as I have no doubt you would, too, caught in a similar circumstance), Christopher sprang to his feet.
“Good evening, Woodcock,” he said, in as pleasant a tone as he could manage. “Nice to see you again.” Of course, it was not nice to see him, as you can imagine, for the major would much rather have continued kissing his lady-love than engage in conversation with her brother—especially since he could see the anger written across the brother’s face.
“You!” the captain shouted angrily, making a fist. “What are you doing here, Kittredge?”
Christopher wanted to say that he was kissing Woodcock’s sister and enjoying it enormously, thank you very much. But this was clearly not an appropriate reply, under the circumstances. He was fumbling for other words when Dimity rose from the sofa, her pink silk skirt rustling.
“Major Kittredge came at my request, Miles,” she said in a conciliatory tone. “I wish you would not—”
“This is my house,” the captain growled, drawing the battle lines. “Get out, Kittredge. You’re not welcome here.”
The hair rose on the back of the major’s neck. He had not expected such an open declaration of war so soon, even before he’d had a chance to declare his intentions, which were decidedly honorable. (The major could not be expected to know that the captain had already heard about the proposed marriage and had just announced to the assembled male population of the village that he would not permit it to happen. This was truly unfortunate, of course, for once a man like Captain Woodcock has made a public declaration, he cannot take it back without seeming to lose face.)
“Out!” the captain thundered, as the major tried to think about the least provocative way to say that he hoped to claim the captain’s sister’s hand in holy matrimony.
Clearly dismayed at the sudden turn this conversation was taking, Dimity stepped into the fray. “It is my house, too, Miles,” she said. “I asked Major Kittredge to come so that we could discuss our plans to—”
“I won’t hear of this,” the captain said, turning away. His voice was shaking. “I appeal to you, Dim. No, I order you. Send him away. Now. This minute. To ally yourself to him is to link your name with shame and disgrace.”
Christopher looked down at Dimity. She was pale, and he could feel her trembling. What would she say? What would she do? She loved him, he knew. But Miles was her brother, after all, the highest authority in her life. She had lived with him for a very long time, and had accustomed herself to being governed by his wishes. Had she ever in her life said no to him? Could she now?
Dimity squared her shoulders. When she spoke, her voice was soft but astonishingly firm. “I know this is painful for you, Miles, but you must hear it. Major Kittredge has asked me to marry him and I have agreed.”
The captain turned, his fists clenched, his feelings written on his face in hard, angry lines. “You cannot do this, Dimity. You know how strongly I disapprove.” His eyes went to Christopher, then back to his sister. “This is not the man I want you to marry. He is not the sort of husband you deserve.” His voice broke. “He has been married before. His reputation is disgraceful.”
Christopher opened his mouth to speak up in his own defense, but stopped. What could he say? Woodcock was right. He had made an ass of himself, marrying a woman who had deceived him, a woman who was already married. It was a stigma he would carry to his grave. Did he have any right to ask Dimity to share his shame? Wasn’t he being conceited and selfish? His better self spoke up and answered the question bluntl
y. Yes. Yes, of course he was being conceited, fiendishly so. And unforgivably selfish, too. But all the same—
“And I’m not the only one who feels this way, Dimity.” The captain held out his hands in appeal. “I’ve just come from the pub, where I was told flat out that everyone in the village is against this marriage. They say you are throwing your life away on a man who does not deserve it. They say—”
“Wait a minute,” Christopher said, by now thoroughly confused. “How did the village get into this? I’ve just learnt about it a little bit ago.”
“The village always knows everything, Christopher,” Dimity said practically. “One can never keep anything secret.”
“They say you are going to take that baby, too!” the captain said in an anguished tone, as though he had been saving the worst until the last. “That foundling.”
“Miles!” Dimity exclaimed heatedly. “Every baby deserves a home, and parents who love it. And who more than a foundling?”
The captain’s face twisted. “Well intentioned, I’m sure. But her mother is a servant, and her father is a gypsy who’s gone south to work in the hops fields. Not the sort of child you can be proud of, Dimity.”
“So you’ve found the parents?” Dimity asked, half-fearfully. She swallowed. “Is it likely that they’ll want the baby back?”
“I’ve no idea,” the captain said. “But the child is a gypsy. You don’t want—”
“Well, I don’t see that being a gypsy makes any difference,” Christopher said, trying to be logical. “As long as the parents are willing to renounce their claim, of course. There’s enough room at Raven Hall for a dozen children. And we will hire a nursemaid, so there will be no extra work for Dimity.” His better self reminded him that he was still being conceited and selfish, and that perhaps the lady had changed her mind, in the face of her brother’s outspoken opposition. “That is, if she still agrees to marry me,” he said, more tentatively.
The Tale of Hawthorn House Page 22