The Tale of Castle Cottage

by Susan Wittig Albert

  She put the letter aside to finish and recopy later and turned to glance at the grandfather clock in the alcove beside the stairs. The clock’s graceful hands and lovely painted face told her that it was not quite six. Will would be here at seven, and she had to change for dinner with the Woodcocks and Kittredges. There was just enough time to have a look at Mr. Biddle’s invoices—and now was the right moment to do it, too, with Sarah Barwick’s question still echoing in her mind. “What would you do if you suspected that somebody was stealing from you, Bea?” and the thought of those brass door handles that Henry Stubbs had bought.

  She turned and went to the oak dresser, which displayed on its shelves some nice old pieces of Staffordshire blue willow earthenware and a pair of antique portrait bowls. She picked up the invoices and carried them back to the table, pausing to pour herself a cup of hot tea. Then, still thinking about what Sarah had told her, she sat down with a pencil and paper and began making a list of the building materials, by category: lumber, slate, flooring, window frames, window glass, nails, hardware, and so on, with the amount she had been billed for each.

  A little later, she got up and fetched the notebook where she had filed the other invoices—the ones she had already paid—and added those items to her list. As she worked, something caught her attention. And then another thing, and another. She stared down at the items, noting the initials on each one. She went back over the list once again, but she could see that there was only one conclusion to be drawn. She put her pencil down with a heavy sigh. Only one. And now that she understood the situation, what should she do about it? What could she do?

  The cuckoo clock cleared its throat—hesitantly, as if reluctant to interrupt her—and struck once. She glanced up, startled. Half past six already. She pushed her chair back and got up, stretching stiffly. She had better go upstairs and change for dinner.

  To Mrs. Potter’s often (and loudly) expressed dismay, Beatrix was not a “dressy” sort of person. The Potters frequently entertained and Beatrix always helped serve as hostess, but even when she was younger, she had resisted her mother’s attempts to choose stylish costumes for her. A simple dark dress or a trim woolen or serge skirt and a tailored blouse with a tie or a modest bit of lace—these were much more to her taste than expensive materials, tiers of ruffles, and yards of ribbon, even for parties. Tonight, for the party at the Woodcocks, she put on her blue silk blouse, which Will said was just the color of her eyes, and a gray wool skirt. She applied a comb to her flyaway brown hair and managed to bring it at least partially under control.

  Still holding the comb, she stared for a moment at herself in the mirror, wondering what handsome Will Heelis, who was admired by all who knew him, could possibly see in someone as plain as she. And then she remembered his remoteness earlier in the day and thought once again that perhaps he had decided to break off their engagement. After that disastrous session with her parents, he might have come to share her feeling that there was no use in waiting for a future that might never happen, a feeling that was even sharper now that Bertram had made up his mind to tell their parents about his marriage.

  She put down her comb, pressing her lips together and trying to swallow the sudden large lump in her throat. William Heelis was a gentleman through and through, and gentlemen did not break engagements. If left to his own devices, he might go muddling along forever, feeling miserable but unable to bring himself to do anything about it. Something so decisive, so definitive, would have to be up to her. And Beatrix knew that what had happened this afternoon, here in this very house, had changed everything: Bertram’s announcement of his marriage would make her own marriage impossible. She should tell Will that they must break it off. And she should do it tonight, before they went out to dinner together.

  She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, looking straight into her eyes in the mirror. Yes, that’s exactly what she should do—break it off. Of course, telling Will before they went out to dinner would make for a terribly awkward evening. But if she left it for later, she might lose her nerve. This constant seesawing tug between hope and apprehension was too painful to bear. A clean break would be easier for both of them, wouldn’t it? And it would surely be better to end their engagement sooner rather than later. The longer they went on together, the more deeply they cared for one another, the harder it would be to go their separate ways.

  Beatrix sighed. She was wishing now that she had not begun the construction work at Castle Cottage, which she had romantically imagined as the house of their dreams. Really—that was so silly, so foolish. Not only would the house never be finished, but she and Will would never live there together. The thought broke her heart.

  She took another breath, leaned forward, and spoke earnestly to her mirror, rehearsing what she knew she had to say. “Will, dearest, dearest Will, I cannot go on causing you so much pain and unhappiness. You know my heart: it’s yours forever. But Bertram told me today that he intends to make a clean breast of his secret marriage to Mama and Papa. But I know them, and I know that his confession will only make them more stubbornly opposed to our marriage. I cannot ask you to wait and hope for something that will never happen.”

  Yes. That was what she had to say. She rehearsed it once more, so that she would get all the words right. “Will, dearest Will . . .”

  But on her third rehearsal, the words stuck in her throat and she dissolved into helpless tears. She was mopping her eyes with a very wet handkerchief when she heard the knock at the door. Two raps, a pause, a third. Will’s knock.

  She went slowly and reluctantly down the stairs, her heart beating, feeling as if she were going to her execution. And then she opened the door.

  Of course, Beatrix was right. Will Heelis was considering breaking off their engagement—although not for the reasons that Beatrix imagined. If you will remember, you and I were eavesdropping on the conversation in the library at Tower Bank House when Will told Miles Woodcock that he was desperately worried about Beatrix’s health. He was wondering whether he should break off the engagement (although true gentlemen never do anything like that!) and free Beatrix from the terrible tug-of-war that was making her physically ill.

  Miles, of course, had advised him to simply pack up Miss Potter, bag and baggage, and make for the nearest church. “And the sooner the better,” he had added sternly. Miles spoke with the confident voice of a happily married man, although if truth be told, he himself had delayed marrying for many years and was not sure even now exactly how he had come to propose to his wife. All he knew was that he was very happy about it, however it had happened. (You can read the whole story, which is really quite amusing, in The Tale of Applebeck Orchard.)

  But even though Will desperately wanted to take his friend’s advice, he could not, for he absolutely refused to put Beatrix into the dreadful position of choosing between becoming his wife and remaining her parents’ dutiful daughter. He had promised her, over and over again, that he would be content to wait until she could come to him with an easy heart, free of all other considerations.

  This was still true, of course, and always would be. He was willing to wait. Indeed, he would wait for her until the end of time, if that’s what it took, for Will Heelis was a romantic where matters of the heart were concerned, and Beatrix Potter was and would always be the love of his life.

  But while Will was content to be led by his heart, he was very much a pragmatist. As a solicitor, he had trained himself to understand and evaluate cause and effect. He understood what sort of predicament Beatrix was in, how true she was to her duty, and what a terrible toll was being exacted upon her by this intolerable, unbearable conflict of loyalties. He knew how desperately sick she had been during the spring, and he understood the reasons for her illness, for he could read them between the lines of her letters to him, just as clearly as if she had spelled them out. And he had been entirely serious when he told Miles that he felt he had to break their engagement, for her sake. It would tear his heart in two, but he could l
ive with a broken heart, if it restored Beatrix to health.

  Which is why, when Will Heelis stands now on the stoop at Hill Top Farm, his hand raised to knock at Miss Potter’s door, he fully intends to tell her that he wishes to be released from his promise. It is a hard, hard thing, the hardest thing he has ever done in his entire life. It is also a despicable thing, a thing that no gentleman worthy of the name should ever consider! But he knows he must do it, and he must do it now, before he is a minute older, because if he puts it off, he won’t do it at all. He screws his courage to the sticking point, rehearsing in his mind the words that he has already practiced a dozen times or more, words that he will begin to utter the minute Beatrix opens the door.

  “My dearest dear,” he will say, “I have come to the sad conclusion that we cannot go on as we are. I am yours and will forever remain so. I will never love anyone in this world but you. But I am afraid for your health, which is endangered by your promise to me. And my fear for you is tearing me apart. For both our sakes, I must ask you to release me from my promise to marry you.”

  There. Those are hurtful words, and he knows how much pain they will cause, how they will wound. But he has thought the whole thing through in his lawyerly fashion, and this is what he is determined to say. He fixes the speech firmly in his mind. “My dearest dear, I have come to the unutterably sad conclusion that we cannot go on as we are—”

  The words taste bitter, and he swallows. “My dearest dear, I have come to the unutterably sad conclusion—”

  He swallows again. “My dearest dear, I have come—” and he mutters the rest of it, fast, under his breath.

  Enough. He has it now, by heart. He raises his hand and knocks. One, two raps, a pause, a third. He hears hesitant feet on the stairs, and at last the door opens.

  And there she is, in that beautiful blue blouse that is just the color of her eyes, and her brown hair (impossible to comb, she complains) is loose and unruly around her face. Her eyes—those remarkably blue, blue eyes—are red-rimmed and wet with tears, and his heart lurches painfully. He finds that he has just enough courage to reach for her hands, as if he were a swimmer sinking into the sea and she the only hope of rescue.

  “My dearest dear,” he says, and then discovers to his horror that he has forgotten everything else he meant to say. But he can remember it all later. Now, at this moment, he finds that he doesn’t want to talk at all. He only wants to pull her into his arms and hold her against his heart, and then to lift her face to his and kiss her lips.

  And so he does, and so does she, and so they do.

  For a moment, there is only silence, the silence of two people kissing. I am sure you have heard that silence before and know what it means and why they should not be interrupted. You wouldn’t want somebody interrupting you when you were busy kissing your favorite person in all the world, now, would you?

  So we will just stand here respectfully for a moment, a few steps away from the scene of the action, although you may avert your eyes or turn your back, if you prefer. But I have watched people kissing in the movies and on television a great many times and must confess that I rather enjoy the experience. And since Beatrix and Will have no idea that they’re being watched, they’re not likely to be embarrassed—at least, not by us.

  Finally, still holding hands, the two step apart. Or rather, they pull themselves apart, with the abrupt and guilty selfconsciousness of people who are suddenly aware that they did not intend to do what they have just done.

  Or (to state this more precisely) that they have just done something that they fully intended not to do, which, in this case, is to kiss one another with passionate abandon, as if they had never kissed before and would never kiss again.

  And, with a jolt, they simultaneously realize that they had better get on with whatever it was that they had meant to say before this happened, without any more delay.

  So naturally Will recalls the words that he had practiced at the very same moment that Beatrix remembers the lines that she had rehearsed, and they both speak at once.

  “My dearest dear,” he begins. “I have come to the unutterably sad conclusion—”

  “Will, dearest, dearest Will,” she says, “I cannot go on causing you so much pain—”

  They stop. Both of them are covered with consternation, of course, and so they try again. And again, in unison.

  “Regrettably, I have come—”

  “I really cannot go on—”

  Now, this may strike you and me as funny. But we’re not the ones who are trying to say what must be said. And they’re not smiling, so we shouldn’t either.

  Will takes a deep breath, feeling that if he doesn’t say what he has come to say right at this very moment, it will never get said. But he’s already forgotten what he had rehearsed, so he has to improvise. Since he had the gist of it firmly in mind, however, that should not be a problem. He is, after all, a lawyer, and has trained himself to speak before the bench, extemporaneously, when that is necessary. All he has to do is marshal his facts, gather his thoughts, and all will be well.

  So he opens his mouth and hears himself say, quite clearly and distinctly, “I would give anything if we could run away and get married tomorrow, Beatrix, and have the whole ridiculous wedding business over with so we can get on with our lives together, the way we’re meant to do. But I know we can’t do that, for all kinds of reasons, none of them good but all of them . . . well, compelling. So I can only tell you that I love you very, very, very much and I will never, never let you go. I’m in this for as long as it takes, and I hope you are, too.”

  And then he stops, struck dumb with astonishment. That wasn’t what he meant to say, not at all! What happened to his stalwart and ungentlemanly determination to plead for release from his promise, for her dear sake? What happened to his worry for her health? He still feels it, oh, yes, he feels it. And gentleman or no, he certainly had every intention of breaking off their engagement.

  But while intentions are all well and good, they sometimes falter when it comes time to put them into action, as I’m sure you understand. How many times have you fully intended to do one thing—you’ve thought it all through, planned out each move very carefully—and then found yourself doing something entirely different, if not entirely opposite ? You were surprised by what happened, I am willing to wager. It wasn’t what you intended at all.

  Or rather, that is not what you intended with your head. Your heart had a different plan all along and only waited to reveal it until the moment when you opened your mouth and said what you really meant to say. And personally, I suspect that your heart waited because it didn’t want your head to get in its way.

  Thus it is with our Will, who is not only surprised but completely confounded by what has just happened—and is of course stuck with it, now that the words are out there, hanging in the air between them, alive with significance. He can’t very well bow his head and say, “Oh, dear, that’s not what I meant at all, Beatrix. What I meant to say was ‘Our engagement is obviously a terrible mistake that is making you desperately sick and making me feel wretchedly sad and guilty, so if you don’t mind very much, dear girl, let’s just call the whole thing off.’”

  And Beatrix? She is entirely prepared to say—well, you know. But now that Will has offered his spontaneous and heartfelt pledge, she can hardly say, “Well, of course that’s entirely wonderful, Will, and I appreciate it very much, but I’ve already made up my mind that you must not wait for me. Our engagement is hopeless and our marriage will never happen and I’m breaking it off.”

  That would be mean and churlish of her, and Beatrix (who often accuses herself of impatience and ill temper) is never mean and churlish.

  So even though Beatrix knows very well that she and her dearest love will never in this world be able to marry, she can only take his hand and raise it to her lips and say, with the utmost simplicity and sincerity, “Thank you, my dear, from the bottom of my heart. I love you and I will always be as true to you a
s I am able.”

  “Well,” Will says, and smiles. “That’s good. I’m glad.” Then, remembering what he had come to do and suddenly seeing the funny side of this ridiculous business, he begins to chuckle. And then to laugh.

  Beatrix, not quite seeing it yet, is not amused. “What’s so funny?” she asks stiffly.

  “I am,” Will says, grinning crookedly. “Sometimes I am just downright silly. I’m amazed that you haven’t laughed at me, too, dear heart.” He puts his hands on her shoulders and bends over and kisses the tip of her nose, then holds her close against him.

  “There,” he says softly, his cheek against her hair. “That’s better. Much better.”

  And of course it is. He has been utterly foolish to think that he could ever give this woman up, no matter what obstacles might be thrown across their path. Somehow, in some way, they will muddle through together. Her parents won’t live forever. And in the meantime, they have each other, and their time together, and it is enough. Almost enough, anyway—although he is fully aware that even if he were granted the privilege of spending the rest of his life with this remarkable woman, it wouldn’t be long enough.

  And Beatrix—who knows that she can’t tell Will what she had meant to say, and what she had rehearsed until the words had made her cry—finds herself pulling back a little and glancing at the clock and saying, in a surprisingly calm voice, “We still have some time before we have to go to the Woodcocks’. Would you like a cup of tea, Will? There’s something I want to show you.”

  Will glanced at the unfinished pictures and the stacks of papers on the table where Beatrix had been working. “It looks like you’ve been busy,” he says. He finds it very odd that he can speak in an ordinary, everyday tone after the emotional hurricane he has just weathered. “Working on the book?”

  “I should be,” she replied ruefully. “But I was working on something else.” She pulled out a chair and put a sheaf of papers in front of him. “Sit down, please, and I’ll get the tea.” Over her shoulder, she adds, “Look at the items and the amounts and tell me what you think.”