Susan Wittig Albert

by The Tale of Applebeck Orchard (v5)

  In Rome, he met an adventurous French badger named Pierre, and after a week of sightseeing, the pair headed north to the Swiss Alps, and then west to Paris. Pierre fell in love with a Parisian badger (we are leaving out a great lot of ooh la-la here), so Thorn said goodbye and caught a train to Calais, where he went back across the Channel on a packet-boat. There were hair-raising adventures and thrills and chills all along the way, of course, escapes from this and that and the other thing, but we won’t go into those. We’ll hurry on to the serious romance, for that’s when the story really gets interesting.

  By this time, it was late April and Thorn had decided he had been away long enough. He had been traveling the whole time and, like many young badgers, had not taken the time to write home and let the family know where he was, so he was feeling urgent and (well, I should hope so!) a little bit guilty. He got off the packet-boat at Dover and struck off to the north, catching rides on hay wagons and beer lorries, foraging for his meals (an enterprising young badger can always find something to eat), and sleeping out under the stars.

  All this was rather a lark, and Thorn was having a good time of it, until he fell in with a gang of . . . well, not very nice badgers, young toughs out to make a name for themselves in the badger world. This gang of thugs (yes, Thorn included) raided a sett called Brockmoor Manor on the outskirts of Underbarrow, a village a few miles west of Kendal, where Buttermilk lived with her family. (If it’s just occurred to you that there is a similarity between the names of the badger setts—Brockmoor Manor and The Brockery—please know that it is no coincidence. From ancient times in England, badgers went by the name brock, as in the Helm ingham Manuscript from 1398: “The black raven is friend to the fox, and therefore he fights with the brocks.”)

  Anyway, none of the hoodlums had ever seen such a white badger before, and one of them had the bright idea that they should take this stunning creature hostage and hold her for ransom. Her parents would probably pay dearly for her release.

  “And that’s where it all came crashing down,” said Thorn, hanging his head. “Seeing what they were about, I suddenly saw what I had become—a rogue, a renegade, a rascal. I was ashamed of myself. I couldn’t be a party to that awful business.”

  “He rescued me,” Buttermilk said with a smile, snuggling up against him. “He saved me from those beastly animals. If it hadn’t been for him—” She shook her head somberly. “Something dreadful would have happened, I’m sure of it.”

  Having extracted Buttermilk from the clutches of her captors (through trickery and with only a minor skirmish or two), Thorn returned her to her grateful parents. He was invited to stay at Brockmoor, so of course he did. One thing led to another, as it always does in romances, and very soon, Thorn was engaged to the most beautiful badger in the world. They had married a few days ago, with the blessing of her parents and the hearty approval of all the residents of Brockmoor. Which, like The Brockery, was an extended family of sorts, with rabbits and ferrets and itinerant voles and moles and rats and the like, all living together or coming to visit for a while and then leaving and dropping in again whenever they found themselves nearby and in need of a bed or a bowl of soup.

  “Why, you’re on your honeymoon!” breathed Flotsam, clutching her paws to her breast, her eyes round. “How utterly romantic!”

  “Married!” exclaimed Hyacinth. “I’m so happy for you, Thorn. And you, Buttermilk!”

  “You’re coming back to The Brockery to live, I hope,” Primrose put in eagerly. “I should love to be able to hold my first grandchild.”

  Thorn gave her a long look. “Actually, that’s what we’ve come to tell you, Mama. Buttermilk’s father is getting on in years and needs someone to help him with Brockmoor Manor. I am now the wearer of the Brockmoor Badge, and I must return to do my duty.”

  There was a stunned silence. Of course, Underbarrow was only twenty-some miles away across Lake Windermere—not very far at all to you and me. Why, we drive that distance, or more, to work or to school every day. And after Thorn’s long tramp abroad, it probably didn’t seem all that far to him. But to our stay-at-home badgers, Brockmoor might have been the moon.

  Bosworth was the first to speak. “The Brockmoor Badge,” he said heartily. “Congratulations, Thorn!”

  “Oh, yes!” Hyacinth cried. “That’s wonderful!” She clapped her hands. “Two badges in one family! What do you think of that, Mama?” (I imagine that Hyacinth must have felt at least some relief, don’t you? If Thorn wore the Brockmoor Badge, he certainly wasn’t likely to feel put out that the Brockery Badge had been given to her.)

  Primrose took out a white lace hanky and blew her nose. “Why does it have to be so far?” she asked plaintively.

  “We know it’s a long way,” Buttermilk said consolingly. “That’s why we’d love to have you come and stay with us, for as long as you want.”

  “At least until the first litter is born,” put in Thorn. He grinned. “I’m sure there’ll be more than enough looking-after to suit both grandmothers.”

  Primrose gasped and her hands flew up to her mouth. “Oh, my gracious!” she cried. “The first litter! What good news! Why, of course I’ll come!” She looked at Bosworth. “If I can be spared here, that is.”

  “Of course you can be spared,” Bosworth said firmly. “We’ll miss you, of course, but we’ll manage. Won’t we, Hyacinth?”

  “We will, indeed,” said Hyacinth.

  Parsley got up from her chair. “Well, now, how do we feel about supper? We’re having cheese and mushroom omelets and our ginger-and-treacle pudding.”

  “Yippee!” cried Flotsam. “I loves cheese and mushroom omelets!”

  “And ginger-and-treacle pudding is my very favorite,” Thorn exclaimed. “Parsley, old dear, you must have known I was coming. You certainly must give Buttermilk your recipe.”

  “And I shall uncork that bottle of elderflower champagne that the fox brought the last time he came for a visit,” Bosworth said. “We shall have a celebration!”

  Of course they shall, as should I or you if we were in their place. And since they have so much to celebrate—the return of the prodigal son, the introduction of his new bride, the announcement of the first litter, and two wearers of the Badge in one family—they’re likely to be at it all night.

  So we shall leave them to their domestic delights and go on to see whether anything is afoot in the village.

  19

  Mr. Beecham, a Conundrum, and Another Surprise

  It is our Miss Potter who is afoot at the moment.

  Over the years that she had owned Hill Top Farm, Beatrix had come to love nothing better than her regular evening walk. Winter, spring, summer, fall, walking was one of her greatest joys. But there was a special joy about late summer, when the land was burnished with the bronze glow of harvest, the skies were the color of the bluest of blue robin’s eggs, and the sun, having almost finished his daily journey across the heavens, was at last content to drop into a billowy bed of lavender clouds, spread with rose-colored sheets. Coniston Old Man, the fell on the other side of Esthwaite Water, was also ready for bed, having drawn folds of diaphanous silver curtains about his burly head and shoulders and settled down to watch the stars and the moon put on their usual entertaining display, reflected in the lake that was spread out at his feet.

  Tonight, as Beatrix walked down the hill toward Esthwaite Water, she was accompanied as usual by Rascal. He was quite fond of Miss Potter and would happily have run away from George and Mathilda Crook to come and live with her, except that there were already two dogs at Hill Top—Kep the working collie and Mustard, who was getting on in years. (Each of them thought that two dogs were one dog too many already, although they were of differing opinions as to which one ought to go.) So Rascal contented himself with going along with Miss Potter whenever he could, leaving the farm dogs to do their jobs: Kep to keep the Herdwicks in line (definitely not a chore Rascal fancied, being a fox hunting dog himself) and Mustard to look after the Pudd
le-ducks and the barnyard chickens. Rascal looked after Miss Potter, which he thought was a very good arrangement, indeed.

  Contentment draped around her like a friendly woolen shawl, Beatrix walked slowly along the path at the edge of the lake, planting her oaken walking stick in the soft soil with every step. Esthwaite Water was the prettiest lake in all England, she had always thought. The grass along the shore was emerald green and velvety, clipped by the cows who grazed it and whose milk was sweet with its taste. The rushes grew tall in the shallows, and the lake itself lay calm and still, a luminous mirror reflecting the earliest glittering stars. A small wooden rowboat floated on its surface, as if suspended between water and sky, the fisherman a dark silhouette hunched over his fishing rod. Terns sailed on the water, gulls sailed through the air, and a pair of stately cranes stalked with silent dignity along the shore. A gaggle of water hens, small black birds with bright red bills, had entered into a heated discussion of where they would spend the night, some advocating one spot, others another, and all very positive in their opinions. A half-dozen ducks were busy getting their dinners, turning tails-up, heads-down among the green rushes and having quite a fine time of it indeed.

  “Ducks are a funny sight, aren’t they?” Rascal barked softly, trotting along beside her.

  “Mmm,” said Beatrix, agreeing with what she understood to be her companion’s appreciation of the land and all its many creatures. She sighed with a touch of regret, and her contentment began to slip away. This trip would be too short—her visits to Hill Top always seemed to fly past in a flash—and she should soon have to go back to Helm Farm to look after her parents. She hated the thought, for returning always meant being blamed for all that had gone wrong in her absence. If she had stayed at Helm Farm, she could have done this or that to remedy the situation and her parents would have suffered no inconvenience. But as it was—well, of course it was all her fault. Naturally.

  But what troubled Beatrix even more was the conviction that she ought to have a frank talk with Mr. Heelis about . . . well, about their friendship. The trouble was, she had no idea what she should say, or how she should say it. She frowned. Should she try to be clever or funny? Or perhaps she should be firm. Yes, perhaps it was best to be firm.

  She cleared her throat and spoke aloud, resolutely. “Mr. Heelis, I believe I know something of your feelings for me and I must tell you that the situation is utterly impossible. It is out of the question that we should ever be more than friends.”

  “I beg pardon?” Rascal looked around, perplexed. Mr. Heelis? But there were just the two of them.

  Beatrix shook her head. Far too firm, she thought, and too hurtful. He was a fine man and she had no desire to hurt him. She tried again. “My dear Mr. Heelis.” Yes, that was better, but softer. It should be spoken more softly. “My dear Mr. Heelis,” she said again, gently, “I am sorry to say that, while I have every respect for you, it is impossible that we should ever be more than friends.”

  “Ah,” Rascal said, understanding. “You’re rehearsing, poor thing.” He always felt sorry for humans, who seemed to lead such complicated emotional lives—when it was all so simple, really. One did, or one didn’t. If one did, the rest followed quite naturally, almost without thinking of it. If one didn’t—well, one just went on one’s way. No explanation, no rationalizations, no regrets.

  “Thank you, Rascal,” Beatrix said, smiling down at the little dog. It was nice to have an audience that didn’t ask questions or offer advice. She paused, reflecting. Yes, the softer tone was certainly better, but her words were . . . Well, they verged on the dishonest. She should make it clear that her feelings were based on more than respect, shouldn’t she?

  “My dear Mr. Heelis,” she said, getting down on her knees and looking into Rascal’s eyes. “I have learnt to care for you, truly I have. But I must tell you that our friendship can be only that: a friendship.” Ah, yes, that felt better. But surely some explanation was needed. She looked down at the gold ring on her finger. “You see, I still love Norman, and there’s no room in my heart for anyone else.”

  “Norman.” Rascal put up a paw. “It’s always Norman, isn’t it?” He coughed cynically. “Well, I suppose he’ll do, as an excuse.” That was another difference between humans and dogs. Every dog understood that when his mate died, it was a good idea to find another, even if only because it was so comfortable to curl up next to a warm body on a cold winter night, when the winds were howling and the snow was flying. Of course, he had not looked for another companion after his Lady died, but that was because his village responsibilities kept him so busy, and because there was no one that he truly fancied. (And if you’re thinking that Rascal might be just a bit hypocritical here—well, yes, I agree. But he is not the main character in our story, and besides, he’s only a dog, so we will let that go.)

  Beatrix took the proffered paw, frowning at the little terrier, who seemed to have a skeptical expression on his face. But was it true? Did she? Love Norman, that is.

  Yes, yes, of course she still loved him. But the urgent, unruly passion that had once been a burning flame seemed so long ago, so far away. It was now only a gentle warmth. Was it right to lead Mr. Heelis to believe that she could not care for him because her heart was still too full of someone else? And of course, there were other reasons—or rather, another reason.

  “My very dear Mr. Heelis,” she said, still holding the little dog’s paw, “I must tell you that—though I have come to care for you deeply—our friendship must remain a friendship. It’s my parents, you see.” Yes, that was truthful. “My parents expect me to remain with them for their lifetimes. They have no one else, and I feel I owe it to them to—”

  She stopped again. But it wasn’t just that, was it? There was more to it than that, of course, and she would just have to be blunt about it. “I am sorry, Mr. Heelis,” she said, “but my parents would no more approve my marrying a country solicitor than they approved my marrying a London book publisher. That’s dreadful, I know. But it’s a fact, and I have to face it.”

  Rascal retrieved his paw. “Bully for you, Miss Potter,” he said softly. “We’ve come to the heart of it at last, haven’t we?”

  “Yes,” she said, and sighed. “Now we have come to the heart of it. I can lie to him and let him think I don’t care. Or I can let him know that I care, but that my parents are . . . bigots.” She chuckled sadly. “It’s a quandary. A conundrum.”

  “But you do care for him, don’t you?” Rascal reminded her. “I mean, all these ‘dear’ and ‘very dear’ Mr. Heelises—sounds to me as though you care rather a lot.”

  Beatrix was silent for a moment. “I suppose,” she said at last, “that if I were brutally frank with myself, I should have to admit that I do care for him. Deeply.” It was true. He was the most admirable man she knew, always courteous, kind, and generous. A man that any woman might love—and choose to marry.

  Rascal eyed her thoughtfully. “And if you could have your way, you would marry him, Miss Potter?”

  She sighed, feeling that she was now in very dangerous territory, indeed. “I suppose I should also have to say that, if I could choose freely in the matter, I would choose . . . him.” She got to her feet, speaking with determination. “But I cannot choose freely. And so I must choose between telling him an untruth and telling him that my parents are bigoted and intolerant.”

  “I’d go with the truth, on both counts,” Rascal said. “If it were me.” Of course, he had never been in this kind of situation. He was just a dog, and love was very much simpler for dogs. And cats and birds and—

  Beatrix sighed again, more despondently this time. “I suppose I shall have to—” She broke off, turning. “Isn’t that Mr. Beecham, just getting out of that rowboat?” The fisherman had pushed his rowboat onto the shore and was looping the painter around the trunk of a willow tree.

  Rascal gave a startled yip. “Yes, that’s Auld Beechie.” He moved closer, pressing himself against her skirt. “You want to be
careful, Miss Potter. It doesn’t do to provoke this fellow. If you ask me, he’s the one who put a torch to Harmsworth’s haystack.”

  But Beatrix ignored the warning. “Good evening, Mr. Beecham,” she called. “Lovely evening, isn’t it?”

  Thomas Beecham was nearing seventy, gray-haired and gray-bearded. He was missing most of his front teeth and the ones that were left were stained with tobacco, but he was nonetheless stocky and strong-shouldered. Squinty but shrewd gray eyes that missed nothing brightened his wrinkled face. He was dressed in a patched jacket, green corduroy trousers held up with a leather belt, a battered felt hat, and worn leather shoes. He carried a string of a half-dozen silvery fish in one hand and a fishing pole in the other.

  “Hullo, Missus,” he growled in a gravelly voice. He had come from the south of England years before, and had little of the local speech. “Didn’t know ye’d come down from London.”

  “I’m over from Helm Farm, actually,” Beatrix said. “That’s where my parents are staying for their holiday.” She smiled. “I was thinking of you today, and wondering when we should dig the potatoes you helped me plant.”

  “Another fortnight, or more,” Mr. Beecham said. He did not return the smile. “Nights needs to git a mite cooler.” He held out his string of fish. “Want some fresh trout, do ye, Missus? I’ll sell it cheap. Thruppence a fish.”

  Beatrix cast an approving glance at the lake trout, which were plump and silvery and so fresh they were still wriggling. “I’d like that, indeed, Mr. Beecham,” she said enthusiastically. “I’ll take one—just the thing for tomorrow’s dinner. Walk up to Hill Top with me and I’ll get your money.”

  “Nah,” he said. “I live right over there.” He nodded in the direction of a cottage not far away, the small place, a stone hut, really, where the Crosfields—Jeremy and his aunt—had dwelled for a time. “Not near as nice as t’ other cottage I had, but ’tis all I kin git for wot lit’le I kin pay.” He did nothing to disguise the bitterness in his voice. He picked up a slender green willow stick, pulled a fish off the stringer, and thrust the stick through the gills. “Carry it like this,” he said. “I’ll stop fer my money tomorrow.”