The Tale of Applebeck Orchard (5 page)

Miles sighed. Well, there was no point in speculating. He should simply have to go and see Harmsworth today and find out what the fellow had in mind and what could be done about it. That settled, he went back to the newspaper. But after a moment, his mind had wandered again, and he found himself thinking of Miss Nash.

He was rather surprised to learn that his friend Will Heelis was not interested in the lady, for he had overheard Henry Stubbs telling Lester Barrow all about it. Miles was also quite relieved that there was no romantic entanglement—although he could not admit this, for the simple reason that he did not know it himself. Captain Woodcock, while remarkably astute about a great many things in the worlds of property, finance, and governance, was (like many British gentlemen) usually quite unaware of his feelings, unless they were so strongly negative or positive that they clamored for his notice. Although he knew Margaret Nash to be a competent and attractive young woman and thoroughly enjoyed himself in her company, he was not yet conscious of any deeper feeling for her, and no amount of urging from anyone else—from Dimity, for instance, who had somehow taken it into her romantic head that Miss Nash might make a suitable wife for her brother—would hurry him toward that awareness.

In fact, Dimity’s urging was probably having the opposite effect, for Miles prided himself on knowing his own mind and would not be told what should be in it. He had replied to Dimity in no uncertain terms that such a relationship was out of the question, although when pressed for a reason, he could only say that Miss Nash’s sister was often ill and required constant looking after, and he preferred a wife who would put him first in her life.

“And that, dear Dim, is that,” he concluded emphatically. “Let’s hear no more about it, shall we?” I regret to report that if he had looked just a little further into himself, he would have found that he took more pleasure in telling his sister to drop the subject than he did in dropping the subject. Perhaps he might also have seen that the idea of taking a wife who would have no other gods before him was decidedly self-centered. But no, I doubt that. I don’t think the captain would be able to see himself with that much critical detachment.

In fact, I am sorry to say that (at this point, at least) you and I know a good deal more about Captain Woodcock than he knows about himself. But that’s neither here nor there, at least at the moment. Miles has stopped thinking about Will Heelis and Miss Nash, picked up the newspaper, and begun to read a letter to the editor from someone who feels that the current turbulence in human affairs was caused by the near-earth passage of Halley’s Comet, which has been visible in the sky since April.

He wonders briefly if that was the reason that Elsa Grape had granted herself four days off in the past three weeks, and he reminds himself that he must either buy more collars and cuffs or have a very firm talk with her.

But he fails to remember that the milk Dick Llewellyn had brought is still sitting on the kitchen table and, if it is not removed to a cooler place, will sour in the August heat.

Captain Woodcock is most surely in want of a wife.

3

ʺIt’s a Conundrum!ʺ

The handsome gray horse lifted his hooves smartly as he pulled Will Heelis’ gig out of Near Sawrey, in the direction of Far Sawrey and down Ferry Hill to the ferry landing on the west shore of Lake Windermere.

Near and Far Sawrey—the names have puzzled many people. If you’re wondering how these two hamlets came to be so called, I can explain it very simply. Near Sawrey is nearer the market town of Hawkshead, whilst Far Sawrey (which is nearer Lake Windermere) is farther away, but only by a half-mile or so. Near Sawrey prides itself on having a pub, a bakery, a smithy, a joinery, and its own post office. Far Sawrey boasts St. Peter’s Church and the vicarage, the school, a post office, the butcher, and the Sawrey Hotel, which also has a pub, of course, as well as a dining room and substantial accommodations for travelers. As you might imagine, there is a great deal of coming and going between the two hamlets, with almost all of the pedestrian traffic being carried by the Applebeck Footpath, which shortens the distance considerably.

As Will crossed the bridge over Wilfin Beck, he looked off to the right. Yes, there it was: the ugly barbed wire barricade, studded with wooden stakes and coated with tar, that Adam Harmsworth had thrown across the footpath. Will frowned, thinking that he did not envy his friend Woodcock the task of ordering Harmsworth to take down the barrier, or telling the villagers (not to mention Roger Ragsdale and the Claife Ramblers) why they should remain, if that were the outcome. Either way, there would be trouble. He was glad that he was not the one who had to deal with it.

Farther along, as he rounded the hill and came along the lake, Will was relieved to see the ferry making slow headway across the choppy waters of the narrow lake, its smokestack belching clouds of black smoke that showered soot on all the passengers. The old thing was doddery and unreliable—one never knew whether it would arrive on time, or at all.

For longer than anyone could remember, a ferryboat had plied the lake between the western Lancashire shore and the eastern Westmorland shore, saving a very long trip around either end of the nearly eleven-mile-long lake, the longest in all of England. The earliest ferries were merely long wooden rowboats rowed by two or more men that crossed the lake in twenty to thirty minutes. The present ferry, a much more elaborate affair, was built in 1870. It was powered by a coal-fired steam engine and was large enough to carry a coach-and-four or even two coaches, if the lead horses were unhitched.

The ferry’s design was not a happy one, however, for both the boiler and engine were located on the same side, and the boat had the tendency to list rather dangerously. In stormy weather, when the waves were high, it did not sail, for fear of capsize. Either the engine or the boiler was out of service often, and even in good weather, the crossing took the best part of an hour—more, if there was difficulty loading. Off-comers and day-trippers were known to speak contemptuously of the ferry: “Why, we could build a bridge in the time it takes that joke of a boat to go and come back again.”

But the local people usually tolerated its idiosyncrasies of speed and lopsided gait, and some could even manage an affectionate laugh at the rickety old ferry. It was said, for instance, that each year on the summer solstice, as the fer ryman prepared to make his last journey from the east shore to the west, an old woman would come down to the jetty as if to board. Shuddering, she would hide her face in her hands and cry, “Nay, I canna. It’s nivver a boat, it’s a conundrum!”—and then vanish into the twilight until the next solstice. Whenever anyone complained about the boat, someone else was sure to say, “That’s not a ferry, it’s a conundrum,” and everyone would laugh, much to the puzzlement of off-comers, of course. They didn’t get the joke.

This morning, Will reached the landing just as the ferry pulled into its berth, not far from the Ferry Hotel, an imposing inn that catered to fishermen and to the yachtsmen whose sailing boats were moored in the nearby cove. Rigg’s Coniston Coach was aboard the ferry, so there would be a substantial wait while the horses were hitched up again and the coach could disembark. As well, there were two old-fashioned hooped carts in the queue ahead of him. Will doubted whether he would make this crossing. Where the Windermere ferry was concerned, one learnt to possess one’s soul in patience.

So he pulled to a stop behind the second cart, took out his pipe, and began to watch the people getting off, a few day-trippers with their baskets, a bicyclist, an elderly woman in an old-fashioned black bonnet and tippet. And then, to his enormous surprise, Miss Potter—Miss Beatrix Potter, of Hill Top Farm. Will was greatly delighted, more delighted, I must tell you, than he would have been able to acknowledge to himself or to anyone else. It is a sad fact that, like his friend Captain Woodcock, Will Heelis always knew precisely what he thought and could tell you all about it in no uncertain terms. Unfortunately, he rarely had any idea how he
felt
.

But he was beginning to learn. He had taken his first lesson the previous winter, when he and Miss Potter had been alone together and he had found himself, quite impulsively, seizing her hand. (If you have read
The Tale of Briar Bank
, you will undoubtedly recall this rather shocking event—shocking for Will, anyway.) He now had a pretty good idea of how he felt about Miss Potter, and although the awareness made him distinctly uncomfortable, it also (and contradictorily) made him feel quite glad.

And why shouldn’t it? Miss Potter was a forthright, thoughtful, and very levelheaded person, with a shy charm and rather old-fashioned reserve. Her quiet conversation especially appealed to Will, for he himself was very shy and often tongue-tied in the presence of brash young ladies like Sarah Barwick, who embarrassed him by flirting and chattered on nineteen to the dozen, giving him no opportunity to speak even if he could think of something interesting to say, which he couldn’t. He found Miss Potter quite attractive, too, with her rounded face and figure, bright blue eyes that shone with an alert and interested intelligence, and a fine disregard for fashion that pleased Will, who much preferred plain country dress and sensible shoes to city lace, velvets, and stylish boots.

Today, Miss Potter was dressed for summer. She wore a dark gray gored skirt, a simple white blouse with a blue tie, and a narrow-brimmed straw hat with a blue velvet ribbon. She was carrying a wicker hamper in one hand and a small satchel in the other. And since Lakelanders are perfectly aware that even the finest summer day can turn showery, she prudently carried an umbrella under one arm.

“Miss Potter!” Will pushed his pipe back into his pocket and leapt to his feet, waving excitedly. “Hullo, Miss Potter! Over here!”

“Good morning,” Miss Potter said, coming toward him, smiling. Her deep-set blue eyes sparkled. Her brown hair was pulled back and snugged, but a few renegade curls had escaped, framing her pink cheeks, and Will thought how handsome she looked, and how bright the morning (which had darkened considerably when he discovered how long he should have to wait for the ferry) had become. In fact, it suddenly seemed like a whole new day.

“So very nice to see you again, Mr. Heelis,” Miss Potter said cheerfully. “You’re on your way across?”

“Eventually,” Will said, since crossing the lake had just tumbled off his list of immediate priorities. “It’s very nice to see you, too.” Even in his current limited awareness, he recognized “very nice” to be a substantial understatement and felt that, had he spoken all the truth, he might have said something like,
“I am absolutely, enormously, utterly delighted and thrilled to see you, my very dear Miss Potter.”
But of course he couldn’t say this, so he didn’t. “I had no idea that you were back in the village.”

“I’ve just arrived,” Miss Potter said. “My parents have taken Helm Farm for their holiday. Just over there, near Bowness.” She nodded toward the eastern shore of the lake. “I’ve been staying with them for the past week. But I’ve been longing to come to Hill Top and see how Mr. Jennings is getting on with the haying, so I arranged for someone else to look after them for a few days.”

Will suddenly recollected himself. “That’s a heavy load,” he said, jumping down from the gig. Ferry Hill was steep, and Hill Top Farm was a good hour’s walk. What a splendid accident of fortune, arriving here to the ferry at the exact moment that Miss Potter disembarked! His good luck made him feel almost giddy. He snatched up the satchel and the hamper and stowed them under the seat before she could say a word.

“Get in, Miss Potter,” he said. “I shall drive you to the farm.”

Miss Potter caught her breath, and her cheeks bloomed a most becoming pink. “Oh, but you’re here to catch the ferry,” she protested, trying to retrieve her satchel. “You’ll be delayed in crossing. It’s such a pretty day, and not that far to walk. I would really much rather—”

“Nonsense,” he said, with an entirely uncharacteristic firmness. Smiling down at her, he softened his tone. “You know how slow that blasted ferry is. I can drive you to Hill Top Farm and be back here by the time it docks again—which may be tomorrow or the next day.”

Hesitating, she pressed her lips together. She looked as if she would rather reclaim her luggage and be on her way, but she chuckled when Will added playfully, “It’s nivver a boat, remember? It’s a conundrum.”

“It certainly is that,” she agreed, still hesitating. “If you really wouldn’t mind—”

“Not in the slightest,” Will assured her. He was about to take her hand to help her into the gig, but she stepped up quickly, sat down, and settled her skirts. He got in and turned the horse back up the hill. Normally, he found it difficult to initiate conversation with a woman, but there was something about Miss Potter that put him at his ease.

“Your parents have taken Helm Farm?” he asked. “I know the place. It’s charming, but isn’t it just a bit old-fashioned for their tastes?” Wealthy Londoners, the Potters always spent their holiday in the Lake District, but they usually stayed in fashionable holiday villas. Miss Potter had told him that they once rented Wray Castle, a huge stone palace overlooking Lake Windermere. (It’s still there, by the way, and you can visit it. If you do, you’ll be astonished at its grandeur. I was.) Helm, on the other hand, was a very old farmhouse perched on the top of a very steep hill. There was nothing at all elegant about it.