The Tale of Hawthorn House (35 page)

“Why, these are baby leopard tortoises,” she cried in astonishment, taking one up and examining the pattern on its shell. “Where in the world did you get them, my dears?”

Deirdre hesitated. Then, thinking she probably ought not to reveal Jemima’s part in the affair, said, “We found them in the Hill Top barn. Do you suppose they belong to Hortense?”

“At Hill Top?” Mrs. Allen asked. “Then they must be Miss Potter’s tortoises. I know she is very fond of animals— perhaps she has a tortoise.”

“But Miss Potter is in London just now,” Deirdre said, “and Mrs. Jennings was very upset when she saw these. She told us to take them straight away.”

“Well, then,” Mrs. Allen said, in a practical tone, “if Mrs. Jennings doesn’t want them, I’m sure I do. And if Miss Potter wants them back, or some of them, please tell her that all she has to do is ask.” And with that, she led the way to the small greenhouse in the corner of her garden, where Hortense and Horatio were basking on a pile of fresh hay in the morning sunshine. A moment later, Deirdre was tipping the ten tortoises out in front of them.

Now, tortoises are not by nature demonstrative creatures. Horatio was not at all impressed by the sight of ten miniature versions of himself crawling under his nose and over his shell, so he immediately shut up shop. But Hortense let out an astonished hiss.

“My eggsss have hatched!”
she cried in an excess of ecstatic recognition.
“My babiesss have come home to their mother! What joy! What blissss! What a sssweet sssurprisse!”

And with that, we shall leave Hortense to the care and enjoyment of her large and unruly brood, entirely unaware of the vital role in her hatchlings’ survival that had been played by Jemima Puddle-duck of Hill Top Farm. That dedicated, indomitable duck devoted two full months of her life to service as a surrogate mother, keeping the tortoise family safe from the predations of all those creatures who enjoy eggs for breakfast just as much as you and I do.

And now that the full story of the duck’s heroic efforts is known, I hope Mrs. Allen will tell it to Hortense, and encourage her to write Jemima a thank-you note.

34

Captain Woodcock Concludes

It was Friday evening and Captain Woodcock was at his desk in the library at Tower Bank House, staring out the window at the darkening evening and trying to sort his disorganized thoughts into some sort of order. His efforts were thwarted by the disturbing wails of the foundling infant, crying in an upstairs bedroom. He could hear his sister’s footsteps, as she paced patiently back and forth, trying to lull the baby. Did Dimity truly intend to take the child into this unfortunate marriage she proposed with Kittredge?

Miles dropped his head into his hands and ran his fingers through his hair. Surely she couldn’t be serious, on either score. Surely she would think better of—

He stopped. That way lay only certain frustration. He knew his sister well enough to know that when she had given her word, as she had to Kittredge, she would keep it. Unless something extraordinary happened to prevent it (another unsavory episode of Kittredge’s past revealed, for instance), she was as good as married right now. Better to concentrate on finding the child’s mother—Emily Shaw, he now knew her to be, the servant girl who had left her place at Tidmarsh Manor and gone to work for a temporary employer at Hawthorn House—and force her to take her baby back.

The conclusion the captain had reached certainly seemed clear enough to him, and if you had been sitting in his chair, it might seem just as clear to you. The girl (the very same who had pawned and redeemed the cornelian ring on the desk in front of him) had given birth to the baby. Then she had left it at Hill Top Farm, with the hope that Miss Potter might raise and educate it. And having abandoned her baby, the mother had gone to London, where she could disappear from view as surely as a stone tossed into Esthwaite Water.

But Miles felt sure he could find the girl. He had friends in London, at New Scotland Yard and in the Metropolitan Police. He would ask them to be on the lookout for her. She was bound to surface, sooner or later, probably in the commission of some crime. A village girl, thrown onto her own resources in a city as large as London, alone, friendless—yes, she was bound to be involved in some sort of criminal activity. When this occurred, the police would detain her until he could bring her back to take possession of her baby. The child belonged with its mother, no matter who or what she was, and not with Dimity. And with this thought, Miles was satisfied, for he knew it to be the only logical conclusion to this sad circumstance.

He took a sheet of paper and his pen and wrote rapidly for three or four minutes. Then he smiled with a grim satisfaction and signed and dated his letter, putting it into an envelope and tossing it into the basket for the next day’s post. There. With luck, the girl would get herself on the wrong side of the law within the fortnight and be back in the village the week after that.

And having satisfactorily disposed of the baby’s mother, the captain thought once again of his sister’s marriage. Was it not possible that Kittredge had got to Dimity at a weak moment? Perhaps she was not as certain as she seemed to be. Perhaps, given enough time, she would come to her senses and repent. In that event, his best course of action would be to delay the marriage as long as possible, without seeming to be deliberate, of course. He would not want his sister to think that he was keeping her from her happiness.

How to do that? The easiest thing would be to invent a business transaction that would take him away at certain critical times—at the reading of the banns, for instance. This would delay the business by a fortnight or two or even three. And during that time, perhaps Dim would come to her senses and see what a foolish mistake she was making, especially if, in the meantime, Will Heelis let her know how he felt about her.

Miles brightened. Yes, by Jove, that was it! When Dimity saw that her choice lay between solid, respectable Heelis and that rogue and rotter Kittredge, she would certainly see the light. So tomorrow night’s dinner party, at which both men would be guests, was critical. He should have to speak to Will ahead of time, to make sure he understood the importance of acting promptly and decisively. Seize the bull by the horns, so to speak. Strike while the iron was hot. Faint heart ne’er won fair maid.

At that, he frowned, for he was not sure that Will was the sort to seize or strike. Will was not a man of faint heart, exactly, but he would prefer to watch and wait, to allow things to develop over time—all well and good when there
was
time. But in this case, time was jolly well running out, and Heelis would have to be made to understand the urgent need for action.

But there was more, and here Miles was getting to the heart of things—to
his
heart, as it were, and to Miss Potter. For the idea that had come to him in a brilliant flash at the pub the previous night had stayed with him all day, nudging him from moment to moment, reminding him that there were important things in this world besides property rights and legal affairs and breaches of the peace. There was love, by thunder. Love! The quiet, reassuring love of a woman who was mature enough to know her mind, wise and witty enough to be a fitting companion, and so sweetly comforting that she would light a lamp down all the years they would spend together.

Yes. Yes, indeed. Miss Potter would make an amiable wife, the best in the world. And Captain Miles Woodcock, being a man of action (a man who could seize a bull by its horns and strike while the iron was hot), knew just how to proceed. As soon as she returned from London, he should ask her at once to marry him. Well, not at once, perhaps, for he would not want such an important matter to appear as if out of the blue. He would need a little time for courting. A little time to get her used to the thought.

Then, having gained the lady’s consent, he would introduce himself to her parents, announce his intentions, and ask for their blessing. There was that old business of Miss Potter’s earlier engagement, of course, but that was past and done, and he felt confident that the objection her father and mother had raised against her previous choice—that he was not a gentleman—could not be raised against him. With any luck, he could win the lady’s consent and her parents’ approval and be married by Christmas! Of course, it would come as an enormous surprise to Dimity, although he could not imagine that she would object. If she did, what matter? He was going to follow his heart in this, and that was that.

The baby had by this time stopped crying, Dimity had stopped pacing, and having sorted and organized his chaotic thoughts, Miles pushed back his chair, lit his pipe, and reached for his book. He was well into the latest of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s adventures of Sherlock Holmes when the doorbell rang. He waited for a moment, expecting Elsa Grape’s footstep in the hall, and then remembered that she had gone out for the evening. So he put his book down and went to answer the door himself. You can well imagine his surprise when he discovered that the lady of his heart was standing on his very doorstep.

“Why, Miss Potter!” he exclaimed. “How good to see you. And how very kind of you to call this evening.” He opened the door wider. “Please do come in and have a cup of tea! Dimity will be very glad to see you.” As he was himself. She was very pretty, with her hair curling softly in the damp, her cheeks flushed, her eyes very blue.

“Thank you, Captain Woodcock,” she said gravely, “but I’m afraid that this is not a social call.” She stepped aside, and he could see that there were two others with her, a younger girl and a woman of nearly Miss Potter’s age. “I should like you to know Miss Emily Shaw,” she said, gesturing to the girl. “And Miss Rowena Keller. We have some important news for you regarding the baby.”

“The baby?” He blinked, and then understood. Emily Shaw was the girl for whom he had asked the police to search—and here she was, in the company of Miss Potter!

“The baby,” Miss Potter repeated, looking past him. “The baby that Miss Woodcock is holding at this very moment.”

Miles turned. Dimity had come down the stairs and was standing in the hallway, the infant in her arms.

“Oh!” cried the younger girl with great excitement. “It’s Flora!” And with that, she pushed her way into the hall and ran to Dimity. “Oh, please, miss,” she pleaded. “Oh, please, do let me hold her!” And before Dimity could say a word, she had seized the child. “Oh, dear little Flora, you dear, dear thing,” she murmured, pressing her cheek against the babe’s. “I am so sorry for all I have done!”

Dimity’s face whitened. Miles saw her sudden look of anguish and knew it for what it was: inconceivable, inconsolable loss. Flora’s mother had returned to claim her, and Dimity would have to give up the child she had come to love as her own. The look completely unmanned him, and instead of feeling glad that his problem had been solved, he felt a sharp, sudden stab of guilt, as if it had been he himself who had ruined his sister’s hope of maternal happiness.

Struggling to regain his equanimity, he turned to face Miss Potter. “You’ve brought the baby’s mother, then?”

“Yes.” Miss Potter took off her gray kid-leather gloves and folded them into her pocket. “You offered us tea, Captain. I think we should all be glad of a cup, as the story may take some time.”

“I’ll leave you,” Dimity said in a voice choked with emotion. She looked at the girl, still clutching the baby. “Shall I take Flora upstairs, or—”

“Elsa is out this evening,” Miles said. “Would you be so kind as to bring some tea, Dimity?”

“And then I wish you should join us, Miss Woodcock,” Miss Potter said, in a tone of deepest sympathy. “This matter involves the baby’s future welfare. I think you must hear it.”

Miles saw his sister gulp back tears. “Very well, then,” she whispered. “The kettle’s on. I’ll just get the tea.” She fled.

Miles found himself, to his own very great surprise, wishing fervently that Miss Potter had not used whatever magic she had used to find and fetch the baby’s mother. It had broken Dimity’s heart.

He sighed. “Shall we go to the library, then?”

35

Miss Potter Tells a Story

It took only a few moments for Dimity to bring the tea tray. When they were all supplied with the necessities, Captain Woodcock turned from Beatrix to the girl holding the baby.

“I think it is time that the truth is told. The whole truth,” he added sternly. “And nothing but the truth.”

Beatrix sighed, wondering if it was ever possible to tell the
whole
truth about anything, especially about something as complicated as this affair. But one had to try. “I very much agree,” she said. She looked encouragingly at Miss Keller, who was sitting next to her on the sofa, tense and rigid, her hands clasped in her lap. She had cried a good deal in the train, and her eyes were still very red.

“Miss Keller?” she prompted, when a moment went by and nothing was said.

Miss Keller wore a furtive, tightlipped expression in which fear and an awareness of guilt were mixed. She looked, Beatrix thought, the way a chicken looks when a hawk hovers overhead. “You tell it, Miss Potter,” she muttered, and put on a halfhearted effort at haughtiness. “You’re the one who insisted.”

Beatrix sighed. This unpleasantness would be over so much more quickly and easily if only people would do as they should. But that was probably too much to ask.

“Very well, then,” she said, and turned to the captain. “Here are the facts as I understand them. Miss Keller has for several years been employed as an instructor at a select establishment for young ladies in London. When she discovered that she was to have a child, she knew that she could not keep both the baby and her employment. Her employer has always insisted on the strictest of moral standards and would certainly discharge her if she was found out.”

The captain leaned forward. “Just a moment.” He looked from Emily Shaw, who was tenderly holding the baby, to Miss Keller. “You mean to tell me that
you
are the mother of this child?”