The Tale of Hawthorn House (7 page)

 
When Jemima explained that she was looking for a place to begin her family, Mr. Vulpes (who spoke in an accent that you or I might think of as phony-French, but certainly impressed the duck) was eager to help. He showed her to a chamber at the rear of his summer-house, sumptuously upholstered with feather bolsters spread with Turkish shawls.

“Eet eez a poor place,”
he said with a deprecating wave,
“but private and comfort-able. I hope zat eet eez not unworthy of Madam’s maternal dedication.”

Jemima was thrilled. The feathers were soft, the shawls luxurious, and the chamber was quite the thing. Quite the thing, indeed—and entirely safe, for Mr. Vulpes (who was the kindest and most courteous of gentlemen) generously offered to keep an eye on her eggs in her absence.

And when Jemima had finished what she came to do, Mr. Vulpes brought out a silver dish on which were arranged a half-dozen sugared pieces of Turkish Delight and served them with tiny cups of very dark Turkish coffee, to which he added a great deal of sugar. The charming Mr. Vulpes was, as you can clearly see, a gourmet, and Jemima indulged in his dainties with great enthusiasm—as well she might, since laying such a fine, large egg had made her very hungry, and of course, she had to fly all the way home.

Now, I venture to say that if you found yourself in this situation, you might not have been so willing to leave your offspring in a stranger’s care, or so eager to accept his offer of treats. But an inexperienced duck who has never before been so far from her barnyard can scarcely be faulted for yielding to the sophisticated temptations of confection, coffee, and feather bolsters. What Jemima’s mother, Priscilla Puddle-duck (who was brought up Presbyterian by very strict parents), would have said about her daughter’s adventure, I daren’t think. But if this simple duck is susceptible to the seductions of such a sweetly mannered host, who amongst us can blame her? Surely not I, nor you, nor anybody else.

So each afternoon, Jemima flew over the fields, landed on the lawn at Foxglove Close, and retired to her upholstered chamber to lay an egg. When there were nine altogether, it was time to begin hatching. She told Mr. Vulpes that when next she came, she would bring her knitting (she was planning nine dear little shawls, all in yellow wool) and a few romantic novels to pass the time. When her eggs had hatched, she would lead her nine fine ducklings back to the barnyard. And then those smug hens would learn who was the better mother!

Mr. Vulpes congratulated her, proposing that they celebrate the auspicious occasion with a feast. The menu might include a savory omelette, he said, as well as some delicious pâté de foie gras—
“Zat most delicious of delicacies!”
he exclaimed, kissing his fingers and rolling his eyes—if Jemima could contribute two onions and a few sprigs of sage, thyme, and parsley. Jemima was not familiar with pâté or omelettes (she had never learnt French), but she was sure that they would be every bit as delicious as everything else her host had served.

But alas! Jemima was not to enjoy her feast. When she went to the Hill Top kitchen to get two onions out of Mrs. Jennings’s basket, Kep inquired what she was doing. Flattered by his interest, the duck told him. He listened, asked several thoughtful questions, and then went about his business, as did she, forgetting all about their conversation.

But she had scarcely reached Foxglove Close that afternoon when Kep appeared, accompanied by the two fox-hound puppies who lived at the Tower Bank Arms. The puppies chased Jemima’s host away while Kep translated the words “pâté de foie gras” (a paste made from the liver of a fat goose or duck) and “omelette” (eggs whipped and fried) for a horrified Jemima. She burst into tears when Kep told her that R.V. Vulpes of Foxglove Close was actually Reynard Fox (the poor duck was as ignorant of Latin as French), and that her host intended to breakfast on her eggs and dine upon her person, in the form of roast duck, with herb-and-onion stuffing and fois gras on the side.

Ah, poor Jemima. She felt betrayed, a betrayal that was made worse—oh, much, much worse!—by the fact that she had begun to feel something more than friendship for Mr. Vulpes. Naively, she had even hoped that, over the time they would spend together while her eggs were hatching, the gentleman might come to return her feelings. And now, in the light of Kep’s explanation, she saw herself for exactly what she was, an unwary, unsuspecting, gullible duck who had been duped by a bold deceiver. A duck with no more brains than a ha’penny bun (as Lady Longford once said about Emily). Her heart was broken.

But at that moment, another tragedy occurred. Having got rid of the fox, the puppies ran straight to Jemima’s nest and gobbled up all nine of her beautiful eggs, proving that foxes and fox-hounds have similar appetites, and that neither are to be trusted.

Distraught over her betrayal and hysterical over the loss of her eggs, Jemima allowed Kep to escort her home. And Kep, who wanted to spare her feelings as best he could, promised that he would tell no one about her disgrace, a promise that he honored.

But the perfidious puppies had no such consideration. Back at the Tower Bank Arms, they confided the tale to Tabitha Twitchit and Crumpet, who went straight out to tell all the other animals. News travels fast in a village, and it took only a short while for the word to spread to every Sawrey household and across the Hill Top barnyard. Jemima was deeply chagrined.

And then things got worse.

Miss Potter put the story into a book, portraying Jemima’s humiliation to the whole, wide world. In fact, Miss Potter was overheard to say that twenty thousand copies of her book had been printed, with the likelihood of one or two additional printings before the holiday season, as grandmothers bought them to read aloud to their little grandchildren on Christmas morning.

Twenty thousand copies! Jemima had no head for numbers, but it sounded as if every single person on this earth would soon know that she was a miserable failure as a mother. On the very last page of the story, Miss Potter had drawn her with four ducklings, but that was a fictitious happy ending, so that the children would not be disappointed. And even so, the last seven words of Jemima’s book were like seven knives plunged right into Jemima’s heart:

 
She had always been a bad sitter.

 
There.

Now that you have heard the full story, perhaps you can appreciate Jemima’s desire to redeem her reputation.

Perhaps you can understand why she was determined to have another go at motherhood, this time in the safety of the barn, as far away as possible from fox-hound puppies, foxes, and one particular fox.

And there was the rub.

The duck had tried with some success to put that particular fox out of her mind, for she knew that harboring any sort of friendly feeling toward such a crafty creature was the worst sort of romantic folly.

But alas! She had not been able to put him out of her heart. In spite of all she knew about him, in spite of Kep’s stern warnings and the Puddle-ducks’ worried remonstrations, she had still remembered how much she had enjoyed Mr. Vulpes’ witty conversation, his charming manners, his intriguing accent, and yes, his Turkish Delights. And even though she knew what a feather-brained fool she had been to trust him, she had to admit that, deep in her heart, she still cared for the fellow, for her sandy-whiskered gentleman, as she had come to think of him. She was afraid that if she met him, she might fall under his spell once again.

So she found a secret place for her eggs behind the feedbox, where nobody could see her. The ducks’ nesting season was over, so Sammy Jennings was no longer dispatched to look for eggs. Boots, Bonnet, and Shawl had done their duty as surrogate mothers, and Mrs. Jennings was already considering which of their fat young ducklings ought to be invited to holiday dinner. (I hope that you, as I do, consider it a cruel irony that everyone should go to great trouble to keep the ducklings safe from foxes, only to eat them at the holidays!)

So Jemima had every reason to believe that her nest was secret, and thus far, she had been right. Not even Kep knew. The Sutton children sometimes stole into the barn to say hello and stroke her feathers and whisper encouragement, but there had been no other visitors or intruders—except for an annoying Cockney magpie named Jackboy, who had recently flown up from London and hung around the barnyard, chattering incessant nonsense. He couldn’t be trusted to keep her secret, but his magpie jabber was so full of rhyming slang that it was impossible to know what he was saying.

“Apples and pears, kick me upstairs,”
he chortled, peering at her with one glittering black eye.
“Still here, ducky dear?”

“Go away, JaCKboy,”
Jemima said, with great dignity.
“I am QUACK a busy duCK.”
To prove it, she took her knitting out of the basket beside her. It was the tenth little yellow shawl, for the last of her ten ducklings—a good thing, too, since she was almost out of yarn.

“Busy lizzie, buzzie loozie,”
Jackboy warbled gaily. He hopped from one foot to the other.
“Rub-a-dub-ducky, chuck-a-luck-dabble-duck. Wot can I give ye, me fine Puddleplucky?”

“You’re giving me a headAChe,”
said Jemima. She looked down at her knitting. Had she dropped a stitch in the previous row?

“Kiss me a-miss,”
chirped Jackboy impolitely.
“Miss me a kiss. Why ain’t yer eggs hatched, cluckie-duckie?”

“BeCAUse they haven’t,”
Jemima snapped. She had dropped not one stitch but two, two rows back, not one—which I daresay wouldn’t be a problem for you, but for a duck of limited intelligence, it posed a puzzling dilemma. Should she rip out two whole rows and repair it, or simply go on and pretend it hadn’t happened?

“Bad batch!”
Jackboy cackled maliciously.
“Dropt stitch won’t fix, broke lock won’t latch, watched pot won’t boil, spoilt egg won’t hatch.”

“TaKe that baCK!”
Jemima cried in dismay.
“My eggs are not QUACK spoilt! They are the very finest of duCK eGGs!”

“Bad eggs,”
Jackboy sang gaily.
“Mad eggs, sad eggs, plaid eggs.”
He twirled around on one foot.
“Eggs begs, bandy legs, hat pegs, beer kegs!”

Jemima gave the bird a cold look.
“PaCK it up, JaCK. I have important worK to do.”

“Kegs ’n’ kettles, kettles ’n’ hobs!”
Jackboy shrieked madly.
“Foils ’n’ fobs! Foxes ’n’ clockses! Watched clockses never boil! Boiled eggses never spoil.”
And with that, he flew away.

Jemima settled herself back onto her nest, trying to concentrate on her knitting. Boiled eggs, spoilt eggs! Now she wouldn’t be able to get the phrase out of her mind. How many days had it been since she began to sit? Quite a few, she thought wearily, more than twenty-eight. More than thirty-two, more than thirty-five! Her brain was growing fuzzy, her thoughts were in a muddle, and her posterior had gone numb.

What in the world was keeping these eggs?

Why hadn’t they hatched?

Was something
wrong
with them?

But Jemima could not bear that thought, so she pushed it out of her mind. Anyway, they were bound to hatch soon. That very evening, or tomorrow. Certainly no later than the day after.

But wait!
I hear you say. If the nesting season is over, where did our duck get those eggs? Did she hold back as long as she could and lay them very late, in hopes of keeping them safe from Sammy Jennings? Or did she—

But even though you are quite right to raise these questions, and I very much hope they are answered at some point in the future, we must not anticipate. So let us leave our duck sitting patiently on her nest under the feedbox in the Hill Top barn, and open another chapter of our story.

6

Miss Potter Makes a Special Delivery

It was Sunday morning and the Woodcocks, sister and brother, had breakfasted an hour ago. Miles Woodcock, wearing his slippers, was enjoying his pipe and newspaper beside the library fire. Saturday’s rain had persisted, and Dimity Woodcock was wondering whether she should brave the drizzle to go to morning service at St. Peter’s, or stay at home and finish the argyle stockings she was knitting for Miles. She had decided in favor of the stockings and was looking for her knitting basket when the doorbell rang.

“If that’s the constable, tell him to go away,” Miles said from behind his newspaper. “It’s Sunday. I worked hard at the fête yesterday, and I am taking a holiday.”

Dimity knew he didn’t mean it. Miles was the Justice of the Peace for Sawrey District. It was his job to certify deaths, investigate accidents, and generally help in maintaining law and order. He was called out at all hours, in all weathers, and he always went willingly wherever he was needed.

But when Dimity opened the door, the person ringing the bell was not Constable Braithwaite. She was Miss Beatrix Potter, wearing a gray mackintosh and a droopy woolen hat. She was carrying a large basket.

“Why, good morning, Bea!” Dimity exclaimed with pleasure. She stepped back, holding the door open. “How very nice to see you! Come in and take off your wet things. I’ll have Elsa bring us some tea.”

Dimity and Beatrix had grown to be close friends, although in Dimity’s view they could never spend enough time together. Beatrix’s parents, elderly and demanding, insisted on having her with them in London most of the time. Bea couldn’t escape very often, and when she did, she was busy with the farm.

Which was a great pity, Dimity thought. For the past year, she had harbored the secret idea that Miss Beatrix Potter—attractive, capable, with a genuine kindness and sharp intelligence—was ideally suited to her own dear brother Miles, who (it went without saying) would make an ideal husband. He was good-looking, with regular features and fine brown hair, and was possessed of a pleasant and steady temperament. Beatrix’s parents, who had strenuously objected to her engagement to Mr. Warne, could hardly object to Captain Woodcock, a gentleman who commanded the respect of every single person in the parish. It would be a perfect match.