The Tale of Hill Top Farm (16 page)

16

Behind the Walls of Castle Cottage

Beatrix and Mrs. Lythecoe left Anvil Cottage and walked up the lane in the direction of Castle Cottage, which sat on the hill above the post office. They went along in silence for a moment, until Mrs. Lythecoe said, “Well, Miss Potter, what do you think of Miss Barwick?”

Unaccustomed to being asked to frankly express an opinion about another person, Beatrix hesitated. “I rather like her,” she said finally. “Some might think her a bit brusque, but I admire a woman who is firm in her judgements. And she is certainly direct—no beating about the bush.” Directness was something that Beatrix valued a great deal. She had never seen any purpose in saying things just because another person wanted to hear them—which accounted for her habitual silence in Bolton Gardens, where she could not say the things that her mother and father expected to hear, and where anything she did say was more likely than not to be taken as impertinent.

“I liked her, too,” Mrs. Lythecoe said, and chuckled. “A no-nonsense sort of person, isn’t she? I wonder how George Crook will take that short skirt. She’ll be a bit modern for his taste, I suspect.” Her chuckle became a laugh. “First a lady farmer, and now a woman who displays her ankles. What’s the world coming to?”

Beatrix, imagining the expression on George Crook’s face when he saw Sarah Barwick’s short skirt, had to join the laughter. After a moment, she said, “I wonder what sort of business she means to operate. Do you suppose she’s a seamstress, or perhaps a milliner?”

“Oh, I
hope
not,” Mrs. Lythecoe replied, raising her eyebrows. “Most of the Sawrey ladies sew for themselves and their children, and they certainly don’t go in for high fashion. As for hats, there’s a perfectly good shop in Hawkshead. If that’s the sort of thing Miss Barwick has in mind, she’ll be greatly disappointed, I fear.” She paused, and added, almost to herself, “And I do wonder about her connection to Miss Tolliver. She’s obviously not a relative, and only a recent correspondent, apparently. And it seems they’ve never met. So how in the world did she come to inherit Anvil Cottage?”

Beatrix, having no answer to that, looked up to see where they were going. They had left Market Street and were walking up a narrow private lane, approaching a foursquare eighteenth-century house that was rather in need of repair and repainting. It was built in the same style as the farm house at Hill Top, with a slate roof, gray walls, and peaked porch. It sat against the green hillside, overlooking a tangle of overgrown garden and the Post Office meadow. Beyond, Beatrix could see the Tower Bank Arms and the roof of Hill Top Farm.

“It’s a pretty house,” she said, “or it would be, if it were better taken care of. Have the Crabbe sisters lived here long?” Beatrix, who usually went out of her way to avoid an argument, was more than a little apprehensive about the meeting. If Viola and Pansy proved to be anything like their sister, the encounter might be unpleasant.

“They came here when they were young women,” Mrs. Lythecoe said. “The farm belonged in their father’s family, I believe. The pastures are let to the neighboring farmers now, and the barns, too. It’s quite a lovely place, although the garden has gone rather wild, as you can see. None of the sisters care to garden.” She smiled. “You’ll like Pansy and Viola, I think, although both are a bit . . . well, eccentric. I enjoy them, though, and count them among my friends.”

They had reached the house, and Beatrix stood aside as Mrs. Lythecoe raised the brass knocker and dropped it. After a moment, the door was opened by a young girl in a dark cotton dress and white ruffled apron. She bobbed a curtsey, with a mumbled “G’ afternoon, mum.”

“Good afternoon, Laura,” Mrs. Lythecoe said cheerfully. “Please tell your mistresses that Mrs. Lythecoe has come calling, with their new neighbor from Hill Top Farm.” She stepped in. “We’ll show ourselves into the sitting room, thank you.”

The small sitting room was crowded with a piano, a dark green settee, three overstuffed chairs filled with bright-colored cushions, several tables cluttered with photographs and bric-a-brac, and two large potted palms. In a few moments, an apparition darkened the door, a short, round woman of perhaps fifty, her yellow hair curled in massive ringlets in what had to be (Beatrix thought in some amazement) a blonde wig. Her substantial bulk was loosely swathed in a chiffon tea gown of an astonishing chartreuse color, and beneath its flowing sleeves, her plump arms were covered, wrist to elbow, with jingling bangles. She wore a gold pince-nez on a ribbon around her neck.

“Why, Grace!” she cried. “So delighted!” She raised her voice and shouted over her shoulder. “Viola! Guests!” She came forward, lifting her pince-nez to peer at Beatrix. “And who, may one ask, is this?”

“This is Miss Beatrix Potter,” Mrs. Lythecoe said. “She is the author and illustrator of a number of very fine children’s books. She has just purchased Hill Top Farm. Miss Potter, allow me to present Miss Pansy Crabbe.”

Beatrix found herself seated on the slippery horsehair settee, very like the one in her mother’s drawing room. She allowed her attention to wander as Mrs. Lythecoe and Miss Crabbe chatted amiably about village matters. In a few moments, out in the hall, there was a clatter and rattle, and the maid wheeled a tea tray into the room, followed by the second Crabbe sister.

Where Miss Pansy was short and round and soft as a suet dumpling, Miss Viola was thin and willowy, with very white hands and long, polished nails, and she moved with an exaggeratedly graceful motion. She wore a heavy oriental kimono of black china silk covered with gold-colored figures of peacocks and tied with a gold silk sash. Her hair was dead black, parted in the center, and drawn dramatically back from her face and secured in a chignon at the back of her neck. Her lips had been rouged and her dark eyes, very large, sparkled brilliantly in her pale face. Beatrix remembered that she was accustomed to give dramatic readings, and thought that she certainly looked the part.

“We are
so
very glad to meet the new owner of Hill Top Farm,” Miss Viola said in a shrill soprano voice. She poured tea into porcelain cups and handed them round. “Our windows look down to your orchard, you know, Miss Potter. We can see the village children raiding your apple trees.”

Taking the proffered cup, Beatrix glanced toward the partly raised sash window, curious to see what her orchard might look like from this height, and wondering which trees the children raided. She could see little, however, except for an untidy tangle of vines and the shadow of a black cat sitting placidly on the outer sill.

“It’s a pity our sister Myrtle isn’t here,” Miss Pansy said, settling her large, round self comfortably into her chair. “She will want very much to meet you, Miss Potter—especially since you write for children. She is a teacher, and the headmistress of Sawrey School.”

“Yes,” Beatrix said. “In fact, I have met her, briefly.” She looked to Mrs. Lythecoe for a cue as to how to go on.

“That, I am afraid,” Mrs. Lythecoe said, “is the real reason we have come.” She put down her teacup and sat forward. “This is all rather awkward, and I am very sorry for it. However, both Miss Potter and I feel that you need to know what has happened, and give us your advice.” She glanced at Beatrix. “Miss Potter, could you tell them about your meeting with Miss Crabbe, please?”

Feeling wretchedly uncomfortable, Beatrix put down her cup and related what had happened at the Crosfield cottage that morning. When she finished, there was a long silence.

Outside, Crumpet, sitting under the window, looked up at Max the Manx, on the windowsill.
“You see?”
she said in a low voice.
“What did I tell you?”

“Not good,
” Max growled, deep in his throat. He was a solid, stocky all-black cat, with a noticeable absence of tail, a trait that was shared by most Manx, caused (as Max himself was fond of explaining) by Noah himself, who shut the ancestral tail in the door of the ark. Max was also rather a pessimist.
“Not good at all,”
he repeated morosely.
“But there’s nothing to be done. Miss Myrtle is quarrelsome, you know. She does just what she wants, and Lord help everyone else.”

“There’s many a slip twixt does and will do,”
Crumpet said enigmatically
. “We have to find a way to stop her from going to the constable.”

Inside the room, there was shock and consternation. “Oh, dear!” Miss Pansy exclaimed in distress, raising a plump hand to her round mouth. “Oh, dear, dear,
dear
!” The yellow curls trembled all over her head.

Miss Viola’s eyes grew larger and darker. “I am appalled, Miss Potter,” she said, her reedy voice quavering. “I scarcely know what to say, except that I’m sure that our Myrtle wouldn’t have behaved in such a disgraceful fashion if she hadn’t been under a terrible strain. Please accept our apologies.” With a dramatic flourish, she put her hand in the region of her heart and pressed. “Our most
heartfelt
apologies.”

Beatrix relaxed a little. “There is no need for apology,” she said. At least they weren’t going to blame her for what had occurred.

“We were sure,” Mrs. Lythecoe said, “that you would want to know. And to tell the truth, we hoped that perhaps you might agree to . . . well, help us keep Myrtle from carrying out her plan.”

“Her plan to go to the constable, you mean?” Miss Viola asked. Her rouged lips were tight and puckered, as if she were tasting something tart.

Beatrix nodded. “If there were only some proof, even a little scrap, no one could object. But there seems to be none, other than your sister’s feeling that the boy is guilty.”

Miss Viola sat up straighter. “And Myrtle’s feelings,” she said, “can no longer be relied upon.” She turned to her sister, and her voice became tinged with bitterness. “We must acknowledge that, Pansy. Sadly, we must acknowledge
that
.”

“Oh, but, Viola,” Miss Pansy cried, anxiously fluttering a chartreuse sleeve, “don’t you think you are stating the matter too harshly? Myrtle has always been such a forceful person, so firm of spirit.”

“But it is her
forcefulness
that makes these episodes so very difficult!” Miss Viola said. “Both of us love her, Pansy, but this is getting entirely out of hand.” She turned back to Beatrix, a pained expression on her pale face. “These are private family matters, and you may feel that we should not discuss them with a stranger such as yourself, Miss Potter. But our sister has already involved you in her affairs—most unfortunately, of course, but there it is. I feel you are owed the whole truth.”
Whether you like it,
her tone implied,
or not.
“And of course, Grace is the widow of our own beloved vicar, and is a trusted friend. We know that both of you will respect our confidences.”

Beatrix, taken aback and not at all sure that she wanted to hear any more of this unpleasant truth, whatever it was, gave a murmur that might be taken as assent. Mrs. Lythecoe said quietly, “Of course, Viola.”

Outside, Crumpet leapt up to join Max on the windowsill, so she could hear a bit more clearly.
“The whole truth?”
she said to Max.
“There’s more to this situation than meets the eye, I suppose.”

“You don’t want to know, Crumpet,”
Max replied in a gloomy voice
. “Things have gone on in this house that would curl your whiskers.”

“But Viola,” Pansy protested, “I don’t really think—”

Miss Viola turned back to her sister. “Please recall if you will, Pansy, the scandalous scene last month over the money she thought she had left out to pay the baker’s boy. And then there was the unnerving disagreement over what happened to the gold locket that dear Aunt Adrienne gave you, which is yet to be found.” She dropped her voice to a throaty whisper. “And Myrtle’s diary, of course. What a dreadful debacle!”

“Ah, the diary,”
Max said, with a heavy sigh
. “Accusations and recriminations and denouncements. You’d have thought that it was as valuable as the crown jewels, the way she went on.”

Intrigued, Beatrix looked from one of these oddly paired sisters to the other, feeling that there must be a fascinating story behind the oblique references to money and lockets and diaries. Obviously, something unsettling was happening behind the walls of Castle Cottage, and the sisters were deeply troubled by it.

Miss Pansy sighed heavily, her round face a mass of misery. “Yes, the diary. Most unfortunate. And all too reminiscent of Dear Mama’s irrational behavior. Oh, Viola, I do hope we are not going to have to go through
that
again! That would be too dreadfully appalling!”

“We won’t go into that just now, Pansy,” Miss Viola said in a warning tone, and Beatrix understood that there were still more secrets, and darker ones. She had the feeling that Viola, at least, was afraid. But of what? Not of their sister, surely.

“Irrational behavior?”
Crumpet asked
. “They’re talking about their mother? What was wrong with her?”

“In the last year of her life,”
Max replied,
“old Mrs. Crabbe was as mad as a March hare. She actually tried to kill Myrtle. Of course, they made out that it was an accident—although how you can accidentally hit someone over the head with an iron skillet is beyond my powers of comprehension. Anyway, Myrtle took Mrs. Crabbe up to Carlisle and put her into a hospital—a lunatic asylum. She died the next year, stark, raving mad.”
Max glanced darkly at Crumpet
. “There. I told you it would curl your whiskers.”

“For pity’s sake,”
Crumpet marveled, astonished by these sensational revelations. She flicked her tail. “
All this was going on, and the sisters managed to keep it a secret—in this village?”

“They brought a girl up from London to see to the house,”
Max said,
“and when Mrs. Crabbe got worse, they sent her back to the city and took on the work themselves. When the old lady was safely in the asylum, they told everyone she had gone to visit her sister, and continued with their lives just as if nothing had happened. It was Myrtle who made them keep it secret. She was determined that the truth wouldn’t get out.”