The Tale of Applebeck Orchard (32 page)

Now, you and I know how quickly Margaret’s life has changed and how astonished she is by everything that’s happened on this momentous day. Our Beatrix, of course, doesn’t know a thing—but she is about to find out.

“Beatrix!” Margaret cried, and hurried toward her, arms outstretched. “Beatrix, I have the most wonderful news! You’ll never in the world guess what has happened!”

Beatrix stared. Surely it had to be good news, for Margaret was smiling with such a happy excitement. “Why, no,” she said. “I don’t think I can. Tell me.”

Margaret’s eyes sparkled. “Miles—Captain Woodcock—and I, we’re to be married!”

“Married?” Beatrix stood still, feeling her eyes grow wide. “But how . . . when . . . ?”

“Today! It happened today! Isn’t it marvelous? And we’ve just come back from Raven Hall, and telling Dimity and the major, who had us both to dinner. And Dimity is as thrilled as I am and absolutely insists on having the wedding in their lovely garden. It turns out that she has been secretly hoping Miles would ask me and I never guessed a thing!” The words were pouring out in a happy torrent. “Oh, Beatrix, it’s too wonderful! And it’s all thanks to you!”

“To me?” Stunned, Beatrix could not think what in the world she might have done to bring Captain Woodcock and Margaret Nash so precipitously together.

“Yes, you!” Margaret laughed delightedly. “In fact, it’s all owing to you, every bit of it. If you hadn’t suggested that Annie go to Brighton to the sanitarium—”

“Annie likes the idea?” Beatrix broke in.

“She absolutely loves it! She’ll be coming to see you to get the particulars. She is terribly keen on going, which at first was something of a let-down for me, since . . . well, you know. It’s a little hard to let her go. And of course I had no idea that she was hoping to find a way to leave the village.”

“I understand,” Beatrix said. “But I still don’t see how Annie’s going to Brighton is connected to your marrying Captain Woodcock.”

“Well, it is,” Margaret said. “I was thinking of Annie’s going, you see, when I came here to talk to Miles about repairing the school stovepipes. He made us tea, but he dropped the tea tray, and I helped him clean it up, and he—” Her pink cheeks grew even pinker, and she looked away. “That’s when he asked me to marry him, when we were both on our knees picking up the broken crockery and I was mopping up the mess.” She giggled helplessly. “We must have looked very silly. But we didn’t think of that at the time. It just seemed so right and natural.”

“So you love him, then?”

“I have loved him for longer than I dare to think,” Margaret said. “Of course, I could not have told him that, or even imagined—” She stopped, then said in a wondering tone, “How could I have even dared to imagine?”

Beatrix smiled. “But I still don’t understand how—”

“Well.” Margaret took a deep breath. “After he asked me to marry him and I had said yes, we went to the kitchen to make another pot of tea, because the first one was broken, and he asked if Annie would be coming to live with us and I said no, because she is going to Brighton, and he said how glad he was she is able to be independent and live her own life.”

“Oh,” Beatrix said, and suddenly understood why Margaret had connected Annie’s move to Brighton with her own marriage. If Annie had insisted on staying here in the village, Margaret would not have felt free to encourage the captain’s proposal. When he brought it up, she might have discouraged him, or rejected him. And once discouraged or rejected, he might not have persisted.

Beatrix laughed again. “Well,” she said in a knowing voice, “that explains why you are wearing your best pink blouse and your lilac toilet water, I suppose.”

“I suppose it does,” Margaret acknowledged, “although I had no idea when I set out . . . I mean, I couldn’t have guessed that he . . .” Her voice trailed off and her cheeks grew even pinker. “I hope you don’t think—”

“I don’t.” Beatrix took Margaret’s hands. “And however it came about, I am so pleased—especially if I have played a tiny role. Captain Woodcock is a fine man. I am sure he will make you very happy.”

Margaret leaned forward and kissed Beatrix’s cheek. “I will do all I can to make
him
happy,” she whispered. “Now, please forgive me. I must run and tell Annie this news. She will be utterly astonished! And so pleased.”

Beatrix watched her go, thinking that Annie could be no more astonished than she was. Margaret and Captain Woodcock—to be married! It was a shocking surprise, sure to set the village on its ear the minute it was known. Why, the tongues wouldn’t stop wagging for months!

And who could blame Beatrix if, mixed into the surprise, there was a certain amount of envy? I could not, nor could you, I’m sure. First Dimity Woodcock had married Christopher Kittredge, the love of her life. And now Margaret Nash, the spinster schoolmistress, was marrying Captain Woodcock, whom she had loved, by her own admission, longer than she dared to think.

And I could not blame Beatrix, either, if there was a certain amount of sadness, mixed with the envy.

Could you?

20

At Applebeck

Of all the difficult days Gilly had spent at Applebeck, to day had been the very worst. After breakfast, her uncle had taken his shotgun down from its hooks on the wall and stormed out of the house, muttering under his breath about the footpath. A little later, as she churned butter in the buttery, she had been startled to hear the rattle of gunfire from the direction of the footpath. She had left her churn and run toward the house, where Mrs. Harmsworth was standing at the door, staring out.

“What’s happening?” Gilly cried, frightened. “Who’s that shooting?”

“Who cares?” Mrs. Harmsworth said, and lifted her chin. Her eyes were glinting. “Mebbee t’ fool has shot hisself. Now, git on back to t’ buttery and finish thi churnin’. When ’tis done, there’s t’ floors to be scrubbed and t’ stove to be blacked.” And with that, she turned and went back into the house.

Gilly knew that the Harmsworths were not happy together, but it was a shock to hear Mrs. Harmsworth talk about Mr. Harmsworth in that way, especially since Gilly doubted very much that Mr. Harmsworth had shot himself. It was more likely, angry as he was, that he had shot someone else.

There was nothing she could do about the situation, however, so she went back to the old stone buttery—a drafty place and cool, very pleasant in the summer but appallingly cold in winter—and tried to lose herself in the pleasures of sweet milk and rich cream and thick golden butter. She also took refuge in her favorite daydreams, which were her chief comforts through the long days—daydreams where she found employment elsewhere, with amiable people, in a clean and agreeable place, where she could have an hour to herself every day to read, and perhaps a little gray cat who would come and drink from the saucers of milk she would put out for him. But they were only daydreams, and Gilly was realist enough to know that, whatever happened to Mr. Harmsworth, there would be no escape for her. She would still have to live with Mrs. Harmsworth, who would continue to demand that she do all the work. All she could do was run away.

Mrs. Harmsworth refused to wait the noon meal for her husband, saying that whatever fix he’d got himself into was no business of hers. She and Gilly had just sat down to bowls of potato soup and sausage and brown bread and cheese when they heard a clatter outside, and the sound of voices. It was Mr. Harmsworth, come to fetch some tools. With him was Constable Braithwaite, very stern, who had apparently come to see that the barriers at either end of the footpath were taken down. An hour later, Mr. Harmsworth was at the table, greedily tucking into his dinner, sullen and silent. In spite of Mrs. Harmsworth’s shrill questioning, he would not say a word about what had happened, or who or what had been shot, or why. His only words, at the end of his meal, were addressed to Gilly, who at Mrs. Harmsworth’s command, had already started the washing-up, in a basin at the far end of the table.

“Wot dost tha know ’bout Miss Potter, girl?” he demanded roughly.

Gilly turned to stare at him, her hands dripping. “Who?”

“Miss Potter.” He got up from the table and came toward her. “Owns Hill Top Farm.”

“I don’t know her,” Gilly said, and went back to her washing-up. Strictly speaking, this was true, although you and I know that upstairs, hidden under her straw mattress, is the book that Gilly won in the school spelling contest, written by Miss Potter. At the moment, Gilly is glad that she had not mentioned the book to her aunt or uncle.

“Then why dost she want to see thi tomorrow?” He seized her arm, his face ugly, his eyes narrowing to slits. “What nonsense hast tha told her aboot us?”

“See me tomorrow?” Gilly asked blankly. Why would a famous author want to see
her
? Did Miss Potter mean to take her book back?

“What all this?” Mrs. Harmsworth demanded. “What’s this aboot Miss Potter?”

Mrs. Harmsworth had never met Miss Potter, but she had heard plenty about her from the people at the butcher’s shop in Far Sawrey, where she queued up once a week for a joint. Miss Potter was a wealthy lady from London, who made books for children and who owned two of the best farms in the area—one of them, Hill Top, just on the other side of the beck.

“What dost Miss Potter want wi’ our Gilly?” she asked suspiciously. (You will notice that it is “our Gilly,” now that someone else seems to have taken an interest in the girl.)

“Dunno,” her husband muttered. “But she’s to come for t’ girl up tomorrow after dinner.”

“Come for her?” shrilled Mrs. Harmsworth. “Miss Potter is takin’ our Gilly away? Why? How could’st tha let her do such a thing?”

“Hold tha tongue, woman.” Mr. Harmsworth glared at his wife, but did not answer her question, no doubt because he did not want to admit that he had endangered Miss Potter and her pony and that an afternoon with Gilly was the price to be paid for his reckless behavior. “See that she’s got a clean pinny, one that ain’t patched.” He turned his glare on Gilly. “And see that tha keeps’t a curb on thi tongue, girl. Miss Potter’s got no need to know nothin’ aboot us or what goes on in this house. Not a word, dost tha hear? Not a single word. And be sure that tha’rt back afore tea.”

And that was all that could be got out of him for the rest of the day.

Mrs. Harmsworth now had another reason—a very good reason, to her way of thinking—for being angry at Gilly, who had been singled out by their wealthy neighbor for who-knew-what kind of attention. She kept after her for the rest of the day, shrilling demands and lashing out furiously when the work was not done to her specifications. As it could not be, for she never gave the same instruction twice, always wanting something different, until Gilly was dizzy with her demands and had never felt so angry and resentful in her whole, entire life.

For her part, Mrs. Harmsworth could not contain her rage, both against her husband, who had clearly had some sort of run-in with the law and would not tell her about it, and against Gilly, who must have had some sort of secret communication with Miss Potter. Why else would that lady insist on seeing a mere girl? Was she going to try to take Gilly away and put her to work at Hill Top Farm?

Of course, that was nonsense, Mrs. Harmsworth told herself. Gilly was a good dairy worker, to be sure, but she wasn’t
that
good, and anyway, Mrs. Jennings, who did the dairy work at Hill Top, was known to be amongst the very best in the district. Gilly wasn’t pretty, either, with that milky face and pale hair. Or smart—why, she rarely said a single word! So no doubt this was just some sort of silly, half-baked scheme on the part of Miss Potter, and didn’t mean a thing, although why Mr. Harmsworth would consent to let Gilly have a full afternoon off, she couldn’t understand for the life of her. And when Mrs. Harmsworth couldn’t understand something, it made her very, very angry.

This puzzling business went round and round in Mrs. Harmsworth’s mind for the rest of the day, until she felt herself spinning out of control and knew almost nothing except for her rage at Gilly, who was somehow at fault for everything. And since Mr. Harmsworth absented himself in the orchard and barn and Gilly was the only available target for Mrs. Harmsworth’s wrath, Gilly was scolded over and over again.

This sad state of affairs continued until tea was finally over, the darning basket was emptied of its socks, and at last, both Mr. and Mrs. Harmsworth went to bed in their second-floor bedrooms. Gilly climbed the narrow ladder to her attic room—as usual, with no candle. The moon was bright, and since she was half-afraid that Miss Potter might require her to return
The Tale of Jemima Puddle-duck
, Gilly took it out from under her straw pallet and carried it to the open casement, wanting to read it one more time. Perhaps winning it had been a mistake, after all, and Miss Nash had really meant to give it to someone else. Or perhaps Miss Potter (who had donated it to the school) had found she needed this one and meant to take it back. Gilly sighed, turning the pages and thinking how she should hate to give it up, for it was the only book she had ever owned and she was very, very fond of it.