The Tale of Applebeck Orchard (33 page)

She had just got to the part where Jemima had met the fox and was being shown by that gallant gentleman to a private place where she might lay her eggs, when she heard a noise outside. She lifted her head. Someone was coming around the back of the barn, moving slowly through the moonlight. It was the figure in a black bonnet and long gray cloak, carrying an old-fashioned tin candle lantern.

Gilly was not afraid; as I said, she had seen the ghost before, on more than one occasion, and knew that it was not an invention of her overcharged imagination. She knew that others had seen it, as well, over many decades. The children at school had told her that, so she had no reason to doubt the ghost’s reality—as a ghost, that is. She had seen for herself the way it floated, the way it dissolved, took form, and then dissolved again, as if it were not a thing of this earth and not subject to natural laws.

But as Gilly watched, she saw that there was something different about this ghostly figure—about the way it moved. This figure did not gracefully dissolve into a transparent mist and then re-form. It had a certain solidity and strength, a certain . . . well, clunkiness.

Gilly put down her book, frowning. She hesitated a moment longer, watching the figure make its way along the path. And then, glad that she had not yet changed into her nightgown, she pulled on her shoes and climbed back down the ladder, then crept down the creaky stairs to the kitchen, and silently, silently out the door and into the moonlit night.

21

A Modest Proposal

Will Heelis had business at the bank in Windermere that afternoon, and had stopped off to have a look at the property on Cockshott Point, on Lake Windermere, where the flying boat factory was about to be built. As far as he could tell, everyone in the surrounding farms and villages was opposed to the scheme, but whether their opposition would do any good or not, it was too soon to know. The owner of the factory seemed to be moving full steam ahead, convinced that Lake Windermere was the perfect site to experiment with his new aeroplane, which was already fully operational and had already made a flight or two over the lake.

When Will arrived at the ferry, he found that there was a long queue ahead of him, for the boat was temporarily docked for repairs to the boiler. He was forced to sit and twiddle his thumbs for several hours, so it was twilight when he was finally aboard and on his way back across the lake, in the company of a number of disgruntled passengers, local folk who were heard to say, with bitter sarcasm, “ ’Tis nivver a boat, ’tis a conundrum.”

Will had lived for some time at Sandground, in Hawkshead, with Cousins Fanana and Emily Jane. These two spinster ladies usually made an early night of it. Not wanting to inconvenience them by asking for a late supper or disturbing them when he made something for himself, he stopped at the Tower Bank Arms to eat. No, not at Captain Woodcock’s house, which is also called Tower Bank, but at the inn, which offered (in Will’s opinion) quite a good pub meal.

Now, if you are thinking that it is rather confusing to have both an inn and a house called Tower Bank in a village as small as Near Sawrey, I will fully agree. You see, before Captain Woodcock bought the house (which is largish and somewhat grand), it belonged to the village squire. The squire was also the owner of the village pub, which bore the amusing name The Blue Pig. Feeling that “The Blue Pig” did not have quite the dignity he was after, the squire decided to call his pub the Tower Bank Arms, in honor of his house. The villagers were not pleased (they were accustomed to The Blue Pig, as it had been called for as long as anyone could remember) and off-comers were terribly befuddled. Strangers who intended to take a room for the night at the Tower Bank Arms found themselves on the squire’s doorstep, whilst people who came to do business with the squire were often discovered lingering over a half-pint at the pub.

But Will Heelis knew just what he wanted and where to find it. He had stopped at the Tower Bank Arms because Mrs. Barrow (the pub owner’s wife) served a fine Cumberland sausage with a sauce of apples and onions, along with boiled potatoes and cooked red cabbage, and he made a splendid meal of it. This was a good thing, and soothing, for our Will had been troubled the entire day, not only by the flying boat controversy, but by a certain concern that chased itself around and around in his head whenever he was not thinking of flying boats.

This concern had to do, as you have most certainly suspected, with Miss Potter. The fact was that Will had not been able to get her out of his mind since he had let her out at Hill Top Farm the day before. Over his Cumberland sausage, and after a great deal of backing and forthing and toing and froing in his mind, he had come at last to a conclusion, a momentous one. It was time to have a frank and candid talk with the lady, who lived not a stone’s throw from where he was eating his dinner. (Indeed, the fact that she lived so close by had probably influenced his choice of a place to dine. He might, after all, have chosen to eat at the Sawrey Hotel, where he could have gotten a perfectly good piece of fish or a rare roast of beef.)

Will understood that there were very good reasons weighing against a conversation with Miss Potter. She was still very fond of her dead fiancé, and felt a great loyalty to Warne and his family, whom she counted as her dear friends. But Will also felt that she was growing fond of
him
, although she might find that difficult to acknowledge, especially since her parents would be strongly opposed to any suggestion of a match between them.

Still, he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, how he felt about her. And even though he was generally mild-mannered, slow to speech, and sometimes slow to action, he had a remarkably stubborn streak—some might even say a certain doggedness. Will Heelis had never considered himself a man of grand passions or even a very romantic person (he was far too sensible for that), but he was a man of firm convictions and (when it was necessary) of unwavering courage. When he made up his mind that he wanted something, he would not let anything in the world stand in his way. And now that he clearly understood that he loved Miss Beatrix Potter and could never be happy with anyone else, he knew that he had to act on that knowledge.

It was as simple as that—and it was why he needed to talk with her. He didn’t care (he told himself as he dispatched his sausage) that her parents would never agree to their marriage. It didn’t matter (he thought as he paid his bill) how long he would have to wait. He could wait as long as necessary (he concluded, taking his hat and leaving the pub), if Miss Potter would only promise him that, somehow, someday, she would be his wife.

His wife. Mrs. Will Heelis. Beatrix Heelis.

These words wrapped themselves like a loving embrace around his heart and would not let go. They were still ringing in his mind when he went down the front steps into the darkening evening and turned to the left to climb the hill to Miss Potter’s house, which stood directly behind the pub. They were still ringing like bells in his heart, not a half-dozen steps later, when he bumped squarely into the lady herself, who had not five minutes before left Captain Woodcock’s house, having told him what she had learnt from old Mr. Beecham.

“Mr. Heelis!” she exclaimed, snatching at his arm to keep from falling on the uneven ground.

“Miss Potter!” he cried, steadying her. “Oh, forgive me! So clumsy—I’m sorry. Are you all right?” He dropped his hand and snatched off his bowler hat. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

“No, of course not,” she said breathlessly. “I’m afraid I wasn’t looking where I was going. I didn’t expect—”

“Nor did I,” he said. The determination that had filled him while he was eating his Cumberland sausage now seemed to have seeped away, and he thought it might be a good idea to say good night and be on his way back to Hawkshead. But since she was not running away up the path, and since he did want so very much to talk with her, he found himself suggesting, “Perhaps you would like to go for a walk, Miss Potter. The moon is rising, and it will be very bright. I shouldn’t think we would need a lantern.”

She took a tremulous breath, hesitated, then said, “Yes. Thank you, Mr. Heelis.”

Which is why, a few moments later, we can see the pair of them, walking down the Kendal Road in the direction of Wilfin Beck, Mr. Heelis tall and thin and lanky, in his usual brown suit and brown bowler hat and with his hands in his pockets; Miss Potter short and rather plump, in her Herdwick tweeds, with her straw hat (the one with the blue velvet ribbon) and oaken walking stick. And since we very much want to hear their conversation—at least I do—we will follow along behind. Of course, if you are not inclined to eavesdrop on what promises to be a private and intimate discussion, you are certainly free to wait at the gate, where there is a convenient bench. I shan’t hold it against you, and will be glad to tell you everything that has happened when we meet again. You will stay behind? Ah, but I see that you are just as eager to listen as I, so we shall hurry to catch up.

There is a certain self-conscious distance between our two friends, and for a long time, a silence, not quite comfortable. Then, when they speak, they both speak at the same time, and in a rush.

“I have been hoping to talk with you, Miss Potter—”

“There are some things that need to be said, Mr. Heelis—”

This choral unison strikes neither of them as funny, of course. They are both far too serious for that. After a moment, they try again, with (naturally) the very same result.

“I have been thinking all day—”

“It has been much on my mind—”

Gallantly, Will smiles down at her. “You first, Miss Potter.”

Beatrix shakes her head. “No, you, Mr. Heelis. I insist.”

And with this, of course, they are at another impasse.

But at last, just as they reach the bridge over Wilfin Beck (the very same spot where Winston was frightened by the gunshot and ran away with the pony cart that morning), Will summons his courage, takes off his hat, and opens his mouth to utter the words that have been going round and round in his head all day. The night has grown dark by this time. He is grateful for the shadows, and although the moon shines brightly enough to see Miss Potter’s face, he turns his head to one side and looks down at the ground instead. He finds that he has just enough courage to speak, but not quite enough courage to look at her.

“Miss Potter, I care for you. I care deeply. I don’t suppose this is any secret to you—I am sure it has been increasingly apparent each time we’ve been together this last year, and perhaps even before. Please do believe me when I say that I am not insensible to your feelings for Mr. Warne, nor to your . . . difficulties with your parents. But I must tell you truly, and from my heart, that if your circumstances change—”

He swallows. The words sound too blunt, too forceful to his ears. Has he said too much? Is he too arrogant? Is he frightening her? But having gone this far, he cannot see how to get back, and feels as if he has somehow crossed a bridge of enormous consequence into a land of unfathomable mystery. He takes a deep breath and stumbles on. The words sound inadequate and clumsy, and he wishes he’d taken the time to rehearse them. But (he tells himself) at least they are sincere.

“I know your parents believe me unworthy. It is true—I
am
unworthy, and I should never wish to cause you a single moment’s unhappiness on my account. But if . . . if your circumstances can ever permit you to consider having me, Miss Potter, my heart . . . my heart is yours.” He gulps. “Truly, honestly, and eternally yours.”

Oh, my dears. If a very tall and lean man, handsome and well mannered (and a man of whom you were already more than fond) made this speech to you, could you resist? Tell the truth—honestly, now. I do not think I could, especially when he had got to the part where he was truly, honestly, and eternally mine. I don’t know about you, but I’m sure I should crumble. I should simply fall into his arms and wait for the wedding bells.

But our Beatrix is made of sterner stuff. She hears what we have just heard and is profoundly moved by it. What woman could fail to be moved by such a humble, self-effacing, sweetly modest proposal? Yes, of course she is already aware that Mr. Heelis harbors feelings of affection for her, but she could not have expected a proposal so soon, or so eloquently framed, or spoken in a voice that rings with such passion. If she were able to freely choose (as a certain sagacious little dog has put it), she would probably do what I would have done. Her resolve—to be true to Norman, to respect her parents’ wishes, to remain a spinster for the rest of her life—would have crumbled.

But it doesn’t. Beatrix gathers all her strength, straightens her shoulders and firms her voice, and speaks the speech that she had practiced, or something very like, although she is uneasily aware that it does not quite fit the circumstance.

“My dear Mr. Heelis, I must tell you that—though I do care for you—our friendship must remain a friendship. I still have an enduring fondness for Norman, and my parents present a substantial obstacle to my living my life as I would choose to live it.”