The Tale of Castle Cottage (20 page)

“Ah,” Bertram said gravely. “Yes, of course. I see.” He knew about her engagement, of course. She had told him in a letter, and they had discussed it at Christmas.

“I’ve explained all this to Mama and Papa,” she added, “and more than once. But of course, they’re not in favor of my marrying, so they choose not to listen when I tell them about Castle Cottage.” She gave a wry chuckle. “But construction always takes forever. Perhaps they’ve just forgotten.”

Bertram’s echoing chuckle held a note of bitterness. “Oh, they haven’t forgotten, Bea. You know better than that. They’re only pretending not to remember. That way, they can keep it from happening.”

She nodded, wondering if she should confide all her misgivings about the engagement. But she was used to keeping things like that to herself. So she picked up the teapot. “More tea, dear?”

Bertram nodded, and she poured another cup. “Of course,” he went on, his voice taut and angry, “the parents have never listened to either one of us. They only hear what they want. If it’s something
we
want, they simply ignore us. They are the only ones in the family who count for anything.”

Beatrix didn’t answer. Bertram had said all this to her many times before. It was a frequent complaint of his.

“Well, enough of that,” he said, cutting his usual tirade unexpectedly short. He stirred in sugar, then looked at her, frowning a little. “Mama said you were ill this spring.”

Beatrix lifted her shoulders and let them fall. “It’s true, Bertram. I felt wretched all during March and April. I was in bed most of the time.” She gestured at the papers on the table. “That’s why I’m so behindhand with this book. It should have been finished by now.”

“Your illness. It was physical or—?” He didn’t finish the sentence, but she knew what he meant, and she answered the question he hadn’t asked.

“It was both. Mama and Papa don’t make any secret of the way they feel about my engagement. It was all very underthe-table, of course, rarely out in the open—except when the post brought a letter from Mr. Heelis. That always provoked some mean remark or another. But then I caught the flu and couldn’t seem to shake it.” She managed a small laugh. “I’m much better now, though. Truly, Bertram. I am always better when I can get out of London.”

“You don’t look quite well yet, I’m afraid.” Bertram raised his cup and added, so softly that Beatrix almost didn’t hear him: “How you’ve stood to live with Mama and Papa all these years, Bea, I’ll never know. It must have been pure hell.”

Her brother’s words surprised Beatrix. While he often talked about the way
he
felt about their mother and father, he rarely seemed to take her feelings into account.

“Well, I wouldn’t call it ‘hell,’” she replied, “although it’s not been very pleasant. But whilst duty may be an old-fashioned concept, it’s still important—at least to me.” Hurriedly, because she hadn’t meant to sound critical, she added, “And since I don’t see any changes on the horizon, I just go on, day to day, doing what has to be done.” She smiled. “You know, stiff upper lip, soldiering on, all that sort of thing. We all have to do it, in one way or another.”

The silence lengthened. Then Bertram put down his cup with a sharp clatter. “I say, Bea,” he burst out. “Do you truly want to marry Heelis?” When she didn’t immediately answer, he added urgently, “Come now. You must tell me the truth.”

Surprised by his question, she kept on staring at him. “The truth? Yes, Bertram, I do. I don’t think it’s going to happen, but I want it from the very bottom of my heart.”

He looked away. “He seems a decent sort,” he muttered.

She blinked, surprised again. “You’ve met him?” Bertram had not been there when Will called on the Potters, first in London and again in that awful visit just a few weeks ago.

“I haven’t met him, no.” He raised his eyes, clearly embarrassed. “I . . . I made inquiries, that’s all. Wanted to see what kind of a situation you might be getting yourself into.” He paused and added, in a reassuring way, “The men I talked to had nothing but praise for him.”

“Well, I should think so!” Beatrix exclaimed hotly. “Mr. Heelis is admired by everyone who knows him. Really, Bertram—I don’t understand why you would do such a thing. If you had wanted to meet him, all you had to do was ask, and I should have been glad to arrange it. I—”

Bertram raised his hand. “I know, I know. I just wanted to assure myself that you were doing the right thing. That Heelis had a good character, and all that. That he would make you happy.”

The right thing! Well, I don’t know about you, but I find that remark insufferably patronizing. Who is Bertram Potter to decide whether his sister is doing the right thing? What if he had thought it was the wrong thing? What if he decided that Will Heelis’ character fell a little short? Or suspected that Heelis could not make his sister happy? What would he have done then? Lined up with his father and mother in opposition to the marriage?

Beatrix sat back in her chair, folded her arms, and said the first thing that came to her mind. “None of the family made inquiries into Mary’s character before you married her.” But the angry words were no sooner out of her mouth than she regretted them. It was perhaps the worst thing she had ever said to him, and she was sorry.

Urgently, she put out her hand. “No, Bertram, please. Forget I said that. It wasn’t fair. I do apologize.”

“None of this has been fair,” Bertram said in a very low voice. “I’ve behaved badly. Mama and Papa have behaved badly. You’ve been a saint. I don’t see how you can bear
any
of us.”

Struck by the genuine feeling in her brother’s voice, Beatrix leaned forward and took his hand. “Oh, I’m no saint,” she said with a little laugh. “But you know my philosophy.” She quoted something she had once written to a friend. “Believe there is a great power silently working all things for good, behave yourself, and never mind the rest.”

“Ah, yes,” Bertram said. He squeezed her hand and released it. “Well, you have certainly behaved yourself, my dear.” He drew himself up with the air of someone who was making a declaration. “And now it’s my turn.”

Beatrix frowned, not understanding. “Your . . . turn? Your turn for what?”

“It’s very simple, Bea. I love my wife, but I have hated myself every day for the past eleven years. I have betrayed Mary and myself—and you. I have left you to carry the lion’s share of the burden at home. I have been a wretched coward.”

This was all very true, Beatrix thought wryly, although his recognition was coming a little late. No, not a little late. Eleven years late. But there was no point in saying so, and recriminations were no help.

“I
am
their only daughter,” she replied evenly. “And for good or ill, it’s a daughter’s responsibility to do what she can for her parents.”

“Yes, and you’ve been doing that forever!” Bertram slapped his hand on the table. “That’s why I say it’s my turn, Beatrix. You’re right—I can’t do anything about taking care of them, given the circumstance.” He upended his cup, drained it, and pushed his chair back. “But I can be a man at long last. I can tell them the truth. About Mary. About our marriage.”

Beatrix’s heart seemed to stop. “Oh, no! No, you can’t, Bertram!” she exclaimed in sheer terror. “Not after all these years! They will never get over it. It will destroy them.”

“Better to destroy them than to destroy you and Heelis,” Bertram replied stonily. “They’ve got to be made to change their minds.”

Beatrix bit her lip. Bertram had inherited his stubbornness from his father, and you could never get anywhere arguing with him. But perhaps logic could prevail. She pushed down the panic and focused on keeping her voice level and reasonable.

“I don’t see how telling them about Mary is going to make any difference to me, Bertram. They’ll be furious at you. Papa will threaten to disown you, and Mama will scream and probably faint. But none of that will alter their attitude toward
my
marriage. If anything, it will only make things worse. There will be arguments and tantrums and demands for attention. And anyway, it seems to me that—”

She stopped. She wanted to say that his decision was a selfish one, that he was only trying to make himself feel better, trying to seek forgiveness, perhaps even trying to redeem himself in Mary’s eyes. Poor, poor Mary, whose husband was too frightened of his parents to publically acknowledge the woman he loved and had married.

All that was true. But she could tell by the look on her brother’s face that he had already made up his mind—and he was as stubborn as she was. At this point, nothing she could say to him would make a single bit of difference.

He laughed harshly. “Make things worse? Well, maybe it will. If it does, I’m sorry, truly. But maybe it won’t. And anyway, how could things be any worse than they are now?”

There was enough truth to that to make her chuckle helplessly. “Well, I suppose one might say that. But I just can’t see why you should want to upset the applecart, that’s all.” Especially when she was the one who had to pick all the apples up and put them back where they belonged.

He stood and shoved his hands in his pockets, looking down at her. “I don’t know what is going to happen, Bea. But I did think it was important to see you and explain, before I did it. Look, dear. I really think you should be there. I plan to make my confession on Sunday afternoon, just at teatime. My date with destiny, you might say,” he added, with a crooked, self-mocking grin. “And then I shall go back to Scotland on the earliest possible Monday train.”

“
I
should be there to hear your confession?” Beatrix suppressed a wild, half-hysterical giggle. Of course. Bertram would tell them and then—having cleared his conscience—he would escape to his farm and his wife, leaving her to clean up the mess he was leaving behind. He only wanted her there to help defend him, to stand between him and Papa and Mama the way she always had. She usually gave in to his requests—he was, after all, still her brother. But not this time. This time, he would have to fend for himself.

She took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. “This is your confession, Bertram, not mine. If you are determined to tell them what you’ve done, you will have to face the music all by yourself. I will not be there to help. And that’s all there is to it.”

Bertram was used to getting his way with Beatrix, and he gave her a surprised look, judging her strength. Then he gave it one last try. “You won’t change your mind?” he asked plaintively. “I’m sure I should feel so much more confident if you were there, lending me courage.”

Beatrix heard the wheedling tone and chose to ignore it. “No, I won’t change my mind. But I will certainly wish you well—even though I don’t think it’s a good idea. In fact, I think it is a singularly
bad
idea.” She stood up and brushed her lips across his cheek. “I’m planning to go back to Lindeth Howe on Monday at teatime and stay through the end of the week. By that time, I expect the fuss will be over. You will have told them and left,” (she did not say
escaped
, but she thought it) “and they will have settled down, and everything will be as dull and boring as it usually is.”

She didn’t expect any such thing, and both of them knew it. She was only saying it to make him feel better, for of course Papa and Mama would never get used to the idea that Bertram had married without their consent or even their knowledge.

And worse, oh, much, much worse, they would use his secret marriage as yet another reason why
she
should never marry. Their son had betrayed and deserted them. She could never be allowed to leave them. No, never, never, never.

“Dull and boring,” Bertram repeated. Obviously hoping for the best, he seemed to accept what she had said. “Well, if you won’t come, you won’t,” he said in a resigned tone. “But I do hope you understand why I’m doing this, Beatrix. It’s for you and Heelis as much as for myself and Mary. I hope it will change things for you.”

Beatrix managed a smile. “I hope so, too,” she said as warmly as she could.

But she knew it wouldn’t. Changing her parents’ minds would be like moving a pair of mountains.

And moving mountains was impossible.

13

Captain Woodcock Goes Fishing

Whilst Bertram Potter was alarming his sister, Captain Woodcock was embarking on the next stage of his investigation into Mr. Adcock’s death. Constable Braithwaite had gone off to Hawkshead with Dr. Butters and would bring word when the doctor finished the autopsy and had written his report. Will Heelis had ridden his motorcycle back to Hawkshead to keep an appointment with a client. So the captain was carrying on the investigation alone.

Mr. Bernard Biddle kept his office in his house at Hazel Crag Farm, between Near Sawrey and Hawkshead. A large sign, visible from the road, announced that this was the office of BERNARD BIDDLE, CONTRACTOR
.
The captain motored up the curving driveway and stopped his Rolls-Royce in front of an imposing stone house with a fine view of Esthwaite Water, built against the side of a hill.

As the captain got out of his motorcar, he saw that a wing was being added onto the house—the new construction that Will Heelis had mentioned. He stood for a moment, watching a pair of carpenters going about their tasks. He suspected that this was where those missing building supplies were ending up—perhaps some that had come from his very own stable. He shook his head, frowning. But if that was true, there would be no hope of tracking them, since one sawn board or one shingle or slate looked pretty much like another.

The captain’s knock at the front door was answered by the housekeeper, a round-faced lady in a plain brown dress and white apron, stern and unsmiling. The captain remembered hearing that Biddle’s wife had died several years before. As she was ushering him into the office, he asked in a kindly tone, “Your name, ma’am?”

“Framley, sir. Mrs. Framley.”

“Thank you. Well, then, Mrs. Framley, do you live in?”