The Tale of Hawthorn House (11 page)

Persuaded at last, Jemima leaned forward and whispered her secret into Kep’s ear. But because she did not mean anyone else to hear, you and I will retire a discreet few paces and turn our backs. And I hope, as our story continues, that you will not think too unkindly of Jemima. For even though she has perhaps been too eager, and has rushed too quickly into a situation she did not understand, she intended neither malice nor harm, which is a good deal more than can be said of every human in this unhappy world.

Our Jemima may be a very foolish duck, even (by some standards) a criminal duck. But at bottom, I think we must agree that she is a duck with a very good heart.

9

In Which Miss Potter Learns a Shocking Truth

Beatrix had hoped her brother might arrive on Sunday afternoon, but Sunday came and went and he did not appear. This was not altogether a surprise, unfortunately. He was at Stock Park, with their parents, and once you were in their clutches, it was difficult to get away. It wasn’t that they meant ill, of course. But Mama kept finding tiresome little chores for one to do, and Papa simply kept talking, so that one could not even leave the room.

It was not until midday on Monday that Beatrix finally opened the door to Bertram’s knock. She saw on the porch a thin-faced, dark-haired man, dressed in a gray tweed suit and vest, with a blue tie, an umbrella hung over his arm. He set down his bag and took off his tweed cap.

“Hullo, Bea. Had you given me up? I meant to come yesterday, but Mama and Papa put up a devil of a fuss.” He sighed wearily. “You know how it is.”

“No matter, Bertram,” Beatrix said happily, stepping back to let him in. “I’m just glad you could get away.” She would have liked to fling her arms around him, but the Potter family preferred handshakes and brief brushes of the cheek to warm embraces. It was one of the many differences she always noticed when she visited Norman’s boisterously affectionate family. The contrast made her own parents seem cold and distant. “Did you leave them well at Stock Park?”

“Leave them well?” Bertram raised one dark eyebrow and his mouth took on a cynical slant. He was taller than she, with a full, dark mustache and delicate good looks. “Of course not. They were just as unhappy as usual. Nothing I do suits them.” He chuckled. “But I’m in good company. You don’t suit them much, either, Bea.”

“We’re a pair,” Beatrix agreed with a rueful laugh. “They’re disappointed in both of us.”

Beatrix, who was almost six when Bertram was born, had grown up loving to play Big Sister to Bertram’s Little Brother. The two lived together in the third-floor nursery, and when Bertram was old enough, he joined Beatrix for lessons with her governess, Miss Hammond. In those days, the Potters spent the long holiday—August, September, and most of October—at Dalguise House, in Perthshire, in the Scottish highlands, where sister and brother shared a deep, delighted interest in the out-of-doors. Together, the children went on expeditions through the magical woodlands along the River Tay, catching rabbits and hedgehogs and voles and bats to take back to London, identifying wild birds and searching out their nests, and sketching everything they saw. Both youngsters were seldom without their painting supplies, and as they grew older, both became deeply serious about their art, Beatrix in watercolor, Bertram in oils. And both were nature artists: Bertram painted large landscapes, while Beatrix thought of herself as a miniaturist, painting plants and the small animals she loved to collect: rabbits, mice, guinea pigs, frogs, and more.

Bertram was small for his age, and delicate. But the Potters packed him off to school at the age of eleven, while Beatrix stayed behind to continue her studies at home. Beatrix always felt that she got much the better of the bargain, for Bertram was miserable at school. He could never stand up for himself against bullies, and seemed to have few friends. He had little direction, preferring painting to Latin, Euclid, and most especially to rugby. The headmaster’s reports made Mr. Potter mutter and scowl furiously, while Mrs. Potter dabbed her handkerchief to her eyes and refused to distress herself by discussing the matter.

Very little changed as Bertram grew older, the Potters continuing to be disappointed in his lack of interest in anything they thought suitable for him. At twenty, with a great family fanfare, he went off to Oxford. But he didn’t stay long, and when he came back to London, he was desperately unhappy and far too fond of the bottle. Bertram’s drinking might have been caused by the family failing that seems to have hastened the end of poor Uncle William Leech (“The story is so shocking I cannot write it,” Beatrix once confessed to her journal). More likely, it was his way of rebelling against his eternally disappointed mother and the carping, critical father whom he could never please. Beatrix, always intensely aware of the emotional climate in the family and continually feeling that she ought to be able to do something to make things happier for all of them, did what she could to shield Bertram from the worst of their parents’ displeasure.

After the failure at Oxford, Bertram simply stayed away. First, he went abroad. Then he began taking long sketching trips to the Scottish border country where he and Beatrix had spent so many happy weeks and months as children. And finally, about the same time that
Peter Rabbit
became popular and Beatrix began escaping into her little books, Bertram escaped, too. He bought a small north country farm called Ashyburn, where he could spend most of his time painting.

As the years went on, Bertram saw less and less of the family, joining them only at the holiday, and then for only a few days. Mr. and Mrs. Potter loudly lamented his neglect, but Beatrix understood, all too well. If she had been their son, instead of their daughter, she might have done just what Bertram did. In fact, in one important way she had. Bertram defied their displeasure by buying Ashyburn and going there to live. Beatrix bought Hill Top, and spent as much time there as she possibly could.

Bertram cast an approving look around the room. “For one who is such a disappointment to her parents,” he said lightly, “you seem to have done quite well by yourself. I like it, Bea. I like it very much.”

“Thank you,” Beatrix replied modestly. “Shall we have a cup of tea?”

“I had rather have the grand tour of your farm, starting with this marvelous old house.”

“You were here when Mama and Papa were at Lakefield a few years ago, weren’t you?” Beatrix asked, hanging his cap and umbrella on a peg. The Potters had taken a holiday house on Esthwaite Water and had boarded their coachman (Mrs. Potter liked to take the carriage out in the afternoon) at Hill Top Farm.

“Yes, I was here,” Bertram said with a chuckle. “Remember the day we found Hortense and heard all about those blasted fairies?”

“Of course,” Beatrix laughed, too, remembering. Mrs. Allen, who lived at Willow Bank Cottage on Graythwaite Farm, kept exotic pets, among whom was a pair of tortoises named Hortense and Horatio. Hortense had escaped to the lake, where Beatrix and Bertram had found her blissfully sunning herself on a rock. Mrs. Allen had been so pleased at the return of her wayward tortoise that she had invited them in, served them tea and scones, and regaled them with stories about the various Tree Folk who lived thereabouts, in whom she wholeheartedly believed.

“I know you’ve made a great many changes in the old place,” Bertram said. “I want to see them all. From top to bottom, if you please—barns and fields, as well.”

“Come along, then,” she said. “Bring your bag upstairs and I’ll show you where you’ll sleep. Then we’ll begin our tour at the top, with the attics.”

So for the next hour or so, sister and brother went through the house, Bertram saying all the right things in all the right places and in general approving of the changes his sister had made. After that, they went out into the barnyard, where Bertram looked over the Galloway cows, the Berkshire pigs, the farm horses, and various chickens and ducks and geese, pronouncing them all quite fit, well fed, and extraordinarily handsome.

Then, accompanied by the two village cats, Tabitha Twitchit and Crumpet (who had made up their quarrel and were once again the best of friends), they toured the garden, the orchard, and the meadow. When they got to the top of the hill, they paused to survey Beatrix’s Herdwick sheep, which were scattered like so many puffs of white cotton across the green grass all the way to Wilfin Beck.

“So he’s Miss Potter’s brother,”
Crumpet said thoughtfully, studying the pair.
“I can’t say they’re much alike.”

“Not in looks,”
Tabitha agreed,
“although there is something similar in their manner. And they do seem to get along.”

“I say, Bea, you have a jolly good place here,” Bertram said, leaning back against a tree, the cats sitting nearby. He took out his pipe and began to fill it from a leather pouch. “Close enough to London to be convenient, remote enough so that Mama and Papa aren’t likely to come.”

Beatrix made a face. “It’s not as remote as all that, I’m afraid. They threaten to come back to Lakefield, as they did before. But happily, they prefer a place with more society. Sawrey boasts only Lady Longford, and Mama can call on her only once a week.” She chuckled. “And poor Papa can find no one at all to listen to him here. Stock Park suits them better.”

“Mrs. Potter complains that Ferry Hill is hard on their horses,”
Tabitha confided to Crumpet.
“The Potters take their carriage and pair on holiday, you know.”
She gave an amused laugh.
“They hire an entire railway car.”

“They must have pots of money,”
remarked Crumpet, but without envy. Animals always feel they inhabit the best of all worlds. While they may be jealous of their own kindred, they never envy other species—particularly humans, on whom they mostly take pity.

Tabitha nodded.
“Yes, but you’d never know it to look at our Miss Potter. She prefers plain to fancy, and if she has a loose shilling in her pocket, she spends it on the farm.”

Bertram scrutinized his sister. “I must say, Bea, this place agrees with you. You’re looking pink and pretty.” He tamped the tobacco into his pipe and found his matches. “You’ve gained weight, too. You were too thin, I think.”

“I love it here,” Beatrix said, from the bottom of her heart. “The village is infinitely interesting, like the world in miniature. And there is such a wonderful largeness and silence in the fells that I can scarcely get enough of it. I only wish that Norman might be here to share it with me.” She had long ago forgiven Bertram for not taking her side in the awful family row over her engagement, but she couldn’t hold back a sigh. “I’m sure he would have loved it every bit as much as I do.”

“Poor Miss Potter.”
Tabitha gave a romantic sigh.
“So alone. She needs someone to take care of her.”

“Yes, she does,”
agreed Crumpet. She gave Tabitha a knowing glance.
“Miss Woodcock has a plan.”

Tabitha leaned forward. Her eyes glinted with interest and her tail twitched.
“What sort of plan? How do you know?”

Crumpet smiled mysteriously and only shook her head, for Bertram was speaking.

“I agree,” he said. “Norman would have enjoyed being here—or anywhere, if you were there.” He pulled on his pipe, blew out a stream of smoke, and looked off into the distance. “Being with someone you care for—someone who cares for you—makes all the difference.”

Beatrix nodded, trying to swallow. Her throat hurt too much to speak.

After a moment, Bertram said, very quietly, “I’m sorry about leaving you stuck with Mama and Papa, Bea. It’s not fair to you, and I know it.”

“If that’s what he’s doing,”
Crumpet said tartly,
“it isn’t at all fair. He ought to do his part, and not leave it all to his sister.”

“What is Miss Woodcock’s plan?”
Tabitha asked eagerly.

“I—”
But Crumpet stopped because Miss Potter was speaking.

“I don’t suppose men are generally of much help with aging parents,” she said, pulling off her straw hat and fanning herself with it. “There isn’t a great deal you could do for Mama when she goes to bed with one of her sick headaches. And no one can please Papa—not you, not I, not the government, nor God in heaven.” She chuckled wryly. She tried to make light of things she couldn’t change, and she had long been accustomed to make excuses for her brother’s absences from home. But she was glad of Bertram’s words, and even gladder of the genuine apology she heard in his voice. She would remember it on those horrible days when resentment got the better of her.

“I suppose,” Bertram went on, “that between the parents, the farm, and your books, you are kept too busy to think about things much. It’s good you’ve had so much success with your art.” He puffed on his pipe. “A kind of consolation prize, as it were, for having to look after Mama and Papa. And of course richly deserved, on the merits,” he added hastily.

Beatrix slanted her brother a look. His large landscapes, while very fine in their way, had not yet found an enthusiastic public. But she saw nothing in Bertram’s face that made her uncomfortable. You and I might have considered his remark unforgivably condescending—“consolation prize,” indeed!—but it did not trouble her. She knew he was entirely happy for her success, which was all that she asked.

“Who would have thought that the world would make so much out of a few foolish bunnies?” she mused. “It all seems very odd, when I stop to think of it, especially the sideshows. The rabbits are doing well, and soon there will be a Puddle-duck doll, if the manufacturing problems can be sorted.” She chuckled. “The tea sets are in demand, too, which is amusing. Just think of all the little girls serving pretend scones on Peter plates.”

The little books had resulted in a great many merchandise offshoots, and each sale earned Beatrix a royalty— individually quite small, but taken together, it all mounted up in a surprising way. It might mount up to a good deal more, if only her publisher would pay the proper attention to the licenses, and not muddle so many of the opportunities. But Mr. Warne, Norman’s brother, rarely listened to her suggestions.