The Tale of Hawthorn House (25 page)

Rascal nodded, although he feared that Kep’s stern sense of responsibility made him rather a severe judge.
“Speaking of mothers and babies,”
he said,
“how is our Jemima getting on? Any sign of those ducklings yet?”

“She’s still on her nest,”
said Kep. He dropped his voice.
“But I’m afraid there aren’t going to be any ducklings.”

“No ducklings?”
Rascal stared at his friend in shocked surprise.
“But why? Don’t tell me the eggs are spoilt—after all the weeks she’s invested in that nest!”

“No, not spoilt,”
Kep said. He shifted uncomfortably, as if he had said too much. He changed the subject.
“You haven’t by any chance seen that fox lately, have you?”

“That fox?”
Rascal asked, frowning.
“You mean—”

“Reynard, of course,”
Kep growled.
“The one who tried to eat our Jemima. Filthy fellow has been lurking around.”
He pulled back his lips in a menacing snarl.
“I have a little surprise in store for that fox. If you see him around, you’ll let me know, will you?”

“I certainly shall.”
Rascal grinned, thinking that the fox, a natty dresser who always took care to look very smart, would hardly like to hear himself called a “filthy fellow.”

But Rascal could certainly understand Kep’s feelings. His friend was, after all, a collie, bred to take full responsibilityfor the farm’s livestock and trained to be on the watch for any potential danger. And he himself was a terrier, who loved nothing better than to follow the hunt. He was bred to dig foxes out of their dens, however deep, and trained to follow the scent of fox up fell, down fallow. That foxy gentleman had better not brandish his brush anywhere in the neighborhood. Between Kep and himself, Rascal thought happily, Reynard didn’t stand a chance.

He looked up and barked a greeting to Deirdre and Libby as they came into the barn. To Kep, he said politely,
“The girls have come to visit Jemima. You don’t object, do you, old chap?”
When another dog was on duty at his home station, it was always a good idea to ask his permission. Not that Kep would deny it, of course. Still, it was his barn and his barnyard, and he was in charge of what went on in it.

“Object? Not at all. The duck needs company.”
Kep looked concerned.
“I worry about her state of mind, you know, sitting there all alone, day after day. She is simply obsessed with those eggs, which is not at all good for her, I fear.”

The dogs watched as the girls knelt down in front of the feedbox under which Jemima had hidden her nest.

“Hello, Jemima Puddle-duck,” Libby said, putting out her hand to stroke the duck’s white feathers. “How are you and your eggs today? Are they ready to hatch?”

“We are all eGGstremely well, thank you,”
Jemima quacked, in a brave but quavery voice.
“I can already feel the dear little duCKluCKlings scratching about in their eGGshells. I am QUite sure we shall be hatching shortly.”

Rascal frowned. But Kep had said there weren’t going to be any ducklings. Was Jemima imagining things? She’d always been a bit daft anyway—Miss Potter had called her a “simpleton” for being taken in by the fox. Had she gone clean barmy-brained?

“What were you telling me about those eggs?”
he asked Kep worriedly.
“If they’re not spoilt, what’s wrong with them?”

“Afraid I’m not at liberty to say, old chap,”
Kep replied in an apologetic tone.
“I promised her—the duck, that is—I’d keep it under my hat.”
His face became dark and gloomy.
“Take it from me, though, Rascal. Don’t pin your hopes on ducklings.”

Rascal leaned forward.
“But if not ducklings, then what?”
he persisted.

Feeling Rascal’s eyes on him, full of a sharp curiosity, Kep turned away to look out the door, giving no answer. Outside in the barn lot, all was in order. The mother pig had retrieved her piglets and was oinking softly to them, the hens clucked to the chicks who crowded noisily around their feet, and Kitchen mooed affectionately to her spring calf. Beyond the enclosure, in the green meadow, the Herdwick sheep grazed with their spring lambs, now grown to a quite respectable size, and the brown mare watched tolerantly as her spry colt raced uphill and down. It seemed to Kep that the whole world burgeoned and blossomed with maternal enterprise, just as it ought. All was natural and right, each animal reproducing its own kind in the great chain of being, every mother caring for her own offspring exactly as every mother should.

Kep shivered. But behind him in the barn, in that hidden place under the feedbox, something was amiss, out of order, untoward. And Kep—who enjoyed a supreme confidence in his ability to tell right from wrong—was sorely perplexed. He had always prided himself on his intelligence, too. Even after Jemima told him that she had taken her eggs from another’s nest, he had been confident that he could help her. After all, nature always followed predictable, orderly patterns. Given the right temperatures and the right amount of time, eggs hatched into baby birds. How hard could it be to find out what sort of birds these were meant to be?

But the collie could hardly believe his ears when Jemima told him where she had gotten her eggs. In his experience, eggs would simply not be found where she said she had discovered them. But Kep, who could not bring himself to doubt her, felt a deep sympathy for the duck, whose patient perseverance had won his respect. So he went down to the spot where she said she found her eggs, under a low-hanging willow tree, behind a fringe of ferns near a big rock on the sandy beach along the northern shore of Esthwaite Water, below Willow Bank Cottage.

Kep located the beach on Feswyke Inlet. He found the overhanging willow, the ferns, and the rock, and when he looked up the hill, he could see the half-hidden chimney of Willow Bank Cottage. He was in the right place, he was sure of it. But although the dog investigated the entire area thoroughly, using both his eyes and his sensitive nose, he could find no trace of the spot where Jemima had found the eggs (for that’s what she had told him) half-buried in a shallow depression in the sand.

This had made no sense at all to Kep, for he had never met a bird who cared so little for her helpless babies that she did not build a nest to keep them safe, but simply scooped out a bowl in the sand. Kep was a collie, however, and collies are clever enough to know that there might be a thing or two in the world that they
don’t
know. Somewhere out there was a bird who preferred to lay her eggs in a sandy bowl, and Kep had assigned to himself the task of finding her.

And then what? Since he was in charge, Kep had given some serious thought to answering this question. He would turn detective. He would investigate the scene of Jemima’s crime—the place where she had stolen her eggs. He would locate the real mother. And when he did, he would tell her who had custody of her eggs—but only on the condition that she would allow Jemima Puddle-duck to continue to hatch them. Assuming of course that she was not a predator, the mother bird might be permitted visitation privileges while the hatching continued. In fact, if Jemima agreed, perhaps the two might take turn and turn about until the job was done.

And what would happen when the ten eggs hatched? Ah, there Kep had devised what he felt to be a brilliant solution, worthy of King Solomon. Ten was quite a large brood of babies, too many, really, for a single mother to rear on her own. He would divide the lot in half and give five birds to each mother, allowing each to fulfill her maternal destiny— assuming that the babies were not predators. If they were, the natural mother should be given full custody of the entire brood the moment they hatched, and sent on her way. Although he felt a deep sympathy toward the duck, he could not put other barnyard birds in jeopardy just to satisfy her obsessive need to be a mother.

Kep felt quite proud when he thought of his plan. So, even though he had failed to find the nest, he began looking around for the bird, who had likely been searching everywhere for her eggs—or perhaps she had already given up hope. She would be very glad when he told her that they were safe.

There were, of course, any number of birds feeding on the lake. There were ducks of several species, both surface-feeding ducks and diving ducks, all of whom looked to be promising possibilities. So he went to the water’s edge and barked out a polite inquiry to the flock of ducks swimming in the water a little distance out into the lake.

If the ducks knew the answer to Kep’s question, they were keeping it selfishly to themselves, which was not very cooperative of them. Ignoring the collie, they went right on with their feeding, turning heads-down tails-up among the green rushes along the lakeshore, and having quite a fine time of it indeed.

Undeterred, Kep trotted up and down the beach, barking much louder now, loud enough for Captain Woodcock to hear him at Hawthorn House, which was just up the shore. But still the ducks paid no attention. Finally, he waded out into the knee-deep water and barked in thunderous tones, with all the energy he could summon. And this time the ducks only flew away, along with the terns and gulls and a pair of herons that had been stalking through the weeds. In fact, Kep would have been quite alone on the beach, if Jackboy Magpie had not flown past and shouted down at him,
“Roister-doister cloister noister!”

By which Kep understood that his barking was disturbing the peace of the placid lakeside, so perhaps he had better desist, at least until he could think of a way to get the ducks’ attention. Anyway, a collie is never without his list of things to do, and there were other tasks Kep had to attend to. So he had gone back to Hill Top, not quite discouraged yet (collies are never discouraged by anything), but definitely troubled. He had not solved the mystery of Jemima’s eggs, and his failure was disheartening.

Beside him, Rascal cleared his throat, bringing Kep back to the present
“But if not ducklings, then what?”
he said again.
“What sort of eggs does Jemima have?”

Kep sighed. What sort of eggs, indeed? Swans’ eggs? Goose eggs?

Hawks’ eggs?

Or eagles’?

He closed his eyes and shuddered.

23

Miss Potter Goes to London

Once she was settled in for a stay at the farm, Beatrix always hated to go back to London, even if only for a few days. Usually, she was called back because she was needed at home. Her mother had gone to bed with a cold and required her to manage the servants, or her father required her to manage her mother (who was at times unmanageable by any power on earth). Or both the Potters were bored and resented their daughter’s absence, so she was sent for. She must immediately leave off whatever she was doing at the farm (it couldn’t be very important, anyway) and come directly home to amuse them.

But Mama and Papa were on holiday at Ulverston, and with any luck, would not require Beatrix’s attention for another fortnight. So this time, she was going up to London on some necessary book business. She needed to talk to Mr. Harold Warne about the proofs of
The Roly-Poly Pudding
(which would be published in October) and about the Jemima Puddle-duck doll she had patented the year before and which ought to be going into production shortly. More uncomfortably, she also had to ask Mr. Fruing Warne about her overdue royalty payment. When Norman was alive, her monthly cheques had been punctual, and she could always count on an extra bit if she needed money for the farm. Lately, though, the payments had been slow and irregular, and she needed money to pay for the installation of some water pipes at the farm.

Beatrix planned to go up to London on Wednesday, stay at her parents’ South Kensington home overnight, then call at the Warne offices on Thursday morning and at the home of Mrs. Moore (her former governess) in the afternoon, which would bring her back to the farm on Friday. Early on Wednesday morning, she took the ferry across Lake Windermere and caught the train, arriving at Bolton Gardens in time for a late tea.

Since most of the staff had accompanied the Potters to Ulverston, Beatrix had her tea in the pleasant third-floor room that had been her childhood nursery, then her schoolroom, and was now her painting studio. It was rather nice to be alone in the big house, she thought, as she sat down with her tray beside the fire. The place was quiet, peaceful—not usually the case when her parents were in residence and disagreeable bickering was the order of the day.

But while her meal and the fire were comforting, Beatrix was troubled by thoughts of Bertram, who by now was back at his farm in Scotland with Mary, his wife. His wife! Beatrix had not yet got used to the idea, so for now, she was resigned to feeling anxious and fidgety whenever she thought about it, the way you feel when a storm is brewing and you’re not quite sure whether it’s going to blow over or blow your house down and you along with it.

She was not troubled by the marriage itself, for her brother certainly had the right to marry whom he pleased, just as she should have had the right to marry Norman. But Bertram’s lies distressed her—that, and the fact that he hadn’t been strong enough to stand up for himself and what he wanted. She was glad he had told her, yes, but the revelation had shifted part of the guilty burden from his shoulders to hers. Really, she thought in exasperation, one ought always to be open and honest about things, no matter how ugly and unpleasant. Being party to a secret—especially a potentially disastrous secret that could blow the family apart—gave her the nervous fidgets.

And of course, there was tomorrow’s visit to the Warne offices in Bedford Street, which was bound to be yet another unpleasantness. Going there was like opening a raw, painful wound. Even though Norman had been dead for three years, it still seemed that he should be waiting to greet her with a smile and an affectionate word. And she felt his absence as keenly as she had his presence.