The Tale of Hawthorn House (8 page)

Of course, Dimity was wise enough to hug this romantic plan strictly to herself. Miles was fond of Beatrix in a neighborly sort of way, but like most bachelors, he was fixed in his habits and needed a bit of encouragement—whilst Beatrix remained devoted to the memory of her dead fiancé. It might be some time before they could see how well suited they were to each other.

Beatrix relinquished her mackintosh and followed Dimity into the sitting room, still carrying her basket. “It’s Miss Potter, Miles,” Dimity said.

“Good morning, Captain Woodcock,” Beatrix said. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Miss Potter!” the captain exclaimed, putting aside his newspaper. “No, not at all. How kind of you to call.”

“I am sorry to intrude on a Sunday morning,” she said, “but I have something to show you.” She put the basket on the sofa and folded back the blue-checked covering.

Dimity stared at the pink-wrapped bundle. “Why, it’s a baby!” she cried in great astonishment. She clapped her hands excitedly. “Such a pretty little darling! But where in the world—”

“She was left at Hill Top Farm yesterday evening,” Beatrix said soberly.

“Left!” Dimity exclaimed.

“The devil you say!” Miles jumped to his feet, came to the sofa, and leant over the basket. “Left at Hill Top?” He took his pipe out of his mouth and bent closer, peering. “By Jove, it really is a baby,” he muttered, as if he had doubted Miss Potter’s word.

Beatrix pulled off her gloves and folded them into the pocket of her gray tweed jacket. “I found the basket on my doorstep last evening, just as it began to rain. Mrs. Jennings supplied a bottle and my cow supplied the milk, so she has been fed.” She looked down at the baby with a fond smile. “Several times, actually. I have heard that young babies do not sleep the night through. Flora certainly proved the truth of that, although her crying was never very loud.”

“Flora? That’s her name?” Dimity knelt down, putting out a tentative finger to touch the velvety pink cheek. The blue eyes opened and a tiny hand grasped her finger and held it tightly. She felt herself smiling. What a pretty little thing the baby was, with that dark hair curled in masses all over her head and that cunning little nose and rosebud mouth.

But whose baby
was
she? And why in the world would her mother abandon her on somebody’s doorstep?

“Yes, her name is Flora,” Beatrix said, “according to the note I found in her basket.” She took a folded paper out of her pocket and handed it to the captain. “There was a sprig of hawthorn, as well,” she added.

The captain put his pipe back in his mouth and unfolded the paper. “ ‘See that Flora has good care, or I shall come and fetch her,’ ” he read aloud, around the stem of his pipe. “No signature.” He looked up, one eyebrow cocked. “A bit cheeky, I’d say.”

“I am sure it must be a crime to abandon a baby,” Beatrix said. “That’s why I’ve brought her to you, Captain Woodcock. I very much hope you can find her parents.”

“Find her parents?” Miles grinned. “I should think that would be your department, Miss Potter.”

Dimity had to repress a smile. Bea had already gained a reputation amongst the villagers as something of a sleuth. She had retrieved a stolen miniature painting, had helped to identify old Ben Hornby’s killer, and had managed to unmask that frightful woman who had tricked Christopher Kittredge into marrying her—and keep her from making off with the Kittredge family jewels.

At the thought of Christopher, Dimity felt at once a deep sadness (the appalling business had been so painful for him) and a quick joy (it was over now, and he could get on with his life). She also felt a warm, abiding gratitude, for if Bea had not found out that the dreadful woman was already married to someone else, Christopher might still be married to her. There would be no chance that—

She blushed and pulled her mind away. It was impossible. She would not think it. To cover her confusion, she said, “Abandoning a baby must be a crime. Mustn’t it, Miles?”

“Most certainly it is a crime, although it’s rarely prosecuted.” Miles pursed his lips. “It might be hard to locate the parents. And if they were found, would one want to force them to take back a baby they had abandoned out of desperation?”

Dimity’s maternal spirit was aroused. “But that’s appalling!” she exclaimed hotly. “A mother who abandons her baby ought to be put in gaol!” She appealed to her brother. “Miles, you
must
arrest this person!”

“Easier said than done, my dear Dim,” Miles replied. “Any idea who left the child, Miss Potter?”

“As a matter of fact, I saw the person,” Beatrix said. Her mouth turned up at the corners. “I caught a glimpse of her as she was scaling the wall along the side of my garden.”

“Scaling the
wall
?” Dimity asked doubtfully. The wall at Hill Top was brick, and something over five feet high.

“Yes. A plump creature,” Beatrix said. “She was wearing a red woolen petticoat, blue-and-white-striped stockings, and pattens. But I don’t think she was the baby’s mother.”

“Oh?” Miles asked. He put his pipe into his mouth. “Why not?”

“Because she had gray hair,” Beatrix replied with a small smile. “She was certainly nimble—she seemed to sail over the wall in quite a remarkable way—but I had the impression that she was rather old.”

Pulling on his pipe, Miles looked down at the basket. “We may have two crimes, then. Kidnapping and child abandonment.”

“Two crimes and a mystery,” Beatrix said.

“Yes, a mystery,” Miles replied. “Whose baby is this?”

“I don’t know of anyone in the village who fits your description,” Dimity said. It sounded very odd indeed, but she did not doubt her friend, whose powers of observation were quite remarkable. Bea noticed things that other people did not, which came of being an artist, Dimity supposed. Sometimes she almost seemed to see
through
people, into their insides. It could be disconcerting, especially if you were thinking something you didn’t want her to know.

“There’s old Dolly, of course,” she added. “But she always wears black, and she gets around with a cane. The poor old thing would never be able to hop over your wall. In fact, I can’t think of anyone who is that spry.”

Elsa Grape appeared in the doorway, a brass-handled tray of tea and scones balanced across her ample middle. “It’ll be a gypsy,” she remarked in a matter-of-fact tone. “Them and their ponies and caravans are camped at t’ foot of Broomstick Lane. Gypsies is bad to steal babies, and that’s t’ truth.”

“That’ll be all, Elsa, thank you,” Dimity said hastily. Once Elsa got on about gypsies, there was no stopping her.

Elsa set the tray down and bent over the basket to look at the baby, clucking sadly. “Wee poor bairn! Left all by her lone in t’ cold, uncarin’ world.” She straightened. “T’ butcher’s boy only had lamb chops on t’ cart yesterday, mum, so it’s lamb fer dinner today, instead of beef.” She pulled down her mouth. “And Molly broke t’ upstairs hallway lamp chimney again.”

“Oh, dear. I hope she didn’t cut herself,” Dimity said distractedly. This was the second broken lamp in a fortnight. And lamb today would make it lamb three times since last Sunday, although she didn’t suppose there was anything to be done. Elsa put in their order, but by the time the cart reached Tower Bank House, there was not much left.

Miles frowned. “Where on Broomstick Lane, Elsa?”

“Thorny Field. Been camped there near a fortnight now.” Elsa pursed her thin lips disapprovingly. “Mathilda Crook’s lost her best settin’ hen and a nest of eggs. Hannah Braithwaite’s missin’ a pair of young Jack’s green corduroy trousers. And Bertha Stubbs says they pinched Henry’s wool under-drawers from t’ bush where she put ’em to dry in the sun.”

“That’s all for now, Elsa,” Dimity interrupted hurriedly, picking up the teapot. “Thank you.”

Where gypsies were concerned, the villagers already knew what they thought, and it was never kindly. The itinerant Romany people were a regular feature of Lakeland life, traveling through the countryside in their brightly painted wooden wagons, selling horses, peddling pots and knives and baskets, telling fortunes, and working as seasonal farm laborers. There was always a nasty quarrel of some sort when they came to the district. And when the villagers talked about them, it was usually in whispers and usually had to do with something that had recently gone missing, like little Jack’s trousers or Mathilda Crook’s setting hen, or Henry Stubbs’ wool under-drawers.

Miles turned to Beatrix. “Could the person you saw have been a gypsy, do you think, Miss Potter?”

“It’s possible,” Beatrix said. She glanced at Elsa and said, not unkindly, “However, I do think we ought to withhold judgment until there’s a proper investigation.”

Elsa made a harrumphing sound. “Old er young, gypsies is fast as pure lightnin’. Thieves, ever’ one. Stole t’ babe fer a ransom, most like, and then decided it was too dang’rous to keep her.”

Dimity poured. “Bea, will you have a cup of tea?”

“And John Braithwaite’s t’ constable,” Elsa said crisply. “I told Hannah if she wanted Jack’s trousers back, she ought to send her husband down Broomstick Lane after ’em. All he has to do is watch fer a gypsy boy wearin’ green corduroy trousers and yank ’em right off.” She made a face. “Harder fer Mathilda to git her hen back, I’d say. T’ old biddy’s stewin’ in some cookpot by now. And Lord knows what’s become of Henry’s—”

“I’d be glad of a cup, thank you,” Beatrix said, and sat down on the sofa beside the baby’s basket.

Elsa, on her way out of the room, remarked, over her shoulder, “One thing’s sure. T’ bairn’s not a village babe. T’ last babe was born to Mrs. Hopkins, at Easter. His name is Jeremiah, and he’s got hair t’ color of boiled carrots. Mrs. Crawley’s due next, but not ’til Guy Fawkes.” And having delivered this definitive pronouncement, she left the room.

“P’rhaps I’ll go to the encampment myself,” Miles said, taking the cup Dimity handed him and helping himself to a scone. “Won’t hurt to have a look around.” He grinned. “I can keep my eyes peeled for Jack’s trousers and Mathilda’s hen, but I doubt I’ll see anything of Henry’s missing undergarment.”

Beatrix fingered the blue-and-white-checked cover on the basket. “This fabric has a distinctive pattern,” she said thoughtfully. “It appears to be hand-woven. If we found the weaver—”

“If there are no infants of this age in the village,” Miles said, turning to Dimity, “this baby must have come from the district at large. What’ve you heard, Dim?”

Feeling helpless, Dimity shook her head. “Not a thing, Miles. And if a mother had lost her baby, we would certainly have heard of it immediately.” The families of Near and Far Sawrey were bound by close ties of kinship and friendship. Babies were welcomed with a great deal of enthusiasm, and provided much happy gossip among relatives and friends.

“What about the Mums’ Box?” Beatrix asked, sipping her tea. “Has anyone borrowed it lately?”

“Only Mrs. Hopkins,” Dimity replied. “She’s still using it for Baby Jeremiah.” The parish Mums’ Box was filled with infant garments and necessities and lent out to mothers and babies in need. As the volunteer-in-charge, Dimity had possession of the box between babies.

“I happened to see Dr. Butters on my way here,” Beatrix said. “I took the liberty of asking him. He said that the last girl baby was born at High Loanthwaite Farm two months ago, the other side of Hawkshead. At a quick glance, he guessed that Flora is a fortnight old. If she was born in this area, he knew nothing of it.”

“I’ll make inquiries,” Miles said. He cast a concerned look at the basket. “But in the meantime, what’s to be done with the child?”

“I should be very glad to keep her,” Beatrix said, “if only for a little while.” Dimity saw that her friend’s blue eyes were filled with longing and her mouth was sadly wistful. It was a revealing look, Dimity thought with a pang. Beatrix’s life must be a lonely one. Another reason, if one were needed, to encourage the match with Miles! They were still young, and Beatrix might yet have the baby she so obviously wanted.

“By all means, then, do,” Miles said, smiling warmly. “I’m sure she would be in very good hands with you, Miss Potter.”

Beatrix gave him a regretful look. “There’s nothing I should like better, Captain Woodcock, but I can’t. I’m expecting my brother today, and I want to be free to take him around the district. And I must go back to London later in the week—Wednesday, I think—to see to a business matter with my publisher. It’s just for a day or two, but—” She made a gesture. “I would suggest Mrs. Jennings, but little Clara has a very bad cough. I’m afraid we shall have to think of something else.”

Dimity understood. Beatrix had to look after her books— although when she married Miles, that sort of thing would certainly be less important than it was now. She smiled to herself, thinking how good it would be for her brother to have a wife who would make him the center of her world. And how wonderful it would be for Bea to have a husband to take care of her.

“Well, then,” Miles said, “we shall have to give her over to the parish authorities. If her parents cannot be found, they’ll send her to the workhouse at Ulverston, to be cared for there.”

“The workhouse!” Dimity cried, horrified. “Oh, surely not, Miles! Not the workhouse!”

“But something has to be done with abandoned children,” Miles replied reasonably. “That’s the law, Dimity. Don’t worry—she’ll be looked after. I don’t know how many foundlings Ulverston has at any given time, but I’m sure it’s several.”

Beatrix leant over to smooth the pink knitted cap. “Perhaps she might be kept in the village until her parents are found.”

“Yes, Miles, yes,” Dimity said urgently.

Miles frowned. “Whom would you suggest? The Braithwaites, perhaps? Would they have room for another child?”

At that moment, the baby stirred, raised her tiny fists, and began to squirm and fuss. Dimity was surprised by her own sudden surge of longing. If only things had worked out differently with Christopher, they might have had their own children by now. If only—