The Cottage in the Woods (21 page)

“My, my,” I said. “Here I am with new books, and no little girl to read them to. Perhaps I should come back another day.”

A little face appeared, peeking from behind the chair, as if to give proof of her presence, and then retreated.

“Well! So there
is
a little girl here, after all! Then I shall be happy to read to her, if she would only help me choose a book. Let’s see. We have a yellow one, which is about fairies, and a green one, which is about Jack and the beanstalk, and we have a blue one, which I chose especially for her.” I waited for several minutes to see whether this would have any effect.

Just as I thought I would have to try some other strategy, Goldilocks emerged from behind her chair as cautiously as a wild forest animal, keeping her eyes locked on mine, ready to leap away at the smallest alarm, and crept over to the table where the books lay. Like a flash, she grabbed the one on top and absconded with it back to her little den.

I almost laughed aloud, but immediately stifled it, not wanting to encourage an act of thievery. Instead, I thought to bargain with the child, interested to see whether she heard and understood me, and whether she could reason.

“Now you have got the book, Goldilocks, and that book has another wonderful story in it, but without reading, books are silent. Would you like me to read that book to you and tell you its story?”

She looked at me with suspicion, and gripped the blue book tightly to her chest.

“If you bring the book to me, I will read it to you. You can sit right here beside me if you like, and turn the pages.” I moved to one side of the spacious chair and patted the empty spot beside me in the universal signal for “Come sit here,” then I settled down to wait. Soon Mrs. Van Winkle struck up a conversation with me, telling me all about how she had raised her large family, and so I ignored the child for some time, letting her think
this over. I did notice out of the corner of my eye that she had opened the book, and was—rather roughly—turning the pages as if looking for something. Mrs. Van Winkle had just delivered a homily on the special problems of raising twins when Goldilocks appeared at my side, thumped the book down in my lap, and swiftly tucked herself behind my chair to watch.

“Oh, what a lovely book!” I said. “Now, where has this come from?” I made a great show of looking all around the room, but not at her. I thought I heard a suppressed giggle behind me. “Well, I suppose since someone has put it in my lap, I should read it,” and so I began. It was “The Seven Swans”: the story of seven brothers who were turned into swans by a spell that could only be broken if their loving sister wove them seven shirts out of stinging nettles. I had chosen it because the sister in the story had to remain mute for the many years that it took her to weave all the shirts. I thought it might capture the child’s interest, or evoke some sign of empathetic feeling that would tell me whether she understood what I was reading. As I read of the maiden’s plight, Goldilocks moved slowly, almost imperceptibly, out from behind my chair until she was standing next to me, her tear-filled eyes locked on the book as if it were telling her own story. Again, I patted the space beside me, then continued casually reading. This went on for some time as I told of the king falling in love with the mute maiden and carrying her back to his kingdom to make her his queen—and suddenly there was Goldilocks, climbing into the chair and settling down next to me. Without pausing in my narration, I slid the book over so that it was spread across our two laps.

Reaching the end of the page, I said, “Now I’ll turn the page,” demonstrating the act with exaggerated care. At the next
page I said, “Now
you
turn the page,” and waited to see what would happen. To my great satisfaction, she copied my motion and turned the page with careful precision. I was moved to pat her on the head as a sign of approval, but this was a mistake. With a little cry, she shoved my paw away and leaped down from the chair, retreating to her hiding place on the other side of the room. My heart sinking, I made a brief but sincere apology, looking her in the eye, and then went on with the story. Slowly, she crept back to her viewing spot behind my chair. I read on to the close of the story, which seemed to keep the child spellbound. Then I pronounced, “The end,” and gently closed the book. In an instant Goldilocks maneuvered from behind the chair, grabbing for the book as if she would carry it off again, but I was faster. While I was greatly pleased that she had formed such an attachment to the book, and though I wanted her to have it, it seemed a poor choice to simply allow her to snatch it.

“Nice people have a custom when they want something. They say ‘please.’ Suppose we make a way for you to say ‘please’.” Thinking quickly, I wedged the book between my leg and the side of the chair for safekeeping, and showed her my paws put together palm to palm, as if in supplication. “Can you do this?” I asked. By this time she had grown surly. Her lower lip stuck out in a pout, and she crossed her arms over her chest in a clear gesture of refusal. “If you say ‘please’ like this, I will let you keep the book until tomorrow, and then I will read it again.” Her eyes glittered with mischief, and she made another grab for the book. I was faster this time as well. She stamped her foot and then threw herself on the floor, kicking and beating her little fists, and making an incoherent noise. I ignored this and, setting the
book in plain view on my lap, I resumed my earlier conversation with Mrs. Van Winkle, who, after ten children of her own, was an old hand at ignoring tantrums.

In the course of our conversation, I asked her whether any of her children had a special talent. A quarter of an hour later, I knew the full names and special talents of all ten of her offspring, as well as their first words and what childhood diseases each of them had had. Trying to bring the discussion around to Goldilocks, I asked Mrs. Van Winkle if she would like me to leave some books for her to read to the little girl.

“Oh, Lor’ no!” was her response. “I ain’t never larnt to read, miss! Me dear ol’ pa didn’t believe in eddicatin’ girls. Me and me sisters was all he had, an’ he didn’t eddicate none of us.”

I asked if she had ever tried to teach Goldilocks anything.

“Oh, ye’ll get nowheres with her,” the old lady assured me with a nod to the child, who was now lying exhausted and quiescent on the floor. “You can’t hexpect to suddenly civilize a wild liddle savage like that. No good raisin’ yer hopes. Don’t go breakin’ yer heart over her like the missus.”

At that moment I was aware of some motion. There came a little tug on my sleeve. I turned to find Goldilocks with her two palms together, signing “please,” with a guarded expression that told me she half expected some trick from me.

“Yes, dear,” I said to her. “You may have the book until tomorrow. Take great care of it, won’t you?” I watched as her hands closed around it and her cherub’s face flushed with surprise and delight, and for a moment I saw what she could be, perhaps, with time and effort and affection: a happy, well-mannered child.

To Mrs. Van Winkle’s warning, I replied, “Break my heart over her? Yes, perhaps I will.”

After several days of working with Goldilocks, I felt I could report to the Vaughns that the child could learn. So far I was satisfied that she understood what was being read to her, that she was capable of empathy, that she was able to pay attention for long periods of time, that she could understand a bargain and its consequences, and that she could follow simple directions—at least when she chose to. It seemed a promising start.

Upon my next meeting with Mrs. Vaughn, I asked if some physician might be consulted to evaluate whether the child was physically capable of speech. This being immediately approved, I screwed up my nerve and consulted her about the child’s costume.

“If I may say so, madam, I’m afraid she’s not comfortable in her bear suit. It seems heavy, and too hot for her.”

“Oh dear. I only thought to make her feel like she was my own cub.”

“That was very kind of you, madam. Very kind. But I wonder if she might be more at ease if she were allowed to simply be a child. Couldn’t we get her some little things in town?”

“Oh. Oh dear, I suppose you’re right. We should accept her as she is. I never thought of it that way before.” There was a quiet pause as she gazed unfocused into the distance and put her handkerchief to her snout. Finally, as if she had come to some decision, she said, “I believe I have the very thing. Come with me.”

I followed her through various passageways and up several flights of stairs to the attic. Since the house was still quite new, there was very little stored away there: a few boxes and trunks,
and a child’s velocipede sitting in an enormous empty space under the rafters. Mrs. Vaughn began moving boxes, and uncovered a beautifully carved chest with a cleverly worked brass hasp. She opened this as if it contained precious jewels. I could only see something flat wrapped in tissue paper, but she unfolded it to reveal a little dress, just about Goldilocks’s size: a creation in white lawn and crocheted lace, with a wide pink ribbon about the waist. “It was my little Jane’s,” she said. “That was Teddy’s sister, though he barely knew her. She was with us such a short time. She lies in the old churchyard now, with two of her brothers, William and Thomas. I thought I could never part with her things, but they’re just moldering away up here. I would much rather Goldilocks wear them. They’d only need to be taken in a little on the sides, don’t you think?” She held up the frock for me to see.

I was so touched by her generous heart that I could barely find words. “Dear madam,” I said, “you are so kind and good, but I think that these are much too precious to you to be dirtied and torn by an active child. She has no manners at all as yet. I’m afraid this dainty outfit would be ruined in just one meal.”

“Yes, yes, I see your point. Well, there are some things here more suitable for play. Suppose we start with those.” She gently sorted through the little garments and made a small stack of them in my arms: rompers and cotton frocks, assorted undergarments, and a dimity sailor suit. Then she carefully rewrapped the remaining clothes, closed the chest with a sigh, and led the way back downstairs.

Before the day was out, Dr. Robinson, the local physician, had been consulted, and on his recommendation a letter had been posted to the eminent Dr. Bernhard Ehrlichmann,
requesting his presence at the Cottage in the Woods for an examination of the child, since it was thought that Goldilocks was too mercurial and fearful as yet to travel. Also an order was sent to town for a small pair of button-up shoes, and a certain toy I had suggested, suitable for a little human girl.

That was the day I discovered that Mr. Bentley had returned unexpectedly from his convalescence at the vicarage, and had resumed his duties, as well as his habitual professional deportment. I had succeeded, the day before, in sending him a note explaining the impossibility of any more visits at the vicarage, and had begged his pardon, but when I consulted with him over sending out the orders, he gave no indication that he had received my note, and I could not bring myself to ask. In my surprise and confusion, I barely knew how to speak to him at all, so I imitated his impersonal formality while we took care of the business at hand. Not until he followed me into the hall and asked to have a word with me did I recognize the more relaxed and charming Mr. Bentley I had come to know while he was recuperating.

“Miss Brown!” he announced with solemnity. “I must take you to task.”

“For what, pray, Mr. Bentley?”

“For your heartlessness in abandoning me to my lonely sickbed. I was forced to cut short my recovery for want of company. Surely you don’t intend to leave Robinson Crusoe alone with all those cannibals, do you? A very unwholesome state of affairs, to my way of thinking.”

I had to suppress a little smile, trying not to be swayed by his charm. “I do apologize for leaving off my visits so abruptly. I sent a note. Didn’t you receive it?”

“A note!” he remonstrated. “A fine substitute that makes for the spoken word!”