The Tale of Cuckoo Brow Wood (19 page)

Beatrix was not by nature an eager party-goer, and avoided large gatherings whenever possible. Required to attend a social event, she much preferred to make her entrance unnoticed and find a quiet corner from which she could watch the guests. She liked to study strange faces, to try to decide what sort of person was hidden behind his or her party finery and to make up amusing and sometimes mocking stories about them—to herself, of course.

This afternoon, though, she found that standing on the sidelines was not possible, for Captain Woodcock would not allow it. She tried to extricate her gloved hand from his elbow as they walked through the room, only to find it gripped tighter.

He leaned close to her with a teasing smile and whispered in her ear, “Come now, Miss Potter. Let’s relax and enjoy ourselves, shall we?” He turned her so that they were facing a tall oak cabinet, elaborately carved, which held only a single object, a large glass goblet colored in gilt, red, blue, and green, with traceries of leaves and flowers etched in gold. “If nothing else,” he added, “we can admire the Luck of Raven Hall.” He gestured grandly. “There it is, in all its antique glory. We are supposed to find it astonishingly beautiful, I’m told.”

“How . . . interesting,” Beatrix mused. She had seen a great deal of art glass in various museums and exhibits, some of which she had admired. She did not admire this.

“Yes. Raven Hall’s claim to fame and fortune. Good fortune, that is.” The captain chuckled. “I can see that you’re not impressed, though.”

“Fairies cannot be expected to have studied the design and manufacture of art glass,” Beatrix said dryly. “One must surely take that into account, mustn’t one?”

“You do have a discriminating eye, Miss Potter,” said the captain, laughing. “But no doubt half the people here have come to ogle it—and Mrs. Kittredge.”

The captain wore a smile but Beatrix felt a certain tension in him, the reason for which was revealed in his next words, spoken in a lower tone. “Perhaps you can point out Mr. Richardson, the man who intends to build villas along the lakeshore.”

Ah, yes, those horrid villas, Beatrix thought. She turned to look around the room, searching for Mr. Richardson. After a moment, she caught a glimpse of him standing beside the refreshment table. He was wearing a pale blue frock coat and a ruffled shirt. Now that he was hatless, she could see that he was nearly bald and even more toadlike than she remembered. She had just pointed him out to the captain when they was interrupted by a tall, dark man, his right hand outstretched.

“There you are, Woodcock!” he exclaimed. “I was hoping you would be here. How good to see you. What’s it been? Six years?”

The man must be their host, Beatrix decided, for the left sleeve of his coat was empty and pinned up, his right eye was hidden by a black patch, and the right side of his face, which had been seriously burned, was disfigured by a hideous scar. But he wore a welcoming smile, his voice was full and firm, and there was a certain upright dignity about him that inspired respect.

At the major’s elbow stood the woman Beatrix had seen at the ferry landing. Her bright red tresses were piled on top of her head and her shoulders were bared by a low-cut gray silk dress that would have been more suitable for a London midnight soirée than a Saturday afternoon reception in the Lake District. Her lips and cheeks were brightly tinted and her eyes flashed. But now that Beatrix had a closer look, she saw that there was a very hard core of determination behind that decorative feminine façade. Mrs. Kittredge, she thought, was the sort of woman who would make up her mind what she wanted most, and then find a way to get it—whatever way might present itself, without any special regard to morality.

“Kittredge!” Captain Woodcock replied enthusiastically, pumping Major Kittredge’s hand. “So good to see you, Major. And this must be the beautiful Mrs. Kittredge! Welcome to our village, my dear. We are glad for both of you, and wish you the very best.” And with a gallant flourish that Beatrix thought rather overdone, Captain Woodcock bent to kiss the major’s wife’s hand.

“So nice to meet you, Captain,” Mrs. Kittredge murmured, looking at him demurely from under her long, dark lashes. She turned to Beatrix. “And is this Mrs. Woodcock?”

Captain Woodcock’s eyes met Beatrix’s with a cheerful twinkle, and he shook his head. “Allow me to present my neighbor at Hill Top Farm, and quite a famous author, Miss Beatrix Potter.”

“Miss Potter,” said the major, bowing. “Oh, yes, indeed. I had heard that Hill Top has been purchased and is being restocked. We’re delighted that you could join us this afternoon.”

“An author!” Mrs. Kittredge exclaimed, raising her eyebrows. “And what sort of books do you write, Miss Potter? Do they sell well?”

Captain Woodcock took a step backward and even the major seemed to blink at that last remarkably ill-mannered question. Beatrix regarded her for a moment, and then, with a purely wicked intent, said, “My best-known work is
The Tale of Peter Rabbit.
It’s about a very naughty rabbit who wants what he must not have.”

Mrs. Kittredge drew herself up, as though she thought perhaps Beatrix was poking fun at her. “I don’t believe I’ve heard of it,” she said, adding, with barely disguised disdain, “A children’s book, I suppose.”

“It is only the most beloved children’s book in all of England,” Captain Woodcock retorted sharply, but Mrs. Kittredge had already turned away to offer her hand and her smiles to someone else.

The major looked distressed. “You’ll forgive Mrs. Kittredge, I hope, Miss Potter. I’m sure she intended no rudeness.”

“Of course,” Beatrix murmured, although she knew exactly what Mrs. Kittredge had intended, and felt thoroughly snubbed. It wasn’t the first time. A great many people seemed to feel that children’s books were somehow less significant than books for grownups, and did not hesitate to say so.

Captain Woodcock put a sympathetic hand on her arm, seemed about to say something, then caught sight of Will Heelis, standing by the window. “Excuse me, Miss Potter,” he said hurriedly. “I need to speak with Mr. Heelis. I shall return.”

A moment later Beatrix saw the two of them with their heads together, casting furtive glances at Mr. Richardson, so she assumed that the captain was passing along her information about the Sandiford Syndicate. And from the distasteful look on Mr. Heelis’s face, she thought he might be acquainted with the man. She was glad Mr. Heelis was involved in the matter. She knew that his law firm handled most of the property sales in the area, and when it came to property, she had every confidence in him.

Relieved to be left alone, Beatrix found a corner where she could watch the gathering, which included many people she recognized. There was Dr. Butters, from Hawkshead, whom all the villagers thought must be the finest doctor in the world. And the Braithwaites and Crooks, huddled together like sheep, looking as if they were overawed by the greatness of the place. Lester Barrow, the owner of the Tower Bank Arms, was hovering like a harrier over the refreshment table, as if comparing its offerings to his own less ample bill of fare. And Miss Nash, recently appointed head teacher of Sawrey School, and her sister Annie, who taught piano lessons to the Sawrey children, were chattering as gaily as two robins with Sarah Barwick, who had forsaken her trousers for a feminine white shirtwaist with puffy sleeves and a high lace collar and a beige skirt with a dressy flounce. Sarah looked pleased with herself, and well she might, for many of the baked goods on the table had come from her kitchen, and her Tipsy Cake (made from Mrs. Beeton’s famous recipe) was fast disappearing. Bertha and Henry Stubbs were there, and Elsa Grape, and Lucy and Joseph Skead, and the Jenningses and the Suttons and even Lydia Dowling, who had said she intended to send her regrets.

And there was the vicar, Samuel Sackett, looking unaccustomedly merry as he greeted Major Kittredge. Beatrix was close enough to hear him introduce his cousin, Mr. Thexton, and Mr. Thexton’s wife, who had been staying with him for several months—the guests, she assumed, who could not be budged from their comfortable accommodations at the vicarage. She smiled to herself when she heard the vicar, with an unmistakable cheeriness, repeat the news that they were planning to depart on the following Monday.

“I’ve just learned about the Luck of Raven Hall, Major,” said Mr. Thexton. He was a burly man with a pink face; small, dark eyes; and a bulbous nose over a bushy, drooping mustache. He put Beatrix in mind of a walrus, and she had to suppress a giggle at the thought.

“Oh, really,” said the major, without much enthusiasm.

“Oh, yes,” Mr. Thexton replied earnestly. “I am, you see, a collector of folk tales, with a very special interest in all things Fairy. I am presently engaged in writing a book about the folk tales of the Lake District. My dear cousin, the vicar”—with a bow in the vicar’s direction—“who has extended the greatest hospitality to my wife and myself, has been so kind as to relate to me the remarkable story of your Luck. I should delight in examining it, truly I would, and hearing once again, and in greater detail, the astonishing tale of its fairy origins. And I should be even more pleased to hear about the good fortune it has brought to your family. I intend to include it in my volume, you see.” He stroked his mustache and smiled in an ingratiating way. “I hope I am not being immodest when I say that this will amplify the quite natural public interest in your goblet, and will very likely increase its worth as an
objet d’art.
”

Major Kittredge grunted. “You may certainly have a look at the blasted thing.” He waved a hand in the direction of the oaken cabinet. “It’s right over there, for all to see. As to worth, I have no idea. But where good fortune is concerned, I can’t say that Raven Hall has been blessed. Quite the contrary, in fact. The family has had a dismal streak of bad fortune ever since it appeared. My father always said he wished the wretched thing would be broken. Perhaps things might change.”

Mrs. Kittredge was having a conversation with Lady Longford, Caroline Longford’s grandmother. She turned and, over her shoulder, tossed her husband a pretty little pout. “Oh, but Christopher, my sweet, don’t you think our marriage signifies a change in the Kittredge luck?”

“Of course, my dear,” the major said in a repentant tone. “But we’ve been married for only a few months—and the damnable Luck has been in the family ever since this house was built.”

“Well, well, well,” Mr. Thexton said eagerly, rubbing his hands together. “I must say, this is all extremely interesting, Major Kittredge.” He glanced at Mrs. Kittredge in a casual way, then bent forward, as if to give her a closer look.

“Some people seem to think so,” said the major, in a tone that suggested he didn’t think so himself and wished that Mr. Thexton would go away and stop bothering him.

“Oh, yes!” Mr. Thexton exclaimed, in a loud, booming voice, still looking at Mrs. Kittredge. “Oh, I am anxious—anxious indeed, sir!—to see this marvelous relic of a magical past. Perhaps your wife would be so good as to show it to me.”

“Diana, our guest would like to examine the Luck,” Major Kittredge said dryly. “Would you be so kind as to oblige him, my dear?”

Mrs. Kittredge did not appear pleased to have been given the assignment. Reluctantly, she excused herself to Lady Longford and, scarcely looking at the man, said, “Come with me, Mr. Sexton.”

“Thexton,” the vicar’s cousin corrected her. “With a
th.
” In a lower voice, as the pair passed directly in front of Beatrix, he remarked, “My dear Mrs. Kittredge, I can’t help wondering if you and I have met before.”

Mrs. Kittredge tossed her head lightly. “I do not think so, sir.”

“Oh, but I am confident of it,” Mr. Thexton persisted. “Just give me a moment, and I’m sure it will come back to me. I have a quite remarkable memory, you know. I have committed entire books and plays to memory. And I never forget a face, especially a beautiful face, if I may be pardoned for expressing my admiration.”

Mrs. Kittredge did not answer. The pair paused in front of the oaken cupboard, where the lady reached up to take down the heavy goblet.

At Beatrix’s elbow, Lady Longford spoke imperiously. “Fairies,” she scoffed, snapping her black lace fan. “And Mr. Thexton a grown man. How very embarrassing for the vicar. If I were Reverend Sackett, I would not tolerate such behavior, not for a moment.”

“I must own to having believed in fairies myself, as a young person,” Beatrix said mildly. “And sometimes I think I still do believe.”

“Allowances can be made for you, Miss Potter,” her ladyship said in an acid tone, “because you make books for children. It is to your advantage to believe in magic, or to pretend that you do. How else could you write with conviction about speaking animals and the like?” She gave a complaining sniff. “However, such beliefs do not at all become a gentleman of Mr. Thexton’s obvious education and breeding. I simply cannot think why he should persist in such—”

Beatrix, however, was not listening to Lady Longford’s complaint. Her attention had been attracted to the drama unfolding in front of the oaken cupboard, although afterward, when she thought about it, she had a distinctly different impression from the one she formed as she watched.

What she saw was Mrs. Kittredge, handing the goblet to Mr. Thexton. He was reaching for it but did not quite have it in his grasp when he stopped, peered intently into her face, and exclaimed, loudly and impulsively, “By thunder, I remember now! I do know you, of course I do! You are Irene—”

Mrs. Kittredge’s eyes opened wide and her face turned dead white. The Luck slipped from her fingers, fell to the floor with a splintering crash, and shattered into a thousand brightly colored pieces.

20

As the party-goers were arriving at the Raven Hall reception, eager to see the mysterious Mrs. Kittredge, the children—Caroline, Deirdre, and Jeremy—were making their way through Cuckoo Brow Wood in search of fairies. They were accompanied by Rascal, the village dog, who was guiding them with the aid of a map provided (yes, it’s true) by Bosworth Badger.