She took her shepherd’s crook out of the umbrella stand and reached for the woolen jacket that hung on a peg beside the door. It was nearly half past seven in the evening, but the sun wouldn’t set for another hour and the reception’s sandwiches and cakes would do for her supper. It was too wet to work in the garden, but not too wet to walk through the sheep meadow and look over her flock, which now numbered some fourteen ewes and lambs. She was anxious to see how they were getting on.
The sky overhead had cleared, the sun was dropping into a pool of lemon and lavender clouds behind the western fells, and the air was as sweet and clean as a freshly laundered sheet. Looking up, she saw two white-fleeced sheep on the flank of the hill to the east of the house. They looked like a pair of cotton puffs, grazing on the lush green grass. The others were probably on the far side of the hill.
As she went down the walk, Rascal ran around the corner of the house.
“Wait for me, Miss Potter!”
he yipped. Behind him, running to catch up, came Deirdre, her eyes shining.
“Miss Potter!” Deirdre called breathlessly. “I have something t’ tell you! Something wonderful!”
“Well, tell away,” Beatrix invited, and listened as Deirdre spilled her story, all about a fairy glen, and a riddle pinned to an oak tree with a silver knife, and an invitation to come back on May Eve. “My goodness,” she said at last, not quite sure how much of the tale to believe—although it was quite obvious that Deirdre herself believed every word. “You
have
had a magical adventure, haven’t you?”
“Oh, yes, yes, yes!” Deirdre exclaimed, her eyes dancing. “And Jeremy and Caroline say they want you to go with us on May Eve. You will go, won’t you?” She sucked in her breath. “Won’t you?”
“Of course I will,” Beatrix said. She remembered her conversation with Lady Longford and her ladyship’s assertion that she had forbidden Caroline to go out with Deirdre. “So Caroline went with you?” she asked, heartened at the thought that Caroline had defied her grandmother’s unreasonable order. Defiance wasn’t ladylike, of course, but that was the virtue of it.
“’Deed she did,” Deirdre replied. “I’ve got to go now. I’m late, and Mrs. Sutton’s goin’ to be put out at me.”
“Well, then,” Beatrix said, “I’ll see you on May Eve. And just to be safe,” she added, “I’ll let Mrs. Sutton know that I’ve asked you to go for a walk in the woods that evening.” The village children came and went pretty much as they chose, but Deirdre was in Rose Sutton’s employ. And how did Caroline expect to get away from Tidmarsh Manor?
Deirdre gave a cheerful wave and was gone.
“Come with me, Rascal,” Beatrix said. “I’m going out to check my sheep.”
“Of course!”
Rascal barked. He enjoyed escorting Miss Potter, and took it as one of his responsibilities when she was staying at Hill Top Farm. They usually happened on something interesting, and she always chatted with him as if he were Big Folk.
“I wish you’d been with us this afternoon,”
he barked happily, dancing along beside her.
“If you could only have seen their faces when Jeremy read that riddle! Of course, nobody could guess it. Why—”
“Miss Potter! Miss Potter!” They turned to see Mr. Heelis, waving his hat and running toward them.
“I’m glad I caught you, Miss Potter,” he said breathlessly. “Would you have a moment to talk? I have something important to discuss with you.”
“Of course,” Beatrix said with a smile, feeling very glad to see him. She gestured toward the hillside. “I’m surveying my sheep. You’re welcome to come along.”
She gave an involuntary and completely unconscious sigh. If Mr. Heelis was romantically interested in Dimity Woodcock, she could only be glad. Dimity would indeed be fortunate in her choice, for Mr. Heelis, who was very good-looking, had a solid, sensible head on his shoulders and was widely respected. He was shy with women, perhaps, but that would surely disturb Dimity no more than it bothered Beatrix, who was herself a shy person.
Will Heelis, who had no idea that he was being romantically linked to anyone, was just as pleased to see Miss Potter as she was to see him, and remembered their previous encounters with a great deal of pleasure. He admired her quick wit and her willingness to say exactly what she thought, an unusual quality in a woman, he had found. Even more important, she was so straightforward and comradely that she made him feel easy and comfortable. He was glad that this affair at Raven Hall, unpleasant as it might be, had given him an excuse to talk with Miss Potter again.
“Thanks for the invitation,” he said, and fell into step beside her, George Crook’s little terrier following along behind. “Enjoying the springtime weather?” he asked, feeling self-conscious. Small talk was never easy for him, but he didn’t want to jump into the Raven Hall business right off the mark.
“I love the spring,” Miss Potter replied, in her soft, light voice. “The sight of the green meadows, the fells, the lakes—it washes away unhappiness, don’t you think? I’m sorry I can’t just settle in and stay forever.” And then she bit her lip and fell silent, as if she might have said too much, or didn’t want to mar the fragile beauty of the evening by talking of something that made her unhappy.
Will could guess what she was thinking. According to those who knew her parents, the Potters were stern, exacting people who disapproved of their daughter’s spending time at her farm. And her artistic life must be demanding, as well—he understood that she wrote and drew two books a year. Between her parents and her work, it was surprising that she managed to get to Sawrey as often as she did.
And although Will knew very little about Miss Potter’s personal life, it was rumored in the village that there had been a short engagement—angrily disapproved by the Potters—which ended when her fiancé had suddenly died. His loss must have come as an unimaginable shock, especially if she had accepted the proposal in the teeth of her parents’ disapproval. The ring she wore on her left hand was probably an engagement ring, which meant, he supposed, that her heart still belonged to her dead lover.
He said, in a casual tone, “Well, I’m always glad for spring, when it comes. I’d a great deal rather be going about the countryside than reading papers at my desk.” He chuckled reminiscently. “I grew up in Appleby, you see—the valley of the Eden River, not far from here. Lovely place. Plenty of fishing, hunting. I’m glad my property work takes me out so much.”
“Property.” Miss Potter turned her head and gave him a measuring glance. “I suppose you know what’s likely to be available. Before it’s offered for sale, I mean.”
“I often do.” He spoke ruefully, for he had not anticipated the development of the Raven Hall estate. “Are you thinking of acquiring more land?”
“I might be,” Miss Potter replied, “as an investment. I’d be grateful if you would let me know if you should hear about something.” She stopped and pointed, laughing, “Oh, look, Mr. Heelis—there’s Tibbie, one of the Herdwick ewes I bought from Mr. Hornby. And she has twin lambs! Aren’t they beautiful? I’ve already counted two,” she added, “so these make five. There are fourteen in all.”
Rascal saw the sheep, too.
“Hullo, Tibbie,”
he called, and trotted over to talk to her, not having seen her for quite some time. The lambs were doing what lambs always did in the springtime, he saw, gamboling through the grass and meadow flowers while their mother looked on anxiously, making little worried bleats.
“Laaambs,”
she cried.
“Stay away from the nettles! Mind that you don’t tumble down the rocks!”
She frowned at Rascal.
“Aaand you stay away from my laaambs, Raaascal. Daisy and Marigold are still very young. They don’t understaaand dogs.”
“I will,”
Rascal promised.
“Listen, Tibbie, I wonder if you know anything about Fern Vale Village.”
Tibbie had lived at the edge of Cuckoo Brow Wood until just last year, and was always informed about the local goings-on.
“Whaaat’s to know about it?”
Tibbie asked crossly.
“You caaan’t trust those Fern Vale dwelves aaany faaarther thaaan you caaan see them, aaand you caaan’t see them very faaar, the naughty things. What’s more, they may be something entirely different the next time you see them.”
“Something entirely different?”
Rascal asked, bewildered.
“What does that mean?”
But Tibbie was in no mood to answer questions.
“My advice to you is to stay away from them. They’re nothing but trouble to us civilized creatures. They—”
The ewe raised her head in alarm.
“Daisy, don’t eat thaaat thistle!”
she bleated. And with that, she dashed off to discipline her lambs.
Will had been watching the little dog approach the ewe. “Herdwicks,” he said thoughtfully. “You like the breed?”
Miss Potter tossed her head. “I do indeed. I know they’re considered old-fashioned, and that their fleece is nearly worthless, now that linoleum has replaced wool carpets. But I’m not expecting the farm to do anything more than pay its way. And Herdwicks are native to the Lake District. They belong here, as I do, and I’m very fond of them.” She glanced at him and added, with something like defiance, “I’m sure that sounds sentimental.”
“Perhaps.” He smiled down at her, thinking that she was prettiest when her cheeks were pink, as they were now. “But it’s a sentiment I share. Like the sheep, I’m heafed to the land.” He watched her face to see if she understood. “Heafing” was a word that described the Herdwicks’ almost uncanny ability to return to their native fellside, no matter how far away they might wander.
The sudden, bright smile seemed to transform her face. “And so am I, Mr. Heelis. Heafed, that is. So we both have something in common with the Herdwicks.” She began to walk up the hill. “Tell me—what was it you wanted to discuss?”
Rascal hurried back to join them, his ears perked. It sounded as if they were about to get down to business.
“Actually, there are several things,” Will said uncomfortably, clasping his hands behind his back. “I must confess to overhearing some of the conversation you had with Miss Woodcock and Miss Barwick when we were returning from Raven Hall this evening. Captain Woodcock’s motor car was so loud that I couldn’t hear all of it, but—”
“I’m surprised that you could hear any of it,” Miss Potter retorted with a little laugh. “But I wasn’t speaking confidentially,” she added. “And anyway, I listened to what you were saying to the captain about those dreadful villas, so we’re even.”
Will nodded soberly. “Tit for tat, then. I was interested in your observation about Mrs. Kittredge dropping the goblet.”
“She dropped the goblet?”
Rascal yelped in surprise.
“Did it break?”
“Major Kittredge is a long-time friend of mine,” Will went on, “and a client. I have the feeling that he’s cutting himself in for some serious trouble about those villas. And if there’s anything in his wife’s life that might cause him difficulty—” He rubbed his hand through his hair, feeling that he wasn’t explaining his interest very well. “I’m not a man who takes pleasure in gossip, Miss Potter. I am concerned for my friend’s welfare, or I wouldn’t be asking.”
Miss Potter glanced over her shoulder, noticing a ewe and her lamb under an oak tree. “That would be seven,” she said, half to herself. To Will, she said, “I was standing nearby when it happened, you see. Like everyone else, I thought at the time that it was simply an unfortunate accident, and felt sorry that the Luck was broken.”
“So it DID break!”
Rascal cried excitedly.
“But when I had a moment to reflect,” Miss Potter continued, “I felt—no, I was sure—that this was not the case.” She gave Will a steady, unapologetic look. “It is my opinion that Mrs. Kittredge dropped the goblet on purpose, Mr. Heelis.”
“On PURPOSE?”
Rascal could hardly believe what he had heard.
Will was staring at her. “On purpose? But in heaven’s name, why?”
“Just before this happened, Mr. Thexton was saying he thought he recognized Mrs. Kittredge, but didn’t seem quite sure. And then he said, ‘By thunder, I remember now! I do know you, of course I do! You are Irene—’ And that’s when she dropped the goblet.”
“Irene?” Will frowned. “You’re sure about that?”
“I am positive, Mr. Heelis. I was in a position to hear, and I have an excellent memory. I memorized nearly all of the plays of Shakespeare when I was a girl, so Mr. Thexton’s simple remark is scarcely taxing.” Miss Potter lifted her shepherd’s crook and pointed to a ewe and a lamb lying together in the roots of a tall fir. “Nine.”
“Maybe it’s a name she once used,”
Rascal offered tentatively.
“Perhaps Irene was the name of a character Mrs. Kittredge once played.” Will cleared his throat. “I suppose you know that she was a stage actress before she and the major married.”
Miss Potter inclined her head. “Yes, I have heard. But I doubt that the mention of a mere character’s name—or a stage name—would have had such an astonishing effect. The lady was terrified that Mr. Thexton would complete his sentence. In fact, she was so deeply distressed that one wonders whether she—” She hesitated, as if she were not sure that she ought to speak.
Rascal bounced up and down.
“What? Go on, Miss Potter. Go on!”
“Whether she—what?” Will prompted, beginning to feel apprehensive.
“One can only speculate, of course.” Miss Potter took a deep breath. “But one wonders whether the lady is who she says she is.”
“Ah,”
Rascal said.
“Of course.”
Will’s apprehension grew. His companion had already proven, on several previous occasions, to be quite an astonishing judge of character, and he trusted her reading of what had happened. What’s more, he knew (although he wouldn’t tell Miss Potter) that Christopher had fallen passionately in love with the lady who was now Mrs. Kittredge and married her on only a fortnight’s acquaintance. What if there had been some sort of awkwardness or unpleasantness in her past? He did not want to be involved in Christopher’s personal relationships, but if there was something badly awry, something that might somehow damage his friend, he wanted to know what it was.