There was a moment’s silence. “So you’ve come to me,” Lady Longford said, frowning darkly, “to ask for money. Well, it won’t do you any good.”
Beatrix felt her insides clench. What a disagreeable old lady! She had to steady her voice before she could speak. “We’re asking you to be generous toward a young man who can benefit greatly from your help,” she said in measured tones.
Lady Longford made a harrumphing sound. “It comes down to money in the end, though. It always does. People asking for a pound here and another pound there, all in the name of charity.” Hearing her tone, Dudley lifted his head and growled. “It is very vexing,” she went on, with a self-pitying sigh. “One does well to manage for oneself and one’s household, without being expected to support every improvident Tom, Dick, and Harry who believes himself to be in need of shoes or a winter coat. I don’t know why people always turn to me.”
And then, just when their effort seemed hopeless, Beatrix was suddenly inspired. She put on a look of blank surprise.
“But Lady Longford, to whom else should we turn? Jeremy and his aunt
are
your tenants, and Lord Longford, as everyone knows, was widely respected for his generosity toward those who occupied his lands and cottages. Mr. Heelis and I were sure that you would want to do something for the boy in honor of your husband’s memory—but perhaps we’ve been presumptuous.”
And then, not looking at Mr. Heelis, Beatrix added, “Of course, we did discuss the possibility of asking for a special collection at the Sunday church service.” She hoped that Mr. Heelis would not give her away, for they had discussed no such thing. He did not disappoint her.
“Yes,” he said gravely, taking her cue, “we did think of asking Vicar Sackett to take up an offering. But we feared that your ladyship might be offended if we asked others before you had an opportunity to help.”
Her ladyship grimaced. “Fat lot of good it would do you, anyway. Most villagers haven’t two pence to rub together, especially after the men come home from the pub on Saturday night.” She gave a dry cough. “Have you thought of asking Major Kittredge? Judging from the style of Saturday’s reception at Raven Hall, the man has a deep purse.”
“Yes, we’ve discussed that possibility,” Mr. Heelis said, although they had not spoken of that, either. “Major Kittredge could certainly afford it, but he is not acquainted with the boy. And the Crosfields are not his tenants.”
Beatrix put on a look of concern. “That was it, you see, Lady Longford. We feared that others would think it . . . well, odd. That is, if the master of Raven Hall should offer to fund Jeremy’s education when the boy and his aunt are tenants of Tidmarsh Manor.”
“I suppose you’re right,” her ladyship said slowly. “But I shouldn’t like to set a precedent by simply giving money to the boy. There would have to be something—”
“Of course,” Beatrix said in warm agreement. “Your ladyship is exactly right. He should
earn
such a great honor, and it should be public. What if it were announced—say, at tomorrow’s May Day celebration—that Jeremy Crosfield was the winner of the Longford Scholarship, awarded in memory of the late Lord Longford?”
Lady Longford frowned. “But that might oblige me to continue paying—”
“If it were a scholarship to Kelsick,” Mr. Heelis put in hurriedly, “it would be awarded only to a child who passes the entrance examination, which I understand is very difficult. In fact, Jeremy is the only child to have done so in the history of the village school. So, practically speaking, I should say that his is an exceptional case.”
“Still, it would be a considerable expense,” her ladyship said doubtfully. “I suppose there will be board and room costs, as well as the tuition. And the boy would have to have clothes and—”
“Yes, of course,” Beatrix said, feeling entirely out of patience. She put down her teacup and stood. “Mr. Heelis, we have imposed on Lady Longford’s hospitality long enough.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Heelis, also rising. “It would undoubtedly be better to approach Major Kittredge with the plan for the scholarship. He—”
“Oh, sit down,” Lady Longford snapped crossly. “You make my neck stiff, stalking about like a pair of cranes.” When they had seated themselves again, she said, “I see I’ll get no peace from either of you until I’ve agreed to pay for this boy’s education. How much is it going to cost me?”
“I’ve taken the liberty of working up an estimate.” Mr. Heelis reached into his pocket and took out a folded sheet of paper. “It comes to a fairly minimal annual expenditure of around twenty pounds, give or take a few shillings.”
“Twenty pounds!” Lady Longford exclaimed, aghast.
“Of course,” Beatrix said, “if that seems too much, Major Kittredge might—”
“Oh, bother Major Kittredge!” Lady Longford cried angrily, and snatched the paper from Mr. Heelis. She scanned it, then said, in a curt tone, “I shall give you a cheque for the first year, Heelis, so that there is no confusion. And I mean to be present when the scholarship is announced.”
“Yes, please come!” Beatrix said energetically, thinking how the ceremony would be arranged. “There will be a place of honor for you on the platform. Captain Woodcock will introduce you as the donor when he makes the presentation of the Longford Scholarship. The vicar will say a few words of thank-you, and Miss Nash will—”
“Do leave off, Miss Potter,” commanded her ladyship wearily, waving her hand. “You make me tired just listening to you. Heelis, my cheques are in the desk drawer. Miss Potter, pour me another cup of tea.”
Beatrix poured the tea, and as she handed the cup to Lady Longford, remarked, in a diffident tone, “I wonder if your ladyship would allow me to borrow Caroline this afternoon and evening. I have a project with which I should very much like to have her assistance—if you can spare her, that is. She could spend the night at Hill Top and go on to school in the morning.”
“I have no objection, I suppose,” Lady Longford said, scarcely paying attention. “No, Heelis. It is the drawer on the left.”
“Thank you,” Beatrix said. “I shall go to the school and let Caroline know. Would you like another slice of bread-and-butter with your tea?”
A short while later, Mr. Heelis, with Lady Longford’s cheque in the breast pocket of his coat, was handing Beatrix into his gig. “You are a wonder, Miss Potter,” he said.
“I’m not at all sure what you mean by that,” Beatrix said crisply. “I simply saw an opportunity and—”
“You simply read her ladyship like a book, that’s what you did,” Mr. Heelis said, climbing up beside her and picking up the reins. “And you lied like a trooper, with nae a blink of t’eye, as the local folk say. If you should decide to interest yourself in the practice of law—”
“I have quite enough to do already, Mr. Heelis,” Beatrix replied tartly. “As far as lying goes, I cannot condone those who would be maliciously deceitful, such as Mrs. Irene Waring. But I certainly believe that lying in the service of a greater truth is forgivable, although perhaps not entirely admirable.”
“Agreed,” Mr. Heelis replied, and they drove off. “The scholarship—a ripping good idea, by the way—will be the making of the boy. And it’s good for Lady Longford’s soul to part with some of her money. God knows she has enough of it. She could do a great deal of good for the village, if she would, which she probably won’t.” He chuckled. “The next time I need to persuade someone to agree to something unpleasant, Miss Potter, I’ll be sure to bring you along.”
Beatrix looked at the watch pinned to her lapel and changed the subject. “I see it is nearly time for the children to be dismissed. Perhaps we could drive to the school and let Caroline know that her grandmother has given her permission to spend the night at Hill Top Farm.”
“Of course,” Mr. Heelis said, and added curiously, “If you don’t mind my asking, what are you planning?”
Beatrix chuckled. “I fear that I have written about too many excessively impertinent bunnies, Mr. Heelis. My sympathies lie with the rebellious.”
“Ah,” Mr. Heelis said. “And so you are aiding and abetting Miss Caroline’s rebellion?”
“Something of the sort,” Beatrix replied. “I resisted being trained up to be a lady, which is apt to wring out all one’s original and creative spirit. I am sorry to say that this seems to be Lady Longford’s aim for Caroline. However, tonight’s little escapade is almost entirely innocent. It is May Eve. We are going to look for fairies.”
There was a moment’s silence, long enough for Beatrix to wonder if Mr. Heelis thought she should not be involved in anything that thwarted Lady Longford’s intentions for her granddaughter. But when she turned to look at him, she saw that the corners of his mouth were quirking.
“Fairies, eh? I remember watching for fairies myself as a boy. There was a place along the Eden, where they were said to live—a very pretty place, with overhanging willows and spring flowers. We used to go there, on May Eve. If you’d like, I should be glad to accompany you.” He glanced down at her, his eyes smiling. “In case of goblins, of course. Or trolls. May Eve brings out all sorts, and some of them are dangerous.”
“Why, thank you, Mr. Heelis,” Beatrix said, genuinely pleased. “I think, however, that the children view this rather as a special occasion, and—”
“And I would be intruding.” He sighed and shook his head. “Ah, well. The price of growing up, I suppose. One does it at one’s peril.”
Afterward, Beatrix was to vividly remember his offer, and wish that she had not been so quick to reject it.
35
The Mysteries of May Eve
TUESDAY, 30 APRIL
In the ancient days of the Celts, when all lived by the Wheel of the Year, May Eve (then called Beltane, for Bel, the Celtic god of fire) was one of the eight seasonal celebrations. Halfway between the spring equinox and the summer solstice, it marked the magical passage from the long months of chilly darkness to the season of light and warmth, when the fields and forests became exuberantly green and the sky became deliciously blue. This joyful event was celebrated with a night of games and feasting and merry-making, with bonfires and dancing and happy song. In the Old Tradition, it was a night when the veil between the Earthworld and the Otherworld became thin and very nearly transparent. The Fairy Folk were known to come out on that night to dance, and there would always be a few lucky humans who would see them. Or unlucky, for it has been claimed that some were carried off by fairies on this night, not to be seen again, or saw such sights that they were changed forever, and returned to their mortal existence as mad as hatters.
Of course, as the nineteenth century turned into the twentieth, much of this fairy lore was forgotten or laughed at, for the world had become far too sophisticated—and skeptical and ironic—to tolerate such nonsense. In the cities, nothing much survived of the traditional May celebration; in fact, the first day of May had become a day to celebrate workers and serious work, rather than indulge in games and frivolous play. In the villages, only the May Pole and the Ribbon Dance were left to mark this day from any other, and the games and festivities were now seen as childish celebrations fit for schoolchildren, rather than a happy ritual for all to join. And fairies were relegated to books and the stage, where readers and play-goers (chiefly children) could indulge their fantasies in safety, without fear of being carried away.
But there remained a few parts of the British Isles where fairies were not forgotten or shunned. In the rural areas of Scotland, Wales, and Ireland, many swore that the Folk still populated the hills and dales, more secluded than before, perhaps, but still very much alive. And in the Land between the Lakes, while some might not publicly own up to such beliefs, only a few would swear on a Bible that there were no fairies, or that all the elves and trolls and tree-spirits had left the woods many years before. And even fewer would venture out at twilight on May Eve to put the possibility of fairies to the test.
This might have been why Beatrix, Deirdre, and Caroline did not see a single soul as they walked up Market Street, through the village. Or it might simply have been that this was the hour when most families were getting ready for supper, the sons hurrying in from their garden chores, the fathers washing their hands and splashing water onto their faces, the daughters lighting the lamps in the cottage kitchens, the mothers dishing up the tatie pot and pease porridge. Whatever the reason, the lane was empty and Beatrix and the girls saw no one until they reached the ford over Wilfin Beck, where Rascal and Jeremy (who had brought his aunt’s bicycle lantern to light their way home after dark) had been waiting for some time and wondering what was taking them so long.
Caroline had been delighted when Miss Potter appeared with Mr. Heelis to give her a lift from school, and astonished to learn that her grandmother had granted permission for her to spend the night at Hill Top Farm—something that had never happened before and seemed like quite a magical thing, all by itself. Deirdre, too, was overjoyed when Mrs. Sutton (at Miss Potter’s request) allowed her not only to take the evening away from her usual duties, but to stay the night at Hill Top. Miss Potter had explained that she wanted to do some drawing and would like to use the girls as models, a request that Mrs. Sutton—who really tried very hard to be a good mother and felt guilty at all the hard work Deirdre was asked to do—was perfectly willing to grant. And since Miss Potter did not like to think herself a complete liar, she did exactly what she told Mrs. Sutton she would do: she drew the girls as they gathered rue, lavender, thyme, rosemary, primroses, and hawthorn in the garden.
In after years, when Caroline had grown up to be a lady (although not at all the sort of lady her grandmother envisioned), she had a thousand magical nights upon which to reflect. Of course, I can’t tell you what these were, because they hadn’t happened at the time of our story. But it is safe to say that Caroline would always remember this May Eve as the most enchanted—and one of the most exciting—of all the nights of her long life.