When Mr. Jennings knocked at the door to tell her that the pony was ready, Beatrix put on her coat and blue knitted hat, fetched an umbrella and the basket, and went out to the cart, where she found Rascal, the fawn-colored Jack Russell terrier who lived with George and Mathilda Crook. Rascal was a great admirer of Miss Potter, and when she was in the village, he always spent as much time with her as he could.

“Good afternoon, Miss Potter!” he cried, leaping around her in joyful excitement. (Rascal knew better than to leap upon her, for she was very particular about muddy paws on her tweed skirt.) “Welcome back to the village. We’ve missed you!”

“Hello, Rascal,” Beatrix exclaimed, bending over to pet him between the ears and feeling that, after all, life with animals was far less complicated than life with people, and infinitely more entertaining. “It’s lovely to see you, too. Winston and I are driving to Tidmarsh Manor. Would you like to go with us?”

“Oh, I would!” Rascal barked. He spun around in a circle. “I would! I would!”

She frowned down at him and her voice grew stern. “But I must remind you that you shall have to be civil to Dudley. If you can’t promise to behave yourself, you must stay behind.” Dudley was Lady Longford’s fat, indolent spaniel, who did nothing all day but lie around and beg for treats. As far as Rascal was concerned, he was a poor excuse for a dog and should be reprimanded for his unhealthy habits.

But Rascal would agree to anything if it would mean that he could go along with his favorite person. He leapt into the cart. “Of course I’ll promise.” He sniffed at the basket Miss Potter had stowed under the seat. “But I hope Dudley doesn’t get any of this nice bread and butter. That fat fellow ought to lose a few pounds. He can barely waddle.”

Beatrix went round to the pony and stroked his brown nose. “Hello, Winston. You’re looking very fit today.”

“Thank you, Miss Potter,” Winston whinnied, and tossed his brown mane. “Welcome back to Hill Top. So it’s Tidmarsh Manor today, is it?”

“Yes, and after that, Raven Hall, to call on Mrs. Kittredge,” Beatrix said with a smile.

“Naaay!” Winston cried plaintively, stamping his neat hoof. “Please, Miss Potter! Not Raaaven Hall!”

Beatrix chuckled. Winston was never happy about taking her to visit Dimity Kittredge, because of the very steep hill along the way. “You can stop worrying, Winston,” she said, climbing into the cart. “I’m just teasing you. We’re not going to Raven Hall. At least, not today.”

To Rascal, she added, in a tone loud enough for Winston to hear, “You know, Rascal, it is always a delight to drive a willing pony. Some ponies make a terrible fuss about every little bump in the road, or shy at the sight of a mouse in the lane.” She picked up the reins. “But not our Winston. Oh, no! He is surely the steadiest, most trustworthy pony in the village. And because he is so cheerful and cooperative, he’ll find carrots in his manger when he gets back home.”

If you are thinking that Winston ought not to be taken in by such compliments—well, I suppose you’re right. But I don’t imagine that Farmer Jennings, who is a rather matter-of-fact fellow, is any too free with his praise. Winston is probably quite hungry for a compliment, whilst a carrot or two can never go amiss. And Miss Potter, over the years, has had the misfortune to drive ponies who were not cooperative or cheerful as he, and who threatened to run off and overturn the cart whenever anything unusual crossed their path. She knows a good pony when she meets one, and is not at all sparing with her compliments.

So if Winston pranced a little more proudly as they began their drive through the village, I think you can understand why. It was nice to know that Miss Potter considered him not only the steadiest of ponies, but cheerful and cooperative, as well. And if Miss Potter smiled, it was because she knew that Winston would do his very best to get them to Tidmarsh Manor and back again safely, a sentiment you will certainly understand if you have ever had a pony run away with your pony cart.

Beatrix, Winston, and Rascal had not driven far when they met a young woman coming down the lane in their direction. It was Deirdre Malone, the Irish girl (now seventeen) who keeps the account books for Mr. Sutton, the village veterinarian, and helps Mrs. Sutton with the eight young Suttons, all of whom live rather cozily in Courier Cottage. If you didn’t already know that Deirdre was Irish, you might guess it from her bright green eyes, the freckles dusted generously across her nose, and the carroty tendrils escaping from under her gray cap, knitted from the handspun fleece of Miss Potter’s Herdwick ewes. In one hand she held a bundle of the Courier Cottage post, for she was coming from the post office. The other held the hand of one of the multitudinous younger Suttons, who held to the hand of another young Sutton, who held to the hand of a third and then a fourth—a veritable crocodile of little Suttons.

“Hello, Miss Potter!” Deidre called. “Welcome back to the village!” To the children, she said, “Boys and girls, say ‘welcome’ to Miss Potter.”

“Welcome, Mith Potter!” dutifully lisped the crocodile in chorus. Several of the Suttons were missing their front teeth, owing to their age.

“Thank you, children,” Beatrix said. She had a warm affection for the young Suttons and kept them supplied with books. She also had a great admiration for Deirdre, a resourceful and energetic young person. Not long ago, the girl had discovered that Mr. Sutton’s veterinary practice was losing money faster than he could earn it, because of Mrs. Sutton’s failure to insist on payment when service was rendered. She had come up with a plan to collect the overdue money (and thereby keep Courier Cottage from being foreclosed by the bank), and Miss Potter had helped her to carry it out. Between the two of them (although Miss Potter always said that the credit belonged entirely to Deirdre), the Suttons had been saved. Now, Deirdre managed the office for the doctor and made sure that arrangements for payment were made before the client and his or her animal friend had left the surgery.

“You’re looking very happy, Deirdre,” Beatrix said. She gave her young friend a closer glance. Deirdre had not been an attractive child—a rowdy hoyden, she had been gangly and awkward—but she was becoming a beautiful young woman. Her eyes were sparkling and her smile seemed to hold a delicious secret, as if she knew something marvelous.

“Yes, you are,” yipped Rascal. He had seen Deirdre wearing her secretive smile for several weeks. “You’re keeping something from us, aren’t you? Do you have a beau?”

“Oh, I am happy, Miss Potter!” Deirdre burst out, and—rather like her old schoolgirl self—gave a little skip. “I’m about to burst with happiness and fly into a million little pieces, like a balloon that’s been blown too full of air.” She sobered a little. “I’m dyin’ to tell you all about it, when I can. Will you be here in the village for a while? May I come to see you in a few days?”

“Of course you may,” Beatrix said warmly. She smiled down at the little Suttons. “Bring the children with you, too. I’m sure Jemima Puddle-duck would love to see them. They can play in the barnyard while we talk.” Several young Suttons had been present when Jemima hatched a nest of eggs that turned out not to be ducklings at all, but rather—

But perhaps you haven’t read The Tale of Hawthorn House, so I shan’t spoil it for you. You must go and read it for yourself and find out what it was that Jemima hatched. You will be surprised, I’m sure. I was.

“Thank you,” Deirdre said. “I can’t do it tomorrow, but perhaps the next? Around teatime?”

“Lovely, my dear,” said Beatrix, and they said goodbye.

“I wish I knew what sort of secret she’s keeping,” Rascal said, half to himself, as Deirdre led the crocodile of small Suttons in the direction of Courier Cottage.

Miss Potter lifted the reins. “Well, whatever her secret, I’m sure it’s a pleasant one,” she remarked. “She looks so very happy. Come on, now, Winston. Let’s be on our way.”

At the top of Stony Lane, Beatrix paused to look toward Castle Farm, which she had bought some little while ago. The cottage and gardens were currently let to Dick Llewellyn’s sister Rachel (the Llewellyns, Dick and Agnes, lived down the lane at High Green Gate). Beatrix had had the barn and fences repaired and pastured cows and sheep on the farm—Herdwick sheep, of which she was very fond, even though they were considered old-fashioned. Her purchase had pleased some of the villagers, those who were glad that the land had not been sold to off-comers and the old buildings torn down and replaced with modern cottages. It had also annoyed others, who felt that Miss Potter was turning into a land-grabber. But Beatrix paid no attention. Will Heelis had advised her to buy Castle Farm. It had been the right thing to do, whatever the villagers thought.

She lifted the reins and Winston started up the hill again (this is not so steep a hill as the one to Raven Hall). But they had barely gotten under way when here came Sarah Barwick, flying down the hill on her bicycle. She had been out making deliveries of the bread and pastries for which she was becoming quite well known (Sarah is the owner of the Anvil Cottage Bakery), and was wearing her usual biking costume, a pair of green corduroy trousers (cut full for maximum comfort), and a green wool coat, with a brown muffler wrapped round her neck. Her cheeks were reddened by the wind.

“Well, hullo there, Bea!” she cried, braking to a stop. “Welcome back to the village.”

“It’s good to be here,” Beatrix replied, thinking how ironic it was that when she returned to London, nobody ever said, “Welcome back,” in quite the same way that the villagers did. At most, her mother might ask, in a complaining voice, “Why must you always stay away so long, Beatrix? You were needed here.”

Sarah steadied her bicycle with one foot. “Will you be with us for a while this visit?”

Sarah had arrived in the village at the same time Beatrix bought Hill Top, but the neighborhood men still professed themselves scandalized every time they saw her on her bicycle, and Agnes Llewellyn had been heard to quote the verses in Deuteronomy that said that women who dressed in men’s clothing were an abomination before the Lord. What really bothered people, of course, was the idea that women who rode bicycles could go anywhere they liked, which meant that they were independent, wherein lurked all manner of menace. Why, a wife might ride her bicycle all the way over to Outgate to see her sister and not arrive back home in time to make her husband’s tea, poor man, and him bone-weary and needin’ a bite after a day’s hard labor. And her gaddin’ out and about in the world, goin’ who-knows-where, and none at home to scrub his floors and wash his shirts! I don’t wonder that Sarah Barwick was viewed as a “dangerous” woman.

“I’ll be here a week or so,” Beatrix replied in answer to Sarah’s question. She sighed, not liking to think of going back to London.

“Only a week?” Rascal cried. “I was hoping you’d stay for a fortnight, at least!”

Sarah fished in her pocket and took out a cigarette and a match. (This was another “dangerous” thing. Older women in the countryside sometimes smoked tobacco in clay pipes, but cigarettes were generally thought “fast.” The ladies—if that’s what they were—of King Edward’s set smoked cigarettes, and actresses, and women who fancied themselves artistic or modern.)

“I suppose you’ve heard that there’s a meeting at the pub tonight.” Sarah drew on her cigarette and blew out a stream of smoke. “About the hydroplane, that is. According to Mr. Llewellyn, Mr. Baum has agreed to come and listen to what people say.” She grinned roguishly. “Ought to make for an exciting evening, I’d say. You’re coming, are you?”

“I’ll be there,” Rascal promised. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Shush, Rascal,” Beatrix said. To Sarah, she replied, “I’m planning to come. Right now, I’m on my way to Tidmarsh Manor to see Caroline Longford. I thought I would invite Lady Longford.”

“Splendid idea, Bea!” Sarah said enthusiastically. “If Mr. Baum listens to anybody, it’ud be her ladyship—not that he will,” she added in a more somber tone. “That man! I’ve never seen anyone so determined to upset so many people by doing exactly what he wants to do.” She blew out another puff of smoke. “Although it’s not just him who’s doing it, of course. It’s that pilot of his. Oscar Wyatt. He’s the one who built the wretched machine. Flies it, too. Takes people for rides, if they pay him.” She scowled. “Can’t imagine why anybody ’ud want to go, much less pay for the trip. If God had wanted us to fly, he would’ve given us wings.”

“Rides!” Rascal barked excitedly. “I should love to ride in that aeroplane! Why, from way up there, I could keep an eye on everything.” Rascal’s goal in life was to see and take charge of all that happened. Jack Russell terriers are born organizers, as you know if you’ve ever lived with one.

“Oscar Wyatt?” Beatrix frowned. “Is he from this area? I don’t think I know him.”

“From Manchester. That’s where they built the blasted thing.” She made a face. “Wish it had stayed there, too.”

And just at that moment, they heard it: the loud, insistent drone of the aeroplane, punctuated with an occasional sputter and hiccup, as if the motor might be threatening to quit.

“Hear that?” Sarah asked, rolling her eyes. “Every now and then the wretched thing just seems to want to stop running and fall out of the sky. And of course the thought of that makes me listen all the harder, and hope a little. Not that I want anyone to get hurt,” she added hastily. “I just want that racket to go away.”

But it didn’t go away. The noise followed Beatrix all the way up Stony Lane, across Wilfin Beck, and over to Tidmarsh Manor. When she got there, she found that Lady Longford was taking her afternoon nap. This gave Beatrix and Caroline a chance to sit down for a quiet cup of tea and conversation about Caroline’s work at the Royal Academy of Music, where she had been studying since the beginning of term.

“Do you like the Academy?” Beatrix asked. “Are you learning? Enjoying yourself?” She herself was not a great admirer of formal education, for she had been educated by governesses who for the most part allowed her to follow her own interests in her studies. She had always thought that school would have squeezed all the creativity right out of her. But Caroline—who at seventeen was grown up and entirely lovely—was not of that opinion.

“Oh, Miss Potter, I love it!” she cried enthusiastically. “My teachers say I’m doing well, and I’m learning so much about so many things—not just about music, of course, although that’s terribly important to me. And I am ever so grateful to you for making it happen! Why, if it weren’t for you, I’d still be living here with Grandmama, instead of going to school in London.”

“Oh, no,” Beatrix objected. “I had very little to do with it, really.”

From one point of view, this was perfectly true, since all Beatrix had done was to drop a few well-chosen words into a conversation the previous summer. But those few words (which had to do with the money Caroline had inherited from her father and which Lady Longford had intended to conceal as long as possible) had forced her ladyship to alter her position. From opposing her orphaned granddaughter’s studying in London, she changed her tune and accepted the idea. Now, of course, she insisted that it had been her idea in the first place. Whenever possible, she boasted that her enormously gifted granddaughter had been accepted to the Royal Academy of Music, and that she was the one who had made it all possible.

From Caroline’s studies, the conversation wandered to her old friends in the village, to Deirdre Malone, who worked for the Suttons, and Jeremy Crosfield, who was teaching this year at the village school, taking a year from his studies before entering university. Beatrix mentioned the evening’s meeting at the pub, and said that she thought Jeremy might be there. At that point, she asked about Caroline’s plans for the future.

“What do you want to do in the next few years?” Beatrix asked. It was a serious question, and Caroline answered it seriously—or seemed to.

She hoped, she said, to take a trip to Europe when her studies were completed, and then perhaps to America, and after that, New Zealand, to visit the sheep station where she had lived as a little girl. And then return home and settle down to composing, which was her dearest love. At Beatrix’s request, she went to the piano and played one of her compositions, which immediately brought Lady Longford downstairs. Listening to Caroline play, of course (and occasionally criticizing her playing), was much more pleasant than lying upstairs alone.

Beatrix was glad, because it gave her the opportunity, when Caroline had finished playing, to invite her ladyship to the evening’s meeting. “It will be held in the Tower Bank Arms,” she concluded, after explaining the reason for the assembly. “The villagers will all be there to express their views about the hydroplane. Mr. Baum will be there, too. You are especially invited, because—”

“Nonsense,” Lady Longford interrupted peevishly. “You know I don’t go out at night, Miss Potter, especially in chilly weather. I don’t know why you should trouble to ask me. Caroline, pour me a cup of tea.”

Her ladyship (who rarely said “please” and “thank you” and never begged anyone’s pardon when she interrupted them) was a tall, formidable-looking person with thin black brows and thin black hair, which she wore twisted into a fist-sized knob at the back of her head. Her husband had been dead for over a decade, but she continued to dress in black. It was a fashion dictated by Queen Victoria, who mourned Prince Albert for forty long years and set the style for every widow in the entire British Empire.

Lady Longford had softened somewhat (but not very much) in the time Beatrix had known her, partly owing to the presence of young Caroline in the house. The girl was the only daughter of Lady Longford’s only son, who had wriggled out from under his mother’s thumb and escaped to New Zealand, where he married the love of his life and would have lived happily ever after, if he had not unfortunately died in a train accident. Heartbroken, Caroline’s mother had died not long after. Reluctantly (and only after being reminded by Vicar Sackett and Mr. Heelis of her familial duty), Lady Longford took her orphaned granddaughter into her care. Now she was glad, but she didn’t dare show it for fear of being thought sentimental—which at heart, of course, she was. That is often the way of sentimental people: they are compelled to pretend to be extremely hard on the outside, chiefly because they are soft on the inside.

Caroline handed her grandmother a cup of tea. “But Grandmama,” she said gently, “tonight’s meeting is about the aeroplane. It’s noisy. Miss Potter says that the villagers are going to ask Mr. Baum to stop flying it over the lake.”

Lady Longford took the cup. “Well, they won’t succeed,” she said darkly. “I’ve known Fred Baum for years. He’s silly and eccentric, but when he takes it into his head to do something, he is as stubborn as an old cart horse. That aeroplane is a horrible nuisance, but he will pursue it, no matter what anyone says.”

Beatrix cleared her throat. “The villagers believe that if Mr. Baum will listen to anyone, he’ll listen to you.”

Lady Longford pursed her lips. “I doubt it. Fred Baum thinks too highly of his own opinion.”

“Nevertheless,” Beatrix went on, “they believe that you are the only one who can persuade him to take his aeroplane elsewhere. It’s dangerous to fly it here, where it harms people and animals. What’s more, I understand that Mr. Baum and his partner are thinking of starting an aeroplane route between Bowness and Grasmere. They seem to view it as a profit-making opportunity. If they’re successful—”

“An aeroplane route!” Lady Longford exclaimed. She narrowed her eyes. “Fred Baum actually thinks he can make money from that flying contraption?”

“Apparently he does,” Beatrix said. “I really hope that you’ll come to the meeting, Lady Longford. It would be an opportunity for you to let Mr. Baum know—”

“Ridiculous,” her ladyship snapped. “As I said, I do not go out at night. Night air is bad for the lungs. Especially cold night air. And this is March, after all, the worst month for colds and fevers. It doesn’t matter how I feel about that aeroplane.”

“Well, I’ve decided to go, Grandmama,” Caroline said with a toss of her head. “Mr. Beever can drive me. And I have met Mr. Baum several times, as you may remember. I shall be glad to tell him your opinion. Perhaps you would like me to invite him here, where you can tell him for yourself.”

“Nonsense, Caroline,” her ladyship snapped. “Young ladies never go out at night alone, especially to a meeting in the village pub. Why should you want to do such a ridiculous thing? It’s unthinkable!”

Caroline wrinkled her nose and laughed sweetly. “My very dear Grandmama, you are so old-fashioned! Why, I am practically grown up. And it’s not at all unthinkable, you know. Someone from Tidmarsh Manor really ought to be at the meeting. After all, it’s our village, too. What goes on in the district should concern us. Grandpapa took an interest in village affairs, didn’t he? He would have gone to the meeting, wouldn’t he?”

Caroline’s questions took her ladyship quite aback. It was true that the late Lord Longford had been a staunch supporter of village projects and had always rather enjoyed playing the role of the village squire. Her glance went to his portrait, still draped with a black ribbon (just as the Queen had draped all of Prince Albert’s photographs), then back to Caroline, who—it must be admitted—certainly did look grown up, and very shapely and pretty with her long, light hair pinned on the top of her head.

In fact, her ladyship thought, with a sharp, sudden pang, that Caroline looked at that moment exactly like her father, who had been sitting in that very same brown velvet-covered chair when he refused to marry the young lady she had picked out for him—a perfect match, it would have been, too. But when she insisted, her son had stamped out of the room and left Tidmarsh Manor the next morning, and she had never seen him again. If she were honest with herself, she should have to say that it was the one thing in her life that she most regretted. She should not have been so insistent. She really should have been more sensitive to—

Beatrix put her teacup down on the table. “I plan to be at the meeting,” she said. To Caroline, she added, “If you would prefer to drive to the village with me this afternoon, Caroline, I should be delighted to have you stay all night at Hill Top.”

Caroline smiled. “That’s very nice of you, Miss Potter. I’d like that very much.”

“Good,” Beatrix said. “And you won’t have to trouble your grandmother to send Mr. Beever for you in the morning. Mr. Jennings can bring you home.”

Lady Longford put down her cup. “I have changed my mind. I shall go to the meeting after all. I find that I wish to talk to Mr. Baum.” She snorted. “Hydroplanes, indeed! What an idea! Caroline, you may tell Beever that we shall want the carriage this evening.”

“Why, if it isn’t Miss Potter from Lonnon,” Mrs. Beever exclaimed happily, “come round to my kitchen her very ownse’f! Welcome back to t’ village, Miss Potter. Do come in an’ have a cup o’ tea an’ a bite of summat.”

A smile wreathed her round face. Beatrix had been a favorite of Mrs. Beever’s ever since she had helped Lady Longford escape from the sinister clutches of Miss Martine, her ladyship’s companion. Mrs. Beever had feared that Miss Martine (who pretended to be French but was about as French as I am, which is to say not at all) was about to seize full command of Tidmarsh Manor, send the staff packing, and install her own hand-picked servants—until Miss Potter came to the rescue.

“I’d be glad of a cup, Mrs. Beever,” Beatrix said, although to tell the truth, she had already had all the tea she wanted. It was information she was after just now, and Mrs. Beever, who was always willing to gossip, was sure to be a good source. She held out her bag. “Oh, and I’ve brought you some bread and some of Mrs. Jennings’ butter.”

“Won’erful!” Mrs. Beever exclaimed. “Mrs. Jennings makes a verra fine butter.”

In a moment, tea was poured and scones and black currant jam were set out. The conversation moved at a lively pace from the weather (previously mild, turning chilly) to Caroline’s return from London (“Such a growin’ girl!”) to the health of Mrs. Beever’s sister’s daughter, who had a new baby. (“Zora, they named her. Canst tha imagine?”)

And then Beatrix remarked, rather casually, “I understand that Mrs. Lythecoe and the vicar are to be married next month. What do you think of it, Mrs. Beever?”

Mrs. Beever’s grin showed a broken tooth. “’Tis a verra fine match, in my opinion.” She added slyly, “Although I’d wager that t’ vicar has made t’ better part of t’ bargain.”

“Oh, really?”

Mrs. Beever nodded vigorously. “Mappen that Mrs. Lythecoe will take a firm hand in t’ vicarage, which is sorely needed, if tha asks me. Not to speak ill o’ Mrs. Thompson,” she added in a pitying voice (although of course that was exactly what she was doing). “But t’ poor ol’ thing is in over her head, she is.” (Please note that Mrs. Thompson is no older than Mrs. Beever.) “That big house, managing t’ tweeny and all t’ cookin’—it’s jes’ too much for her, it is,” she added with exaggerated sadness.

Hazel Thompson was the vicar’s resident cook-housekeeper. She had never been known for her prowess in either field of endeavor, but over the past few years, her skills had visibly deteriorated and the tweeny (the girl who worked both upstairs and in the kitchen), told of many lapses. Visitors to the gloomy old vicarage could not help but remark the dust in the corners and the lamentable lack of buttons on the vicar’s shirts. Those unfortunate enough to be asked to dinner were distinctly unimpressed by Mrs. Thompson’s culinary efforts, to the point where the vicar himself found it necessary to apologize.

“I see,” Beatrix said thoughtfully. “Yes, I suppose Mrs. Lythecoe will feel it necessary to make a few changes when she and the vicar are married. I wonder how Mrs. Thompson will feel about her new employer. The new Mrs. Sackett, that is.”

“Employer?” Mrs. Beever exclaimed sarcastically. “Hazel Thompson ain’t nivver been one to take direction from anyboddy. Even t’ Rev’rend Sackett, poor man. She nivver listens to ’im. Jes’ goes on doin’ wot she wants to do, allus and betimes, same as if she was mistress of t’ house all by her ownse’f.”

Beatrix drained her cup and set it down. “Then I don’t suppose Mrs. Thompson is entirely pleased that the vicar is getting married.”

Mrs. Beever laughed shortly. “Doan’t suppose she is, now, do I? Wouldn’t surprise me in t’ least if t’ new Mrs. Vicar finds another cook-housekeeper reet soon after t’ weddin’, an’ pore ol’ Hazel finds hersel’ out in t’ lane w’ her satchel.” She picked up the pot. “More tea, Miss Potter? Another scone an’ jam? Or some of Mrs. Jennings’ butter?”

Beatrix declined, thanked her hostess, and then thanked her again. In fact, she was truly thankful, for Mrs. Beever had given her something important to think about.

Just how unhappy was Mrs. Thompson at the prospect of the vicar’s marriage to Mrs. Lythecoe and the potential loss of employment?

And to what lengths would she go to stop that from happening?