I hope you won’t object if we step away for a moment to give them a little privacy. Every moment together is precious to them, and onlookers are . . . well, we would just get in the way. So we’ll go into the little downstairs parlor, which Beatrix has set out as a small drawing room, with an imposing marble Adam-style chimneypiece, pine-paneled walls, rich mahogany furnishings, and an Oriental-style rug. But we won’t be bored. We can spend a few moments studying the silhouettes hanging beside the fireplace; and the Edward VII coronation teapot, in the corner cupboard with the pink crown lid and the colored pictures of Edward and Alexandra; and the Potter coat of arms that hangs to the left of the window. And an Italian red lacquer box on a rosewood worktable and—

And shortly, Will is seated at Beatrix’s table with a fresh cup of tea at his elbow and a piece of Mrs. Jennings’ rhubarb pie in front of him, and it is safe for us to return.

“So,” he said, picking up his fork. “Your note said that you’ve discovered the identity of the poisoned pen.”

“Yes, with the help of Jeremy Crosfield,” Beatrix replied. She sat down opposite and told him the whole story, just as she had it from Jeremy, then showed him the copied note. “Agnes Llewellyn is the only person who could’ve written this,” she concluded. “Jeremy found the original letter on the table in her parlor. Her husband, Dick, went to Carlisle some time ago to visit his ailing father, and there’s been no one in the house except for Agnes and Jeremy.”

Will looked again at the note and shook his head. “It’s hard to believe that Agnes Llewellyn would do such a thing. She doesn’t strike me as a very happy woman, but—But why, Beatrix? Why would she want to spoil Grace and the vicar’s happiness?”

“She’s Hazel Thompson’s cousin,” Beatrix said.

“Hazel Thompson?” Will asked blankly.

“The vicar’s cook-housekeeper,” Beatrix replied. “Perhaps you’ve met her, when you were having dinner at the vicarage.”

Will thought. “Ah. I remember that she once served a roast lamb that—” He made a face. “But it’s best to let bygones be bygones. So you’re guessing that Agnes Llewellyn must have expected Mrs. Lythecoe to discharge Mrs. Thompson and bring in her own cook.” He smiled crookedly. “Probably not a bad idea, come to think of it. The vicar was terribly embarrassed by that roast lamb, as I recall. And he’s complained about Mrs. Thompson listening at doors.”

“Yes,” Beatrix said. “I think that Agnes Llewellyn wanted to derail the marriage, hoping that might save her cousin’s employment.”

“It all seems very illogical to me,” Will muttered.

“It is illogical, entirely,” Beatrix replied. “But that’s the point, of course. Logic goes out the window when passions run high. And Agnes Llewellyn must have felt passionately that her cousin ought to stay at the vicarage.” She paused. “The irony of this is that Mrs. Thompson is planning on handing in her resignation.”

“She is?” Will asked in some surprise.

“I spoke to her yesterday. She told me that she had just made up her mind to go to Ambleside to take care of her mother. Once Grace and the vicar are safely married, they will be free to employ whomever they choose.” Beatrix paused, glancing at Will. “But now that we know who wrote the letters, Will, what do you think should be done?”

Will chuckled. “I think I know what you think should be done, my dear.”

She had to smile at that. “Ah. You know me so well that you can read my mind?”

“Rather,” he said, and chuckled. “I imagine I’m going to have a talk with Mrs. Llewellyn.”

She sobered. “Would you mind, Will? I would be glad to do it, but Agnes Llewellyn will be much more likely to listen to a man than to a woman—and to a man of the law, rather than a neighbor. You can put on your stern solicitor’s face and frown your darkest solicitor’s frown, and tell her that if Mrs. Lythecoe ever receives another of those ‘anonymous’ letters, it will go very badly for her.”

He smiled affectionately. “Perhaps I should threaten to haul her before the justice of the peace and get Woodcock to read her the riot act before he turns her loose? And what about the vicar? What should we tell him?”

“I don’t believe that having the captain lecture Agnes would accomplish anything useful. But I do think she should be required to beg Mrs. Lythecoe’s pardon. Poor Grace has been beside herself these last few weeks, worrying about this business—she deserves to hear Agnes say she’s sorry. We can leave the vicar out of it, at least for the moment, since Grace doesn’t want him to know. And I don’t think it would be well to mention Jeremy, either.”

Will nodded. “A wise course of action, my dear. I will go to see Mrs. Llewellyn, and then escort her across the way to Rose Cottage to apologize to Mrs. Lythecoe. It won’t be enjoyable, but I’m sure that Mrs. Lythecoe will be glad that the mystery of the letters has been solved.”

“Thank you,” Beatrix said gratefully. “And now I’ve something to tell you, Will. I’ve written my own letter, of a very different sort.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Really? What sort?”

She opened the drawer of the table and took out a piece of paper. “This is a copy of what I wrote to my parents.” She laughed ruefully. “Poor Bertram. I can just imagine the scene he will be forced to witness. I’m sure it will not be very pleasant.” She pushed the letter across the table and watched his face while he read.

When he was finished, he looked up. The lines of his face had softened, and he was smiling. He stood, went around the table, and kissed her cheek softly. “Thank you, my love,” he whispered. He sat down again. “How did they find out?”

“Bertram said that a Mr. Morrow, a solicitor from Hawkshead, told them. Do you know the man?”

“I do,” Will said with a sigh. “Morrow’s had dealings recently with our law firm. I took the liberty of telling my partner about our engagement a few weeks ago. I’m sure that’s how Morrow learned about it.” He looked repentant. “I’m sorry, Beatrix. I shouldn’t have said anything to anyone.”

“I’m not,” Beatrix said firmly. “I’m not one bit sorry, Will. Once I got through the difficulty of actually putting the words on the paper, I felt very good about it. It’s right that Mama and Papa know, and it was high time that I told them. Secrets are a terrible burden. I was very tired of keeping this one to myself.”

Will’s face lightened and he reached for her hand. “What a joy it is to hear you say that, my dear.” He picked up her hand and kissed it. “My own very dear.”

I don’t know about you, but I do not especially care to witness Agnes Llewellyn’s guilty embarrassment when she learns that her secret has been discovered (Will was able to avoid mentioning Jeremy’s role in the matter), and I don’t really want to watch her squirm like a beetle on a pin when Mr. Heelis lectures her in his sternest solicitor’s manner, or look on as she apologizes, abjectly, to Mrs. Lythecoe (who accepts her apology with graciousness and a great deal of relief). Suffice it to say that when the discovery of her guilt was presented to her by Mr. Heelis, Agnes immediately saw the error of her ways and promised that she would never again do anything so foolish.

So I think we can bring this chapter to a close and with it one of the plots of this book, with special thanks to Jeremy Crosfield, our very own Miss Potter, and her dear Mr. Heelis for solving the mystery of the poisoned pen letters.

Excuse me. I’m sorry—what’s that?

Oh. Oh, yes. How could I forget?

And Tabitha Twitchit, too, of course.