The Tale of Hawthorn House by Susan Wittig Albert Read Free Book Online Page A

out, and nothing she thought or did could change it. She would never have a husband. She would never have a child. But she had a farm, and she would make the best of it.
    By the time Beatrix reached her front door, the storm clouds over the lake had turned a deep, greenish mauve and the air seemed to have a weight and texture of its own. The trees were waiting anxiously, leaning toward one another and whispering in leafy apprehension as they looked over their shoulders toward the darkening fells and braced themselves against the coming storm. The birds had gone quiet, and all that could be heard was the distant rattle of the whirligig at the fête and the happy shouts of the children running their egg race. But the rain still held off, only a few large drops splattering here and there on the dusty path.
    Beatrix went inside and shut the windows, feeling quietly happy. Upstairs in her bedroom, she changed her clothes, deciding that she would skip tonight’s dance. She would rather spend the evening alone, reading and knitting—and anyway, she had plenty to keep her busy. Her brother Bertram was coming up from Ulverston in a day or two, and she would take him to all her favorite places. He had visited the village, of course—the Potters had spent several holidays in a large house on the road to Kendal. He had even visited Hill Top. But he had not been here since it became her farm, and she was looking forward to showing him all she had done.
    Beatrix was tidying her hair when she heard a strange sound over her head, as if a hundred straw brooms were brushing across the slate roof. Stepping to the window, she saw the trees twisting and tossing and leaves and dry grass flying in wild flurries. In the barnyard, the three red hens— Mrs. Bonnet, Mrs. Shawl, and Mrs. Boots—briskly shooed their chicks to the shelter of the barn, while four white Puddle-ducks lifted their heads and opened their beaks, glad for a drink. Downstairs, the heavy oaken door banged sharply against the wall. She must have left it unlatched, and she hurried downstairs to close it before the rain could blow in.
    But just outside the door, on the porch, sat a large woven basket, covered with a hand-woven blue-and-white-checked cloth.
    How kind, Beatrix remarked to herself, thinking that someone had left her some squashes or an eggplant—a natural assumption, since this sort of thing happened often. Several of the villagers felt that Miss Potter (who had no husband to take care of her) wanted looking after. They liked to share their garden bounty, especially when there was a surfeit of squashes.
    Now, you have been reading this story, so you know what the basket contains (at least I hope you do!) and who put it there, and why. But Beatrix was not present when Mrs. Overthewall encountered Deirdre and the three young Suttons, and she lacks your advantage. She put the basket on the table and lifted the blue-checked cover, expecting to uncover an eggplant or some zucchini or cauliflower, or more happily, a loaf of fresh bread and a pot of raspberry jam—a large pot, judging from the basket’s weight.
    But what she uncovered instead was a baby doll, wearing a cleverly knitted pink cap and securely wrapped in pink flannel. And then the doll opened its very blue eyes, waved a tiny fist, and yawned, the prettiest, most perfect little round O of a yawn that anyone has ever seen.
    Beatrix gasped in sheer astonishment. “A baby!” she cried.
    She stared down at the baby for a moment, her heart beating fast. Of all the things in the world that might have been in that basket, a baby was the very last thing she would have thought of. And then, suddenly recollecting herself, she ran out onto the porch, hoping to catch a glimpse of whoever had left it.
    And what did she see?
    Why, exactly what you might have predicted. A small, round, gray-haired old lady wrapped in an untidy bundle of scarves and shawls was climbing over the garden wall. At the top, she turned and