Free The Tale of Hawthorn House by Susan Wittig Albert

in the doorway, a brass-handled tray of tea and scones balanced across her ample middle. “It’ll be a gypsy,” she remarked in a matter-of-fact tone. “Them and their ponies and caravans are camped at t’ foot of Broomstick Lane. Gypsies is bad to steal babies, and that’s t’ truth.”
    “That’ll be all, Elsa, thank you,” Dimity said hastily. Once Elsa got on about gypsies, there was no stopping her.
    Elsa set the tray down and bent over the basket to look at the baby, clucking sadly. “Wee poor bairn! Left all by her lone in t’ cold, uncarin’ world.” She straightened. “T’ butcher’s boy only had lamb chops on t’ cart yesterday, mum, so it’s lamb fer dinner today, instead of beef.” She pulled down her mouth. “And Molly broke t’ upstairs hallway lamp chimney again.”
    “Oh, dear. I hope she didn’t cut herself,” Dimity said distractedly. This was the second broken lamp in a fortnight. And lamb today would make it lamb three times since last Sunday, although she didn’t suppose there was anything to be done. Elsa put in their order, but by the time the cart reached Tower Bank House, there was not much left.
    Miles frowned. “Where on Broomstick Lane, Elsa?”
    “Thorny Field. Been camped there near a fortnight now.” Elsa pursed her thin lips disapprovingly. “Mathilda Crook’s lost her best settin’ hen and a nest of eggs. Hannah Braithwaite’s missin’ a pair of young Jack’s green corduroy trousers. And Bertha Stubbs says they pinched Henry’s wool under-drawers from t’ bush where she put ’em to dry in the sun.”
    “That’s all for now, Elsa,” Dimity interrupted hurriedly, picking up the teapot. “Thank you.”
    Where gypsies were concerned, the villagers already knew what they thought, and it was never kindly. The itinerant Romany people were a regular feature of Lakeland life, traveling through the countryside in their brightly painted wooden wagons, selling horses, peddling pots and knives and baskets, telling fortunes, and working as seasonal farm laborers. There was always a nasty quarrel of some sort when they came to the district. And when the villagers talked about them, it was usually in whispers and usually had to do with something that had recently gone missing, like little Jack’s trousers or Mathilda Crook’s setting hen, or Henry Stubbs’ wool under-drawers.
    Miles turned to Beatrix. “Could the person you saw have been a gypsy, do you think, Miss Potter?”
    “It’s possible,” Beatrix said. She glanced at Elsa and said, not unkindly, “However, I do think we ought to withhold judgment until there’s a proper investigation.”
    Elsa made a harrumphing sound. “Old er young, gypsies is fast as pure lightnin’. Thieves, ever’ one. Stole t’ babe fer a ransom, most like, and then decided it was too dang’rous to keep her.”
    Dimity poured. “Bea, will you have a cup of tea?”
    “And John Braithwaite’s t’ constable,” Elsa said crisply. “I told Hannah if she wanted Jack’s trousers back, she ought to send her husband down Broomstick Lane after ’em. All he has to do is watch fer a gypsy boy wearin’ green corduroy trousers and yank ’em right off.” She made a face. “Harder fer Mathilda to git her hen back, I’d say. T’ old biddy’s stewin’ in some cookpot by now. And Lord knows what’s become of Henry’s—”
    “I’d be glad of a cup, thank you,” Beatrix said, and sat down on the sofa beside the baby’s basket.
    Elsa, on her way out of the room, remarked, over her shoulder, “One thing’s sure. T’ bairn’s not a village babe. T’ last babe was born to Mrs. Hopkins, at Easter. His name is Jeremiah, and he’s got hair t’ color of boiled carrots. Mrs. Crawley’s due next, but not ’til Guy Fawkes.” And having delivered this definitive pronouncement, she left the room.
    “P’rhaps I’ll go to the encampment myself,” Miles said, taking the cup Dimity handed him and helping himself to a scone.