The Tale of Oat Cake Crag by Susan Wittig Albert Page B

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