A jangle of bells cut through the silence of the Potter house, followed a few seconds later by the click of tight-laced servant’s shoes on the marble floor of the front hall.

"Are we expecting someone?" said Mrs. Potter, looking up from her sewing. She and Beatrix were in the morning room that sat at the back of the house between the drawing room and the sunlit garden.

"It’s my guests, Mother," said Beatrix, folding the napkin she was edging. "The men publishing my book." And she added, "As you well know."

Mrs. Potter liked to pretend that she was ignorant of what was happening in her house; that no one told her anything and that it was all a mystery. That was her way of controlling things, as she entered what she had decided were her declining years. Being hard-of-hearing, she had learned, was a great asset.

A look of apprehension came over Beatrix’s face. "And it’s not a social call. In fact, I fear it’s going to be quite unpleasant."

"I wish you wouldn’t invite tradespeople into the house," Mrs. Potter continued, pretending she had heard nothing. "They carry dust."

Beatrix opened the French doors and said in a voice that even a woman going deaf couldn’t miss, "I would have gone to their office, Mother, but I didn’t think it wise to leave you alone – as you have made quite clear!"

Beatrix entered the drawing room, chose a chair near the fireplace where tea had been set out, and perched lightly on the edge of its cushion, sitting upright in the most proper manner. She adjusted her skirt so that no wrinkles showed. In the background, she could hear noises of a visitor being admitted to the foyer. Jane, the maid, entered the room.

"Mr. Norman Warne," Jane announced, giving a name Beatrix had not heard before.

A young man entered the room.

Beatrix reacted in surprise. Mr. Norman Warne was not a dour, furry tradesman like the brothers she had met. He was a handsome young man in his mid-thirties, smartly dressed in a tweed suit, his hair short and neatly parted, his only concession to the current fashion for facial hair a neatly trimmed moustache that gave his otherwise bland features a definite dash.

Beatrix blinked.

Norman Warne gave a little bow. "Miss Potter, I hope you will forgive my intrusion into your daily routine."

"I hope you will forgive my astonishment. I was expecting one of the . . ."

Norman stepped forward. "I am . . . yes, well, I’m Harold and Fruing’s younger brother. I have recently joined the firm and they have done me the honor to assign your book on rabbits to me. It was most gracious of you to invite me to, um . . . to, um . . ."

"Tea?" said Beatrix, helpfully.

"Yes, I’d love some!" said Norman, a little too quickly and a little too loudly. Then in a calmer voice, he added, "Yes, that would be, um, quite . . . well, yes, thank you."

Norman looked around for a seat. He started to choose the divan, then changed his mind and rested on the chair beside it. He took a deep breath and announced, "Lemon."

Beatrix watched with some dismay. It was suddenly clear that young, handsome Mr. Norman Warne was shy, socially ill-at-ease, and – Beatrix could not avoid the word – a bit of a bumbler.

Behind Mr. Warne, Miss Wiggin entered the room, and sat quietly in a chair by the door.

Beatrix poured the tea. "Are there more of you, Mr. Warne" Am I to look forward to an endless parade of Warnes?" She passed Mr. Warne the cup.

"There was a fourth brother once, the eldest, Frederick, but he died when I was young. I have one sister, Edith, who has married and lives in Sussex, and another sister, Amelia, who lives at home. That is my entire family. But I expect I’m the only Warne you’ll need concern yourself with from now on."

Beatrix took a sip of tea and set down her cup. She had prepared herself for this meeting, and did not want it to degenerate into conversation. "Mr. Warne, I would like to get right to the point. I received a letter from your brothers . . ."

"I don’t mean to interrupt, Miss Potter," said Norman, interrupting. "But before we discuss, um, business, might I be so presumptuous as to ask, um . . . well . . ."

"Yes?" said Beatrix.

"Well, um, might it be possible to see the book we’re publishing?"

"Oh," said Beatrix, derailed.

"My brothers have described it to me, but . . ."

"Yes, of course. I have it here on the table."

"Excellent!" said Norman. "As soon as we have finished tea . . ." he looked at his cup, ". . . which I have . . ." he placed the cup back on the tea table, ". . . we must . . . have a look." He paused. "Perhaps now."

He rose and went to the portfolio, which was bound by a neat ribbon. He stopped.

"You just untie it," said Beatrix.

Norman untied the ribbon and started to leaf through the book.

Beatrix sat back in her chair. Now! she thought to herself. Yes, now is the time to sip a cup of tea – very slowly. She picked up her cup.

Once again, Beatrix had to sit quietly while her work was being assessed. The tick of the grandfather clock in the hall echoed louder and louder. Every few moments came the tiny rustle of a page turning. But this time the silence was broken, from time to time, by actual words.

"Extraordinary!" said Norman, turning a page.

"Charming!" he said, turning another. "Enchanting." "Oh! Oh, how funny!" "Ah!" he said. "Very nice!" And he laughed out loud.

Finally Norman turned the last page. "This is delightful! Magical! And so beautifully drawn." He turned to Beatrix. "Well. Miss Potter! I’m . . . well, utterly, utterly speechless."

Beatrix was unprepared for his reaction. It was charming, she thought. But she had resolved to be firm, even unpleasant if need be, and didn’t want to be distracted. "Perhaps, Mr. Warne, we can now discuss our business?"

"I put your drawings aside with the greatest reluctance," Norman said. He closed the portfolio and brought it with him back to the chair.

Beatrix sat forward. "Mr. Warne, I’m afraid I must speak quite harshly. Your brothers’ letter made two proposals which I find quite unacceptable. First, they want the drawings to be in color. I am adamant they be in black and white."

"But," said Norman, "Peter Rabbit’s blue jacket. And the red radishes. Surely you want your enchanting drawings reproduced as they are?"

"Of course I would prefer color," said Beatrix. "I had a single three-color frontispiece in my private edition, which was indeed lovely. But I paid for the printing myself so I know the expense. Color will make the book cost more than little rabbits can afford."

Norman smiled. "Little rabbits. How amusing."

Beatrix did not wish to be amusing. "Which brings us to your brothers’ second point: they wish to reduce the number of drawings by almost a third. Totally unacceptable."

Norman sat forward. "Miss Potter, let me . . . explain . . . the . . . Oh, I am not good at business. Here is the scheme: if we can reduce the number of drawings to thirty-one precisely, the illustrations for the entire book can be printed on a single sheet of paper, in the, uh what, the three-color process you desire, and at a level of, uh, cost that will keep it within the means of . . . little rabbits. Yes, I think I have that right. Yes."

"Oh," said Beatrix.

"I have given your book a great deal of attention. Truly I have," said Norman with sudden fervor. "I would like it to look colorful on the shelf, so that it stands out from ordinary books."

"My, you have given it thought," said Beatrix. "What other books have you supervised?"

"Personally?" said Norman.

"Yes."

"This will be my first."

"Your first."

"Yes."

"Ah," said Beatrix.

Norman folded his hands over the portfolio. "Miss Potter, F. Warne and Co. was founded by my late father. At his death my elder brothers took charge of the firm. I have recently informed my brothers – and my mother – that I am not content to stay home and play nursemaid, just because I am the youngest son. I wish to have a proper job, and my own place in my family’s firm. And they have assigned me you. Does that make things clearer?"

"Very clear," said Beatrix. "In other words, you have no experience whatsoever, but since you’ve made a nuisance of yourself demanding to be given a chance, your brothers have fobbed you off on me."

Norman’s voice took on a sudden and unexpected force. "Miss Potter," he said. "I know only too well what my brothers intended, giving me your "bunny book", as they call it. But I find your book enchanting – delightful! If they intended to "fob me off", as you say, we shall show them! We are going to give them a children’s book to conjure with! In full color!" His enthusiasm carried him right out of his chair.

"But Mr. Warne," Beatrix blurted out, the excitement in the room infecting her, "I do not like the colors in Warne and Co.’s children’s books. I will not have those dreadful brown and green washes!"

"Miss Potter," he announced, "I am going to insure that your book will be printed precisely as you wish."

"How will you insure that?"

"Dear lady, I will take you to the printer."

In the corner, Miss Wiggin looked up.

"To the printer?" said Beatrix. "The actual print shop? Mr. Warne, I hardly think . . ."

"I will escort you myself," Norman said, "if you will allow me the honor. The inks will be mixed before your very eyes – precisely as you dictate."

Beatrix felt her hands begin to flutter again. "I’m afraid I could never . . ."

Beatrix stopped herself. Once again a casual moment contained a decision that would determine her life.

"Never?" she said. "Why could I “never”? Of course, I can go. I will go. I’m a grown woman. Miss Wiggin will come along. I see no reason why an artist shouldn’t visit her printer."

"We have a cause!" cried Norman. "You . . . and I: a beautiful book for children, in beautiful color."

"I warn you," said Beatrix. "I shall also want to be very particular about the copyright. Please be advised that my father is a barrister."

"The copyright? Oh, Miss Potter. Haven’t I made myself clear?" said Norman. "Everything shall be as you wish! I am . . . uh, what . . . in every way . . ." He reached out and impulsively took her hand, " . . . at your service."

Beatrix looked at Norman’s hand holding hers.

A sudden memory flashed through her mind. An image as clear and precise as a Dutch landscape. An estate in the Lake District, the summer of 1882. Beatrix was sixteen, drawing in her sketchbook. Bertram’s voice resounded in the summer air. "Beatrix! Come into the garden. The gamekeeper has the puppies!"

Beatrix put down her sketchbook. The gamekeeper? she thought. Another old man who smells bad and won’t stop telling stories. Ugh. She trotted off, rounded the corner, entered the garden, and saw . . .

William Heelis, the gamekeeper, throwing a stick and racing full tilt around the lawn with the terrier father of the boxful of puppies that sat on the lawn. William Heelis was twenty-five, young, athletic, wildly handsome, with a shock of fiery red hair!

Beatrix stopped dead. The gamekeeper?

Beatrix’s mind snapped back to the present. Why this memory now? she thought. And why of William Heelis, of all people?

Her pause made Norman grow suddenly nervous. He withdrew his hand.

"I shall make all the arrangements," he said, and headed for the door.

Norman realized he was still holding her portfolio. He handed it back to Beatrix, the picture of the rabbit in a blue jacket shining on the cover. As he did so, Norman suddenly saw that the wall behind her head was filled with framed pictures of rabbits – nature studies Beatrix had drawn which her mother found acceptable enough to be displayed.

"Are these your paintings too?" asked Norman, looking from frame to frame.

"Yes."

"You and rabbits!" Norman exclaimed. "Extraordinary!"

Hilda, the housemaid, appeared with Norman’s coat. Norman walked out the door, turned back while still walking – and tripped, almost falling on his face.

"Ah, well, no harm done," he said, recovering. "Goodbye, Miss Potter . . . Until . . . well, until very soon!"

Norman continued out to the street, where he turned back to wave and almost tripped again. Beatrix waved back. Against her judgment, she started to laugh.

She kept watching until Norman had disappeared down the street.

She turned to one of the pictures on the wall. "Oh dear, Benjamin," she said. "What have we got ourselves into?"

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