Rabbits are social fellows who get together at Christmas. “They take off their frosty coats & the party begins…I’m not certain how the story ends, because I have not made that part up first.” Miss Potter who hands her story board about Peter Rabbit to the friend of her brother, her best girl friend tells her. “Marry him, and do it (now). If someone came along who loved me, I would trample my own mother ~ You have a chance to be loved. Take it.” Beatrice Potter who a avid drawer of small garden creatures and other fairie tales hands him a painting, his Christmas present & then whispers yes, but ever so quickly as she breezes by the winter fireplace. In answer to his query to marry him, and of thoughts of fantasial tales often only known by a very select few during a whole life time, and other things beautiful of white crystal sky winter snow come, and as if to make the fairies dance outside a window at the same time. At the time, she had no way to begin to even imagine that someday she would purchase and live upon the gales and hills of a beautiful Irish style farm. The very next day, she and her mother, as emancipated daughter break out about an argument over pretension and social-climbing. “I am a published author. I have means of my own. This discussion is over.” The family unhappy about her choice of a husband due to his only mediocre level of income, and whom they refer to as a nursemaid simply. “Does that mean I am never to be loved?” she inquires of her father. You have enough to buy an estate or several her agent tells her about her book, that and that she should have no financial worries for the rest of her life. “Astonishing,” she remarks more surprised than ever for all of her life. As the parents of Beatrice push for a more socially acceptable husband for Beatrice, she refuses the offer. Beatrice who desires to avoid the selections of males of a more suitable, according to them, arranged marriage status announces that either way, there will be a wedding at her house to her desired betrothed come October. And no, no longer doth she choose, and as if possible to make Victorian age romance more so desirable, she announces to her family that her romance with Norman, actually the man who also does a great deal to help her make her copy and other illustrations available on paper print behind-the-scenes. The relationship, a perfect example of a good relationship, Beatrice required summer travel away from her beloved returns her by the fall to him. The beginnings of the true story about the child book author, she finds her farm of desired purchase over her summer trope, and as white tea cups of dainty rose agloss, Beatrice whose spunk more contemporary than confine, names her new purchase appropriately, sublime. A beautiful door knocker whose a lion share of worth, the copper clang, although lessed by a tap brings her news of the death of her beloved upon the long-distance visit at his home. The sister of the fiance’ announces that the funeral came the prior day. And the only thing Miss Beatrice may think of at the moment while her shock ensues, even as her maid Hilda knocks for to give Beatrice provision of service, the way he danced with her, the way he made her laugh, his small ways of gentle kindness. And while her grief a fresh ensue, the combination artist & author rips a vein of paper, and pulls out rolls of that white cloth endemic venure linen to write a book about her friends, her fantasy world. “Let’s get you out of here.” But as Beatrice clearly tells his sister, “I can’t.” They both loved him. But he’s gone. And as problems with father and mother, for a girl of the day, a hard assertion, Beatrice advises even the mother who has no idea of the fame of her daughter, that her purchase of a large and beautiful home upon the acreage of Hilltop Farm has nothing to do with them. This is about her, and she as so many O’Keefe before her, must make her own way. “We could not know where our journey would lead. It has led us here. This is your new home.” As the sister of her beloved visits, she asserts that to be cooped up in London is no appease to the beautiful farm of Beatrice desire. For it is here that she gardens and paints & writes & makes her beautiful designs, among the solitude of a ghost no one but her as well as of only the small animals and other speaking creatures which she alone hears and sees. Beatrice ended up donating her four-thousand plus acres of farmland to a trust. Her books became the best-selling children’s books of all time. Eight years after she would marry the betrothed she met there, a man who also spoke to her inventions.