ICAP 2 - The Hidden Gallery (6 page)

“That is generous, I suppose,” Penelope replied
uncertainly. Leftovers to eat were surely better than nothing, but for a whole family to wait in line for scraps, like stray cats mewing at the kitchen door? It did not seem right to her.

“You don't need a ticket, then?” The man looked the children over with an appraising eye. Their hair was still a tangle (Penelope had been so eager to get them out of the house that she had not bothered to repair their attempts at combing), but their clothes were of decent quality and in good repair. “No offense, miss. Sorry to trouble you.”

Penelope's eyes kept being drawn back to the hungry people in the line. She wondered how long they had been waiting. “I do not understand,” she said to the man. “I thought you said today's tickets had all been disposed of?”

“Oh, they're gone, yes. Long gone. Still, for the right person and at the right price, a ticket can always be found.” He turned over his hand and flashed what appeared to be an entire roll of tickets, which quickly disappeared into one of his many pockets.

Penelope could scarcely believe it. “Those tickets are meant to be charity for the poor; you said so yourself.” She scolded. “I'm sure it is not right for you to take money for them. You ought to be ashamed—” But
the man had already disappeared into the crowd, still searching for some poor soul desperate enough to pay for the free tickets he had somehow hoarded.

 

I
N THE WORDS OF
A
GATHA
Swanburne, “Don't look now, but everything's about to change.” This incident was a perfect example of what the wise woman must have meant, for although Penelope had begun the day feeling positively chipper, she now found herself in a state that can only be described as high dudgeon.

“How infuriating!” she cried to no one in particular. “I am quite sure if Queen Victoria knew of this man's dishonesty, her majesty would be very unhappy indeed.” And with that, Penelope started to march briskly toward the palace.

“Lumawoo!” the children called in alarm as they chased after her. “Where? Where?”

“I am going to request that a message be delivered to Queen Victoria,” she explained, without breaking her stride.

“Victor
ahwooooooooo
!” the children howled excitedly. Even as they scampered after their governess, the boys began practicing their bows and socially useful phrases: “Greetings, Your Majesty! How do you do? Lovely weather! The pleasure is mine,” and so on,
while Cassiopeia curtsied so low she toppled over and had to scurry to catch up.

“I doubt we shall get to meet her. The queen is very busy.” Penelope's determination increased with each step. “But someone must tell her what is going on out here. Perhaps there is a constable who can help us.” She looked around and saw a uniformed guard standing stiffly just outside the main gate. He was not a police officer, exactly, but he seemed to be in some official capacity; surely he would do just as well.

“Sir! Sir!” Penelope had reached the gate, and the children were close behind. “May I speak with you for a moment?”

The guard stood motionless. Not even his eyes moved.

“Pardon me, sir,” Penelope repeated, rather forcefully, for a Swanburne girl in high dudgeon is nothing to trifle with. “There is a matter of some urgency which I would like brought to Her Majesty's attention at once. Can you help me?”

Unmoved by her plea, the guard stared straight ahead. For a moment Penelope wondered if he might be a statue. He cut a very dashing figure, to be sure, in a trim scarlet tunic over deep blue trousers, with a spotless white belt cinched about his waist. But the
most striking thing about his uniform was the hat. It was enormous, for one thing, in the shape of a barrel, and it seemed to be made completely out of fur.

Now that Penelope was standing so close, she noticed how the mass of fur covered the top half of the guard's face in a way that made him seem not quite like a person at all. In fact, if not for the rest of the uniform, he might easily be mistaken for—

“Ahbear! Ahbear!”

“Ahwoooooooooooooooooo!”

The children let loose a frenzy of howls. Beowulf paused long enough to take a deep sniff. “Ahbear!” he yelled conclusively, pointing at the guard's head. Cassiopeia curled into a tight crouch, ready to spring at the poor fellow. Alexander bared his teeth and emitted the most vicious growl imaginable.

“Ahbearrrrrrrrrrrr!”

As one, they pounced.

“No! Children, stop! Do not attack!” Penelope was sick with fear. For the guard, being a guard, was armed with a musket. The weapon was now at his shoulder, and the muzzle was aimed straight at the Incorrigibles.

Without thinking about the consequences, Penelope, too, hurled herself at the guard.

“They are only children!” she cried. “Do not shoot!”

“Children? A pack of wolf cubs would be more like it.” It was the guard speaking from someplace close by; for some reason Penelope could no longer see him, for she was suddenly in the dark. “Listen up, miss. It's my job to guard the queen's palace, and guard it I will. I'm on strict orders not to converse with the tourists, so you've already got me in trouble. Easy there, little fella! The hat's pure Canadian brown bear, and they cost a king's ransom. I'd hate to explain to my commanding officer why I need a new one.”

Only then did Penelope realize that her eyes were squeezed shut in terror. Very slowly, she opened them, whereupon she beheld an astonishing sight: Cassiopeia had all four limbs wrapped around the guard's leg, with her teeth sunk into his trousers. Alexander dangled from the musket as if it were part of a jungle gym, while Beowulf was perched on the man's head, wrestling vigorously with the hat.

“Ahbear?” Cassiopeia asked curiously, gazing upward.

“It was a bear, once. Would you like to pet it?” The guard reached up and removed the hat, Beowulf and all, and held it out to the girl.

Alexander slid off the musket barrel and dropped to the ground. “Pardon me,” he said, bowing to the
guard. “How do you do?” Then both boys bowed, and Cassiopeia curtsied.

“They are only children!” she cried. “Do not shoot!”

“The pleasure is mine,
woof
!” she said, in her piping voice. The guard was clearly impressed.

“That's very well said. I wish my boy had nice manners like you lot do.” He turned to Penelope. “I can't help you with the queen, but if you have a suggestion, leave it in the suggestion box. That's the best I can do.”

“Another time, perhaps. Thank you. I apologize for the disturbance.” Penelope shepherded the three Incorrigibles away from the gate and across the plaza, until she spotted an empty park bench in a quiet spot. There she sat down, for her knees were shaking beneath her skirt, and she did not want the children to know.

The children, on the other hand, were now wonderfully energized. They argued about where go next.

“St. James's Park!”

“Big Ben!”

“The British Mew-eezum!” Cassiopeia suggested, adorably mispronouncing the word.

“Your enthusiasm is admirable, children.” Penelope patted her forehead with a handkerchief. “But I must confess, I have had quite enough sightseeing for one day.”

It was possible that a delayed-onset case of holiday
fatigue was finally catching up with the usually plucky young governess. Or perhaps the sight of the three Incorrigible children once again facing down the barrel of a musket (just as they had on the fateful day when Lord Fredrick Ashton discovered them running wild in the woods of Ashton Place, and was prevented from shooting only by the quick intervention of Old Timothy, the enigmatic coachman)—well, it was simply too much for Penelope to bear, if one will pardon the expression.

The children were clearly disappointed. But their governess had made up her mind, and that, they knew very well, was that. In any case, it had been a good while since breakfast, and all four of them were in need of tea and something sweet to nibble on.

So, without further discussion, and with Alexander still in charge of the
Hixby's Guide
, Penelope and the Incorrigible children headed home. No doubt it was the holiday fatigue at work, but Penelope could scarcely bring herself to sightsee as they walked. She had expected London to be a glittering metropolis full of culture and learning. Instead, it seemed like the forest of Ashton Place—an Ominous Landscape full of danger at every turn.

It was not until her thoughts had strayed to Ashton
Place in this unexpected fashion, and Alexander had successfully navigated them back to Number Twelve Muffinshire Lane, that Penelope realized: In all the excitement, they had completely forgotten to buy a postcard for Nutsawoo.

A
FTER SUCH AN EVENTFUL MORNING
,
Penelope was in need of peaceful, calming pursuits. She looked forward to a bit of poetry read aloud, some quiet work on the children's journals, and possibly a nap, if the Incorrigibles could be persuaded.

But she and the children returned to find Number Twelve Muffinshire Lane in an uproar. The servants from Ashton Place were frantically cleaning the already spotless house: airing out linens, dusting bric-a-brac, making up beds, sweeping the carpets, polishing
woodwork, and otherwise getting things spick-and-span for the imminent appearance of Lady Constance and Lord Fredrick.

The hubbub was at such a fever pitch that even Mrs. Clarke could not hold still long enough to say a proper good morning to Penelope and the children, though she had scarcely seen them since their arrival in London.

“Ahhhhhhh!” Mrs. Clarke cried as she propelled herself from one task to the next. The way she kept moving as she spoke gave her voice an oddly sirenlike quality, as it got LOUDER and softer and LOUDER and softer, depending on whether she was coming or going. “Miss Lumley, wherever have you been? I thought you and the children must have fallen in the Thames! Well, don't just stand there blocking traffic—whoops! Restrain yourself, Margaret! If you use that much polish on the floor we'll have to wear ice skates to shimmy ourselves from room to room.”

If Penelope had been in a jollier mood, the idea of Mrs. Clarke in a pair of ice skates, gracefully twirling and leaping across a frozen expanse, would have made her struggle not to laugh. As it was, she merely said, “Mrs. Clarke, the children and I are in urgent need of some tea. May we fix it ourselves in the
kitchen and bring it upstairs? We will be sure to stay out of your way.”

“Fix it yourselves? Bring it upstairs? I should say not! We can't afford any spills. I'll have Margaret carry it up, before she polishes a hole in the floor. And mind you don't leave any fingerprints on the banister,” Mrs. Clarke called over her shoulder (for she was now whizzing into the dining room). “Lord and Lady Ashton will be here before dinner—how's that silver coming along, Suzy?—and everything has to be just so.”

Already she was on her way back; truly, ice skates would have been a time-saver. “Missed a spot on the ladle, Sue! Oh, Miss Lumley, before I forget, a letter came for you. It's on the tray table by the stair—careful, Gladys! That's a feather duster, not a cricket bat! Be gentle with the potted plant, or soon it won't have a leaf to call its own.”

“Frond,” Alexander corrected, for the plant in question was, in fact, a fern, and thus its leaves were properly called fronds. Ordinarily Penelope would have been very proud of his pteridomaniacal expertise, but at the word “letter” her mind had skipped off on a tangent from which it had not yet returned.

“Not only is the General Post Office a handsome building, it is a model of brisk efficiency as well,” she
thought. “For I only just mailed my letter to Miss Mortimer this morning, and look: The reply has already come.” The very idea of such prompt, no-nonsense execution of one's responsibilities was so admirably Swanburne-like that Penelope's spirits were quite lifted.

As well they should be, for in Miss Penelope Lumley's day the London post office was nothing if not efficient. Deliveries were made five times daily, thanks to a fleet-footed army of postal workers who whisked the mail from here to there before one could say jack-rabbit. Affixed with a one-cent stamp bearing the likeness of Queen Victoria herself, a letter would reach its destination within hours of the time it was sent.

Penelope was so dazzled by this marvelous display of postal competence—and for a mere penny, mind you, as long as the letter weighed less than half on ounce—she did not even notice that the correspondence in her hand was not from Miss Mortimer at all. Only after she had made her way upstairs, set the children to work on their journals, added two sugars and a splash of cream to her tea, and given it a stir (to her credit, Margaret had delivered the tea tray without spilling a single drop, and managed a small plate of biscuits, too)—only then did Penelope settle herself in a chair, slit open the envelope, and begin to read.

 

Dear Miss Lumley,

Well, it was a treat to meet you and the children. Wanted to tell you I've begun work on several new plays at once; thanks for all the inspiration!

Just a reminder: If you keep the North Star in view, and the wind at your back, you'll have no problem at all navigating wherever you please.

Cheers,
SHD

“Why, this is from Simon Harley-Dickinson!” she exclaimed. Then she clapped her hand over her mouth, for even she did not fully understand why she would be made so excited by the receipt of this brief correspondence from the wrong person.

“Lumawoo happy,” Beowulf observed as he dabbed at his watercolors.

“New friend,” Alexander agreed, pausing to sharpen a pencil.

“Simawoo,” Cassiopeia chanted absently as she drew. “Simawoo, Simawoo, Sim
ahwooooooo
—”

“Tut-tut, children! That is enough conversation for now; please attend to your journals.” Penelope tucked the letter into her apron pocket and quickly regained her professional composure, on the outside, at least.

For a few minutes, the scratching of pens and swirling of paintbrushes were the only sounds in the tiny, makeshift nursery. Then:

“As Agatha Swanawoo say: Less talk, more do.” Alexander sounded completely serious, and he and his siblings had their heads bent over their work, but it seemed to Penelope that all three of the Incorrigibles were suppressing giggles. She put on her sternest governess voice.

“No doubt Agatha Swanburne did say something along those lines, but whether she did or not, it is advice well worth taking. Now, how are your journal entries about our trip to Buckingham Palace coming along? Do you have any questions about neoclassical architecture? The use of pediments? The practice of primogeniture in the British hereditary monarchy?” Penelope knew she was babbling, but she could not help it. The unexpected letter from Simon seemed to have made her brain go all fizzy.

“Done.” Alexander put down his pencil and proudly held out the paper to Penelope. At a much larger scale, Alexander had sketched his own childlike version of the type of alpine scenery depicted in the tiny watercolors of the
Hixby's Guide
. His landscape featured a crystal blue lake and a meadow dotted with pretty
white flowers, with snowcapped peaks in the distance.

The drawing took Penelope by surprise, but she could hardly say she was disappointed, for it was a very charming picture. “Alexander, how delightful!” she said warmly. “When I look at this, I feel as if I can smell the fresh mountain air.” She demonstrated by sniffing. “See? It is so vivid as to seem almost like a familiar place to me. Let us put it somewhere safe to dry.”

Pleased, Alexander spread the picture on a window-sill and weighed the corners down with books so it would not blow away.

“Cassawoof done, too.” Cassiopeia waved her page around, eager to hear her teacher's praise. Penelope took hold of the drawing with a smile that quickly faded, for the child had filled the page with a tall, menacing scribble of brown. It had a white stripe across its middle and what looked like a red shirt above.

The figure held up its arms in a most threatening way. Worse, it possessed long, sharp claws that dripped with streaks of red—was it supposed to be blood?

“Ahbear,” Cassiopeia explained proudly. Then she held out her arms and stiffened her fingers, just like the claws in the picture. “Grrrrrrrr!” she growled, showing her teeth. She lurched toward her elder brother with bear arms outstretched.

Alexander, playing along, lifted his arm as if it were a musket—

“Yes, yes, I understand,” Penelope interrupted, as she anxiously pressed Alexander's arm down and away. “You have drawn a bear, but you are also thinking of the guard's uniform, so the bear is wearing clothes. But it is still a bear, and a frightening one, too.”

“Ahbear,” Cassiopeia agreed. Playfully she added one last, bloodthirsty growl:
“Ahbearrrrrrrrr!”

“Such convincing bear noises, Cassiopeia! If you are not careful, you may well end up on the stage yourself. Now, let us see what Beowulf has done.” Penelope was determined to change the subject away from evil bears and dangerous muskets. And she knew Beowulf was quite talented at drawing; by now he had no doubt sketched a scale diagram of Buckingham Palace's fluted columns and soothing symmetrical features, with no bloody claws to be seen. At least, that is what Penelope hoped.

“Not finished,” he said humbly, then shrugged and held out the page.

Beowulf's picture was far more elaborate than those of his siblings, and it did need a bit more work coloring in the background, but the gist of it was on full, frightening view.

In the sky: a full moon, its eerie glow partially obscured by dark, swirling clouds.

In the foreground: the dense, ferny undergrowth of a forest, bordered by a few gnarled tree trunks rising upward.

In the center of the page: an old woman, wrapped in a cloak. Her mouth hung open in a leering smile, and her teeth were large and razor sharp, with a prominent set of gleaming white incisors. From the back of her shroudlike garments poked a long, wolfish tail.

Cassiopeia and Alexander clapped and barked with admiration, but Penelope's skin went cold. “Is that the Gypsy woman we met yesterday?” she asked, already knowing it must be. The likeness was remarkable, except, of course, for the teeth and tail.

Beowulf nodded. “The hunt is on,” he said tremulously. At the remark, both of his siblings sank into defensive crouches and began to whimper.

“Why, Beowulf, whatever do you mean?” Penelope asked, looking with alarm at her three suddenly anxious pupils.

The children did not answer, at least, not directly.
“Ahwooooooo,”
they began to cry softly.
“Ahwooooo, ahwooooo!”

The howls quickly gained in volume, which
prompted Penelope to jump up and close the windows. Although she had little experience of city life, she was quite sure that three children baying and barking at full throttle would not be a welcome addition to the neighborhood.

Returning to her chair, she drew the Incorrigibles close to her and tried her best to sound reassuring. “What a marvelous imagination you have, Beowulf, to have invented a scene so dramatic and frightening! Of course, the Gypsy woman was real enough,” she went on. “But the teeth, and tail, and that ominous moon—these are only make-believe, so there is no need to be upset.”

The children did not look convinced. Penelope was about to explain how a journal is a true record of events, and not a collection of alarming fantasies about sharp-toothed Gypsies with bristly tails—but something in the children's faces made her stop and ask, “Wait…did something unpleasant happen when I left you alone with that strange woman?”

“The hunt is on!” the Incorrigibles cried, followed by many urgent howls of
“Ahwoooooooooo! Ahwoooooooooo!”

Penelope stroked the children's heads and murmured soothing noises. “‘The hunt is on.' What a thing
fo her to say! I should like to ask her what she meant by it,” she thought determinedly. “Perhaps Mr. Harley-Dickinson knows who she is, and how she can be reached; after all, she did frequent his neighborhood. I will write to him at once.”

 

W
HEN THE CARRIAGE
from Ashton Place finally pulled up to the entrance of Number Twelve Muffinshire Lane, and Old Timothy, the coachman, held open the door, only Lady Constance emerged.

Penelope watched from one of the windows upstairs. Was Old Timothy friend or foe? She still suspected that he might have been the culprit who released the squirrel at the holiday ball, in order to provoke the children into wolfish fits. And yet, if not for Old Timothy, the three Incorrigibles would never have been rescued from the forest of Ashton Place to begin with. Instead, they might have ended up in the same predicament as the many hunting trophies in Lord Fredrick's study, with their shining glass eyes and stiff, taxidermic poses—oh, it was too awful to think about!

The servants streamed out from the house like ants to remove Lady Constance's many floral-upholstered trunks from the carriage. The children had worn themselves out with howling and were now quietly
practicing their cursive letters, so Penelope opened the windows again and listened. Lady Constance's voice carried clearly from the cobblestone street below.

“Lord Fredrick will be here in time for supper. He has many acquaintances in the city, and wished to pay a call at his club's accommodations in London before settling in. It is quite understandable.” Lady Constance sounded merry in the sort of brightly exaggerated way that made it clear she was trying not to cry, and perhaps not entirely succeeding.

“Poor Lady Constance,” Penelope thought, with a rush of sympathy. “Lord Fredrick pays scarcely any attention to her at all. Perhaps that is why she is so ill-tempered so much of the time.”

This may seem an astute observation for a fifteen-year-old girl with no personal experience of marriage to make (as previously mentioned, Penelope had had scarce contact with boys in general, never mind prospective husbands). But she had long ago learned from Dr. Westminster, the Swanburne veterinarian, that some creatures become perfectly miserable when left alone too much, and this misery can easily turn to viciousness. As a result, their caretakers and fellow creatures give them a wide berth, which only makes them more lonely, mistrustful, and snappish than before.

A great deal of kindness and patience (not to mention quick reflexes and an ample supply of treats) are required to turn a situation like this around without getting badly bitten. Could such a cure be achieved with Lady Constance?