ICAP 2 - The Hidden Gallery (9 page)

Lady Constance gave Penelope a suspicious look but said only, “You are correct, Miss Lumley. Tarte Philippe is exactly what it is called. A lucky guess on your part, I suppose.” She resumed her excited babble as she tore open the invitation. “Anyway, they say that tarte Philippe is so extraordinarily delicious that words…simply…fail…”

Her voice trailed off as she stared at the note. Her round eyes grew rounder, her pink pursed lips went slack. Then:

“What?”
she yelped. “Is this some kind of a joke?” Lady Constance held the card between two fingertips as if it were a slimy object. “
This
is not an invitation to dine at the Piazza Hotel.
This
is an invitation to
accompany Baroness Hoover—not one of my favorites, by the way—on an excursion to the vilest, ugliest, dirtiest part of London! According to the baroness, tomorrow we are going to visit the poor!” Lady Constance spit out the word “poor” as if it were the seed of a rotten grape. “She claims such missions of mercy are all the rage among society ladies, and if I wish to fit in, I must go along.”

Distraught, Lady Constance threw herself into Penelope's arms. “What a nightmare! With all the exquisite restaurants and dress shops in London, I am to spend my days performing acts of charity in a totally unfashionable and bad-smelling neighborhood! Oh, you have no idea how fortunate you are, Miss Lumley! For a person of your station would never think to aspire to luxuries such as dining at the Fern Court, and thus you do not have to endure the bitter disappointment when your hopes are all dashed to bits. It is an agony you are spared, lucky you!”

Penelope patted her mistress awkwardly on the back. “Perhaps the tarte Philippe is not all it is cracked up to be,” she nearly said, for she did feel sorry for poor Lady Constance and wished to comfort her. But that would be dishonest, so instead she said, “Perhaps visiting the poor will not be as smelly as all that.” This
was a statement she could stand behind. After all, Penelope herself was once a Poor Bright Female, just like all the other girls at Swanburne, and she was quite sure she had never smelled of anything but plain soap and the occasional splash of lavender water.

“Don't be absurd. I can think of nothing more horrible. But I suppose it is better than sitting at home with nothing to do.” Lady Constance righted herself, as if her teary-eyed dive at the bewildered governess had never happened. She sniffed and looked around the room. “Where are the bell pulls in this house?
Margaret!
” Then she turned to Penelope. “Find Margaret and send her to my dressing room at once. I must choose clothes for tomorrow. Something that makes me look generous.”

“Margaret is not here, my lady,” Penelope replied, unthinkingly. “She is at the zoo, with the children.”

“The zoo?” Lady Constance's lip began to tremble once more. “Where is the justice in this world, I ask you? Governesses receiving mail! Ladies' maids taking trips to the zoo! While I, Lady Constance Ashton, will be forced to trudge through muck—and mire—and—
poor people
!”

Then the waterworks began in earnest. The wailing was so loud that Penelope had to fight the urge not to cover her ears. Luckily, the din attracted the notice of
the staff, who came rushing to the rescue, and in the hubbub Penelope was finally able to run up to the nursery. By the time she returned with her
Hixby's Guide
, Lady Constance was surrounded by a dozen servants, who fanned her and waved smelling salts under her nose and offered tiny glasses of schnapps to revive her spirits.

“Even Dr. Westminster would have a hard time taming such a wild creature as Lady Constance,” Penelope thought as she watched the scene unfold. “But speaking of wild creatures: to the zoo!”

I
F YOU HAVE EVER BEEN
forced to give directions, or follow them, you already know what a perfect muddle the whole business of navigation can be. One person's “go down the road a piece and bear left at the doughnut shop” is another's “proceed one-half mile and take the eastbound ramp.” The innocent-sounding words “Yes, it's close enough to walk” can easily lure the unsuspecting tourist into an exhausting day-long climb, requiring supplemental oxygen, crampons, and a pickax. Put simply: E = mc
²
. Put even more simply: Everything is
relative, including time and space, both of which are essential to finding one's way around town.

This is why sailors, who quite understandably worry more than most other people do about getting lost at sea, prefer to navigate by the stars. But the stars themselves are far from fixed; they wheel through space at such unimaginable velocities that to seriously ponder the subject puts one at risk of dizzy spells and a nasty headache. The brave sailors manage nevertheless.

As for Miss Penelope Lumley, she had neither sextant nor astrolabe. Her only means of transport was pluck, courage was the fuel that propelled her, and her North Star was determination. The Incorrigible children were in danger, and she simply had to save them, right now, no arguments.

In that unstoppable, Swanburnian spirit, she opened the
Hixby's Guide
, flipped at once to the index (truly, one of the most useful features of any book), and quickly found the entry marked, “Zoo, London, pp. 66–68 (inclusive).”

“This will tell me exactly what I wish to know,” she assured herself in a burst of optimism. However, there are times when all the optimism in the world comes to naught, and this was one of those times, for pages 66–68 (inclusive) contained only pictures of animals
with identifying captions. There was a pretty songbird labeled a snow lark and a gray-furred rodent called an alpine marmot. To Penelope it looked like a sort of overgrown mountain squirrel.

As for directions, there were none—until, beneath a picture of an elephant, Penelope found this aromatically themed verse:

“Smelling elephants? That is not much to go on,” Penelope thought. She scoured the surrounding pages for any tidbit that might offer more practical guidance (a street address would have been ideal), but found only a drawing of an ibex, a large goat with a flinty gaze and enormous curved horns that looked very pointy indeed.

What to do? Despite her breathing exercises, Penelope felt a rising panic. If only she had a pony, like Edith-Anne Pevington! Of course she did not know how to ride, for without a pony of her own to practice on she had had scant opportunity to learn. Even so, she could easily imagine how thrilling it would be to leap onto Rainbow's back and gallop off to rescue
the Incorrigibles from those lethal ibex horns and the razor-sharp buckteeth of crazed mountain squirrels.

“That settles it. When we return to Ashton Place, I must learn to ride at the earliest opportunity,” she resolved. Penelope had gone off on a bit of a tangent, but it was a lucky tangent, for the idea of learning to ride led her to another, more immediately useful idea—one that might actually help solve her current dilemma.

“Young man!” She yelled through cupped hands. “You there, in the tweed cap! May I borrow your velocipede?”

“You mean, my dandy-horse?” The boy, who looked not much older than Alexander, was riding up and down Muffinshire Lane on a two-wheeled invention that nowadays would be best described as a bicycle without pedals, propelled in scooterlike fashion by the feet of the rider. “Nah! Get your own.”

This lack of civic-mindedness was discouraging, yet Penelope made another attempt. “Young man! I am in urgent need of transportation. The safety of three small children is in question. Surely you could lend me your vehicle a short while, for their sake?”

He came to a stop in front of her. “All right. How much?”

Penelope may have been in urgent need of transportation, but she was no fool. “I did not ask to buy your velocipede; I asked to borrow it,” she replied sternly. “However, if payment is required, please note that I am a professional governess. I could give you lessons. Latin, geometry, art appreciation, fundamentals of architecture, basic veterinary skills—choose whatever subject you like. Just lend me the dandy-horse.”

“Lessons?” He made a face. “Nah! You'd have to pay me!”

Penelope was quite taken aback. “Forgive me for saying so, but that is no way to speak about your own education. You would do well to heed the words of Agatha Swanburne—you have heard of Agatha Swanburne, haven't you?”

“Nah! Why? Is she famous?”

“I should say she is!” Penelope was losing patience, but she was also beginning to feel sorry for this urchin. “Agatha Swanburne was a very wise woman who once said, ‘Few would waste a perfectly good sandwich, so why waste a perfectly good mind?' Now, will you reconsider my offer?”

The boy thought for a minute. “Nah!” He pushed off again and rode in tight circles around her. “But I wouldn't mind a sandwich.”

“A sandwich it shall be, then.” She dug into her purse. “There is a charming little bakery down the street, called the Charming Little Bakery. You may go there and eat to your heart's content, as much as this many coins will buy.” She placed the money in his hand. “In exchange, I ask that you lend me your velocipede for—well, for as long as it is required.”

He stared in wonder at his coin-filled palm. “A bakery? Crikey! Sure, lady, take the dandy-horse. Ain't mine anyhow.”

He hopped off the seat and skittered away to the bakery, leaving Penelope in possession of what she now suspected was a stolen velocipede. But no matter; how to operate the vehicle was the far more urgent question. Riding sidesaddle did not seem to be an option, so she tucked up her long skirt around both legs in order to perch on the seat. Since she had recently skated across a hard wooden floor on her bottom, the extra padding was more than welcome.

“What a curious invention,” Penelope thought as she turned the handlebars this way and that, just to get the feel of it. “The addition of a simple gear mechanism and foot pedals to propel the wheels would make it far more efficient. Still, it will be faster than walking.
Allons, mes amis!
”

Penelope's optimism had returned in full force. After all, she had seen the boy riding, and it looked straightforward enough. One simply pushed one's feet along the ground while balancing upon the seat. She merely had to summon the courage to begin…right…left…right…left…now a little faster, right-left-right-left,
rightleftrightleftrightleft…

“Giddy-yap, Rainbow!” she cried aloud, to bolster her nerve, and also to warn any passersby of her wobbly, swerving approach. “Gallop on, my brave pony! There will be sweet carrots in it for you when we get back to the barn!”

Penelope rapidly picked up speed. “Why, this is not difficult at all,” she thought, perhaps feeling a bit more confident than she had a right to. “And I will wager that Mr. Hixby's advice is sounder than it first appeared. I shall ride until I smell elephants! For that will mean the zoo must surely be nearby.” This is the trouble with optimism, you see: In excess, it makes even ridiculous ideas seem worth a try. And the chance to put this one to the test had arrived, for Penelope was already careening toward the intersection.

“Easy as pie!” she thought, preparing to sniff. “One direction will smell more like elephants than the other, and that is the direction in which I shall go.” And with
that, she closed her eyes.

“Giddy-yap, Rainbow!” she cried aloud…

You may well wonder why she did this, but the truth is most people tend to close their eyes when trying to get a good whiff of something. If you perform this experiment at home (using all necessary safety precautions, of course), you will amazed at the way that shutting off one sense instantly sharpens the rest.

Even so, closing one's eyes is never a good idea while attempting to steer a velocipede through a busy intersection. Moreover, no matter how deeply Penelope inhaled, it was not immediately apparent which direction smelled more like elephants. She sniffed and sniffed, but as they say nowadays, it was a toss-up.

“My sense of smell may not be up to the job, but my hearing is as keen as an owl's,” Penelope thought, still riding blindly. “I hear voices shouting, a sharp crack of the whip, horses neighing in protest, the clatter of hooves, the skid of carriage wheels, the Incorrigibles calling, ‘Lumawoo'—whoops!”

“Lumawoo! Lumawoo!”

“Whoa! Whoa, I say!”

“Easy, Rainbow,” Penelope cried, for the velocipede seemed to be rearing up in alarm. It skidded out from under her; the next thing she knew, she was sprawled on the cobblestones of Muffinshire Lane.

The elephants would have to wait. She opened her eyes and found herself face-to-face with the tall spoked wheel of a luxurious town coach, which had come to a sudden stop not three feet from where she lay. Looking in the other direction, she saw that the coach was pulled by four spirited, pure black Andalusians. The elegant carriage was the same midnight shade as the horses, so richly polished it gleamed in the sun.

The coachman stared down at her. Beads of sweat studded his forehead. His hands were still white-knuckled from hauling back on the reins.

“What were you thinking, miss?” he scolded. “Taking some sort of a joy ride? You nearly killed us all, there!”

Four long, dark horse faces, with their rubbery lips and swiveling ears, and annoyed expressions in their long-lashed eyes, also turned 'round to look at her, snorting and huffing as if to say, “
Neigh, neigh!
Why don't you look where you're going, Miss Two Legs? And get a real pony while you're at it. That dandy-horse contraption is perfectly ridiculous!”

“Miss Two Legs? Why, that is not a very polite form of address,” Penelope mumbled in reply. Understand that she was more than a little disoriented, for she had taken quite a tumble.

“Lumawoo! Lum
ahwooooooooo!
” The three Incorrigible children howled her name from someplace close by. A high, squeaking sound accompanied them; it might have been Margaret's voice, but in Penelope's mind it sounded more like the chirruping of a worried Nutsawoo.

“Say! Are you all right, Miss Lumley?” A familiar and perfectly nice young face, waves of brown hair, finely formed features, gleam of genius and all, gazed down at her and extended a hand.

Now she was quite sure she must have a concussion. For here was Simon Harley-Dickinson gently helping her to her feet, and the Incorrigibles, their faces grubby and hands sticky from candy, clambering out of the town coach and crowding anxiously around her. Beowulf clutched a balloon on a string, and all three children smelled, frankly, like elephants.

“Simon? I mean, Mr. Harley-Dickinson, of course. Forgive me, I am still a bit flustered from the fall….” Penelope blinked, and blinked again. Muffinshire Lane was whirling like a top, but the children hugged her so hard she could not have toppled over again if she wanted to, which, naturally, she did not.

“Say, that's some set of wheels you have there, Miss Lumley!” Simon grinned from ear to ear.

Penelope hid her embarrassment by vigorously brushing the dirt off her tangled skirt. “What, the velocipede?” she said offhandedly. “It is perfectly easy, once you get the knack.” She looked around once more. Her head was beginning to clear, and the street had stopped spinning. Only then did the import of the situation dawn on her fully. “But—wait!” She turned to the Incorrigibles. “I thought you were at the zoo! In fact, I was just on my way to find you there. I was afraid something dreadful might have happened.”

The children only giggled and took turns batting at Beowulf's balloon. Penelope hid her enormous relief by sounding cross. “Alexander! Beowulf! Cassiopeia! I would like an explanation, please. What were you doing, riding in this magnificent carriage? And to whom does it belong? I am quite sure I have told you never to accept rides from strangers—or if I have not, I should have, and will do so frequently from this point forward.”

“But I am not a stranger, of course.” A tall, middle-aged man swung gracefully out of the carriage. He, too, was dressed in black, and his hair was as dark as the quartet of horsetails that were now impatiently whipping about. “We were at the zoo, Miss Lumley, and we are just on our way back. The carriage is mine.
I am glad you find it pleasing.”

That voice! It was rich, powerful—and familiar. She would have recognized it even with her eyes closed, but there could be no mistaking the imposing, black-clad figure who stood before her.

It was Judge Quinzy. She remembered him vividly from the holiday ball at Ashton Place. She had met many of Lord Fredrick's powerful friends that night, and frankly she did not care for any of them; she found them stuck-up and rude. The men in particular had showed a fixation on hunting animals that, in Penelope's worst imaginings, nearly threatened to encompass the “wild wolf children” Lord Fredrick had bragged about finding on his property. Judge Quinzy had been the only one who had shown a more human interest in Penelope, and in the Incorrigibles. Oddly, that made her like him the least of all.