The Interrupted Tale (3 page)

But Penelope's heart remained full to bursting. “Thank you all, so very much,” she said, and gazed with affection on each of her three pupils, and on all of her guests as well. “This is the nicest birthday I could possibly imagine.”

 

T
HE SERVANTS SOON HAD TO
get back to work, but Penelope was used to quick parties, so she did not mind. It was only after Mrs. Clarke, Cook, Margaret, and the others had made their farewells that Beowulf suddenly remembered.

“One more present!” he cried, running to the windows. “Almost forgot Nutsawoo.”

Nutsawoo was the twitchy and half-tame squirrel who spent his (or her) days in the branches of the elm tree just outside the nursery, performing amusing antics and begging for treats. At Beowulf's chirruping call, the little rodent scampered into the nursery and offered Penelope a great prize indeed: a single perfect acorn, carried with pride in those tiny, monkeylike paws. She (or he, for it is hard to tell with squirrels) dropped the acorn neatly into Penelope's hand before skittering back outside. The creature's bushy gray tail flicked to and fro with satisfaction.

Now, for a squirrel to sacrifice even a single acorn in autumn is a profound act of generosity, as Penelope well knew. For some reason this was what pushed her “over the edge,” as they say nowadays, and she began to cry in earnest. The children were alarmed by her outburst and offered to cheer her by staging a
tableau vivant
of either “The Wreck of the Hesperus” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow or “The Raven” by Edgar Allan Poe, or another poem they had recently begun reading, called “The Tyger,” by Mr. William Blake, which began like this:

 

Tyger, Tyger, burning bright,

In the forests of the night;

What immortal hand or eye

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

 

But Penelope shook her head, blew her nose (luckily, she was well stocked with handkerchiefs), ate a second piece of cake, and quickly regained her composure.

“Time to get back to our lessons,” she said, clapping her hands briskly three times, just the way Miss Mortimer used to do to signal an end to a birthday party.

The children scurried to obey, and Penelope could not help thinking that the eagerness and good cheer of her students was the very best present of all. For whether she was six, sixteen, or (unimaginable as it might now seem) even sixty, Penelope would always be a Swanburne girl, through and through.

The Second Chapter
Lady Constance takes a leap of the imagination.

P
ERHAPS IT WAS THE EXCITEMENT
of the party, or the several slices of cake topped with sugary marzipan flowers that each of the Incorrigibles had eaten for breakfast—whatever the cause, that afternoon the children were even friskier than usual. They could not settle down for lessons and kept popping up from their chairs for various reasons: to fetch an unneeded book from the shelf, or to switch one dull pencil for another that was no sharper, or to call Nutsawoo in from the elm tree for a scratch behind the ears. This was particularly time-consuming, for no matter how long the children scratched, the greedy squirrel always demanded more.

Needless to say, little was getting done in the way of schoolwork. But Penelope could hardly be cross with the children, after all their kindness and generosity. Too, she still felt the tiniest bit guilty about having a sixteenth birthday when her three pupils had yet to have one—and oughtn't she have some time off on her special day as well?

“Lessons will resume tomorrow; outside we go,” she announced, to the children's delight. Under the changing leaves of the trees near the house, she entertained them with some vigorous skipping and dancing games that she had recently invented. The games were meant to show the various types of poetic meter: iambic pentameter, for example, which William Shakespeare used to marvelous effect in many of his poems and plays. (Scholars have written lengthy books on the subject of iambic pentameter, a topic of great complexity that can only be mastered by experts, geniuses, college professors, and the like. Fortunately, Penelope did not know this; she thought iambic pentameter sounded like five strides of a gallop—
ta-TUM, ta-TUM, ta-TUM, ta-TUM, ta-TUM
—and could easily be learned by pretending to have a pony race, after which anyone might read the works of Shakespeare with far greater enjoyment than before.)

But Shakespeare would keep for another day. For now, her plan was to tire out the children with all the poetic meters she could think of and then set them to work on some quiet activity. In this way she hoped to gain herself a few peaceful moments to sit and examine her precious stack of birthday cards. She taught them the five
ta-TUM
s of the iambic gallop, followed by the anapestic skip (
biddle-BUM, biddle-BUM
), and even the dactylic waltz (
OOM-pa-pa, OOM-pa-pa
). At last the exhausted Incorrigibles were ready to stumble back to the nursery and be still. Beowulf and Alexander stretched out on the rug next to each other, with paper, pencils, and watercolor paints nearby. Beowulf drew fanciful tygers that were inspired by Mr. Blake's poem, while Alexander made a map of places where such creatures might be found (so far he had come up with Tygerland, Tyger Island, Tyger Mountain, and the Spooky Grotto of Tygers).

Cassiopeia, the youngest, had taken a Giddy-Yap, Rainbow! book from the shelf to look at the pictures and had promptly fallen asleep in the rocking chair. Now she was sweetly snoring, the book nestled beneath her chin.

At last—the birthday cards! Penelope scooped them up and retired to her comfortable chair near the hearth. “Oh, how glorious to be a postal worker!” she thought as she spread her treasures across the ottoman, so as to have the satisfaction of seeing them all at once. “To be the bearer of such joyfully anticipated correspondence! To bring warm greetings from distant friends and deliver long-awaited news of family . . . long-awaited . . . news . . . family . . .” But after going through the stack twice, it was clear that there was nothing from the Long-Lost Lumleys, and Penelope had to swallow hard to make the lump in her throat go away.

Luckily, the card from Cecily cheered her a great deal. It contained comical descriptions of life in Witherslack, as well as a tasty-sounding recipe for Hungarian goulash that called for vast amounts of paprika. Dear, funny Cecily! Her ear for languages made her a brilliant mimic of all types of sounds. Her animal calls could fool even Dr. Westminster, and her creaky-door noise would set anyone running for an oilcan. The younger Swanburne girls had lived in terror of her bloodcurdling scream, which was put to good use every autumn at Heathcote's annual Haunted Hay Maze festival.

Penelope tucked the goulash recipe in her pocket, so she might show it to Cook next time she passed by the kitchen. She hugged Cecily's letter before putting it back in its envelope and felt a pang of regret. What with all her responsibilities as governess, not to mention the endless parade of mysterious events that seemed to crop up willy-nilly at Ashton Place, she had not written to her friend nearly as often as she should. Why on earth not? It was an oversight she resolved she would soon remedy, and with her new fountain pen, too.

Next she opened the many cards from the girls at Swanburne. They were friendly enough, and the penmanship was, of course, superb, but there was something odd about them. For one thing, not one of these cards mentioned Penelope's birthday. “We are inspired by your success!” one girl enthused. “You do the name of Swanburne proud,” wrote another.

“It is flattering, to be sure, but a simple ‘Happy birthday!' would have done just as well,” she thought. Carefully, she put these cards aside. “Still, it was kind of the girls to write. I shall send each one a lengthy thank-you note, perhaps in iambic pentameter, if the mood strikes.” Once again she felt excited at the prospect of using her new pen.

She had saved Miss Mortimer's card for last, precisely because it was the one she was most eager to read. “As Agatha Swanburne once observed, ‘Peas first, biscuits last, makes for a happy meal,'” she said to herself as she used the letter opener from Beowulf to slit the envelope. She unfolded the letter within (for it was a letter, not a card, and a rather long one at that, running many pages), and leaned back in her cozy armchair to discover what loving words and pearls of wisdom her former headmistress might offer on this never-to-be-repeated event, the very special occasion of Penelope's one and only sixteenth birthday!

 

My dear Penny,

Greetings! How are the children faring? Please send an update on their progress, particularly regarding their grasp of multiplication. The ones are no great challenge, and counting by twos is easily mastered, but I do hope they have figured out those tricky sevens and eights. . . .

 

The letter went on to discuss the finer points of the multiplication tables, in precise and painfully dull detail.

Penelope raced through the next few paragraphs, and then turned to the next page, and the one after that, but it was simply more of the same. “‘Twelve times three is thirty-six, and so is half of twelve times two times three' . . . all quite true,” she thought, puzzled. “And sixteen is two times eight as well as four times four, but that is hardly the same thing as saying ‘Happy sixteenth birthday!'” Flummoxed, she dropped the letter into her lap. “I wonder if Miss Mortimer received my most recent correspondence? In it, I told her of my disturbing suspicions regarding Judge Quinzy, yet she does not mention it here at all.”

Indeed, Penelope suspected that Quinzy might actually be Lord Fredrick Ashton's father, Edward Ashton, who had long been presumed dead after meeting a gruesome end in a medicinal tar pit during an otherwise pleasant spa vacation. Many unanswered questions remained. Could Quinzy be the real, live Edward Ashton? If so, why would he fake his own death and assume a false identity? And why had he recently maneuvered his way onto the board of trustees of the Swanburne Academy?

“But first things first—back to the letter,” she thought, for at the moment she was trying to solve an altogether different mystery: Had Miss Mortimer forgotten her birthday, or not?

Penelope skimmed paragraph after paragraph, page after page. “Multiplication, multiplication, long division, geometry . . . Eureka! Here it is, at last.”

 

But that is quite enough about isosceles triangles. I have a particular reason for writing to you, for very soon it will be time for the CAKE.

 

“See? She did not forget!” she thought, but her excitement was dashed in the next sentence.

 

CAKE is something new at Swanburne. It is the Celebrate Alumnae Knowledge Exposition. We plan a day of festivities and a delicious dinner, followed by speeches that I hope will be both pithy and wise, as Agatha Swanburne herself would wish. Would it be possible for you to attend our CAKE on 12th October to speak about the value of your Swanburne education? The Swanburne Path to Success, or something of that ilk?

Penny dear, you must say yes; your alma mater needs you. I confess I have already let it slip to the girls that you would be coming, and they are rather too excited. Many asked if they might write to you. You are one of our more accomplished graduates, you know.

 

“So they were not birthday cards, but simply ordinary, everyday correspondence.” Penelope felt somewhat deflated by this, understandably. And CAKE had nothing to do with birthdays either; it was only an acronym. Was it possible that Miss Mortimer
had
forgotten? But the letter was not over yet.

 

I have also taken the liberty of writing to your mistress, Lady Constance Ashton, to ask if she would consider adding our school to the list of charitable institutions she supports. Who would know better than Lady Ashton just how capable a Swanburne girl can be? She has placed her wards in your hands, after all.

And speaking of the children, I so long to meet them! Please bring them with you, for my sake, and for the trustees' sake, too. For it is the transformation you have wrought in your three remarkable pupils that best proves the worth of all you have learned here.

 

After that there were more paragraphs about multiplication, followed by a brief review of cave geology (stalactites grow down, stalagmites grow up, Penelope was grateful to be reminded). The letter concluded with a long list of various types of ferns, complete with their distinguishing characteristics.

“The upholstery fern? The Winnebago fern? I believe Miss Mortimer made those up; at least, I have never heard of them. And I fear she is being much too optimistic about Lady Constance.” Penelope looked fondly at the Incorrigibles: the boys with their sketching and mapmaking, and Cassiopeia napping peacefully with her book still open upon her chest, the pages fluttering to and fro with each childish snore, like tiny sails in a changeable wind. Who could fail to see the charms of these three? Alas, Lady Constance could, and did. She disliked the children with a passion and was often harsh with their governess. There was little chance that the spoiled young mistress of Ashton Place would become a benefactor to Swanburne—or Swansong, as she sometimes glibly called the school.

As for the children being proof of the value of Penelope's education . . . well, the Incorrigibles' best behavior was very good indeed, but their less-than-best could be positively hair-raising. “As is true of most young people,” Penelope thought, feeling suddenly protective. But then she reminded herself that the Swanburne Academy was a place where all children were treated with understanding and respect. At Swanburne, even three children who had been raised by wolves would be appreciated for their unique qualities. Of this she felt quite sure.

“Grrrrr!”
Cassiopeia awoke with renewed energy. Before long she had corralled her two brothers into an energetic game of tygers, complete with snarls and pretend biting. It was mostly pretend, anyway. Soon Alexander's teeth were sunk into Beowulf's pant leg, and the two were having a devil of a time getting untangled.

Penelope called from her chair. “Careful, children! If the trousers get torn, you will have to mend them yourself, Alexander.”

“Not children. Tygers!” Cassiopeia corrected. At the moment she clearly had the advantage over her brothers, and she readied herself to pounce. One . . . two . . .
three—

Penelope sighed. It was time to get back to work, but at least she had read her mail, or most of it, anyway. As she refolded Miss Mortimer's letter, her eyes fell upon the last few lines.

 

Oh! Happy birthday, dear Penny. I hope you did not think I had forgotten. I wish you many happy returns of the day, from all your loved ones, near and far.

Yours in hope,

Miss Charlotte Mortimer

 

P.S. There is no need to reply by post. In fact, it is better if you do not; the mail delivery at Swanburne is less reliable than it once was, and I might not receive your answer. All will be explained when we speak in person, here, within these ivy-covered walls. Remember, twelve times eight is ninety-six!

 

The birthday greeting was much appreciated, of course, but it was that last bit about the “ivy-covered walls” that kept Penelope awake and thinking long past her usual bedtime. She knew very well that the Swanburne Academy was kept spit-spot; nary a shred of ivy was allowed to grow anywhere near the walls. “Bad for the stonework,” the groundsmen would say. They always pulled it up by the roots.