The Unmapped Sea (22 page)

“How remarkable that it is still daylight,” Lady Constance observed. “Why has the sun not set?”

Whoops! Penelope had not thought of this. Hours had passed since they set sail, time enough for a five-course meal and the
dolce
, and now it was after nine o'clock. Still the painted Mediterranean sun shone over the painted Italian hills, just as it had before.

“We are too far south,” Alexander promptly explained, for he too realized their mistake. “At the South Pole, the sun does not set at all this time of year.” Beowulf nodded forcefully, as if Italy being near the South Pole was a well-known fact of geography, and Cassiopeia gave Penelope a look that said, “Ought I quickly add some penguins to the panorama to make this tale more convincing?” But there was no need, for the good ship
Suspension of Disbelief
still had plenty of wind in its sails.

“Fredrick, did you hear that? He thinks the sun does not set at the South Pole in summer!” Lady Constance giggled and took her husband's arm. “What an absurd idea! I will not correct him, for he is only a child. We have had fair winds, as Capitano Pomodoro said, and have thus made very good time. That is the simplest explanation, and therefore it must be true.” (Here Lady Constance unwittingly echoed the famous
William of Ockham, who lived in the fourteenth century and who died, alas, of the plague, but not before saying this: When there is more than one explanation at hand, the simplest one is best. His idea has come to be known as Occam's Razor, a sharp blade that shaves away the stubble of needless complexity. Also, note that Occam is the Latin spelling of Ockham. If you think that having two spellings for the same name is precisely the type of needless complexity that could do with a nice, close shave, congratulations; you have clearly understood the meaning of Occam's Razor.)

“Yes, fair winds,
woof!
Full speed ahead,
ahwoo!
” Lord Fredrick threw Penelope a desperate look. She had kept a close eye on him during dinner. With every passing hour, his condition had worsened; now he could hardly speak a sentence without barking. Quickly she found Dr. Martell and whispered a suggestion in his ear.

Before long, Dr. Martell offered to walk with Lady Ashton so that he might inquire privately as to her health. Soon they were deep in conversation. “I had the most awful experience with a doctor at home, at Ashton Place,” the lady told him. “Such an unpleasant man. How I wish he could see me now, feeling so well and cheerful! A trip to the sea was all I needed,
not a grumpy old doctor who smelled of stale bread pudding!”

Lord Fredrick hung back and panted as he leaned against the painted olive trees. “Look at her, smiling and laughing,” he said as Penelope approached. “Happy as a lark,
bark!
It's going well.
Woof!
This pretending is hard work, though. Not sure how actors,
yap
! Manage it.”

“Lord Ashton,” she said quietly. “Regarding Tuesday, and the full you-know-what, I wonder if there may have been an unfortunate misunderstanding. . . .”

He wiped his brow with his pocket handkerchief, which was monogrammed with an ornate capital A. “I'm wondering, too,
yap!
I could have sworn the full you-know-what was tomorrow. But,
grr!
I think I may have—
woof!
—miscalculated.” Desperately he patted his pockets. “Blasted almanac! It's gone again.
Ahwoo!
But now we're aboard this imaginary ship. I can't simply jump overboard and—
woof!
—disappear. What shall I do,
ahwoo
?”

Quickly and quietly, Penelope told him her idea. He nodded and made his way to where his wife stood with Dr. Martell. “I must leave you in the good doctor's care for a little while, Constance,
grr!
” He shoved his knuckles into his mouth to stop the growling.

“Why? Where are you going?” Lady Constance asked, with a twinge of her old nervousness.

“Another surprise, my dear. Another—
yap! Woof!—
surprise.” Overcome, he dropped to all fours and loped out of the room.

T
HE
I
NCORRIGIBLES HAD DONE A
marvelous job transforming the lobby of the hotel into a ship's deck, and its dining room into an elegant restaurant at sea. But it was here, in their strange and fascinating portrayal of the Eternal City, as Rome has often been called, that their imaginations had truly taken flight. (To say Rome is eternal is hyperbole, of course, but as cities go, it has certainly been around a long time, far longer than most. Hence, the nickname.)

The panorama included several notable examples of ancient Roman architecture, including the Colosseum, the Pantheon (a superb example of Corinthian columns at work), and the spectacular Roman baths. They had no model to draw from, so for the Roman baths they had simply painted a collection of the sorts of bathtubs they were used to, rather than the large and magnificent bathhouse the ancient Romans built. However, the tubs were nicely drawn and had plenty of soap bubbles. One could easily imagine taking a relaxing hot soak at the
end of a long day delivering orations in the senate.

Papier-mâché seashells were scattered along the banks of the River Tiber, ready to be collected. The terrifying volcano Mount Vesuvius belched smoke on the horizon. Careful observation revealed the tail of a megalosaurus peeking out between the columns of the Pantheon. Cassiopeia had insisted upon this detail, as she felt it lent an air of drama to the scene, and who could argue?

Alexander jumped to Lady Constance's side and pretended to snap open a parasol. “The sun in Italy is stronger than what you are accustomed to in England, my lady,” he said gallantly.

“So it is.” She ventured one pale hand outside the imagined shade and quickly snatched it back. “Yes, it is very strong!” Something on the ground caught her attention. “Look, Fredrick, a seashell! And there are more, over there. I will have to start a collection.” Happy as the proverbial clam, she began to gather the papier-mâché shells.

Simon leaned over to Penelope. “This is a madcap situation, to be sure. If it were an operetta on the West End, we could call it
Ashtons on Holiday
.”

“Just wait; we are about to have the
tableaux vivants
,” she said, amused in spite of herself. (
Tableaux vivants
are very brief plays in which the actors do not move or speak. In Miss Penelope Lumley's day, they were thought to be highly entertaining. As you see, progress does occasionally take a step in the right direction.)

“Our first
tableau
is called ‘The Birth of the Hermit Crab,'” Beowulf announced. The tableau featured Veronika standing in a bathtub-sized seashell, with her hair hanging loose and wild. On one hand she wore a large papier-mâché claw.

“She is a hermit crab who has outgrown her shell,” Cassiopeia explained. “The tableau is Italian because . . .” She paused, forgetting the reason. Beowulf whispered in her ear. “Because her name is Botticelli,” she finished proudly.

This was not quite right, as Botticelli was the name of the Italian artist whose famous painting called
The Birth of Venus
had inspired the tableau. But Lady Constance had already moved on, after expressing regret that the seashell in which Veronika stood was too big to collect and take home to Ashton Place.

“Our next tableau: Romulus and Remus!” said Alexander. These were the twin brothers who were said to be the founders of Rome. They were portrayed by Boris and Constantin, both clad in Max's oversized diapers (according to legend, the brothers had been abandoned
as infants). Their matching black eyes added a further touch of verisimilitude, for Romulus and Remus had fought bitterly over who got to be in charge. (If you have forgotten who won the fight, a clue can found within the name of the Eternal City itself.)

“After being left in a basket and set adrift on the Tiber, Romulus and Remus were rescued by a friendly wolf,” said Alexander. By now the twins had become ace howlers, thanks to their friendship with the Incorrigibles. They threw back their heads and gave it their all.

“Ahwoo!”

“Ahwoo!”

From somewhere close by came a full-throated, manly howl, so convincing it might have been made by a real wolf.

“Ahwoooooooooo!”

Lady Constance pointed. “Look! That must be the wolf that raised them. I must say, he looks a great deal like my husband.”

It was Lord Fredrick, of course. Following Penelope's instruction, he had found a fur cloak to use as a costume and hidden himself behind the tail of the megalosaurus. Now he stood beside the twins, howling with abandon and, it must be said, enjoyment.

“Ahwoooooooooo!”

“Ahwoooooooooo!”

His wife clapped her hands in delight. “Fredrick, I had no idea you possessed such talent! If you ever tire of being a wealthy lord, you could easily join an acting troupe, like Leed's Thespians on Demand—”

“That looks like my cape!” Captain Babushkinov said, with rising fury. “Who gave you that cape?”

Lord Fredrick blanched. “It was in the—
bark!
—closet,
woof!
The hotel clerk—
yap! Grr!
That is to say, the ship's mate—
ahwoo!
—said I could—
bark!
—borrow it.”

“Napoleon! I knew it!” Captain Babushkinov roared, and snatched the cloak away from Lord Fredrick.

“Oh, dear!” Penelope said, to Simon. “If the clerk's name is Napoleon, no wonder the captain dislikes him so!”

The captain shook his fist. “Napoleon, Napoleon! This insult cannot go unanswered. I will challenge him to a duel! To the death!”

Everyone froze in alarm except Lady Constance, who had seashells pressed to both ears and missed the whole incident. In the silence, Great-Uncle Pudge began to cry. Great salty tears rolled down his cheeks, one after another, like waves lapping at the shore.

Simon put his arm around the old fellow. “Easy there,
capitano
! There'll be no duels to the death on my watch, never you fear.”

“What do I care about dueling? Let them have at each other, that's two less fools in the world.” The teary old man pointed at the tableau. “It's the twins, lad! Those poor twins! Oh, those poor, poor children!”

Boris and Constantin hitched up their diapers and flexed their muscles in a display of good health. “We are not hurt, see? We were only pretending to be raised by wolves!”

“And we
were
raised by wolves, but it was not bad,” Alexander said consolingly. “We liked it! Nice wolves! Do not cry, Capitano.”

“Not you, you brainless barnacles,” Pudge roared. “It's the admiral's children I weep for!”

Penelope frowned. “The admiral's children? You mean his son, Pax Ashton?”

“Pax was one of 'em, yes. But the admiral had
two
children. He spoke of them often during our days at sea. His pride and his joy, that's what he called them.”

Dumbstruck, Penelope thought of the paintings in Lord Fredrick's study. Admiral Percival Racine Ashton, the Honorable Pax Ashton, Edward Ashton . . . where was this mysterious missing Ashton?

Simon must have had the same thought. “Uncle—I
mean, Capitano—are you saying that Pax Ashton had a brother?”

“I am not saying that, no.” Pudge smiled through his tears, relishing the moment. “What I
am
saying is that Pax Ashton had a
sister
. They were twins, just like these two scalawags in the droopy diapers.”

Embarrassed, Boris and Constantin blushed and ran to their father. This was fortunate, as it meant the captain had to put aside the idea of a duel and help the boys put their clothes back on.

“Those poor twins!” Pudge went on. “Oh, it's a tragic tale. That's what caused this salty flood upon my cheeks! These hot, unmanly tears!” He turned to Simon. “Salty flood, not bad, eh, Simon?”

“We'll discuss the use of metaphor later, Uncle! What about the twins?” Simon answered, and indeed, everyone wanted to hear the tale.

“Twins, aye!” the old man went on. “The best of friends, they were. Thick as thieves! Inseparable! But after the admiral and his wife were killed in that hunting accident, everything changed.” He sniffed loudly and wiped his nose on his sleeve, despite the three clean pocket handkerchiefs that were promptly offered by the Incorrigibles. “Imagine surviving a shipwreck and cannibals and days spent floating on a raft at sea,
only to meet a gruesome end on your own property, on the first full moon after being rescued and returned to dry land! It's a shame Pax's wife joined the hunting party that day, but after he'd been away so long, it's no wonder she wanted to keep him in sight. The coroner couldn't tell what kind of ravenous beast did them in. Something vicious, it was! After it was done feasting on the admiral and his wife, there was scarcely enough left to tell them apart.”

Someone brought over a papier-mâché chunk of Corinthian column so that the old salt could sit down. Those who liked a gruesome tale—meaning, nearly everyone present—hung on Pudge's every word. Only Lady Constance remained indifferent to the tale, for she was too busy gathering seashells.

“But what happened to the admiral's children?” Penelope urged.

Pudge clutched his heart. “Pax had always been a sweet and tender boy. A sensitive lad, and talented, too. He liked to paint pictures; his father always said he'd grow up to be an artist, if he didn't watch out! But after his parents were killed, he turned mean as a rabid hyena. His sister was the prime target of his wrath. Before, they'd been the best of friends. Thick as thieves! Inseparable!”

“You said that already, Capitano,” Beowulf helpfully remarked.

“But no more!” Pudge gave the boy a sharp look and went on. “Pax was the son and heir, which left him in charge. Soon enough, he cast his sister out. Trimmed her from the family tree, you might say. He ripped her portraits off the walls—portraits he'd painted himself! He went through the house, the library, the family papers, and burned all trace of her existence. None of the servants were allowed to speak of her, ever again.”