The Interrupted Tale (20 page)

Penelope looked around. “And where is Lord Ashton?”

“Fredrick,” Lady Constance began, but it came out as a squeak. She cleared her throat and tried again. “My husband is not feeling well today.”

“Naturally he is not, for it is the night of the full—” Penelope caught herself. “That is to say, I am sorry to hear that he is ill and had to stay home.”

“I wish he
had
stayed home! I wish we both had! But he was the one who insisted that we come.” Lady Constance's round, doll-like eyes grew even wider. “He behaved frightfully in the carriage, Miss Lumley. Oh, he was making the most indecent noises! Whimpering and barking and growling. Once we arrived, Old Timothy took him straight inside, through some secret, private entrance that he claimed to know. Now Fredrick is indisposed with what he calls a headache, but I am quite certain it is something worse.”

She fiddled anxiously with the handle of her parasol. “As soon as we return to Ashton Place, I will insist that he see a doctor. More and more I find myself wracked with worry about those spooky tales his mother told . . . strange illnesses in the Ashton family tree, gruesome ends, and so on. Fredrick says it is all nonsense. But really, Miss Lumley, what am I to think?” Her voice dwindled to a frightened whisper. “During the ride here, he chewed a hole in the seat leather of the carriage. A
hole
! And scratched himself all over, like a flea-bitten dog! I am no doctor, but that does not sound like a headache to me.” She reached into her reticule and took out an envelope. “As if all that was not unpleasant enough, he asked me to deliver this note. To you!”

Penelope's mind raced—Lord Fredrick, at Swanburne! Barking and chewing!—but “Me?” is what she exclaimed.

Lady Constance handed her the envelope. “Yes, you, Miss Lumley. I do not know what it says. As you see, it is sealed. The indignity! I suppose Fredrick imagines I am some sort of postal employee, with nothing better to do than carry letters to my own governess.”

Penelope turned the envelope over in her hands. A letter, from Lord Fredrick? Had he already learned of her deception about the cannibal book? Was she being fired after all?

The wax seal was a swirling capital A. She broke it with a fingernail, and read:

 

Bad day today and getting worse by the hour. Is it the moon? Can't find my almanac, blast! Need first lesson tonight, urgently, as soon as the sun goes down. Ask Old Timothy where to find me; he'll know. Must have HEP!

Fredrick Ashton

 

Lady Constance was crying now. “It is something dreadful in the letter; it must be! Else why would he not tell me?”

The Incorrigible children put down their chickens and comforted her as best they could.
“Oojie-woojie-lady-woo,”
they said kindly, patting her on the arm. She dabbed at her eyes with the commemorative handkerchief, but when she saw the word “
hope”
it only prompted fresh tears.

Penelope slipped the letter from Lord Fredrick into her pocket. With an urgent wave, she summoned two of the welcoming-committee girls to come near. “Lady Constance, do not fret. There is nothing dreadful, I assure you. It is merely . . . a surprise!”

“A surprise?” Lady Constance blew her nose. “What is it?”

“I cannot tell you, because it is a surprise,” Penelope replied, improvising madly, “but I am sure you will find out soon enough. Now, please allow these kind girls to escort you to the CAKE. I promise, all will be well.”

Each of the girls offered an arm. “Will it be chocolate cake, do you think?” Penelope heard the sniffling lady ask as they led her inside. “Oh, I hope so! I could use some chocolate right now, in the most desperate way!”

 

I
T WAS PAST TIME TO
go in, but the children still had three chickens to deal with. The Incorrigibles wanted the sleepy baby dodos to be put to bed properly in a cozy room, with a glass of warm milk and a copy of
Nursery Rhymes for the Nearly Extinct
close at hand. (There is no such book, unfortunately. The children made up the title for fun, to amuse the baby dodos. Whether they succeeded we shall never know, for even the world's leading chicken experts have a hard time telling when chickens are amused. They are mysterious birds and have even been known to cross the road for no reason that anyone can deduce, though thousands have asked why.)

However, Penelope insisted that the dodos would be happier in the chicken coop, with all their dodo brothers and sisters nearby. “Remember, Incorrigibles: You have important responsibilities today, which you will shortly learn more about. There will be no time for dodo sitting,” she said. Reluctantly, the children shooed the birds back toward the chicken coop. Then they followed their governess inside and whispered excitedly among themselves about what their important responsibilities might be.

Penelope kept thinking about the note in her pocket. “I feel sorry for Lord Fredrick's difficulties, but his timing—or rather, the moon's—could hardly be worse. I must give my CAKE speech according to plan, but he surely needs his HEP, too.” She ushered the children to their seats in the auditorium, where everyone had gathered for the welcoming remarks. “And how does Old Timothy know about the secret side entrance to Swanburne? Is he truly Dr. Westminster's father?” How curious it all was!

Miss Mortimer clapped her hands three times—
clap clap clap!
—and everyone laughed in recognition, for who could forget those claps? “Good afternoon,” she said, full of good cheer. “I will keep my remarks brief and pithy, for that is the Swanburne way. To all of you I say: ‘Welcome!' And to the Swanburne girls among you, let me add: ‘Welcome home!' Now, go wander about and enjoy yourselves. See you at dinner!”
Clap clap clap!

 

T
HE CLASSROOM DEMONSTRATIONS WERE A
great success. The Swanburne girls celebrated their knowledge, and the alumnae celebrated theirs. Science experiments were performed, Latin verbs conjugated, multiplication tables recited, and spelling bees held. Globes were spun 'round like tops, and the capital cities of midsized European nations were identified with an impressive degree of accuracy, by current and former students alike.

Penelope was glad to greet some old friends among the guests, but there was no sign of Cecily. “I suppose it is a long way to come from Witherslack,” she thought, disappointed. “Or perhaps she could not leave her Hungarian lady employer untranslated for so long. Still, I shall be sure to write her a long letter. . . .” Then she remembered she had given away the new fountain pen and sighed.

Late in the afternoon, the halls of the school filled with a delicious and unusual aroma. Everyone sniffed and tried to guess what would be served for dinner. Penelope said nothing, although inside she began to feel the kind of fluttery, nervous tummy that she supposed every master criminal felt as the moment of truth grew near. Soon, very soon, it would be time to put the rest of the plan in motion.

And where was the chairman of Swanburne's board of trustees during all this? Nowhere to be seen. It was as if he too were written in invisible ink. However, at one point during the afternoon, as they walked from one classroom demonstration to the next, the children complained of a strange, foul smell wafting from a long-unused wing of the school. Classes had not been held in those rooms for many a year, but they still contained some antiquated laboratory equipment—enough to do some mixing and simmering, at least.

“Perhaps Edward Ashton is trying to visibilize the cannibal book himself,” Penelope thought. “Luckily, only Simon knows the true formula. I wonder what mystery those pages will finally reveal?”

And, speaking of Simon, between demonstrations the children plied Penelope with questions about Simawoo's unexpected presence in the chicken coop. She convinced them that he was in Heathcote to attend a surprise birthday party, and that it would ruin the surprise if anyone discovered that he was near. They solemnly promised to keep the secret, but naturally, the children suspected that this was the same surprise meant for Lady Constance. Beowulf remarked that Lady Constance already behaved as if every day were her birthday, and all three children grew wide-eyed at the thought of what she might be like on the actual day.

Personally, Penelope was intensely curious to know how Simon's preparations for the visibilizer were going. She longed to take a peek, but alas, because of his pirate oath, his work must be done in secret. In any case, she still had to obtain the final two ingredients, which were, of course, the paprika and the cannibal book itself. And what on earth was she to do about Lord Fredrick Ashton?

“Important responsibilities,” Alexander reminded, tugging at her sleeve. “When do we get them?”

“Soon,” she said thoughtfully, for his question had given her an idea. “Very soon.”

 

Ga-dong! Ga-dong! Ga-dong! Ga-dong! Ga-dong!

“Iambic pentameter o'clock,” the children cried. “Time for dinner!”

And so it was. The guests were as punctual as one would expect a group of Swanburne graduates to be. Before the fifth
ga-dong
had chimed, they had filed into the dining hall in perfect order and taken their seats. The graduates were full of praise for the school, its teachers, and especially its pupils, who were as full of cleverness and pluck as Agatha Swanburne herself could have wished. And the trustees had not been glimpsed all afternoon.

Only Lady Constance was unhappy with the day. “All that
thinking
!” she complained as she was led to her seat. “I am utterly worn out from it. And someone, please tell me:
Who
is responsible for inventing the multiplication tables? That person ought to be fired! I have never heard of anything so complicated. Especially those tricky sevens and eights.”

Penelope thought she might cheer Lady Constance with a brief history of mathematics, starting with the ancient Babylonians and then on to the Greeks, including Thales of Miletus (the Theorem of Thales is not to be missed by fans of semicircles), Pythagoras, Euclid, and even—eureka!—Archimedes (of whom you ought to think each time you take a bath). Luckily, someone tapped her on the shoulder before she could make the attempt. She turned to see who it was.

“Mrs. Apple!” she exclaimed. At once she felt guilty. “Dear Mrs. Apple, I apologize for not coming to tell you myself. By now you have heard about the change in the speaking schedule, I hope?”

Mrs. Apple merely pointed to her throat and shook her head. “No voice,” she mouthed. Not even a squeak came out.

“Mrs. Apple makes very good rabbit noise,” Alexander said, impressed (those of you who are expert at animal sounds already know that rabbit calls are inaudible, and therefore quite difficult to learn).

Miss Mortimer swooped in. “There you are! Penny, dear, you and the children are to sit with me at the faculty table. We thought that was appropriate, given your accomplishments as an educator. Poor Mrs. Apple seems to have caught a dreadful cold! She has lost her voice completely. Thank goodness you are able to step in after all.” Yet there was something about the twinkle in Mrs. Apple's eye that looked perfectly well. Penelope said nothing, and she and the children followed Miss Mortimer to their seats.

How festive the dining hall was now! Banners hung from the high rafters, each one emblazoned with a different saying of Agatha Swanburne. Chandeliers sparkled overhead, and fires blazed in every hearth. Even so, it was as if a cold wind swept through the hall when Edward Ashton entered, flanked by the baroness and her husband. With them was the Earl of Maytag, another unpleasant acquaintance of Lord Fredrick whom Penelope had met in the past. The other trustees followed nervously as a group, and they sat together at a long table that had been reserved for them.

A reporter from
Heathcote, All Year 'Round (Now Illustrated)
went from table to table asking questions of the graduates: What had been their favorite classes when they were students here? What had they accomplished since graduation? What were their favorite sayings of Agatha Swanburne? Finally, just like everyone else in the hall, the reporter found himself wondering aloud, “What is that tasty smell?”

It was dinner, at last! The soup course was served, and then a fish course, and finally the main dish was brought out in great kettles, piping hot and fragrant with paprika. “Hungarian goulash!” the cry went up. “So
that
was the delicious and unusual aroma we smelled earlier!” The cook had followed the recipe to perfection: chunks of tender stew meat simmered with onions, garlic, potatoes, parsnips, carrots, and tomatoes, seasoned with caraway and, of course, the paprika. Penelope was too nervous to take more than a few bites, but the children gobbled the goulash with gusto once they realized the dish contained no peas whatsoever. When the waiters came 'round to offer second helpings, they could only groan, for they had stuffed themselves at breakfast and now again at dinner, and their tummies were already tight and round as if they had each swallowed a melon.

“Save room for dessert,” Miss Mortimer said, dabbing her lips with a napkin. “For how could we have our first annual CAKE without a cake to celebrate the occasion?”

“Cake . . . oh, no!” the children wailed, for they had never been less interested in dessert in their lives. As if on cue, the cake emerged. It was so large that it took two servants on each side and one in the back to push the enormous wheeled trolley that bore this confection out of the kitchen. It had twelve layers, and each one was a different kind of cake altogether.

“Chocolate cake, vanilla cake, carrot cake, sponge cake, coconut cake, marble cake, pineapple cake, mousse cake, nougat cake, cheesecake, pound cake, and Black Forest cake,” Miss Mortimer explained. The icing had been applied in thick, painterly swirls. On top, written in a delicate script, was the Swanburne motto:
No Hopeless Case Is Truly Without Hope.