This odd compliment made Penelope uncomfortable, although she was not sure why. Then Judge Quinzy offered her his arm, just as he might to one of the fine ladies at the party. What else could she do but take it?
Still holding Cassiopeia’s hand tightly with her free hand, Penelope allowed the judge to lead her to his table, with Alexander and Beowulf following close behind. She was careful to keep her gaze straight ahead as they walked. If there happened to be any mocking smiles on the faces of the society ladies as she was paraded across the room on the arm of a judge, it was none of her concern, thank you very much!
Still, though she was too proud to look to see if she were right, she had the unmistakable feeling that every eye in the room was upon her—and upon the children, too.
THE THIRTEENTH CHAPTER
Alas, the party does not go precisely as planned.
IN MISS PENELOPE LUMLEY’S DAY it was often said that the mark of a good servant was to do his or her job with brisk efficiency while at the same time remaining “invisible.” You may take this as another example of hyperbole, for in Miss Penelope Lumley’s day servants did not actually have the power to become invisible, although it certainly would be interesting if they had. (Some years later, a Mr. H. G. Wells would write a definitive book on the subject of invisibility, which is well worth reading. However, under no circumstances are you to repeat the experiments he describes except under the strictest adult supervision.)
Nevertheless, in the very same room and during the same interval of time in which the events of the previous chapter were taking place (that is, the dinner guests entering the ballroom, Hoover and Maytag chatting with the children, Lady Constance’s overwound entrance, the odd conversation with Judge Quinzy, and so forth), the servants had been busily (one may even say “invisibly”) setting out heaping platters of petites madeleines on the linen-draped tables that ringed the dance floor. Trays of colorful fruit tarts and sweet puddings dusted with a fairy-frost of sugar had also appeared, along with steaming pots of fragrant tea.
Judge Quinzy led Penelope and the children to his table and pulled out a chair. Penelope almost sat down in the one next to it before she realized that he was holding the chair out for her. Alexander, Beowulf, and Cassiopeia sat across from her, along with the Earl of Maytag, Baron Hoover, and a woman whom Penelope quickly identified as the baroness due to the way she scowled at the baron. (Baroness Hoover’s nose, Penelope could not help noticing, was as long and sharp as her husband’s was broad and bulbous; she thought it would be amusing to imagine them switched, as if they were detachable accessories of the sort one might nowadays see on, say, a vacuum cleaner.)
All counted that made eight at the table; there were still two empty chairs. From across the room Penelope spotted Lady Constance tottering her way back toward them. Even from a distance she looked woefully unsteady. Clearly the stress of Lord Fredrick’s absence was wearing on her; for everyone’s sake Penelope hoped the tenth chair did not remain vacant much longer.
The men sprang to their feet as Lady Constance approached. “How is your dear little eye, my lady?” asked the Earl of Maytag. “Did you find that wicked cinder? Has the intruder been removed?” Indeed, one of Lady Constance’s eyes was now quite red and puffy from being rubbed; the other seemed glazed in the manner of a person who has overindulged in champagne or some similar beverage.
“Thank you for your conshern, shir. There was no shinder; I just sheem to have developed a shilly old twitch.” No sooner did she say “twitch” than her eye demonstrated. “I have taken a few ships of a—hic!—medishinal cordial that should shoothe the shpasm, shoon enough.”
It was obvious that Lady Constance was making every effort to maintain her dignity, not to mention her balance, but when the Earl of Maytag attempted to push her chair in, she slid off and landed underneath the table with a thud. The men fished her out, but the episode prompted a fit of giggling, which continued until tears streamed down the poor lady’s face. In the end she had to put her head down on her dessert dish to recover under the privacy of a large linen napkin, which she pulled over her head like a blanket. The occasional hiccup soon gave way to a soft snore.
The children observed Lady Constance with fascination. In other circumstances Penelope would have pointed out how, finally, here was a perfect example of irony at work: Lady Constance had haughtily predicted that the Incorrigibles would act like wild animals at the party, but it turned out that she was the one whose behavior left something to be desired. However, Penelope could not think of a way to bring up the subject that would not be awkward; with regret she let the moment pass.
In fact, none of the adults knew quite what to say. The table was at serious risk of suffering that social calamity known as the “awkward silence.” Luckily, the children had been well trained in the art of party conversation.
“Merry Christmas!” said Alexander to Baroness Hoover. “I do not believe we have been introduced.”
“Lovely weather,” Beowulf added, carefully selecting a little shell-shaped cake from the tray.
Cassiopeia grabbed one as well and shoved it gleefully in her mouth. “Condolences,” she said as an afterthought, but through all the crumbs and chewing, no one could understand her, which was just as well.
“Swallow before conversing, dear,” Penelope reminded gently.
Lady Constance let out another snore, which everyone politely ignored. With the precision of a chemist, Baroness Hoover dropped three cubes of sugar into her tea. “So these are the infamous wolf children. You are fortunate”—plop!—“that the Ashtons”—plop!—“have taken you in. Most wretched waifs”—plop!—“in your circumstances would be sent away— Ouch! Percy, beloved, why are you kicking me? Have you mistaken me for a chair leg?”
“Apologies, dear heart, but honestly—‘wretched waifs’? It’s not a nice thing to say at Christmas.”
“I am merely being frank. I don’t believe in sugarcoating things for the young. That is how I was raised, and I turned out perfectly well.” She sipped her tea and smiled wanly at Penelope. “I imagine you must be extremely disappointed in your position, Miss Lumley. You were hired to be a governess, but this is a job more fit for a zookeeper, is it not?”
All eyes turned to Penelope. She did not want to repeat her mistake of bragging about the children’s accomplishments, yet she could not let Baroness Hoover’s mean remark go unanswered. “I was fortunate to receive a rigorous and well-rounded education,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “I hope to impart the same to my students.”
“And I might hope to grow wings and fly, but that is no guarantee of it happening!” The Baroness laughed and slurped her tea.
Judge Quinzy adjusted his glasses higher on his nose. “Perhaps you are underestimating Miss Lumley’s pupils, baroness. A dog can easily be taught a few tricks. Why not these three?” He watched the children carefully. “Tell me, have you studied any foreign languages yet? French? Italian? German?”
At the word “German,” Alexander sat up straight. “Wanderlust!” he exclaimed passionately, and then grabbed a petite madeleine as his reward. One of Judge Quinzy’s eyebrows arched so high, Penelope was afraid it might come loose. The Earl of Maytag was less impressed.
“Fine. He said wanderlust, so what? If I say gesundheit when someone sneezes, it hardly means I speak German,” Maytag retorted.
“It’s a bit much to quiz them on languages, Quinzy,” Hoover added. “Ashton said when he found them they could barely speak at all. Not even English, ha!”
“English easy,” Beowulf announced. “I write poem in English.” He stood up as if ready to recite.
Judge Quinzy held up a hand in alarm. “Sit down, young man. Composing English poetry is hardly something to brag about. We’ll have none of that.”
Hoover snorted. “You’re a funny fellow, Quinzy! But you have a point. Poetry and Latin, those were my most dreaded subjects at school.”
The three Incorrigibles glanced at one another and excha
nged secret smiles. Penelope bit her lip. What were they up to now?
Before answering, Alexander wiped the crumbs from his chin with a napkin, just as Penelope had taught him. “Latin, yes! Cogito, ergo sum. ‘I think, therefore I am.’”
Beowulf was already grinning and bouncing up and down for his turn. “Veni, vedi, vici,” he declared. “‘I came, I saw, I conquered.’”
Hoover pounded the table and chortled, while Maytag and the baroness exchanged skeptical looks. Judge Quinzy’s eyes grew impossibly large behind his thick lenses. “Is this your doing, governess?” he murmured in a low voice. Then he turned to Cassiopeia. “Now I shall not be satisfied until I hear what you have to say. Do you speak Latin, too, like your littermates here?” He fixed the girl with a nonthreatening half smile, but his eyes looked deadly serious.
Penelope remembered the way Cassiopeia snarled at Lady Constance the previous evening and felt a flash of fear. Put on the spot like this, what would Cassiopeia do? Would she growl? Bark? Bite him in the leg?
In a clear, strong voice, Cassiopeia pronounced, “Vado, Pluvia!”
There was a moment of confusion at the table.
“‘Vado, Pluvia’?”
“It is Latin, I’ll grant you that. But what does it mean?”
“Vado is ‘go,’ but Pluvia? Isn’t that rain?”
Penelope quickly covered her mouth with her hand to conceal a smile. “I believe she intends to say, ‘Go, Rainbow,’” she explained. To Cassiopeia, she added, “Next time, try pluvius arcus, dear; the meaning is clearer.” Cassiopeia, wide-eyed and innocent, merely shrugged and ate another cake.
Lady Constance chose this moment to regain consciousness and peeked out from under her napkin. “Oh, it’s shtill the party! I was dreaming we were in church, and everyone was shinging Latin hymns.” She reached for a sweet and found herself staring at Cassiopeia, who was merely trying to pass the plate. “Not fair, not fair—it’s my party and all anyone wants to talk about is these awful, awful children. The little one almost bit me yeshterday, you know,” she remarked to no one in particular. “They are all unshtable, but I believe she is the most vicious of the three.”
As if in answer, the room suddenly filled with a low, whining snarl, which gradually slid higher in pitch. Penelope saw each member of the table react to the noise in his or her own fashion: Cassiopeia bared her upper teeth, and the boys grew alert and bright-eyed, ready to spring. Maytag had a look of eager excitement on his face, Hoover seemed alarmed, his wife disgusted. Only Judge Quinzy remained neutral—which is to say, whatever he was thinking, he did not let it show.
The snarl grew louder and began to run up and down the scale, until it resembled the sound of a violin being tuned.
“Hooray, hooray, the musicians are here!” Lady Constance exclaimed, launching herself precariously to her feet. “Let us all shtand for the shah-teesh!”
LADY CONSTANCE WAS CORRECT, and if you have ever had the misfortunate of hearing a violinist tuning, you will understand the momentary confusion. At this cue from the musicians, all the guests rose from their tables and arranged themselves in two long lines in the center of the dance floor, men on one side, women on the other.
Penelope did the same, but in her mind it was as if her thoughts were already dancing; they kept pairing up and running off and then coming back again in new combinations, never holding still long enough for her to make sense of them. Everything was a muddle! For weeks she had toiled to get the children in tip-top shape for the party (and what a stroke of luck it was that they had spent the morning playing with Alexander’s new Latin primer!). Yet it seemed Lord Fredrick had promised his friends a trio of fur-covered wolf children who did nothing but bark and howl. And the Earl of Maytag’s awful remark about hunting still gnawed at her insides.
“Surely it is all some sort of dark and unfunny joke,” Penelope thought, as she took her place in the line of dancers. It was the only logical explanation; she must have misunderstood the true meaning of the conversation, for she was not used to grown men jesting with one another in such a free and sportive way. After all, the teachers at Swanburne were all women, and Dr. Westminster was known for his exceptionally gentle speech; it was said he could soothe a colicky calf merely by singing “God Save the Queen” in his pleasingly low and cowlike voice.
There was a bit of difficulty in the formation of the line, for Lady Constance was dependent on Baron Hoover and the Earl of Maytag to hold her upright; without their support she quickly ended up on all fours. This predicament was made worse for Hoover when Maytag abruptly abandoned ship and seized Penelope as his partner. Beowulf and Cassiopeia made a light-footed pair, but Judge Quinzy declined to dance at all, saying, “At my age I much prefer being a spectator. I will take a walk in the air to refresh myself while you young people enjoy these revels.”
“Schottische?” Alexander asked Baroness Hoover, gallantly offering his arm. After a pitying glance at her husband, she accepted.
Soon all the guests had taken partners, and the musicians struck up the tune. As she began to move, Penelope realized that Margaret and Jasper had been right: When it came to dancing, music made all the difference. She found it a sweet relief to skip merrily around the room and let go of her nagging suspicion that something nefarious was going on. How foolish it was to worry and assume the worst—it was Christmas, after all!
The children also seemed to be enjoying themselves, and they remembered all their steps and turns perfectly. The only glitch in the whole affair was during the portions of the music when the ladies changed partners, for at each successive pairing a new gentleman would nearly stumble to the ground before realizing that his role would be not merely to partner, but to actually carry Lady Constance through the dance. The lady herself was having a conspicuously marvelous time. She kept crying out, “Oh, I feel light as a feather! I can barely feel the floor beneath my feet! If only my Fredrick were here to see,” and other blurry exclamations of that sort.
In short, the schottische was a success, and it went on for a good long while. Soon everyone was warm from exertion. Someone called for a window to be opened and cool air let in. At last the musicians took their break, and the guests returned to their tables for refreshments, laughing and fanning themselves.
The fresh air seemed to clear Lady Constance’s mind somewhat; at the very least she regained the ability to stand upright. She rapped on her glass to get everyone’s attention.
“Marvelous dancing, everyone! Our next entertainment will delight you just as much, I’m sure,” she said. “Behold, the astonishingly lifelike tableaux vivant of Leeds’ Thespians on Demand!”
The applause was vigorous, for, in fact, Leeds was a very well-known company. Only now did Penelope notice that, during the dancing, a curtained playing area had been quickly set up on one side of the ballroom, between the tall windows. As the applause peaked, the principal actor stepped in front of the curtain.
“Lords and ladies, on behalf of my fellow thespians, allow me to wish a happy Christmas to one and all. May I present: our first tableau.” With a grand gesture he pulled the curtain open.
(A brief aside: Although they have fallen out of style, in Miss Penelope Lumley’s day tableaux vivant were all the rage. Using costumes, sets, and props, the participants arranged themselves to depict some recognizable scene—a famous painting, perhaps, or a well-known fable. No doubt this will sound dull to the modern viewer whose tastes have been shaped by more advanced forms of entertainment featuring zombies and so forth, but rest assured: The power of a well-executed tableau to shock and delight the audiences of its time must not be underestimated.)
A collective gasp of appreciation rose from the guests. Before them was a forest, or rather a painted backdrop of a forest, but a convincing one. Two near-naked youths clung to each other. Looming above them was a fully occupied wolf costume of the sort where one person inhabits the head of the wolf and another works the hind end. As you might imagine, it was quite a bit larger than l
ife.
“I know it already! It’s Romulus and Remus, the twins who were raised by a wolf,” Baron Hoover crowed. “An apt choice, har har har!”
Quickly, Penelope looked to see if the children were disturbed by the scene. On the contrary, they were quite transfixed. Beowulf had a dreamy smile on his face, and Cassiopeia extended one hand as if she would pet the somewhat implausible creature before her.
“Draw the curtain, please!” Lady Constance was suddenly agitated. “That is not well-suited to my party. Show us something else.”
The principal actor bowed; if he was annoyed, he hid it well. “As you wish. We have also prepared a tableau based on Aesop’s well-loved fable ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf.’”
“Nooooo!” The word came out sounding like a growl, and Lady Constance stamped her feet in anger. “I have heard quite enough on this topic already today, I am sick to death of it! Let us not have any of these upsetting stories, if you please!”
At this point the actor playing the head of the wolf peeked out through the mouth. No doubt he was wondering at the cause of the delay. The sight of his human face inside the wolf’s gullet struck the children as hilarious; all three of them burst out laughing.
“May I suggest a simple, harmless fairy tale, then?” the lead actor said, with only a touch of condescension. “Something even a child would enjoy?”
Lady Constance nodded her consent. The curtain was closed for a moment while the actors prepared. Then it was drawn open once more.
A different, more ominous-looking forest backdrop had been unfurled, and an actor dressed as a young girl in red cape and hood entered, carrying a basket. She took an innocent pose, one hand delicately framing her face. And then, emerging from the shadows, still terrifyingly larger than life, and this time with teeth bared, came the big—bad—
“No!” Lady Constance barked. “No no no no—”
The actor playing the head of the wolf howled.
Alexander—who could blame him?—howled along.
The Mysterious Howling Page 13
