“That’s all correct, but I suspect you know more about what’s written on these pages. What else do you think it says?”
Now they were thoroughly perplexed; what did Mrs. McVittie mean and why was she being so mysterious?
“We thought maybe it was about the experiences of a girl named Sophie,” Ruthie continued cautiously. “We noticed that the book ended in the middle of a page, like it just stopped, and we wondered if something had happened to her.” That was all true.
“That’s very interesting … you’re right. It is indeed a very old book. And very valuable, I might add, if one were ever to sell it.” Jack and Ruthie looked at each other. That idea hadn’t occurred to them.
“I would never sell it!” Jack said adamantly.
“Of course not. You wouldn’t sell it because it’s not yours to sell, now, is it?” she said, her eyes like lasers on the two of them.
“We borrowed it to show you, that’s all, Mrs. McVittie,” Ruthie said.
Mrs. McVittie leaned forward. “I know you’ve only borrowed it, dear, dear Ruthie. But I’d like you to tell me—truthfully—where it came from.”
In fact, it came as a huge relief to tell someone. The whole story tumbled out of them so fast that they found themselves talking at the same time. They told Mrs. McVittie about finding the key, and how it made Ruthie shrink, and how it seemed to work only for Ruthie. They told her how they’d spent the night in the museum and about meeting Sophie and her tutor, about Ruthie hearing the voice of Christina of Milan, about Thomas and his mother, everything. They explained what they’d learned in the archives, and they told her they were desperate to find out what happened to Sophie.
Mrs. McVittie listened to it all, not missing a word of their tidal wave of a story. When they were finished, she clasped her hands together and said, “What a story!”
“You do believe us, don’t you?” Ruthie was petrified.
“It’s all totally true, Mrs. McVittie. We could prove it to you,” Jack said.
“Yes, dears, I do believe you,” she said, suddenly very serious. “I believe you for several reasons. The first is right here in this journal!” She ran her hand over the cover again, closing her eyes for a moment as though she were faraway in thought.
She continued. “I know from my years of experience with books that this is indeed a very old one—authentically from the French Revolutionary period. The wonderful thing about books is they speak to you; sometimes they tell you everything you need to know. This journal, for instance, tells about a young girl from the French nobility who led a life of complete, boring luxury until a chance meeting with two young Americans at a park in Paris.” She stopped at this point and let the importance of what she had said sink in. Jack and Ruthie were mirror images of each other, with their eyes wide and jaws dropped. “Yes, two young people named Jack and Ruthie!”
“What happened to her? Did she survive?” Jack asked.
“Thanks to you two, yes,” Mrs. McVittie answered. “Apparently you warned her of the coming revolution. How clever of you! And look at this.” She opened the journal to the last page. “You said the writing ended abruptly in the middle of a page, but the journal is complete!”
Ruthie gasped. “Jack, I thought I felt it warming in my hand when I closed it for the last time before we took it out of the room. She must have written those entries and I was feeling it somehow!”
“That’s fantastic!” Jack exclaimed. “What else does it say?”
“She spent the years before and during the French Revolution in England, going to a convent school.”
“What’s that?” Ruthie asked.
“A boarding school run by nuns. She went to one of the few that existed in England, in a town called York. It was very common for aristocratic French families to send their daughters there to be safe. She also talks about a tutor she had, Monsieur Lesueur—”
“We met him too,” Ruthie interrupted.
“Yes, I know,” she said. “How marvelous! You’ll have to tell me more about him.” Mrs. McVittie was thrilled over this. “He left France before the revolution and went to America for a long time, sending letters to Sophie about his travels. When he returned to Europe, he continued as a teacher. But now back to Sophie.”
They listened closely while Mrs. McVittie recounted the tale of Sophie escaping the violence of the French Revolution, living in England, losing family members and friends to the guillotine and finally meeting a young man who, like her, had left France and come to England, though in his case it was to become a diplomat. They married and traveled around the world—including America—for his work. And then the story ended as she was about to leave with her husband for another country.
“So she didn’t have to marry someone her father chose for her!” Ruthie was happy about that.
“It appears not. She also sent letters to you two for a number of years and wrote sadly about how she never heard from you. But of course that would have been impossible.”
Ruthie sat on the floor, trying to let it all sink in. Sophie had made it—she’d survived the bloody French Revolution. And she’d remembered the two of them. She’d even written about them.
“Mrs. McVittie,” Jack started. “You said you believed us for several reasons. You told us two reasons: you can tell it’s really an old book, and what Sophie wrote about us. What are the other reasons?”
She looked at Ruthie. “Your friend is a good listener. He’s right.” She slowly stood up and walked over to a bookshelf near the middle of the room. She took down an old black-and-white photo and brought it over to them. Two young girls smiled from inside a silver frame. They seemed about Ruthie and Jack’s age. “That’s me and my sister in 1940.” They looked at the image but Ruthie didn’t see anything special about it.
“The building behind us is where the rooms were exhibited when they traveled to Boston; I grew up there. That was the very day we visited the Thorne Rooms. It was magic for us too.”
“Do you mean … real magic?” Ruthie asked, her eyes wide again.
“I do indeed! Like you, we found a key—my sister found it on the floor behind a curtain that kept the public from seeing the backs of the rooms. We figured out how to avoid the grown-ups’ seeing us and took turns sneaking into the rooms—she would place me in one and then we would reverse the roles. Neither of us had the idea to hold hands as you did. We were not as adventurous or clever as the two of you and we never met any people from times past. We just had that one afternoon. But it was breathtaking.”
“But what happened next?” Ruthie was dying to know.
“Nothing happened. That had been a temporary exhibition, so we couldn’t go back. The rooms were moved to Chicago and not permanently displayed at the Art Institute until the 1950s. And slowly the memory of that afternoon began to fade. It never disappeared completely; I just became less and less sure of whether it was real. My sister, being three years older, denied that it was anything other than a childhood game of make-believe we had played. I began to believe her. I think that’s why I’ve become such a collector of old books. I’ve been looking for something like this journal all of my life!”
Ruthie thought this was both amazing and slightly sad. “So when you saw the catalogue in my house that day and you said that the rooms were magic, you really meant it?”
“Deep down I guess I did. I thought I had convinced myself that my visit into the rooms had never happened. But there was something about the way you asked me what I meant when I said the word magic; it was the first time in years that I had thought about the rooms. And I had to ask myself what I had meant when I said it.
“Over the past week, the memories of my childhood have been floating around in my head, a little more clearly than they have in years. But I still wasn’t sure if I believed my memory until the two of you walked in here today. When Jack took the journal out of the pillowcase, the minute I laid eyes on it I knew. I remember seeing that very book—a cover like that is hard to forget.
I certainly remember being in that room!”
“Do you have any idea how the magic works?” Jack asked her. “I mean, we know Christina of Milan had the key made so she could be almost invisible. And we’re pretty sure she made it work only for girls. But we still have so many questions, like did Mrs. Thorne or her assistants make any of the magic happen?”
“And are there other magic objects?” Ruthie added.
“I’m afraid you know more than I,” Mrs. McVittie answered. “But I do think believing and wanting are necessary elements of the magic. I don’t think it would work on just anyone. From what you’ve told me, I suspect Mrs. Thorne—or at least one of her craftsmen—knew about the key. But if, as you say, it only works for girls, well—”
Ruthie interrupted her by saying, “Then Mrs. Thorne must have known!”
“Maybe, maybe not. But I think it’s a fair assumption,” Mrs. McVittie answered.
“That could explain how Thomas’s model became small,” Jack chimed in.
“And Sophie’s journal,” Ruthie added. “It’s all beginning to make sense.”
Mrs. McVittie smiled at them. “You might have to be content with not knowing all the answers.”
“But I thought you wanted to know the truth,” Ruthie said, feeling confused again.
“Truth is always precious. But mysteries are part of life—a wonderful part. You can’t always know everything.” She smiled as she added, “At my age, it’s much easier to understand that.”
They went back to Jack’s house and tried to finish writing their research paper, fast. They had each written sections of it already and Jack was putting it all together. Ruthie had a very hard time concentrating on the task while Jack pounded away on the keyboard. She was thinking about how Mrs. McVittie had lived all those years—and it was a lot of years—not being sure of her own memories. Ruthie felt overwhelmingly happy that they had helped her learn the truth.
After a while, Lydia brought them snacks. Ruthie noticed that she seemed distant, not her usual friendly self. She wasn’t on the phone today; instead, she was going through files and papers with a frown. It reminded Ruthie of her parents at tax time, only this wasn’t tax time. She was old enough to recognize the look of financial trouble on the face of a grown-up.
“There,” Jack said, clicking on the print button. “That should get our grades back up!”
He shoved a brownie into his mouth. “Here,” he said, handing the report to her. “You can proofread it.”
While she read, Jack walked out to where his mom was working. The phone rang and Jack picked it up and handed it to Lydia. Ruthie couldn’t hear what they were saying but she saw Jack go from happy-go-lucky to slumped shoulders. Lydia put her arms around him. Ruthie was pretty sure she knew what that meant. As soon as she finished proofreading, Jack walked her home. He was unusually quiet all the way. She didn’t dare ask him what was wrong—she knew if he wanted to talk about it, he would.
Ruthie’s parents had a meeting to attend that evening after dinner. Before they left, she told them about Jack. “What if he has to move so far away that he can’t go to Oakton anymore? He’s my best friend!” She felt herself holding back tears. “And Jack would hate moving!”
Her dad gave her a hug. “Think about something else, sweetie. I’m sure it’s going to work out. You’ll see.”
Ugh! How come grown-ups always say that? How could she possibly think of anything else?
SOLVED!
THE NEXT DAY COULDN’T COME soon enough for Ruthie. She had tossed and turned all night. It was as though when she was lying on one side she could only think of the great stuff that had happened—the rooms, the magic, Sophie, finding Mr. Bell’s photos—and when she rolled over, she could only think of Jack having to move away. The question of what would happen to him and Lydia kept repeating in her brain.
Her dad was flipping pancakes and her mom was reading the paper when she walked sleepily into the kitchen.
“Happy Presidents’ Day!” her dad said.
“Thanks.” She plopped down in a chair, still as glum as last night. Her dad put a plate of pancakes in front of her but she didn’t feel like eating.
“Are you coming down with something, sweetie?” her mom asked.
“No, I’m not sick…. I’m just so worried about Jack.” All her fears spilled out of her. “And if they can’t pay the rent that means they probably can’t pay for anything!” she finished, after explaining everything. “What are they going to do? We have to help them!”
Her parents gave each other quick glances. “I think we should tell her,” her mom said.
“What? Tell me what?” She could hear the frantic tension in her own voice and it startled her.
“Well,” her dad started, “we weren’t going to tell you until it was official. You know the meeting we went to last night?” Ruthie nodded. “It was for a special committee—actually, your mother formed it—of the board of directors at Oakton. We were trying to find a way to help Lydia.”
“But Jack’s already a scholarship student,” Ruthie said.
“We decided to look into what else we could do. Last night we found a solution,” her mom said.
“What is it? Will Jack get to stay in his loft?” Ruthie could barely stand the suspense.
“You know the new wing that was built on the school last year?” her mother continued. “You know that big, long, blank wall connecting the old wing to the new? We decided that wall needs a mural—a big, expensive mural—and the board okayed the money to commission Lydia to paint it for us. The chair will call her today with the offer.”
“Will it be enough money?” Ruthie had no idea how much an artist could get paid for a job like this.
“It will certainly be enough to get them through this rough period,” her dad said. “There are some pretty generous families who all wanted to help Jack and Lydia—and make the school look nicer in the process. It works for everyone. Your mother’s a genius.”
Ruthie leapt into her mother’s lap and hugged her.
“Thanks, Mom!” Ruthie said, still hugging her tightly. She could feel the anxiety floating right out the top of her head.
When Jack arrived to pick Ruthie up she couldn’t explain to him why she was in such a good mood (her parents had told her not to say anything to him—the committee should talk to Lydia first). But they had an important mission ahead of them, so it was easy to talk about that instead. Jack had placed Caroline Bell’s old backpack and its contents inside his to protect it. They told Ruthie’s parents they were going to the library, one last lie for a good cause.
It was bitterly cold outside, so they sat in a coffee shop for a while, trying to figure out how they would present Mr. Bell with the photos. It was nice to be in the warm space. Ruthie ordered some hot chocolate with whipped cream. She knew Jack didn’t have any money in his pocket, but she kept quiet. Instead she drank half of the frothy liquid and then gave the rest to him.
At first Jack thought they should just show Mr. Bell the photos straightaway, but Ruthie had the feeling that this could be very delicate. Who could predict how he would react to seeing the photos that he’d said he would give anything to have again? Plus, they needed to figure out what to tell him about where they found them.
Ruthie’s eyes suddenly widened. “I have an idea! C’mon, we have to go see Mrs. McVittie first.”
Jack guzzled the last of the hot chocolate and followed Ruthie out into the cold.
“What’s your idea? Why Mrs. McVittie?” Jack asked as they rushed along the sidewalk.
“I want to tell Mr. Bell that we found his album in her shop—you know, way back in that storage room. She’s got boxes in there that I bet she’s never looked at. She gets stuff from estate sales all the time and can hardly keep up with it all. We can say we found the album while we were helping her sort boxes. I bet she’ll go along with us; besides, she’s the only person we can trust because she knows about the magic already.”
Jack agreed
that it was a great idea.
They found Mrs. McVittie in her shop, reading as usual. Jack smiled and pulled the album from his backpack. They both blurted out what it was and how they had found it. Mrs. McVittie remembered right away who Edmund Bell was and understood how important the work had been.
“This is thrilling, simply thrilling,” she said as they showed her the album and the exquisite photos it held.
Mrs. McVittie eagerly agreed to help them with their cover story. They would tell Mr. Bell that many years ago—they could be vague about precise details—Mrs. McVittie had bought entire boxes from the estate sale of an eccentric old man who had died without heirs. They would say that many of the boxes had been filled with junk and that one of the boxes ended up underneath other boxes and was never opened, until Ruthie and Jack offered to help Mrs. McVittie clean out her storeroom. Simply a lucky find.
Before they left the shop to go see Mr. Bell, Ruthie asked Mrs. McVittie if she minded keeping so many secrets with them.
“At my age, you don’t expect so much fun and excitement,” she answered, grinning. “I’d have been disappointed if you hadn’t asked me!”
Jack bundled the album into his backpack while Ruthie gave Mrs. McVittie a goodbye hug. They zipped up their coats and braced themselves for both the cold and their meeting with Mr. Bell.
Pushing the buzzer at the front door of Mr. Bell’s building for the third time, they looked at each other as a realization came to them at the same time: it was Monday, so of course he was working. They headed to the museum, jumping the dirty piles of snow at every corner.
Since Ruthie had spent her money on the hot chocolate, neither one of them could pay to check the backpack and they couldn’t enter the museum with it. Besides, Ruthie wasn’t crazy about the idea of leaving the precious item in the hands of some stranger at the coat check.
The Sixty-Eight Rooms Page 17
