The Interrupted Tale

by Maryrose Wood

It was only a trick of the light, of course, but the lips of the taxidermy tiger seemed to pull back into a snarl. Uneasy, Penelope rose from her chair. “My lord, the challenge you present may be beyond my current abilities. However, I will soon be visiting my alma mater, the Swanburne Academy for Poor Bright Females. There one will find some of the finest educators in all of England, as well as a noted expert in animal training techniques.” (By this she meant Dr. Westminster. It verged on hyperbole—that is to say, wild exaggeration—to call him a “noted expert,” as he was really just a simple country veterinarian. However, some of his methods had proven quite useful with the Incorrigibles, particularly his kind manner and judicious use of treats.)

  Penelope backed slowly toward the door as she spoke, and she never took her eyes off the tiger. “If anyone would know how to improve your condition, the teachers at Swanburne will. Upon my arrival, I will consult with my colleagues there, and together we shall come up with a . . .” She paused to think of a name that was both descriptive and had an easy-to-pronounce acronym, always a great boon to any endeavor. “A Howling Elimination Program, to help ease your symptoms.”

  Lord Fredrick chewed on the end of his cigar. “All right. But don’t let anyone know it’s me that needs the HEP, understood? Say it’s for the children, or whatever you please. Next full moon, we start! And don’t say a word to Constance about any of this, either. Blast, why did Mother have to tell her that we oughtn’t have children because of my ‘condition’? Constance doesn’t even like babies. But tell my wife she can’t have something, and soon enough it’s all she wants.” He slumped back into his chair. “Curses and tar pits, and children raised by wolves! Why can’t I have a normal family?”

  He seemed to forget all about Penelope then, and stared despondently into the fire.

  “And how is the Widow Ashton, my lord?” Penelope asked, to be polite, and also to remind him that she was still there, waiting to be dismissed.

  “Oh, Mother’s fine.” Aimlessly, he picked up a thin, stained envelope from the table next to his chair. It was the one Penelope had seen on the mail tray, with its exotic stamps and foreign postmarks. “Just got a letter from her. She’s on a ’round-the-world tour with her friends from the croquet club. She says she plans to enjoy herself thoroughly while awaiting the return of her beloved Edward, now that she knows he’s alive. Listen to this.” He read from the letter in a mincing voice. “‘My gratitude to Madame Ionesco knows no bounds. If not for her peek Beyond the Veil, I would never have known my long-lost Edward lives!’ Soothsayers! Poppycock!”

  It was Lord Fredrick’s turn to look at Edward Ashton’s portrait. “Sturdy-looking fellow, wasn’t he? Bet he sank like a stone in that tar pit.” Abruptly, he tossed the letter from his mother into the fire, where it crackled and quickly turned to ash. “So you’re off to Swanburne, eh? You might see my friend Quinzy there. He’s on the board of trustees now. Can’t imagine how he finds the time for charity work, being a judge and whatnot.”

  Penelope kept her voice calm. “I expect I will see him, if he is there, my lord.”

  Lord Fredrick returned to his chair. “There’s a book of mine he asked to borrow, and for the life of me I can’t find it. He swears it’s in the library. An old diary of a sailing voyage, with shipwrecks and cannibals and storms at sea.”

  He puffed again on his cigar and exhaled a slow stream of smoke. “Shipwrecks and cannibals. Does that ring any bells, Miss Lumley? I know you filch books from my library sometimes; don’t deny it.”

  Penelope’s face grew hot at the accusation, for she did sometimes take books from the library. How could she not, in her line of work? Even worse, the very book Lord Fredrick described was in her possession. An Encounter with the Man-Eating Savages of Ahwoo-Ahwoo, as Told by the Cabin Boy and Sole Survivor of a Gruesomely Failed Seafaring Expedition Through Parts Unknown: Absolutely Not to Be Read by Children Under Any Circumstances, and That Means You, it was called.

  She knew precisely where the book was, too. At first she had kept it in her bedchamber so as not to alarm the children with its potentially disturbing contents, but she worried that the housemaids might find it while cleaning her room and return it to the library. Now it was hidden on the nursery bookshelves, behind Mr. Edward Gibbon’s six-volume masterpiece of historical narrative, The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, where no one was likely to come across it anytime soon.

  “I—I may have seen it, my lord,” she half lied. “I will keep an eye out for it, to be sure.”

  “If you find it, deliver it straight to Quinzy, understood? He’s keen to read it, for some reason. Blasted books! They never stay where I put them. First my almanac wanders off, then this cannibal tale. Can’t imagine why Quinzy wants it. Rather an unappetizing topic, to my taste. I’d rather go hunting than read a book, anyway.”

  His study was proof enough of that. Together they gazed upon the dead tiger, with its ferocious teeth and flaring nostrils. Nearby, a bear stood taller than even a tall man would, furred arms outstretched for a deadly embrace. And there was the poor stuffed wolf, its head thrown back in a howl that knew no end.

  Thoughtfully, he twirled his cigar between thumb and forefinger. “I wonder if cannibals keep trophies of their prey, the way I do of mine? That’d be a gruesome end, what?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Penelope replied, with a shiver of horror. “It would be gruesome, indeed.”

  IMMEDIATELY UPON RETURNING TO THE nursery, Penelope ran to the bookshelf. “Gibbon, Gibbon, Decline and Fall,” she muttered, pushing the books out of the way. “And—what? Where is it?”

  The cannibal book was not there.

  Penelope froze. She was certain this was where it had been hidden. She had put it there herself, at that exact spot on the shelf.

  “Blast,” she muttered, as Lord Fredrick so often did when he could not find his almanac. “Where could it have gone?”

  “Look, Lumawoo! We are packing for our trip.” Alexander and the other children had laid their clothes out on the beds for Penelope’s inspection. The Postal Tyger uniforms were included, as were some other imaginative outfits.

  “Toothbrushes, too,” Penelope mumbled absently. Shelf by shelf she looked, but An Encounter with the Man-Eating Savages of Ahwoo-Ahwoo, as Told by the Cabin Boy and Sole Survivor of a Gruesomely Failed Seafaring Expedition Through Parts Unknown: Absolutely Not to Be Read by Children Under Any Circumstances, and That Means You was nowhere to be found.

  She took one of the deep, calming breaths that all Swanburne girls were taught to practice before exams. “No panicking,” she reminded herself, “and no crying over spilt milk, either. The book may yet turn up, and if not, it is no great loss. After all, the pages were so faded and sea stained they could scarcely be read, by me, Quinzy, or anybody else. But blast! It is very unsettling to have something disappear like that. And I was so hoping to show the book to Simon, too.”

  This, of course, was the reason she had kept the cannibal book in the first place. Simon Harley-Dickinson! Quick of mind, loyal of heart, with a knack for navigation and a keen appreciation for a good plot twist. It had been nearly two months since Penelope had bid her friend farewell at the train station. He was off to see his great-uncle Pudge in the old sailor’s home, in Brighton. Pudge had been a cabin boy in his youth and, coincidentally, had served on a ship captained by the famed Admiral Percival Racine Ashton himself. Simon and Penelope suspected that the unreadable diary of the ill-fated trip to Ahwoo-Ahwoo might have described the same voyage taken by Pudge and the admiral, and might even have been written by Pudge himself. Simon had promised to find out.

  But there had been no word from Simon since his departure—not a letter, not a scrap of dramatic verse, not even a picture postcard from the beach at Brighton. Penelope thought it odd that Simon had not yet written to tell her what he had learned from his great-uncle. On the other hand, she was so accustomed to not receiving mail that she had simply put it out of her mind, and trusted that he w
ould be in touch when the opportunity arose. (But really, would a small seashell be too much to ask? Penelope had never been to the shore, and she longed to know if it were true that one could hear the ocean simply by pressing a conch to one’s ear.)

  In the meantime, three tired children had to be put to bed, which meant it was time for their governess to read aloud. The children wanted tygers and only tygers, and so Penelope read them their new favorite poem, the one by Mr. William Blake. It was not a very long poem, so she read it through twice.

  “Do tigawoo,” Cassiopeia insisted, rolling over in her bed.

  So “Tyger, Tyger, burning bright,” Penelope began again, this time in a whisper, for the children were beginning to yawn. As she said the words, she thought of that snarling stuffed tiger in Lord Fredrick’s study. For some reason she pictured the animal wearing Judge Quinzy’s thick and distorting glasses, which made its glinting amber eyes appear larger and more menacing than they already were. It was a disturbing image, and one she could not put out of her mind for a good long time, even after the children were asleep.

  The Fifth Chapter

  The journey has many stops and starts.

  WHEN LORD FREDRICK ASHTON TOLD Penelope he would explain his predicament “in a nutshell,” he was not talking about acorns. Rather, he meant that he would be brief, concise, and to the point—in a word, pithy.

  As any Swanburne girl could tell you, a knack for pithiness is well worth acquiring. Beginners are advised to start with the larger nuts, such as the Brazil nut, and then work their way downward in size, through the pecan, the cashew, and the hazelnut. With practice, one soon discovers that even the most profound ideas can be packed neatly inside the shell of a pistachio, with room to spare.

  Speaking of packing, it was two more days before Penelope and the Incorrigible children began their journey to the Swanburne Academy, but to tell all that happened would take nearly as long, for there is always a great deal to do in preparation for a trip. In a nutshell, then: Penelope had hoped to organize suitcases for herself and the children, then write up her CAKE speech and practice it in front of a mirror so that she might find the perfect dramatic gestures to go with the words. She also planned to spend a relaxed afternoon shopping for the new dress she had promised Lady Constance she would buy.

  Alas, none of these hopes unfolded according to plan. Take the shopping trip, for example. There was no one available to drive her to town, not even Old Timothy, and so she had to leave the children in Margaret’s care and beg a ride in the back of a hay wagon. She ran into the dress shop with wisps of straw stuck to her legs and only minutes to choose, for the wagon could not wait long. Luckily, the first dress she saw seemed to fit the bill; it was the right size and not exactly brown, although it was not exactly not-brown, either. “I would say the color is halfway between bark and russet,” she decided, and brought it to the cashier.

  At the milliner’s shop, she chose a bonnet to match the dress, and at the shoemaker’s, a pair of sturdy oxfords that would do nicely for the fall weather. “As Agatha Swanburne once said, ‘If both of your shoes are shined, your best foot will always be forward,’” she reminded herself. She made it back to Ashton Place just in time to do afternoon lessons with the children, who had already convinced poor Margaret that, yes, Miss Lumley always gave them cake for both breakfast and luncheon, as long as they each ate a single pea first.

  The night before their departure was equally fraught. Instead of lining up their suitcases by the door and tucking in for an early bedtime, the children wanted to play Swanawoo School. Cassiopeia’s notion of a Poor Bright Female was slightly off. She felt that Poor meant hungry and lacking shoes, and Bright meant she must speak only in Latin. Barefoot, she ran around the nursery begging for treats and spouting Virgil.

  Meanwhile, the boys wrapped blankets ’round themselves as dresses and tiptoed here and there, speaking in high voices and pretending to be Swanburne girls. When they grew tired of that, they assumed the roles of Dr. Westminster and his equally qualified assistant, Dr. Eastminster, and attempted to perform medical examinations on Nutsawoo. Fortunately, the frantic little squirrel was much too busy with his (or her) autumn preparations to sit still for this sort of thing.

  At last the overexcited children were persuaded to sleep. Feeling worn-out herself, Penelope checked to make sure the straps on each piece of luggage were tightly fastened, and the coats and jackets for the journey laid out, for the weather grew cooler and the winds brisker by the day. By the time she sat down to collect her thoughts about her CAKE speech, she was already yawning, and all she could think of was, not CAKE, but cake—cheesecake, ginger cake, carrot cake, plum cake. . . .

  “Luckily, it is a long journey to Heathcote. I shall have more than enough time to prepare my speech on the train,” she told herself. “All I need do is bring my notes from orations class, some paper, and my new fountain pen.” (You see how optoomuchism can sneak its way into even a sensible person’s logic. This is especially true when that person is tired and would rather go to bed than face unpleasant facts—for example, the fact that she, or he, must shortly give an important speech for which he, or she, is woefully unprepared.)

  And so, the next morning, not long after sunrise, wearing an itchy new dress, stiff new shoes, and a bonnet that tipped over her eyes whenever she turned her head, Penelope and her three bleary-eyed pupils finally began their trip. Old Timothy drove them to the train station in the landau carriage with the roof up, as the sky threatened rain. When the boys put on their Dr. Westminster and Dr. Eastminster voices to discuss the condition of the horses’ teeth, he chuckled. Then he fell silent until they were nearly at the station.

  He stopped the carriage and fixed Penelope with his cockeyed glare. “It’s a long way there, and a long way back. And heaven only knows what’ll happen in between. Are you sure you want to go?”

  “Of course we shall go.” For the hundredth time, Penelope adjusted her new hat. “We are expected, and I am to give a speech.”

  “Bought fancy new clothes for the occasion, too, I see. Be a shame to cancel now, eh?” The way he said it suggested that to cancel now would be a prudent thing to do. Yet what harm could befall them at Swanburne? To Penelope it was the safest place in the world, a place where she would be surrounded by old friends and beloved teachers, and where everyone would have the Incorrigible children’s best interests at heart.

  Unless the school had changed, that is. Miss Mortimer had hinted as much in her letter. But surely the new board of trustees could not have altered things so much, so quickly? Like ivy twining up a wall, a tendril of fear snaked ’round Penelope’s heart.

  “The tickets have already been purchased,” she said.

  He snorted. “Do what you must, then. But keep an eye on those children, Miss Lumley. And if anything goes amiss, remember . . . you can always bring ’em to the vet.” He looked one way and then the other, as if afraid of being overheard. “Sure, if there’s any trouble, young Westminster’ll sort things out.”

  “The children will be well cared for, have no fear,” Penelope replied crisply. As if she would bring the children to a veterinarian! And how dare he try to frighten her with vague warnings, when the train ride was bound to be taxing enough as it was, with three children to entertain and a speech to write, too.

  She ignored the coachman’s offered hand and climbed out of the carriage herself, dropping lightly to the ground. “Will you get our luggage down, please? It is nearly time for our train.”

  The children carried their own bags, for it made them feel like sophisticated world travelers, but Old Timothy took Penelope’s suitcase to the platform himself. He nodded a silent farewell to her and the Incorrigibles. Then his rolling gait retreated into the fog as the great red Bloomer engine huffed into the station, billowing steam. Its lonely, hooting whistle pierced the air, until the children winced and pressed their hands over their ears.

  Whoo whoo!

  Whoo whoo!

  “
Whatever adventures our journey holds, we are safer together than apart,” Penelope thought as the conductor helped them one by one onto the train. “And I have no choice but to go. Swanburne needs me! Still, I wonder how Old Timothy knew Dr. Westminster’s name?”

  THE TRAIN RIDE TO HEATHCOTE was a long one, lasting a day and a night and most of another day after that, and the train made many stops along the way. Penelope had explained this to the children several times. She had reminded them to bring books to read, and extolled the virtues of patience while traveling, and the importance of taking naps.

  They were only half an hour into the journey before Alexander tugged on her sleeve and asked, “How much longer, Lumawoo?”

  “Why, we have only just begun!” she exclaimed. “Remember what Agatha Swanburne said: ‘A journey of a thousand miles is best spent napping.’ Nap, everyone! Take as many naps as you can.” But the Incorrigibles could not stop climbing on the seats to look out the windows. Sheep-dotted meadows were hardly a novelty to three English children who lived on a country estate, but seeing the landscape flick by through the windows of a fast-moving train certainly was, and they were captivated.

  Meanwhile, Penelope kept smoothing the skirt of her new dress and adjusting it beneath her so that it might not wrinkle overmuch during the journey. Alas, it was already beginning to crease. “Perhaps I ought not to have worn it to travel in,” she thought resignedly. “But it will be near nightfall when we arrive, and no one is likely to notice. In the morning I shall give it a good shake and, if necessary, borrow an iron from the housekeepers at Swanburne.”

  Cassiopeia noticed her fussing with the skirt. “Nice dress,” the girl remarked. “Nice and brown.”

  Penelope looked aghast. “It is not brown, is it?”

  “So brown. Ask Beowoo,” Cassiopeia suggested, for her brother was a talented artist with a keen eye for color.

  Fearing the worst, Penelope extended her arm so that he might examine the sleeve. “Do you think so too, Beowulf?”