The Interrupted Tale

by Maryrose Wood

  But then she stopped, for behind Miss Mortimer stood Baroness Hoover, and behind the baroness was Edward Ashton. His glasses were on, and a handkerchief was still tied ’round his face.

  The baroness smirked. “I would like to hear this confession of yours, Miss Lumley. Do go on.”

  The children growled, which was extremely rude, as they well knew. Miss Mortimer smiled and patted their heads. “How adorable you three are! But alas, I have no actual bones to give you. When I say your paintings are dry as a bone, it is merely a figure of speech. Like mad as a hatter.” She looked at Quinzy. “Or sober as a judge.”

  “Or mean as a baroness,” Alexander suggested.

  “Ugly as a baroness.” Beowulf crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue, until his expression was ugly indeed.

  “Or smelly!” Cassiopeia wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Smelly as a—”

  “I have not heard any of those before,” Miss Mortimer interrupted brightly. “But new figures of speech are invented all the time. Shakespeare invented dozens. Ah, Penny dear, you have returned. Perfect timing! Much as I enjoy their company, I must give the children back to your care now. Judge Quinzy and the baroness have some urgent business to discuss with me.” She turned to them with a tight smile. “Is it about the dinner menu for tomorrow? The kitchen has been asking, but with so many important guests coming, I simply cannot decide—”

  “Lumawoo, look!” Like most children, Cassiopeia did not always find grown-up conversations interesting to listen to, and she was too eager to show off her painting to wait any longer. It was a large work, and she had to spread her arms wide to hold it. It featured a large black dot inside a circle, which sat inside another pair of circles, which were themselves nestled together like a pair of rings.

  Mrs. Apple peered at the painting. “Let me guess. It looks like a dark pit, filled with some sticky substance . . . tar, perhaps?”

  Cassiopeia shook her head. “Nope! Guess again.”

  “It is about the files,” the baroness snarled, in response to Miss Mortimer. “The student files. Where are they?”

  Miss Mortimer held a finger to her lips. “Not now, Baroness. We are in the presence of art.”

  “Yes, let the child explain herself, Baroness.” It was Edward Ashton, but with his thick Judge Quinzy glasses on, his expression remained inscrutable. “Perhaps we will find her answer illuminating.”

  Cassiopeia pouted. “Is not a luminating. Is a sheep.”

  The baroness snorted. “How can that be a sheep? I see no wool. Have you any wool?”

  “Is a sheep!” Cassiopeia insisted. “Sheepy sheepy sheepy!”

  Nowadays, of course, people are accustomed to paintings of sheep that look nothing like actual sheep, but simply content themselves with being paintings, full of color and lines and interesting shapes. This type of art is called “modern,” and it is well worth a look. But in Miss Penelope Lumley’s day, modern art had not yet been invented, and a painting of a sheep was universally expected to show legs, wool, and a fluffy tail. Thus, like the work of so many visionary artists before her, Cassiopeia’s painting was met only with awkward silence and puzzled looks, until someone’s imagination took the necessary leap.

  “Eureka!” Penelope said at last. “It is the eye of a faraway sheep as seen through the telescope in the Swanburne observatory. How clever you are, Cassiopeia! I am quite sure no one has ever thought to draw a sheep in quite that way.” Of course, once Penelope explained the painting, everyone could see how good it was, and the little girl beamed to have her art understood and appreciated.

  Alexander showed his work next. He too had found inspiration in the observatory, and had painted an aerial map of the grounds of Swanburne, showing the school buildings nestled among the fields and farmhouses, and edged by the trees that ringed the valley.

  “Swanburne Academy, bird’s-eye view,” he said modestly. Like his sister, he also received praise from his governess, Mrs. Apple, and Miss Mortimer, while the baroness frowned with impatience and Edward Ashton watched in silence.

  Next and last was Beowulf. His painting was even larger than the others, painted with swirling brushstrokes in colors so vivid they seemed to leap off the paper. In the foreground was a sandy beach; in the back, palm trees rose like green leafy spires, vibrant against an azure sky. On the beach, people ran in a circle. Some of them held clubs. Some had mouths open, as if singing, or howling, or perhaps screaming. Others rubbed their tummies, signaling hunger.

  “That is disgusting,” declared the baroness. “What is it?”

  “I call it Sunday Afternoon on the Island of Ahwoo-Ahwoo. I got the idea from Lumawoo’s cannibal book,” Beowulf explained.

  “Ahwoo, ahwoo,” his siblings helpfully repeated.

  Ahwoo-Ahwoo? All at once, Penelope felt as if she were on some ill-fated sea voyage, with a sea-washed deck lurching beneath her feet. She leaned on the table to steady herself.

  Edward Ashton took a threatening step toward her. “As I suspected! Miss Lumley, you are a liar, and here is proof.”

  “Judge Quinzy, I object!” Miss Mortimer blocked his way. “There will be no name-calling at Swanburne, not even from the trustees.”

  He slithered past her and moved ’round Penelope like a tiger circling its prey. “Do not be so quick to defend your star pupil. The cannibal book that the boy refers to belongs to Lord Fredrick Ashton. He gave Miss Lumley a direct order to deliver the book to me. She did not obey.”

  Miss Mortimer turned. “Is that so, Penny?”

  Penelope swallowed and stared at her shoes. “I thought the book was lost,” she mumbled.

  “Yet clearly it is not.” Ashton stood quite close to Penelope now, but his voice filled the room. “Lumawoo’s cannibal book, indeed! You heard the boy. The book is in her possession, yet she denied it to my very face, not an hour ago.”

  At this, the children began to whimper and growl. Miss Mortimer held up a hand for silence. “Penelope, why have you not handed over the book, as your employer instructed?”

  Penelope lifted her gaze from the floor. “Because Lord Fredrick told me to give it to Judge Quinzy, and no one else.”

  “And am I not Judge Quinzy?” he asked coolly.

  “No, sir.” She looked him in the eye. “I am quite sure you are not.”

  The baroness shrieked with laughter. “Poppycock! The child is mad.”

  Quinzy paled. “Give me the book, Miss Lumley, or I shall personally see to it that you lose your job, and these three pupils of yours will be scattered to the workhouses and orphanages, never to be seen by you, or one another, again.”

  The children exchanged meaningful glances. After a tense silence, Alexander spoke. “No job losing necessary, please, Your Honorness. We have it here.”

  Shyly, Beowulf withdrew the cannibal book from the folds of his toga and handed it to Penelope.

  “We found it by following the scent of the sea,” Alexander explained. “It was in the arm . . . the arm . . .”

  But none of the children could remember how to say “armoire,” and they finally just shrugged and patted their arms in explanation.

  “These wolf children are idiots.” The baroness threw up her hands. “Why anyone would waste an education on them is beyond me.”

  “Give me the book, Miss Lumley.” Ashton stood very still, but his hands flexed by his sides, as if it was only an enormous effort that prevented him from snatching the book from her by force.

  “No!” Stubbornly, Penelope clutched the diary to her chest. “You are the one who is lying to Lord Fredrick, and to everyone else, for that matter. Whatever your reason is for wanting this book, I know it can only be a wicked one.”

  “I might say the same to you.” His voice dropped low. “A book that cannot even be read—is that truly worth losing your position over? Are those indecipherable pages more important than the good of your three pupils? Ask yourself, Miss Lumley: What sort of governess are you?”

  They stared at each other
for a long moment. Penelope’s eyes were the first to drop.

  “I shall take that book now, if you please.” Ashton held out his hand.

  As if she were seeing herself from some strange bird’s-eye view high above, Penelope watched herself give Edward Ashton the cannibal book.

  The baroness clucked her tongue in mock sympathy. “Poor girl. I think you have put her under too much pressure, Mortimer. She’s cracking under the strain.”

  Edward Ashton turned to Miss Mortimer. “The baroness is right. I suggest you find someone of a more honest character to address the school tomorrow. Miss Lumley hardly seems worthy of the honor.”

  Miss Mortimer looked from one stern face to the other before turning to Penelope. “You are here at my invitation, Penelope. Would you like to give your speech, or not? The choice is yours.”

  Her speech! Penelope felt trapped. It was as if all the pluck and hope and optimism in the world had just gurgled down the bathtub drain, and there was nothing left anywhere but gloom.

  “It would be best if someone else spoke in my place,” she said dully.

  Miss Mortimer looked at her for a long moment but said no more.

  “Ahwoo-Ahwoo,” Ashton crooned, a soft howl of victory. His long, pale fingers wrapped themselves around the cover of the book. “Ahwoo-Ahwoo!”

  MOMENTS AFTER ASHTON AND THE baroness left, Penelope became woozy. The room swayed, and her eyelids began to flutter.

  Cassiopeia was the first to notice. “Fall of Rome!” she yelled, and flung her arms open to catch the wobbly young governess. The children intercepted her on the way down, but she could not get her balance and sank to the carpet in a daze. Smelling salts were called for and cold compresses applied. When she regained her senses, she could only sit there in a crumpled heap, weeping.

  Mrs. Apple ran to get a fresh platter of biscuits and milk, while Miss Mortimer sat on the carpet next to Penelope and stroked her hair. “There, there, my dear. Take deep breaths! Mrs. Apple will speak at the CAKE tomorrow and manage perfectly well; she is quite skilled at giving long talks on short notice. And I can write a note of explanation to Lord Fredrick Ashton. I am sure it was all an innocent mistake.”

  Penelope shook her head. “But he has the book!” was all she could manage to say.

  Puzzled, Miss Mortimer looked at the Incorrigibles. “But the pages were blank, or at least unreadable, were they not? Even the children said that the only part of the book that could be clearly made out was the title.”

  “Yes . . . that is true,” she said between sniffs. She thought of Simon, and how sad she would be to tell him she had lost what was very likely his great-uncle Pudge’s diary (although no doubt he would appreciate the unexpected plot twist of the book being seized by someone whom everyone believed was dead). “I know it is foolish to carry on so. I only wish . . .” But she could not finish, for she did not know what she wished anymore.

  “Have a biscuit, Lumawoo.” Cassiopeia gave her the biggest one on the tray, her eyes wide with sympathy.

  “And some milk.” Alexander handed her a glass.

  “Thank you,” she said, grateful for their kindness. She would have preferred tea, personally, but milk and a biscuit did offer some comfort. She took a sip of the cool, creamy beverage—and promptly spit it out all over her new dress.

  “Milk!” she cried. “Oh, no!”

  “Is it sour?” Mrs. Apple grabbed the glass and sniffed. “Smells all right to me.”

  “No . . . the book! The book!” she moaned, freshly upset. Could it be? But it made perfect sense. Oh, why had she never thought to hold the pages over a candle?

  The children kept tugging at her dress, asking what was the matter.

  “The pages of the diary are not blank,” she finally said in despair. “I am quite sure they are not . . . and he must have known all along. . . . Oh, never mind. It is too late now.”

  They offered her more biscuits and milk, but the sight of the milk only upset her, and she could not bring herself to tell them why. More cold compresses were delivered, and a hot-water bottle, and a headache lozenge. But Penelope could not be comforted.

  The Incorrigibles felt confused, and responsible, too, for although they did not know all the disturbing details, they quickly deduced that if they had not found the cannibal book in the first place, their beloved Lumawoo would not be so sad. Beowulf in particular was wracked with guilt, for it had been his marvelous painting of the scene at Ahwoo-Ahwoo that seemed to have let the cannibal book out of the armoire, so to speak.

  It was when she saw the poor boy gnawing his own lip in an effort not to cry that Penelope finally shook off her tears and composed a brave face, at least long enough to reassure him he had done nothing wrong.

  “And your painting is wonderful,” she said, squeezing both his hands in hers. “Why, it is as if you yourself have sailed the seas and seen these distant places, just as a brave explorer would. When Simon Harley-Dickinson returns from his adventures, we shall have to show it to him straightaway. I know he will be impressed.”

  “When is Simawoo coming?” Cassiopeia asked eagerly, for the children liked Simon a great deal. But the question only made Penelope’s heart ache all over again, for who knew when Simon might turn up, or where? Not her, certainly.

  Miss Mortimer remained silent during this exchange, but when the dinner bell sounded she spoke. “Penny dear, it is getting late, and tomorrow is the—well, tomorrow will be a long day for everyone. I can see you are done in. Let me send the children to supper with Mrs. Apple so that you can rest and recover.”

  The history teacher stood. She was still dressed in a toga, but it seemed to suit her. “I will personally see to it that the Incorrigible children are fed, bathed, and put to bed properly, with a bedtime story read-aloud and a cozy tucking in. Veni, vidi, vici!” (As the Latin scholars among you may know, “Veni, vidi, vici” is another phrase that was first spoken by Julius Caesar. It means “I came, I saw, I conquered,” and Caesar meant it as a pithy description of a battle, which, in a nutshell, he won. Perhaps Mrs. Apple spoke too soon in declaring victory over the Incorrigibles, but anyone who has successfully managed to put three energetic children to bed after a stimulating day would agree that it is nothing short of a triumph, and well worth bragging about.)

  Penelope did not argue. “Thank you,” she said.

  “Perhaps you ought to go to bed as well,” Miss Mortimer gently suggested. “I can find a private guest room for you to stay in tonight, if you wish to be undisturbed this evening.”

  “No, thank you; that will not be necessary,” she replied quickly. She would not want the children to feel she was abandoning them, and she doubted she would sleep that night anyway. “I shall take a walk outside to clear my head, and then join the children and Mrs. Apple upstairs when I return.”

  A walk out of doors is nearly always a good idea, of course, and Miss Mortimer made no objection. A borrowed cloak from the teacher’s cloakroom was quickly found for Penelope’s use. Impulsively, she gathered the children together for a hug. “Enjoy your supper, Incorrigibles,” she said, smoothing each auburn-haired head in turn. “I will see you later, after my walk.”

  “Where will you walk?” Alexander asked, clearly anxious. “Maybe you should take my map. Bird’s-eye view!”

  He rolled up his map painting and offered it to her with a solemn face. She took it, but she had already decided where she would walk and she did not want the children to know, as they would doubtless want to come with her.

  “I promise I will not get lost, as I have walked these grounds a thousand times. I will bring the map with me, just in case. Thank you, Alexander. Good night, children.” With that, Penelope slipped out the door.

  The Tenth Chapter

  Penelope learns the value of a bird’s-eye view.

  PENELOPE KEPT THE CLOAK WRAPPED close ’round her and the hood drawn over her head, for she had no wish to converse with anyone who might see her on the path. There was already a voice keep
ing her company as she walked, and a gravelly, enigmatic voice it was. It lodged in her brain and would not leave, like the catchy tune of a beloved school song.

  “. . . And if anything goes amiss, remember . . . you can always bring ’em to the vet. . . . Sure, if there’s any trouble, young Westminster’ll sort things out. . . .”

  Old Timothy was a coachman and not a soothsayer, of course. But something had gone amiss, just as he had warned, and now there was trouble indeed. Edward Ashton had the cannibal book, and the very depths of his desire for it made her surer than ever that it must be central to some dark purpose of his. Had he already known it was written in invisible ink? Was that mentioned in Agatha Swanburne’s letters as well? And what connection could there possibly be between the Ashtons and the wise old founder of Penelope’s alma mater?

  It was a tangled maze of mysteries, and Penelope could not seem to find her way out. In such a pickle, Old Timothy’s inscrutable advice was better than none, so in search of Dr. Westminster she went. From the kind Swanburne veterinarian she had learned everything she knew about how to soothe frightened animals. His low, cooing voice, slow movements, and gentle demeanor might be just what she needed to help ease her own troubled heart.

  She owed him a visit in any case, if only to tell him how well his training techniques had worked on all sorts of unexpected creatures: a runaway ostrich, for example, or a sweet-natured if none too intelligent squirrel, or even three bright and curious children who had had a rather . . . unusual upbringing. . . .

  “Yet it is strange that Old Timothy mentioned him at all,” she thought as her feet crunched along the graveled path. “And why did he call him ‘young Westminster’?” To Penelope, Dr. Westminster had always seemed neither old nor young, but permanently middle-aged. (Of course, children easily lump anyone over the age of seventeen or so into the category of “grown-up,” with a second category of “old person” reserved for the truly wizened and silver haired. But to grown-ups themselves, the difference between being, say, thirty-two and fifty-six is immense. This has nothing to do with the tricky sevens and eights of the multiplication tables, and all to do with how tempus seems to fugit ever more swiftly the older one grows, a truth you will doubtless someday learn firsthand.)