By feel and by memory, she padded silently along the paths. Already the night was less inky than before, and the earliest of the early birds had taken to the treetops and were chirping their sunrise songs. Soon the people and animals of Heathcote would rise and stir. The day of the CAKE had come at last.
She paused when she reached the side door of the school, and looked up once more at the fading stars. Tonight the moon would be full. That meant that somewhere—locked in his secret attic, perhaps, or outside, stumbling alone through the dark woods that bore his name, and the name of his curséd ancestors, too—Lord Fredrick Ashton would be barking and scratching and baying like one of his own hunting hounds, helpless to stop himself.
“Poor Lord Fredrick! The Howling Elimination Program will have to wait awhile longer,” she thought. Nearby, a rooster crowed, and Penelope stifled a yawn as she slipped unnoticed through the door. “Yet if our plan to visibilize the cannibal book succeeds, I may soon know the true cause of his affliction. I only hope there is a cure—and that he does not fire me before I discover what it is.”
“CAKE DAY! CAKE DAY! THE best day of the year!” The Incorrigibles chanted at high volume as they marched around Penelope’s cot. And then, “Where are your pajamas, Lumawoo?” Cassiopeia asked, frowning. For their governess always scolded them if they fell asleep in their clothes, but there she was, asleep in bed and still wearing her new dress, although it hardly looked new anymore. It was muddy and rumpled and stuck all over with bits of hay. It smelled suspiciously of cow barn, too, although the children were too polite to mention it.
Penelope sat up with a groan. “Good morning,” she croaked. Her eyes felt glued shut; she had to hoist them open by lifting both eyebrows as high as she could. This gave her a look of shocked surprise. When she forced a cheery smile, she took on the appearance of a badly painted marionette.
Three sensitive noses wrinkled in distaste. “Your dress is a mess,” Beowulf said, whereupon his siblings teased him for having written a poem by accident (as you may know, he was quite good at writing them on purpose, too).
“You are right, Beowulf. I ought not to have slept in it.” Penelope yawned widely and stretched. She had meant to take an hour’s catnap and be up well before her pupils, but the Incorrigibles had risen much earlier than usual, as children are apt to do on any long-awaited holiday. “You were asleep when I came in. I did not want to wake you by rummaging about for my nightclothes.”
“Why did you come back so late?” Alexander asked, sounding rather stern.
“It was not that late. Mere moments after you three went to bed. I must have just missed Mrs. Apple’s bedtime story, by . . .” She winced and pulled a sharp length of hay out of the back of her dress. “By a straw’s breadth,” she said, tossing it aside.
At the sound of her name, the history teacher stirred. She too had slept in her clothes; she was sprawled in an armchair, with her feet propped on an ottoman and a blanket draped over her. “Oh, Charlemagne!” Mrs. Apple murmured. Her dreamy smile dissolved into a snore. Penelope whispered to the children that they ought to let Mrs. Apple sleep, but they were wide-awake and much too excited to stay quiet. In the end she had no choice but to bring them along on her morning’s errands.
And so, at an hour past dawn on the day of the Celebrate Alumnae Knowledge Exposition, Miss Penelope Lumley found herself in the kitchen of the Swanburne Academy for Poor Bright Females, persuading the cook to make Hungarian goulash for dinner. The Incorrigible children sat happily in the corner, trying to find a lid for every pot.
As it turned out, the cook had once seen a lovely picture postcard of Budapest, and the beauty and blueness of the Danube River had left her curious about Hungarian cuisine ever since. She was most grateful for the goulash recipe and promised to prepare it for the celebratory CAKE dinner that very night.
“I trust you will be able to obtain the paprika in time?” Penelope asked innocently.
“I’ll send a few girls to the spice market in Heathcote straightaway,” the cook replied. “Perhaps your pupils would like to go with them? It’s full of interesting smells.”
The children’s noses twitched in hope, but Penelope shook her head. “My students must stay at Swanburne today, for they have important responsibilities concerning the CAKE. Might I suggest you have the girls purchase twice the specified amount of paprika? This goulash sounds so delicious, you will surely be asked to prepare it again within a fortnight. No sense making another trip to the market.” (Of course, her true intention was to guarantee there was enough paprika on hand to prepare dinner correctly and mix the visibilizer. No sense skimping on the goulash. After all, she was going to have to eat it, too.)
“What important responsibilities?” Alexander asked after they had left the kitchen. The idea of having some pleased him greatly, for he was that sort of child.
“They will be a happy surprise, just as my birthday party was a happy surprise,” Penelope replied. “You shall hear about it all soon enough. Now, our next stop will be—no, not breakfast, for the dining hall is not yet open. First we must go see Miss Mortimer.” She clapped her hands three times, clap clap clap, and the children lined up, ready to march. “There has been a small change of plans regarding the CAKE. ”
IT WAS TOO EARLY FOR Miss Charlotte Mortimer to be in her office. They found her in the Swanburne Apartment, a small suite of rooms on the far side of the school. It was called the Swanburne Apartment because Agatha Swanburne had lived there during her years as headmistress, until Miss Mortimer took her place. (Before becoming headmistress, Miss Mortimer had been a poetry teacher at Swanburne. It was she who had first taught Penelope about iambic pentameter, which the eager girl practiced by writing earnest sonnets in praise of fictional ponies: “O, RAINbow, HOW you PRANCE and FLICK your TAIL,” and so on.)
Miss Mortimer glanced up as they entered. She was in her dressing gown, her fair hair loose around her shoulders. She sat near the French windows that overlooked the gardens. A pot of tea was on the table in front of her; a cup had already been poured, and the early edition of Heathcote, All Year ’Round (Now Illustrated) was opened to the puzzle page. Only the quick rise of one delicate eyebrow, which then floated back down slowly, like a downy feather caught in the breeze, revealed her surprise at seeing them.
“Good morning. You are just in time to help with the puzzle,” she said pleasantly. “A six-letter word meaning ‘chaos.’ I wonder what it could be?” She sniffed and made a face. “Children, have you been walking in the cow pastures? I fear you may need to clean off your shoes.”
“It’s Lumawoo’s dress,” the children explained, not unkindly.
Penelope looked down, embarrassed. The kitchen had been so full of strong cooking smells that no one had remarked upon her barnyard scent, but here, in the spotless surroundings of the Swanburne Apartment, it was impossible to miss. “I apologize for my aroma,” she said. “I know I am rather unkempt at present. But never fear, I shall be sure to bathe and change before giving my speech.”
“You are just in time to help with the puzzle.”
Miss Mortimer put her pencil down. “Your speech?”
“Yes.” Penelope sat on the love seat, which was unfortunate, as it was upholstered in ivory silk that had been unblemished until that moment. “I have thought about it a great deal, and I would very much like to give my CAKE speech, as originally planned.”
The children wriggled with joy at the news, for they had been looking forward to hearing their governess speak, but the headmistress of the Swanburne Academy merely asked, “Are you sure?”
“Completely sure. In fact, it is essential that I be allowed to speak.” Penelope gave Miss Mortimer a meaningful look. “As it turns out, I have a great many important things to say.”
Miss Mortimer picked up her spoon and stirred her tea with exquisite slowness. Then she spoke. “Children, do you see my bookshelves—yes, those shelves, on the other side of the room? Could you do me a great favor and put the books
in order? Thank you so very much.”
The children happily obeyed. Miss Mortimer waited until they were busy with their task before quietly replying, “Penny dear, you have my full support as ever. If you wish to speak, you shall. But I must warn you: After what happened yesterday, Judge Quinzy will not be pleased to see you at the podium. Will you risk provoking his anger? I know how much you value your position at Ashton Place.”
Penelope held back a smile. Little did Miss Mortimer know just how much “Quinzy” would be provoked by day’s end! “As there is no such person as Judge Quinzy, whether he is pleased or not makes no difference to me,” she answered. “As for Edward Ashton—for reasons we do not yet know, he has gone to a great deal of trouble to fake his own death and conceal his existence. He has threatened to have me fired, but I believe he is only bluffing. The risk of me exposing his true identity to his son is too great.”
It was Simon who had convinced her of this, during their long night of scheming. “There’s not much to do on a becalmed ship but play cards,” he’d said. “I learned a thing or two about bluffing, believe you me. Edward Ashton’s got a full house, perhaps—we’ll call it a house full of Ashtons! But you’ve got four of a kind.” When she looked at him blankly, he added, “That means you win.”
“But Lord Fredrick would never believe me without proof. And I have none,” she had protested.
“That just means you’re bluffing, too,” he’d answered. “Now you know why people find card games interesting!”
Miss Mortimer looked uneasy. “Certainty is not proof, Penelope,” she cautioned.
“Yet I am certain.” Penelope leaned forward. “Quinzy is Edward Ashton, and your theory about the haystack was correct. His true purpose has nothing to do with school songs or jam budgets or overgrown ivy.”
“What is it, then?”
“To gain access to the letters of Agatha Swanburne.”
Miss Mortimer’s spoon slipped from her fingers and landed on the saucer with a clink. “The letters . . . of course! How foolish that I did not realize it—yet the baroness has kept me so distracted with all her interference, I have scarcely had time to think.” She frowned. “This is troubling news, Penelope. Has he already read the letters, do you know?”
“He has. How Agatha Swanburne knew so much about the contents of the Ashton Place library is a question I would dearly like to investigate! But right now, I have bigger fish to fry.” Penelope stood and did her best to brush the grime off the love seat. “Thank you, Miss Mortimer. One more thing. Might I have your permission to organize a game for the Swanburne girls, as part of the CAKE festivities?”
“Cake Day! Cake Day! The best day of the year!” The Incorrigibles had decided to sort Miss Mortimer’s books by color, thus making an attractive rainbow pattern on the bookshelves. Now they debated what kind of cake would be served for breakfast. Oatmeal cake was a tolerable idea, but the possibility of kipper cake made them gag. (A kipper is not a red herring, but a smoked herring that is eaten whole, with its eyeballs staring up at you from the plate. That some people willingly eat kippers and eggs for breakfast is a fact that others may find hard to swallow. However, as Magistra Grimsby would say, “De gustibus non est disputandum.” This is Latin for “You can’t argue about taste,” an insight that is just as true today as it was in ancient Rome. On the other hand, “Not everything should be baked into a pie,” as Agatha Swanburne once cautioned, particularly if it still has eyeballs.)
Miss Mortimer’s graceful fingers drummed on the table. “Mayhem,” she said at last. “It is ‘mayhem.’”
“Where?” Penelope looked around in a panic but saw only three children having a no-blinking contest by pretending to be kippers.
“A six-letter word for ‘chaos.’” Miss Mortimer rose abruptly, leaving her tea and her puzzle unfinished. “A game, certainly. Do what you think best. But you must excuse me. It is the day of the CAKE, and there are a great many details I must attend to.” She sniffed. “Best if you change clothes before breakfast, dear.”
PENELOPE TOOK HER HEADMISTRESS’S ADVICE and led the children back to the Incorrigible dormitory for baths and fresh clothes. Mrs. Apple was gone, her blanket neatly folded on the chair. Briefly, Penelope wondered if she ought to find her and tell her that her speech-making services would not be needed after all, but there was no time to go searching.
“Busy, busy me!” she thought as she lowered herself into the bath. (It would have been a perfect opportunity to measure her own volume in the manner of Archimedes, but alas, that “eureka” would have to wait until another day.) “I always assumed that thieves must be shady characters, dishonest and lazy. But now that I have embarked on a life of crime myself, I see it is no mere walk in the park. It requires careful planning, nerves of steel, and a strong work ethic, too.” She thought of Cassiopeia’s drawing of the sheep eye. “As the wise founder once said, ‘All things look different close up.’ Very true . . . now where did I put the soap?”
Soon she was clean and dressed in an everyday frock she had worn countless times before. The dress was nothing if not governessy, and brown as a nutshell, too, although it was too big to be crammed into one. However, it had been recently laundered and smelled only of fresh air and lilac water. Penelope was greatly cheered by putting it on.
Seeing her governess change clothes made Cassiopeia want to change as well. Shy as a mouse, she asked if she might wear a real Swanburne uniform in honor of the day. It was easy enough to find one in her size among the clean uniforms stored in the closets. Once she was dressed, Penelope braided her hair into two thick pigtails, just the way Cecily used to wear hers. The sight of her littlest pupil looking like a proper Swanburne girl warmed Penelope’s heart, and Cassiopeia was so proud she twirled in circles, auburn pigtails whipping ’round and ’round, until she was dizzy and had to stop.
Not to be left out, Alexander and Beowulf ran to their suitcases and took out their Postal Tyger uniforms, soup-bowl hats and all. Penelope knew better than to object. “It is the day of the CAKE, so any sort of festive attire ought to be suitable. And they are only children, after all,” she thought. “Now, if I could make them understand that there will not be cake for breakfast! I hope they will not be disappointed.”
But no one could be disappointed with the CAKE day breakfast, except perhaps those few hardy souls who prefer porridge over any other meal. “Pancake, of course!” the Incorrigible children exclaimed in delight, smiting their foreheads; how could they have failed to guess? There was a pot of jam on each table, and plenty of honey, too. Before long, even the solemn Swanburne girls began to talk and giggle among themselves, with nearly the same freedom and merriment Penelope recalled from her own days at school. Many of the girls threw occasional nervous glances at the door, but there was no sign of the baroness. At least, not yet.
The unexpectedly happy breakfast made Penelope feel even more confident in their scheme, and she took it as a sign that the day would go exactly as she and Simon had planned. When the students were nearly done eating, she climbed upon a bench. “Friends, Romans, Swanburne girls, good morning!” she announced. “I am Miss Penelope Lumley, a proud graduate of this fine school. In honor of today’s CAKE, and with permission from your headmistress, Miss Charlotte Mortimer, I would like to propose . . . a treasure hunt!”
The girls cheered and stamped their feet, for there had not been a game announced at breakfast in quite some time, not since the new trustees had taken over. The dormitories quickly formed teams, and Penelope gave each one a list of treasures to find. The girls were so excited that not one of them thought to ask why the lists were written on scraps of empty feedbags.
The Incorrigibles wanted to play, too, but Penelope explained that they would help choose the winner and must therefore stay behind and eat second helpings of pancakes in order to maintain their neutrality. “Like Switzerland,” she explained, heaping their plates with food. The children were satisfied with this and busied themselves with the jam.
When all was in order, Penelope climbed back atop the bench. “Attention, treasure hunters! You have your instructions. Find as many items as you can, and be back in the dining hall at precisely eight o’clock, one hour from now. The winning team shall receive a valuable prize. Ready? On my mark . . . get set—and go. The treasure hunt is on!” she added as an afterthought, but the girls were already off.
Ga-dong! Ga-dong! Ga-dong! Ga-dong! Ga-dong! Ga-dong! Ga-dong! Ga-dong!
The teams returned all at once, noisy and punctual as the trains of the London and North West Railway screeching into Euston Station during the morning rush hour. The last team slipped in breathlessly between the sixth and seventh ga-dongs. By the eighth, all the girls were lined up, their treasures heaped in front of them.
Penelope strode up and down like a general, inspecting each pile and assigning a score, which the Incorrigibles carefully noted down. There were some surprises. For example, “Something soft and squeezable” she thought would be easy to find, given how many embroidered pillows were scattered along the school’s many window seats, but the girls of Dormitory C had rounded up poor Shantaloo, who was now imprisoned in a wicker laundry basket, hissing to be set free.
“Ten points for Dormitory C!” Penelope declared. “I suggest you let the cat out of the basket now, though.”
The Incorrigibles added up the points. All the teams had done well, but thanks to their capture of Shantaloo and the fact that they were the first (and therefore, only) team to obtain the sheet-covered portrait of Agatha Swanburne from Miss Mortimer’s office, the girls of Dormitory C had scored the most. As littlest and loudest, Cassiopeia was given the job of announcing the winner.
“C! C! C is for ‘cake!’” she yelled. The girls of Dormitory C cheered, and were congratulated warmly by all the others.
The Interrupted Tale Page 16
