The Interrupted Tale

by Maryrose Wood

  “Save room for dessert,” Miss Mortimer said, dabbing her lips with a napkin. “For how could we have our first annual CAKE without a cake to celebrate the occasion?”

  “Cake . . . oh, no!” the children wailed, for they had never been less interested in dessert in their lives. As if on cue, the cake emerged. It was so large that it took two servants on each side and one in the back to push the enormous wheeled trolley that bore this confection out of the kitchen. It had twelve layers, and each one was a different kind of cake altogether.

  “Chocolate cake, vanilla cake, carrot cake, sponge cake, coconut cake, marble cake, pineapple cake, mousse cake, nougat cake, cheesecake, pound cake, and Black Forest cake,” Miss Mortimer explained. The icing had been applied in thick, painterly swirls. On top, written in a delicate script, was the Swanburne motto: No Hopeless Case Is Truly Without Hope.

  A cheer went up at the sight of this masterpiece. Penelope kept her eye on the clock. It was twenty minutes past six. The three children stared in horror as great wedges of cake were placed in front of them. Cassiopeia stabbed hers idly with a fork.

  “Cake . . . oh, no!”

  “Excuse me,” Penelope said, and rose from her seat.

  “Be back soon, Penny, dear!” Miss Mortimer warned. “It is almost time for your speech.”

  She smiled. “I shall return in a moment. Incorrigible children, come with me. It is time for your important responsibilities.”

  PENELOPE GAZED UP AND DOWN the deserted hallways of the school. It was just as she had hoped. Everyone was inside the dining hall, including Edward Ashton. The Incorrigibles would have the building all to themselves.

  The three eager children lined up before her. “Each of you has a different job to do,” she explained. “You are to complete your task as quickly as possible and then wait for me among the baby dodos, in the chicken coop. Understood?”

  The mention of the dodos made the children even more excited. They nodded eagerly.

  Penelope took a deep breath. “All right. Alexander, here is your task: You must find the cannibal book one more time. Remember how you did it before, by following the scent of the sea? It will be even more well hidden now, so you may have to sniff extra hard.”

  He closed his eyes and sniffed, long and deep. “Salty, briny, fishy . . . I think I have it,” he said after a moment.

  “Wonderful. Find the book and bring it to the chicken coop. Simawoo will know what to do with it. Wait for me there. And remember, when it comes to the birds . . .”

  “No bothering, no nibbling, no eating. Only cuddling.” He grinned.

  “Correct.” She smiled and turned to his brother. “Beowulf, your job is to obtain six and one-half cups of paprika from the kitchen. They will have plenty left over from making the Hungarian goulash. Have the cook tie it up in paper, bring it to the chicken coop—”

  “Give to Simawoo, wait there, no nibbling birds,” he finished. “Will do!”

  “Splendid! Now, Cassiopeia. I had originally intended for you to accompany Alexander and act as lookout, but something else has come up. I fear you have the most difficult job of all.” She knelt and took Cassiopeia’s hands in her own. “Lord Fredrick Ashton is here at Swanburne, and he is not feeling up to snuff. He has urges to howl and bark, and he wishes to learn how to stop. Can you give him a no-howling lesson?”

  The little girl frowned. Her furrowed-brow, thinking-hard expression looked not unlike Penelope’s, although Penelope had no way of knowing that, as she was not the sort of person who spent her idle hours staring into mirrors.

  “What do you think, Cassawoof?” she urged. “Can you teach Lord Fredrick to stop howling?”

  Cassiopeia looked up, her green eyes wide. “Cannot teach him to stop howling. But can teach him to like howling.”

  Penelope sighed; she knew she was out of time. “That will have to do. First you must find Old Timothy, the enigmatic coachman from Ashton Place.”

  “Follow smell of horses,” Cassiopeia said, understanding. “And mysteries.”

  “Precisely. Old Timothy will take you to Lord Fredrick. And remember, when you are done, meet me and your brothers—”

  “In the dodo coop, buck buck buck!” She stood straight and gave a crisp salute. “Ten-hut!”

  The boys joined the salute, and Penelope nearly cried to see those three brave faces before her. She swept them all into a fond embrace. “You are the best and cleverest pupils any governess could ever hope to have. Now, off with you. You have much to do, as do I.” She gulped, suddenly nervous. “It is almost time for my speech.”

  “Good luck, Lumawoo!” the children said, as each one hugged her in turn. Then the three Incorrigibles ran off to do as they had been told.

  The Thirteenth Chapter

  Penelope’s education proves its worth.

  PENELOPE SLIPPED BACK INTO HER seat at the faculty table. Miss Mortimer gave her a quizzical look, and the speechless Mrs. Apple drew a question mark in the air with her fingertip as a way of asking if everything was all right. Penelope merely smiled and shoved a forkful of cake into her mouth.

  Polite as ever, Miss Mortimer waited until Penelope swallowed before asking, “Penny, dear, where are the—”

  Hastily, Penelope took another bite of cake. With her mouth full of food, she could hardly be expected to answer questions, she reasoned. At the Swanburne Academy for Poor Bright Females, good table manners were serious business.

  She chewed as slowly as she could manage, but eventually the cake insisted upon being swallowed. The moment it was, Miss Mortimer spoke. “Penny, are the children—”

  Penelope gobbled more cake. Miss Mortimer gave a nearly imperceptible sigh of exasperation, but still she waited. Meanwhile, the chairs that the Incorrigible children had occupied during dinner seemed to grow emptier by the minute.

  If you have ever tried to make a delicious dessert last an extra-long time (by mashing it into crumbs suitable for the feeding of infant mice, for example, or by forcing yourself to recite the multiplication tables in your mind between forkfuls), you already know that there are only so many teeny-tiny bites one can take before reaching the bitter, cakeless end. So it was with Penelope. The last tasty morsels were already in her mouth. She chewed with exaggerated care. As she did, she ran the side of her fork ever so slowly ’round the edge of the plate, in order to scrape up the invisible traces of icing that might still cling to the rim of the dish.

  “Penny! Where are the Incorrigible children?” Miss Mortimer cried at last.

  Penelope took a moment to lick the fork clean. “Tummy aches, all three,” she answered briskly. “Too much goulash, I expect. They went to lie down. Nothing to be concerned about.”

  Mrs. Apple and Miss Mortimer exchanged worried looks. “Poor dears,” Miss Mortimer said. “Shall I call a doctor?”

  “A doctor, for a child’s tummy ache? Nonsense. Some castor oil and a hot-water bottle will do just fine.” Penelope glanced at the clock. It was six thirty exactly, time for the speeches to begin. “It is not as if they have the plague, after all. Besides, a little suffering is good for them. Builds character!”

  “Wh-what?” Miss Mortimer stammered, flummoxed, for this was not the sort of reply one would expect from a Swanburne girl.

  “I agree. The more suffering, the better!” With a flourish of her fur-trimmed cape, Baroness Hoover strode by their table. When she reached the podium, she turned. “Assembled guests, good evening. I am Baroness Hoover. At the request of our chairman, Judge Quinzy, I have been asked to report on the operations of the school.” Her husband’s halfhearted clapping echoed in the otherwise silent room; after a moment he stopped and sat on his hands in shame. “My conclusion is this: The school is undisciplined! Some remedies have already been put in place. I promise you, there will be further improvements.”

  “What improvements?” an alumna called out in alarm.

  “Tighter budgets! Leaner operations! And no more frivolity. Consider that cake, for example.” The
baroness wiped a bit of frosting out of the corner of her mouth. “A garish, wasteful display.”

  “The chocolate bits were delectable,” Lady Constance chirped. Indeed, she had had an unusually hearty appetite at dinner and had eaten two helpings of everything, including dessert.

  Many voices began shouting all at once. Some cried out against the baroness’s words, while others agreed with Lady Constance, for truly, the cake had been scrumptious, and there was hardly a speck of it left on anyone’s plate.

  Miss Mortimer held up a hand for order. “Baroness, rest assured we do not serve cake every day.”

  “No, but you hold classes every day, and many are as impractical as this cake.” The baroness’s eyes glittered in triumph. “For example, geography is entirely unnecessary. These girls are too poor to go on holiday, so what is the point of knowing where things are?”

  “The capital of Hungary is Budapest!” someone called out hotly from the back of the room. Penelope startled, for the voice sounded familiar.

  The baroness ignored the protest. “History, too, must go. The past is over and done with. I see no need to dwell upon it.” A yelp of dismay came from near where Mrs. Apple was sitting, but as the dear history teacher had lost her voice, the sound obviously did not originate with her.

  “And then there is this business of the school motto. ‘No hopeless case is truly without hope.’ Ridiculous! Some cases simply are hopeless, and it is no use pretending otherwise. I propose something more realistic. For example, ‘Keep quiet and know your place.’” A shocked silence settled over the hall. Baroness Hoover’s thin smile twisted into a sneer. “Or this: ‘Children should neither be seen nor heard.’”

  “I like that one,” the Earl of Maytag interjected. “I’d eliminate children altogether, if I could! But I suppose new people have to come from somewhere. They don’t grow on trees, eh?”

  “I’ve got one. ‘Keep your expectations low, and you’ll never be disappointed.’ Quite true in my experience, har har!” It was the baron. He forced a chuckle, but it sounded like he was choking.

  The baroness silenced her spouse with a look. “These improvements will mark a new day in the life of this slipshod academy. Therefore, it is only fitting that the school itself be renamed. After tonight’s official vote by the board of trustees, this institution shall forevermore be known as the Quinzy School for Miserable Girls.”

  “Quinzy!” Penelope blurted in outrage. “Quinzy!”

  Magistra Grimsby handed her a fresh handkerchief. “Gesundheit!” she whispered. “Did you know that Latin has no word for ‘sneeze’? And with those drafty togas, too.”

  An ominous buzz rose from the guests, like a hive of bees preparing to swarm. Miss Mortimer chose that moment to stand. She was the very picture of calm, and she glided to the podium as she spoke. “Baroness Hoover, thank you for your fascinating remarks. Everyone, please remember the trustees have not yet voted; the future, as always, remains unknown. As Agatha Swanburne would say, ‘We will hop on that omnibus when it arrives, and not one moment before.’ Now, let us proceed with our agenda for the evening.”

  The baroness seethed. “But I have not yet finished—”

  “Tempus fugit, Baroness! We encourage early bedtimes here; best not to dilly-dally.” Miss Mortimer’s gentle smile cast its spell over the hall. “Our next speaker is known to many of you. A former student, she is now a professional governess, currently charged with the education of three remarkable pupils. I expect her thoughts on the value of a Swanburne education will be nothing short of riveting.” She said the word “Swanburne” with special care, so it could not be missed. “Please join me in welcoming our distinguished alumna, Miss Penelope Lumley.”

  “No!” The baroness seized the podium with both hands, as if daring someone to tear her away. “The DODO protests! I have not approved Miss Lumley’s speech.”

  Penelope was already on her feet. “But Baroness, you heard every word.”

  “And I hated each one! I have never been so bored in my life.” She glared at Miss Mortimer. “The DODO demands a different speaker.”

  “Alas, our only alternate speaker has laryngitis.” Miss Mortimer gestured toward the irrepressibly talkative Mrs. Apple, who shrugged and pointed to her throat. “Given the circumstances, we shall have to let Miss Lumley take the podium. Once more, may I present Miss Penelope Lumley!”

  The applause was tremendous. The baroness gnashed her teeth as if she planned to bite someone, but the ovation grew until she had no choice but to step down and return to her seat at the trustees’ table.

  Slowly, Penelope made her way to the podium. Miss Mortimer put a hand on her arm and whispered: “Remember, Penelope. You are a Swanburne girl, through and through. Speak from your heart, and all will be well.”

  From the heart, indeed! As Miss Mortimer left her standing there alone, Penelope’s heart skittered like a bird’s. She had no notes to speak from, nor any speech prepared. How could she and Simon ever have imagined this plan would work? But he and the children were already doing their parts. Now she had to do hers.

  She turned to face the audience. She smoothed her everyday brown dress and took a deep, calming breath. During that breath she noted the poised pen of the reporter from Heathcote, All Year ’Round (Now Illustrated). She saw the empty chair next to Lady Constance in which Lord Fredrick had been assigned to sit, and the three empty chairs where the Incorrigible children had been. Could she do it? The fate of the school hung in the balance. So did the fate of the cannibal book, and the moon-cursed Ashtons, and perhaps the Incorrigibles, too.

  And what of her own fate? Why had Miss Mortimer used the poultice to conceal her among the other Swanburne girls all those years? Was it no more than happenstance that she had ended up at Ashton Place, governess to the Incorrigibles? And were the Long-Lost Lumleys truly lost? Or, like Edward Ashton, had they concealed themselves for some pressing reason that was, as yet, unknown?

  The storm of questions threatened to blow her off course before she had even begun. She placed her hands on the lip of podium to steady herself. “I was asked to speak at the CAKE in order to make a good impression on the trustees,” she thought. Determination filled her sails like a steady wind. “Well, I am going to make an impression, one way or another. And I cannot take one minute less than an hour and three-quarters to do it.”

  With a glance at the clock, she began.

  “HEAR ME, O MEN OF Athens! And fellow Swanburnians, too,” she proclaimed. (The bit about the men of Athens was from a famous speech by Demosthenes. Granted, it was an odd beginning, as there were no men of Athens in the room. But Penelope liked the sound of it, and with an hour and three-quarters to fill, she could hardly afford to be picky about words.) “That is to say, hello, to all current and former Swanburne girls, to the faculty, and to the esteemed board of trustees. Hello, hello, hello! Thank you all, so much, for coming here today.”

  She looked at the clock. Scarcely one minute! She had best slow down. She took another breath and continued at a measured pace.

  “To celebrate alumnae knowledge at Swanburne is no easy task. Nor is it a quick task. In fact, it is a lengthy task, for there is a great deal of knowledge to celebrate.” Her eyes met those of Mrs. Apple, whose face shone with unspoken encouragement. “History, for example! A most important subject. In the words of Cicero, ‘Not to know what has been transacted in former times is to be always a child.’”

  “‘If no use is made of the labors of past ages, the world must remain always in the infancy of knowledge!’” Mrs. Apple, suddenly in possession of her voice, shouted the rest of the quote, and earned a smattering of applause for it, too.

  “Quite so. If not for my studies of history and the great speeches of antiquity, I might never have even heard of Cicero. And that would be a shame, for Cicero could coin a pithy, wise saying with the best of them.” Boldly, Penelope looked at the trustees. “It was Cicero who said, ‘A community is like the ones who govern it.’ Cicero is not
here tonight, of course, for he is long dead. But if he were, he might well ask: Is Swanburne like its current board of trustees? With its strict rules against birthday presents and parties and singing? With its dislike of geography and its objection to the occasional tasty treat?”

  “No!” First one voice cried out, then others. “No!” “Hardly!” “Not a bit!”

  Penelope scanned the crowd. Each face seemed like a beacon of hope, and she took courage from every one. “To me, Swanburne is more like Miss Mortimer: unfailingly kind and calm under pressure. Or like Mrs. Apple, ablaze with passion for her favorite subject. It is like the Swanburne girls, full of curiosity and mischief and loyal to a fault, with high-leaping imaginations and plenty of good common sense.”

  She looked up at the banners that swayed above her head like a line of dancers. “Swanburne is like Agatha Swanburne herself—wise and strong, with a fierce heart for justice, and a sense of humor, too.”

  More voices rang out. “Yes, that’s right!” “Quite so!” “Swanburne forever!” and so on.

  In this way, Penelope spoke from the heart, just as Miss Mortimer had advised, and if that were all she had done, her speech would have been a resounding success. She quoted Cicero, and Demosthenes, and Shakespeare. She threw in some wisdom from Cato the Younger, and from Cato the Elder, too. But before long, she had said all she could think of to say on the subject of education, and the minute hand on the clock had barely swept past the half-hour mark.

  Once more she surveyed the room. Her audience was rapt, ready to spring to their feet in a thunderous ovation. “My years at Swanburne have given me so much!” she said with passion. “Good memories, good friends, good posture, excellent penmanship, and a deep love of poetry and all its meters. For example, iambic pentameter, which, as you may know, sounds like this: ta-TUM, ta-TUM, ta-TUM, ta-TUM, ta-TUM.”

  She clapped her hands to demonstrate the rhythm. “Let me offer an example. I HAVE a FURry FRIEND called NUTSaWOO. Might you all say that with me? Feel free to clap if you like.”