Horton Halfpott; Or, the Fiendish Mystery of Smugwick Manor; Or, the Loosening of M’Lady Luggertuck’s Corset

by Tom Angleberger

  Every servant had spent the morning straining their ears for the bright, tinkling sound of the purple bell. When it came, they did not whoop and shout or even smile. They would not want to make M’Lady Luggertuck suspicious.

  But deep, deep inside they rejoiced. The cook and housekeeper were gone. The time had come to eat.

  Slowly, sneakily, they made their way to the kitchens, far beneath M’Lady’s rooms and—more to the point—well out of earshot.

  “Welcome, Bump!” called Loafburton, the burly Hungarian baker. “Welcome, Footman Jennings. Welcome, Slugsalt and Ernestine and Rosehip and Wickleweaver!”

  “Well met, Loafburton,” they called. “What will we eat today?”

  “Only gruel and bread crusts,” cried Loafburton with a wink, pulling buns and tarts and pies and cakes from his oven.

  The servants didn’t waste their time complaining about how bad the Luggertucks were. Instead they laughed and danced and sang and ate like Luggertucks.

  Once a week, for one hour, and one hour only, life for the servants was very, very, very nice. Except for one servant.

  “Horton, come and have a piece of Sweet Sugar-apple Pie,” Loafburton always said. He was a kindly man who often thought of Horton in a fatherly way.

  “Hort, come on and have a rhubarb tart,” said Bump, the small stable boy who was Horton’s best friend.

  Two other stable boys, Blight and Blemish, also called to Horton.

  “Mr. Halfpott, might I suggest a slice of fudge pudding cake?” asked Blight, a large boy with a lumpy head.

  “Perhaps Mr. Halfpott would prefer pudding cake fudge?” suggested Blemish, a lumpy boy with a large head.

  (Since Blight and Blemish hoped someday to become butlers, they were always extraordinarily polite and a little bit too wordy.)

  But no matter how they tried, they always received the same response:

  “No, thank you,” Horton said, busy at his sink, washing dishes.

  In Which Halfpott History Is Revealed . . .

  The ringing of the purple bell signaled Horton’s least favorite time of the week. He would rather endure a spoon beating.

  Horton simply could not bring himself to take a cake.

  He would have liked one, of course. He was just as hungry as everyone else.

  But Horton could not bring himself to break a rule. Even on a day such as that one, when there had been a Loosening, he could not break a rule.

  Loafburton had almost given up trying.

  “Skin and bones you are, my good Horton,” he said. “M’Lady Luggertuck doesn’t feed you enough to live on. You’ll drop over dead right in your sink one of these days.”

  Horton knew that Loafburton was right. He knew that M’Lady Luggertuck was cruel and mean and wrong.

  It made him angry at himself. It made him miserable. But it just seemed wrong to take the Luggertucks’ food.

  Plus, he asked himself with horror, what if he lost his week’s wages or—much worse—his job at Smugwick Manor?

  Ah yes, Reader, I know what you are thinking. You think that losing an awful job in an awful place for awful pay would be a good thing.

  But Horton had a reason. His reason was the other Halfpotts—his mother, his brothers and sisters, old Uncle Lemuel, and his father, who had been sick for so long.

  Every Sunday morning—the only free time allotted to the Luggertucks’ servants—Horton ran down the road, through the village, across ten fields and three streams, to the cottage where his family lived.

  He gave his mother the single copper penny he had earned. She smiled and put it in a little tin can.

  “Now do we have enough to pay for a doctor?” Horton always asked.

  “Almost, Horton, almost,” she always said.

  He had just enough time to shake hands with old Uncle Lemuel, to hug his little brothers and sisters, and to kneel down beside his father’s sickbed, before he had to turn around and run back.

  The Luggertucks’ penny was a paltry thing, but it was all the money the Halfpotts had.

  And so Horton was grateful and, yes, even faithful to the Luggertucks, who deserved it not at all.

  In Which the Stable Boys’ History Is Not Revealed . . .

  A word, please, about Bump, Blight, and Blemish before we move on.

  From whence came they, you may ask. Were they orphans? Brothers? Royal princes hidden away to protect them from the scheming archduke who had seized control of the throne?

  They did not know. They’d all been working in the Luggertuck stables as long as they could remember. Oddly, none of the older stable boys, nor even the stable master for that matter, could remember when they arrived.

  A rumor among some of the ruder servants was that Blight and Blemish were twins who were given away by their parents because they were so ugly. While it is true that they had a certain toadlike appearance, I cannot imagine that their own mother would have thought them ugly.

  As for Bump, there was a rumor that he was raised by wolves. I find that very hard to believe.

  Bump had lots and lots of friends among the servants, but Horton was his very best friend.

  Sometimes, after he finished his work in the stables—and, more important, after Miss Neversly had gone to bed—Bump sneaked into the kitchen and helped Horton wash the piles and piles of dirty dishes.

  That’s what he did the night of the Loosening.

  “Hort! You’ll never, ever, ever guess what I just saw,” Bump chattered excitedly. “Old Crotty and Footman Jennings walking in the garden.”

  “What?” cried Horton.

  “Yep, holding hands.”

  “There’s many strange things going on today, Bump,” said Horton, “but that’s the best I’ve heard yet. He’s been in love with her for years.”

  “What do you think will happen next?” asked Bump.

  “Who knows,” said Horton. “Maybe you’ll fall in love.”

  “Me?” squeaked Bump. “Forget it. I bet it’ll be you.”

  “Hmmph, not very likely,” said Horton. And he didn’t say anything else for a while.

  What he said had been true and he knew it, and it made him sad. It wasn’t very likely that he’d fall in love. In fact, nothing was very likely except that the next day he’d be in the kitchen again and the day after that and the day after that.

  But Horton wasn’t one to mope. It’s true that he didn’t have a lot of occasions to smile, but it was rare indeed to see him frown.

  He turned his attention to making Bump laugh.

  “Maybe Miss Neversly will be next,” he said. “Maybe she’ll fall in love.”

  What a thought! Mean old Miss Neversly in love. Why, that would be . . . an Unprecedented Marvel.

  In Which Plans for Both the Costume Ball and Evil Deeds Are Made . . .

  The next day, much to Old Crotty’s surprise, M’Lady again asked for her corset to be “not so tight.”

  Thus the Loosening continued and everyone knew it. They didn’t know the reason for it, but they sensed it and they liked it.

  Except for Luther. He decided to do something about it. He decided to Whine.

  Alas, Luther’s Whining was not an Unprecedented Marvel. It was an everyday occurrence.

  You see, Luther was not just Evil, he was also Annoying. You may blame M’Lady for both.

  From the day of his birth, M’Lady had spoiled her son with excess, encouraged him when punishment was needed and, worst of all, taught him by example.

  With such a mother, it is no wonder that Luther was a beastly baby, then a beastly boy, and now a beastly young gentleman.

  “Motherrrrrr,” he whined, “about this ball . . .”

  “Oh, isn’t it exciting?” cooed M’Lady Luggertuck. Yes, she cooed. “It will be the grand event of the season. We’ll be the envy of all society and I shall wear my newest Fashionable Wig!”

  Luther was revolted by his mother’s near-cheerfulness. He had been suckled on bitterness and bile and was quite disturbed to see h
er behaving in such a sunshiny fashion. He realized it was not to his advantage and did his best to call back the familiar storm clouds.

  “What a stupid idea, Mother. What a waste of perfectly good money, feeding a lot of old ninnies and gassers, so they can stumble around our ballroom scuffing the floors and listening to an overpaid band of string pluckers.”

  “Oh, Luther, they won’t all be old,” said M’Lady Luggertuck, pawing at her son’s starched collar. “Why, there are so many young ladies and gentlemen to invite that I’ve decided to make it a costume ball.”

  “Young ladies and gentlemen, Mother? Bah! Who? There is no one worth noticing within fifty leagues. Surely not the Reverend Apoplexy’s dog-faced daughters? Not the Frimperton brothers?”

  “Well, yes, of course they will be invited, but, just think, your cousin Montgomery will be there, as he is to spend the summer with us.”

  “Ugh!” groaned Luther.

  “Ah, yes, dear Montgomery,” M’Lady continued. “The poor young thing’s in love. His mother has specifically asked us to invite the young lady he fancies, a Miss Sylvan-Smythe who is summering with the Shortleys. True love may blossom right here in fashionably decorated Smugwick Manor.”

  Longtime readers of M’Lady Luggertuck’s adventures are no doubt surprised by just how mushy she can get without that corset tightening her heart (and, more important, her stomach). Here was a woman who married for money and hadn’t spoken a kind word to her husband in years, and yet here she was babbling about romance. “True love! Just think of it, Luther!”

  Luther thought, but not of true love. He thought of money.

  The Luggertuck fortune was, as faithful readers well know, dwindling. Squandered. Frittered away. Spent on fashion and fad that fled the land long ago. (See “M’Lady Luggertuck’s Parisian Shopping Spree.”)

  Oh, there was money enough for any decent family to live upon for generations. But the Luggertuck family had lost any slight claim it might have had to decency when M’Lady married into it.

  Luther wanted more. Much more. And he certainly didn’t plan to work for it. He planned, eventually, to marry for it.

  He made it his business to know where money hung about, and a lot of it loitered in the Sylvan-Smythes’ bank accounts.

  Now he calculated the total wealth of the Sylvan-Smythes based on his knowledge of their land holdings, stock purchases, and investments in automated steam looms.

  They were as rich as the Luggertucks had once been.

  Luther hated to stop in the middle of a good Whine, but suddenly a ball sounded like quite a good idea. It would offer a chance to get close to the young lady. He would find a way to win Miss Sylvan-Smythe and, more important, the enormous dowry that came with her.

  But wait, you ask, how could Luther—intolerable, obnoxious, odious, odoriferous, and generally unbearable—win the hand of the most sought-after young lady in England? Why, with an Evil Plan, of course.

  And, like a fungus of the foot, just such a plan began to fester and grow in the damp recesses of Luther’s brain—sporing from synapse to synapse until his whole head itched with it.

  He now stood very much in favor of the ball, but felt he might still put his whine to good use. “Very well, Mother, but I shall need my allowance doubled to costume myself properly.”

  In Which Miss Neversly Is Disobeyed and Dawdling Occurs . . .

  The next day, Old Crotty gathered the servants.

  “M’Lady will throw a ball in two weeks’ time, on the tenth of July. There is much work to do, but I know you are all as happy as I am to be able to help the Luggertucks shine on their special day.”

  No one, not even Footman Jennings, met her eye. No one was happy to help. No one cared whether the Luggertucks shone or not. They did care, however, about the two weeks of hard work that lay ahead in preparing for the ball.

  Much of that work would fall to Horton, Bump, and the dozen or so other kitchen, stable, and garden boys. The chairs that had lurked in the east basement since the last Luggertuck ball would have to be toted one by one, the acreage of the ballroom waxed inch by inch, the miles of gravel lane from Smugwick Manor to the village raked foot by foot.

  But their first task revealed itself as a pleasant one—the hand delivery of invitations to the homes of all those guests who lived within a day’s walk. The footmen were supposed to do it, but they, being well aware that M’Lady’s corset was still Loosened, chose instead to play cards in the pickle storeroom. The boys were more than happy to do the job, which they knew would give them ample opportunities to dawdle.

  “Do not dawdle,” Neversly ordered the boys, cracking Horton on the head with a spoon to make her point.

  But dawdle they did.

  It was the best day of the summer and they were loosed upon it.

  Once out of Neversly’s sight, they whooped, chased, wrestled, and tumbled.

  Blight and Blemish, though not of athletic build, led the pack through Wolfleg Woods.

  “Mr. Blemish, the proximity of Magpie Pond would appear to offer a pleasant refuge from the heat of the day,” said Blight.

  “Very good, Mr. Blight,” said Blemish. “Shall we disrobe?”

  Two enormous muddy splashes soon followed, as did the other boys.

  “Come on, Horton, come on,” called Bump, happily half out of his trousers.

  “I can’t, Bump, I’ll never make it in time if I do,” said Horton regretfully. He dodged Bump’s attempts to push him in.

  “Where are you bound, Mr. Halfpott?” called Blemish, bobbing in the middle of the rather murky pond. “I’m afraid I’ve drawn light duty today as I’ve only got to go to the minister’s and Dr. Radish’s.”

  “I’ve got to go all the way to the Shortleys’,” replied Horton.

  “By M’Lady Luggertuck’s bustle!” cried Blemish. “My good man, that’s all the way across the county. Might I suggest that you cut through Simpkin’s Mire if you want to make it there and back in a day. But I hasten to add, be vigilant for snakes.”

  “And wolves,” added Blight.

  “And quicksand,” piped in Bump.

  “Why am I always the unlucky one?” Horton moaned, then turned to trudge onward, ever onward with the sounds of his frolicking friends at his back.

  Bump watched his friend go, and his little heart almost broke. He knew about Horton’s family. He knew the reasons why Horton would never break the rules. But he hated to see Horton always missing out on the few things that made life at Smugwick almost bearable.

  He ran toward the pond and leaped. In midair, he closed his eyes and wished for something wonderful to happen to Horton. And then he hit the cold water and went under, popping up a second later into the full glory of that perfect summer day.

  Now, this isn’t a fairy tale. And Bump’s wish wasn’t magic. But nevertheless, it was about to come true.

  In Which Our Hero Falls into Two Things . . .

  Horton did not understand his luck as he took the path to the edge of Simpkin’s Mire, the giant swamp that covered half the county.

  Nor did he understand his luck when he tripped and fell off the narrow path into the mosquitoed muck, emerging with one leg and one arm covered in stinking, putrid black mud.

  However, hours later, he began to understand when, just moments after slogging out of the mire onto the Shortleys’ two-mile-long lane, he saw a very surprising thing—a girl on a bicycle.

  Though a bicycle—a relatively new invention at that time—was a heretofore unseen sight this far from London, there was nothing particularly lucky about seeing it.

  No, it is the rider of this clanky contraption that interests us. As she approached, Horton perceived her to be the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.

  Not because of makeup or hairstyle, of which she seemed to have neither, but because of the smile she gave him. He had received few enough smiles in his life, and this was surely the best of the lot.

  Fear not, Reader, we will not dwell on these romantic inklin
gs, not if you don’t wish to. But it really was a nice smile.

  “Why, you’re covered in mud,” she called, wrestling with a lever in an attempt to brake the bicycle—a tall, ungainly structure with one big and one little wheel. It stopped suddenly and plopped her onto the ground. She laughed.

  Horton ran over and offered her a hand. Unfortunately, black mud, smelling of dead tadpoles, still caked the aforesaid hand, as well as the rest of Horton’s self.

  “Er, no thanks,” she said. As she climbed to her feet, he realized she was twice as beautiful as he had first thought. But we don’t dwell; we move on.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled, wiping his dirty hand on his dirty pants. “I fell in Simpkin’s Mire.”

  “Is that the name of that swamp?” she asked. “What were you doing in there?”

  “I had to come all the way from Smugwick Manor. I cut through the swamp to save time,” he said. “I’m delivering an invitation to the Shortleys.”

  “Oh, really? I’ll be glad to take it the rest of the way for you.”

  “Oh, do you work there?” he asked.

  “No, I’m spending the summer there.”

  A terrible feeling began to work its way through the Halfpott midsection and a terrible thought came to the Halfpott mind. This wasn’t a kitchen girl, as he had assumed because of her simple clothing. This wasn’t even a governess.

  The girl gave a silly little mock curtsy.

  “My name’s Celia Sylvan-Smythe. What’s yours?”

  “Horton Halfpott, ma’am,” he said, and lowered his eyes respectfully.

  This wasn’t another servant, this was a young lady. A lady like M’Lady.

  He had spoken to her. He had offered her a muddy hand. He had also entertained a certain notion that we’re not dwelling on.

  Humiliation set in fast. Certainly Miss Sylvan-Smythe did nothing to promote it. No, the humiliation came, as it so often does, of its own accord. It came of Horton’s knowledge of the world—the way it worked and his place in it. He seemed unaware that Celia seemed unaware of the way the world worked and his place in it.