Secrets at Sea

by Richard Peck

  Lamont sat back on his shanks and pointed at himself. “Me? I don’t ’ave dinner with passengers. I’m crew.”

  “Lamont, we are not passengers. We’re family.”

  “Card-carrying crew,” he said. “I ’ave me papers. I’ve signed on and shipped out.”

  “Lamont, you don’t mean—”

  “I’ll be pursuing a career as Assistant Cabin Steward, with prospects.” He drew himself up, as much as he could. “It’s me destiny.”

  Destiny. Where did he even learn the word?

  We gazed at our brother, trying to think. You know how mice are about water. And Lamont meant to spend his life at sea. You can’t make these things up.

  “Oh, Lamont.” I worked my hands. The bothersome boy! “What if something happens to your tail? Who will sew it back?”

  But he thrust his patchy tail well out of sight and turned his little pointy, chinless face to the future.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Waltz Time

  CURLS OF TICKER tape in the national colors coiled along the yardsticks of our gala dinner. Confetti fell on our fur. We made an entrance, Louise and Beatrice and I, and we were noticed. Vanderbilts noticed.

  But then Cecil’s voice rang out: “Be upstanding for Her Royal Highness, the Duchess of Cheddar Gorge!”

  Spools skidded back, and the room rose. There was the Duchess, though she rarely partook in public. She was a bit more bent than before, on her gold-topped matchstick. But then she was nearing home. Cecil slid the bone china chair beneath her. As I came out of my curtsy, the Duchess waved me into the place beside her, only a whisker away. I had Beatrice on my other side, where I could keep an eye on her. Then Louise, all eyes. We were, of course, at the best yardstick.

  The Duchess glanced down at the soup with disdain. It was a brown Windsor. “We believe,” she said just over our heads, “that we can congratulate ourselves on a notably successful voyage.”

  Louise leaned around us to say, “Dynasties have been decided!”

  “Quite,” said the Duchess. “It has been brought to our attention that your Cranstons are dining with both their future sons-in-law at the captain’s table. The captain’s table on the last night at sea! A triumph! And there is a rumor of champagne.”

  We inclined our heads with modest pride. You do what you can.

  “How well events have worked out.” The Duchess’s rusty tiara twinkled. Her old lips pursed, over the terrible teeth.

  “And we have seen the last of that nasty Nanny Pratt,” I remarked.“She was lucky indeed that the Countess of Clovelly did not drop her overboard. She is lucky that she is not food for the fishes at this very moment.”

  This news did not seem to hold the Duchess’s attention. But Louise blinked. “Who in the world is Nanny Pratt?” she said.

  “She is the former nanny of little Lord Sandown,” I replied. “She has been sent packing.”

  “And how would you possibly know all that, Helena?” Louise goggled. Even Beatrice paid attention.

  “Because Lord Sebastian Sandown is my human, Louise.” And so he had been, for a very important evening of his young life.

  And that was the end of that because a waiter stepped between us, with a serving of beef Wellington crumbs.

  The waiters swooped and scraped. Vegetables were being served, though the English boil all their vegetables to death.

  But the Duchess only picked at her food. She fetched up a sigh.

  “Poor Lady Augusta Drear, Lady-in-Waiting to the Princess, has not had a happy crossing,” she said, waggling her old head. “She is high-strung and has not been herself since that fainting fit she had on the evening of the reception.”

  Beatrice was all ears. She wiggled them.

  “They will be taking her down the gangplank on a stretcher tomorrow, trussed up like a parcel.” The Duchess pulled a long face. “It is thought that Lady Augusta will have to go away for a cure.” Again the Duchess sighed. “This will only add to our many duties. We are, as you will imagine, very active behind the scene.”

  Her gaze grazed me. “You cannot think how busy we are in the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee year. Sixty years upon the greatest throne in human history! Royals will flock to the Palace from abroad and naturally bring their mice. Germans—the Liederkranzes and the Limburgs. And the Havartis from Denmark. A real infestation. Meals! Beds! And everyone so touchy about where they are seated at table.”

  The Duchess’s mind made lists before our very eyes. Her thoughts seemed to tangle like her whiskers. She shook her old head and looked quite pitiful. But it seemed to me she stole a stealthy look in my direction. A sly look. I felt the royal glance. Her old hand found mine. Just a small tap. “I wonder, my dear, if I can persuade you to come to my assistance?”

  Me? Helena? How?

  “I shall be in great need of another pair of hands as capable as yours. After all, my leaping days are behind me, and my climbing days are numbered. And now, without Lady Augusta Drear, my duties will be doubled.”

  The Duchess seemed to shrink up and look quite frail and needy.

  I hung on her every word. So did Beatrice and Louise.

  “I wonder, my dear, if you would consent to become an Assistant Mouse-in-Waiting for the Royal Princess Louise, daughter of the Queen. At the palace, of course. Buckingham Palace.”

  THE MURMURING, CHEEPING dining saloon seemed to fall away. Suddenly before my mind’s eye rose the greatest palace on earth.

  “Her Royal Highness occupies a suite at the very front of the palace with excellent views over London. I can promise you quarters within her very walls. And naturally a full staff.”

  My head went round in perfect circles. Louise and Beatrice were speechless.

  “Only think, my dear,” said the Duchess. “The Diamond Jubilee and the Queen riding out in the royal landau under a black lace parasol. And with her daughters: the Princess Helena, the Princess Louise, the Princess Beatrice! How the flags will snap! How the bands will play! How the crowds will cheer as all the world watches!”

  Crowds cheered in my head. I saw it all in my mind, just as I was meant to. I saw the gates of a royal palace swing open upon a future of my own.

  “Take all the time you need to make your decision, my dear,” said the Duchess, murmuring now. “A minute. Two minutes. Whatever you need.”

  MY MOUTH OPENED, then closed. Suddenly the room around us seemed to erupt. I’d forgotten that dancing was to follow the gala dinner. Spools shuffled. Even now the waiters were carrying away our yardsticks to make space for a ballroom floor. Tails were being rearranged throughout the dining saloon. The Duchess’s china chair was positioned at the edge of the ballroom. Waiters lowered her into it. I handed her her matchstick.

  But where was the music to come from? Musical instruments small enough for mouse hands and lips would hardly serve. Their sound would be reedy and tinny.

  But we were in the great world now. It seemed the entire chorus of The Nutcracker would hum a selection of Viennese waltzes and quadrilles and gallops.

  Then, only a few bars into “The Blue Danube” waltz, there among us strode Lord Peter, Mouse Equerry.

  The room caught its breath. Oh, those wonderfully trimmed whiskers, those peerless ears. That tail of pure poetry. And just a whiff of bay rum aftershave lotion.

  Murmurs rippled the room. Lord Peter never dined in public. But here he was now, scanning across us with aristocratic interest. His gaze fell upon the Duchess of Cheddar Gorge. She was already tapping her matchstick in waltz time.

  Then Lord Peter was before her, with a neat bow from the neck as her hand came up. He took it and bowed deeper to kiss the air above it. Oh, the elegance of that moment. How many generations had it taken to produce mice-of-title such as these?

  The Duchess gestured in our direction. Lord Peter favored both Louise and me with courtly nods. I suppose we simpered, but he only had eyes for Beatrice. I nudged her. The provoking girl was picking one last flake of confetti off her front fur. />
  Lord Peter bowed before her. His hand came out. Louise gave her a nudge that nearly sent her sprawling. Then—somehow—Beatrice and Lord Peter were on the ballroom floor. Only the two of them while the whole mouse world watched.

  Panic gripped me as he took her in his arms.

  Then—somehow—Beatrice and Lord Peter were on the ballroom floor.

  Could the silly girl dance? We didn’t. We never had. When would we?

  But as Lord Peter took one step forward, Beatrice took one step back. Her tail lashed prettily, and they were swept away upon the blue Danube. He of course never put a foot wrong as they scampered in a perfect pattern, round and round the floor. Oh, it was lovely. I wish you could have seen them. Beatrice lolled in Lord Peter’s arms, keeping him at a little distance. There was something dreamy and faraway in her eyes. They were far from beady. They were simply far away.

  “Honestly,” Louise murmured, “they go for her type every time.” But you had to admire Beatrice. She did not gloat, though Lord Peter was on the hook, and our whole world knew it now. There are no secrets at sea.

  THEY DANCED AND danced until the ballroom filled up with other couples. Tails are a problem on a crowded ballroom floor, of course. But how nimble and deft everyone was, taking their cue from Lord Peter and Beatrice. The old Duchess kept time with her matchstick.

  Louise and I looked on. Louise sat with ankles crossed and hands folded together as much like Camilla as she could manage. But finally she could stand it no longer. Her nose was in my ear and she was whispering moistly.

  “ What are you going to tell the Duchess, Helena? Are you going to be an Assistant Mouse-in-Waiting or not? Are you going to live in the palace? The Duchess wants to know. I’m sure your two minutes are up by now,” whispered Louise, though we mice are not good with time.

  I merely nodded, having come to a decision. And when the Duchess turned to me, her missing eyebrows high, I was ready. As ready as I’d ever be.

  “As to my future employment, Your Royal Highness,” I said—very proper, very correct. “I will make you a deal.”

  The Duchess stared. “A deal?” Her matchstick clattered to the floor. “A deal?”She looked nearly at me. “Is that some sort of American expression?”

  “Yes, Duchess,” I said. “It is.”

  For I had looked into the future by then. We were far from Aunt Fannie Fenimore’s crystal ball. But I always look ahead anyhow. Somebody has to.

  I scanned the future and saw—deep within a great gray and gold-tipped palace—a wondrous scene. There were sprays of white lily of the valley, artfully arranged, and petals of orange blossom.

  I saw Beatrice there in the center of this scene, Beatrice blushing in white. And myself and Louise, tastefully attired and holding small nosegays of seasonal flowers. Bridesmaids.

  And now I heard quite different music—a wedding march.

  “Here’s the deal, Duchess,” I said. “ I shall be honored to accept a position in your royal household if my sister can be married in a palace wedding.”

  The Duchess was thunderstruck. “A palace wedding?” She gripped her front fur. Her tiara quivered. “A palace wedding for a bride far from royal?”

  I nodded and gathered my hands. Louise liked to pass out.

  The Duchess pondered, and her old eyes narrowed. “Ah well,” she breathed at last. And her breath nearly knocked both Louise and me off our spools. “I suppose something of the sort can be arranged.” While behind her, Beatrice and Lord Peter turned and turned in one waltz after another.

  And wedding bells rang in my mind.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  A Fond Toodle-oo

  JUST AT DAWN, tugboats nudged the great iron ship into the dock. Whistles blew, announcing our arrival. Beside Camilla’s sleeping form her biggest steamer trunk yawned open. The men would be here for it very shortly. Outside, roustabouts were already . . . rousting about. Sea birds cawed. Somewhere beyond our portholes the gangplank rumbled down. Lady Augusta Drear was no doubt being carried ashore, trussed up like a parcel. Nanny Pratt was doubtless not far behind her, being packed off permanently.

  Three small figures, gray as the dawn, gathered on the carpet of Camilla’s cabin, nose to nose to nose. You know who. We were nearly tuckered out from the gala dinner with dancing to follow. It had gone on far into the night.

  Now we had only moments to scale the trunk, up to Camilla’s handkerchief drawer, for the journey on to London. The time had come once more to pack ourselves for shipping.

  Louise was all aflutter the way she gets. Her tail flailed. “I wonder if I should wake Camilla? Scamper lightly across her face or something. If she oversleeps—”

  “Up into the handkerchief drawer, Louise,” I said. I have to see to everything.

  “You first, Beatrice.” I pointed up to the drawer. “Up you go.”

  And would you believe it? The provoking girl didn’t budge. She stood stock-still, rooted to the rug. “Me?” she said, hand on furry front. “Helena, I’m not going to London, England, for pity’s sake, wherever it is. The idea! I am only seeing you off. I am only here to bid you a fond toodle-oo.” Her eyes popped and goggled. Her whiskers twitched. You never saw such astonishment.

  Louise and I stared.

  But Beatrice stared right back. “I thought it was perfectly clear,” she said maddeningly. “I’m staying on the ship.”

  We liked to have turned to stone, Louise and I. The ship? Beatrice was staying on the ship? My heart sank. Where to begin with her? “ Beatrice, first of all, you are terrified of water. And far more importantly, you are to be married in a palace wedding that I have personally arranged. A palace wedding, Beatrice, with—”

  “Nigel and I have reached an understanding,” she said, interrupting.

  She looked modestly aside. Also, she would not meet my eye.

  Nigel!

  Those great white haunches. Those piercing ruby eyes. The commanding tail. Gorgeous whiskers. “ ’ Ello, ’ello” indeed.

  My eyes narrowed. “Beatrice, how did you manage that?”

  She sat back and arranged her tail. “It was just the other night when I slipped away from the jewelry case. You know, the tufted one with the hatpins and—”

  “Get on with it, Beatrice.”

  “And I told Nigel of Lord Peter’s... interest in me. I mentioned the flowers. The baby’s breath. The lily of the valley.”

  Ah. Once Nigel had a rival, it brought him around.

  Nigel!

  “But, Beatrice, you have just waltzed the night away in Lord Peter’s arms. Lord Peter Mouse Equerry, Beatrice.”

  She turned up her hands in a very annoying way. “Oh, that was easy. There was nothing to it,” she said. “I just pretended he was Nigel.”

  Louise moaned.

  “Beatrice,” I said reasonably, “you do understand Lord Peter’s position in English society as Mouse Equerry, don’t you? You grasp that one day it is entirely possible that you could be a mouse countess. A countess, Beatrice.”

  “ Two castles,” Louise said.

  Beatrice goggled at us. “But I love Nigel. And naturally Nigel loves me,” she said. “ It was love at first sight.”

  With Beatrice it always is.

  Outside the porthole, carts clattered. Voices called and cried. My head pounded. Time was running out. Time always is. Above us, Camilla was beginning to stir. Bedsprings creaked.

  “Beatrice,” I said to my provoking sister, “ I will make you a deal.”

  Beatrice blinked.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  A Palace Wedding

  QUEEN VICTORIA’S DIAMOND Jubilee took place on a June day without a cloud in the sky. “Queen’s weather,” as we call such days here in England.

  The gilded gates of Buckingham Palace fell open that morning to the stately parade of the Queen and all her mighty court.

  The gentlemen, booted and spurred, on stamping steeds. The little old Queen shaped exactly like a teapot, with white feathers in her b
onnet. And with her in the open landau, Princess Helena—the human Helena, and quite a generously built woman. They were off across London to St. Paul’s Cathedral to give thanks for the Queen’s sixty years upon the greatest throne in human history.

  Behind them in landaus of their own, drawn by white horses, came the other royal princesses. All of them nodding, nodding, to left and to right at the crowds cheering down the Mall. Oh that red and gold morning beneath the blue dome of sky, while all the world watched!

  We liked to never get Her Royal Highness Princess Louise ready and downstairs into her carriage. None of her maids were any more use than Mrs. Flint’s daughters back home. Lady Augusta Drear was naturally no longer in attendance. And the Princess’s new lady-in-waiting, Lady Clementine Cumberbatch, didn’t know where anything was. The Princess’s royal suite was a perfect puzzle to her.

  With everything in a muddle, the Duchess of Cheddar Gorge and I were rushed off our feet. Then at the last moment, the heel came off of one of the Princess’s shoes. I had to fling myself against the button to ring for the boot boy. And the Duchess had to show me which button. Honestly, without mice, where would humans be? Their heads are in the clouds.

  An Assistant Mouse-in-Waiting’s work is never done. The Duchess and I were two tired mice by the time the Princess rolled out of the palace gates, behind her royal mother, into the sea of flag-waving humans. We watched from a window looking out upon the Mall, the Duchess and I. And our day had barely begun.

  All the hundreds of palace staff were watching now, clustered at their windows: the Pages of the Presence and the Pages of the Backstairs. The Body Linen Laundresses and the Bedchamber Women. The Fire Lighters and Footmen, the Butlers and Under Butlers. The Chimney Sweeps. The Apothecary to the Household. Even the Rat Killer. Yes, there’s an official palace Rat Killer. So useful.

  A silence fell upon the palace then. No footsteps rang. No one was summoned or sent for. The palace awaited the Queen’s return. Sunlight—pale, watery English sunlight—fell, almost unseen, across Princess Louise’s personal drawing room. Sunbeams winked on the polished fender before the hearth. How welcome is a crackling fire on an English summer day.