A Summer Tale of Four Sisters, Two Rabbits, and a Very Interesting Boy

by Jeanne Birdsall

  Mrs. Tifton seemed to think so, too. “Oh,” she said, looking even stiffer than before.

  “These are Skye, Jane, and Batty,” said Jeffrey quickly.

  “And this is Mr. Dupree.” Mrs. Tifton laid her hand possessively on Dexter's arm. “Now, Jeffrey, why don't you show the Penderwicks your birthday present?”

  “All right,” said Jeffrey without enthusiasm, and heaved himself around again, dragging his burden back into view. It wasn't a log. It was a large leather golf bag.

  “Put it down, Jeffrey, and show us the clubs,” said Mrs. Tifton.

  Jeffrey slid his shoulder out of the bag strap and stepped away from it. It wobbled a moment, about to fall, but Jeffrey caught the shoulder strap just in time. He pulled a club halfway out. “This is a driver. You hit the balls with it.”

  “I didn't know you liked golf, Jeffrey,” said Skye.

  “Well…,” said Jeffrey.

  “It's a beautiful golf bag,” Rosalind offered.

  “A golf bag fit for kings,” said Jane.

  “Mr. Dupree is an excellent golfer. He's arranged for Jeffrey to have lessons at the country club,” said Mrs. Tifton.

  “A country club fit for kings,” said Jane.

  “Only kings who belong,” Dexter touched his mustache complacently. “It's private, you know.”

  “A private country club fit—” Jane stopped short when Skye lightly jabbed her in the ribs. Rosalind hoped Mrs. Tifton hadn't seen the jab, but she agreed that it had been necessary. Jane was plainly slipping into her nervously-spouting-nonsense mood.

  “Now, Jeffrey, why don't you seat your guests?” said Mrs. Tifton.

  Jeffrey let go of the shoulder strap and turned away. Once again the bag started to wobble, and though Skye attempted a flying save, she was too late. The bag crashed to the ground, narrowly missing Mrs. Tifton's high heels.

  “Jeffrey, for heaven's sake, be careful!” she said. “Those clubs cost me the moon.”

  “Sorry, Mother,” he said, struggling to haul the thing back upright. He lugged it across the room and leaned it in the corner.

  “Well!” said Mrs. Tifton. “Now maybe we can sit down. Dexter, pour me a glass of wine.”

  The table wasn't as long as the room, but still it was much too long for the number of people eating dinner—the seven place settings of china and lace napkins were all stuck mournfully at one end, leaving the rest of the vast, shiny surface empty. The head of the table was for Mrs. Tifton, and she indicated that Jeffrey would be on her right and Dexter on her left. Jeffrey led Rosalind to the chair next to Dexter's, and Batty, who was still holding Rosalind's hand, went along and sat down beside her. That left Skye and Jane to fight it out for the seat next to Jeffrey, but they solved that by agreeing that Skye could have it for dinner and Jane for dessert.

  Rosalind wasn't happy to be so close to the smirking Dexter, but she didn't want any of her sisters near him, either. To avoid him, she turned toward Batty, just in time to see a pair of butterfly wings disappearing beneath the table. She grabbed them before they vanished altogether and quietly hauled Batty back up into her chair.

  “Stay in your seat,” she whispered.

  “I don't like it up here,” said Batty.

  “I don't, either. Stay in your seat, anyway.”

  Rosalind looked across the table at her other sisters. Skye was talking to Jeffrey and tapping a spoon against her crystal water glass—please don't let her break it, Rosalind prayed—and Jane was staring fixedly at the ceiling. What was she looking at? Glancing upward, Rosalind was startled to see that the ceiling was painted all over with men and women in togas, lolling around and eating grapes.

  “That cost a fortune,” said Dexter.

  Rosalind jumped. “Excuse me?”

  “The ceiling. Some French artist had to lie on his back on scaffolding to paint it, just like Michelangelo in the Sistern Chapel. Set Mrs. Tifton's great-grandfather back thousands.”

  Rosalind had learned in art class about Michelangelo painting a ceiling somewhere, though Sistern Chapel didn't sound quite right. But she knew it was impolite to correct a grown-up, even an obviously unintelligent one, so she decided to ignore both Dexter and the toga wearers above her. Instead, she looked around at the paintings on the walls of the dining room. Most were of people, and from their air of self-satisfaction, Rosalind guessed they were relatives of Mrs. Tifton. Particularly that stern-looking man hanging behind Skye. He was wearing an olive green uniform all covered with medals and looked like he ate nails for breakfast.

  “Rosalind, that's my dear papa, General Framley,” said Mrs. Tifton. “Now, who do you think looks exactly like him?”

  “You?” said Rosalind, wishing people would just leave her alone.

  “Me?” Mrs. Tifton gave out a little tinkle of a laugh. “Of course not. I meant Jeffrey. He's the image of his grandfather.”

  Skye snorted, and Jane looked doubtfully from the portrait to Jeffrey and back again. Rosalind held her breath, for she knew that either one was capable of blurting out that Mrs. Tifton might want to get her eyes checked. But peace was maintained, for just then Churchie sailed into the room, pushing a silver cart on wheels.

  “Dinner is served,” she called out gaily.

  For the next few minutes, Rosalind could relax. There was lots of bustling around and serving of delicious food, and Churchie talked the whole time about how hungry everyone must be and how beautiful everyone looked and how it wasn't every day people turned eleven and how everyone should be careful not to get food on her wings, this last said along with a gentle pinch of Batty's cheek. But then Churchie was gone, and Rosalind started to worry again. She knew that the odds were low of getting through the whole meal without some sort of upset. If only no one would talk, then they might be safe.

  As if she had read Rosalind's mind and disagreed, Mrs. Tifton started up a conversation. “Girls, I must apologize for the lack of male escorts. We had hoped that Jeffrey's friend Teddy Robinette would be here, too, but he got a bad cold at the last minute.”

  “Jeffrey's told us all about Teddy,” said Skye. “Haven't you, Jeffrey?”

  “Mm-mmh,” said Jeffrey, busying himself with his napkin.

  “A nice boy from a good family,” said Mrs. Tifton. “And now, you must tell me all about yourselves. I like to know everything I can about Jeffrey's friends. Let's start with Skye.” She looked at Jane.

  “I'm Jane,” said Jane.

  “Excuse me,” said Mrs. Tifton. “Well, there are a lot of you, aren't there.”

  “I play soccer,” said Jane, glancing over at Rosalind, who nodded encouragingly “And I write books. I'm writing one right now about—”

  “How interesting,” interrupted Mrs. Tifton. “And Mr. Dupree here is in the publishing business. Maybe he can give you some pointers.”

  “Really?” asked Jane.

  “Sure, kid,” said Dexter. “Bring your book around when you've finished it.”

  “Wow! I will! Thanks!” said Jane, all aglow. Rosalind's heart sank. She hated it when untrustworthy people made promises they wouldn't keep.

  “Now, what about you, Rosalind?” said Mrs. Tifton.

  “I'll bet she wants to be a fashion model,” said Dexter, showing all his teeth.

  “Fashion model!” said Skye.

  And that was it for Skye's self-control. Rosalind knew it, and she barely cared anymore. Still, she tried to stop her sister. “It doesn't matter,” she said.

  “It does matter,” said Skye. “None of us will do anything as idiotic as fashion modeling.”

  Looking daggers at Skye, Mrs. Tifton tossed off her glass of wine, then poured herself another. “And, pray tell, what will you do?”

  Skye was undaunted. “I'm going to be a mathematician or maybe an astrophysicist. Jane's going to be a writer, of course, and Rosalind hasn't decided yet, but Daddy says that she's well suited for international diplomacy.”

  “And I suppose your littlest sister is going to be preside
nt of the United States,” said Mrs. Tifton.

  Everyone looked at Batty, who was trying to hide behind the water pitcher.

  “She wants to be a veterinarian,” said Jane. “But Daddy thinks she's going to be a Renaissance woman.”

  “That means someone who's good at a lot of different things,” Skye explained.

  “Mr. Dupree and I know what it means, Jane,” said Mrs. Tifton.

  “I'm Skye.”

  “Blue Skye, blue eyes,” said Jane. “That's how you can remember. You see, the rest of us have brown eyes.”

  Mrs. Tifton looked at Jane as though Jane had purple eyes with yellow stripes, then said, “Well, Dexter, we may not know much about astrophysics, but at least we know what Jeffrey's going to be when he grows up.”

  “So do we. A musi—ouch!” said Skye. Jeffrey had kicked her under the table.

  “Papa and I planned it out long ago, when Jeffrey was still a baby. He'll attend Pencey Military Academy and then West Point, just like Papa did, and he'll be a soldier, just like Papa was. And someday, Jeffrey, too, will be a brave and beloved general.” Mrs. Tifton turned around in her chair and raised her glass to the portrait of General Framley. “Cheers, Papa. We miss you.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Shocking News

  ITRIED TO STOP YOU FROM COMING to the party, but you wouldn't listen to me. I knew it would be awful,” said Jeffrey. He and the four sisters were outside on the wide stone veranda that ran along Arundel Hall. They had escaped as soon as they could, which meant not until they had finished dinner and birthday cake. Not that anyone had much of an appetite left after Mrs. Tifton's announcement, not with that grim old General staring down at them like a horrible warning— Someday Jeffrey Will Be Just Like Me.

  “It wasn't that awful a party,” said Jane.

  “Yes, it was,” said Skye. “Jeffrey's right.”

  “Shh! They'll hear you.” Rosalind was peeking through big French doors back into the dining room. Mrs. Tifton and Dexter were still at the table, drinking coffee.

  “I don't care if they hear us,” said Jeffrey. “That was the worst birthday party ever in the history of the world. You shouldn't have been here. It was humiliating.”

  “It was partly our fault, though,” said Rosalind. “We upset your mother.”

  “Jane and her country club fit for kings,” said Skye.

  “What about you and your astrophysics?” said Jane.

  “Actually, I liked that part,” said Jeffrey, his frown disappearing.

  “You never told us about that Pencey Military Academy,” said Jane.

  “I don't like talking about it.” Jeffrey's frown was back. “Besides, Grandfather didn't start there until he was twelve, so Mother says I can wait until I'm twelve, too. Anything can happen in a year. Mother could forget all about it, right?”

  “Sure.” Jane didn't look sure.

  “Have you told her you don't want to go?” Rosalind asked.

  “Whenever I try, she starts talking about how wonderful my grandfather was and how much I remind her of him. Do I seem like the military type to you?”

  “No,” said Skye firmly.

  “Not that you couldn't be a ferocious hero and all that,” said Jane.

  “Thanks, but I'd hate going to war.” Jeffrey flung himself onto a stone bench. “And golf! I hate golf, too. I can't believe Mother bought me those stupid golf clubs. And now I have to be tortured with lessons at the country club. Why not just kill me now and be done with it.”

  Batty sat down next to Jeffrey. “Don't be upset. We have more presents for you.”

  While Jane ran off to retrieve the presents from under the Greek pavilion, Rosalind tried to cheer up Jeffrey with the story of Hound throwing up on Skye's shoes. Skye and Batty helped by acting it out, with Batty as Hound and Skye as herself, squishing dramatically up and down the terrace. They had him almost forgetting about Pencey and the golf clubs—for a moment, they thought he was even going to laugh—when Jane arrived.

  “Here they are, wrapped and everything.” Jane dropped the bulging shopping bag at Jeffrey's feet.

  “But no birthday card,” said Rosalind.

  “We had one, but Hound ate it,” said Batty.

  The first present was a book from Rosalind and Jane—and Mr. Penderwick, too, because they'd run out of pocket money, Jane told Jeffrey—about famous orchestra conductors, with lots of photographs of them and their orchestras. Jeffrey thought this a wonderful gift. Much better than golf clubs, he said. The second present was Skye's—a brown-and-green camouflage hat identical to hers. Jeffrey put it on and looked happier than he had all evening.

  The third present was from Batty, and only Rosalind knew what it was. Jeffrey held it up to his ear and shook it, but it made no sound.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Open it,” said Batty, wriggling with excitement.

  “Animal, vegetable, or mineral?” he asked.

  “OPEN IT!” shrieked Batty, almost tumbling off the bench.

  It was a framed photograph of Hound.

  “Oh, thank you.” Jeffrey gave Batty a big smile. “I love it.”

  “But, Batty,” said Jane. “That's your favorite picture of Hound, the one you keep by your bed.”

  “She said she wanted to give it to Jeffrey. I asked her four times. Right, Batty?” said Rosalind.

  “Yes. And maybe he'll let me borrow it back sometime,” said Batty.

  “Batty! You can't say that!” said Rosalind, and Jeffrey grabbed Batty and tickled her until she shrieked. Jane looked like she was about to join in when Skye held up her hand and told them all to be quiet.

  “I hear music.”

  Everyone listened. The music seemed to be coming out of another set of French doors, farther down the veranda.

  “That's the drawing room,” said Jeffrey. “Let's go look.”

  The five of them crept along the veranda and peered into the drawing room. By now, it was almost dark outside, so that while people inside wouldn't be able to see the children, the children could easily see them.

  It was Mrs. Tifton and Dexter, and they were dancing.

  “It's a waltz,” whispered Jeffrey.

  “How do you know?” whispered Skye.

  “Mother made me take dance classes last year. Here, I'll show you.” Jeffrey grabbed Skye. “ONE, two, three. ONE, two, three.” He moved forward to the music and ran smack into her. “You're supposed to go backward when I go forward. It's called following.”

  “Forget it,” said Skye. “Show Rosalind.”

  Jeffrey took hold of Rosalind and tried again. “ONE, two, three. ONE, two, three.” This time it worked, and they waltzed along the veranda.

  Jane clutched Batty and pushed her backward. “ONE, two, three. ONE, two, three. We're doing it,” she whispered excitedly, and, forgetting to watch where she was going, shoved Batty into a giant pot of flowers. They both crashed to the ground, giggling.

  In a flash, Skye ran over from the French doors and shoved Jane and Batty off the veranda. “Hide!” she hissed at Rosalind and Jeffrey. In seconds, all five of them had leapt off the veranda and crouched behind a thick clump of bushes. They heard Mrs. Tifton and Dexter step onto the veranda.

  “There's no one out here, Brenda,” said Dexter.

  “I thought I heard something,” said Mrs. Tifton.

  “Probably just Jeffrey running around with his girlfriends.”

  Skye silently pretended to gag and throw up, which would have made Jeffrey laugh if Rosalind hadn't clapped her hand over his mouth.

  “Don't even say such a thing. He's much too young for girlfriends,” said Mrs. Tifton. “And when the time comes, he will pick a girl from a background similar to his own. Not like those Penderwick girls, who are a little vulgar, don't you think? Definitely not in our class.”

  “No one's in your class, darling.”

  “Flatterer.” The girls could almost hear Mrs. Tifton preening like a peacock. “Truly, though, Dex, I'm conc
erned about the Penderwicks' influence on Jeffrey. He hasn't been himself since they arrived.”

  “You worry too much. In a few weeks, they'll be gone and forgotten. Come on, let's dance out here,” said Dexter, and for a while all the children could hear was Mrs. Tifton's high heels on the veranda. One, two, three. One, two, three.

  There was no pretend throwing up or smothered laughter in the bushes now It was hard to know which of the five children was the most uncomfortable. Jeffrey appeared to be the worst—he was purple with embarrassment—but the Penderwick family pride had been greatly wounded. Skye looked ready for battle, and Rosalind was furiously scolding herself. She knew that hearing bad things about yourself is one of the punishments for eavesdropping. Her father had taught her that a long time ago. Her wonderful father. How he would despise what that woman had just said. Class is as class does, he would say, but probably in Latin.

  Dexter was talking again. “Just think, Brenda, this could be Paris. Close your eyes and imagine waltzing along the Seine.”

  “Mmm, Paris,” said Mrs. Tifton, like she had just eaten chocolate mint ice cream. “I haven't been to Paris for years, not since Papa took me there for my sixteenth birthday. I haven't been anywhere for years.”

  “We wouldn't have to stop at Paris. We could go to Copenhagen, London, Rome, Vienna, anywhere you want. Let's set a date.”

  “We've been over this already.”

  “I need to go over it again. How much longer do I have to wait? You know I want to marry you, Brenda, and take you on a fabulous honeymoon.”

  “And you know I want to marry you.”

  Jeffrey gasped, so loudly that Rosalind thought his mother and Dexter had to hear it. But they were too absorbed in each other.

  “Then what are we waiting for? Explain it to me, love.”

  “Jeffrey—”

  “This is about us, not Jeffrey.”

  “If I just knew what would be best for him.”

  “What's best for his mother is best for him, and I know what's best for his mother.”

  Then came some noises that sounded suspiciously like kissing. Rosalind put her hands over Batty's ears and glanced at Jeffrey. He had his face buried in his arms. How much more could he take?