ICAP 2 - The Hidden Gallery

by Wood, Maryrose

  “I say!” A young man stuck his head out of a window two floors above. “What’s all that racket? Is everything all right?”

  “Yes,” Penelope called back, but the children were still carrying on in a most frightful way.

  “Ahwoooooooooooo!”

  “Ahwoooooooooooo!”

  “What?” the young man yelled down, louder. “Is someone hurt?”

  “We are quite all right, thank you.”

  “What? I can’t hear you.”

  “Ahwoooooooooooo!”

  “Ahwoooooooooooo!”

  “Ahwoooooooooooo!”

  “I’m coming down!” The young man’s head disappeared back inside the window. Straightaway there was a great clatter and thumping and the crash of things colliding. From the sound of it, this fellow was taking the stairs two at a time.

  “Dear me,” Penelope thought in alarm. “If the gentleman files a complaint about the noise, we may end up gaining the attention of a constable after all, though not in the way I intended.”

  He burst out the door of the building and skidded to a stop. At the sight of him, the three Incorrigibles stopped howling and stared.

  “Oh!” he exclaimed, taking off his hat. “You’re just children. That’s all right, then. Sorry to have shouted. Sometimes the local ruffians set dogs to fighting so they can make a profit off the betting. I can’t stand to see it, personally. Let the blackguards bash away at one another, if they must! But dogs are a man’s best friend.”

  Cassiopeia hopped over and licked his hand. Before Penelope could explain and apologize, the fellow grinned and spoke warmly to his new acquaintance.

  “You like dogs, too, I see. What’s your name?”

  “Cassawoof,” she said with pride.

  “Nice name! I’m Simon.” He wiped the back of his hand on his jacket before extending it to Penelope. “How do you do, miss? Simon Harley-Dickinson, at your service. I live upstairs.” He jerked his head up toward the window from which he had first made his presence known. “It’s a bit downtrodden, don’t I know! But that’s the life of the starving artist for you.”

  “I am Miss Penelope Lumley. How do you do?” Penelope straightened her spine and shook his hand firmly. It was not easy to maintain her composure when so many surprising things kept happening one right after another, but she was a Swanburne girl after all, and manners were manners. “Allow me to introduce Alexander, Beowulf”—the boys bowed—“and you have already met Cassiopeia.”

  “Charmed, I’m sure.” The young man shook hands with the boys and winked down at the tiny girl. “Now, what brings you lot down here? This isn’t the nicest neighborhood in London, you know. You’d best be on your way home, if you don’t mind me telling you what to do.”

  “I wish you would tell us what to do, actually.” Penelope felt suddenly near tears. If this amiable fellow could not help them, she did not know where else to turn. “We are looking for Number Twelve Muffinshire Lane, and we are quite lost. No one has been able to direct us. Do you have any idea where it might be?”

  “Muffinshire Lane?” He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Muffinshire Lane? Doesn’t ring a bell, I’m afraid. But don’t fret, Miss Lumley. I’ve a knack for navigation. It’s in the blood; the men in my family have been sailors going back generations. Say, do you happen to have a map handy? I bet I can help you sort everything out, if you’ll let me have a look.”

  After a moment’s hesitation (for she had not forgotten that unpleasant incident on the train), she handed him the guidebook. “Thank you so much,” she said, meaning it most sincerely. “Are you a sailor, too?”

  “Me? Not a bit. I write plays. I’m a man of the theater. A bard, if you will. Sorry, I know it sounds stuck-up when you say it like that. But it’s true. I may be a bit of a genius, in fact; I do feel a gleam of it here and there. Although, to be honest, I’ve had a hard time getting words on paper lately.” He turned the guidebook over in his hand. “Hixby’s Lavishly Illustrated Guide to London, eh? That’s a new one.”

  “I was told it was the best guide to the city,” Penelope confessed sheepishly.

  “Never heard of it,” he said, leafing through the pages. “Smashing pictures. Bracingly alpine. Not much help in finding your way about town, though—ah, here’s the map. Now let’s see about this Muffinshire Lane….”

  AFTER APPROXIMATELY ONE QUARTER HOUR of saying “hmm” and “say” and “well” at least a dozen times each, after which he dashed upstairs to his garret to fetch a rather impressive antique brass sextant, and then another quarter hour waiting for the sun to peek through the smoggy London air so he could get his bearings, this perfectly nice young man named Simon knew precisely how to get to Muffinshire Lane.

  To Penelope’s great relief, he insisted in escorting her and the children; he said it was more or less on his way, since he was not going anyplace in particular, and he feared they would get turned ’round again completely if he left them to their own devices. As they walked he told amusing stories about life in the theater, which made Penelope fervently wish that she and the children might be able to see a show during their stay in London. She had no idea how to get tickets or what they might cost, but she resolved to look into it at the earliest opportunity.

  “Muffinshire Lane,” he announced, all too soon, it seemed. “But are you sure it’s Number Twelve you’re looking for?”

  “It is, but my heavens! Is this what passes for a town house in London?” Penelope gazed at the magnificent building before her. After living at Ashton Place she was no longer shocked by luxury, but still—Number Twelve was something to see.

  “I’d call it a mansion myself, but then again we bards are used to humble quarters. Say, you’re not members of the royal family in disguise, are you? Secret cousins of the queen? Pretenders to the throne? That would be a good plot for a play.” He took a scrap of paper and a pencil stub out of one his pockets and jotted some quick notes. “A mysterious young princess, and the three true heirs—of course you’re much too young to be their mother, though I do see a resemblance.”

  “Oh, no! We are far from royalty, and the children and I are no relation.” Penelope couldn’t help smiling at the thought. “And this is certainly not our house. I am their governess. I am employed by Lord and Lady Ashton, of Ashton Place.”

  “The Ashtons! Of Ashton Place! You don’t say!” He let out a low whistle. “They’ve got piles of dough, that lot. I mean, piles!”

  Penelope did not feel it was proper for her to offer an opinion about the Ashtons’ wealth, so she merely replied, “You have heard of the family, then?”

  “Is this what passes for a town house in London?”

  “I’ve heard of their money. Who hasn’t? And my great-uncle Pudge used to mention the name now and again. There was an Admiral Ashton who he knew from his sailing days. That’s all ages ago, of course.”

  Penelope nodded, for she had once seen a large and forbidding portrait of Admiral Percival Racine Ashton hanging in Lord Fredrick’s taxidermy-filled study. “I believe the admiral was the current Lord Ashton’s great-grandfather,” she explained. “What a coincidence that your great-uncle was acquainted with him.”

  “It’s a very large sea, to a sailor,” Simon answered thoughtfully, “but a small world, to be sure. Say, that’s pretty good.” He jotted down this bon mot with his pencil nub. (As you may already know, a “bon mot” is a clever saying. Agatha Swanburne would be a good example of someone who was adept at crafting bon mots, but Simon Harley-Dickinson certainly showed some talent in this regard as well.)

  Penelope glanced over her shoulder at the stately house marked Number Twelve. She knew it was long past time for her to take the children inside to settle in their new, temporary quarters, to have supper and a bath and a bedtime read-aloud. But she felt in no hurry to go in. And the boys were engaged in fishing a bit of string out of a curbside puddle with a stick. Surely it would be a pity to interrupt them.

  “Mr. Harley-Dickinson, if your g
reat-uncle is an old family friend of the Ashtons, perhaps you would care to bring him over for tea sometime?” She made the offer quickly, even recklessly, for she knew it was hardly her place to invite people to tea—yet she found herself grasping for any excuse to have this intriguing Simon person visit Number Twelve Muffinshire Lane again.

  “Uncle Pudge, come to tea? Impossible, I’m afraid. He’s in the old sailors’ home, in Brighton. Not quite all there in his wits anymore, but he’s got more wild seafaring stories in that gray head than you could shake a stick at. You’re awfully kind to think of it, though.”

  Simon shoved his hands in his pockets and shifted his weight around a bit, then blurted: “Say, Miss Lumley—do you like to go see shows?”

  “I certainly do!” she exclaimed, with a bit more enthusiasm than the question warranted. “That is to say, this is my first trip to London, so I have not had the opportunity to seen any shows before, but, in theory, I believe I would enjoy it very much.”

  “That’s good to know. Theoretically speaking, I mean.” He was still fidgeting every which way. “I’ll be off, then.”

  Cassiopeia, who had not left his side this whole time, reached up and tugged at his arm. “Resembawoo?”

  He frowned, confused. “Rezzawot? What’s that you say?”

  Penelope smiled. “Cassiopeia means that she would like you to elaborate on the comment you made a moment ago, about there being some resemblance between me and the children.”

  He scratched his head. “You got all that from what she just said? Amazing. All I meant was that the four of you look a bit alike. You’ve got nearly the same color hair, for one thing.”

  “Apples,” Cassiopeia agreed. By that she meant reddish, although a person who was accustomed to talking about hair would be more likely to describe it as a rich auburn. All three Incorrigibles had that same striking, auburn-colored hair. For as long as Penelope could remember, her own hair had been dark and dull, but in recent months it had begun to take on a similar (and rather more attractive) hue—ever since she had stopped treating it with the Swanburne hair poultice. Come to think of it, all the girls at Swanburne had dark, dull hair. Perhaps the poultice’s lice-repelling and scalp-rejuvenating properties affected color as well. Penelope made a mental note to ask Miss Mortimer about it.

  “Apples? I like apples, sure, who doesn’t? It’s very pretty, too. The hair, I mean.” Simon sounded bashful all at once. “Good day, then. It’s been a pleasure.”

  “Thank you again for all your help. I hope your creative difficulties are over soon. In fact, I believe they will be,” Penelope added on impulse.

  “You’re very kind to say so. Cheers.” He tipped his hat, and was gone.

  Penelope blushed. Pretty hair? She was not accustomed to receiving compliments of this sort, especially from persons of the male persuasion. As one might expect, the Swanburne Academy for Poor Bright Females had been woefully undersupplied with boys, and as a result Penelope had hardly met any in her life.

  “But if Simon Harley-Dickinson is at all representative of his kind,” she thought, with a pleasantly giddy kind of satisfaction, “then boys must be a thoroughly delightful species! I shall have to make it a point to meet more of them, as the opportunity permits.”

  THE FIFTH CHAPTER

  A pleasant walk turns into a brush

  with calamity, and all because of a hat.

  IF YOU HAVE EVER TAKEN a long-awaited journey to a far-flung destination, you may have encountered a painful condition known as “holiday fatigue.” This is the phenomenon whereby, after weeks of excitedly shopping for straw hats and suitable luggage, making lists of what to pack and what to leave behind, purchasing bug repellent and checking weather reports, and then traveling by foot, aeroplane, tramp steamer, hot-air balloon, or what you please, you arrive, finally, in Mahi-Mahi or Ahwoo-Ahwoo or some other rare and spectacular locale, only to discover that you would much prefer to be at home.

  You have not gone mad. You recall your name perfectly well, know what year it is, and can correctly identify the capitals of at least a few midsized European nations. But your wanderlust seems to have wandered off. The Hawaiian shirts fairly scream to be put on, the sunscreen smells appealingly like coconut—and yet you spend the day in bed, glued to the hotel television. Instead of breaking out the crampons and pickax and scaling the legendarily slippery Mount Crisco, as you had so keenly looked forward to doing, you stumble to the vending machine down the hall to purchase stale candy and a lukewarm soda. Soon, even that pathetic excursion requires more zip than you can muster.

  No one is immune to holiday fatigue, and it is contagious: One grumpy traveler can make the rest of his or her party miserable before the station wagon has left the driveway. So far Penelope showed no symptoms. She had slept like a rock in the small upstairs bedroom next to the children’s room and awoke refreshed. She spent the early part of the morning happily engrossed in her Hixby’s, planning her first full day in London in that eager, list-making sort of mood that starts people whistling jaunty tunes without even knowing they are doing it.

  The Incorrigibles, alas, were a different matter.

  “London no. Go home.” Cassiopeia announced when Penelope asked her for the second time to run a comb through her hair.

  “But we have not even begun to see London yet,” Penelope replied with mild alarm.

  “We see London. Too much London. Miles and miles.” Beowulf yawned widely. He had already put on his clothes, but his shoes were on the wrong feet, a mistake he had not made for some weeks and that he now seemed in no hurry to correct.

  If Alexander had a complaint, it remained unspoken, but that was because he had so far refused to get out of bed. The covers were drawn completely over his face. Only the hank of sleep-mussed hair poking through the blankets revealed his presence.

  Penelope did not like the look of this one bit. Thanks to Mr. Hixby, she had devised a highly educational walking tour that would allow her to drop a letter at the post office for Miss Charlotte Mortimer, followed by a brisk ramble through St. James’s Park, where she planned to give her pupils a brief lesson in plant identification. They would then proceed to Buckingham Palace, arriving at the time of day when the light would be best for sketching. Afterward: tea and crumpets at an inexpensive café, then a long, looping stroll that would take them past both Houses of Parliament, Big Ben, London Bridge, and St. Paul’s Cathedral. Their walk would conclude at the brand-new British Museum, where they would spend the remainder of the afternoon touring the galleries and perhaps pop in on a lecture or two.

  It was an ambitious plan, to be sure—in particular, a lecture at the museum might be pushing their luck—but Penelope was raring to see the collection of Overuse of Symbolism in Minor Historical Portraits that the Hixby’s Guide recommended so highly, and wanted to squeeze it in somehow. And with so many wonderful places to visit, how could any of them be put off until tomorrow?

  Penelope thought she had planned the day from top to bottom, but she had not planned that the children would be in a funk, and so, she realized, her plan must be altered. She took a deep breath and said:

  “Who wants breakfast?”

  All three Incorrigibles perked up slightly at the suggestion, but they were still too grumpy to reply.

  “Well, I certainly do.” She rose and walked to the door. “I will go downstairs and fetch some. When I return, I expect all three of you to be out of bed, hair combed, faces washed and fully dressed. If you are ready before I return, please practice your cursive letters. I have already tacked a helpful diagram on the wall.” This was another example of Penelope’s optimism, for the two younger Incorrigibles were sloppy printers at best; Cassiopeia struggled mightily with the spelling of her own name, and even Alexander was prone to mixing up his p’s and q’s.

  Yet Penelope believed that the best approach was to set a high standard and encourage the children to jump for it. It was the way she herself had been taught, after all. As Agatha Swanburne once o
bserved, “When a big leap is required, a running start makes all the difference—so get moving!”

  She left without waiting for a reply. Penelope had no idea what she might find in the kitchen; she had not seen Mrs. Clarke, and all the servants were frantically preparing the house for the arrival of Lord and Lady Ashton. “But even if there is no breakfast made,” she thought determinedly, “surely a lane called Muffinshire will be equipped with a charming little bakery somewhere close by.”

  Down the stairs she went, from the servants’ and children’s quarters upstairs, past floor after floor of parlors and sitting rooms, dark-paneled libraries, and extra bedrooms for guests. There was a whole floor for the private use of the lord and lady of the house, with spacious bedchambers, dressing rooms, and the most newfangled lavatories imaginable, including actual flush toilets and slipper-shaped tubs that could heat up their own bathwater.

  Finally she reached the bottommost floor, which was the domain of the cook, the scullery maids, and the laundresses. Although the cook was nowhere in sight, she discovered a big pot of porridge keeping warm on the kitchen hearth. She filled the bowls herself, sprinkled each with cinnamon and sugar, and since she did not know how to work the dumbwaiter, carried the meal all the way back up those many stairs on a tray.

  To her great relief, the children were waiting for her in her room. They were dressed, though still looking glum. Alexander had stubbornly kept his blanket wrapped around him like a cape, and no one had taken a stab at the cursive letters. Penelope waited until the Incorrigibles had finished eating their porridge before speaking.

  “Wasn’t that delicious?” she said, stacking the empty bowls on the tray. “I do so love the taste of cinnamon. Now wash your hands and put on your coats, quick quick! We have an exciting day in store.”

  There were whimpers of protest. Penelope paid them no mind. “In the first place I wish to send a note to Miss Mortimer, letting her know that we have arrived in London and are eager to see her. We shall deliver it to the post office ourselves. Afterward…” She paused, for even she suspected that her grand scheme for the day might be enough to send anyone scuttling back under the covers. “We shall go exploring,” she finished, leaving it at that. “I have devised a walking tour. It will be very educational.”