ICAP 2 - The Hidden Gallery

by Wood, Maryrose

  Even so, it was another few days before the house was ready to be closed up. Penelope and the Incorrigibles made good use of the time. They explored London’s sights at their leisure, without worrying too much about plans or maps, or even if the walks they took were particularly educational. The children, it must be said, liked the parks best, and Penelope did manage to purchase a pretty straw hat with a long pink ribbon that looked quite striking against her dark hair.

  Finally it was time to bid the grand city farewell. Lady Constance and Lord Fredrick went ahead in their brougham, driven by Old Timothy, of course. The servants would stay until the very last spoon was polished and put away. Then they would take the train home, packed together like sardines in the third-class car.

  Penelope insisted on packing up her own things and the children’s, too, their books and triremes and the many pages of their journals. She also had a good-bye to say, and a long-overdue errand to run; as it happened, both tasks were accomplished on her very last afternoon in London.

  “Say, I wonder if the queen actually reads them all?” Simon remarked as Penelope dropped her letter in the suggestion box at Buckingham Palace.

  “She must,” Penelope said firmly. “For she is a good queen, and that means she must be curious to know what goes on outside the palace, as well as within.” She gazed across the magnificent plaza that led to the palace gate. The paupers’ food line was still there, queuing up patiently around the side of the palace: the young, the old, the in-between, all just as hungry and downtrodden as ever.

  “‘The royal house is warm and fine, the cold and hungry wait in line,’” Beowulf recited solemnly.

  Simon turned to him, impressed. “That’s a neat little poem. Did you just think of it?”

  Beowulf shook his head. “Guidebook,” he explained.

  “It was from the Hixby’s Guide entry on Buckingham Palace,” Penelope said. “Dear old Hixby’s. Isn’t it odd? The book was scarcely any use at all, but I feel a bit at sixes and sevens without it.”

  “I’d offer to get you a replacement, but we both know it’s not an option.” Simon frowned. “Awfully sorry it got lost, Miss Lumley—I mean, Penelope. It wasn’t the most practical volume, but there was something rather charming about it. I liked it.”

  “I liked it, too. Although the advice about following the smell of elephants did nearly get me run over by a carriage.” At that Simon looked confused, for of course he did not know the part about the elephants. “In any case,” she quickly went on, “we are on our way home and won’t be needing a guidebook anymore.”

  Beowulf had brought some paper and a box of charcoal pencils with him so he could make a few final sketches of Buckingham Palace, or so Penelope thought. He took this opportunity to show her his work; as it turned out, he had spent the time drawing delightful alpine scenes.

  “How wonderful.” Penelope admired the drawings. “Did you draw these because the Hixby’s book is lost, and you were trying to re-create some of the pictures?”

  He nodded shyly. Alexander peered over his brother’s shoulder at the picture and pointed to the flowers in the meadow. “Edelweiss,” he said.

  “Say, that’s clever!” Simon exclaimed. “Miss Lumley’s got you learning a bit of German, does she?”

  Now it was Penelope’s turn to look confused.

  “Why, no. It would be a fine language to study, but I do not know any German at all. Do you?”

  Simon gave a humble shrug. “Not really. Just enough to read bits of melancholy poetry here and there. Always had a taste for it, for some reason.”

  “Then I must show you my favorite poetry book,” she said excitedly. “I have had it since I was a girl. It is an English translation, of course, but you might be familiar with the originals. My favorite is called ‘Wanderlust’—”

  “Say, I think I know that one,” he said. “Something about a meadow, right?”

  A distant church bell tolled the hour.

  Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang!

  “Four o’clock, so soon.” Simon observed. “But ‘Time and tide wait for no man.’ That’s an old sailor’s saying.”

  “What does it mean, Simawoo?” Cassiopeia asked.

  “I am afraid it means we ought to go,” Penelope said reluctantly. Before Simon could offer to escort them, she went on, “If you do not mind, I should like to say our good-byes here.” She was in no hurry to part, of course, but she did not want to become overly emotional in front of the children, either. Somehow, the sight of those stoic palace guards made her buck up a bit, with their imperturbable faces and brave fur hats. With the guards close by she felt she could get through it without melting into sniffles, or worse.

  “All right, then. It was lovely meeting you all.” Simon sounded flustered, and kept staring at his shoes. “Perhaps you’ll come to London again sometime? Or perhaps not, considering all the excitement. But with any luck, we shall meet again.”

  “I do hope so,” Penelope said, with feeling. “Ashton Place is not so very far, by train.”

  “Maybe I’ll pop in, next time I’m heading out to see my great-uncle Pudge at the Ancient Mariner’s Home. It’s in the same direction, more or less.”

  “North by northwest?” Alexander guessed.

  “Thataway!” Cassiopeia pointed.

  “More or less.” Simon grinned sheepishly. “All right, then. Safe travels to you. Good luck and fair winds. Thanks for the inspiration. Cheers.” Simon’s feet seemed stuck to the ground by some stretchy, gummy substance; he kept picking them up as if to go, and then putting them back where they had just been.

  “Viel Glück!” Alexander added. “Danke! Auf Wiedersehen!”

  “Aren’t you a clever Junge?” Simon ruffled his hair. “Smart boy!”

  Alexander beamed and waved. With a tug on his hat, Simon finally managed to make his exit.

  After he was gone from sight, Penelope thought that she might write some melancholy poetry herself.

  Cassiopeia noticed her governess’s mood right away. “Lumawoo sad?” she asked, concerned. “Simon good-bye?”

  “No, not sad, Cassawoof.” Forgetting her professional distance for once, Penelope scooped the girl up in her arms. “I am pleased to be going home, in fact, and as for Mr. Harley-Dickinson—what could be more pleasant than making a new friend?”

  LATER, AFTER ALL THEIR THINGS were packed for the morning train and the Incorrigibles were put to bed, Penelope took out her favorite poetry book and read:

  “I wander through the meadows green,

  Made happy by the verdant scene.”

  What a coincidence that Simon should know “Wanderlust”! It was hardly as popular as “To a Mouse,” by Mr. Robert Burns, or even “The Wreck of the Hesperus,” by Mr. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow—another particular favorite of the children’s. In fact, “Wanderlust” would be considered obscure and little trafficked, as poems go. But unexpected things had become such a frequent occurrence lately, nothing really surprised Penelope anymore.

  Was it optoomuchstic to think that her friendship with Mr. Harley-Dickinson—with Simon, that is—would be able to continue? Penelope certainly had her own opinion on the subject, but as Agatha Swanburne once said, “Time will tell, but only in hindsight, for time is not talking just yet.”

  All in all, it had been a very educational trip.

  EPILOGUE

  AT ASHTON PLACE THE MAIL came only once a day. It was a simple, reliable system, and now that they were home, Penelope realized she much preferred it to the constant flurry of postal deliveries they had endured in London. For what mattered most about any letter was how one felt about the sender and the news he or she had to share, not how many hundreds of invitations one could brag about receiving.

  Ten days after their return to Ashton Place, two letters came, both addressed to Penelope. The first was on the most elegant stationery Penelope had ever seen.

  To my loyal subject, Miss Penelope Lumley,

  Thank you for sharing your concerns
in the suggestion box. We were not at all amused to hear that scoundrels were attempting to make a profit off the pauper’s food line tickets. I have instructed the palace guard to put a quick end to any further attempts to exploit this charitable service.

  I was intrigued by your idea that something more substantial be done to improve the lot of the poor so that they were, in fact, no longer poor. I am not sure how this could be accomplished. However, I shall consider it.

  Miss Lumley, I can tell from your clear thinking, good grammar, and tidy penmanship that you are a superior governess; this reflects well upon your own education. I will be sure to seek out graduates of your alma mater should the palace ever require additional staff to care for the princes and princesses. They can be quite a handful.

  Your Faithful Sovereign,

  Queen Victoria

  “Well! It is not every day one gets a letter from the queen,” Penelope thought with satisfaction. “And it is good news for the Swanburne Academy, too. I shall have to let Miss Mortimer know.”

  Speaking of Miss Mortimer, the second letter was, in fact, from her.

  My dear Penny,

  How delightful it was to see you in London! I deeply regret we did not have the opportunity to meet again while you were in town. Soon after our scrumptious meal at the Fern Court I was called away on family business. I am sorry for the delay in responding to your letter, which had been forwarded from my London hotel and which I only received this morning, upon my return to dear old Swanburne. I am especially sorry that I did not get to see the children. I will, in the not too distant future. That is a promise.

  By now you have likely returned to Ashton Place. At the risk of sounding like a nagging headmistress (though of course, that is exactly what I am!), I want to remind you again to use the hair poultice on schedule. The importance of maintaining a healthy scalp is not to be sneezed at, and lice are no picnic either.

  About the other matters we spoke of, some of which you raise rather forcefully in your letter—Penelope, I must apologize. I see now that I was being “optoomuchstic” in thinking I could squelch your natural curiosity and powers of deduction. You are not a child anymore, and you must follow your brave heart where it leads you. But be careful. Keep your curiosity within reason, and do not let your questions go overboard. Any further visits to the attic of Ashton Place, in particular, would be taking things much too far!

  At lunch, you asked me a question regarding the possibility of inquiries being made for you at Swanburne. Upon reflection, I believe I owe you a fuller answer. I will tell you this: the “persons of interest” have not forgotten you. In fact, they recently sent you a collection of picture postcards, though of necessity it had to be disguised as something else. Think about it, Penelope; you will surely understand what I mean.

  I do hope the guidebook proved to be of use.

  Yours,

  Miss Mortimer

  Picture postcards? She meant the Hixby’s Guide, of course!

  The Hixby’s Guide was from her parents! The long-lost Lumleys, now a little less lost!

  And it was gone!

  Penelope did not care.

  “It was from my parents,” she thought, luminous with joy. “I held it in my hands! I looked at the drawings, page by page. I remember each one: the lakes, the mountains, the ibex, that funny-looking mountain squirrel.” How she wished she might see those pictures, and perhaps hug the book to her, one last time!

  “But I wonder why it had to be disguised? And where the Lumleys—I mean, my parents—are now?” How strange it was that Penelope could scarcely remember her mother and father, or the home they must have once shared. “North, south, east, west—where could they be?”

  NAVIGATION, YOU SEE, IS NOT just a problem for sailors. Everyone must go adventuring sooner or later, yet finding one’s way home is not easy. Just like the North Star and all its whirling, starry brethren, a person’s idea of where “home” is remains in perpetual motion, one’s whole life long.

  Home was more than a house, even if the house was very grand. The Ashtons had lived in Ashton Place for generations, but Lord Fredrick seemed loathe to spend time there. Whereas Penelope knew quite well that home was not a fixed point on a map. Home used to be the Swanburne Academy and Miss Mortimer; now it was wherever the Incorrigibles were, and wherever her favorite books were. If the place was equipped with a cozy chair to read in, so much the better.

  “London was certainly a marvelous adventure, but it is good to be back at Ashton Place,” she thought. And even with so many mysteries left to solve, just knowing that her parents were alive, somewhere, thinking of her, made Penelope feel more settled than even the most soothing cup of tea ever could. It made her feel at home inside herself, which is a very good thing to feel.

  She thought of these things the whole rest of the day, and when the Incorrigibles wanted to hear “To a Mouse” one more time (for the Incorrigible children of Ashton Place liked to hear their favorites read aloud over and over again, just as children do to this very day), Penelope’s interpretation was a wee bit more philosophical than it usually was.

  “So you see, the poor mousie lost her home when the poet plowed over it, but that does not mean she has no hope of ever having a home again. It simply means she will build a new one. And who knows—it might even prove nicer than the one that was lost,” she added. “What do you children think would make a good home?”

  “Bouncy beds!” said Alexander, who often had to be reminded not to jump on his.

  “Friends,” suggested Beowulf, holding up A Friend for Rainbow, from the Giddy-Yap, Rainbow! books that Penelope kept on the nursery shelf.

  “Friends, of course,” Penelope agreed, thinking of Simon, and Miss Mortimer. Yes, friends were absolutely essential to feeling at home.

  “Pets, pets, pets,” Cassiopeia said as she fed treats to an ecstatically chirruping Nutsawoo. The overjoyed squirrel had been spoiled rotten since the children’s return from London; he showed no interest in the journals and postcards, except to chew on the corners, but kept coming back to the nursery window to beg nibbles of the flat, round Gypsy cakes Mrs. Clarke had asked the kitchen to prepare, since the children liked them so much.

  “Bouncy beds, friends, pets, good things to eat.” Penelope closed the collection of Mr. Burns’s poetry that she had been reading from. “That sounds like a fine home indeed.”

  “And Lumawoo!” all three children piped, falling upon her.

  “Hugs, not licks,” Penelope reminded them, but she could not help laughing. The children obeyed, for the most part. And Penelope, who tended to be cheerful in any case, felt happier than—well, happier than she could recall feeling in a very long while.

  About the Author

  MARYROSE WOOD is the author of THE MYSTERIOUS HOWLING, the first in this continuing series about the Incorrigible children and their governess. Both THE MYSTERIOUS HOWLING and THE HIDDEN GALLERY may be considered works of fiction, which is to say, the true bits and the untrue bits are so thoroughly mixed together that no one should be able to tell the difference. This process of fabrication is fully permitted under the terms of the author’s Poetic License, which is one of her most prized possessions.

  Maryrose’s other qualifications for writing these tales include a scandalous stint as a professional thespian, many years as a private governess to two curious and occasionally rambunctious pupils, and whatever literary insights she may have gleaned from living in close proximity to a clever but disobedient dog. You can visit her online at www.maryrosewood.com.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

  Praise for

  THE INCORRIGIBLE CHILDREN OF ASHTON PLACE, BOOK I: THE MYSTERIOUS HOWLING

  “It’s the best beginning since The Bad Beginning [by Lemony Snicket] and will leave readers howling for the next episode.”

  —Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

  “How hearty and delicious. Smartly written with a middl
e-grade audience in mind, this is both fun and funny and sprinkled with dollops of wisdom (thank you, Agatha Swanburne). How will it all turn out? Appetites whetted.”

  —ALA Booklist (starred review)

  “With a Snicketesque affect, Wood’s narrative propels the drama. Pervasive humor and unanswered questions should have readers begging for more.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “Jane Eyre meets Lemony Snicket in this smart, surprising satire of a nineteenth-century English governess story. Humorous antics and a climactic cliff-hanger ending will keep children turning pages and clamoring for the next volume, while more sophisticated readers will take away much more. Frequent platesized illustrations add wit and period flair.”

  —School Library Journal (starred review)

  “Every newspaper and website in America is going to tell you that The Mysterious Howling will leave you HOWLING FOR MORE! So I’m not going to say that. But it’s really good.”

  —Adam Rex, author of The True Meaning of Smekday

  Also by Maryrose Wood

  THE INCORRIGIBLE CHILDREN OF ASHTON PLACE,

  BOOK I: THE MYSTERIOUS HOWLING

  Credits

  Jacket art © 2011 by Jon Klassen

  Jacket design by Sarah Hoy

  Copyright

  THE INCORRIGIBLE CHILDREN OF ASHTON PLACE BOOK 2: THE HIDDEN GALLERY. Text copyright © 2011 by Maryrose Wood. Illustrations copyright © 2011 by Jon Klassen. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.