ICAP 2 - The Hidden Gallery (5 page)

“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 great-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.”

I
F 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 observed, “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.”

“Sextant?” Beowulf asked nervously. “Astrolabe?”

“No, we do not need a sextant—nor an abacus, Cassiopeia, please put that back.” Penelope patted the
Hixby's Guide
with confidence. “Yesterday was a bit of a muddle, but I believe I have the hang of things now. After the post office we will proceed to Buckingham Palace.” She thought she saw a glimmer of interest in her three pupils, and added, “That is where Queen Victoria and Prince Albert live, you know.”

Under the table, where he no doubt thought he would not be seen, Beowulf quickly switched his shoes around to the correct feet.

“Postcard of the palace?” Alexander asked, letting the blanket fall to the floor.

Cassiopeia leaped up at her brother's suggestion. “Nutsy Nutsy Nuts
awoooooooooo
!” she howled excitedly, and offered Penelope her coat.

“Good girl; think of what we shall write to Nutsawoo. Surely he would be disappointed if we came all the way to London and did nothing but mope about the house.”

Penelope felt slightly silly pretending that she cared about Nutsawoo's opinion. “After all, not even Edith-Anne Pevington wrote postcards to Rainbow, clever pony that he was,” she thought as she helped the little girl squirm her arms into the sleeves. “But the children's imaginations must be indulged.”

(Actually Penelope was mistaken, for there was a book late in the Giddy-Yap, Rainbow! series in which the pony-crazed heroine, Edith-Anne Pevington, did, in fact, send a picture postcard to Rainbow while taking a round-the-world voyage with her eccentric aunt. Alas,
Edith-Anne Takes a Trip While Rainbow Stays Home
was not one of the big sellers of the otherwise popular series, which perhaps explains why Penelope had overlooked it.)

In any case, her new plan worked: Thanks to a hot breakfast, a bit of kind but firm handling, and a helpful (if imaginary) nudge from a squirrel, all three
Incorrigibles had managed to shake off their holiday fatigue and were now ready to venture forth.

As they proceeded to the stairs, Alexander extended his hand to Penelope in an offer to take charge of the
Hixby's Guide
. “Knack for navigation,” he boasted, in a fine imitation of that perfectly nice young man with the sextant, Simon Harley-Dickinson.

Penelope suppressed a smile as she remembered her new acquaintance. What were the odds they might run into him again? London was an enormous city, of course, but for some reason she did not think they had seen the last of Simon.

And, although she felt a bit skittish about letting the
Hixby's
out of her sight (this was, as you no doubt recall, because of the regrettable incident on the train), she handed the guidebook over to Alexander with only the slightest hesitation.

“Very well, but mind you keep a close eye on it, Alexander. Now off we go, children. To the post office and then”—it gave her a thrilling feeling of butterflies in the tummy to even say the words—“Buckingham Palace!”

 

T
HE
L
ONDON
G
ENERAL
P
OST
O
FFICE
was so impressive that Penelope could hardly imagine how Buckingham Palace might surpass it—until they arrived at the palace,
that is. Then she understood quite well, for there is a significant difference between a post office and a palace (and by this one should infer no disrespect to professional mail carriers, who serve an indispensable function in modern society and are much appreciated by all reasonable, letter-writing people).

“Look!” Cassiopeia pointed. “Home!”

“No, that is not Ashton Place,” Penelope corrected, although Cassiopeia did have a point. Both Buckingham Palace and Ashton Place were fine examples of the neoclassical style of architecture, which is to say they were boxy and rather plain, in a symmetrical, fluted-column sort of way. But Buckingham Palace was inarguably grander, for it was a palace, after all, and the royal family actually lived there, at least when they were in town: Queen Victoria and Prince Albert and their many children, and, one presumes, the children's governess.

Penelope felt suddenly curious: Who was this royal governess? Where had she gone to school, and how did she go about her work? Educating children raised by wolves was one thing, but to be put in charge of actual princes and princesses? That was a job for a Swanburne girl if there ever was one. Somehow, though, Penelope doubted that any Poor Bright Female would
be chosen for such an exalted position.

“But that is quite enough wondering about that,” she told herself, for they had arrived at the gates of the palace, and it was no time to go off on a tangent. “Let us see what Mr. Hixby has to tell us about this architectural landmark,” she said to the children, flipping through the guidebook. “I, for one, can never remember if those triangular bits above the columns are called pediments, or impediments—ah, here it is! Buckingham Palace. It says, ‘The royal house is warm and fine, the cold and hungry wait in line.'”

“Poem,” Beowulf observed.

“You are correct, Beowulf.” Penelope shut the guidebook. She too had noticed that most of the entries were in the form of little poems, except for the one about Gallery Seventeen at the British Museum, which went on for pages. “How curious. I wonder what it means?”

“‘Wait in line,' look.” Alexander tugged at her sleeve and pointed.

Snaking all the way 'round the side of the palace and then back again was a long line of sad-faced, shabbily dressed people. There were old men and women, young ones, too, and many with small children huddled about their legs. They had an air of worry about
them, as if a dark cloud of difficulty and disappointment was hanging low over their heads.

“Need a ticket?” The man's voice startled Penelope, and she found herself slipping the guidebook out of sight beneath her cloak. Alexander, Beowulf, and Cassiopeia each took a step closer to her.

“A ticket for what?” she asked.

“A ticket for the line.” He was a small, wiry fellow in a long checkered coat. “Should've gotten here earlier if so. Today's tickets are long gone.”

Cassiopeia peeked out from behind Penelope's skirts. “Tickawhy?”

The man lifted an eyebrow at Cassiopeia.

“She wants to know what all these people are waiting for,” Penelope translated.

“Foreigners, huh?” He cast a sideways look at Cassiopeia, then clasped his hands in front of him and rolled his eyes heavenward. “Better days, miss! They're waiting for better days to come, and good luck to 'em, I say. Until then, a ticket'll get 'em a packet of leftover food from the palace kitchens.” He rubbed his tummy and spoke slowly and loudly for the sake of the children. “They're waitin' for grub. It's the pauper's food line.”