ICAP 2 - The Hidden Gallery Page 5

  “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 Nutsawoooooooooo!” 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!”

  THE LONDON GENERAL POST OFFICE 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.”

  “That is generous, I suppose,” Penelope replied uncertainly. Leftovers to eat were surely better than nothing, but for a whole family to wait in line for scraps, like stray cats mewing at the kitchen door? It did not seem right to her.

  “You don’t need a ticket, then?” The man looked the children over with an appraising eye. Their hair was still a tangle (Penelope had been so eager to get them out of the house that she had not bothered to repair their attempts at combing), but their clothes were of decent quality and in good repair. “No offense, miss. Sorry to trouble you.”

  Penelope’s eyes kept being drawn back to the hungry people in the line. She wondered how long they had been waiting. “I do not understand,” she said to the man. “I thought you said today’s tickets had all been disposed of?”

  “Oh, they’re gone, yes. Long gone. Still, for the right person and at the right price, a ticket can always be found.” He turned over his hand and flashed what appeared to be an entire roll of tickets, which quickly disappeared into one of his many pockets.

  Penelope could scarcely believe it. “Those tickets are meant to be charity for the poor; you said so yourself.” She scolded. “I’m sure it is not right for you to take money for them. You ought to be ashamed—” But the man had already disappeared into the crowd, still searching for some poor soul desperate enough to pay for the free tickets he had somehow hoarded.

  IN THE WORDS OF AGATHA Swanburne, “Don’t look now, but everything’s about to chang
e.” This incident was a perfect example of what the wise woman must have meant, for although Penelope had begun the day feeling positively chipper, she now found herself in a state that can only be described as high dudgeon.

  “How infuriating!” she cried to no one in particular. “I am quite sure if Queen Victoria knew of this man’s dishonesty, her majesty would be very unhappy indeed.” And with that, Penelope started to march briskly toward the palace.

  “Lumawoo!” the children called in alarm as they chased after her. “Where? Where?”

  “I am going to request that a message be delivered to Queen Victoria,” she explained, without breaking her stride.

  “Victorahwooooooooo!” the children howled excitedly. Even as they scampered after their governess, the boys began practicing their bows and socially useful phrases: “Greetings, Your Majesty! How do you do? Lovely weather! The pleasure is mine,” and so on, while Cassiopeia curtsied so low she toppled over and had to scurry to catch up.

  “I doubt we shall get to meet her. The queen is very busy.” Penelope’s determination increased with each step. “But someone must tell her what is going on out here. Perhaps there is a constable who can help us.” She looked around and saw a uniformed guard standing stiffly just outside the main gate. He was not a police officer, exactly, but he seemed to be in some official capacity; surely he would do just as well.

  “Sir! Sir!” Penelope had reached the gate, and the children were close behind. “May I speak with you for a moment?”

  The guard stood motionless. Not even his eyes moved.

  “Pardon me, sir,” Penelope repeated, rather forcefully, for a Swanburne girl in high dudgeon is nothing to trifle with. “There is a matter of some urgency which I would like brought to Her Majesty’s attention at once. Can you help me?”

  Unmoved by her plea, the guard stared straight ahead. For a moment Penelope wondered if he might be a statue. He cut a very dashing figure, to be sure, in a trim scarlet tunic over deep blue trousers, with a spotless white belt cinched about his waist. But the most striking thing about his uniform was the hat. It was enormous, for one thing, in the shape of a barrel, and it seemed to be made completely out of fur.

  Now that Penelope was standing so close, she noticed how the mass of fur covered the top half of the guard’s face in a way that made him seem not quite like a person at all. In fact, if not for the rest of the uniform, he might easily be mistaken for—

  “Ahbear! Ahbear!”

  “Ahwoooooooooooooooooo!”

  The children let loose a frenzy of howls. Beowulf paused long enough to take a deep sniff. “Ahbear!” he yelled conclusively, pointing at the guard’s head. Cassiopeia curled into a tight crouch, ready to spring at the poor fellow. Alexander bared his teeth and emitted the most vicious growl imaginable.

  “Ahbearrrrrrrrrrrr!”

  As one, they pounced.

  “No! Children, stop! Do not attack!” Penelope was sick with fear. For the guard, being a guard, was armed with a musket. The weapon was now at his shoulder, and the muzzle was aimed straight at the Incorrigibles.

  Without thinking about the consequences, Penelope, too, hurled herself at the guard.

  “They are only children!” she cried. “Do not shoot!”

  “Children? A pack of wolf cubs would be more like it.” It was the guard speaking from someplace close by; for some reason Penelope could no longer see him, for she was suddenly in the dark. “Listen up, miss. It’s my job to guard the queen’s palace, and guard it I will. I’m on strict orders not to converse with the tourists, so you’ve already got me in trouble. Easy there, little fella! The hat’s pure Canadian brown bear, and they cost a king’s ransom. I’d hate to explain to my commanding officer why I need a new one.”

  Only then did Penelope realize that her eyes were squeezed shut in terror. Very slowly, she opened them, whereupon she beheld an astonishing sight: Cassiopeia had all four limbs wrapped around the guard’s leg, with her teeth sunk into his trousers. Alexander dangled from the musket as if it were part of a jungle gym, while Beowulf was perched on the man’s head, wrestling vigorously with the hat.

  “Ahbear?” Cassiopeia asked curiously, gazing upward.

  “It was a bear, once. Would you like to pet it?” The guard reached up and removed the hat, Beowulf and all, and held it out to the girl.

  Alexander slid off the musket barrel and dropped to the ground. “Pardon me,” he said, bowing to the guard. “How do you do?” Then both boys bowed, and Cassiopeia curtsied.

  “They are only children!” she cried. “Do not shoot!”

  “The pleasure is mine, woof!” she said, in her piping voice. The guard was clearly impressed.

  “That’s very well said. I wish my boy had nice manners like you lot do.” He turned to Penelope. “I can’t help you with the queen, but if you have a suggestion, leave it in the suggestion box. That’s the best I can do.”

  “Another time, perhaps. Thank you. I apologize for the disturbance.” Penelope shepherded the three Incorrigibles away from the gate and across the plaza, until she spotted an empty park bench in a quiet spot. There she sat down, for her knees were shaking beneath her skirt, and she did not want the children to know.

  The children, on the other hand, were now wonderfully energized. They argued about where go next.

  “St. James’s Park!”

  “Big Ben!”

  “The British Mew-eezum!” Cassiopeia suggested, adorably mispronouncing the word.

  “Your enthusiasm is admirable, children.” Penelope patted her forehead with a handkerchief. “But I must confess, I have had quite enough sightseeing for one day.”

  It was possible that a delayed-onset case of holiday fatigue was finally catching up with the usually plucky young governess. Or perhaps the sight of the three Incorrigible children once again facing down the barrel of a musket (just as they had on the fateful day when Lord Fredrick Ashton discovered them running wild in the woods of Ashton Place, and was prevented from shooting only by the quick intervention of Old Timothy, the enigmatic coachman)—well, it was simply too much for Penelope to bear, if one will pardon the expression.

  The children were clearly disappointed. But their governess had made up her mind, and that, they knew very well, was that. In any case, it had been a good while since breakfast, and all four of them were in need of tea and something sweet to nibble on.

  So, without further discussion, and with Alexander still in charge of the Hixby’s Guide, Penelope and the Incorrigible children headed home. No doubt it was the holiday fatigue at work, but Penelope could scarcely bring herself to sightsee as they walked. She had expected London to be a glittering metropolis full of culture and learning. Instead, it seemed like the forest of Ashton Place—an Ominous Landscape full of danger at every turn.

  It was not until her thoughts had strayed to Ashton Place in this unexpected fashion, and Alexander had successfully navigated them back to Number Twelve Muffinshire Lane, that Penelope realized: In all the excitement, they had completely forgotten to buy a postcard for Nutsawoo.

  THE SIXTH CHAPTER

  Penelope finds a new

  creature to tame.

  AFTER SUCH AN EVENTFUL MORNING, Penelope was in need of peaceful, calming pursuits. She looked forward to a bit of poetry read aloud, some quiet work on the children’s journals, and possibly a nap, if the Incorrigibles could be persuaded.

  But she and the children returned to find Number Twelve Muffinshire Lane in an uproar. The servants from Ashton Place were frantically cleaning the already spotless house: airing out linens, dusting bric-a-brac, making up beds, sweeping the carpets, polishing woodwork, and otherwise getting things spick-and-span for the imminent appearance of Lady Constance and Lord Fredrick.

  The hubbub was at such a fever pitch that even Mrs. Clarke could not hold still long enough to say a proper good morning to Penelope and the children, though she had scarcely seen them since their arrival in London.

  “Ahhhhhhh!”
Mrs. Clarke cried as she propelled herself from one task to the next. The way she kept moving as she spoke gave her voice an oddly sirenlike quality, as it got LOUDER and softer and LOUDER and softer, depending on whether she was coming or going. “Miss Lumley, wherever have you been? I thought you and the children must have fallen in the Thames! Well, don’t just stand there blocking traffic—whoops! Restrain yourself, Margaret! If you use that much polish on the floor we’ll have to wear ice skates to shimmy ourselves from room to room.”

  If Penelope had been in a jollier mood, the idea of Mrs. Clarke in a pair of ice skates, gracefully twirling and leaping across a frozen expanse, would have made her struggle not to laugh. As it was, she merely said, “Mrs. Clarke, the children and I are in urgent need of some tea. May we fix it ourselves in the kitchen and bring it upstairs? We will be sure to stay out of your way.”

  “Fix it yourselves? Bring it upstairs? I should say not! We can’t afford any spills. I’ll have Margaret carry it up, before she polishes a hole in the floor. And mind you don’t leave any fingerprints on the banister,” Mrs. Clarke called over her shoulder (for she was now whizzing into the dining room). “Lord and Lady Ashton will be here before dinner—how’s that silver coming along, Suzy?—and everything has to be just so.”

  Already she was on her way back; truly, ice skates would have been a time-saver. “Missed a spot on the ladle, Sue! Oh, Miss Lumley, before I forget, a letter came for you. It’s on the tray table by the stair—careful, Gladys! That’s a feather duster, not a cricket bat! Be gentle with the potted plant, or soon it won’t have a leaf to call its own.”