ICAP 1 - The Mysterious Howling Read online

  He wandered perilously close to where Penelope was hidden, but merely to pull a book off the shelf. After he turned away, Penelope shut her eyes in the childish hope that it might render her invisible. Now all she could do was listen:

  “Ah, here’s what I’m looking for! The Huntsman’s Almanac. I keep this copy shelved in my study. The maid must have put it away.”

  “Surely you are not planning another hunting expedition! And in this chilly weather! I do believe you see more of your men friends from the club than you see of me, Fredrick.”

  “They are the Incorrigibles, indeed—”

  “What a worrying mind you have, Constance. My expeditions are none of your concern. As for the almanac, I merely wish to check the weather predictions. The farmers will want to know what sort of winter to prepare for—”

  The couple left, still conversing. Penelope held her breath until their voices had completely faded. Only then did she dare open her eyes. She was alone in the library once more.

  “Alexander Incorrigible!” she thought, appalled. “Beowulf Incorrigible! Cassiopeia Incorrigible! Three more unwieldy names would be difficult to imagine. But, as the saying goes, ‘Nothing good was ever learned from eavesdropping, so mind your business and let others mind theirs.’”

  She was right, of course, and not just because Agatha Swanburne had said so. Eavesdropping rarely leads to the desired result. One hides under the bed hoping to discover whether or not a surprise party is being planned for one’s birthday, and instead learns that indeed there was, but the festivities have been canceled due to one’s cousins all coming down with pinkeye simultaneously. The danger and dust bunnies are hardly worth the trouble.

  Penelope knew this, but in her defense it should be noted that she had not planned to eavesdrop in the first place. The experience had been thrust upon her with no warning, as if she were a character in a comedic French play. Overall, she felt she had handled it well.

  “Still, let this serve as a reminder,” she thought, as she made her way back to the nursery, her now-full notebook tucked under her arm. “I will have the children read Hamlet as soon as it is practical. There are some useful cautions against eavesdropping to be gleaned from that. In the meantime, we shall deal with the squirrels.”

  PENELOPE’S RESEARCH WAS COMPREHENSIVE, and her plan of action was theoretically sound. Yet her squirrel desensitization program did not instantly meet with success.

  She made adorable squirrel dolls for the children in hopes of teaching them to think of squirrels as beloved pets, but they joyously gnawed the dolls to pieces. The white cotton stuffing was tossed everywhere, making it seem as though a blizzard had hit.

  She hung drawings of squirrels all over the nursery, expecting that the constant exposure would soon cause the children to grow bored with the idea of squirrels altogether. Alas, the pictures simply made the children so agitated that no quiet work could be done. However, Penelope did become very adept at drawing squirrels.

  Finally, she decided that more direct measures were called for. This difficulty, like most others, would be solved only if faced head on. Penelope instructed the children to bundle up in coats and scarves. Then she took them outdoors, bid them sit at the base of a tree, and laid it on the line. “You must develop self-control, that is all there is to it,” she said firmly, looking at each of them in turn. “No more chasing squirrels.”

  Alexander started to growl, but Penelope would have none of it. “Mind your manners, Alexander! As Agatha Swanburne once said: ‘If it were easy to resist, it would not be called chocolate cake.’ Now look up, all of you—and don’t move.”

  They looked up. The branches were mostly bare of leaves now, and the squirrels were in full-fledged autumnal hysteria, frantically seeking nuts and burying them everywhere their tiny one-track minds could think of.

  The three Incorrigibles stared, hypnotized by the sight. The squirrels raced deliciously from branch to branch. They scurried tantalizingly up and down the trunk, heedless of any danger—so close, yet just out of reach—

  “Easy, children,” Penelope soothed. “That’s it, just stay as you are, you can do it—”

  Beowulf was the first to crack. He was on the second branch before Penelope could catch him, and she got hold of only his ankle, but it was a firm grip. Cassiopeia, too small to make it up the trunk, ran in rapid circles around the base of the tree, yapping excitedly, while Alexander crouched on the ground and gazed upward with darting eyes, ready for action should Beowulf succeed in flushing the squirrel in his direction.

  “Down, Beowulf!” Penelope pulled hard on his ankle and brandished some tasty biscuits with her free hand. “Down, down, down! Everyone, as you were!” She maneuvered all three of them back into position at the base of the tree and implored them to stay, just for a few seconds this time. Then there were biscuits for all.

  Exhausted, Penelope hustled the children back to the nursery and made them copy alphabets on slates with their slate pencils, while she drank three cups of milky tea to settle her nerves.

  The whole exercise was repeated daily for a week, and each time Penelope made the children sit still under the tree a bit longer before rewarding them. The children would quiver and tremble (Beowulf would sometimes drool), but they were soon able to resist actually chasing the squirrels, for whole minutes at a time. Even so, Penelope knew this was a lesson that would need frequent brushups.

  Now and then she would spot Old Timothy watching them, but he never spoke to her, nor to the children. If she caught his eye, he would offer a silent nod. Then off he would slink.

  THE SEVENTH CHAPTER

  The pow’r of poetry leads to an unwanted invitation.

  “LUMAWOO?”

  This is what the children had taken to calling Penelope. She trusted that “Miss Lumley” would come soon enough, but when they said “Lumawoo,” it was perfectly clear to whom they were speaking, and she knew no disrespect was intended. In fact, she rather liked the name. It reminded her of the nicknames babies give to favorite objects, their ba-bas and blankies and noo-noos and so forth.

  “Yes, Beowulf?”

  “Poem!”

  The breakfast dishes had only just been cleared away. With Alexander’s assistance, Penelope had succeeded in heaving another log onto the hearth, and the nursery was feeling decidedly cozy. Beowulf’s request further increased Penelope’s sense of contentment. “Do you want to hear a poem, Beowulf? You are in luck; I was planning to read more poetry today. After lunch, I thought we might have a go at ‘The Wreck of the Hesperus.’”

  Beowulf shook his head. “No Wreckawoo.”

  Penelope frowned. She was the teacher, after all, and the decision ought to be hers. However, she had already made a false start with Dante’s Inferno and had to abandon reading it partway through, and she did not want to repeat this misstep with the Hesperus. She had chosen Dante because she found the rhyme scheme pleasingly jaunty, but she realized too late that the Inferno’s tale of sinners being cruelly punished in the afterlife was much too bloody and disturbing to be suitable for young minds. Penelope could tell this by the way the children hung on her every word and demanded “More, more!” each time she reached the end of a canto and tried to stop.

  “Now, now, don’t be stubborn, Beowulf. ‘The Wreck of the Hesperus’ is by a poet called Longfellow, and it is a very dramatic tale. I think you will like it. It even has a shipwreck in it! Although, I suppose that’s obvious from the title.”

  Beowulf just stood before her, shaking his head no.

  “That is not what you meant?”

  “No Wreckawoo,” he repeated. “Wulfie am talk poem. Lissawoo!” By which he meant, “Listen!” Then he stood still and recited, with real feeling:

  “Moon, moon, moon.

  Night, no moon? Dark.

  Night, yes moon? Light!

  Yes, moon!

  Ahwooooo!”

  The other two children clapped enthusiastically. Penelope was astonished. “Beowulf, did you
write that poem yourself?”

  He smiled sheepishly and nodded.

  “I am—well! I am most impressed!” Penelope had begun reading poetry to the children in the belief that it would improve their English faster than lists of spelling words ever could. Besides, she personally found poetry very interesting, and since her students were more or less blank slates when it came to literature, she felt she might as well do what she liked. (As you may already know, the Latin term for “blank slate” is tabula rasa, a phrase the Incorrigibles would no doubt be exposed to a little further on in their educations.)

  But Penelope had not yet dared suggest the children begin composing works of their own. Clearly, she had underestimated them.

  “Me!” Alexander jumped up. “Lumawoo, me, me!” He grinned and eagerly hopped back and forth.

  Penelope was so surprised, she had to sit down on the toy trunk. “You have a poem also, Alexander? Well, this is one delightful surprise after another, children! Let’s hear it, then. Beowulf, come here next to me, and let your brother have the stage.”

  Obediently Beowulf sat down, and Alexander stepped up to declaim:

  “Yum, yum. Squirrel!

  No! No!

  Yum, yum. Cake?

  Yes! Yes!”

  He bowed deeply, which is something Penelope had taught the boys to do as part of their training in good manners. Cassiopeia leaped up from her customary spot at Penelope’s feet and curtsied, just to stay in the spirit of things. Then she too turned to her governess, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

  “Cassawoof!” she declared. “Cassawoof, too!”

  Penelope could hardly believe it. “My heavens! You don’t have a poem, too, do you, Cassiopeia? If you do, I think I shall have to lie down for the rest of the day to get over the shock.”

  In answer the little girl shoved her slate forward.

  “Don’t tell me you wrote it down—ah, what is this? There is a curved shape, rather like a crescent, and another just like it. Well, that is very good, also.” Penelope smiled indulgently. “And what do you call your drawing?”

  “Moon plus moon, two moons,” Cassiopeia explained modestly.

  Penelope clapped her hands in delight. “What a dazzling display this has been, children! Your enthusiasm for learning is what every teacher dreams of awakening in her pupils. I must say I am pleased.”

  The three young scholars stood before her, wriggling with pride. Penelope longed to give each one a hug, but she knew that a wise governess always maintains a certain professional reserve. She quickly settled on a different reward.

  “Allow me to repay you for your wonderful work by sharing a poem—no, not the ‘Hesperus,’ we will save that for later. But it is one of my personal favorites. Perhaps you will find it as compelling as I do. It has haunted me for as long as I can remember.”

  At fifteen, Penelope was much too old for a ba-ba or a noo-noo, but the truth was her poetry book served a similar, comforting purpose, and she often kept it close at hand. Now she slipped it out of her apron pocket and opened to a well-worn page. “The poem is called ‘Wanderlust.’”

  “Wanderlust?” Alexander seemed to like the sound of the word and said it again. “Wanderlust!”

  “Yes.” Penelope felt suddenly shy. “It means ‘having a strong desire to travel.’ The poem was originally written in German but I have it only in translation. It begins like this:

  “I wander through the meadows green,

  Made happy by the verdant scene—”

  There was a tap at the nursery door. Penelope marked her place with a ribbon and went to answer. It was Mrs. Clarke, and right away her eyes flew to the book in Penelope’s hand.

  “Good morning, Miss Lumley! Reading to the children, I see. Is it one of those delightful pony stories, by any chance?”

  “Not today, Mrs. Clarke. In fact, it is a rather melancholy German poem, which we are reading in translation. But you are welcome to stay nevertheless.”

  Mrs. Clarke looked disappointed. “Poetry? It disagrees with me, I’m afraid. All that bum-de-bum-de-bum-de-bum; it’s like riding in the back of a hay wagon on a bumpy road. Gives me a sick feeling in the tummy. But when you crack open the covers of dear Rainbow again—well, I wouldn’t mind listening in for a page or two.” The soft expression on her face quickly gave way to her usual brisk efficiency. “Sorry to interrupt, Miss Lumley, but Lady Constance has asked to speak to you. She wants a full report on the children’s progress.”

  Penelope clutched her poetry book tightly. “Now?”

  “Now, yes. She is in her private parlor.”

  Penelope turned to the children. “Very well. We will finish ‘Wanderlust’ another time. Behave yourselves and practice adding your moons until I return from my conversation with Lady Constance.”

  She gulped and suddenly felt quite nervous, although she would have been hard put to say why. Cassiopeia hugged her tightly around the legs. “Wanderlust, Lumawoo!” Alexander said warmly, while Beowulf nodded in agreement, and this bolstered her courage a great deal.

  ALTHOUGH THEY HAD SPOKEN briefly on a number of occasions, Penelope had not been summoned to a private audience with her mistress since the day of her job interview. This time, no tea was served. Nor did Lady Constance ask her to sit, although she herself was perched in a delicate chair before her vanity table, while Margaret, the squeaky-voiced lady’s maid, braided and pinned her hair into an elaborate updo.

  “Miss Lumley, thank you for coming to see me. Forgive me for being at my toilette, so to speak. I have a luncheon engagement and am running tragically late! And Margaret is so slow, I am quite out of sorts.”

  “Not at all. I am glad to be here,” Penelope said, although privately she thought she might prefer to be lashed to the mast of the real Hesperus as it sank into the howling sea than have to stand there awaiting Lady Constance’s questions. It was like one of those distressing dreams in which one must take a quiz for which one has had no chance to prepare.

  “So, Miss Lumley, have the Incorrigibles been civilized yet?” Lady Constance gave her a wan smile. “Are they still baying at the moon? I hear reports from the kitchen that those pupils of yours are consuming an alarming amount of ketchup. Perhaps you can explain.”

  “They are unaccustomed to eating cooked meats,” Penelope answered, trying not to sound defensive. “The ketchup is a temporary solution.”

  In fact, Penelope had discovered that the children would eat meat only if it was served extra rare and completely covered with ketchup, but she did not see the need to go into all that with Lady Constance. And truthfully, this “Incorrigibles” business got under her skin! She may have officially been a governess for only a few weeks, but it wounded her professional pride to have her students talked about in such a cavalier manner.

  “How revolting,” said Lady Constance primly, followed by, “Ouch! Careful, Margaret! You are pulling my hair too tightly.”

  “Sorry, ma’am!” the girl squeaked.

  As she watched poor Margaret turn pale and loosen the braid, Penelope was overcome by a particular type of irritated feeling that is known as “having one’s feathers ruffled.” Her urge to push Margaret aside and give Lady Constance’s butter-colored hair a hearty yank was difficult to squelch.

  “I understand you wish to hear a progress report on the children’s education,” she said on impulse. “I am pleased to say that they are surpassing all expectations. Three more studious and dedicated pupils would be difficult to imagine.”

  “Really.” Lady Constance could not turn her head because of the braiding, but she glanced sideways in Penelope’s direction. “I find that hard to believe.”

  “Only this morning, each of the boys recited a poem of his own authorship. And Cassiopeia shows signs of mathematical genius.”

  “Astonishing. This is a very glowing report,” Lady Constance said, sounding dubious. In fact, it was rather too much aglow, but Penelope was in for a penny, in for a pound, as they say. “And what of other
subjects? French? History? Geography?”

  Because of the time spent on the squirrel desensitization program, Penelope had not yet made much headway in either French or history, but she recalled a particularly energetic game of fetch-the-ball the children had played using one of the globes earlier in the week. She had scolded them for it at the time, but now she chose to take a different perspective on the incident.

  “Geography is actually one of the subjects the children enjoy most. Christiania!” The word burst from her lips nearly of its own accord.

  “Pardon me?” This time Lady Constance whipped her head around to look at Penelope, which caused Margaret, still holding tight to the end of the braid, to get thrown sideways, like the last car of a roller coaster going around a sharp curve.

  “Christiania is the capital of Norway,” Penelope explained, red-faced. “It just came back to me.”

  (For those of you with maps close at hand, you will note that the city of Christiania has long since been renamed Oslo. This is a perfect example of why so many children prefer to play catch with their globes rather than study geography with them, for place names and the boundaries of nations have a tendency to change the very minute one is done memorizing. By the time you read this, it is quite possible that the name of your own hometown may have been changed from something charming such as, say, Sweet Maple Ridge to something more sleek and modern, like Aluminumville. This is called progress, and there is no stopping it, so it must be cheerfully borne.)

  “Hmm,” Lady Constance said, sounding thoughtful. “Well, well! I must say, I am surprised to hear they are progressing so rapidly. This news changes my plans topsy-turvy.”

  “Plans?” At once, Penelope wondered if her well-intended exaggerations might have been unwise.

  “Yes. A month from now I intend to host a holiday ball here at Ashton Place. To be frank, I had planned to send you and the children away for the duration, but for some reason my husband particularly requested that the Incorrigibles attend. That is why I sent for you today, Miss Lumley! I expected you would tell me the children were in no way prepared for such an event, and that would be the end of it. But writing poetry? Mathematical genius? Now you have taken away all my excuses.”