ICAP 1 - The Mysterious Howling Read online

  There came a low growl from Alexander, who had locked eyes with a bear. Beowulf snarled fiercely at the sight of a stuffed squirrel on a bookshelf, but did not pounce. The smell of death was too strong.

  Then Cassiopeia sucked in a great raw breath and let it out again in sobs. Her tiny outstretched hand pointed across the room, where the proud, gray head of a wolf stared balefully from yellow glass eyes.

  “Maaaaaaaaaaaa!” she wailed. “Mahwooooooooo!”

  “Come away, come away.” As quickly as she could, Penelope shepherded the children out the door. She tried to sound in control, but there was a catch in her voice. “Back to the nursery, everyone. This is no place for us.”

  Their eyes swept the walls like searchlights…

  THE NINTH CHAPTER

  A missing book causes quite a ruckus.

  IF YOU HAVE EVER OPENED a can of worms, boxed yourself into a corner, ended up in hot water, or found yourself in a pretty pickle, you already know that life is rarely (if ever) just a bowl of cherries. It is far more likely to be a bowl of problems, worries, and difficulties. This is normal and should not be seen as cause for alarm.

  Yet it is also true that the very same troubles that loom catastrophically large one day can seem like small potatoes the next, particularly if even worse troubles have popped up to take their place. An example: Penelope’s frantic worry about learning the schottische had now been wholly replaced by her concern for how the children would cope with their accidental visit to Lord Fredrick’s study.

  Truly, it had been a tragic encounter with taxidermy. Penelope would not soon forget the horrified looks upon those three innocent faces. She hoped the shock would not undo any of the progress the children had made in their lessons, and tried to offer soothing distractions.

  “Let us turn our thoughts to wild adventure on the high seas,” she suggested, after an unusually glum breakfast in the nursery. It was the morning after the incident. The children had picked at their food and not even ketchup could tempt them to eat. Penelope felt self-conscious gobbling away while the children were so gloomy, but the strenuous dancing of the previous day had given her a hearty appetite that no amount of stuffed dead animal heads could erase. Secretly she tucked some buttered rolls in her pockets for later.

  “At long last, today we shall be fascinated and entertained by ‘The Wreck of the Hesperus,’” she continued, once the dishes were cleared away and the trio of sad children had gathered obediently around her. “It is by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. That is the poet’s name. Can you say it? Longfellow.”

  “Longfellooooooo,” they repeated listlessly.

  What a miserable sight they were! Penelope wondered if she ought to ask what was wrong, but as she already knew the answer, she decided it would be best to press on with the poem. Reading aloud was a task she enjoyed; it allowed her to pretend she was a famous actress on the London stage, which she thought might be an interesting career if only it were not so scandalous. Also, the working hours for famous actresses ran late into the evening, and Penelope had always preferred early bedtimes.

  She sat up straight in her little chair and cleared her throat. “Longfellow, correct. Well done, children. Before I begin, you ought to know that a schooner is a type of ship. The rest should be self-explanatory. Here we go:

  “It was the schooner Hesperus,

  That sailed the wintry sea;

  And the skipper had taken his little daughter,

  To bear him company.

  “Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,

  Her cheeks like the dawn of day,

  And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,

  That ope in the month of May.

  “‘Ope,’” she paused to explain, “means ‘open.’ It is an example of what is called poetical language. Do you have any questions?”

  The children were still and silent—too silent, in Penelope’s opinion. She looked at them for a moment through narrowed eyes and turned back to Longfellow.

  “The skipper he stood beside the helm,

  His pipe was in his mouth,

  And he watched how the veering flaw did blow

  The smoke now West, now South.

  “Then up and spake an old Sailòr,

  Had sailed to the Spanish Main,

  ‘I pray thee, put into yonder port,

  For I fear a hurricane.

  “‘Last night, the moon had a golden ring,

  And to-night no moon we see!’

  The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,

  And a scornful laugh laughed he.”

  Penelope was about to demonstrate what she thought Longfellow might have meant by a “scornful laugh.” But at the mere mention of the moon, the children had gone pale.

  “Ahwooo!” Alexander crooned a soft, agonized howl.

  “Ahwooooo!” Beowulf joined him, still soft but urgent.

  “Ahwoooooooooo!” Cassiopeia threw her head back and gave it her all. “Ahwoooooooooo! Ahwoooooooooo!”

  The howling was dreadful and went on for quite some time. Penelope put the poem down with a sigh; they would return to the Hesperus later. Now, she felt she must intervene. She waited until it seemed the noise had reached its peak and was on the way down.

  “Children, listen. Listen to your governess, please!” With a few final ahwoos and barks, the din subsided. Penelope tried to assume the same firm, gentle tone Miss Mortimer had always used to good effect on the girls at Swanburne.

  “Now, I am well aware that being raised by wolves can be considered an undesirable start in life,” she began. “But truly, which of us do not have obstacles to overcome? Whining—or howling or what you please—is not the solution to any of life’s problems. I realize that there have been challenges. I assure you there will be more.”

  Alexander’s teeth were half bared. Beowulf was gnawing on his own shoe, and Cassiopeia let out a tiny whimper, but Penelope felt she had their attention. She continued, “Abandoned in the forest as infants, suckled by ferocious smelly animals, forced to wear uncomfortable party outfits, and made to learn to dance the schottische—this is simply the way life goes. Hands must be washed before dinner nevertheless. Please and thank you must be said, and playthings must be put away when you are done with them. Are we agreed?”

  They sniffed and nodded. Cassiopeia had no handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes with the hem of her skirt, but Penelope did not feel this was a time to scold.

  “Very well. Today you three are too excitable for poetry, so let us tidy the nursery and work on our multiplication tables. The weather is poor, so we will skip our walk and spend the time sketching.”

  It was lightly raining, but the real reason for staying indoors is that Penelope did not want to risk dealing with the squirrels or the mysteries of the forest or any other unexpected jolt to the nervous system until such time as the children were thoroughly recovered.

  When, or if, that time might come—well, that remained to be seen.

  “BLAST IT ALL!” The sound of Lord Ashton’s voice boomed through the house, up the stairs, and into Penelope’s room at the far end of the corridor, all the way from the first floor drawing room. “Blast it, I say! Has anyone been in my study?”

  At least, that is what he may have said. Penelope couldn’t quite make it out; it was rather late at night, her door was closed, and she was already in her nightgown, tucked under the covers (the fire in her bedroom had long since gone out, and the air was quite chilly).

  Penelope was not yet sleeping, however. She was lost in her own thoughts: thoughts about the children and the moonlight coming in her window, and about how the mystery of not knowing what one’s future held paled next to the mystery of not knowing all that one’s past already contained. Despite her calming words to the children, in the privacy of her own heart Penelope was still haunted by Cassiopeia’s plaintive cry at the sight of the wolf’s head in Lord Fredrick’s study. Yes, the Incorrigibles had been cared for by wolves in the forest; that much was clear from the
ir frequently canine behavior—but they were children, not wolves. Somewhere in the world there was a human mother who had given birth to these three; a human father who had, perhaps, taught young Alexander how to catch a ball, or watched, smiling, as toddler Beowulf played peekaboo with newborn Cassiopeia.

  But then, what had happened? Had these parents, like her own, also had a sudden need to flee? If so, why leave the children in a forest? Why not find a proper home for them or send them to a reputable school like Swanburne? Penelope longed to talk the whole business over with Miss Mortimer; it was too late now to get up and write a letter, but she resolved to set pen to paper as soon as practical.

  Downstairs, there was a muffled and decidedly female reply to Lord Fredrick’s outburst, a brief consoling murmur that seemed to aggravate him all the more—

  “But it’s not where I left it, which means someone must have taken it! Blast, blast, blast! Now who’s been in my study?”

  Then there was quiet, broken only by heavy, deliberate footfalls that trudged their way dutifully around the house, accompanied by the jangling of keys. They slowed noticeably when on the stairs (where they were further punctuated by wheezing), and then resumed their previous tempo and grew louder, until they sounded quite close—

  “Miss Lumley?” It was Mrs. Clarke, right outside the bedroom door. “Sorry to disturb you. Are you awake?”

  Penelope sat up in bed and pulled the covers close around her. The thrill of an unexpected late-night visit was just the thing to knock all those melancholy musings out of her head; it held the promise of adventure. She wondered if there had been a fire, or an outbreak of a contagious disease, or if a band of ruthless highwaymen had been spotted nearby!

  “Yes, come in,” she called.

  The door opened with a creak. The light from Mrs. Clarke’s candle entered a step before the woman herself; she wore her dressing gown and a frilly white nightcap. Through chattering teeth she explained, “I apologize for the hour, Miss Lumley. I was in bed myself, as you can see. But Lord Fredrick returned very late from his club, and now he can’t find his blasted—sorry, his almanac.” She heaved a weighty sigh. “He has ordered me to inquire ‘this instant’ if anyone has seen it or set foot in his study while he was away. Why in blue blazes a misplaced book couldn’t wait until morning I don’t pretend to understand! But now I’ve done as my master asked, and I bid you good night.”

  Her duty fulfilled, Mrs. Clarke turned to go.

  “The children and I did set foot in his study,” Penelope blurted, “but I assure you that is all we did.”

  Mrs. Clarke stopped; she fixed Penelope with a stern and cautionary look. “Miss Lumley, do you see this nightcap covering both my ears? I assure you, I can’t hear a blessed thing when I have it on.”

  “I said, the children and I did set foot in the study—”

  Mrs. Clarke yawned loudly. “Whatever it was that you said, I am certain it was nothing worth repeating, and at this hour you should be asleep in any case. Now I will go—”

  Alas, Penelope did not pick up on Mrs. Clarke’s meaning and kept talking despite the older lady’s shushing gestures. “It was an error. We had no intention of going in! It was all because of the schottische, you see. The dancing got us quite turned around. And we left at once when we realized where our wrong turn had taken us. I assure you we did not touch any of Lord Fredrick’s things.” Penelope felt she ought to confess everything, so she added, “Jasper and—”

  “Hush, Miss Lumley, please!”

  “—Margaret were there as well. But if I should see the almanac I will bring it to you at once.” This missing almanac business was not nearly as interesting as highwaymen would have been, but at least now it was all settled. Penelope smiled and was about to wish Mrs. Clarke pleasant dreams before snuggling back under the covers.

  But Mrs. Clarke seemed suddenly unwell. She clutched at her heart with one hand, leaned against the door, and seemed not to notice how the candle in her other hand had tipped slantwise in its silver holder.

  “Take heed, Mrs. Clarke,” Penelope said cautiously, “you are likely to drip wax on yourself if you are not careful. That will give a nasty burn.”

  “Wax!” Mrs. Clarke exclaimed. “Wax, she says! A nasty burn should be the least of my problems. Miss Lumley, you have put me in a pretty pickle, you have. You have opened a can of worms! Now what am I supposed to tell Lord Fredrick? If he looks me in the eye and demands to know what I have discovered, I will have no choice but to tell him what you’ve told me. I can’t lie for toffee, it makes my head ache!”

  Mrs. Clarke heaved such agonized sighs, she nearly blew out the flame. Finally, she turned to go, yet she paused in the doorway. “Miss Lumley, do you say your prayers before bedtime, may I ask?”

  “Certainly I do,” Penelope replied faintly. The notion that perhaps she had offered too much information was only now dawning on her.

  “Then I suggest you pray that the blasted almanac is found before morning! Otherwise, I fear that you, and the children—and Jasper and poor Margaret, too!—will be in for a most unpleasant day tomorrow. Good night!”

  IF YOU HAVE EVER STAYED UP LATE at night reading a particularly exciting story under the covers with a flashlight, you already know that dramatic events at bedtime do nothing to encourage a restful night’s sleep. Penelope tossed and turned for hours, and when morning finally came, for once she did not wish the water in her washbasin even one degree warmer than it was. The brutally cold splash was necessary to wake her and brace for whatever “unpleasantness” might lie ahead.

  She did not have to wait long for it to begin; in fact, she had barely made it through the task of giving the children the day’s spelling words before the summons came. Margaret’s high-pitched voice soared even higher with nervousness as she delivered the message—“Lady Constance requests your presence in the dining room—as soon as you can, she says! Oh my, oh my!”

  Penelope had not had a reason to enter the formal dining room of Ashton Place before. “This must be what the great cathedrals of Europe look like!” she thought, as she stared with amazement at the high, beamed ceiling and rows of arching windows. From this you may safely conclude that Penelope had never been inside an actual cathedral, but it was an enormous room nevertheless, the kind in which your voice echoes everywhere if you should somehow muster the courage to speak. The great mahogany dining table was big enough to fit all the knights of King Arthur’s court, although of course it was the wrong shape (King Arthur liked his knights in a circle, while this table was long and rectangular, but still, it was very large). Even Lady Constance seemed to have shrunk a size smaller just by virtue of standing within this vast, imposing space.

  An army of servants were scurrying around the table like ants, sorting, counting, and polishing what Penelope was certain must be a mine’s worth of silver. Dinner plates, dessert dishes, creamers, skewers, candlesticks, butter dishes, forks, spoons, teapots, trays, platters, ladles, tureens—the long table was covered end-to-end with treasure.

  “There you are, Miss Lumley!” Lady Constance trilled as Penelope approached. “And how are your preparations for the party coming along? The children are excited, no doubt? There is so much to do! As you see, today we must take inventory of the silver to see if we are sufficiently stocked to entertain. There is barely enough here for even a medium-sized gathering, but with the purchase of a few new platters and serving spoons, we will muddle through somehow.”

  “I am well, thank you, and so are the children” was all Penelope could manage in answer.

  “Christmas is such a pleasant time of year. And yet so horribly exhausting! Do the children know what to expect of the holiday? The stockings, the caroling, the tree, and so forth? Oh, dear, I suppose I will have to have gifts for them! Motherhood is still so new to me, tra la!”

  Now, Penelope did not know what to think. You will recall that she had expected she might be scolded for entering Lord Fredrick’s study and perhaps falsely accused of taki
ng the almanac. It had even occurred to her that the police might be summoned and criminal charges filed, after which she would have to bravely defend herself in front of a stern, white-wigged judge. Her eloquence would earn a standing ovation from the dazzled spectators, who would find it impossible to believe that this mere girl of fifteen was not a trained lawyer.

  Yet the conversation did not seem to be headed in that direction at all.

  “Miss Lumley, you must be wondering why I called for you,” Lady Constance said charmingly. “It is because I must apologize!”

  Penelope’s mouth fell open. “For what?” she tried to say, but the sound got stuck someplace inside her throat.

  “Poor Fredrick! He is such a doting and perfect husband in every conceivable way, but now and then his temper becomes quite excitable.” Lady Constance smiled with excessive sweetness. “I expect you have got wind of this almanac business?”

  Penelope nodded, afraid to say anything.

  Lady Constance’s forced laugh echoed through the dining hall. “Dear me, you would think that tattered old book was the family Bible, the way he frets over it! But he says it is important; it has to do with practical matters, scheduling the rotation of the crops and determining the best times of year for trapping badgers and so forth. I don’t pretend to understand men’s business. Well, when he mentioned at breakfast that it was missing, naturally I replied, quite idly, that perhaps the children were using it. Only because I noticed there are so very many books in the nursery—and really, do you think that is necessary? I worry all that reading will injure their poor eyes! And of course I was thinking back to the sorts of mischief my brothers and I got into when I was a girl. Oh, we were magpies! We would steal Papa’s cigars and hide them in the sofa cushions! We were terribly spoiled. I’m sure our old governess would have spanked us if she’d had her own way, but of course she would never dare, my mother would have fired her on the spot. Do you spank the Incorrigibles, I wonder? You may if you like, you know; it wouldn’t bother me in the least.”