ICAP 1 - The Mysterious Howling Read online

  “I have not yet found it necessary,” Penelope said, trying to keep her temper steady.

  “Really?” Lady Constance seemed surprised. “How curious. In any case, I said what I said without thinking; I assure you I meant no harm by it. But, oh, what a fit my Fredrick threw! ‘I rue the day I ever found that grubby lot in the forest,’ he roared. Truly, he is not mean or cross as a rule, as I say, just every now and again, when he’s been away at his club and then comes home late at night. I think sometimes the whiskey they serve there must give him a headache.”

  By this point Penelope felt like Longfellow’s doomed Hesperus, battered to and fro by the relentless storm of Lady Constance’s words. Like the brave sea captain’s daughter, she knew she must simply endure until it was over.

  “But then—oh, I hope you will not think me ridiculous.” Lady Constance picked up a silver serving tray and checked her reflection in it before putting it back with the others. “I watched him snort and stamp around the room like an angry bull for a full two minutes before I remembered: I had borrowed the almanac myself!”

  “You? So—but—does that mean it is found?” Penelope stammered.

  “It was never lost! It was on my dressing table, right where I’d put it.” Lady Constance seemed pleased for no good reason that Penelope could comprehend. “It was all because of the party invitations, you see! Naturally I assumed my party would be on Christmas, but the stationer was kind enough to remind me that, out here in the country, it is customary to have an evening party when the moon is full, so that guests can travel safely.” She sighed. “Not like London, where you can throw a party whenever you please. I find the gaslights of London thrilling—ah, but you have never seen them? You must. The charms of the city are quite preferable to this rustic life, in my opinion.”

  There was nothing about the grandeur of Ashton Place that Penelope thought could fairly be called “rustic,” but she kept that opinion, along with several others, to herself.

  “So the almanac had to be consulted. I meant to put it back where I found it, but then my attention was completely absorbed with choosing the exact shade of paper for the invitations, and the color of ink for the calligrapher, and—well, it just flew out of my head.”

  Penelope was half dizzy from following the corkscrew turns of Lady Constance’s conversation, but at least she was glad to learn that she and the children (and Margaret and Jasper) were safe from any possible accusation. Even so, what was the point of this story? For an awful moment Penelope thought that she might have unwittingly become Lady Constance’s confidante. O dreadful fate! Day after day, listening to this endless prattling—she would rather be governess to a whole pack of actual wolves than suffer through that.

  “So that is why I must apologize,” Lady Constance concluded. “For in all the confusion over that silly, silly almanac, I completely forgot to have anyone tell you that I arranged for my dressmaker to come to fit you and that naughty minx, Cassiopeia, for your party dresses. Her name is Madame LePoint.” Lady Constance pronounced it in the French manner, so it sounded like “leh pwanh.” It was a very ducklike utterance—pwanh, pwanh, pwanh. Penelope could imagine how a flock of mallards rising into the air would make that exact sound.

  “When is the appointment?”

  “Why, today! Madame is here now, waiting in the drawing room. And the tailor is here, too, to measure the boys, although boys’ clothes are so much less interesting than girls’. Shall I have Mrs. Clarke escort them to the nursery?”

  “No need. I will take them there myself,” Penelope said in a daze. She did not wonder that Lord Fredrick occasionally suffered from headaches; ten minutes of conversation with Lady Constance and she was starting to get one herself.

  “And it turns out the party will be on Christmas Day, after all!” Lady Constance chirped. “The moon herself insists upon it! Isn’t that simply perfect?”

  AS IF SUMMONED BY PENELOPE’S thoughts of the previous evening, a small package arrived from Miss Charlotte Mortimer in the morning’s post. Penelope read the enclosed letter greedily while Madame LePoint measured Cassiopeia for her dress.

  My dear Penny,

  I am so pleased to hear from you! Your thanks are kind but totally unnecessary; there was nothing in my letter of recommendation but the plain truth. You have earned your position on your merits, and you should be very proud of yourself, as I am.

  Your three pupils fascinate me more than I can say; I hope you will send frequent & detailed updates as to their progress. I trust they do not yet speak sufficient English to describe what their life in the forest was like, or what they might remember of life before then?

  I hope you will not mind a small piece of advice: Do not let them run free in the forest. I have reason to think the woods of Ashton Place may hold dangers for them that you cannot anticipate. Call it the intuition of an old teacher!

  You must forgive me for a very foolish omission! In my haste to bid you farewell at the station, I forgot to give you the enclosed package. It is a supply of the same herbal poultice used to treat your hair at Swanburne. I strongly recommend you apply it every six weeks, as we have always done.

  Be strong, my ha’Penny, and look after your students! Your new life must be very grand indeed, and no doubt you will face many unexpected challenges. But I know you will remain the same brave, clear-eyed, and good-hearted girl you have always been. I look forward to your next letter.

  Your friend & fellow educator,

  Miss Charlotte Mortimer

  Penelope folded the letter with care and slipped it into her pocket. “Silly Miss Mortimer,” she thought with a smile, “as if I would let any of my students run free in a wood full of wild animals! She is overcautious to remind me, but I know it is only out of concern.”

  And it was true that life at Ashton Place was very grand and that most people would consider this a stroke of good fortune, for the children and for Penelope as well. But as she watched poor Cassiopeia endure what was without question a very long fitting for such a short dress (the little girl being only a smidgen over three feet tall), it occurred to Penelope that the simple, unspoiled life at Swanburne might suit most children far better than being forced to stand still for hours while a dressmaker wrapped one ’round and ’round in expensive sateens, sticking terrifying pins here and there and scolding “Don’t move, don’t move!”

  “Cassawoof hot!” the child begged. “Cassawoof no dress!” She looked imploringly at Penelope. The boys had gotten off easy; the tailor had quickly taken their measurements and then left, after announcing that he would be making them each a crisp white-and-blue sailor suit with a black kerchief to tie around the neck. For Madame LePoint, however, mere measurements would not suffice. She had brought dozens of different fabrics with her, plus swatches of ribbon and lace, scissors, boxes of pins, and armloads of taffeta. The pinning had already gone on for hours, and Penelope had run through all the treats in the nursery trying to keep Cassiopeia from squirming loose and hiding under her bed.

  “Are you almost done, Madame LePoint? We are eager to get back to our lessons.” Penelope tried to sound polite, but she too had lost patience.

  “I’ll be done when I am done, mademoiselle!” Madame LePoint kept the spare pins pressed between her lips as she worked and, thus, could talk only out of one side of her mouth, but this did not prevent her from speaking rapidly and in a French accent, too. “A party dress is a work of art, no? It takes time. And the little girl has such unusual coloring. Look at her hair: One rarely sees such a rich shade of auburn on a child. I must find the perfect fabric to set it off.” She held a swatch of silk next to Cassiopeia’s hair. “The moss green suits her beautifully, but this lemon yellow is too much.”

  Then she held the same swatch against Penelope’s hair. “Feh! So drab! Nothing clashes, but nothing matches, either. Tant pis!” This was a French expression Penelope understood to mean “too bad, tough luck, that’s the way the croissant crumbles,” or something along those lines.<
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  “I am sorry that it is beyond your skill to make a dress to flatter my complexion,” Penelope said curtly. She was not vain, of course, but that did not mean she did not have feelings. She knew her hair was not particularly striking. It was very dark, nearly black, and lacked shine. That is why Miss Charlotte Mortimer had sent the herbal poultice; at Swanburne her headmistress used to apply it to Penelope’s head every six weeks or so to maintain scalp health and repel lice. No doubt it helped, but Penelope had long ago accepted that a thick mane of glossy, bouncy ringlets was not destined to be hers. However, she had read many books in which girls who start out plain blossom into great beauties, and almost as many in which girls who stay plain are loved all the more for their warm hearts and good common sense. Penelope was confident that one fate or the other would be hers eventually, and so she tried not to give the matter too much thought.

  Madame LePoint snorted, which was potentially dangerous because of all the pins in her mouth. Happily none of them took flight. “Of course I will make you a dress! You can’t attend a holiday ball looking like that.” The dressmaker jerked her head in the direction of Penelope’s plain frock and apron. “Lady Ashton has given me detailed instructions.”

  “Very well, but I would prefer not to look ridiculous, if you please.” There would be no enormous cage crinolines for her, thank you! Penelope was not interested in weaving and bobbing through the party like a birdcage on a luggage trolley. She imagined something more refined, perhaps an off-the-shoulder silk with a gathered bodice and small, tasteful bustle. A shimmery deep blue would suit her well, she thought. She had never owned a garment in such an eye-catching color, but the Swanburne uniform featured a trim of navy ribbon around the hem that Penelope had always found pleasing.

  “Phht! Phht! Phht! Phht!” One by one, the dressmaker spit her pins back into the box. Cassiopeia took this as her cue to wilt, panting, to the floor. Madame LePoint ignored the child and turned to Penelope. “Don’t worry. For you I will make something ‘governessy.’ That is what Lady Constance has ordered. I have her instructions written on the receipt.”

  “‘Governessy’?” Penelope looked with sudden longing at the sumptuous fabrics arrayed before her. “What could that possibly mean?”

  “The dress will be modest and plain. You would not want to be mistaken for one of the guests, after all.” Madame LePoint waved another fabric swatch in Penelope’s direction and clucked her tongue disapprovingly. “Alors, alors! It makes no difference what you wear, really. I’ll put you in dark gray. I believe I have some left over from a funeral.”

  THE TENTH CHAPTER

  Too much shopping leads to an argument about thespians.

  EXTRAORDINARILY BUSY PLACES are often compared to beehives, and if you have ever seen the inside of a beehive, you already know why this is so.

  (It is not necessary to actually set foot inside of a beehive to confirm this, by the way. They are too small and too full of bees for in-person tours to be truly convenient. But there are alternatives: One could peer inside using some sort of periscopelike magnifying device, for example. Or one could simply accept that beehives are busy and get on with it. This second option is called “suspending one’s disbelief,” and it is by far the easiest row to hoe, now and at other times, too.)

  All of which is to say: During the weeks leading up to the party, Ashton Place was an absolute beehive of activity. The cleaning, decorating, and cooking proceeded around the clock. The aroma of baking breads and roasting meats mingled in the air with the scent of the waxes and oils used to polish the woodwork, and the fresh, outdoorsy smell of the pine wreaths and garlands that festooned every available surface. Red velvet ribbons were tied in prettily drooping bows around the balusters of the central staircase and great urns of scarlet poinsettia flanked the doorways. Most impressive to Penelope was the fact that each room had its very own Christmas tree, except for the ballroom, which had two—one on either end.

  The actual work was done by the servants, of course, but the queen bee of all this busyness was indisputably Lady Constance. She flew from room to room in a state of nervous excitement that made her even more talkative than usual. Since Lord Ashton’s time was devoted to some important business in town, it was Miss Penelope Lumley who increasingly found herself on the receiving end of her mistress’s desire to chat.

  In fact, Penelope had finally resumed reading “The Wreck of the Hesperus” to the children, at the very spot where she had been interrupted during her previous attempt:

  “Colder and louder blew the wind,

  A gale from the Northeast,

  The snow fell hissing in the brine,

  And the billows frothed like yeast.”

  —when, unexpected and unannounced, Lady Constance herself dropped by the nursery.

  “Good morning, Miss Lumley. And—good morning, children,” she added, with a hint of nervousness. Evidently she had not forgotten the licking incident.

  With no prompting at all the children sprang to their feet. “Good morning, Lady Constance,” they replied, quite nicely.

  Lady Constance’s golden eyebrows lifted high in surprise. “Well, that is progress! And did I just hear some mention of yeast? Are you reading a cookbook? That would be a very practical thing to study.”

  The children shook their heads.

  “Wreckawoo,” Beowulf explained.

  “By Longfelloooo,” added Alexander.

  “Hesperus!” Cassiopeia offered. It came out like a little bark. “Hesperus! Hesperus!”

  “Hmm! How very interesting all that sounds.” Lady Constance was clearly bewildered and turned to Penelope. “Miss Lumley, may I speak to you for a moment?” She went on without waiting for a reply. “I am planning a shopping expedition in town tomorrow, and I thought that you—and perhaps the children—might care to join me.”

  “Arf!” Cass jumped excitedly at the prospect, but Penelope threw her a reproving look.

  “Words are better than barks, Cassiopeia,” she reminded.

  “Cassawoof town, yes!” the little girl corrected herself. The boys also seemed to react positively. Alexander smiled an eager, panting smile, and Beowulf started to drool, which was a sure sign that he found the idea appealing. The drooling was a habit Penelope was slowing training him out of; for now she was relieved Lady Constance seemed not to notice, as she was still prattling away.

  “…Old Timothy can drive us in the new brougham, so there will be plenty of room in the carriage. I have a frightfully long list of things to buy. Of course I could send Mrs. Clarke, but then I thought—no, it would be simply too much fun to go shopping! But I can’t abide going alone. I have been all but imprisoned in this house for days now, with so much to do and the party barely a week away….”

  The prospect of a trip to town was exciting to Penelope as well, but a long journey in the carriage with Lady Constance and the Incorrigibles, followed by a tiring day of shopping—would that be wise? She had been working very diligently with the children on good manners, socially useful phrases and appropriate party conversation topics; perhaps this expedition could serve as a valuable rehearsal. And, too, it was the most happy and excited she had seen the children since that awful visit to Lord Fredrick’s study.

  “Please, Lumawoo?” Alexander tugged at her sleeve.

  “Please please, Lumawoo?” Beowulf added fervently.

  “Lumahwoooooo!” Cassiopeia looked up at her with wide, entreating eyes.

  The howling jostled Penelope out of her thoughts. She realized Lady Constance was still waiting for an answer.

  “Of course, Lady Constance,” she said, flustered. “You are very kind to invite us. It will be our pleasure to accompany you to town.”

  “Lumawoo?” Lady Constance repeated. There was a curious expression on her face, and she looked at each of the children in turn. “Is that what they call you? How fascinating these Incorrigibles are. I am starting to see my husband’s point. It will be terribly amusing to show them off at the part
y—after all, no one else has anything like them! Tomorrow, then. We shall leave promptly at ten o’clock. What fun we shall have! I am sure I will hardly sleep a wink tonight thinking about it!”

  After Lady Constance left, the children were so excited that it took ten full minutes for Penelope to turn their attention back to the fate of the doomed Hesperus. Once she did, they were riveted by its tale of a shipwreck in a terrible winter storm at sea. After she reached the tragically thrilling last lines—

  “Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,

  In the midnight and the snow!

  Christ save us all from a death like this,

  On the reef of Norman’s Woe!”

  —the children’s appreciative howls of “Norman’s Ahwooooooooooooe!” rang throughout the nursery with such convincing mournfulness, Penelope thought that Longfellow himself would approve.

  When Penelope returned to her room that evening, she found a lilac-scented envelope had been slipped under the door. Inside was an impressive sum of cash and a brief note: Perhaps you will find it convenient to receive a portion of your salary prior to going shopping—with thanks for your service & c., Lady C.

  THE NEXT MORNING’S DEPARTURE went remarkably smoothly. In fact, when the children saw the gleaming carriage with its two horses in harness, they immediately called out “Rainbow! Silky!” and had to be gently dissuaded from braiding the beasts’ manes and tails on the spot. They spent the journey looking wide-eyed out the carriage windows. The fact that a strong pane of glass stood safely between them and whatever wildlife they might spot along the side of the road allowed Penelope to concentrate on her knitting in a most relaxed way.