As the children played, Penelope retreated to the back nursery and laid out all their fine new clothes, which had been delivered the previous day and were now hanging in the closets under covers of white muslin. This afternoon the party guests would start to arrive. Then it would be time to get dressed and face the music, so to speak, but not yet. She looked out the window. A light snow still fell, blanketing over all tracks and footprints from the previous day.
“That is what we must do as well,” Penelope thought. “Start afresh. There is no need to carry yesterday’s fears and disappointments into a brand-new day—especially on Christmas!”
The thought pleased her, so much so that she wondered if it might be some obscure saying of Agatha Swanburne’s that she had heard in passing long ago and then forgotten. “But it is not,” she realized, with a flush of pride. “In fact, I think it may well be the first memorable saying of Penelope Lumley!”
IT WAS LATE IN THE AFTERNOON when the first guests started to arrive. The Incorrigibles stood with their three noses pressed to the glass of the nursery windows, watching as the carriages pulled up. The grand ladies and gentlemen emerged with the aid of their coachmen, and their luggage was removed and brought inside (in those days it was expected that one would bring luggage for a party, for of course the ladies would have to change before dinner, and then again before the dancing commenced).
Darkness came early, as it always does in December, but the pageant of arriving revelers continued. The moon was full and so bright that the trees cast long blue shadows along the ground; the unearthly glow glittered like diamond dust on the freshly fallen snow. Inside, the house hummed with activity; soon the din of voices was loud enough to carry up to the nursery. Women gaily called to one another, men bellowed greetings and clapped one another on the back. There was a constant scurry of servants racing up and down the halls, tending the fires, hanging up cloaks, putting away umbrellas, and delivering trays of tea to warm the travelers. The ladies were shown to their rooms to rest and change clothes, while the men retreated to the smoking parlor to puff on cigars and talk about taxes, wars, cricket, and other subjects vital to the health of the nation.
“Yes, party!” Cassiopeia cried, no longer able to contain her excitement. “Party now, Cassawoof dress now, now now now!” The boys were also much too agitated to do anything but get ready, so finally Penelope gave the children leave to put on their new clothes, although she uttered all the usual cautions about not getting dirty or wrinkled before anyone had had a chance to see them.
Penelope also had to get changed. Her new gray gown had been delivered the previous day along with the children’s clothes and was now hanging in the closet of her bedroom. The style of the garment was not what she herself would have chosen, yet she was forced to admit, she was eager to know what it would feel like to wear a brand-new dress, made especially for her by an expensive seamstress with a French accent. That was something she had never experienced before, and (in principle at least) Penelope was in favor of new experiences, as long as they did not upset the digestion.
No sooner did she think of her dress than one of the housemaids, a short and plain-spoken girl whom everyone called Susan, came by the nursery with a message. “A very happy Christmas to you, Miss Lumley—you’d best go get changed now. Mrs. Clarke says you are to come downstairs as soon as you are ready. You and the children are to wait quietly in the ballroom in an out-of-the-way spot until the guests come in from dinner. Lady Constance will introduce you at the proper time.”
“MY HEAVENS!” Mrs. Clarke exclaimed. “I am sure I have never seen three such extraordinarily handsome and well-turned-out children!”
As you may know, complimentary remarks of this type are all too often made by well-meaning adults to children who are, to be frank, perfectly ordinary-looking. This practice of overstating the case is called hyperbole. Hyperbole is usually harmless, but in some cases it has been known to precipitate unnecessary wars as well as a painful gaseous condition called stock market bubbles. For safety’s sake, then, hyperbole should be used with restraint and only by those with the proper literary training.
However, in this particular instance, Mrs. Clarke’s enthusiasm was justified. The boys were dashing in their crisp, new sailor suits, and the addition of the straw hats provided the perfect finishing touch. And Cassiopeia’s dress was a marvel—a rich green velvet with exquisite silk rosettes stitched around the bodice. With her delicate frame, thick auburn hair, and wide green eyes, she looked like a woodland pixie from a storybook. Even Penelope had to admit that the clothes were well worth the trouble the tailor and Madame LePoint had put them all to.
Mrs. Clarke was also rather well turned out for the party, in her fashion. The dress she wore was a voluminous mélange of floral patterns that did much to accentuate the impressive girth of the wearer. She resembled nothing so much as a spring meadow in full bloom, depicted at nearly life-size.
As for Penelope, her dress was both dark and gray, and the cut was modest; one might even call it severe. But it was exquisitely made and had been hand-tailored to her exact measurements; she had never worn anything that fit so well. After examining herself in the mirror from every angle she could manage without pulling a muscle, Penelope concluded that she was pleased. The dress made her look older and even a bit forbidding. Wearing it gave her more rather than less confidence, and that is precisely what a well-chosen outfit ought to do.
“And tonight, especially,” she thought, as she took a deep breath and followed the children and Mrs. Clarke into the great ballroom, to wait as instructed and then to enjoy whatever festivities the evening had in store for them, “a bit of extra self-confidence is sure to come in useful.”
AT SWANBURNE THERE WERE STUDENTS, and there were teachers, and there was Miss Charlotte Mortimer, the headmistress. The pecking order was simple: Students obeyed teachers, and everyone obeyed Miss Mortimer.
But apparently there were a great many more types of people in the world than Penelope had previously realized. The parade of guests into the ballroom was carefully sorted in order of importance. First came the people with actual inherited titles, such as baron or viscount; then came the wealthy landowners, and then the prosperous businessmen. It was all very confusing. Penelope was left with the impression that titles were more important than profession and land was more important than business, but money was far more important than any other sort of accomplishment.
“See, that’s the Baron of Whatsit,” Mrs. Clarke whispered in her ear. “And there’s Countess Whoosis, she’s the wife of the Earl of Somewhere or Other. That’s Judge So-and-So. And there go Lord and Lady Moneybags; they’ve been traveling on the continent for a year and only just returned.”
Actually Mrs. Clarke was well able to remember most of the actual names, but once the information entered Penelope’s head it dissolved into gibberish. She could not think about names; she was too distracted by the glorious gowns the women wore, the elegant way they carried their fans, the colorful headpieces that perched on their heads like pet cockatoos. Only in magazines had she ever seen anything like the bejeweled necks and bare shoulders of these elegant women, with their elaborate upswept hairdos—suddenly, Penelope was ashamed at her own high-collared gray wool dress and her drab dark hair pulled back in a low, simple bun against her neck. The abundant self-confidence she felt while in her room had shrunk to the size of an acorn now that she was really here. She ransacked her memory for some bolstering saying of Agatha Swanburne’s—something about vain plumage, perhaps?—but came up empty.
The Incorrigibles just stood there, wide-eyed and trembling. Soon Mrs. Clarke had to leave to give instructions to the waiters, who were now bringing in the tea and after-dinner sweets. Wordlessly, Penelope and the children inched backward until they were almost completely shielded by the tall potted ferns that flanked the entryway (even in her current nervous state Penelope recognized them as Mineola ferns, native to a long island whose name she could not quite recall).
The party guests streamed into the ballroom, but they took no notice of Penelope and the children. For the most part their conversations were barely worth eavesdropping on: “Wonderful dinner! Isn’t it grand when it snows on Christmas! What a moon there is tonight, you can see as clear as day out there!” Although once Penelope could have sworn she heard someone say, “And where are these famous savages, I wonder? Locked in cages no doubt! Anybody seen Ashton? Where the devil can he be?”
At last, a bulbous-nosed man spotted them and walked over with another gentleman. He stood in front of Cassiopeia, but he spoke to his companion. “I say, Maytag, look at this charming creature disguised as a houseplant. Do you suppose this is one of the wild children Ashton spoke of at the club? It must be—look, here are the other two, hiding in the ferns.”
“Disappointing if so,” the other man commented. “They don’t seem so very wild at the moment.”
“No, ha! They look quite vegetative, in fact.” The first man regarded them openly, as if they could not see him examining them from three feet away. “Actually they seem like three unwilling children who’ve been dressed up and dragged to a party when they’d rather be jumping rope, ha! I quite sympathize.” He bent over to put his face quite near to Cassiopeia and spoke loudly and slowly, as if she were an idiot. “Halloo, there, young lady. I am Baron Hoover. And what name do you go by?”
“My name Cassawoof,” she said, staring stubbornly at the floor.
“Cassa—what? Woof? Ha, that’s rich!” He straightened. “And how about you lads? Do you have woofy names also?”
“Alexander. Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Alexander said carefully, with a bow.
“A pleasure, I’m sure—oops! Start over, sorry. Beowulf. A pleasure, I’m sure.” Chagrined by his minor muddle, Beowulf cast a nervous glance toward Penelope, who nodded reassuringly.
The man called Maytag looked startled. “Did you hear that, Hoover? Blast it all, they can talk English, and they’re not even covered with hair. Let’s go find Ashton and give him a what-for. The chap’s been pulling our leg.”
Hoover surveyed the children with curiosity. “I’d say you’re right, Maytag. Why, these children are perfectly normal, as children go, anyway.”
“Bad news, what?” Maytag remarked, as they walked away, drinks in hand. “I expect there’ll be no hunting tonight after all.”
No hunting tonight . . . What on earth did he mean by that? Penelope felt an icy chill pierce her through. Luckily, the children did not hear this perplexing remark; they were too busy staring at the regal woman with the elaborate fur-collared dress who had just entered the room. One side of the collar was adorned with tails, the other with heads. One would be hard-pressed to pick which side was the lucky one, since both were equally dead.
WHEN LADY CONSTANCE made her entrance, she looked like nothing so much as the star attraction of a dessert cart in a fancy restaurant—cream skin, strawberry lips, with her yellow hair swirled ’round her head like rich lemon-butter frosting. Her gown was of the purest white, with a lace overlay that floated around her like mist, nearly invisible except for where it was touched here and there with iridescent beads that glittered as she walked. She was escorted by two different gentlemen, neither of whom was her husband. Her talk was animated, her eyes flashed, her smile dazzled. It was all a bit much. She reminded Penelope of a windup toy whose key has been given a few turns too many.
“I must say, life at Ashton Place has me completely spoiled. From the first day it has been a dream come true, and all thanks to my darling Fredrick. And I am sure that was the best dinner I have ever eaten in my life! Now I will have no appetite for normal everyday meals ever again. Next time you see me, I will have wasted away to skin and bones—oh, look who is lurking here among the foliage! It is the legendary, world-famous Incorrigibles and their obscure governess.”
Her smile hardly altered, which is to say it did alter, slightly. Something brittle and false seeped into her expression. “Good evening, Miss Lumley. I hope your ears have not been burning! It appears that Lord Fredrick has told his friends at the club a great deal about the children. Indeed, all during dinner some of our guests could hardly speak of anything else. You can imagine how delighted I was about that!”
Clearly Lady Constance was not delighted about it at all; in fact, the mistress of Ashton Place looked as if she might like to punch someone. Penelope readied herself to leap to the children’s defense should it prove necessary.
“Now step forward, please, and let me see if the tailor and Madame LePoint have managed to make a silk purse out of a wolf’s ear, ha ha ha!” The gentlemen at Lady Constance’s elbows laughed along obediently. “Hmm, the children are presentable, that is as it should be.” She gazed coolly at Penelope. “And Miss Lumley, may I say that dress makes you look positively professional. But, come, you cannot spend the party at the door. Join us for some tea and petites madeleines, and then we shall clear away the dessert tables and the games and the dancing can begin.” She leaned close and lowered her voice. “Many eyes will be upon you, Miss Lumley, so take care. You need not speak to anyone unless spoken to, of course.”
Penelope tried to work up the courage to ask Lady Constance about this hunting business that the gentlemen had remarked about, but before she could speak, a new admirer was upon them, flanked by Hoover and Maytag. He was older than the other two men, and to be frank he was very ugly to look upon: His hair was coarse and jet-black, his nose was oddly shapeless, and he wore large thick glasses that distorted the shape of his eyes. But his walk had an energetic, feline spring, and there was a disarming, self-mocking lilt to his voice.
“Lady Ashton, you are a vision,” he crooned, taking one of her hands in both of his and bestowing upon it a gentlemanly kiss. “That dress suits you. It is like moonlight on snow. And the party is a triumph. It is a shame Lord Ashton could not join us for dinner, of course, but you must not let that trouble you. Be thankful he is not a navy man! Then he would be away from home for months at a time.”
At the mention of her husband Lady Constance’s left eye began to twitch. “You are very kind, Judge Quinzy. I doubt I should like being married to a sailor, though. I get terribly seasick. One time, when I was a girl, I was just sitting on the riverbank watching a sculling match, and after only a few minutes, I was nearly ready to—”
“Judge Quinzy,” Beowulf volunteered, now feeling surer of himself. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Judge Quinzy turned to locate the source of this voice emanating from the potted plants. The change in his demeanor upon seeing the children was hard to describe. It was not a change of expression, nor of complexion—it was more as if a sheer curtain had suddenly been drawn across his face.
Baron Hoover nudged Judge Quinzy in the ribs. “‘Pleased to make your acquaintance,’ did you hear that? Ashton’s been putting one over on us. These brats talk better than most of the unwashed hordes that appear before your bench, and the law insists on calling that lot human, doesn’t it?”
“It does, Hoover, it certainly does—although not without controversy, in some circles. My, my! So these are the Incorrigible children. Indeed, I was expecting something far more savage. On the other hand, appearances can be deceiving.” He regarded them slowly and methodically, one after another. “How fascinating it is to finally meet you. Come, you—all three of you—you must sit at my table for dessert. You cannot refuse; you are without question the most interesting guests at this party, and I intend to get to know you much, much better.”
Cassiopeia clutched Penelope’s hand tightly. “No Lumawoo?” she asked tremulously. Judge Quinzy looked at Penelope as if he were seeing her for the first time, although of course she had been standing there all along.
“Who’s this, then? The governess?” There was a sudden edge to his voice. “Can’t she speak?”
Maytag was quite beside himself with chuckling. “Ha! Perhaps Ashton got it all wrong! Perhaps she’s the one they found h
owling in the woods!”
Penelope felt her cheeks flush. If only this fancy gray dress had a nice loose pocket in front for her poetry book! It would have been a comfort to have close by, but even the thought of it was enough to remind her what to do.
“I am Miss Penelope Lumley,” she said boldly, with the full force of her education behind her. “I am a graduate of the Swanburne Academy for Poor Bright Females, currently employed as governess here at Ashton Place.” Then she looked Judge Quinzy straight in the eye, exactly as if they were equals, for she was a Swanburne girl after all. “It would be our pleasure to consent to join you for dessert.”
The twitching in Lady Constance’s eye had increased dramatically during this exchange. Now she covered the eye with one hand and excused herself by saying, “Pardon me, I do think a cinder may have flown into my eye—I shall return momentarily—do not forget the petites madeleines!—Margaret, Margaret, oh, will someone ring for my lady’s maid, please—?” Then, like a bird with one broken wing, she spun in half-blind circles until someone assisted her to the door.
Judge Quinzy hardly acknowledged Lady Constance’s comical exit; his attention was fixed on Penelope. “Swanburne Academy, eh? I don’t believe I’ve heard of that school; you must tell me all about it. But from the obvious high quality of its graduates—the one I’ve met so far, at least—I would wager that it’s a very worthy institution, very worthy indeed.”
The Mysterious Howling Page 12