“Don't worry about it. Close your eyes and listen,” said Jeffrey, and played several bars of music. “Now, that was Bach. Did you hear the mathematical progressions?”
“Of course not. Let's explore the basement today. I love basements.”
Batty's head appeared next to Jeffrey again. “Can I play with that gold thing by the fireplace?”
“You mean the fire screen? Go ahead,” said Jeffrey, and Batty's head vanished.
“You're letting her play with gold?” said Skye.
“Don't worry, it's only brass. Now concentrate. You must already know from playing the clarinet—”
“Trying to play the clarinet.”
“—that notes are like fractions. Whole notes, halves, quarters, eighths, sixteenths. That's math. But you can also think of the scale as a base-eight number system. Do, re, mi, fa, so, la, ti, then we get to eight and have to start over again with do, right? Listen.” Jeffrey played a scale on the piano.
Once again, there was Batty beside Jeffrey. “What about those little stone animals on the table in the corner?” she said.
“Play with whatever you want,” said Jeffrey. “Just be careful.”
“Okay,” she said, and left.
“Skye, listen to the music. Hear the patterns.”
“You're not going to give up, are you?”
“I really think you could be good at this if you would just try.” He played the piece again. This time he went past the first measures and continued to the end. When he finished, he looked expectantly at Skye.
“Huh, you know, I think I'm starting to get it.”
“Really?”
“It's all about combining logic and instinct. Let me try,” she said, shaking out her hands, then lowering them gracefully to the keyboard. CRASH! BANG! DISCORD! BOOM!
“Stop! You win! Be quiet!” he shouted, covering his ears, but Skye was enjoying herself too much to stop. So Jeffrey started to tickle her and kept on doing it until Skye fell off her side of the piano bench. Only then was blessed silence restored.
Jeffrey looked down at Skye on the floor. “Now we can discuss the key of E-flat.”
Skye lunged at him and yanked him off the bench. The tickling began again. There was lots of hysterical laughter, that is, in between the shouted threats. Tickling turned to wrestling then to pummeling. The piano bench was kicked over and sheet music flew everywhere.
So loud was the joyful mayhem that neither heard the sound of someone opening the door and coming into the room. Had they been more careful—but why would they have been? They couldn't have known that Dexter's car would get a flat tire on the way to Vermont and that he would get so wet and dirty changing it in the rain that he'd turn around and bring Mrs. Tifton home early. And they certainly couldn't have known that she'd hear their thumping and laughing from the hall and come in to see what was going on. But that's what happened, and this time Sir Barnaby wasn't there to keep Mrs. Tifton from losing her temper out loud.
“You again!” She glared venomously down at Skye. “YOU!”
Jeffrey lurched to his feet, knocking the fallen piano bench into the piano leg in the process. “Mother,” he gasped. “I thought you were in Vermont.”
“And this is how you take advantage of my absence— rolling around like a hooligan with this obnoxious—this wretched—”
Skye stood up beside Jeffrey, unashamed—for they hadn't been doing anything wrong. Today there was no spilled urn, no splattered jasmine, no ruined competition. “I started the rolling around, Mrs. Tifton.”
“Oh, I wouldn't doubt for a minute that you started it, Jane. You cause havoc wherever you go. First my poor garden, and now this!” said Mrs. Tifton, indicating the rest of the music room with a dramatic sweep of her arm.
Skye and Jeffrey peered around the grand piano. Oh, no, thought Skye. Maybe there wasn't a spilled urn, but something pretty awful had been added to the music room—a sort of combination Wild West fort and Arabian Nights tent, built from couch pillows and a brass fire screen, plus a dozen large leather-covered books and several elegant silk throws.
“Batty?”
A pale and frightened face peeked out from behind Vanity Fair.
“It's all right,” said Jeffrey. “You don't have to hide.”
Batty crawled into view. In each of her hands was a small, intricately carved stone lion.
“Papa's African sculptures!” said Mrs. Tifton. “Jeffrey Framley Tifton, have you no respect for anything of mine?”
“He was just—” said Skye.
Mrs. Tifton turned on her, cutting her off. “Leave my house, you and your sister both. The Penderwicks are no longer welcome here.”
“Mother, they—” said Jeffrey.
“I will not hear another word from you until they are gone,” said Mrs. Tifton.
“Then I'll show them out,” he said staunchly.
“I'm sure they know the way. You will stay here and help me clear up this disaster.”
“It's okay,” said Skye to Jeffrey. “We do know the way. Come on, Batty, let's go.”
Batty carefully placed the little sculptures on the floor, then crept over to Skye, using her under-the-piano detour to avoid Mrs. Tifton.
“See you later,” said Jeffrey.
“Yes. I'll see you later, Jeffrey. Thank you for teaching me how to play the piano,” said Skye, and, with her head held high, marched past Mrs. Tifton and out the door.
Batty made it out of the music room before she started to cry, but when her tears did come, they were what Mr. Penderwick called Batty's silent storm, that is, fast, furious, and without any noise. Skye pulled her down the hall to where they couldn't be heard by Mrs. Tifton.
“Don't. Not now” Calming Batty wasn't one of Skye's talents. She wished Rosalind were there or even Jane.
“It's all my fault.” Batty's wings drooped and her tears flowed like waterfalls. “I shouldn't have come, Skye, like you said.”
There was no comfort in saying I told you so, not with Batty already crying like her heart would break. And besides, Skye knew this was much more her own fault than Batty's.
“I'm the OAP,” she said. “I should have been paying more attention.”
“I guess so.”
“Then stop crying and dry your face.”
“I don't have a tissue,” sobbed Batty. This new tragedy only made her cry harder.
“Use your clothes. I won't tell anyone.”
While Batty scrubbed at her face with her little shirt, Skye looked anxiously back toward the music room. She desperately wanted to eavesdrop—just for a moment— to make sure Jeffrey wasn't getting too horribly punished.
“I'm done,” said Batty. Her shirt was very wet and crumpled-looking now, but her tears had slowed to a trickle.
“Good job.” Skye awkwardly patted her head. “Now go to the kitchen. Churchie will give you something to eat.”
“I want to stay with you. Please.”
Any minute Mrs. Tifton could come bursting out of the music room. It was either listen at the door right now or leave the house altogether. And Skye just couldn't bear to leave without knowing that Jeffrey was all right. Especially not after getting him into trouble yet again.
“Okay,” she said. “But you must be very quiet while I check on Jeffrey.”
“You mean you're going to snoop.”
“Yes, snoop, and if you don't like it, you can go find Churchie now.”
Batty preferred snooping to wandering around Arundel Hall by herself, so the two sisters tiptoed back to the music room and pressed their ears to the door. Mrs. Tifton was talking.
“I don't understand what's happened, Jeffrey. You never used to defy me this way. Ever since those Penderwicks—”
“It's got nothing to do with them, Mother,” said Jeffrey.
“You used to have such nice friends, like Teddy Robinette.”
“Teddy Robinette's never been my friend. He's a bully and a jerk.”
“I don't believe this.”<
br />
“No one at school likes him and he cheats. You just wanted me to be his friend because he's from a rich fam—”
“That's enough!” Skye and Batty could hear Mrs. Tifton pacing. “I just don't know how to handle you anymore. Dexter's been saying you need a firmer hand. Maybe he's right.”
“Dexter!” said Jeffrey scornfully.
“What does that mean? You don't like him, either? If not, you'd better say something right now, because—” She broke off in the middle of her sentence.
“Because you're going to marry him?” said Jeffrey.
The pacing stopped and Mrs. Tifton's voice became softer, almost pleading. “Would that be so bad? For me to have a husband? And you a father?”
“He doesn't want to be my father! He wants to get rid of me by sending me away to Pencey a whole year early!”
“We're still discussing—” Suddenly her soft and pleading tone was gone. “Just a minute, young man. How do you know about that?”
“Well—we—I—heard you talking about it.”
“We?” There was a long pause. “Answer me, Jeffrey. When and with whom did you spy on me? Does Churchie have something to do with this? Cagney?”
“No, no,” he cried. “Of course not.”
“Those Penderwicks, then. I should have known.”
“But we weren't spying, Mother. Really we weren't. We heard you and Dexter talking by mistake after my birthday party.”
“By mistake, was it? I'll bet the spying was Jane's idea. Sneaky, sarcastic blonde.”
“You mean Skye, and she's not—”
“Don't interrupt,” Mrs. Tifton snapped. “And it's not only Jane—Skye. It's all of them. They're uncouth, rude, and conceited. This is what happens when parents don't do their jobs. The father's a pushover, and who knows where the mother ran off to. I suppose she got tired of caring for all those girls. I certainly would.”
For the two in the hallway, this was a nightmare. Skye didn't mind being called sneaky and sarcastic. That wasn't so awful, considering the source, and it was true that here she was, spying. But to hear Mrs. Tifton criticize her father and, worse—oh, much worse—spew out nasty ideas about her mother. It was unbearable. Skye felt a red rage building inside her. Her hands tightened into hard fists. Her ears rang so that she could just barely hear Jeffrey's reply.
“Mother, Mrs. Penderwick—”
“And that Rosalind is always chasing after Cagney like a lovesick puppy. If she keeps up that kind of behavior, one of these days some man will allow himself to be caught, and that will be the end of her wide-eyed innocence. Plus you can't tell me there's nothing wrong with the little one. Those tacky wings and the odd way she stares without speaking—”
Skye knew she shouldn't go in there. It wasn't gentlemanly and it would only give Mrs. Tifton more reason to hate her. Yes, she knew all that, and even Batty was tugging at her arm to keep her from doing it. But it didn't matter. The family—her mother's!— honor was at stake, and she had to defend the people she loved the best. She took a deep breath, girded herself for battle, and threw open the door and charged across the room toward Mrs. Tifton.
“Where—what—” sputtered Mrs. Tifton.
“You can't talk about my family like that!” shouted Skye. “Take it back now!”
“How dare you! In my home!” Mrs. Tifton ran to the door and shouted into the hallway. “Churchie! Come to the music room right now!”
Skye followed her. “I dare because I'm a Penderwick. But you wouldn't know anything about that!”
“Jeffrey, you see! She was spying again!”
“I was spying, I admit it,” said Skye proudly. “I needed to make sure Jeffrey was all right.”
“Make sure—you presumptuous—CHURCHIE!”
“And I'm glad I spied because I heard those things you said and you couldn't—”
Skye felt a soothing hand on her shoulder. It was Churchie, flushed and panting from running.
“Come, Skye.” Churchie picked up Batty, who was crying all over again. “You'd better go back to the cottage now.”
But Skye was too far gone to listen. She stuck her face up close to Mrs. Tifton's. “You couldn't in a million years understand anything about my mother. You're not good enough. She would never have left us on purpose. She died. Did you hear me? My mother is DEAD!”
“I didn't know—no one told me—”
“Jeffrey was trying to tell you, but you wouldn't pay attention, just like you never—”
“Skye, that's enough, dear.” It was Churchie again. “Tend to your sister.”
“Yes, Churchie, please.” Mrs. Tifton looked like she was going to faint. “Get her away from me.”
“I'll get myself away,” said Skye. Still shaking with anger, she went over to Jeffrey. He was shaking, too, not from anger, but as if he'd barely survived a tornado. Skye lowered her voice so that only he could hear. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I had to, though.”
“I know.”
She made her hand into a fist and held it out to him. He put his fist on top of hers.
“Friends forever?” said Skye.
“Friends forever.”
“Penderwick Family Honor,” they said together.
* * *
Skye stalked through the rain, feeling it running down her hair and face and into her T-shirt and shorts, soaking them. After tucking Batty into her yellow slicker, Churchie had tried to get Skye into a raincoat, too, but she'd been too impatient to get out of the house and as far away from Mrs. Tifton as possible. Now they were almost to the marble thunderbolt man. Soon they'd be through the tunnel and back on the sane, peaceful side of the hedge.
“I have a question.” Batty was peering up from under the brim of her rain hat.
“What?”
“Am I odd? Is there something wrong with me, like Mrs. Tifton said?”
Skye knelt down on the wet grass and looked right into Batty's eyes. “No, you stupid idiot, there's nothing wrong with you. You're perfect. Mrs. Tifton doesn't know what she's talking about.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely positive.”
“Oh,” said Batty.
“Do you have any more questions?”
“Not right now.”
“Then let's get you home to Daddy.” Skye took hold of Batty's hand and held it all of the way back to the cottage.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A Midnight Adventure
ONE MORE STORY,” said Batty.
“You've already had three,” said Rosalind. “You know the rule is one story at bedtime.”
“Please, Rosalind. Hound is lonely and sad tonight.”
Hound dropped the bone he had been chewing, galloped across the room, and leapt joyously onto Batty's bed.
“Yes, he looks lonely and sad,” said Rosalind, pushing Hound off the bed and wondering for the fifteenth time what had happened to Skye and Batty at Arundel Hall that morning. Skye had locked herself in her room the moment she got back to the cottage. Batty's eyes had been red and swollen, and she'd insisted on sticking close to Rosalind for the rest of the day. Neither would say what was wrong.
“Tell me a story about Mommy and Uncle Gordon when they were little,” said Batty.
“All right, one more story if you promise to go to sleep afterward.”
“I promise.”
“Do you want peanut-butter-on-the-walls or the bobsled?”
“Both.”
“Batty—” said Rosalind warningly.
“The bobsled.”
Rosalind began, “When Uncle Gordon was seven years old and Mommy was five, Uncle Gordon read a book about bobsledding and decided he wanted to learn how.”
“But it was summer.”
“And there was no snow So Uncle Gordon took the mattress off his bed and dragged it to the top of the stairs so he could slide it down like a bobsled. But he wasn't sure how well it would work, so he told Mommy to take the first ride.”
“Mommy said no,” said Batty
sleepily. Her eyes were starting to close.
“Until Uncle Gordon said he'd pay her twenty-five cents to do it. So Mommy got under the covers— Uncle Gordon had left the sheets and blankets on the mattress to make it more like a bobsled—and Uncle Gordon gave the whole thing a giant push.” Rosalind paused a minute and, when Batty didn't chime in, went on in a whisper. “But it wasn't a straight staircase. After twelve steps, it came to a landing where it curved around, then went down another twelve steps. So, of course, when the mattress got to the landing, it got stuck and folded up like an accordion, and Mommy was all tangled up in blankets and sheets and mattress, and she started to yell—Batty?”
Batty had finally fallen asleep. Rosalind tucked her in securely, kissed her cheek, and gave Hound a stern stay-off-the-bed look. He gave her back a big red doggy grin full of innocence and the promise to never even think about jumping on Batty's bed ever again. Rosalind turned off the light, closed the door behind her, and heard a great thump. She sighed and headed for the steps to the attic.
Now it was time to go upstairs to check on Jane, who had stayed in bed all day with her cold, napping, then writing, then reading, then napping again. Jane's light was on, and the book she had been reading, Magic by the Lake, was lying open on the bedcovers. But Jane was fast asleep, her uncombed curls scattered across the pillow. Rosalind moved the book to the bedside table, then brushed her fingers against Jane's forehead—it was cooler. The fever had dropped. Daddy would be relieved.
Jane stirred and muttered, “Now that you are free, Arthur, whither shall I convey you in my balloon? Choose your heart's desire. Where shall it be? Russia? Australia? Brasilia?”
“Jane, it's Rosalind. Do you need anything?”
“And the boy replied, Anywhere in the world where Ms. Horriferous can't find me.'”
“Shh, go back to sleep.” Rosalind turned off the light, then slipped downstairs and into her own room.
Only three more nights, she thought, then home to Cameron. Would she miss this room? It wasn't as pretty as her room at home, with its cherry furniture and the colorful plaid curtains and bedspread her mother had made. But still, she had been happy here. There was Cagney's book about Gettsyburg on the bed—she was almost finished with it. And a white rose from his Fimbriata bush on the bureau. And all the letters she had gotten so far from Anna, filled with advice about Cagney And hanging on the outside of the closet door, where Rosalind could look at it every day, the striped dress she'd worn to Jeffrey's birthday party. Rosalind walked over and touched the covered buttons on the back, one at a time. Thirteen of them. She knew that by heart, just like she knew by heart what Cagney said when he saw her in it.
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