Whatever else Mrs. Clarke intended to say was drowned out by the rising wail of a most unpleasant sound—high-pitched, unhinged, emanating from the vicinity of the piano yet entirely unmusical.
“Find those Incorrigibles!” Lady Constance screamed. “They are running amok!”
AS YOU MAY KNOW, the phrase running amok originally referred to elephants that had become separated from their herds and went galumphing through local villages, causing wreckage, destruction, and miscellaneous (to use Cassiopeia’s term) mayhem.
Whether three small- to medium-sized children and one tiny, terrified squirrel could cut a swath of destruction comparable to that of an enraged elephant remained to be seen. Perhaps Lady Constance was guilty of hyperbole when she said the children were “running amok,” or perhaps she was offering an accurate assessment of the situation. No matter. Penelope fully intended to find the children, although she was far more worried about them (and, to a lesser but real extent, the squirrel) than she was about the antique furniture or the precious hand-loomed Arabian carpets that Lady Constance was so frantic about.
“Find those Incorrigibles! They are running amok!”
She instructed Mrs. Clarke to tell the servants not to run about the house yelling for the children (so as not to frighten them into hiding). Then her search began. There was a scattered trail of cookie crumbs to follow for a while, but it disappeared at the foot of the great central staircase. If only the children had not been so thorough in the use of their napkins!
But now was no time for regrets. She had to decide which way to go: upstairs, downstairs, or down the opposite hall to the other side of the house? “The children will be following the squirrel, that is the key,” Penelope mused, which led her to the intriguing question: If Penelope were a squirrel, where would she run? (Although admittedly intriguing, the question was also nonsensical. Obviously, if Penelope were a squirrel, it would be a highly unusual squirrel. It would be a Swanburne squirrel through and through, and, therefore, its behavior could not be considered representative of the high-strung and woefully undereducated furball that is more typical of the species. But Penelope was too flustered to think of this at the time.)
“Up,” she decided with conviction. “It is a squirrel’s instinct to race up the trees when threatened. I have seen them do it a hundred times. I will continue my search by heading upstairs. Surely there will be some sign that the chase has gone by. I will soon pick up the trail.” She did not know what exactly she expected “some sign” to be. Truthfully, she was afraid to imagine the scope of destruction the children might have left in their wake.
She was right to be afraid. The stairs themselves seemed more or less unharmed, save for some carpets kicked askew and the ribbon bows untied and thrown everywhere, but the second floor landing was, as they say nowadays, trashed. Paintings had been ripped from their frames. A chunk of plaster had been clawed or kicked out of the wall, with a long network of cracks emanating from the spot. A large vase of cut pussy willow stalks had been tipped over and shattered, with shards of broken crockery and stray catkins everywhere.
Still, Penelope convinced herself that the havoc trended in one direction slightly more so than in the other. Soon she found herself nearing Lord Fredrick’s study. “If the squirrel were clever, it would hide among the taxidermy and hold very still, as if stuffed,” she thought. Of course squirrels were not known for being clever; the crafty notion of using camouflage to hide in plain sight was more the kind of thing that, say, Edith-Anne Pevington would have thought of, and in fact, she had thought of it in the plot of Too Many Rainbows. That was the tale in which Edith-Anne had dusted a whole herd of ponies with cornstarch so that gray-dappled Rainbow could go unnoticed among them and thus escape the clutches of Barnabus Bailey, a wicked circus owner who longed to steal the talented pony for his own greedy purposes.
Penelope knew it was unlikely that any squirrel would possess even a fraction of Edith-Anne’s resourcefulness, and this one in particular had already shown signs of muddled thinking. Nevertheless, she thought she ought to take a peek in the study just in case, for, as Agatha Swanburne once said, “You’ll find it in the last place you look, so, for heaven’s sake, keep looking until you find it!”
As she came nearer, she heard voices—men’s voices—in animated discussion. She knew better than to eavesdrop, yet once more it simply could not be helped, for the voices rang out strong and clear.
“Is all this weaponry really necessary?” It was Baron Hoover.
“It’s only self-defense!” the Earl of Maytag snorted. “I heard Lady Ashton say the little one bites.”
Penelope froze. Mrs. Clarke had said something about a “search party”—surely they meant to search and not to hunt?
She knew it was urgent that she find the children, but now she felt it was equally important to know what the gentlemen (if one could still call them that) were planning to do. Putting aside her qualms about eavesdropping, she crept close enough to the door that she could hear every scrap of the conversation within, and listened.
“Good point. I’d prefer not to be bitten, personally. Look at this old musket! Ashton’s got quite a collection here.”
“We’ll find them easily in this moon. It’s like daylight outside. I’ve never seen a moon so full. And where in blazes is Ashton? He’s missing all the fun.”
“They’re fakes! Probably just three strays he nabbed from an orphanage. I’ll wager he promised them new shoes and some candy if they’d bay at the moon in front of his friends and then make themselves scarce.”
“I’m not as sure as you, Maytag. What do you say, Quinzy?”
The Judge’s mellifluous voice replied, “I have reason to believe Ashton did find these three in the woods. To me the more interesting question is whether they are more rightly considered animals or human. What do you gentlemen think?”
“I say animals. Strays are strays.” There was a whirr and clunk, like metal grinding against metal.
“Animals who speak Latin? Preposterous. Careful, Maytag, there may be bullets in there.”
“A parrot can be taught phrases in Latin. It proves nothing.”
“Maytag, I say, watch where you point that—”
“As the newest member of our club, Judge Quinzy should get the last word! What is the verdict, your honor?”
There was a brief pause before Quinzy answered, “I say the Earl of Maytag has a point. If a creature that looks like a dog speaks to you in perfect Latin, you would be hard-pressed to argue that it was merely a dog, agreed? Likewise, if a creature that looks like a child comes to you howling and barking and threatening to bite, you would be perfectly justified in assuming it was not precisely a child.”
“Well, that’s something to bear in mind if one of them attacks.” Maytag sounded quite pleased. “Can’t believe Ashton’s not here. He’d love this.”
“I think he’s pulling a joke on all of us, or trying to.”
“Always a joker, that Ashton. He was the same when we were at Eton. You daren’t turn your back on him for a minute, or you’d end up with a ‘kick me’ sign pinned to your back. We’re not so easily fooled now, though, eh?”
“Not now, no, har har!”
Penelope scrunched her eyes shut. All her attention was focused on what she could hear. Laughter, the slapping of backs. The snakelike hiss of cold metal being rubbed with a polishing cloth. The grind and thunk of guns being loaded.
Without thinking, Penelope hurled herself into the study. She stood there, breathing hard and trying not to scream at the sight of all the guns. The men stared at her.
“The children,” she panted. “They have run out into the woods. Mrs. Clarke said you might help look for them.” It was a lie. She was quite convinced the children had gone upstairs, but she wanted these men as far away from them as possible, and it was easy for her to look desperate and afraid, for that is exactly how she felt. “They are very skilled at covering their tracks,” she added quickly, “even in t
he snow. You will not have an easy time finding them—but please—if you could try—I know you are skilled hunters—”
“We will do our best,” Baron Hoover said warmly.
“We’ll bring ’em back, one way or another,” Maytag added with a dark chuckle.
Penelope nodded and backed out of the room. She could stay quiet no longer; the sob was rising in her throat. Covering her mouth with one hand, Penelope ran, as fast as she could—almost as if she were being hunted herself.
UP THE STAIRS PENELOPE RAN. Once on the third floor she thought to check the nursery; perhaps the children had lost interest in the squirrel and found their way back there. Breathless, she dashed inside. The nursery was cold and dark. No fire had been lit, and there was no sign of the children.
She threw open the window and leaned out into the night air, craning her head this way and that. The men were right. The full moon was now at its highest and the snow caught and magnified every morsel of its eerie blue glow. Although hardly as “bright as day,” as Maytag had claimed, the night was as bright as a night could be.
“They are in the house, I know they are!” Penelope said it aloud, both to convince herself and to steady her nerves. She still believed the squirrel’s natural instinct would be to climb. She also knew Ashton Place possessed a fourth floor, but she had never had cause to visit it, until now.
The stair leading to the fourth floor was not a continuation of the main stairs of the house, but a smaller back staircase that rose from the far end of the third floor, where the smallest of the guest bedrooms were located. Only the servants used this stair, for the fourth floor held only servants’ quarters, storage closets for linens and out-of-season clothes, sewing rooms, and so forth.
The stair was fully enclosed and pitch-dark. Why had Penelope not thought to bring a candle? If she could see, she would be able to tell whether there were four sets of tracks in the dust. As it was, all she could do was grope her way to the top, step by unseen step, and then push open the door.
She waited for her eyes to adjust, and looked around. She was not on the fourth floor at all. She was in the attic—in the dark she must have missed the landing and gone up two flights instead of one. The ceiling was low and angled, but moonlight streamed in from a high window covered by slatted shutters at the far end of the hall, and there was just enough light to see.
As soon as she closed the stairway door behind her, she heard sounds.
Scuffling. Panting. A low, anxious whine.
And—how her heart sank to hear it!—the unmistakable sound of gnawing.
“Children?” she called in a trembling voice. “It is Miss Lumley. Where are you? Please answer me!”
“Lumawoooooo! Lumawoooooo!”
She ran in the direction of the voices, racing blindly across the rough wood floor until she skidded to a stop at the end of the passageway. There was a windowed alcove hung with heavy drapes all around, but the drape on one side had been pulled back to reveal a small landing and a short series of steps that seemed to dead-end into the wall. Beowulf was standing on the top step, Alexander on the one below.
Alexander turned to face her. His face—his mouth, to be precise—was stained crimson. So were his fingers.
“No, oh no!” she cried. “Oh, dear, I know it is not really your fault, but children—that poor, poor squirrel!”
Chatter, chatter, chatter. Penelope wheeled to the source of the sound and stared into the darkness until her eyes adjusted. In a tiny window seat, tucked low in the alcove so that it was set deep in shadow, sat Cassiopeia. In her lap was the squirrel. It chattered excitedly as Cassiopeia fed it petites madeleines out of her reticule. Evidently, she had stuffed the tiny purse full of cakes when no one was looking.
“Cassawoof new pet,” Cassiopeia said happily. “I name Nutsawoo. I love.” Gently, she scratched the squirrel between the ears. There was much happy chirruping in answer. “My Rainbow,” she explained, gazing up at Penelope with soft, trusting eyes.
Penelope felt herself flooded with a mixture of shock, relief, confusion, and fear, for even as Cassiopeia spoke, there was a thunder of hoofbeats from below. The search party was out in force, guns loaded, galloping into the woods. They would not find the Incorrigibles there, but by the time they realized that and returned to the house, who knew what fate they might have decided for the children?
With so many emotions to sort through, it is no wonder that the only thing Penelope could manage to say was, “That is all very well, Cassiopeia—but Alexander! Beowulf! Whatever have you got smeared on your hands and faces?”
The boys’ hands flew up to their mouths. They looked at each other and grinned.
“We eat the wall,” Alexander explained.
“Taste bad,” Beowulf added, spitting a little.
Only then did Penelope see what was behind them. The wall at the top of this strange staircase was plastered over with many layers of wallpaper. Judging from the piles of soggy, chewed-up scraps that littered the steps, the boys had been gnawing their way through each one. The top layer (that is, the most recent one) was a loud floral pattern in bright red—the dye from this is what had stained the boys’ mouths crimson. Underneath that was a tasteful multicolor stripe.
But Penelope was in no mood to think about the evolution of interior design trends. “This is a frightful mess you have made!” she said sternly to the boys. “Why on earth are you tearing away at the wallpaper like that?”
“Make a hole. Someone inside,” Alexander explained. He gestured for her to come up the stairs. “Listen.”
“I don’t hear anything,” she said nervously. “And please, stop putting your mouths to the wallpaper. It looks frightful, and I am sure it is quite unsanitary.”
Obligingly, Alexander and Beowulf attacked the striped layer of wallpaper by shoving their fingers under the edge of the seam. With a nod, Alexander cued his brother to pull. The paper peeled off in a whole sheet, slowly, with a long fffffft sound, as the ancient dried paste reluctantly turned to dust.
“Make a hole. Someone inside,” Alexander explained.
But there was yet another layer underneath, or perhaps it was some kind of mural, or a large painting. Even as Penelope looked, a cloud passed over the moon and the light was snuffed out. She could only catch a glimpse—it was a dark, woodland scene—something frightened and pale in the foreground—the glint of a ravenous yellow eye—a spatter of crimson—
In the dark, Alexander pressed his ear against the wall.
“Listen,” he insisted.
Penelope came closer and listened. Wait—was there something? A faint snuffling and then some guttural noises like a growl or bark, followed by a low and plaintive howl?
Ahwoooooooooooo…
No. There was no howl, no sound at all; she was imagining it. In any case, it was very dark now, and she was suddenly groggy with exhaustion and freezing cold. She had had enough excitement for one day and longed for a warm fire and an interesting book. “Children,” she said, shivering. “That is enough of that. We must leave at once.”
“Someone, Lumawoo,” Beowulf insisted. He sniffed at the wallpaper. “Someone inside.”
“I am sure there is not,” she said firmly. “Now we must return to the nursery. We are all very tired, and it is far too easy to start imagining things when one is worn out. Christmas is over. It is time to go to bed—after scrubbing your faces and hands, of course.”
Obediently, the boys turned away from the wall. Cassiopeia tugged at her sleeve. “My Nutsawoo? Keep?”
Penelope sighed. “He will not be happy living indoors, but he can live in the tree outside the nursery windows.” Cassiopeia was content with that solution, but Penelope had to bite her lip not to comment as the little girl explained its new living situation to the attentively chirruping squirrel. Then, with her brothers’ help (Beowulf had to hoist her onto Alexander’s shoulders to reach), she opened the high window just enough to let creature out and closed it after.
“N
utsawoo meet us downstairs,” Cassiopeia explained, jumping lightly to the floor. With deep satisfaction, she wiped her filthy hands on the shredded remains of her party dress. “Now”—yawn!—“Cassawoof go to bed.”
THE FIFTEENTH AND FINAL CHAPTER
Lord Fredrick demands a lozenge, and the children’s fate is decided.
IN ENGLAND (and in some other countries as well), the day after Christmas is called Boxing Day.
Nowadays, Boxing Day is the day in which stores put all their merchandise on sale, thus giving exhausted and bankrupt shoppers the chance to stand in line for hours in hopes of saving ten percent on a new microwave oven, which, presumably, would come in a box. In Miss Penelope Lumley’s day it was the occasion for small boxes of holiday presents to be distributed to the servants, and that is where the name “Boxing Day” originated. In fact, on Boxing Day it was customary to give the servants the day off, and most household employees considered this the greatest gift of all.
Perhaps Lady Constance had secretly planned to declare Boxing Day a day off for the servants of Ashton Place. She had not mentioned her intention to do so, but every member of the staff, from Mrs. Clarke down the youngest stable boy, had lived in hope. In fact, Margaret and Jasper had been seen whispering plans to go ice skating on the lake should a few hours of freedom tumble unexpectedly into their laps.
But when the sun finally dared to rise on this particular Boxing Day morning, all such hopes were dashed. Lady Constance’s Christmas party had ended in such a free-for-all of destruction that a whole fleet of servants working ’round the clock for a month would be hard-pressed to put the house right. There would be no day off, and if any Christmas boxes had been prepared for the staff, they were nowhere in evidence.
At least the staff had no houseguests to take care of. Once the children had charged out of the ballroom in pursuit of Nutsawoo (and you may think of that mischievous scamp as Nutsawoo from this point forward, now that he has been given a name), the party never recovered. Most of the guests insisted on leaving at once, and the few remaining stragglers had departed at daybreak without even waiting for breakfast.
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