He eyed the fabric and nodded. “Brown. Brown like acorns.”
Alexander disagreed. “Brown like mud,” he said.
“Halfway between acorn and mud,” Beowulf conceded.
This was disappointing news, to say the least! To Penelope’s way of thinking, halfway between bark and russet was nowhere near as brown as halfway between acorn and mud. But in the dim light of the train compartment such distinctions were useless, and it was time to face facts: She had bought a dress that was brownish, if not actually brown, no matter what the shade might be called.
“You are quite correct, Beowulf.” She pulled the front of her jacket closed to conceal as much of the dress as possible. “I prefer brown myself. It is a perfectly fine color, no matter what some people think. Oh, dear, look at the clock! According to my pocket watch, it is well past time for all the children on board to nap.”
“Train has nap time?” Cassiopeia asked, confused.
“Certainly. I believe it was printed on the tickets.” Penelope quickly hid the tickets in the pocket of her jacket so the children could not check. “Now hurry. Be quick, before the conductor comes!”
Obediently, all three Incorrigibles leaned their heads on the seats and closed their eyes. In her mind Penelope counted slowly to a hundred, to make sure she gave her ruse enough time to work. Soon the children were still.
“What a relief,” she thought, stealthily taking out her pen. “At last I can work on my CAKE speech! With luck I shall have the whole thing written before the next stop.” She began by reviewing her notes from the Great Orations of Antiquity class she had taken at Swanburne. In the margins were little drawings that she and Cecily had made to amuse each other when the teacher was not looking. (Nowadays we would call this “doodling.” But rest assured, both Penelope and Cecily had earned very high marks in the class and had only let themselves doodle after achieving a firm grasp of the lesson at hand.)
What glorious speeches people gave in days of old! Ought she model herself after Demosthenes, who spent months locked in an underground room with a mouthful of pebbles, practicing elocution and dramatic gestures in order to become one of the ten official orators of ancient Greece?
Or was she more of a Cicero? The greatest of the Roman orators, Cicero was known for his long and carefully plotted sentences that did not reveal their full meaning until the very last word. Cicero’s elegant style was much to Penelope’s liking, although it did set a high standard. This was only her first speech, after all. Then again, who knew if she would ever be asked to give another?
“Whether it is my first speech or my last, I might as well give it my all,” she decided. “As Agatha Swanburne once said, ‘Doing one’s best is never cause for regret.’ For rhetorical style, I shall look to Cicero. Now I need only think of what to say.”
She referred to her notes once more, for there were many types of speeches to choose from. Was she arguing for war, or against? Was she trying to sway an election? Incite revolution? Raise taxes? There was even a type of speech called the filibuster, whose sole purpose was to waste time. In the margin, Cecily had drawn a hilarious picture of a Roman senator named Cato the Younger who was famous for his filibustering. He would talk on and on, from morning until night, in order to prevent the senate from voting on laws that he did not want to see passed. (In Cecily’s drawing, Cato the Younger looked suspiciously like the Great Orations of Antiquity teacher in a toga. An endless stream of gibberish poured from her oversized mouth, like smoke from a bake-house chimney.)
Penelope stared out the window and let her mind wander. “Strange how things work out for the best. If I had found that cannibal book where I was certain I had put it, I would have been honor-bound to give it to Judge Quinzy, as Lord Fredrick told me to do. But since the book is lost, I cannot, which is a happier outcome for all, in my opinion. For that book is no business of his, and I am sure whatever purpose he has in mind for it is a wicked one—though what use could anyone have for a book that cannot even be read?”
She found a blank page in her notes. “Sway an election comes closest, I think,” she decided, turning her thoughts back to her work. “When Shakespeare wrote a speech in the Roman style in his tragic play about Julius Caesar, he began it thus: ‘Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears.’ Perhaps I can try something along those lines. . . .”
Inspired, she began to write. Soon she was so lost in her task that she did not even notice the children stirring. Try as they might, they could not nap, for it was still morning, and although they had arisen well before dawn, they were much too excited to sleep. After checking to make sure the conductor was nowhere near, and seeing their governess deeply engaged in her work, all three Incorrigibles quietly took out their books to read.
“I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him,” Penelope murmured under her breath. She tried to think of something half as catchy, but it was difficult. How on earth did Shakespeare manage it? And in iambic pentameter, too!
“Shakespeare!” Alexander cried in recognition. He turned a page in his own book. “‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?’”
Penelope looked up. “‘Thou art more lovely and more temperate.’ Sonnet Eighteen, if I am not mistaken.” The book of Shakespeare’s sonnets had been a gift from her to Alexander at Christmas. She was so pleased to see him take an interest in it that she hardly minded discovering that the children were awake. “Ta-TUM, ta-TUM, ta-TUM, ta-TUM, ta-TUM! That was well spoken, too. I could hear the iambic pentameter galloping right along.”
“I will read from my book now,” said Beowulf eagerly, for all of the children dearly loved praise. He opened his volume and began to read, rapid-fire.
“‘In the second century of the Christian era, the empire of Rome comprehended the fairest part of the earth, and the most civilized portion of mankind. The frontiers of that extensive monarchy were guarded by ancient renown and disciplined valor—’”
“Beowulf, what book is that?” Penelope interrupted.
“Mr. Gibbon,” he announced, and held up the first volume of Mr. Edward Gibbon’s masterpiece of historical narrative, The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. He patted the cover approvingly. “I found it when I dusted the bookshelves. Is long but full of fighting.”
Not to be outdone, Cassiopeia stood on the seat and waved her book in the air. “I found mine dusting, too. ‘Ahwoo-Ahwoo!’” she proudly read off the front.
“Ahwoo-Ahwoo?” Penelope’s bewilderment was short-lived, for there it was: An Encounter with the Man-Eating Savages of Ahwoo-Ahwoo, as Told by the Cabin Boy and Sole Survivor of a Gruesomely Failed Seafaring Expedition Through Parts Unknown: Absolutely Not to Be Read by Children Under Any Circumstances, and That Means You.
“The cannibal book!” Penelope cried, and all three children gave a delicious shiver of horror, as if the book itself might gobble them up with its toothy covers.
“Long title. Nothing inside,” Cassiopeia said, showing off the sea-washed pages as she balanced precariously on the seat.
“If there were words inside, you would be too young to read them. The title says as much. Now, sit down, everyone, please. Surely it is time for another nap.” Inside, Penelope was aflutter. The hypothetical problem of whether or not to give the cannibal book to Judge Quinzy had suddenly become all too real. What should she do? “If only Lord Fredrick had never mentioned it!” she fretted. “If only I knew when I might hear from Simon! If only I knew why that impostor Quinzy wanted it so badly! If only I had finished writing my speech earlier! Now I shall never be able to concentrate.”
“I will read my book,” Cassiopeia stubbornly declared. She opened the illegible volume. “Once upon a time, cannibals ate everybody. No one left. Yum, yum! The end.”
“But who ate last cannibal?” Alexander asked.
All three children pretended to devour their own limbs.
“Himself!” Cassiopeia cried with glee. All three children pretended to devour their own limbs. Passenge
rs in nearby seats began to clear their throats in disapproval, for the children’s game was noisy and, frankly, disgusting.
Penelope lifted a stern eyebrow and held out her hand. “Let me hold that book, if you please. It belongs to Lord Fredrick, and I do not want it going astray again.”
Cassiopeia handed it over with reluctance. In sympathy, Beowulf put down his book as well. “Decline and Fall, too depressing,” he said, and sighed heavily.
“Sonnets, too lovey-dovey,” Alexander agreed, for he and his siblings tended to stick together, like cubs in a litter, one might say.
Books closed, three bored children gazed out the window, where one sheep-dotted meadow had begun to look very much like another. They kicked the seats until their toes hurt. Before long they began to poke one another.
“Lumawoo?” Cassiopeia tugged on her governess’s nut-brown sleeve. “Lumawoo? Are we there yet?”
“Shhh.” Alexander gestured at Penelope, who had closed her eyes in despair. “Nap time for Lumawoo.”
“Clickety-clack! GIVE THE BOOK BACK!
“Clickety-clack! Give the book back!”
It is strange what guilt will do to a person’s imagination. This Penelope had learned from reading the stories of Mr. Edgar Allan Poe, who wrote wonderfully spooky tales about people driven mad by their own secret wrongdoings, to the point where they begin to imagine the beating of dead hearts and even worse things, too.
But Penelope was not about to be unhinged by the clicking of train wheels. She had plenty of other worries to unhinge her. “As far as Lord Fredrick knows, the cannibal book is lost,” she thought. It would be easy enough to keep it hidden away and not say another word about it. However, that would be dishonest. And, in a nutshell, dishonesty was not the Swanburne way.
“Yet Quinzy’s request was dishonest to begin with, for he is not who he says he is. Surely, it would be wrong to assist him in deceiving Lord Fredrick,” she reasoned. And what if it turned out that Simon’s great-uncle Pudge really was the author of the cannibal book? Would that not make him its rightful owner? In that case, she ought to save the book for Simon’s return, for once Quinzy got hold of it, there was no telling whether they would ever get it back.
She looked out the window, but night had fallen; if there was a sheep-dotted meadow out there to keep her mind off her troubles, she could not see it. “A Swanburne girl is loyal and true . . . most of the time,” she decided uneasily. “But it is not always clear to whom one should be loyal. I wonder what Agatha Swanburne would say about that?”
THE HOURS PASSED, THE MORNING turned to afternoon, and the train stopped at one town after another, bringing Penelope and the Incorrigible children ever closer to their destination. During one of these stops, Penelope was able to pass some coins out the window and purchase a copy of Heathcote, All Year ’Round (Now Illustrated) from an urchin boy on the platform.
The children begged for the cartoon and puzzle pages, and Penelope was happy to oblige, for even she had grown weary of hearing Beowulf read aloud from A History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, as he had been doing in a loud voice since breakfast. Most of the nearby passengers had since moved to compartments well out of earshot.
From the newspaper she learned that the opening of the traditional autumn hay maze had been postponed due to excessive rain. Several new calves had been born, and a dispute involving the ownership of a plow had been peaceably resolved, once both parties realized that plowsharing would grow more crops than fighting ever could.
One announcement in particular caught Penelope’s eye—in fact, it made her feel rather excited. The monthly meeting of the Heathcote Amateur Pteridological Society would take place the following Wednesday, with a special talk on “Ferns Under Glass: Tips and Techniques for Indoor Growing.” Alas, she would be on her way back to Ashton Place by then, but she would have dearly liked to attend, especially when she read that Wardian cases would be available for purchase, “with all proceeds to benefit the society.” (As fans of ferns know, Wardian cases are nothing more than glass boxes in which one can grow ferns indoors. They were invented by the famous fern expert Dr. Ward, who made a fortune selling what was admittedly a rather simple item. Evidently, when it comes to ferns, some people will spare no expense.)
The conductor rang his bell up and down the aisle and called in his singsong voice, “Heathcote! Heathcote station will be next!”
Penelope stood up so fast she nearly bumped her head on the luggage rack. “Here we are,” she said, although the children were already on their feet and letting out excited yips and barks. “Suitcases in hand, please.” Together the four of them sidestepped their way down the aisle. The children giggled as the movement of the slowing train made them sway and wobble into one another, as if they stood on the deck of a storm-tossed ship.
The conductor came up behind them, still clanging away on his bell. “All off for Heathcote and the School for Miserable Girls!”
“I believe you mean the Swanburne Academy for Poor Bright Females,” Penelope corrected with a smile. “We are on our way there right now.”
“They’re about to change the name, though,” he said, squeezing past. “The sign painter made new signs for the station already. I’ve seen ’em. As soon as it’s official, we’re supposed to hang ’em up.”
“But—but . . . that is nonsense! Poppycock! There are no miserable girls at Swanburne,” Penelope said, now quite flustered.
“Well, you sound pretty unhappy yourself, miss,” he retorted, and went on with his ringing.
FROM THE STATION THEY BOARDED the stagecoach that stopped at the crossroads nearest to Swanburne. From there it would be only a short walk to the school, no more than a mile. The passengers piled their luggage in the compartment beneath the coach, but Penelope kept her carpetbag in her lap, for in it was the cannibal book (as well as her favorite book of German poetry in translation, which had been a gift from Miss Mortimer and which she always carried with her). It also held the notes for her speech, and her new fountain pen, too. These treasures she would not let out of her sight.
“The School for Miserable Girls! What a comical name.” She tried to make a joke out of it, for the Incorrigibles had looked worried and sad ever since the conductor’s remark. “That is a worse name than the Sunburne Academy, as Lady Constance calls it. I am sure it must be some sort of mistake.”
Cassiopeia pouted. “Do not like Mizawoo School,” she said.
“Names change,” Alexander observed philosophically. “Istanbul is Constantinople. Same place.”
“Constantinople! Named after Constantine the Great, Emperor of Rome.” Excited, Beowulf looked for the relevant page in his book. “Mr. Gibbon says—”
Kindly but firmly, Penelope stopped him. “I am sure this confusion about names will soon be cleared up. For now, the only school you need worry about is Miss Lumley’s Academy for Incorrigible Children.”
That made them smile, and they were all in better spirits by the time they reached the crossroads. The stagecoach rumbled off, and the four of them stood and gazed upon the verdant meadows of the valley of Heathcote, now spread before them like a lush green blanket laid out for a picnic. Autumn-painted trees and hillsides of sheep-dotted meadows ringed the valley. The sky was streaked with spiraling ribbons of smoke that rose from farmhouse chimneys and disappeared into the orange blaze of the sunset.
Nestled in the heart of this happy scene was the familiar outline of the Swanburne Academy. Penelope could only stand and stare. It was like seeing the face of a long-lost loved one appear unexpectedly in a crowd, shocking and yet so very familiar, as if the person in question had never been lost at all.
There was the main building where classes were held, the dormitories and dining hall, the observatory tower, the barn, the chicken coop—
“Let us run!” Penelope called, for she felt merry but also as if she might cry, and she much preferred merry. “Let us gallop, brave ponies, ta-TUM, ta-TUM!” Suitcases swinging by their s
ides, Penelope and the children half skipped and half tumbled down the grassy slopes, only stopping when they were winded and could no longer catch breath enough to laugh.
After that they walked, and Penelope pointed out the school buildings as they got close enough to see them clearly (she left out any mention of the chicken coop for the moment, for it was past dinnertime; the children were in need of a meal, and she strongly preferred it be one they did not catch themselves).
“When we arrive, you will see my favorite thing of all, written just above the door, in letters that are each one as tall as Cassiopeia.” Her voice throbbed with pride. “It is the Swanburne motto: ‘No hopeless case is truly without hope.’”
“What is hopeless case? Is it a kind of suitcase?” Alexander guessed, holding his up.
“A hopeless case is a person whom others think is doomed and beyond help. Or a situation where an unhappy ending is thought to be unavoidable.” She put down her carpetbag and flexed her stiff hand, for suddenly the bag seemed quite heavy. “Hopeless is the opposite of optimism. Hopeless is what people feel when they give up.”
“Decline and Fall,” Beowulf observed. “Rome, hopeless case.”
“‘No panicking, no complaining, no quitting!’” Cassiopeia said in answer. It was one of Agatha Swanburne’s catchier sayings, and the children knew it by heart, since Penelope said it often enough.
“An excellent point, Cassiopeia. If the ancient Romans had only had the benefit of your good advice, and Miss Swanburne’s, their empire might still be around today.” Penelope shielded her eyes against the glare of the setting sun. They were nearly at the entrance to the school, and already she could see that something was not quite right.
“Is this the Swanawoo School?” Alexander asked, confused. “Looks more like a cave.”
“That is because of these ivy-covered walls.” Penelope gazed upward, amazed. The front wall of the building was completely overgrown with vines. She pulled at one, but only succeeded in tearing off a leaf. “It looks more like a jungle than a school. Why has no one cut down this greenery?”
The Interrupted Tale Page 7