THE SCIENCE-MINDED AMONG YOU WILL no doubt recall Newton’s First Law of Motion, which (among other things) predicts that a distraught governess traveling at high speeds over a slippery surface will continue to do so until some greater force conspires to stop her. Mrs. Clarke had been right to scold Margaret; the wooden floors of the foyer had been polished to such a high degree of slickness that Penelope’s feet flew out from beneath her the moment she burst through the door.
“Ah-whoops!” she cried, as most people would under the circumstances. Arms flailing, Penelope skidded down the hall on what the French would politely call her derriere, past the stairs and straight into the drawing room, where Newton’s greater force lay ready and waiting: an overstuffed armchair containing the seated form of Sir Fredrick Ashton, the unimaginably wealthy and incurably nearsighted master of Ashton Place. Penelope slid almost completely beneath the chair before she finally came to a stop. Only her feet poked out from the back. Lord Ashton seemed oblivious to her arrival.
“Constance, can’t you be more understanding? I’ve business to attend to. Men’s business. And the club’s accommodations are far more suitable for that sort of thing than this ridiculous frou-frou of a house, what?”
“But you have only just arrived! Really, Fredrick, it has been unbearably dull here. I have not set foot out of the house and have had no callers, not one! And there is no one to talk to except the servants.”
“You mustn’t talk to the servants, dear, unless you’re ordering them about. It undermines your authority.”
“What do expect me to do all day, then? Shop?”
“If you like. Just don’t spend too much.”
“But I thought the whole point of being rich was that nothing was too much!”
Thud.
“Ow!” Penelope yelped involuntarily, for she had bumped her head on the bottom of the chair in an attempt to crawl out from underneath.
“Did you hear something?” Lord Ashton looked behind him and on both sides of the chair. “Anybody back there? Stop or I’ll shoot, ha ha ha!”
Unlike her husband, Lady Constance had eyesight enough to tell whether or not a set of human limbs was sticking out from beneath the furniture. She marched around the chair and planted both hands on her hips.
“And whose plain and sensible shoes are these?” she demanded. “The rest of you, come out at once!”
Meekly, Penelope pushed herself into view. “Pardon me,” she said, clambering to her feet with as much dignity as she could muster, given the awkward circumstances.
Lord Ashton squinted in Penelope’s direction. “See, there was someone there! Is it a burglar? No, wait, you’re the governess, what?”
“Yes, Lord Ashton. I was on my upstairs to the nursery, and I, er, slipped. I apologize for the intrusion.” She curtsied and started backing toward the door.
“Not so fast, Miss Lumley.” Lady Constance had the look of a gathering storm. “Did you know the post has been delivered twice already today?”
“Why, yes. I imagine it has been.” Penelope was unsure where this conversation might be headed, but she hoped it would be brief. The thought of the Incorrigible children at the zoo was still foremost in her mind, and she was determined to grab the Hixby’s Guide and rescue them as soon as possible.
“Did you hear something?” Lord Ashton looked behind him and on both sides of the chair.
“Have you checked the mail tray, by any chance?”
“No, my lady.” Penelope swallowed hard. “I have been out.”
“I see.” Lady Constance’s voice was dangerously controlled. “If you could spare a moment from your busy social calendar to examine its contents, you will discover it contains yet another envelope addressed to you. Your letter has been lying there, taunting me, all day long!”
“I am sorry, Lady Constance—I did not intend—”
Lady Constance made a dramatic gesture to silence poor Penelope. “As if yesterday’s impertinence was not enough! Once again, Miss Lumley, it seems you are in receipt of mail.”
“Mail? Zounds! I almost forgot.” Lord Fredrick jumped to his feet and began patting his pockets. “Constance, dear, I’ve an invitation for you, somewhere. Baron Hoover handed it to me at the club; it’s from his wife. Where did I put it? Maybe it will take your mind off spending my money for an afternoon, what? If I can find the blasted thing, that is…”
Lady Constance’s mood changed on the instant. “An invitation? Really? Oh, Fredrick, that is the best news I have had since arriving in London! Hooray, hooray!”
“Wait…wait…here it is.” From his vest pocket he removed a small envelope of heavy cream-colored stock. “Let that keep you busy for a while, eh? See you later, dear. Don’t wait up.”
He gave her an indifferent peck on the cheek and strode out of the room. Penelope, too, thought she might take the chance to leave. “Good day, ma’am,” she murmured. She was nearly out the door when Lady Constance squealed and seized her by the arm.
“Oh, look! Do you see this envelope, Miss Lumley? This is from the Piazza Hotel! Simply the most exclusive hotel in London! Home of the Fern Court and the legendary Chef Philippe! I would not expect that someone of your social station would have heard of him, but trust me, he has no peer when it comes to the use of a whisk. They say he makes a positively indescribable dessert—”
“Tarte Philippe,” offered Penelope, to move things along. Just imagining what might be going on at the zoo this very minute was more than she could stand—all those grim-faced bears, hungry lions, and wild-eyed baboons….
“I beg your pardon?” Lady Constance looked stunned.
“Tarte Philippe, the indescribable dessert…” Penelope stopped, for it occurred to her that it might be wise to downplay her firsthand knowledge of this tasty treat. “That is only a wild guess, of course, given that the chef’s name is Philippe.” She smiled and shrugged, as if to say, “These crumbs on my skirt and the tiny fruit stain on my sleeve have nothing whatsoever to do with the actual tarte Philippe I greedily devoured not two hours ago.”
Lady Constance gave Penelope a suspicious look but said only, “You are correct, Miss Lumley. Tarte Philippe is exactly what it is called. A lucky guess on your part, I suppose.” She resumed her excited babble as she tore open the invitation. “Anyway, they say that tarte Philippe is so extraordinarily delicious that words…simply…fail…”
Her voice trailed off as she stared at the note. Her round eyes grew rounder, her pink pursed lips went slack. Then:
“What?” she yelped. “Is this some kind of a joke?” Lady Constance held the card between two fingertips as if it were a slimy object. “This is not an invitation to dine at the Piazza Hotel. This is an invitation to accompany Baroness Hoover—not one of my favorites, by the way—on an excursion to the vilest, ugliest, dirtiest part of London! According to the baroness, tomorrow we are going to visit the poor!” Lady Constance spit out the word “poor” as if it were the seed of a rotten grape. “She claims such missions of mercy are all the rage among society ladies, and if I wish to fit in, I must go along.”
Distraught, Lady Constance threw herself into Penelope’s arms. “What a nightmare! With all the exquisite restaurants and dress shops in London, I am to spend my days performing acts of charity in a totally unfashionable and bad-smelling neighborhood! Oh, you have no idea how fortunate you are, Miss Lumley! For a person of your station would never think to aspire to luxuries such as dining at the Fern Court, and thus you do not have to endure the bitter disappointment when your hopes are all dashed to bits. It is an agony you are spared, lucky you!”
Penelope patted her mistress awkwardly on the back. “Perhaps the tarte Philippe is not all it is cracked up to be,” she nearly said, for she did feel sorry for poor Lady Constance and wished to comfort her. But that would be dishonest, so instead she said, “Perhaps visiting the poor will not be as smelly as all that.” This was a statement she could stand behind. After all, Penelope herself was once a Poor Bright F
emale, just like all the other girls at Swanburne, and she was quite sure she had never smelled of anything but plain soap and the occasional splash of lavender water.
“Don’t be absurd. I can think of nothing more horrible. But I suppose it is better than sitting at home with nothing to do.” Lady Constance righted herself, as if her teary-eyed dive at the bewildered governess had never happened. She sniffed and looked around the room. “Where are the bell pulls in this house? Margaret!” Then she turned to Penelope. “Find Margaret and send her to my dressing room at once. I must choose clothes for tomorrow. Something that makes me look generous.”
“Margaret is not here, my lady,” Penelope replied, unthinkingly. “She is at the zoo, with the children.”
“The zoo?” Lady Constance’s lip began to tremble once more. “Where is the justice in this world, I ask you? Governesses receiving mail! Ladies’ maids taking trips to the zoo! While I, Lady Constance Ashton, will be forced to trudge through muck—and mire—and—poor people!”
Then the waterworks began in earnest. The wailing was so loud that Penelope had to fight the urge not to cover her ears. Luckily, the din attracted the notice of the staff, who came rushing to the rescue, and in the hubbub Penelope was finally able to run up to the nursery. By the time she returned with her Hixby’s Guide, Lady Constance was surrounded by a dozen servants, who fanned her and waved smelling salts under her nose and offered tiny glasses of schnapps to revive her spirits.
“Even Dr. Westminster would have a hard time taming such a wild creature as Lady Constance,” Penelope thought as she watched the scene unfold. “But speaking of wild creatures: to the zoo!”
THE TENTH CHAPTER
Penelope rides a dandy-horse
and imagines it is a pony.
IF YOU HAVE EVER BEEN forced to give directions, or follow them, you already know what a perfect muddle the whole business of navigation can be. One person’s “go down the road a piece and bear left at the doughnut shop” is another’s “proceed one-half mile and take the eastbound ramp.” The innocent-sounding words “Yes, it’s close enough to walk” can easily lure the unsuspecting tourist into an exhausting day-long climb, requiring supplemental oxygen, crampons, and a pickax. Put simply: E = mc2. Put even more simply: Everything is relative, including time and space, both of which are essential to finding one’s way around town.
This is why sailors, who quite understandably worry more than most other people do about getting lost at sea, prefer to navigate by the stars. But the stars themselves are far from fixed; they wheel through space at such unimaginable velocities that to seriously ponder the subject puts one at risk of dizzy spells and a nasty headache. The brave sailors manage nevertheless.
As for Miss Penelope Lumley, she had neither sextant nor astrolabe. Her only means of transport was pluck, courage was the fuel that propelled her, and her North Star was determination. The Incorrigible children were in danger, and she simply had to save them, right now, no arguments.
In that unstoppable, Swanburnian spirit, she opened the Hixby’s Guide, flipped at once to the index (truly, one of the most useful features of any book), and quickly found the entry marked, “Zoo, London, pp. 66–68 (inclusive).”
“This will tell me exactly what I wish to know,” she assured herself in a burst of optimism. However, there are times when all the optimism in the world comes to naught, and this was one of those times, for pages 66–68 (inclusive) contained only pictures of animals with identifying captions. There was a pretty songbird labeled a snow lark and a gray-furred rodent called an alpine marmot. To Penelope it looked like a sort of overgrown mountain squirrel.
As for directions, there were none—until, beneath a picture of an elephant, Penelope found this aromatically themed verse:
The way to the zoo your nose will tell,
For elephants are not hard to smell.
“Smelling elephants? That is not much to go on,” Penelope thought. She scoured the surrounding pages for any tidbit that might offer more practical guidance (a street address would have been ideal), but found only a drawing of an ibex, a large goat with a flinty gaze and enormous curved horns that looked very pointy indeed.
What to do? Despite her breathing exercises, Penelope felt a rising panic. If only she had a pony, like Edith-Anne Pevington! Of course she did not know how to ride, for without a pony of her own to practice on she had had scant opportunity to learn. Even so, she could easily imagine how thrilling it would be to leap onto Rainbow’s back and gallop off to rescue the Incorrigibles from those lethal ibex horns and the razor-sharp buckteeth of crazed mountain squirrels.
“That settles it. When we return to Ashton Place, I must learn to ride at the earliest opportunity,” she resolved. Penelope had gone off on a bit of a tangent, but it was a lucky tangent, for the idea of learning to ride led her to another, more immediately useful idea—one that might actually help solve her current dilemma.
“Young man!” She yelled through cupped hands. “You there, in the tweed cap! May I borrow your velocipede?”
“You mean, my dandy-horse?” The boy, who looked not much older than Alexander, was riding up and down Muffinshire Lane on a two-wheeled invention that nowadays would be best described as a bicycle without pedals, propelled in scooterlike fashion by the feet of the rider. “Nah! Get your own.”
This lack of civic-mindedness was discouraging, yet Penelope made another attempt. “Young man! I am in urgent need of transportation. The safety of three small children is in question. Surely you could lend me your vehicle a short while, for their sake?”
He came to a stop in front of her. “All right. How much?”
Penelope may have been in urgent need of transportation, but she was no fool. “I did not ask to buy your velocipede; I asked to borrow it,” she replied sternly. “However, if payment is required, please note that I am a professional governess. I could give you lessons. Latin, geometry, art appreciation, fundamentals of architecture, basic veterinary skills—choose whatever subject you like. Just lend me the dandy-horse.”
“Lessons?” He made a face. “Nah! You’d have to pay me!”
Penelope was quite taken aback. “Forgive me for saying so, but that is no way to speak about your own education. You would do well to heed the words of Agatha Swanburne—you have heard of Agatha Swanburne, haven’t you?”
“Nah! Why? Is she famous?”
“I should say she is!” Penelope was losing patience, but she was also beginning to feel sorry for this urchin. “Agatha Swanburne was a very wise woman who once said, ‘Few would waste a perfectly good sandwich, so why waste a perfectly good mind?’ Now, will you reconsider my offer?”
The boy thought for a minute. “Nah!” He pushed off again and rode in tight circles around her. “But I wouldn’t mind a sandwich.”
“A sandwich it shall be, then.” She dug into her purse. “There is a charming little bakery down the street, called the Charming Little Bakery. You may go there and eat to your heart’s content, as much as this many coins will buy.” She placed the money in his hand. “In exchange, I ask that you lend me your velocipede for—well, for as long as it is required.”
He stared in wonder at his coin-filled palm. “A bakery? Crikey! Sure, lady, take the dandy-horse. Ain’t mine anyhow.”
He hopped off the seat and skittered away to the bakery, leaving Penelope in possession of what she now suspected was a stolen velocipede. But no matter; how to operate the vehicle was the far more urgent question. Riding sidesaddle did not seem to be an option, so she tucked up her long skirt around both legs in order to perch on the seat. Since she had recently skated across a hard wooden floor on her bottom, the extra padding was more than welcome.
“What a curious invention,” Penelope thought as she turned the handlebars this way and that, just to get the feel of it. “The addition of a simple gear mechanism and foot pedals to propel the wheels would make it far more efficient. Still, it will be faster than walking. Allons, mes amis!”
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br /> Penelope’s optimism had returned in full force. After all, she had seen the boy riding, and it looked straightforward enough. One simply pushed one’s feet along the ground while balancing upon the seat. She merely had to summon the courage to begin…right…left…right…left…now a little faster, right-left-right-left, rightleftrightleftrightleft…
“Giddy-yap, Rainbow!” she cried aloud, to bolster her nerve, and also to warn any passersby of her wobbly, swerving approach. “Gallop on, my brave pony! There will be sweet carrots in it for you when we get back to the barn!”
Penelope rapidly picked up speed. “Why, this is not difficult at all,” she thought, perhaps feeling a bit more confident than she had a right to. “And I will wager that Mr. Hixby’s advice is sounder than it first appeared. I shall ride until I smell elephants! For that will mean the zoo must surely be nearby.” This is the trouble with optimism, you see: In excess, it makes even ridiculous ideas seem worth a try. And the chance to put this one to the test had arrived, for Penelope was already careening toward the intersection.
“Easy as pie!” she thought, preparing to sniff. “One direction will smell more like elephants than the other, and that is the direction in which I shall go.” And with that, she closed her eyes.
“Giddy-yap, Rainbow!” she cried aloud…
You may well wonder why she did this, but the truth is most people tend to close their eyes when trying to get a good whiff of something. If you perform this experiment at home (using all necessary safety precautions, of course), you will amazed at the way that shutting off one sense instantly sharpens the rest.
Even so, closing one’s eyes is never a good idea while attempting to steer a velocipede through a busy intersection. Moreover, no matter how deeply Penelope inhaled, it was not immediately apparent which direction smelled more like elephants. She sniffed and sniffed, but as they say nowadays, it was a toss-up.
ICAP 2 - The Hidden Gallery Page 9