ICAP 2 - The Hidden Gallery

by Wood, Maryrose

  “Perhaps he will find interesting ideas for plots among the shady characters he meets in the lockup,” she thought, but it left her feeling even sadder that Simon was not with them. As they walked, she wondered which of the theaters was the one where Simon’s stage manager acquaintance would have let them in to watch a rehearsal. If not for that stolen velocipede, perhaps they might have gotten a glimpse of:

  THE GREAT LEOTARDO, MASTER OF THE TRAPEZE!

  Or:

  PIRATES ON HOLIDAY: A SEAWORTHY OPERETTA (WORLD PREMIERE)

  Or even:

  THE TRAGICAL TALE OF KING AETHELRED THE NOT SO GREAT (A MOST INGLORIOUS KING WAS HE)

  Each one sounded more thrilling than the last! Particularly the one about the pirates. Penelope’s disappointment was excruciating. She considered purchasing tickets herself, but they were expensive, and although Penelope’s salary was generous, Lady Constance rarely paid it unless Penelope asked. After that unfortunate mix-up about the plague, Penelope knew that Lady Constance was much too cross with her and the children to approach.

  Then Cassiopeia begged to see the British Mew-eezum, but Penelope did not want to take the children anywhere near it until she knew what, if anything, Simon had discovered about the Hixby’s Guide—what if Gallery Seventeen were a trap of some sort? So instead they visited the Royal Exhibition of Pteridological Rarities, a small but fascinating collection of freakish ferns. There they saw ferns with leaves instead of fronds, ferns that loved the sun, ferns that lacked sporangia altogether, and other bizarre flukes of nature.

  It was all quite educational, of course. But Penelope was still too worried about Simon to take any real pleasure in it. Given how Penelope felt about ferns, this was a very bad sign indeed.

  THINGS WERE NOT LOOKING UP at all. In fact, they were looking decidedly glum—at least for Penelope, they were. But when the seesaw of good fortune sinks downward for one person, it is very often on its way up for someone else. This little-known law of physics is called the Fulcrum of Fortune, and although most people prefer to think of fortune as a wheel that spins, the fulcrum (that is, seesaw) is a more accurate depiction for most of us, since the worse our own luck becomes, the more likely we are to notice the good fortune of those around us and brood about the injustice of it all.

  In Penelope’s case, the Fulcrum of Fortune was indisputably at work, for while she and the children were out, the post came, and came, and came yet again. Each delivery brought a fresh torrent of mail to Number Twelve Muffinshire Lane. And despite the fact that Penelope was positively desperate to hear news of Simon or receive some sort of reply from Miss Mortimer, every single letter was addressed to Lady Constance Ashton.

  Lady Constance herself could scarcely believe it. She held the envelopes up to the light and turned each one over in her hands several times before she dared open it. But the shock soon wore off, and she began to await each postal delivery with glee. She even insisted that the sacks of mail be weighed on the kitchen scale, so she could brag about how many pounds of letters she had received.

  By the day’s final post at eight o’clock, so much mail had come that Lady Constance sent for Penelope with the curt message that “the services of an educated person are required” to help open, sort, and reply to the heaping piles of correspondence.

  Penelope would have much preferred to stay in the nursery, building triremes out of toothpicks with the children until bedtime, but she could hardly refuse Lady Constance. And she still hoped to speak to Mrs. Clarke, so perhaps it would be just as well to spend the rest of the evening downstairs in the parlor. That way she would know the instant the housekeeper returned from wherever it was she had gone.

  “And, too,” she thought, “if I prove helpful regarding her mail, it might smooth things over between us. But truly, what an unexpected reversal! Why so many letters, after so few?” Indeed, the abrupt change in Lady Constance’s postal fortunes was puzzling, but the answer to the puzzle had already arrived—by post, of course.

  “This is curious,” Lady Constance commented as she opened a long, official-looking envelope. “It is from the postmaster, London General Post Office, London. I hope they are not demanding payment for the extra volume of mail, tee hee!”

  Two golden eyebrows furrowed into one as Lady Constance digested the contents of the letter. After a moment the paper slipped from her grasp. “Miss Lumley! We are at Number Twelve Muffinshire Lane!” she exclaimed in a tone of utter surprise.

  Penelope was well aware of her location—particularly after all those navigational studies with the children—but to Lady Constance the news seemed to have the makings of yet another epiphany. “I told all my acquaintances that we were staying at Number Twelve Biscuitshire Lane,” she went on, amazed. “So all the mail intended for me was held up at the post office, for as it happens, there is no Biscuitshire Lane in London! The postmaster himself has written to apologize for the delay!”

  Lady Constance rose and fairly danced around the parlor. “I knew it! My friends had not forgotten me after all. And how clever the post office is to realize I meant Muffin, not Biscuit! Such a display of competence is almost enough to make one not mind paying the postal tax, although you must never tell Fredrick I said so.”

  Overcome with joy, she tossed armfuls of mail into the air until the room was buried in a blizzard of paper, thus undoing Penelope’s efforts to keep everything in order. “Look at all these invitations! Luncheons! Dinners! Weekends! Drives through the park! Games of croquet! How I love London. I am so glad I thought of coming here! And look, here is the very best invitation of all.”

  “How I love London. I am so glad I thought of coming here!”

  She brandished another, smaller envelope. “It is a gift from Baroness Hoover, in appreciation for all I have done for the poor and downtrodden.” She paused to wipe away a pretend tear, and then resumed her boasting. “It says that Fredrick and I are invited to the world premiere of a comic operetta called Pirates on Holiday. Baroness Hoover says it has been sold out for weeks, and yet we are going, how clever she must be to get tickets! Of course, I am not at all sure about pirates; it has a kind of criminal feel to it, frankly—but I suppose it will be entertaining, in a popular sort of way.”

  Pirates on Holiday! Penelope’s bitterness about the recent collapse of her own fortunes grew tenfold. Oh, the injustice of it all! And where, oh, where was Simon?

  Lady Constance returned to her seat and fixed Penelope with a bright, almost manic stare. “Miss Lumley! Since you are our resident scholar, allow me to ask you a question: What sort of jewelry does one wear to the theater? Are pearls too stuffy? Would emeralds be gauche? If it were the symphony, the answer would be simple: diamonds, diamonds, and more diamonds!” Lady Constance looked at her expectantly.

  “I—I cannot say, my lady,” Penelope stammered. “I know little about jewelry, for I do not own any.”

  Lady Constance scowled. “Tut tut, of course you do not. I simply thought that as a matter of cultural information, you might know what goes on in theaters. But I suppose they did not have time to cover such topics in your Swanbird education, what with all your studies of plague and whatnot.”

  “Swanburne.” Penelope knew the name was unlikely to stick in Lady Constance’s mind, but she was feeling so gloomy she simply could not stand it anymore. “I attended the Swanburne Academy for Poor Bright Females.”

  “Swanburne, Swanburne, of course! Why is that so hard to remember?” Obviously Lady Constance could hardly expect Penelope to have an answer to this question, but she asked it nevertheless. “Swanburne Academy, Poor Bright Females. Swanburne Academy, Poor Bright Females. Oh! My!” She shrieked as if she had been pinched. “Miss Lumley, does that mean you yourself were once poor?”

  Penelope squirmed and wondered if she were about to be fired. “I suppose it does,” she replied carefully, “or else they would not have accepted me.”

  Lady Constance rose and looked Penelope squarely in the eye.

  “Miss Lum
ley, this is shocking news. Earlier, I said many unpleasant things about the poor. At the time, I had no idea that you had ever had anything to do with such people, or might even be counted among them. Now I feel I ought to apologize.”

  Then Lady Constance marched briskly out of the parlor, calling loudly for Margaret so that she might plan her outfit for the opening of Pirates on Holiday. Penelope was left to finish opening and sorting the mail herself.

  “Feeling one ought to apologize is not quite the same thing as saying ‘I am sorry,’” she thought sadly as she poked her letter opener into the next envelope in the pile. “But where Lady Constance Ashton is concerned, I suppose one could call it progress.”

  It was the most optimistic thought she had had all day.

  THE FOURTEENTH CHAPTER

  Lord Fredrick comes down

  with a head cold, of sorts.

  IT WAS NOT UNTIL THE next morning that Penelope finally discovered the reason for Mrs. Clarke’s absence. Apparently the dear old housekeeper had had a bit of an epiphany herself; in fact, she was so eager to talk about it that she launched into her tale before Penelope could ask her advice about Simon. Now the story was under way, and all Penelope could do was listen and wait for some kind of opening to present itself.

  “It was because of you, Miss Lumley, and the way you got me remembering old Mr. Clarke,” Mrs. Clarke confided over an early morning cup of tea in the nursery, while the children ate their breakfasts nearby. “It struck me that I hadn’t been to see his gravesite in many a year, though I couldn’t tell you why; I just never got around to it, I suppose. And that got me feeling all—not teary eyed, exactly, but in that quiet sort of thinking mood where you sit and wonder why things are the way they are. What’s the word?”

  “Philosophical?” Penelope suggested.

  Mrs. Clarke snorted. “No, nothing so grand as that! But I couldn’t stop marveling at how fast the time goes, and how complicated life is, but how simple, too, and how most people don’t appreciate the minutes ticking by until they’re gone, gone, gone. That sort of thing. Pass the scones, would you, dear?”

  Penelope obliged, and took another for herself, too. “Agatha Swanburne once said something in that vein,” she commented. “She said, ‘You’re not where you were, and you’re not where you’re going. You’re here, so pay attention!’” Although nothing could compare to tarte Philippe, the scones were quite good, Penelope had to admit.

  “Pay attention, eh?” Mrs. Clarke spread a fat dollop of clotted cream on her scone. “I’d like to meet your friend Agatha sometime. She sounds like a clever girl.”

  Agatha Swanburne was long dead, of course, although she had lived to be a very elderly person indeed. But Mrs. Clarke’s words made Penelope realize that she did not know where the wise old woman was buried. Nor had she ever stopped to wonder if anyone was in the habit of visiting the gravesite, and perhaps leaving flowers.

  “Does Agatha Swanburne have any surviving relatives?” Penelope wondered. “I certainly do not know of any.” Unlike, say, Lord Fredrick’s study at Ashton Place, which showcased the whole parade of Ashton forbears in a series of oil paintings so dark and brooding that, if they had been Landscapes, they certainly would be considered Ominous, at the Swanburne Academy the portrait of Agatha Swanburne was displayed all alone. It hung in a place of honor in the headmistress’s office, where the founder’s wise yet impish face gazed down at any student who happened to end up sitting across from Miss Mortimer’s desk.

  “How strange, that the Swanburne family tree is not better known. Surely there are many proud and loyal Swanburne girls who would be curious about it.” These and other interesting thoughts could easily have occupied her for another scone or two, yet Penelope shook them off, for she realized she had stopped paying attention altogether, and Mrs. Clarke was still talking.

  “You know I hardly ever have a day off, not even on my birthday! But I thought to myself, Nellie”—until that moment Penelope had had no idea that Mrs. Clarke’s first name was Nellie—“Nellie, old girl, it’s high time you took a day, just for yourself. Buy a new hat and have a stroll in the park. If Lady Constance has a conniption fit, that’s her problem. It wouldn’t be the first time, and it won’t be the last. So that’s what I did. Mr. Clarke’s buried out in the countryside, so I couldn’t visit his grave, poor dear, but in his honor I walked the cemetery in Kensal Green and thought of times gone by. It’s a lovely place, and the walk did my poor heart good. On the way back I found a confectioner’s shop, too. I bought some sweeties for the children—they do eat sweeties, don’t they?”

  As Mrs. Clarke well knew, the children could be fussy about meat dishes (which they preferred cooked quite rare and slathered with ketchup), but when it came to candy—well, what child does not like candy?

  Before answering, Penelope glanced at the Incorrigibles. They had finished breakfast; she noted with pride that they had cleared their own bowls and taken out their journals without being asked. “I am sure the children will be delighted. And speaking of Mr. Clarke,” she went on, seizing the chance to change the subject, “based on your experience, is there some way to find out for certain if my acquaintance Mr. Harley-Dickinson is in police custody, and if he is, how to ‘spring him,’ as it were?”

  Mrs. Clarke chuckled. “Still thinking about that young fella, eh? Miss Lumley, my advice is to leave him where he is until he’s slept off whatever potent refreshment landed him in the lockup to begin with. If he’s anything like Mr. Clarke, he’ll be ever so sorry and meek as a lamb when he gets out. Maybe it’ll teach him a lesson. Not that being sorry ever made Mr. Clarke change his ways!”

  She laughed, deep and hearty. “Oh, how I used to scold! Makes me blush to think of the things I said. And now the poor man’s buried in the ground, and I won’t be scolding him again, that’s for sure.” Still laughing, she dabbed away a tear with her napkin. “‘Pay attention,’ is that what your friend Agatha said? It’s as good advice as any. I hope I can follow it.”

  ALTHOUGH SHE DID NOT SEE it that way, Mrs. Clarke’s change of perspective was both philosophical in nature and genuinely enlightening, and thus could be considered a true epiphany. On the other hand, Lady Constance’s shock and distaste at meeting people less fortunate than her pampered self had the potential to be a rude awakening—that is, if the lady had shown any signs of waking up.

  So far she had not. In Lady Constance’s mind, those hard-to-get tickets to Pirates on Holiday were a well-deserved payment for her own kindness and charitable spirit. Now that she had her reward in hand, the problem of what to do about the poor was, in her opinion, as solved as it needed to be.

  “It is a marvelous thing, knowing that one has done one’s bit for the less fortunate,” she proclaimed as Margaret pulled, pinned, yanked, and braided her yellow locks into submission. “But I will not be repeating the experience anytime soon. I should never be able to stand the smell!”

  Lady Constance was in high spirits, and why not? She and Lord Fredrick would have an early dinner at an expensive restaurant (but not at the Fern Court; even the well-connected Baroness Hoover had been unable to get reservations at the Piazza Hotel on such short notice), followed by an open-air carriage ride through the park, and then on to the premiere of Pirates on Holiday. The question of what the lady ought to wear to the theater had been settled with a touch of whimsy: After much deliberation, she had instructed Margaret to whip up a bejeweled satin eye patch and a belted scabbard made of felt and rhinestones, which she planned to wear slung around the skirt of her seaweed green gown.

  “I know it is a theatrical premiere and not a fancy-dress ball,” she said as she waited for the rhinestones to be sewn on, “but really, who could object? It is festive, and being festive keeps things cheerful, don’t you agree, Margaret?”

  “I wouldn’t disagree, my lady,” Margaret replied diplomatically, for who would dare contradict Lady Constance?

  Penelope was sorry to have to be privy to this conversation, but al
as, the idea that she could be used as a personal secretary had taken root in Lady Constance’s mind. She had summoned Penelope four times since luncheon, so that she might dictate replies to her correspondence. But the lady had endless trouble deciding what to say; she kept starting and stopping and rewording what Penelope had already written down, until page after page was ruined and had to be copied afresh.

  Then Lady Constance lost interest altogether, and Penelope ended up writing most of the letters herself. She amused herself by signing each one with a different socially useful phrase, of the type the children were so adept at. “Yours in solidarity, Lady A.” “With most gracious wishes for your continued recovery, Lady A.” “With fondest thoughts on this, the day of your birth, Lady A.” And so on.

  At last the eye patch was finished, and Margaret adjusted it carefully so as not to muss Lady Constance’s elaborately upswept hair. Lady Constance shrieked with delight when she finally opened her remaining eye and admired herself in the mirror. “Mark my words,” she crowed, “once I am seen wearing this, the decorative eye patch will be all the rage. By the weekend, fashionable young ladies all over London will be swaggering about like sailors. Imagine, a lady pirate! What an original idea, and it is all mine!”

  “Actually, there have been many famous lady pirates,” Penelope felt compelled to say. “Anne Bonny, Lady Killigrew, Grace O’Malley—to name only a few.”

  Slowly, Lady Constance turned. Even with one eye, she still managed to glower with displeasure.

  “Miss Lumley, my father used to say that too much education made a girl tedious. I am beginning to see his point.” Then she turned to the nimble-fingered maid. “Margaret, I am curious. Are your parents poor, too? Like Miss Lumley’s?”

  Penelope did not know whether to feel shamed or angered by Lady Constance’s remark. Margaret threw her a puzzled glance before answering. “I wouldn’t say so, my lady. It’s never easy to get by, but Mum takes in extra washing and my brother, Frank, helps Pa in the smithy. Ever since a horse spooked and kicked him in the knee, Pa’s been awful lame. But Frank can shoe a horse as fast as any man in the county, and he’s just a lad of twelve.”