ICAP 2 - The Hidden Gallery

by Wood, Maryrose

  Alas, the solution was not yet clear.

  THERE WAS A RUCKUS OUTSIDE the lobby of the Drury Lane Theater, and it had nothing to do with muffins.

  “Does anyone need a ticket?” Lady Constance Ashton cried plaintively. “For my husband was taken ill at dinner, and went home, or so he says. Personally I am not sure I believe it, for he was completely fine this morning! I think he simply does not care about attending the theater; no doubt he would rather be at his club. Ticket? Ticket, anyone? It is the premiere, and you would get to sit with me—Lady Constance Ashton, of Ashton Place—anyone?”

  Perhaps it was because Lady Constance’s Fulcrum of Fortune had taken a nosedive, or perhaps it was the foolish pirate outfit—for whatever reason, and despite the desirability of the ticket, Lady Constance found no takers. However, she was on the receiving end of many curious, pitying, and disdainful looks.

  “That is my mistress, Lady Ashton,” Penelope whispered to Simon. They were still outside the theater, hidden by the crowd, but close enough to witness this sorry spectacle. “Let us wait here a moment, until she takes her seat.”

  “All right,” said Simon. “But she looks like she’s lost at sea. Oughtn’t we go over and tow her back to shore, so to speak? Maybe we could jolly her up a bit.”

  Penelope sighed and remembered how she had tried and failed to befriend the lady in the past. “Your suggestion is very kind, but I am afraid things are never so simple with Lady Constance.”

  The children started gesturing wildly. “Gypsawoo, gypsawoo!” they cried.

  Penelope turned, but Simon saw her first. “Say, it’s Madame Ionesco!” he exclaimed. The semitoothless old soothsayer had set up shop in the narrow alley that led to the theater’s stage door. At the moment she was reading the palm of a man who was either a pirate, or an actor dressed as one. Judging from his expression, the news from the spirit world was not good. Even so, Madame Ionesco stayed in firm possession of his one hand while he dug into the pocket of his breeches with the other. Finally he produced some golden (or were they gold-painted?) doubloons, which she examined thoroughly before accepting.

  “Gypsahwooo!” Beowulf howled, rather loudly.

  Madame Ionesco looked up and saw the children. Quickly she extinguished her burning pots of incense and began packing up her tools of prognostication: her fortune-telling cards and her crystal ball, her draw-string bags filled with carved runes and the bleached bones of small, unlucky animals.

  “She is leaving! We must speak to her,” Penelope tried to dash toward her, but the theatergoing masses were like a tide pushing in the other direction.

  Clang! Clang! An usher rang a handbell to get the crowd’s attention. Then he shouted, “Last call for Pirates on Holiday. The show is about to begin. All ticket holders into the theater!”

  Simon shoved four tickets into Penelope’s hand, keeping one for himself.

  “Miss Lumley, you and the children take your seats. I’ll follow Madame Ionesco and make arrangements for us to meet her after the performance.”

  The crowd surged toward the doors; Penelope struggled to keep the children near her. “But what about Pirates on Holiday?”

  Simon glanced over his shoulder. Madame Ionesco had folded up her stool and was now scurrying down the street. In a moment she would be gone. “What this woman knows is important, isn’t it?”

  “It may be. But it would be a pity for you to miss the show! You procured the tickets, after all—”

  Simon shook his head. “I’ve seen plenty of shows. But you haven’t. I’ll catch the fortune-teller; you and the children enjoy the play. Don’t worry, Miss Lumley. I’ll be back before intermission.”

  Penelope watched anxiously as he fought his way against the throngs. “I hope nothing untoward happens to him this time,” she thought. “After all, he is only recently out of prison.”

  Clang! Clang!

  “All ticket holders into the theater! Last call!”

  THE CROWD RUSHING INTO THE theater was like one of those strong beach currents that you can only swim along with until it decides to toss you willy-nilly onto the sand. Penelope and the Incorrigibles were caught and swept inside; they clung fast to one another just as they had in Euston Station on the day they arrived in London.

  The usher looked skeptical when Penelope and the children presented tickets that read ROYAL BOX, but he handed them programs and waved them on. Up the stairs they climbed, until another usher directed them to walk down a side aisle and through a small door. They found themselves in a private compartment of upholstered seats, almost like a train compartment but open on one side so they could watch the show, and so near the front of the auditorium as to be nearly on top of the stage.

  From this crow’s nest Penelope could see everyone in the audience—and everyone could see her, she realized in dismay. It would be bad enough for Lady Constance to discover her Poor Bright employee and three wild wards at the theater; it would be another degree of calamity altogether for the lady to realize they had the best seats in the house. Penelope slouched down in her seat, held up her program to shield her face, and hoped the show would begin soon.

  Alas, the Incorrigibles were far too excited to hide behind programs. Alexander had brought his compass and was using it to determine the orientation of the stage. Ever interested in art, Beowulf was transfixed by the murals painted on the ceiling of the theater, which featured adorable winged cherubs playing golden harps.

  Cassiopeia, whose usual bedtime was fast approaching, yawned and stretched herself out across her seat and the empty one next to it that waited for Simon. “Cassawoof tired,” she complained. “Hungry. No dinner. Want snack.”

  “See, Cassawoof,” Beowulf pointed upward. “Pigeons. Yum.”

  Penelope looked up, too, and saw the plump, tasty-looking cherubs, with their birdlike wings. “Oh, dear me, they are not pigeons at all—” she began to scold. But before more could be said, the footlights were lit, the curtain rose, and Pirates on Holiday began.

  So this was the professional London theater! From the opening notes played by the orchestra, it was as if they had been whisked to another world. The actors were good, as good as Leed’s Thespians on Demand, the popular troupe Lady Constance had hired to perform at the disastrous holiday ball at Ashton Place. The plot was comical and terribly convoluted, with pirates who were actually noblemen in disguise, noblemen who were being impersonated by pirates, several different intersecting love stories, a hunt for stolen treasure, and of course, eye patches, scabbards, and peg legs galore.

  It was, in a word, spectacular. Penelope had not been so thoroughly entertained since reading Jump, Rainbow, Jump! for the first time. That was a wonderful story, too, about how dear, sweet Rainbow got over his fear of jumping. But this was entertainment of a different stripe altogether, for on top of all the other delights unfolding on the stage, every now and then the pirates burst into song. Rainbow could whinny quite prettily on command, and always came trotting up when Edith-Anne whistled “God Save the Queen,” but it was hardly the same thing.

  “Lumawoo,” whispered Cassiopeia. “Hungry! No dinner! Want snack now.”

  “Yum, yum,” said Beowulf, gazing up at the murals.

  Alexander used his compass to navigate. “Tasty cherub birds, north by northwest—”

  “Shhh,” Penelope said, unable to tear her eyes from the stage. “We shall purchase snacks at the interval. Now, let us listen to the play.”

  AND THEY DID, MORE OR less, and everything proceeded swimmingly, until Scene Three, when a new actor made his entrance (it might have been a her, actually, but it was impossible for Penelope to tell, for reasons about to revealed). The new actor was no more than a foot tall (not counting his—or her—tail), in bright green with scarlet and yellow markings. The garishly colored creature was perched on the first mate’s shoulder. It was, in fact, a parrot.

  “Surely it is only a prop parrot,” Penelope told herself. But then the creature squawked and batted its wings. Ne
rvously it twitched its head around as the lights hit it.

  “Ahoy, matey!” it croaked, blinking at the audience. “Caw, caw!”

  As the laughter and applause died down, Penelope thought of how the pigeons of London had tempted the children to pounce. How they had had no dinner. How Beowulf was already drooling at the sight of painted winged cherubs (who, to be fair, were very meaty and tender looking).

  Suddenly alert, Cassiopeia tugged on Penelope’s sleeve. “Snack?” she whispered eagerly, her eyes glued to the stage.

  “It is not a snack,” Penelope whispered back, as firmly as a person can whisper. “It is an actor. That parrot is a professional thespian, highly trained.”

  Penelope was righter than she knew. For, much as actors specialize in pretending to be that which they are not, often with the use of clever disguises, noses made of putty and inscrutable accents, this parrot, too, was pretending. It was a real parrot, make no mistake. But it was not a pirate’s parrot. It was a thespian parrot. And no parrot in the wild was likely to know how to emote in quite the way this one did—

  “Ahoy, matey! Caw caw! Ahoy! Ahoooooooooooooy!”

  Was Penelope imagining it? Was the parrot—this thespian parrot, impersonating a pirate’s parrot, with a miniature costume eye patch covering one beady little bird eye—was this talented avian of the stage howling?

  “Ahoooooooooooy!”

  “Ahoooooooooooy!”

  “Children, come with me,” she ordered as she stood up and unceremoniously dragged the three Incorrigibles out of their seats.

  Alexander was puzzled. “Show not over, Lumawoo.”

  “True, but it is nearly intermission, and if we go now we will be first in line for the biscuits on sale in the lobby.” Try as she might, she could not find the exit to the Royal Box in the dark. Instead, she clambered over the side. The children were much better climbers than she was and leaped over nimbly. All four of them landed with a thud in Row K of the orchestra section, which was, of course, occupied.

  “Sit down, miss, you’re blocking the stage.”

  “Ow! Watch your step, lady! That was my foot!”

  With uncharacteristic rudeness, Penelope ignored the complaints of her fellow theatergoers, for the bizarre screeches emanating from the stage were getting louder and wolfier by the minute.

  “Ahoooooooooooy!”

  “Ahoooooooooooy!”

  “Ahoooooooooooy!”

  Even as Penelope dragged and cajoled them up the aisle, the eyes of the Incorrigibles remained riveted on this inexplicable bird, with its canine howls and bright green plumage, miniature peg leg, and rakish three-cornered hat.

  “Alexander! Beowulf! Cassiopeia! Stay close, we must leave at once—excuse me, pardon me, we must get through—”

  But it was too late.

  “Ahooooooooooooooooooooy!” the bird wailed.

  “Caw! Caw!” replied Cassiopeia with enthusiasm, flapping her arms like wings. “Ahwoooooooooo!”

  “Ahoooooooy!” Now the bird sounded confused.

  Beowulf joined in. “Ahwoooooooooo!”

  “Ahoooooooooooy!” screamed the parrot in terror.

  From somewhere in the auditorium, Lady Constance Ashton stood up and yelled, “Have I gone mad, or is it those dreadful Incorrigible children? Stop! Stop it this instant! For I am developing the most—excruciating—headache—waaaaaaaaaaaaah!”

  “Ahooooooooooooooooooooy!” the bird wailed.

  Now even Alexander could control himself no longer.

  “Ahwoooooooooo!”

  “Ahwoooooooooo!”

  “Snackahwoooooooooo!” bellowed Cassiopeia, pointing at the bird. All three children dashed for the stage, barking and growling and having what seemed to be a simply marvelous time.

  If the terrified parrot harbored any plans to continue its performance, they were now abandoned. The bird shook off its eye patch and tried to take flight. Alas, one of its legs was tethered by a long, thin cord to the epaulet of the actor pirate upon whose shoulder it had so recently perched. The poor bird flapped and flapped, cawing and screeching, but since it could not escape, all its efforts merely created a flurry of green feathers flying here and there, with every move illuminated by the footlights.

  Now on the stage, Alexander, Beowulf, and Cassiopeia did their best to catch the bird, which easily stayed out of reach. The pirate to whom the squawk box was attached bore the brunt of the abuse, as the parrot flapped in a panic around his head.

  “Green feathers!” yelled Cassiopeia, batting the rain of plumage from her head. “Like man on train!”

  “Will no one assist us?” Penelope cried from the back of the theater, but then she remembered (as you no doubt will as well) the awful truth of the Who, Me? syndrome. With so many people watching this catastrophe unfold, the odds that any one of them would offer to help were tragically slim. In fact, most of the audience seemed to think the sudden appearance onstage of three howling children was part of the show. They sat up straighter in their seats and took out their opera glasses so as not to miss any of the action.

  One of the pirates, a tall one, with dark hair and an oddly shapeless nose, raised his sword high. “Avast, ye hearties! The ship has been stormed by blackguards! Renegades! Cutthroats! Bilge rats who’re yappin’ and barkin’ like scurvy dogs! We’ll brook none o’ that on my ship! Those three howlin’ sprogs’ll walk the plank, or I’m not yer captain!”

  “Harrrrr!” the pirates roared, shaking their sabers to the rafters.

  “But he is not your captain, or anyone else’s,” Penelope protested loudly from the aisle. “He is an actor! And not a very good one, either,” she added without thinking.

  A hush descended over the Drury Lane Theater. Now Cassiopeia was standing on Beowulf’s shoulders, stretching toward the bird. The parrot shrank as far from Cassiopeia’s reach as it could, its claws digging deep into the scalp of the protesting actor to whom it was attached.

  Alexander, who, alone among his siblings, had realized he was now making his West End debut, spoke.

  “Pardon me, Captain,” he said in a clear and stage-worthy voice. “Why plank?”

  “Because ye scared me parrot, ye scurvy brat!” the captain roared. “Get ’em, men!”

  The captain lunged. The children ran. The pirates, with swords in the air and the scent of rum on their collective breath, pursued.

  “Oh, my heavens—can it be? The hunt is on!” Penelope cried, but not a soul heard her above the thunderous din of applause.

  THE SIXTEENTH CHAPTER

  At the mew-eezum, something

  hidden is revealed.

  “BRILLIANT! GROUNDBREAKING! A LAUGH A minute!” So the members of the audience marveled to one another as they rushed to the lobby, for they all assumed it must be intermission. “The best first-act finale since Attila the Hun in Iambic Pentameter. Now, shall we purchase some snacks?”

  Penelope’s review would have to wait. “Alexander! Beowulf! Cassiopeia! Where have you gone? Wait! Wait for me!” Manners forgotten, she pushed and elbowed her way through the lobby doors and stood on Drury Lane, frantically calling, “Children! Where are you?”

  By now the pirate actors (or actor pirates, if you prefer) had also emerged from the theater, still in character, and still in pursuit of the Incorrigibles. Their cries of “Harr!” and “Scurvy brats!” rang all around her. Were they acting? Penelope could not tell. She was fearful for the children, but she was also furious to the point of being in very high dudgeon indeed. Imagine, three perfectly nice children and their governess attend the theater, which ought to be a cultural and educational experience of the highest order, and they get attacked by pirates instead! On dry land, no less!

  She tugged on the tail end of the nearest pirate’s bandanna and fiercely scolded, “Sir! This has gone far enough. It is obvious that you are trying to add some excitement to your premiere at the children’s expense, and I find it simply unacceptable. I assure you, I will be lodging a complaint with the manage
ment.”

  “Harrrr!” the pirate yelled, ignoring Penelope completely. “Tharrrr they arrrrrre!”

  “Wharrrrr?” Penelope replied, without thinking. The pirate talk was rather contagious.

  “Tharrrrr!” He pointed his cutlass toward the street.

  “Lumahwoooooooo!”

  It was the Incorrigibles!

  “Say! Say, Miss Lumley! Over here!”

  And Simon!

  “Whoa, whoa, there! Don’t just stand there, miss—unless you want to be run through by a bunch of sea knaves?”

  And—Old Timothy?

  It was Old Timothy! The Ashtons’ brougham was in Drury Lane, directly in front of the theater, with Old Timothy in the driver’s seat. He was having a devil of a time keeping the horses from bolting, what with all the pirates swarming about. Penelope could not have been more surprised if Agatha Swanburne herself were holding the reins.

  “Easy, easy!” The old coachman’s neck muscles strained to whipcords as he held the horses back. “Get in, miss, before these ruffians frighten the horses half to death! Whoa, easy—”

  The carriage door opened; in a flash, Simon’s hand reached out to help Penelope up. The moment she was inside, Simon called out, “All aboard! Time to set sail, and quick.”

  “Aye!” Old Timothy turned and cracked his whip over the heads of the pirates, to scatter the crowd.

  Crack!

  Then again over the horses.

  Crack! Crack!

  They reared and hit the ground at a full gallop; the carriage heaved into motion, and a bouncy, bumpy, bone-shaking ride it was. The traffic around the theater was dense, but Old Timothy drove the horses through it like a man possessed. The Incorrigibles whooped and hollered as if they had never had so much fun in their lives.

  Still reeling from the shock of it all, Penelope looked around the carriage. There were Simon and all three Incorrigibles, sitting next to a heap of rags. Between whoops, the children nibbled on flat, circular cakes. Their happy faces were covered with crumbs.