The Secret of the Key

by Marianne Malone

  “This type of knot gets tighter when you put weight on it,” he explained, pulling on a loop.

  “But we can’t reach the grate to hang it,” Ruthie pointed out.

  Jack took off a shoe. He tied one long unknotted end of the cord to it. He handed the shoe to Ruthie and then got down on his hands and knees. “Climb on my back and lob it through a few times to wrap it around the crosspieces.”

  “All right.” Ruthie stepped gently on his horizontal back, balanced herself, and tossed the tiny shoe into a square in the grate. It fell back through another square and hung down to about the level of her waist. She repeated the action eight or nine times and then gave the looped part a good tug. “That should do it.”

  “You go first,” Jack said, still on his hands and knees. “I’ll come up after.”

  Ruthie grabbed hold of a loop that was above her head, almost at the grate, and lifted her feet up and into another. The cord was so thin it dug into her hand and she was glad the distance was so short. In two steps she was close enough to grab the grate and pull herself up into the American corridor. She watched through the squares, making sure that the cord didn’t slip from the grate, while Jack climbed up.

  “Made it!” he crowed as he clambered out. He reached down for his shoe, which was still dangling from the cord, just below the top. “Pretty good idea, huh?”

  “Not bad,” Ruthie admitted.

  Jack unwound the cord and let it fall to the base of the vent.

  “When we come back we can just drop down. But we’re going to need it to climb out at the other end.”

  Getting the eighteenth-century clothing was a cinch, but when they stood ready to go back through the duct, Ruthie noticed a small problem. “We can’t make this climb and hold on to the clothes. We need to put them on.”

  They slipped the heavy fabrics over their own clothes. Racing through the dark passage, Ruthie thought once again how beautiful but ridiculous the women’s clothing of this earlier time was. Wearing all these layers would put anyone at a disadvantage.

  “When you get out there, don’t wait for me—just run to the door, okay?” Jack said.

  “Okay,” she said. “What about your shoe?”

  “I’ll figure something out.”

  She hoisted herself up from the looped cord and stuck her head out. The docent was sitting on her chair, reading. Ruthie heaved herself, dress and all, the rest of the way through the grate and ran to the door leading to the guards’ locker room. She hadn’t counted on how much tighter the squeeze would be with the voluminous dress, but she tucked it all in under the door and waited.

  And waited.

  He was taking too long.

  What if something had happened? What if he had been wrong about the strength of the cord? Jack weighed a few pounds more than Ruthie—what if the cord had snapped this time? Or worse, what if a cockroach had found him? All he had was his Swiss Army knife, which, shrunken, would be no use whatsoever against such a giant and naturally armed beast. Or perhaps he was stuck in another spiderweb!

  She was about to run back when she saw Jack’s head pop up through the grate, his shoe in his mouth.

  Ruthie looked toward the counter. The docent was still reading intently. Jack made a break for it, running unevenly with only one shoe on. He skidded to the door like it was home plate.

  “What took you so long?” Ruthie asked on the other side.

  “It was really hard to get my shoe untied with one hand. I grabbed it with my mouth so it wouldn’t fall when I got it freed. Glad it was my own shoe!” he joked, wrinkling his nose.

  Just then they heard a loud noise. They were standing next to the end of a long wall of lockers and the sound was the metal-on-metal clank of a locker slamming shut.

  The two instinctively froze. After a second, Ruthie forced herself to lean forward and peek around the corner. Jack did the same. Down the row of full-size lockers, a single guard stood buttoning his uniform sweater. The locker next to them was open a crack. They had the same thought: before the guard had finished they were up and in.

  A sweater hung from hooks high above them. On the locker floor sat a lunch box and a large metal thermos. Ruthie looked up at the giant cylinder, the letters spelling out the brand name as big as her and Jack. They waited, listening to the muffled and rhythmic sound of soft soles on the floor coming close. Soon the guard’s giant shoes were just a yard away. Through the crack in the door Ruthie saw that they were the gummy crepe-soled type, which looked particularly lumpy up close; all the crevices were filled with chunks of dirt and dried mud, and the scuffs on the shoe leather were like abstract graffiti. Ragged ropes hung from the frayed bottoms of his khakis.

  In a couple of seconds he stopped right in front of them.

  Ruthie and Jack squeezed into the small space behind the lunch box. The locker door shut with a heavy metallic thud. The footsteps faded away, and they heard the information booth door opening and the thump of it closing.

  “Oh, boy,” Jack said, looking way up to the latch that now trapped them. Their eyes adjusted to the small amount of light coming through the ventilation slats high up on the door.

  The locking mechanism consisted of two long metal poles that fed into holes at the top and bottom of the locker and met in the middle, where the handle was. When someone turned the handle, the bottom rod would rise up and the upper rod would pull down, releasing them from the holes. Simple—but impossible to make happen if you were only five inches tall.

  “I’m going to have to grow to get us out,” Ruthie decided.

  “Let’s hope we don’t need a combination!” Jack said, his voice strained with worry.

  Ruthie took the key from her pocket and dropped it.

  In seconds Jack was knocked to the corner and buried under the fabric of Ruthie’s long eighteenth-century dress. Ruthie found herself scrunched against the sweater, her head hitting the clothes hooks that hung down.

  “Ouch!” she exclaimed. She tried to get in a better position to unlock the door. A part of the handle that connected to the rods stuck out a couple of inches. Ruthie grabbed it and pulled down. It didn’t budge.

  “It’s not opening!”

  “Try harder,” Jack shrieked from under the fabric.

  “I’m going to try to break it,” Ruthie said, maneuvering down in the tight column of space. Finally she managed to grab the top of the thermos, sliding it up as high as she could. With a mighty whack she brought it down on the handle. The lock broke and the door burst open. The thermos went flying and so did she. She hit the ground but didn’t see Jack anywhere! Had she crushed him?

  “Jack! Where are you?”

  After a few beats a rustling began and a small lump moved under the heavy garment near her feet.

  “Sorry!” she said, lifting it off poor Jack.

  “That was a rough ride!” he gasped.

  “We’d better get out of here before someone comes in!”

  Ruthie quickly put the thermos back in the damaged locker. She found the key on the floor and picked it up to shrink. Once she was small again, Ruthie held the heavy skirt above her feet and they ran to the exit, slid under the door, and came out in the small nook, where they took off the period garments. No one was around, so Ruthie dropped the key and they grew back to full size, leaving the outfits tiny. Jack grabbed the key and they ambled leisurely back to Gallery 11 as though nothing had happened. With the clothes in their pockets, they were ready to face whatever 1687 had in store for them. Would the mystery ring from Belton House help them discover who had possessed the key?

  WHAT—OR WHO—COULD BE out there? Ruthie wondered as they looked out from the patio. Would they find any more clues about how the ring had found its way into the wooden box? Mrs. Thorne’s letter said the key had to be reunited with a different box—a looking-glass box. Maybe someone out there could help.

  Ruthie held the ring in front of her, letting it catch the sunlight, the flickering points of light bouncing off the gemstone
s like little warning flares, making Ruthie worry—perhaps she and Jack were not practicing enough caution. But something told her that searching for answers was not optional. They had to.

  “Tell me what you know about this time,” Ruthie said as she put the ring back in her bag.

  “Not that much about England. But the Jamestown colony was already set up in Virginia. If anyone asks, we can say we’re from there. Come on. We’re wasting time,” Jack said, his voice untroubled by worries. He skipped down to the grassy lawn.

  They approached the road and turned toward the village. The buildings were small and snugly nestled together on either side of the road. Made of smooth white plaster between dark timbers that framed the structures, they stood one or two stories high with thatched roofs. The windows had small diamond-shaped panes. Ruthie thought they looked like fairy-tale houses.

  Hand-painted signs hung above the doors to several of the shops. They saw a butcher shop, a cheese monger, and a shoe store—which had a sign calling it a cobbler shop. The time travelers blended right in with the villagers, and Jack was comfortable enough to ask a lady directions.

  “Belton House? ’Tis the grand house atop the rise. Take High Road.”

  The route was easy, and in ten minutes they arrived at a graveled area that would today be called the driveway.

  Belton House stood in the middle of a broad green lawn, dotted with beds of blooming rosebushes and tidy hedges. Ruthie thought about how the real E4—the one Mrs. Thorne copied—was actually in there, and she wondered what the other rooms might look like.

  “Look,” Jack said, pointing down the sloping lawn, away from the house. “There’s our portal over there. We walked in a circle.”

  Ruthie felt a small rush of comfort seeing that, but it was interrupted a few seconds later by an object that whizzed right between her head and Jack’s.

  “Duck!” Jack yelped.

  They hit the ground just as another projectile hurtled by. This time Ruthie saw what it was—an arrow!

  She started in the direction of the hedge, fearing that they had walked right into some sort of battle, when they heard peals of laughter.

  Out of nowhere, two girls came running toward them. Ruthie thought they might be from the group they’d seen reading earlier, although she wasn’t positive. The older one looked about their age. “Are you hurt?” she asked.

  Ruthie and Jack stood up.

  “No, we’re fine,” Jack answered.

  “That was my brother William’s doing! The scoundrel!”

  Right on cue, the young scoundrel came forward, bow in hand, still laughing. Equipped with a half-full quiver strapped to his back, he appeared to be about eight years old.

  “See, Margaret—no harm done!” the young boy said.

  “You’re impossible,” his sister said, and grabbed the bow from him. Then she gave a curtsy. “I’m Margaret Brownlow. This is Rose,” she said, nodding to the little girl hiding behind her, who looked about five years old.

  Ruthie suppressed an urge to grin too widely at hearing the name of the family they were looking for and instead smiled politely. “I’m Ruthie Stewart, and this is Jack Tucker.”

  “And this is my brother William. We were having archery lessons, and it seems he decided to choose another target.” She swatted him. “You might have killed them!”

  “I’m going to tell Rivy!” the little girl named Rose said, and ran off to the house.

  “No, Rose. Don’t bother her. She’s not feeling well,” Margaret called after her. But the young girl didn’t stop, disappearing into the house. Margaret turned back to Ruthie and Jack. “Please forgive my brother.”

  “That’s o—” Ruthie began, but remembered that no one in this century had heard the word okay, so she corrected herself. “That’s all right.”

  “Did we not see you earlier, down in the park over there?” Margaret asked.

  “Possibly,” Ruthie answered, and then changed the subject. “Do you live here?”

  “Yes, we do.”

  “But you don’t,” William said. “I see by your manner.”

  “We’re from the Jamestown colony,” Jack responded.

  William’s jaw fell open like a wide-mouth jar.

  “What brings you to Lincolnshire?” Margaret asked.

  “Jack’s here for an education, and I’m accompanying him,” Ruthie said, remembering how rarely girls were educated in past times.

  “Are there wild animals there?” William asked eagerly. “Do you fight the Indians?”

  “We try to get along with them, since they were there first,” Jack explained, although he knew that period of history was filled with bloody clashes between the colonists and the Native Americans. “We use bows and arrows all the time for hunting,” he added as a flourish.

  “How’s your aim?” William asked.

  “I’m pretty good,” Jack boasted.

  William grabbed the bow back from his sister. “Show me.” He motioned for Jack to follow him. Ruthie and Margaret exchanged looks and silently decided it would be best to join them rather than risk being hit by a stray arrow.

  William led the way to their archery range, close enough to the house to see inside the tall windows. Ruthie thought she saw someone looking out at them, but there was glare from the sun, so she couldn’t be sure.

  Three more quivers and bows lay strewn about, as the lesson had been interrupted by Ruthie and Jack’s arrival. Several yards away, a sheet with painted concentric circles hung in the middle of a large bale of hay that stood as a target.

  Ruthie had taken archery last summer at camp. She didn’t know where Jack had learned, but he seemed to be right at home. He inspected the bow, made sure the arrow was true, and checked the fletching on the end.

  He took the proper stance and placed the arrow on the rest, then aimed and drew the string. The arrow cut the air, arcing nicely, and hit the target close to the bull’s-eye with a satisfying thwack.

  “Jolly good!” William complimented.

  “I say—who’ve we here?”

  Ruthie and Jack turned to see an older boy, maybe sixteen years old, coming toward them from a side garden. He held a book.

  “Peter, this is Jack and Ruthie,” William said. “From America!”

  “America? In truth?” He approached them, his hand out to shake Jack’s. Then he took Ruthie’s hand and kissed it. Ruthie felt the blood rush to her face. “What brings you to Belton House?”

  “Uh …” Ruthie told herself to get a grip. She felt in her bag and brought out the ring. “We found this. Does it belong to your family?”

  “Can’t say for certain,” the older boy said, examining the ring in the sunlight. “Looks similar to our crest.”

  Margaret looked at it as well and handed it back to Ruthie. “Father hasn’t mentioned anything missing.”

  A commotion rang out toward the house. Ruthie looked over and saw Rose holding a woman by the arm and pulling her through the doorway, wailing that William was “going to murder a boy and a girl”! The woman was the same woman they had seen reading with the children earlier. She was resisting.

  “All’s well, Rivy,” Peter called over. “We have visitors—from America!”

  At this, the woman fainted.

  • • •

  It was eerie sitting in the drawing room of Belton House. It was almost identical to Mrs. Thorne’s version—the door to which was just down the road at the moment—but with some different furniture and paintings on the walls. And of course there was a real fourth wall, instead of the viewing window. The children had guided the woman here over her protestations that she was fine.

  “A little light-headed—I should have had a larger meal, that’s all,” she said. But Peter insisted they all have tea and “biscuits,” which were really cookies as far as Ruthie could tell.

  Rose introduced the woman as Rivy, their governess. “She looked after our father and now she looks after us!” Rivy sipped her tea, and Ruthie heard a slight ra
ttle of the teacup on the saucer.

  They talked for some time, although the governess said little and attended mainly to Rose. Ruthie and Jack learned that the parents had gone to London for the “social season” and that children never went along until they were of an age to be seeking a marriage partner.

  Rivy seemed to be a combination of nanny and teacher. Rose sat like a kitten curled up on the sofa next to her and stared at Jack’s shoes. Ruthie made sure her own were covered by the long dress—finally a benefit to all that fabric.

  At last the little girl couldn’t contain herself, and she jumped up and skipped across the rug to get a closer look at Jack’s sneakers. She poked them with a finger, as if they were hot.

  “Why do you wear such ugly shoes?” she asked.

  “Rose! That is unbecoming!” Margaret chided.

  Jack laughed. “They’re the kind of shoes we have where we come from.”

  “I think it’s time you all headed back outdoors and finished archery practice.” The governess stood up, not the least bit wobbly, and guided Rose away from Jack’s shoes and toward the door. “I’ll join you all in a bit.”

  The younger children led the way.

  “Good book?” Jack asked, falling into step with Peter.

  “Indeed! Riveting, I should say!” He held the book up for Jack to see. “Gulliver’s Travels. Just published.”

  “That’s a great story,” Jack agreed. “Can I take a look?”

  Ruthie noticed a slight frown on Jack’s face as he thumbed through the first pages. But it disappeared as soon as they neared the bows and arrows and he handed the book back to Peter.

  Rose brought a bow over for Ruthie. “Are you an archer too?”

  “Not really.” Ruthie took the bow. “But I’ll give it a try.” She stood in place and launched her arrow. It struck the target—not as good a shot as Jack’s, but respectable.

  “Watch me!” William stepped up and nudged Ruthie out of the way. His arrow landed right next to hers. “Bit of a breeze,” he complained. “I’ll give it another go.” Which he did, and no one argued with him about grabbing another turn. This time his arrow landed closer to the bull’s-eye and he gave a loud whoop.