The Penderwicks at Last

by Jeanne Birdsall

  Lydia stopped herself from saying that the Alice books she’d wanted to bring were extremely exciting, with a near-drowning in a pool of tears, not to mention a queen who cut off people’s heads. It was too late for recriminations, and Blossom was already leaving, pleased to have escaped the blue yarn neck bow. She’d gotten only halfway back to her friends when she was startled by a sound she’d never heard before—a loud, sickly moan coming from the other side of the estate. Blossom broke into a trot—racing now for her life.

  Alice had never heard that sound before, either. “Do you think that could be a ghost?”

  “No ghost,” said Lydia. “Just our old van. Jane and Ben are here.”

  AS THE GIRLS RAN to meet the new arrivals, Lydia warned Alice about Ben’s bossiness. She should have done it earlier—running and explaining don’t go well together—and maybe she wasn’t clear enough, because Alice refused to believe that Ben could be as bossy as Jack. Even a description of Ben’s despotic filmmaking methods didn’t discourage Alice. She was intrigued that Ben made films at all, as Jack had never attempted anything so creative. Lydia would have to attack the problem from Ben’s side. She didn’t want him ordering around her new friend.

  Batty and the dogs were already beside the driveway when Lydia and Alice arrived, everyone enthusiastically waving arms and wagging tails as their van—dubbed “Flashvan” years ago—appeared, yawing from one side of the drive to the other. Either Jane was asleep at the wheel or Ben was driving. He was still in the learning phase, and too stubborn to let anyone tell him what to do, especially one of his sisters.

  When the van stopped with a lurch and a nasty squeal of brakes, Jane tumbled out of the passenger door and onto the grass, looking green. So it had been Ben driving.

  “I didn’t think I could get carsick that quickly,” said Jane. “He’s only been driving since the pillars.”

  “Second gear kept sticking,” said Ben.

  “That wasn’t second gear. That was you.” Jane did her best to fend off the dogs, who were delighted to have her stretched out on the ground, making it much easier to search for spilled food. When they realized that she was clean, they tried to lick her face instead, which would have been okay if Feldspar had dropped his chair leg first. “Ouch, Feldspar, knock it off, you big galoot. Hello, you must be Alice.”

  Alice leaned down to shake Jane’s hand. “Mom can’t wait to meet you, and Dad said that he remembers you as being excitable.”

  “I’m still excitable,” said Jane, “except when I’m carsick. I can’t believe how bad a driver Ben is. I was never that bad.”

  “Yes, you were,” said Batty.

  “You really were,” said Ben. He was ready to argue this point indefinitely, but Lydia put a stop to that by leaning into the van and whispering to him.

  “Alice is my friend, so don’t boss her around or do anything to make her unhappy.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like, for example, when you said my hair’s like a trash-can fire, and when I got mad, you pretended it was a compliment.”

  “It was a compliment.”

  “Just be careful, please.” Lydia pulled Alice over. “This is Ben. I told you about him.”

  “Hello,” said Alice.

  “What did Lydia tell you?” asked Ben.

  “That you keep her out of your room just like my brother does with me.”

  “That’s true. Did she say anything positive about me? Like that I’m smart and kind and overwhelmingly good-looking? But you can see all that for yourself. Right, Alice?”

  Alice tipped her head to one side, studying him. “Not particularly. But you sound interesting.”

  Ben decided to accept this markdown in quality, but only if he could elevate it just a bit.

  “Let’s say that I’m very interesting,” he said.

  Jane was now testing her ability to stand up. “Good—wooziness dispelled, no thanks to Ben’s driving. Lyds, Iantha wants me to make sure you’re not homesick.”

  “Do you get homesick?” Alice asked Lydia.

  “No, I don’t. Jane, please tell Mom I’m happy. Good grief.”

  “And no more Mrs. Tifton sightings? Batty?”

  “Not so far. Perimeters are secure. I mean, I think they are. She could have slipped in without us noticing.”

  “We could set up lookouts,” said Alice. “That would be fun.”

  “Trip wires,” said Ben.

  “No! No lookouts or trip wires,” said Jane. “Rosalind told me specifically that we should act normally.”

  The other three Penderwicks gawked. Even Feldspar reacted, dropping his chair leg onto Jane’s foot.

  “Not sure what Rosy means by that,” said Ben.

  Jane wasn’t sure, either. “I think she means that we shouldn’t try to make Mrs. Tifton angry.”

  “You don’t really have to try much,” said Alice. “She does it on her own.”

  “Okay, well, we’ll do our best.” Jane, already in need of rest from being in charge, leaned against Flashvan. “Now, here’s the plan. I’m taking over the carriage house apartment and turning it into my dressmaking center. The rest of you will sleep in the mansion, starting tonight.”

  “No,” said Lydia.

  Three Penderwicks were gawking again, this time at Lydia. It was rare for her to utter a plain and unequivocal no.

  “Why?” asked Jane.

  “Ghosts,” said Alice. “That’s why.”

  “Are there ghosts in the mansion?” asked Ben. Lydia could tell he was already getting an idea for a film.

  “Of course not,” said Batty. “Ghosts aren’t real. Lydia knows that.”

  “But you didn’t want to sleep there, either, Batty,” said Lydia.

  “That was because of Mrs. Tifton, not ghosts!”

  “Enough,” said Jane. “According to Jeffrey, Mrs. Tifton will not be haunting the mansion from now on, and if there are ghosts, there will be three of you against them, plus the dogs, which should be enough. I’m taking the carriage house. Rosalind said I could, and I am.”

  Lydia preferred Batty’s certainty that there were no ghosts to Jane’s belief that three not-even-adult Penderwicks could defeat the ones they ran into, but she submitted. As soon as night fell, though, she’d refuse to be alone in the mansion, not even for a second.

  Jane continued with orders. “Batty and Ben, take Flashvan to the apartment and start unloading. Lydia, there’s a large cooler with food that needs to go into the mansion refrigerator—please do that now. There are no ghosts during the day, I suppose?”

  “No,” said Alice. “They walk at night.”

  Ben grinned, Lydia winced, and Jane decided to ignore the part about walking at night.

  “Alice,” she said, “if your parents are home, I’d like to go say hello. I think I remember the way—is Jeffrey’s hedge tunnel still here?”

  “It’s Alice’s now,” said Lydia.

  “Forgive me, Alice, of course it is,” said Jane. “Do you mind if I use your tunnel?”

  Alice was willing to let Jane use her tunnel but not, it seemed, without supervision. The two of them went off together, leaving the three youngest Penderwicks behind.

  “Where are these ghosts supposed to be?” Ben asked Lydia.

  “Alice said in the cellar.”

  “But, Lyds, honey,” said Batty. “Alice also said that those are ghosts of the husbands Mrs. Tifton murdered! And you know that’s not true.”

  Lydia saw the logic in this, and thought it would be a relief to shake this ghost nonsense, and she would try, she really would. She might even make “There are no ghosts” her motto. She just wished she didn’t have to sleep in the mansion.

  * * *

  —

  After wrestling the heavy cooler into the mansion, Lydia felt she deserved a
break before transferring the food into the refrigerators. But it occurred to her that if any spiders had escaped yesterday’s purge, they might want revenge for the removal of their friends—they didn’t know Batty had done it for their own good. There could be squadrons of diminutive paratroopers preparing to attack her from above.

  She found another apron to tie over her head, did what she had to do with the food, and escaped. Once again outside, and blessedly free of spiders (or ghosts, but she shoved that thought into the back of her mind), Lydia celebrated with a tango, gliding down the path, the apron now a matador’s cape used to both lure and repel her imaginary partner.

  “Dance with me, señor! ¡Olé, olé! No spiders in my hair, and we’re staying at Arundel! ¡Olé, olé—whoops!” No tango had ever come to so abrupt a halt. Hadn’t Jeffrey said his mother wouldn’t be haunting the mansion anymore? Nevertheless, there at the end of the path, standing beside the terrace steps, was Mrs. Tifton.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Tifton. I was just dancing.”

  “Hmm.” Mrs. Tifton didn’t seem certain that Lydia’s tango could be called dancing. But she also didn’t seem to be furious at the moment—a great improvement over the day before. “Linda, right?”

  “Lydia, actually.” Lydia bundled the apron under her arm—now was the second time she’d been caught red-handed with Arundel property. “We’re still here.”

  “Yes. I was out-voted.” There it was—a hint of the pickle face. “According to Jeffrey, you’ll be here for a long time.”

  “Just until the wedding—a week from Saturday.” Lydia thought that hardly any time at all for experiencing a paradise like Arundel.

  “That’s a long time to stay in another person’s house.” Mrs. Tifton inspected the steps to find the cleanest spot, then sat down.

  If Mrs. Tifton meant what Lydia thought she meant, Jeffrey had been right about her going back to New York soon. Lydia decided to check: “So you must be going back to New York City soon.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you won’t want to stay at Mrs. Robinette’s house for a long—”

  “That’s different. Mimi’s one of my best friends.” Mrs. Tifton shuffled through her bag and pulled out a phone. “Who, by the way, has been looking for a new shade of red to try, and my description of yours didn’t give her enough to go on, so now she wants a picture. Sit down next to me and turn your head—I’ll photograph the back.”

  Lydia obediently sat and turned the back of her head to Mrs. Tifton, trying to remember if she’d brushed her hair that morning. “To try for what?”

  “Her own hair. What else?” Mrs. Tifton put away the phone. “Thank you. I’m done. When is the rest of your family arriving?”

  “Jane and Ben just got here. Rosalind and Skye are coming next week, and Mom and Dad, the day before the wedding.”

  “Rosalind is the one getting married?”

  “Yes. She’s the oldest.”

  “Batty, the spider-obsessed one, is the youngest of the original four—I remember her and her dog. That makes Jane and Skye the middle ones. Are they attached?”

  “Attached?”

  “To a man.”

  Now Mrs. Tifton was staring intently at Lydia—apparently, this was an important question, maybe even the reason Mrs. Tifton had shown up. Lydia didn’t know why it would be, and she also wasn’t sure what it meant to be attached to a man. Skye and Dušek had been together for three years, but Lydia could imagine what Skye would say if anyone described them as attached. Attached by what, exactly? Cement? Chains? Lydia stuck with what she could state with certainty.

  “Skye says that marriage is an outmoded social construct.” Hoping Mrs. Tifton wouldn’t ask what that meant, Lydia rushed on. “And Jane has no intention of getting married for a long time, not until she’s published her first book, or maybe never. She says artists need to be selfish, and for a woman, that might mean not getting married or having children. Male artists, she says, have always had permission to be selfish, but thank goodness things are changing as the patriarchy is gradually breaking down.”

  Mrs. Tifton raised her eyebrows at the part about the patriarchy breaking down—and seemed ready to argue—but Lydia was rescued by the cry of an eastern towhee.

  “Alice is looking for me,” she told Mrs. Tifton. “Any chance you can whistle like a black-capped chickadee?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Never mind.” Lydia cupped her hands like a megaphone and shouted, “Alice, over here on the steps!”

  A moment later, Alice trotted into view. She faltered when she saw who was sitting beside Lydia but quickly recovered, pulling a phone out of her pocket.

  “Hello, Mrs. Tifton.” She handed the phone to Lydia. “Mom let me borrow this but only for taking pictures, and if I break it, I’m grounded for the rest of my life. Take a picture of me with Mrs. Tifton.”

  “Whatever for?” Mrs. Tifton asked.

  “To send to Jack.” Alice squished herself in between Lydia and Mrs. Tifton, forcing Mrs. Tifton to scooch over. “Make it good, Lydia. Jack replied to our pancake picture with one of him and Marcel eating waffles.”

  While Mrs. Tifton mulled that over, trying to decide if she was being compared to waffles, Lydia stood up to take the photograph. When she showed it to the subjects, Alice declared it just right, but Mrs. Tifton was disturbed by the wrinkles on her neck.

  “We could take another, if you want,” said Lydia, though she didn’t know how to take a photo without showing Mrs. Tifton’s neck wrinkles.

  “No, never mind.” Mrs. Tifton shifted over to put a little more space between her and Alice. “By the way, do you know if my ex-husband is invited to your sister’s wedding?”

  After hearing Alice’s theory of murdered ex-husbands haunting the basement, Lydia was confused about which, if any, were still alive enough to attend Rosalind’s wedding.

  Alice was also perplexed. “Which ex-husband?”

  “For goodness’ sake, Alice, the only one the Penderwicks know well enough to invite to a wedding.”

  This still didn’t give Lydia enough information. Her sisters had gotten to know the awful Dexter Dupree pretty well. But Mrs. Tifton couldn’t possibly imagine they’d invite—

  “You must mean Jeffrey’s dad,” said Alice. “Alec.”

  Alec! Of course. Lydia had known him her entire life. He was part of the Penderwicks’ extended clan, not just because he was Jeffrey’s father, but because he’d been Uncle Turron’s friend long before Uncle Turron married Aunt Claire. With all this shared history, it was hard to remember that Alec had been the very first of Mrs. Tifton’s ex-husbands. He seemed an unlikely match for her, being warm, funny, and kind, and also a professional musician. Jeffrey got his talent from that side of the family.

  “Yes, I mean Alec,” said Mrs. Tifton with a hint of pickle. “Is he invited?”

  “Yes,” said Lydia. “He’s going to help Jeffrey with the music for the wedding. They’re putting together a band, with—”

  “When is he arriving?”

  “Probably next week, I think,” said Lydia. “Jeffrey will know better. You can ask him.”

  “Jeffrey and I don’t discuss his father.” Mrs. Tifton stood, brushing off nonexistent dirt. “Lydia, I’d like to speak with your sister Jane. Where can I find her tomorrow morning?”

  Lydia’s mouth dropped open. Ben always made fun of her when this happened, calling her a goldfish, but sometimes when she was startled, she just couldn’t help it. She and Mrs. Tifton had, she thought, been getting along well. Why now the desire to meet with Jane? Lydia would bank her life on Jane not wanting to meet with Mrs. Tifton.

  “Jane’s awfully busy, Mrs. Tifton. I can ask her anything you want to know, like about Alec or anything.”

  “There’s more to it than Alec.”

  �
�Together, Alice and I can remember a long message. Can’t we, Alice?”

  Alice nodded. “When I was five, I knew all the words to Unicorn Thinks He’s Pretty Great, possibly the funniest book in the world, and I still remember them. I can act out the pictures, too.”

  “And I know by heart the lyrics to Into the Woods, A Little Night Music, Les Mis—”

  “I don’t care what either of you know by heart.” Mrs. Tifton’s face was moving into full-fledged pickle territory. “I need to talk with Jane. Where can I find her tomorrow morning?”

  There was no sense in continuing to stall. Mrs. Tifton was making that clear.

  “She’s staying at the carriage house,” answered Lydia.

  “I’ll be there tomorrow at ten. Tell Jane.”

  As the girls watched her go, Lydia couldn’t help remembering she’d promised to protect Batty from Mrs. Tifton. At least she hadn’t promised Jane the same thing.

  “What do you think she wants to talk to Jane about?” she asked Alice.

  “Probably, mostly Alec. Dad thinks Alec is her least favorite ex-husband,” said Alice, “but Mom thinks that deep down he’s her most favorite, that she forces herself to hate him because of how awful she was to him over Jeffrey.”

  Mrs. Tifton had not only let her own father separate her from Alec before Jeffrey was born, she’d never told Alec that he had a son afterward, or told Jeffrey anything about his father. Jeffrey had ended up finding Alec himself, one summer in Maine, with help from Skye and Jane, years and years ago. This, by the way, had done nothing to diminish Mrs. Tifton’s dislike of the Penderwicks.

  “Do you think she minds him coming here? Alec, I mean.” Lydia was trying to understand the touch of sympathy she felt for Mrs. Tifton. “I might be upset if I were her.”

  “But if you were her, you wouldn’t have been awful to Alec, and none of this would be happening.” Alice looked again at the photo of her with Mrs. Tifton. “I don’t know if this is exciting enough for Jack, with Mrs. Tifton almost normal. We should have taken another at the end, when she was pickled. Should we try again, the next time she’s angry?”