The Interrupted Tale Read online

  “But first things first—back to the letter,” she thought, for at the moment she was trying to solve an altogether different mystery: Had Miss Mortimer forgotten her birthday, or not?

  Penelope skimmed paragraph after paragraph, page after page. “Multiplication, multiplication, long division, geometry . . . Eureka! Here it is, at last.”

  But that is quite enough about isosceles triangles. I have a particular reason for writing to you, for very soon it will be time for the CAKE.

  “See? She did not forget!” she thought, but her excitement was dashed in the next sentence.

  CAKE is something new at Swanburne. It is the Celebrate Alumnae Knowledge Exposition. We plan a day of festivities and a delicious dinner, followed by speeches that I hope will be both pithy and wise, as Agatha Swanburne herself would wish. Would it be possible for you to attend our CAKE on 12th October to speak about the value of your Swanburne education? The Swanburne Path to Success, or something of that ilk?

  Penny dear, you must say yes; your alma mater needs you. I confess I have already let it slip to the girls that you would be coming, and they are rather too excited. Many asked if they might write to you. You are one of our more accomplished graduates, you know.

  “So they were not birthday cards, but simply ordinary, everyday correspondence.” Penelope felt somewhat deflated by this, understandably. And CAKE had nothing to do with birthdays either; it was only an acronym. Was it possible that Miss Mortimer had forgotten? But the letter was not over yet.

  I have also taken the liberty of writing to your mistress, Lady Constance Ashton, to ask if she would consider adding our school to the list of charitable institutions she supports. Who would know better than Lady Ashton just how capable a Swanburne girl can be? She has placed her wards in your hands, after all.

  And speaking of the children, I so long to meet them! Please bring them with you, for my sake, and for the trustees’ sake, too. For it is the transformation you have wrought in your three remarkable pupils that best proves the worth of all you have learned here.

  After that there were more paragraphs about multiplication, followed by a brief review of cave geology (stalactites grow down, stalagmites grow up, Penelope was grateful to be reminded). The letter concluded with a long list of various types of ferns, complete with their distinguishing characteristics.

  “The upholstery fern? The Winnebago fern? I believe Miss Mortimer made those up; at least, I have never heard of them. And I fear she is being much too optimistic about Lady Constance.” Penelope looked fondly at the Incorrigibles: the boys with their sketching and mapmaking, and Cassiopeia napping peacefully with her book still open upon her chest, the pages fluttering to and fro with each childish snore, like tiny sails in a changeable wind. Who could fail to see the charms of these three? Alas, Lady Constance could, and did. She disliked the children with a passion and was often harsh with their governess. There was little chance that the spoiled young mistress of Ashton Place would become a benefactor to Swanburne—or Swansong, as she sometimes glibly called the school.

  As for the children being proof of the value of Penelope’s education . . . well, the Incorrigibles’ best behavior was very good indeed, but their less-than-best could be positively hair-raising. “As is true of most young people,” Penelope thought, feeling suddenly protective. But then she reminded herself that the Swanburne Academy was a place where all children were treated with understanding and respect. At Swanburne, even three children who had been raised by wolves would be appreciated for their unique qualities. Of this she felt quite sure.

  “Grrrrr!” Cassiopeia awoke with renewed energy. Before long she had corralled her two brothers into an energetic game of tygers, complete with snarls and pretend biting. It was mostly pretend, anyway. Soon Alexander’s teeth were sunk into Beowulf’s pant leg, and the two were having a devil of a time getting untangled.

  Penelope called from her chair. “Careful, children! If the trousers get torn, you will have to mend them yourself, Alexander.”

  “Not children. Tygers!” Cassiopeia corrected. At the moment she clearly had the advantage over her brothers, and she readied herself to pounce. One . . . two . . . three—

  Penelope sighed. It was time to get back to work, but at least she had read her mail, or most of it, anyway. As she refolded Miss Mortimer’s letter, her eyes fell upon the last few lines.

  Oh! Happy birthday, dear Penny. I hope you did not think I had forgotten. I wish you many happy returns of the day, from all your loved ones, near and far.

  Yours in hope,

  Miss Charlotte Mortimer

  P.S. There is no need to reply by post. In fact, it is better if you do not; the mail delivery at Swanburne is less reliable than it once was, and I might not receive your answer. All will be explained when we speak in person, here, within these ivy-covered walls. Remember, twelve times eight is ninety-six!

  The birthday greeting was much appreciated, of course, but it was that last bit about the “ivy-covered walls” that kept Penelope awake and thinking long past her usual bedtime. She knew very well that the Swanburne Academy was kept spit-spot; nary a shred of ivy was allowed to grow anywhere near the walls. “Bad for the stonework,” the groundsmen would say. They always pulled it up by the roots.

  Ivy-covered walls and an unreliable postal service? Was Miss Mortimer trying to tell her that something was amiss? If so, why not just come out and say so? Penelope lay in the dark with her eyes wide-open. “Perhaps Miss Mortimer was making a joke about the ivy, as she surely was about the ferns. But Judge Quinzy on the board of trustees is no joke. It seems Miss Mortimer never received my warning about him. What can he be plotting? How fortunate that this invitation to speak at the CAKE gives me an excuse to go to Swanburne and put things right.”

  Sleepy as she was, her mind would not stop flitting from one worry to the next. “But, dear me, a speech! Thank goodness I took that class on Great Orations of Antiquity. It ought to come in useful as I prepare my remarks. And the twelfth of October is only a week away. . . .”

  Clickety-clack, clickety-clack . . .

  Whoo-hoo!

  Whoo-hoo!

  Penelope awoke the next morning thinking of trains—or train tickets, to be precise. She had recently used all her savings to pay for the services of Madame Ionesco, a Gypsy soothsayer of spooky reputation. It was Madame Ionesco who had eerily suggested that Edward Ashton might not be dead at the bottom of a tar pit, but still alive, although she did not explain how or why that might be. This unexpected news from Beyond the Veil had been worth every penny, but now Penelope had not a cent to her name with which to buy tickets to Heathcote.

  True, her salary was generous, but Lady Constance rarely thought to pay it unless asked. This Penelope seldom bothered to do, for she only spent money on books, presents, and the occasional soothsayer, and how often did the need for a soothsayer arise? Not often, in her limited experience. Yet now the urgency of making such a request could not be denied, unless she and the children intended to walk to Swanburne.

  “Which would take many months, given the shortness of Cassiopeia’s legs,” she reasoned. “We would miss the CAKE completely. And who knows what mischief the Person Who Calls Himself Quinzy But Whom I Suspect Is Really Edward Ashton, Long Presumed Dead, may have accomplished by then?”

  Therefore, after sharing breakfast with the children and setting them to work dusting the nursery bookshelves (this chore always took a good long while, for the children could not help being distracted by the books they were supposed to be dusting), Penelope went in search of Lady Constance. She found her outdoors, in the cutting garden.

  “But I ordered flowers!” Lady Constance sounded petulant. She carried a frilly parasol against the sun, and twirled it to and fro in irritation. “These are nothing more than knobby, ugly, dirty turnips. I asked for beautiful and frightfully expensive tulips.”

  The gardener, a young, plain-spoken fellow, gestured toward his wheelbarrow. To Penelope’s eye it
seemed to be full of small, misshapen potatoes. “These are the flowers, ma’am. At least, they will be in the spring, if I put them in the ground now.”

  Penelope curtsied. “Lady Constance, good morning. May I have a word?”

  “Not now, Miss Lumley.” Lady Constance covered her mouth with one hand as if she did not want the gardener to hear, although she spoke just as loudly as before. “This man seems to think these unattractive lumps are tulips, rather than turnips. I fear he is not well.”

  Penelope peered into the wheelbarrow for a closer look. “Tulip bulbs, how exciting!” she exclaimed. Indeed, tulips were wildly popular in Miss Lumley’s day, particularly “broken” tulips, which were not really broken at all. It simply meant that the tulips were striped in different colors, rather like Mr. Blake’s tyger, although one could no more mistake a tulip for a tyger than a tyger for a turnip.

  The gardener sighed and leaned on his spade. “No offense, m’lady, but if I don’t plant them soon they’ll rot. Now, where would you like them?”

  “Nowhere! Who would want such unattractive things lying about?”

  The poor fellow scratched his head. “Once they’re planted you won’t see the bulbs, m’lady. They’ll be under the dirt.”

  Lady Constance poked at the tulip bulbs with her parasol’s sharp tip. “My dear man, if I will not be able to see these awful ‘bulbs,’ as you call them, what difference does it make where you put them?”

  Penelope felt sorry for the frustrated gardener, who had a great deal of work to do and no parasol to shield him from the sun, either. And she had business of her own with Lady Constance, so the sooner this confusion about the tulips was settled, the better. “My lady, perhaps I can be of some help,” she interjected. “I believe this situation calls for a leap of the imagination.”

  Lady Constance turned to her. “Miss Lumley, do I look like a Russian ballerina to you? I am in no mood for leaping.”

  “It will not require any exertion, I promise. But if you could imagine that it were spring right now . . .”

  “Nonsense. Look at the leaves on the trees. They are falling like . . .” Even as Lady Constance gazed upward, a leaf landed on her pert, doll-like nose. “Why, like leaves in autumn.”

  “So they are, my lady. But if you would close your eyes for just a moment, perhaps you could imagine that it is spring.”

  “Close my eyes! Very well. I will humor you, but only out of boredom.” With a skeptical snort, Lady Constance squeezed her eyes shut, whereupon she brightened immediately. “I see it!” she exclaimed in surprise. “It is just as you say, Miss Lumley. April crocuses everywhere I look.”

  Pleased, Penelope went on. “And now that it is spring, imagine that there are pretty tulips blooming as well, so that all your friends might come for a garden party and admire them.”

  Lady Constance squealed with delight. “A garden party! Yes, of course. There is the punch bowl, and the wrought-iron garden chairs arranged just so. And look at the guests! Lady Partridge and Lady Peartree are wearing the same hat. How humiliating.”

  “Quite embarrassing, I agree. Now, where are the tulips?”

  “It is just as you say, Miss Lumley. April crocuses everywhere I look.”

  Lady Constance gestured blindly around her with the parasol. Penelope and the gardener had to jump out of the way.

  “Over here, and around the fountain. And sprinkled in and around these other plants on the right. And in a large clump over there, near that shrubby thing, the whatsit. Lilac. Oh! And look what else is here in the garden, come springtime. . . .” Her voice trailed off, but her expression grew dreamy and soft.

  The gardener gave Penelope a grateful look. “Around the fountain, in the flower beds, and near the lilac. Very good, my lady. That is just what you will see, come April.” At last the poor man was able to get to work. There were hundreds of bulbs to be planted; Penelope grew weary thinking of all the holes he would have to dig. And yet she too could imagine how lovely the tulips would look come springtime, and was glad for his efforts.

  WITH HER MOOD CONSIDERABLY LIGHTENED, Lady Constance twirled her parasol and began to stroll through the garden. “Come April, he says! Who can think that far ahead?” She smiled to herself; it was the smile of a person who has an important secret but no intention of telling it. “Truly, Miss Lumley, those tulips cost a shocking sum. But Fredrick bought them for me without any complaint. What a dear and generous man he is.”

  Lord Fredrick Ashton was hardly what Penelope would call a “dear and generous man,” but it was not her place to offer an opinion, so she said nothing.

  They stopped under the shade of a beechnut tree. Lady Constance lowered her parasol and shut it with a snap. “It is pleasant here, but there is no bench. Would it be perfectly uncivilized of us to sit upon the ground?”

  It seemed out of character for Lady Constance to propose anything that Penelope herself would enjoy, and she wondered if it were a trick of some kind. “Not at all, my lady, but you might ruin your dress,” she answered cautiously.

  “I have many other dresses, Miss Lumley. Anyway, this one scarcely fits me anymore. I think I am getting plump!” With a light laugh, Lady Constance settled herself comfortably upon the ground.

  Lady Constance’s strange behavior made Penelope think of how Mrs. Clarke and the children had acted so oddly the previous day, when they were trying to conceal their party preparations from her. Was Lady Constance also hiding something? If so, was it the sort of deception that was harmless and short-lived (for example, a surprise birthday party)? Or was it the kind that was cause for worry (for example, a person faking his own death and assuming a new identity as a judge for dark purposes as yet undiscovered)? There was no way to tell.

  On the other hand, she could think of nothing nicer than to sit upon the ground and enjoy the autumn dance of copper-colored leaves in the branches overhead. Nor did she have any special concern for her own dress, which was a plain brown worsted and easy enough to wash if it got dirty. So she sat.

  The earth was springy with moss, and a white-throated warbler chirped merrily from somewhere nearby. It was almost as if she were out on the lawn at Swanburne being reduced to giggle fits by Cecily (for no one could imitate the teachers as well as Cecily could). The moment was so agreeable, and so unexpected, that she nearly forgot the reason for her errand—but not quite.

  “Pardon me for raising the subject, Lady Constance,” she began, “but due to some unforeseen expenses, I find I am in urgent need of my—”

  “Miss Lumley!” The words burst from Lady Constance in much the same tone of voice that a person might use to shout “Eureka!” “I have thought of something clever! I shall have the gardeners move the flower garden right here, beneath this tree.” She patted the mossy ground beside her. “This way, during the summertime, I can sit among the flowers in comfort, in the shade, and not have to carry a parasol everywhere I go.”

  “But the flower garden cannot be moved here, my lady,” Penelope blurted. Immediately, she wished she had not been so direct, for Lady Constance’s expression looked suddenly brittle, like a soft bread roll gone stale and hard. “That is, you are quite right. It is cool and shady here. But flowers need sun. They will not grow and bloom without it. On the other hand, ferns will grow quite nicely in the shade, and there are so many different kinds.”

  The moment of imagined friendship was gone and seemed unlikely to return, but still, Penelope went on. “Why, this would be a lovely spot for a fern garden!” she enthused. “If I close my eyes I can see it: the graceful fronds waving in the breeze. . . .”

  Lady Constance pouted and tore the fallen leaves into strips. “I suppose you are right about the ferns. But it seems wildly unfair that one cannot grow tulips in the shade, after paying so much money for them. What is the point of having money, then? If one can be overruled by a gnarled, grubby little bulb? Don’t they realize what Fredrick paid for them?” She turned to Penelope, clearly expecting an answer.

 
; “I think . . . I assume . . . that is, I would imagine that the tulips do not know what they cost,” Penelope began, but then stopped herself. For who could say what tulips knew? Only the tulips, and they were not talking.

  Lady Constance let out a sharp laugh. “According to you, they know whether it is sunny or shady; surely they might know their own price. But never mind. You said you had urgent need of something, Miss Lumley. What is it?”

  Relieved to be able to get to it at last, Penelope spoke in a rush. “My salary, Lady Constance.”

  “But you were paid only last month. Or perhaps it was the month before. Where has your money gone, Miss Lumley? Surely you have not spent it on tulips!” Lady Constance seemed to find this amusing and chuckled at her own remark.

  “I have spent it on . . . gifts,” Penelope replied. (This was true in a way, for it was Madame Ionesco’s gift for communicating with spirits Beyond the Veil that had caused her services to be required in the first place.)

  “Gifts! Miss Lumley, I am disappointed in you. ‘Charity begins at home.’ That is what I tell Fredrick, anyway, and as you see from my new tulip garden, he listens. And that is precisely what I shall say in response to this.” Lady Constance reached into her reticule and extracted the same square, cream-colored envelope that Penelope had spotted on the mail tray the previous day. “This letter is from that school of yours, the Sunburne Academy. From a Miss Charlotte Mortimer. I believe she is the same person who wrote your letter of recommendation when you applied for your position here at Ashton Place.”

  She held the envelope between two fingertips, as if it were something unsavory. “What nerve! Asking me for a donation to support the Sunburne School. It is a short letter, thank goodness, and her handwriting is very neat. But really! If one wants money, one ought to inherit it from one’s parents, as I did, or failing that, one ought to marry a rich person, as I also did. That is the proper way to get money, Miss Lumley. One does not simply go around asking for it.”