The Unmapped Sea (3 page)

“Or Jasper!” Jasper was a young manservant in the house, and a special friend of Margaret's. His howls, as performed by Beowulf, were quite manly and romantic, and made a comical duet with the squeaky Margaret howls that Cassiopeia offered in return.

“Or Old Timothy.” Alexander imitated the enigmatic coachman's rolling, bow-legged walk. All three children tried to howl in the way they imagined the strange old fellow might, low and gruff and full of mystery.

Cassiopeia was so full of mirth she could barely
speak. “Or . . . or . . . or Lum
ahwooooo
!”

That did it. The mere thought of their governess howling made the children helpless with laughter. All three were soon reaching for their pocket handkerchiefs, as tears of merriment streamed down their cheeks.

Penelope held back a smile. “Lady Constance does not howl, at least that I know of. However, I believe she may just have had . . . well, let us call it a rude awakening. . . .”

But the dream of a happily howling household had caused Beowulf to have an epiphany of his own. “Let us paint family portraits—of everyone!” he suggested, and the sheer perfection of this idea was enough to send the children racing back to their easels. The Nutsawoo portraits were laid carefully to the side, to be finished at a future date. Fresh canvases were found. Beowulf chewed thoughtfully on the end of his paintbrush, always a sign that his muse was speaking to him.

“So many family portraits to paint,” he murmured. “Nutsawoo and Lady Constance . . .”

“Lord Fredrick and Mrs. Clarke,” Alexander agreed.

“Margaret . . . Jasper . . . Old Timothy . . . Simawoo . . .” This last was their nickname for Simon Harley-Dickinson, an especially well-liked friend of
theirs and, more to the point, of Penelope's.

“Mama Woof and the other woofs.” These were the wolves that had tended the children during their early years in the forest. They were very large, very fierce, and frankly, very unusual wolves.

“Bertha the ostrich!” Bertha had been left at Ashton Place by a visitor. Although not as clever as Nutsawoo, the tall, flightless, yet astonishingly speedy bird was a favorite of the children's, who liked to go on wild ostrich rides when Bertha was in the mood to race.

“Surely not all of these people—and wolves, and rodents, and birds, and what have you—belong in a gallery of family portraits,” Penelope protested. “We shall soon run out of walls to hang them!” But then she stopped herself. “Yet it is better to have too many relatives than too few,” she murmured, too low and too sad for anyone but herself to hear.

The list grew and grew: Miss Charlotte Mortimer, the headmistress of the Swanburne Academy. Madame Ionesco, a soothsayer who, in addition to being able to see Beyond the Veil, also baked tasty Gypsy cakes, which the children liked very much. They even thought of Lord Fredrick's mother, the Widow Ashton, who had been kind to them the one time she had visited Ashton Place.

Now that the children's good cheer had been restored, obstacles melted like snow in springtime, and everything seemed possible. But as you may have noticed, their unshakable conviction that nearly everyone they had ever met deserved a spot on the Incorrigible family tree had cast a shadow of gloom over their governess, who even now was reaching for her own pocket handkerchief. It was not
weltschmerz
, exactly, for she was sad for a particular reason, which was this: For as long as she could remember, her own family tree had been as bare as the elm that even now stood cold and leafless outside the nursery window.

She had parents, of course. If not (as Mrs. Clarke had earlier observed), Penelope could never have been born to grow up to miss them so. Now, at the ripe old age of sixteen, she asked herself daily: What had become of the Long-Lost Lumleys after they dropped her off at the Swanburne Academy, so many years ago? And why had they stayed absent and silent for so long? And what about the Incorrigible children's missing parents, and the strange curse upon the Ashtons, the roots of which were somehow buried in that family's genealogy? (This she had learned from Edward Ashton himself, and a most unpleasant man he was—but more about him later.)

“One could plant a whole forest of mystery out of all these family trees, for there are question marks hanging on every branch,” she thought. “If only finding one's true family was as simple as painting pictures and hanging them on the walls!”

To the Incorrigibles, of course, it was. They were still calling out names as they retied their smocks around their waists and readied themselves to paint.

“Agatha Swanburne!”

“Queen Victoria!” The children had never met either of these ladies in person, as Agatha Swanburne was long dead and Queen Victoria was busy being queen of the realm, but that hardly seemed to matter.

“Don't forget Incorrigibles!” Beowulf said. The thought of painting one another amused them greatly, and they struck many hilarious poses.

“Incorrigibles—and Lumawoo, too,” Cassiopeia added.

“Lumawoo! Lumawoo!” her brothers agreed. “First we paint Lumawoo.”

Laughing and determined, they led their governess to where the light seemed best. They debated about how she should pose, and what style of painting would suit her. In the end, they decided to show her in the
nursery, in the comfortable chair where she often sat to read poems and stories to them. On the wall behind her, they would add the portrait of Agatha Swanburne that hung in Miss Mortimer's office at the Swanburne Academy for Poor Bright Females. This way, they reasoned, they would make a painting of a portrait and a portrait of a painting, all at the same time.

The portrait could not pose for them, of course, but the children remembered its subject well: a young Agatha wearing an impish, amused expression, with eyes as sea green as Cassiopeia's, and smooth, vividly auburn-colored hair. It was a striking shade, quite like that of the children's hair, and Penelope's, too, as it so happened.

Obediently, the young governess posed with her favorite book of poetry in her lap, one hand resting on the cover. “‘I wander through the meadows green/Made happy by the verdant scene,'” she recited softly. These were the first lines of “Wanderlust,” her favorite of the poems. Miss Mortimer had given her the book as a gift, many years earlier. It was a collection of melancholy German poetry in translation, and Penelope had read it cover to cover more times than she could count.

Perhaps it was the poem that soothed her lonely heart, or the thought of her kind headmistress, or the
good cheer of the Incorrigibles as they dipped their pony-scented paintbrushes into the paint, but her gloom left her all at once, like a flock of sparrows taking flight. Now she too found herself with an impish smile playing on her lips.

She turned her face toward the window, to better catch the light. “The Long-Lost Lumleys are bound to turn up someday,” she thought, “and as for the other mysteries, I am quite sure they can be solved as well, with a bit of effort and pluck.”

Naturally she thought so; after all, she was a Swanburne girl, through and through. Yet as Agatha Swanburne herself once cautioned, “Things are rarely as complicated, or as simple, as they seem.”

T
HE
S
ECOND
C
HAPTER
There is an unfortunate misunderstanding.

T
HE UNPLEASANT DOCTOR
'
S RECOMMENDATION TO
improve Lady Constance's health was not revealed right away—at least, not to her. It so happened that one of the household butlers had delivered a fresh box of cigars to Lord Fredrick's study at the very moment that Dr. Veltschmerz had come by to discuss the matter, and had thus overheard their entire conversation.

If only the butler had gone more often to the theater! If he had, he would have known that eavesdropping leads only to humiliating discoveries and
unfortunate misunderstandings (comedies), or people being run through with swords while cowering behind the drapes (tragedies). But the poor fellow had not had that luxury, and now he wasted no time in telling the other butlers all that he thought he had learned. They in turn told the housemaids, who told the scullery maids, who told the stable boys, and on it went. Soon the whole estate was in a hushed frenzy of anticipation.

“The sea!” the staff whispered eagerly among themselves. “The doctor says Lady Constance must travel to the sea! I wonder which of us will be lucky enough to go?”

It was terribly exciting, for a trip to the sea in January could mean only one thing: a luxurious ocean voyage of some sort, most likely to southern Europe, but someplace warm and lovely in any case. Some of the servants hoped for the French seaside, and argued the merits of various resorts they had seen on picture postcards or heard about from their fellow servants at other estates. The weather in Deauville would be cool in January, but there was always Biarritz, near sunny Spain. And Nice would be divine, nestled on the curving coast of the blue-green Mediterranean Sea.

Others preferred the Italian Riviera, although
whether the seafood was better in San Remo or Portofino was a matter of opinion. And if the goal was to bring Lady Constance to the water, why not a more exotic destination? A cruise down the Nile was all the rage among the adventurous English of Miss Lumley's day. Great wooden sailing ships called
dahabiyyas
were devoted to this very purpose, taking wealthy travelers for a pleasant sail south from the pyramids of Cairo to the great temples and tombs of Luxor, then back again.

But as is nearly always the case with gossip, the true facts were quickly overrun by the made-up ones until it was impossible to tell them apart. It took three days for the ship of rumor to circumnavigate its way back to Lord Fredrick, when the tailor politely inquired if his lordship would prefer his new bathing costume to have navy-blue stripes, or black.

“Italy? The Riviera? Poppycock!” Lord Fredrick exclaimed, once he was made to understand why a new bathing costume had been ordered. “England is an island nation, what? Perfectly good beaches all around. So what if it's January? Brisk temperatures and the invigorating salt air! That's what the doctor says Constance needs, and by gum, that is what she shall have. Blast, I hope she doesn't think we're going
abroad. Someone needs to set her straight at once, or I'll never hear the end of it.” Then he rang for Mrs. Clarke.

Alas, Lady Constance did think they were going abroad. In fact, she was already practicing her socially useful Italian phrases, for the rumors of a balmy holiday on the Italian Riviera had reached her ears too, and she was more excited about it than anyone.

“
Buongiorno,
Signora Clarke,” she chirped when the housekeeper finally worked up the courage to come to her dressing chamber and deliver Lord Fredrick's message.
“Dove si trova il Colosseo?”
(“Good morning, Mrs. Clarke. Where will I find the Colosseum?”)

“Charmed, I'm sure, my lady,” Mrs. Clarke replied, with an anxious curtsy. “I have a message for you from His Lordship.” The whole way there, she had practiced saying, “There's been an unfortunate misunderstanding,” as Lord Fredrick had instructed, but now that the time had finally come to speak, the words got all jumbled from nerves. “There's been a fortnight of mist on the landing,” she announced, staring straight ahead.

Lady Constance frowned. “A fortnight of mist? How odd. As for Fredrick's message, don't tell me, please! Let it be a surprise, or let it seem like one, at least. For I already know he is planning a trip to Italy. My
seamstress let it slip when she came to let out the waist of my skirts.” She held up a hand, as if trying to hail a hansom cab. “Wait! I believe I just said something amusing. ‘She let out the secret as she was letting out the skirts.' Is that what they call a pun?”

“You'd have to ask Miss Lumley about that.” Mrs. Clarke swallowed hard. “About the, uh, mist on the landing—”

“Open a window, Mrs. Clarke! That is what I would do, if I were shrouded in mist. Honestly, sometimes I feel I have more common sense than all the rest of you put together. Except Fredrick, of course. What a darling husband he is, to plan a secret holiday in
bella Italia
! I would like nothing better than to kiss him on the nose in thanks, as if he were a precious pet poodle. But I will not spoil his surprise. When Fredrick finally decides to tell me about the trip, I promise I shall play the part of shock and delight with all the conviction of an actress on the West End.”

“I'm afraid that's just it, my lady. We're not going to Italy.” Mrs. Clarke wrung her hands, fidgety as a squirrel. “His Lordship bids me tell you we're to holiday at a beach in England. It'll be too cold for swimming, or sunbathing, or sandcastles, or much of anything, I suppose, but the doctor says it's for your
health, and the baby's, too.”

There is a very old saying, older than the Roman Colosseum, that states: “Don't kill the messenger who brings bad news.” Nowadays it may seem obvious that messengers ought not to be blamed for the news they bear. Think how difficult it would be to run an efficient postal service if the mail carriers had to flee angry mobs every time the headlines reported something unfortunate:
THE RICH GROW LESS RICH, THE POOR GROW POORER STILL
, for example. O
R CAKE DECLARED EXTINCT: LAST KNOWN SLICE EATEN BY MISTAKE
(
BIRTHDAY BOY TO BLAME
).

Yet in the heat of strong emotion, even obvious truths are forgotten, and that is why no one likes to be the bearer of bad news. It is why Penelope did not care to discuss the pain of childbirth with Lady Constance. It is why Lord Fredrick did not come in person to tell his wife that they would be vacationing at a freezing English beach rather than a sunny Italian resort. And it is why poor Mrs. Clarke was now nearly faint with worry, for this was the second time in a week that she had been forced to deliver bad news to her mistress. If it happened again, the poor woman feared, her job might be at risk.

Lady Constance gazed at her blankly for a full half
minute. Then she began to laugh.

“An English beach in January? Hilarious! Mrs. Clarke, you cannot fool me. Obviously my husband has discovered that his surprise reached my ears by mistake. Now he has sent you to tell me this ridiculous story to keep me ‘off the scent,' as the gentlemen of the hunt would say. But I am not so easily bamboozled! No intelligent person would plan a beach vacation in the off-season. Not a soul of interest would be there. There would be no one to meet for luncheon, or with whom to go shopping. It would be absurd to take such a dull and unpleasant holiday. Clearly we are bound for
bella Italia
. How sweet that Fredrick would go to such pains to keep it a secret, and how clever of me to catch on to his tricks! My, you look so nervous all at once! Fear not, Mrs. Clarke. I promise, I will pretend that I believe you, so as to play along with Fredrick's scheme!”

L
ADY
C
ONSTANCE HAD IT ALL
wrong, of course, but there was nothing Mrs. Clarke could say to convince her otherwise. Eventually the good housekeeper gave up trying and took refuge in her small office near the kitchen. “Poor Lady Constance! And her poor husband, and poor everyone,” she fretted to Margaret, who had brought a warm footbath and a glass of
blackberry cordial to settle the older lady's nerves. “It'll be a dangerous state of affairs, once she discovers the truth. I hope I'm nowhere near when that rude awakening comes.”

Meanwhile, disappointment swept through the estate faster than an epidemic of chicken pox. “An English beach in January? Just our luck,” grumbled the servants as they went about their chores. Those who had previously begged to join the Ashtons on holiday now volunteered to stay home and polish the silver. The entire household felt cheated, as if a sun-soaked adventure in foreign lands had been snatched unfairly from them. (That they would grieve so bitterly over the loss of a trip that never existed in the first place only goes to show how much people like to look forward to pleasant things. As Agatha Swanburne once said, “Getting one's hopes up is easy; getting them down again often requires a ladder.”)

Only in the nursery did this farcical mix-up escape attention. The Incorrigibles were too young and too busy painting to care about grown-up gossip. As for their governess, her full attention was on the hard work of holding still, for once more she had been asked to pose for a portrait.

“No fidgeting and no frowning,” Beowulf scolded.
“Keep your eyes big and round. Rounder, please! Try to look silly.”

His instruction was not so odd as it sounded, for at the moment Penelope was pretending to be Lady Constance, whom the children rightly assumed would never agree to pose for an Incorrigible family portrait. Still, they wanted to include her, and so they had artfully wrapped Penelope in bedsheets to approximate a flouncy gown. A hand mirror and a box of chocolates lay on the table next to her, and a skein of yellow woolen yarn was draped over her head, to stand in for Lady Constance's long, butterscotch-colored hair.

“Holding still is more difficult than it looks.” Penelope took the opportunity to scratch her head, for the woolen yarn made her scalp itch. “For once I am beginning to feel real sympathy for Nutsawoo. Shall we break for tea? Biscuits, anyone?”

“Shall we break for tea? Biscuits, anyone?”

“Later,” the artists mumbled, and went on with their painting. They found their task so interesting that they could have worked through luncheon and dinner and scarcely noted the hours whizzing by. Yet for Penelope, who was hot and uncomfortable, time had slowed to the pace of Honey Hee-Haw, the stuffed donkey, which is to say it scarcely moved at all. “How could the day pass so quickly for some and yet so slowly for others,
all in the same room?” she thought. “If I were a scientist, I would surely investigate this, for it appears that even such a seemingly fixed idea as time is not fixed at all, but relative. A Theory of Relativity might explain it all quite nicely. . . .”

But there was neither time nor space to devise a Theory of Relativity just then. A familiar voice rang high and piercing from the hallway. “Halloo, children! Halloo, Miss Lumley! It's Margaret. I'd knock but my hands are full. May I come in?”

“Oh, yes, please!” Penelope called eagerly, for the itching had become unbearable and one foot was beginning to cramp. Margaret swung into the room with a basket of freshly laundered clothes cradled in her arms.

“Playing dress-up, I see. Why, you look just like painters in those fancy smocks.” She set the basket down. “And Miss Lumley is dressed as Little Bo Peep! That's the sweetest thing I ever did see. I love a good nursery rhyme, myself.” She placed a hand on her heart and recited, in her adorable mouse squeak of a voice:

“Little Bo Peep has lost her sheep,
And can't tell where to find them.
Leave them alone, and they'll come home.
And bring their tails behind them.”

“We are not dressed as painters. We
are
painters,” Cassiopeia corrected, polite but firm.

Penelope stood up, grateful to stretch her legs. “But I am not Little Bo Peep, although I suppose there is a resemblance. Thank you for bringing up the clean laundry, Margaret. Children, if you please—” But the Incorrigibles had already taken off their paint-splattered smocks and begun to fold and put away all the clothes. Being the wards of one of the richest men in England was no excuse not to do household chores, and the children had been taught to be helpful at all times. Penelope had made sure of that.