Secrets at Sea (14 page)

“I don't care if he's the King of England!” roared Mr. Cranston, putting his big foot down.

“There is no King of England, Papa,” Camilla said. “There's a queen. Queen Victoria.”

“AND I DON' T CARE ABOUT HER EITHER,” Mr. Cranston bellowed. You could have heard him throughout this British ship.

“I hope this Lord Peter What's-His-Name doesn't think you're rich!”

“No, Papa,” Camilla replied. “I have told him we are poor. Poor as church mice.”

We goggled at one another, under the bed.

“POOR!” Mr. Cranston boomed. “Girl, if we were poor, you wouldn't be traveling first class!”

“Now, Floyd,” Mrs. Cranston said.

Mr. Cranston turned on Mrs. Cranston. “I blame all this on you, Flora,” he barked. “I lay all this at your door. We have not blundered off to the ends of the earth to marry
this
girl off. She's only sixteen years old!”

“Seventeen, Papa,” said Camilla, cool as anything. “Eighteen in the fall. I will have my hair up by then. Peter and I will gladly wait six months. After all, it will take that much time to plan the wedding.”

“Oh! The wedding!” Mrs. Cranston cried. “The wedding! What shall I wear?”

An awful silence fell. Fumes seemed to rise from Mr. Cranston. Sulfurous fumes. “Six months?” he said in a low and dangerous voice. “Six
months?
” Once again he rounded on Mrs. Cranston. “Woman,” he said, “you seem to forget this whole business was to get Olive off our—to get Olive married. NOT CAMILLA!”

“Now, Floyd—”

“It will take Olive more than six months. It's liable to take Olive SIX YEARS!”

“No, it won't, Papa.”

Though there was hardly room, someone new had entered Camilla's cabin. Someone in a long, gauzy gown, pea-green.

It was Olive.

All the other Upstairs Cranstons turned to her. Louise and Beatrice and I crept nearly out into the light, drawn by this scene. We gazed all the way up Olive. On her best days, she was sallow, but this evening she wasn't as pea-green as her dress. She looked quite dignified in an older-sister way. She looked nice.

“I am myself engaged to be married, Papa.”

Mr. Cranston liked to have bulged out of his wing collar. “What the—”

“To the ship's doctor, Papa. Dr. Fanshawe.”

You could have heard a pin drop. Mr. Cranston's mouth moved and moved before any sound came out. “I suppose this Dr. What's-His-Name is another English twerp!”

“No, Papa. He's from Cleveland.”

Mr. Cranston's face was an alarming shade of deep purple now. “Well, I hope he doesn't think we're rich!”

“Oh yes, Papa. I told him you were the richest man in Westchester County,” Olive replied. “But he said he would marry me anyway.”

Olive smiled. Quite a pleasant smile. “You see, I haven't been sick since the lifeboat drill. I've just been seeing the doctor.”

Another astonished silence fell. In fact, it came crashing down. Far below us the ship's engines throbbed.

Mrs. Cranston reeled, then rallied. “A doctor? My Olive's marrying a
doctor!
”

The heavens seemed to open. Mrs. Cranston threw her arms around Olive, then reached for Camilla. They danced in all the space there was. They did jigs and fandangos. They kicked in their skirts, a dance of joy and triumph. Mr. Cranston was caught somewhere in the middle.

We drew back under Camilla's bed to keep from being trampled and mashed flat. The noise was deafening. “Two weddings!” Mrs. Cranston shrieked. “Two weddings!”

Beatrice and Louise were struck almost dumb with surprise.

“Olive, of all humans, finding a husband entirely on her own!” Louise goggled. “Is that not the most surprising thing you ever heard in your entire life, Helena?”

“Actually, it is not.” I gathered my hands. “I've known about it for some while.”

“Helena, you couldn't have,” Louise said, and Beatrice agreed. “Olive has spent the whole voyage in her cabin, where you have never been.”

“As it happens, I
was
in her cabin, possibly at the very moment of their betrothal. There was some kissing.”

“Then why didn't you tell?”

“I wasn't asked.” I sniffed, slightly.

 

WHEN THE UPSTAIRS Cranstons were finally gone, Lamont squeezed himself in under the door.

“ 'Ere, you three,” he said in his awful accent. “You'll be late for your dinner. It's Gala Night in the mouse dining saloon. There'll be confetti, flaming pudding, and three cheeses: a boursin au poivre, a pecorino Romano, and an Emmenthaler—that's the one with the 'oles. Dancing to follow.”

We stirred.

“I will meself conduct you,” he said grandly. “I know all the shortcuts now. Get you there in'arf the time. I know this ship like the back of me 'and.”

“Hand, Lamont,” I said.

“'And,” he said.

“Then we can all four have dinner together,” I said. “It will be like our first night. Like old times.” I gathered us all up, in my mind.

Lamont sat back on his shanks and pointed at himself. “Me? I don't 'ave dinner with passengers. I'm
crew
.”

“Lamont, we are not passengers. We're family.”

“Card-carrying crew,” he said. “I 'ave me papers. I've signed on and shipped out.”

“Lamont, you don't mean—”

“I'll be pursuing a career as Assistant Cabin Steward, with prospects.” He drew himself up, as much as he could. “It's me destiny.”

Destiny. Where did he even learn the word?

We gazed at our brother, trying to think. You know how mice are about water. And Lamont meant to spend his life at sea. You can't make these things up.

“Oh, Lamont.” I worked my hands. The bothersome boy! “What if something happens to your tail? Who will sew it back?”

But he thrust his patchy tail well out of sight and turned his little pointy, chinless face to the future.

C
URLS OF TICKER tape in the national colors coiled along the yardsticks of our gala dinner. Confetti fell on our fur. We made an entrance, Louise and Beatrice and I, and we were noticed. Vanderbilts noticed.

But then Cecil's voice rang out: “Be upstanding for Her Royal Highness, the Duchess of Cheddar Gorge!”

Spools skidded back, and the room rose. There was the Duchess, though she rarely partook in public. She was a bit more bent than before, on her gold-topped matchstick. But then she was nearing home. Cecil slid the bone china chair beneath her. As I came out of my curtsy, the Duchess waved me into the place beside her, only a whisker away. I had Beatrice on my other side, where I could keep an eye on her. Then Louise, all eyes. We were, of course, at the best yardstick.

The Duchess glanced down at the soup with disdain. It was a brown Windsor. “We believe,” she said just over our heads, “that we can congratulate ourselves on a notably successful voyage.”

Louise leaned around us to say, “Dynasties have been decided!”

“Quite,” said the Duchess. “It has been brought to our attention that your Cranstons are dining with both their future sons-in-law at the captain's table.
The captain's table
on the last night at sea! A triumph! And there is a rumor of champagne.”

We inclined our heads with modest pride. You do what you can.

“How well events have worked out.” The Duchess's rusty tiara twinkled. Her old lips pursed, over the terrible teeth.

“And we have seen the last of that nasty Nanny Pratt,” I remarked.“She was lucky indeed that the Countess of Clovelly did not drop her overboard. She is lucky that she is not food for the fishes at this very moment.”

This news did not seem to hold the Duchess's attention. But Louise blinked. “Who in the world is Nanny Pratt?” she said.

“She is the former nanny of little Lord Sandown,” I replied. “She has been sent packing.”

“And how would you possibly know all that, Helena?” Louise goggled. Even Beatrice paid attention.

“Because Lord Sebastian Sandown is
my
human, Louise.” And so he had been, for a very important evening of his young life.

And that was the end of that because a waiter stepped between us, with a serving of beef Wellington crumbs.

The waiters swooped and scraped. Vegetables were being served, though the English boil all their vegetables to death.

But the Duchess only picked at her food. She fetched up a sigh.

“Poor Lady Augusta Drear, Lady-in-Waiting to the Princess, has not had a happy crossing,” she said, waggling her old head. “She is high-strung and has not been herself since that fainting fit she had on the evening of the reception.”

Beatrice was all ears. She wiggled them.

“They will be taking her down the gangplank on a stretcher tomorrow, trussed up like a parcel.” The Duchess pulled a long face. “It is thought that Lady Augusta will have to go away for a cure.” Again the Duchess sighed. “This will only add to our many duties. We are, as you will imagine, very active behind the scene.”

Her gaze grazed me. “You cannot think how busy we are in the Queen's Diamond Jubilee year. Sixty years upon the greatest throne in human history! Royals will flock to the Palace from abroad and naturally bring their mice. Germans—the Liederkranzes and the Limburgs. And the Havartis from Denmark. A real infestation. Meals! Beds! And everyone so touchy about where they are seated at table.”

The Duchess's mind made lists before our very eyes. Her thoughts seemed to tangle like her whiskers. She shook her old head and looked quite pitiful. But it seemed to me she stole a stealthy look in my direction. A sly look. I felt the royal glance. Her old hand found mine. Just a small tap. “I wonder, my dear, if I can persuade you to come to my assistance?”

Me? Helena? How?

“I shall be in great need of another pair of hands as capable as yours. After all, my leaping days are behind me, and my climbing days are numbered. And now, without Lady Augusta Drear, my duties will be doubled.”

The Duchess seemed to shrink up and look quite frail and needy.

I hung on her every word. So did Beatrice and Louise.

“I wonder, my dear, if you would consent to become an Assistant Mouse-in-Waiting for the Royal Princess Louise, daughter of the Queen. At the palace, of course. Buckingham Palace.”

 

THE MURMURING, CHEEPING dining saloon seemed to fall away. Suddenly before my mind's eye rose the greatest palace on earth.

“Her Royal Highness occupies a suite at the very front of the palace with excellent views over London. I can promise you quarters within her very walls. And naturally a full staff.”

My head went round in perfect circles. Louise and Beatrice were speechless.

“Only think, my dear,” said the Duchess. “The Diamond Jubilee and the Queen riding out in the royal landau under a black lace parasol. And with her daughters: the Princess Helena, the Princess Louise, the Princess Beatrice! How the flags will snap! How the bands will play! How the crowds will cheer as all the world watches!”

Crowds cheered in my head. I saw it all in my mind, just as I was meant to. I saw the gates of a royal palace swing open upon a future of my own.

“Take all the time you need to make your decision, my dear,” said the Duchess, murmuring now. “A minute. Two minutes. Whatever you need.”

 

MY MOUTH OPENED, then closed. Suddenly the room around us seemed to erupt. I'd forgotten that dancing was to follow the gala dinner. Spools shuffled. Even now the waiters were carrying away our yardsticks to make space for a ballroom floor. Tails were being rearranged throughout the dining saloon. The Duchess's china chair was positioned at the edge of the ballroom. Waiters lowered her into it. I handed her her matchstick.

But where was the music to come from? Musical instruments small enough for mouse hands and lips would hardly serve. Their sound would be reedy and tinny.

But we were in the great world now. It seemed the entire chorus of
The Nutcracker
would hum a selection of Viennese waltzes and quadrilles and gallops.

Then, only a few bars into “The Blue Danube” waltz, there among us strode Lord Peter, Mouse Equerry.

The room caught its breath. Oh, those wonderfully trimmed whiskers, those peerless ears. That tail of pure poetry. And just a whiff of bay rum aftershave lotion.

Murmurs rippled the room. Lord Peter never dined in public. But here he was now, scanning across us with aristocratic interest. His gaze fell upon the Duchess of Cheddar Gorge. She was already tapping her matchstick in waltz time.