The Mysterious Howling (13 page)

The packages were wrapped perfectly—too perfectly, the way packages are done up when they have been wrapped by a nameless clerk in a store. Possibly because there were two of them tearing away at the paper, the
boys managed to get their present opened first.

“What is it? Let me see!” Penelope was excited in spite herself. But the boys looked ashen. With shaking hands, Alexander held up a disturbingly lifelike toy rifle.

“How my brothers loved their guns!” Lady Constance chirped. “That one is only a toy, of course. But perhaps someday you will want real ones.”

All Penelope could think of was what it must have been like that day in the forest: three terrified children staring down the muzzle of Lord Fredrick's hunting rifle—the trigger pulled back with a click—Old Timothy intervening at the last minute—

Beowulf gnawed anxiously on his knuckles. Alexander held the toy between two fingers, as if it burned his skin to touch it.

Quickly, Penelope turned to Cassiopeia, who had just succeeded in tearing the ribbon off her present with her teeth. “And what is your present, dear?” she said, trying to inject some light-heartedness back into the proceedings. “It looks like a book, how wonderful!”

Cassiopeia held the book forward. With a sinking heart, Penelope read, “It is called
The Girls' Guide to Obedience and Quietness
.”

“Ironic?” Cassiopeia sounded hopeful.

Penelope sneaked a glance at the giver of these strangely off-putting gifts. In the changeable light of the fire Lady Constance's face seemed an inscrutable, doll-like mask, with half-smiling lips painted on and expressionless glass eyes—all at once Penelope thought the lady bore an uncomfortable resemblance to the animals in Lord Fredrick's study.

The image of Lady Constance's stuffed head mounted on the wall was disturbing and difficult to shake off. “I am not entirely sure about that, Cassiopeia,” Penelope finally answered. This was another example of selective truth telling, for although what Penelope said was technically true—she could not be entirely sure what the author's intentions were in terms of irony; the answers to literary questions of this sort are rarely cut and dried, as authors themselves are often at a loss to explain their own intentions—it was also true that she did not like these presents one bit. Lady Constance's weirdly taxidermic facial expression was getting on her nerves, and all her previously laid-to-rest fears about the party had been brought back to life and now lurched terrifyingly around her mind, like Frankenstein's monster.

“There you have it, children,” Lady Constance said, with a frozen smile. “Those are your presents. Now I
do hope you are going to say thank you!”

Quite without warning, Cassiopeia snarled and bared her teeth.

“Why, whatever is the matter with her? Is she about to attack?” Shielding her face with her hands, Lady Constance shrank back in fear.

Penelope seized Cassiopeia by the arm. “Now, stop that, Cassiopeia! Stop it at once.”

Slowly Cassiopeia let her lips unfurl to their usual position, but there was a hard and unrepentant look in her eye. She stared at Lady Constance without blinking.

“These children—are they really savage beasts at heart?” Lady Constance gasped and hid behind an armchair. “Are they dangerous?”

“Hardly! Lady Constance, I am deeply sorry for Cassiopeia's outburst. I am sure she is as well.” Unseen, she gave the girl's wrist a sharp squeeze.

“
Ow!
Sorry,” Cassiopeia mumbled. “Cassawoof no teeth, no bite, sorry, sorry, sorry.”

The boys looked contrite as well, although they had done nothing wrong. “You will excuse me,” Beowulf intoned. It was one of the socially useful phrases Penelope had made the children practice. Evidently he was trying to do his part to smooth things over.

“Apologies all around,” Alexander said, and then for
good measure he added, “I extend my deepest condolences.” It was not quite the right occasion for the remark, but Penelope thought the children's sincerity was clear. However, Lady Constance still looked terrified.

“Listen to that! They do everything together, don't they?” Lady Constance said under her breath. “They are not like siblings at all—they are more like a pack!”

“Cassiopeia is tired from being kept too long out-of-doors in the cold weather. That is my fault.” Penelope knew she needed to make an exit, as quickly as possible. “With your permission we shall take our leave, and I will tuck the children straight into bed.”

“I'm sure you know best how to manage these creatures,” Lady Constance said coolly. “But I warn you, Miss Lumley! If they behave like wild animals at my party tomorrow, I will implore my husband to set them loose in the woods again, where they belong!”

Penelope curtsied and quickly herded the children to the door. In her pocket the wrapped
Stately Homes of England
suddenly felt as if it weighed as much as the houses it depicted, but in her pocket it would have to remain. She knew there was no chance of it receiving a suitable welcome now.

T
HE
T
WELFTH
C
HAPTER
After an anxious wait, the festivities begin
.

P
ENELOPE DREAMED OF PRESENTS
and awoke thinking how a nice hand-monogrammed handkerchief always makes a welcome and appropriate gift. Then she opened her eyes and remembered what day it was.

“Oh! Christmas!” she exclaimed aloud, and not in the festive manner one might expect. Today was the party. If it were a catastrophe, it would be her fault—and then what would become of them all?

She washed and dressed at twice her customary speed. By the time she arrived at the nursery, Penelope felt weak
in the knees, and her hands were shaky. It was no way to begin the day, and certainly no way for a Swanburne girl to react under pressure, but no matter how many deep breaths she took or how many times she repeated to herself, “No hopeless case is truly without hope,” she could not get her heartbeat to slow its anxious flutter.

In the nursery the children seemed subdued and distracted, as if waiting for something bad to happen. Cassiopeia sat by the window, idly flicking the beads on the abacus up and down. She looked contrite, but Penelope noticed that she had tossed her new book in a corner and had not bothered to pick it up. The boys hovered nearby, shuffling their feet; the toy rifle was nowhere to be seen. Breakfast had been brought in and placed on the table in an elegant silver chafing dish. Penelope lifted the lid and peeked underneath: oatmeal, same as always. Even at Swanburne the girls would get cinnamon toast and sausage on holidays.

“I see that breakfast has not yet been touched,” Penelope commented.

“Tummy ache,” Beowulf said in a whimper. The other two nodded. There was a sense of anxiety in the air. Penelope knew she had to do something, or the day would be ruined before it had even begun.

“If you please,” she said, summoning her calmest
tone, “would someone bring me my copy of
Edith-Anne Gets a Pony
? It is on the bookshelf, in its usual place.” She could think of no better antidote for the dark mood of the children; besides, turning her mind to the adventures of that lovable pony was likely to settle her nerves as well.

The children must have been of a similar opinion, for they raced one another to fetch the book. Penelope read aloud while the children squatted on their haunches and listened (normally she would have reminded them to sit in chairs, but she was trying to comfort them after all). After a while they acted out their favorite scenes from the story. It was all very soothing, and as soon as the fog of worry dissipated, everyone's normal hearty breakfast appetites returned, including Penelope's.

It was only when they were done eating that Penelope remembered: Her presents for the children were still waiting, carefully stacked under the small Christmas tree of the nursery!

“Why, children!” she exclaimed, wiping her lips on one of the pressed linen napkins. “Did you neglect to look under the tree this morning? There are more presents for you!”

At the word
presents
they flinched, but Penelope gently guided them to the tree and pointed underneath.
“They are from me,” she added softly, and then the children smiled.

How different this moment of gift giving was from that of the previous evening! These presents were chosen with the children's own likes and dislikes in mind, by someone who had their best interests at heart and who had lovingly (although imperfectly) wrapped them herself. The children opened the packages with the appropriate sense of wonder and spent the morning happily leafing through their new treasures, which of course Penelope promised to read to them at her earliest opportunity. When Alexander understood that his Latin book was a primer, he straightaway pretended to be “Miss Lumawoo” teaching Latin to his siblings, and there was much laughter.

As the children played, Penelope retreated to the back nursery and laid out all their fine new clothes, which had been delivered the previous day and were now hanging in the closets under covers of white muslin. This afternoon the party guests would start to arrive. Then it would be time to get dressed and face the music, so to speak, but not yet. She looked out the window. A light snow still fell, blanketing over all tracks and footprints from the previous day.

“That is what we must do as well,” Penelope thought.
“Start afresh. There is no need to carry yesterday's fears and disappointments into a brand-new day—especially on Christmas!”

The thought pleased her, so much so that she wondered if it might be some obscure saying of Agatha Swanburne's that she had heard in passing long ago and then forgotten. “But it is not,” she realized, with a flush of pride. “In fact, I think it may well be the first memorable saying of Penelope Lumley!”

I
T WAS LATE IN THE AFTERNOON
when the first guests started to arrive. The Incorrigibles stood with their three noses pressed to the glass of the nursery windows, watching as the carriages pulled up. The grand ladies and gentlemen emerged with the aid of their coachmen, and their luggage was removed and brought inside (in those days it was expected that one would bring luggage for a party, for of course the ladies would have to change before dinner, and then again before the dancing commenced).

Darkness came early, as it always does in December, but the pageant of arriving revelers continued. The moon was full and so bright that the trees cast long blue shadows along the ground; the unearthly glow glittered like diamond dust on the freshly fallen snow. Inside,
the house hummed with activity; soon the din of voices was loud enough to carry up to the nursery. Women gaily called to one another, men bellowed greetings and clapped one another on the back. There was a constant scurry of servants racing up and down the halls, tending the fires, hanging up cloaks, putting away umbrellas, and delivering trays of tea to warm the travelers. The ladies were shown to their rooms to rest and change clothes, while the men retreated to the smoking parlor to puff on cigars and talk about taxes, wars, cricket, and other subjects vital to the health of the nation.

“Yes, party!” Cassiopeia cried, no longer able to contain her excitement. “Party now, Cassawoof dress now, now now
now!
” The boys were also much too agitated to do anything but get ready, so finally Penelope gave the children leave to put on their new clothes, although she uttered all the usual cautions about not getting dirty or wrinkled before anyone had had a chance to see them.

Penelope also had to get changed. Her new gray gown had been delivered the previous day along with the children's clothes and was now hanging in the closet of her bedroom. The style of the garment was not what she herself would have chosen, yet she was forced to admit, she was eager to know what it would feel like to wear a brand-new dress, made especially for her by an
expensive seamstress with a French accent. That was something she had never experienced before, and (in principle at least) Penelope was in favor of new experiences, as long as they did not upset the digestion.

No sooner did she think of her dress than one of the housemaids, a short and plain-spoken girl whom everyone called Susan, came by the nursery with a message. “A very happy Christmas to you, Miss Lumley—you'd best go get changed now. Mrs. Clarke says you are to come downstairs as soon as you are ready. You and the children are to wait quietly in the ballroom in an out-of-the-way spot until the guests come in from dinner. Lady Constance will introduce you at the proper time.”

“M
Y HEAVENS
!” Mrs. Clarke exclaimed. “I am sure I have never seen three such extraordinarily handsome and well-turned-out children!”

As you may know, complimentary remarks of this type are all too often made by well-meaning adults to children who are, to be frank, perfectly ordinary-looking. This practice of overstating the case is called
hyperbole
. Hyperbole is usually harmless, but in some cases it has been known to precipitate unnecessary wars as well as a painful gaseous condition called
stock market bubbles
. For safety's sake, then, hyperbole should be used with restraint and only by those with the proper literary training.

However, in this particular instance, Mrs. Clarke's enthusiasm was justified. The boys were dashing in their crisp, new sailor suits, and the addition of the straw hats provided the perfect finishing touch. And Cassiopeia's dress was a marvel—a rich green velvet with exquisite silk rosettes stitched around the bodice. With her delicate frame, thick auburn hair, and wide green eyes, she looked like a woodland pixie from a storybook. Even Penelope had to admit that the clothes were well worth the trouble the tailor and Madame LePoint had put them all to.

Mrs. Clarke was also rather well turned out for the party, in her fashion. The dress she wore was a voluminous mélange of floral patterns that did much to accentuate the impressive girth of the wearer. She resembled nothing so much as a spring meadow in full bloom, depicted at nearly life-size.

As for Penelope, her dress was both dark and gray, and the cut was modest; one might even call it severe. But it was exquisitely made and had been hand-tailored to her exact measurements; she had never worn anything that fit so well. After examining herself
in the mirror from every angle she could manage without pulling a muscle, Penelope concluded that she was pleased. The dress made her look older and even a bit forbidding. Wearing it gave her more rather than less confidence, and that is precisely what a well-chosen outfit ought to do.

“And tonight, especially,” she thought, as she took a deep breath and followed the children and Mrs. Clarke into the great ballroom, to wait as instructed and then to enjoy whatever festivities the evening had in store for them, “a bit of extra self-confidence is sure to come in useful.”

A
T
S
WANBURNE THERE WERE STUDENTS
, and there were teachers, and there was Miss Charlotte Mortimer, the headmistress. The pecking order was simple: Students obeyed teachers, and everyone obeyed Miss Mortimer.

But apparently there were a great many more types of people in the world than Penelope had previously realized. The parade of guests into the ballroom was carefully sorted in order of importance. First came the people with actual inherited titles, such as baron or viscount; then came the wealthy landowners, and then the prosperous businessmen. It was all very confusing. Penelope was left with the impression that titles were
more important than profession and land was more important than business, but money was far more important than any other sort of accomplishment.

“See, that's the Baron of Whatsit,” Mrs. Clarke whispered in her ear. “And there's Countess Whoosis, she's the wife of the Earl of Somewhere or Other. That's Judge So-and-So. And there go Lord and Lady Moneybags; they've been traveling on the continent for a year and only just returned.”

Actually Mrs. Clarke was well able to remember most of the actual names, but once the information entered Penelope's head it dissolved into gibberish. She could not think about names; she was too distracted by the glorious gowns the women wore, the elegant way they carried their fans, the colorful headpieces that perched on their heads like pet cockatoos. Only in magazines had she ever seen anything like the bejeweled necks and bare shoulders of these elegant women, with their elaborate upswept hairdos—suddenly, Penelope was ashamed at her own high-collared gray wool dress and her drab dark hair pulled back in a low, simple bun against her neck. The abundant self-confidence she felt while in her room had shrunk to the size of an acorn now that she was really here. She ransacked her memory for some bolstering saying of Agatha Swanburne's—something
about vain plumage, perhaps?—but came up empty.

The Incorrigibles just stood there, wide-eyed and trembling. Soon Mrs. Clarke had to leave to give instructions to the waiters, who were now bringing in the tea and after-dinner sweets. Wordlessly, Penelope and the children inched backward until they were almost completely shielded by the tall potted ferns that flanked the entryway (even in her current nervous state Penelope recognized them as Mineola ferns, native to a long island whose name she could not quite recall).

The party guests streamed into the ballroom, but they took no notice of Penelope and the children. For the most part their conversations were barely worth eavesdropping on: “Wonderful dinner! Isn't it grand when it snows on Christmas! What a moon there is tonight, you can see as clear as day out there!” Although once Penelope could have sworn she heard someone say, “And where are these famous savages, I wonder? Locked in cages no doubt! Anybody seen Ashton? Where the devil can he be?”

At last, a bulbous-nosed man spotted them and walked over with another gentleman. He stood in front of Cassiopeia, but he spoke to his companion. “I say, Maytag, look at this charming creature disguised as a houseplant. Do you suppose this is one of the wild
children Ashton spoke of at the club? It must be—look, here are the other two, hiding in the ferns.”