The Unmapped Sea (4 page)

“You're quite welcome. 'Twas my pleasure to get away from all the hullabaloo downstairs.” Margaret gave a sidelong wink at the children. “Besides, a letter's come for you, Miss Lumley, and I do know how you like a good letter. I wonder who it's from?” She handed Penelope an envelope. Puzzled and excited, Penelope tore it open.

Dear Penelope,
How goes the war? That's just a figure of speech,
of course. Being a bard, I'm partial to them! I hope no one's at war at Ashton Place, unless it's little Nutsy-woo, at war with the acorns of the world. The poor nuts don't stand a chance against that chubby-cheeked menace.

Simon Harley-Dickinson! It had been two months since she and her playwright friend had last seen each other, and the arrival of his occasional letters made any day feel like a holiday. She read on.

Good news from London! The tale of my true-life adventures aboard a pirate ship has attracted the interest of some West End producers. One small problem: They won't let me use the word “pirate” anywhere in the play. They fear it'll remind people of
Pirates on Holiday
, and what a flop that was, as I'm sure you recall.

Indeed,
Pirates on Holiday
was a perfectly dreadful operetta whose opening night had ended in near calamity for Penelope and the Incorrigibles, and even worse reviews for the show. Still, it had been her first time at a West End performance, and Penelope had fond memories of the evening's glamour and excitement.
The costumes, in particular, were quite convincing; anyone would have taken the actors for real pirates, at least until they had begun to sing all those complicated lyrics in close harmony. (As everyone knows, real pirates prefer to sing boisterous sea chanteys loudly and off-key, while keeping their voices limber with frequent sips of rum.)

The letter continued:

To write a pirate tale without mentioning pirates has put my poetic license to the test. I'm scribbling 'round the clock! But I did squeeze in a trip to Brighton to see Great-Uncle Pudge.

Great-Uncle Pudge! At last Penelope's eyes grew as big and round as Beowulf had requested, so much so that the boy dashed to his sketchbook to draw some quick studies. In addition to being Simon's great-uncle, old Pudge was the last living crew member of Admiral Percival Racine Ashton's ill-fated voyage to Ahwoo-Ahwoo. Pudge's shipboard diary was the only written account of what had taken place on that mysterious isle, so many years ago:
An Encounter with the Man-Eating Savages of Ahwoo-Ahwoo, as Told by the Cabin Boy and Sole Survivor of a Gruesomely Failed Seafaring
Expedition Through Parts Unknown: Absolutely Not to Be Read by Children Under Any Circumstances, and That Means You
, it was called.

Against great odds, Penelope and Simon had gotten hold of the diary and discovered how to decipher its pages, for clever young Pudge had written it in invisible ink. Unhappily for them, the book had been stolen away before they could read it and learn the secrets of the Ashton curse. Worse, it had been stolen by Edward Ashton, Lord Fredrick's father, who (despite what everyone believed) was not even remotely dead.

Wish we could get Pudge to tell us what happened on Ahwoo-Ahwoo! I hate thinking Edward Ashton knows something we don't.

That, of course, was the difficulty, for Pudge had sworn an oath of secrecy and would discuss the events of that dreadful trip with no one but the admiral himself. Unfortunately, the admiral was long dead.

“Who sent the letter?” asked Alexander. Margaret had just taught the children how to make sock balls. They had filled a whole laundry basket with them, and now they were tossing them back and forth.

“Simon,” Penelope said softly, touching one fond fingertip to the envelope. “Simon Harley-Dickinson.” There was no return address given, for Simon had lost the lease on his tiny garret apartment in London while at sea with the pirates and now lived, as he liked to say, out of his suitcase and off of his wits.

If only she knew where to send a reply! She longed to tell him her own news: that despite Edward Ashton's resolve to use the secrets within the stolen diary to rid his family of the Ashton curse once and for all, it seemed his plan had failed. During the last full moon (during which Lord Fredrick was nowhere to be found), the wild, relentless howling that echoed across the estate had grown so frightening that local farmers armed themselves with muskets and slept by their henhouses and sheep pens.

“Simawoo, harr!” The children swaggered about and made pirate noises, for they liked the clever young bard. Penelope was once again lost in the letter.

Speaking of Not-So-Dead Edward, here's the big news: I ran into Madame Ionesco in London. She was reading coffee grounds in a tea shop, or tea leaves in a coffee shop, can't remember which. Hope you don't mind, but I told her about Pudge's diary,
and all that ominous bunkum Edward Ashton said about family trees split in two and so on. Well, the soothsayer went pale as the full moon and fainted dead away. For a minute I'd thought she'd taken a jaunt Beyond the Veil herself! When she woke up, she asked for a hot meal and told me to give you a message. I'll write it the way she said it, so as not to lose any of the spooky nuance.

“This curse is not so simple as it looks. The wolf babies are in danger. Time is running out. But to break a curse is no joke. Tell your redheaded friend—a curse is like a contract. It's all in the wording. She must find out the exact words of the curse. Then, maybe I can help. Also, tell her my services will not come cheap.”

I'll say they don't—it cost me a chicken dinner just to get that much out of her. Say, is your hair really red? You'd think I'd have noticed that by now! My head's in the clouds. The price of genius, I suppose.

Smooth sailing till we meet again,
Simon

As sock balls flew thick and fast overhead, Penelope tried to connect the dots. “‘This curse is not so simple as it looks' . . . that is a nice use of iambic pentameter, at least. The ‘wolf babies' in danger . . . by that she means the Incorrigibles. I shall have to be even more watchful than usual. And ‘time is running out' . . . hmm! That does sound ominous.”

Still, that Madame Ionesco might be able to undo the curse was cause for optimism, in Penelope's view. Many things were, of course. Swanburne girls were taught to look on the bright side of things, so much so that they were often in real danger of optoomuchism, a word that means precisely what it looks like it means.

But how to discover the exact wording of the curse? Edward Ashton had run off with Pudge's diary. Pudge was in the Home for Ancient Mariners in Brighton and would only talk to a long-dead admiral. “Blast!” she said aloud in frustration.

Margaret had been ducking sock balls and prattling away this whole time. “‘Blast?' You sound like Lord Fredrick! Anyway, as I just said, Her Ladyship has me running errands faster than Bertha the ostrich galloping at full speed. You'd think we were going to the moon, instead of Brighton.”

The letter Penelope had just read nearly slipped
from her hands. “Did you say Brighton?”

“Haven't you been listening? I just told the whole story! The doctor says Lady Constance must take the sea air for her health, and he knew a hotel that would take us in the off-season, and now we're all going to shiver ourselves to pieces in Brighton.”

A poorly aimed sock ball hit Penelope square in the forehead, but she scarcely noticed. “Brighton, England?” she asked, disbelieving.

Margaret sat down, dreamy eyed, and folded her long legs beneath her on the armchair. “Yes, Brighton. It's a shame, really. I've always longed to stroll the pier and the sea walk, and watch all the bathers in their finery, and perhaps get a glimpse of Her Majesty Queen Victoria, taking the air at her summer palace, but in wintertime there'll be none of that. That awful doctor! Why couldn't he have ordered a trip to a nice cozy spa, with hot mineral springs to soak in and a gift shop for buying picture postcards? By the time we come home from Brighton I'll be an absolute wreck!”

Wreck . . . shipwreck . . . Ahwoo-Ahwoo! “Be on guard against hyperbole, Margaret,” she said quickly, for a plan was already unfolding in her mind. “There is no need to exaggerate. I daresay the weather in Brighton will be no worse than it is here at Ashton Place. It
is not as if you are traveling to the Arctic, as so many brave explorers do. Or even to wildest Canada, among those fascinating Eskimaux and their snow huts and sled dogs.”

At the mention of sled dogs, the children dropped their socks and galloped in circles 'round the nursery. “Mush, mush!” they cried to egg themselves on, although, like most children, they hardly needed encouragement to run around making noise.

Margaret stretched lazily; it was rare she got to sit down. “You're right, Miss Lumley. I oughtn't complain. It's just that at the beach you expect it to be warm and sunny, which makes it seem all the colder when it's not.” She cocked her head to the side. “But I suppose the ocean is just as vast in January as it is in July, and the horizon just as far. That'll be something wonderful to see! And what will you and the children do while we're away? It'll be nice and quiet around here, I suppose.” Even as she said it, she looked doubtful; between alternating cries of “Harr, mateys!” and “Mush, mush!” the Incorrigible pirate sled dogs were making a fearsome amount of noise.

“Oh, we will keep busy with this and that,” Penelope replied evasively. “Letters to write, bookshelves to tidy. The children are painting family portraits, too—”

Like a pat of butter tossed in a hot skillet, Margaret's cheerful expression melted all at once. “The poor loves! Painting family portraits, and them with no family but one another,
tsk
,
tsk
!”

“On the contrary, they have a great many people to paint. Even you, Margaret.” Penelope spoke briskly, for she was not in the habit of feeling sorry for the children, who never felt sorry for themselves. “In fact, I was posing for them when you came in.”

“As Little Bo Peep? My heart aches to hear it! Taking characters from nursery rhymes and pretending they're family, since they've no real family of their own.” Margaret's lip trembled as if she might cry. “So brave these children are, and so lively in spite of their hardships.”

The children were lively to be sure, but at present their only hardship had to do with the difficulty of building an igloo out of sock balls. Their sled-dog game had given them the idea to build an entire Eskimaux village out of the materials at hand. Alas, sock balls have a tendency to roll, and this was just as true in Miss Lumley's day as it is in our own. A proper igloo ought to be made of snow, the children wistfully agreed. With deep longing they looked out the nursery window at the powdery white fields below.

Reluctantly, Margaret rose from the chair. “I'd best get back downstairs before I'm missed. I wish you all
arrivederci!
” The way she said it sounded like the peeping of newborn chicks. “That's what Lady Constance says.
Arriv
e
derci!
Soon there'll be a new baby in the house, won't that be exciting? I wonder what they'll name the wee thing.”

Empty laundry basket tucked under one long arm, Margaret took a hop, then a skip, and whirled out of the nursery. She really was a charming sort of girl. She walked as if dancing, spoke as if squealing with delight, and sounded merry even when she had cause for complaint. No wonder Jasper was so keen on her.

The children begged to go outside and build igloos, after which they intended to carve some canoes suitable for paddling through Arctic seas, but a look from Penelope reminded them that they ought to tidy up their painting project before starting something new. As they did so, she too gazed with longing out the window.

“So the Ashtons are going to Brighton, and all because of that clever Dr. Veltschmerz,” she murmured. “Clever, clever Dr. Veltschmerz! For I believe a winter beach holiday is just what the doctor ordered. . . .”

A
FEW HOURS AND SEVERAL
lopsided igloos later, Miss Penelope Lumley, having changed out of her boots and wet things and dressed in fresh, dry clothes, stood at the door of her least favorite room in Ashton Place. It was Lord Fredrick's private study, which housed his large and varied collection of taxidermy, as well as the family portraits of his accurséd ancestors. First, his father, Edward Ashton. Then his grandfather, the Honorable Pax Ashton, a judge known more for his cruelty than his sense of fairness. And finally, his great-grandfather, Admiral Percival Racine Ashton, whose misadventure on Ahwoo-Ahwoo had somehow caused the curse in the first place. But had it happened? And why?

“Well, I shall soon get to the bottom of all that,” Penelope thought determinedly. “I need only discover the exact words of the curse, and Madame Ionesco will do the rest. Why Edward Ashton has made such a fuss about it all these years is beyond me. It is simply a job for a Swanburne girl, I suppose.”

As you can see, Penelope's optoomuchstic thinking was in full flower. She tugged at her sleeves and smoothed her hair, which had been freshly rewound into an authoritative bun. She was no stranger to the art of making persuasive speeches, and she had carefully planned what she would say to Lord Fredrick. “A trip
to Brighton offers a cornucopia of educational opportunities, as follows,” she practiced under her breath, and raised her hand to knock. “One, observation of the tides. Two, identification of seashells. Three, in-depth study of the properties of sand . . .”

The door flew open before her hand could strike. “Mrs. Clarke!” Lord Fredrick bellowed over her head. “Timothy! I need Miss Lumley, right away. Someone fetch the governess, please.”

“I am right here, my lord,” she said with a gulp.

Lord Fredrick's eyesight was poor, and it took him a moment of swiveling his head this way and that before he got Penelope firmly in view. “What? Blast! Who's there—why, it's you! How did you know I was about to send for you? That's odd. Never mind, though. We have business to discuss, come in, come in.”