The Interrupted Tale Read Free

of rash and foolhardy mood that Penelope decided not to go straight back to the nursery. Instead, she took a detour that brought her to the entry hall of Ashton Place. There she found the housemaid, Margaret, energetically polishing the already gleaming brass door handle.
    â€œGood morning, Margaret.” Penelope tried to sound cheery. “Lovely day, isn’t it? By any chance, has the mail come?”
    â€œIt surely has, Miss Lumley. Just look on the mail tray,” the girl replied in her piercing mouse squeak of a voice. “Any special reason you want to know?”
    â€œNo! No special reason.” Penelope leafed idly through the unopened letters. Ashton, Ashton, Ashton—those were for Lord Fredrick. They were all from his gentlemen’s club or from various banks, except for one thin, stained envelope with no return address but which bore many colorful postmarks and exotic stamps from distant lands.
    There was also a small, square envelope of heavy, cream-colored paper addressed to Lady Constance Ashton. It looked like a party invitation, Penelope thought with a pang. How unfair it was that some people were invited to parties for no good reason (other than being a Lady and young and fashionable and very rich, of course), while other people, whose actual birthday it was, could scarcely beg a piece of toast from the kitchen!
    There were no more letters on the tray. She had hoped a card might come from Cecily, at least. Cecily was a clever, round-cheeked girl with wildly curly hair that she kept in two thick braids. She and Penelope had been the best of friends at Swanburne; they were assigned to the same dormitory and had even shared a cot when they were small. Like Penelope, Cecily had graduated early. Now she worked as a companion and translator for an elderly Hungarian lady who lived in the town of Witherslack. Cecily had always been a whiz at languages; no doubt she could say “happy birthday” in at least four or five, although Penelope would have settled for one.
    And what about Miss Charlotte Mortimer? Surely Penelope’s former headmistress would never have forgotten her sixteenth birthday! Apparently, she had. Apparently, Miss Mortimer’s attention was now wholly fixed on her current students, and she had no time at all to think of Penelope—why, she had not even replied to the last letter Penelope had sent, even though Penelope had marked it Urgent: Alarming News Contained Within , underlined twice. The alarming news concerned a shady character who had recently joined the Swanburne board of trustees. He went by the name of Judge Quinzy, and Penelope had reason to fear he was up to no good. Such a dire and clearly marked warning ought to be worth a reply. But, apparently, not.
    As for her parents, whom she had not seen for many a year and whom she had come to think of as the Long-Lost Lumleys, “Not a card, not a letter, not even a picture postcard,” Penelope whispered to herself. A tear might have begun to roll down her cheek, but if it did, she brushed it aside so quickly that no one was the wiser.
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    P ENELOPE’S RESOLVE TO THROW A party for the Incorrigibles was now twice as keen as before, even if it meant she would have to bake the cake herself. She marched with purpose to the nursery. Outside the door all seemed quiet, but the moment she entered, each of the children assumed a pose of distraught misery, accompanied by moans and feverish gibbering. Penelope shooed them into the night nursery and ordered them to nap or read in their beds until Margaret arrived with the hot-water bottle. (Even in her unhappy state, Penelope was much too kind to mention the castor oil and large spoon that Mrs. Clarke had threatened. If the children did not already know that castor oil was the most vile-tasting substance ever invented, they would find out soon enough.)
    Finally alone, she collapsed into her usual armchair and stared at the clock. Eleven o’clock in