The Hidden Gallery: Chapters 7–8

A careless poet accidentally plows your mouse house to bits, an important appointment is missed due to a flat tire on one’s velocipede, or a well-intended and perfectly friendly overture is interpreted as something else altogether.

...buried in luncheon invitations, and dinner parties, too, of course, and asked on all manner of excursions—Margaret, remind me to tell Mrs. Clarke: We ought to offer a small gratuity to the postman; his mailbag is bound to be extra heavy for the duration of our stay in London—” But there was nothing on Margaret’s tray except a...

She refused her supper and instead demanded a particular type of marzipan that Mrs. Clarke had to send the young houseboy, Jasper, scurrying all over London to find.

Yes, Penelope was in quite a different mood than poor Lady Constance, for the very notion of navigation made her think of Simon, and the thought of Simon made her giddy—giddy enough to be idly whistling the same lilting sea chantey that Simon himself was prone to whistle when taking a reading on his sextant, as she skipped lightly down the stairs.

Yes, Penelope was in quite a different mood than poor Lady Constance, for the very notion of navigation made her think of Simon, and the thought of Simon made her giddy—giddy enough to be idly whistling the same lilting sea chantey that Simon himself was prone to whistle when taking a reading on his sextant, as she skipped lightly down the stairs.

The grim silence as Penelope gingerly descended the bottom step, walked five paces forward, and took the lovely cream-colored envelope from Margaret’s tray was broken only by the cuckoo-cuckoo-cuckoo of a grandfather clock in the hall, striking the hour.

“Miss Lumley, do my eyes deceive me? This is the most impertinent thing I have ever heard of!”

Sadly, the Piazza Hotel has long since been demolished to make way for the sorts of retail establishments that people seem to prefer nowadays: boutiques selling new clothes that have been made to look worn, banks that have run out of money, and cafés that brew coffee so strong as to be virtually undrinkable.

She would have been thrilled at the prospect of seeing an important collection of ferns, and even felt some anticipatory tummy rumbles at the thought of eating what promised to be a truly delicious meal.

However, just as a carelessly spilled puddle of India ink blots out the line of practice cursive letters painstakingly written on the paper beneath, the anxiety-producing contents of Miss Mortimer’s letter blotted out any other emotions Penelope may have had.

[S]ince Penelope was forbidden to tell where she was going, her evasive reply that she would be “having lunch with a friend” simply made Margaret giggle and squeal about Simon Harley-Dickinson all the more)[.]

The many potted specimens created a jungled grotto on the far side of the dining room, and the diners within, if any, were well concealed by the delicately swaying fronds.

With a flourish, the maître d’ held back an armful of foliage so that Penelope could enter the leafy, secluded room.

With a flourish, the maître d’ held back an armful of foliage so that Penelope could enter the leafy, secluded room.

There, at a charming table for two, with her only companion being the thin plume of steam that rose lazily from the teapot before her, sat Miss Charlotte Mortimer.

Her smile was so tender, and the feeling in her voice was so warm and genuine, that Penelope felt all her newfound professionalism melt into a puddle.

Miss Mortimer’s unexpected reaction jolted Penelope into a useful change of perspective: That terrifying business with the guard was nothing more than a funny escapade, really!

Miss Mortimer had to wipe tears of mirth from the corner of her eye with the napkin.

Penelope went on in the same jovial spirit, for if one unpleasant episode could be made into an amusing anecdote, why not all of them?

“Penelope, you must obey me in this. Do not go around asking questions. When I invited you to lunch, I had resolved to give you a general instruction to be on your guard; I felt it was prudent. I did not want the children here because I did not want them to be frightened. But your news about the fortune-teller’s warning took me by surprise, and I have already revealed more than I should.”

She looked at Penelope intently.

She remembered how desperately she had tried to find them, and how convinced she was that the Incorrigibles were about to make a gruesome snack of the poor wayward squirrel.

Though she was far from vain, the thought of returning to her former lackluster hair was not very appealing, especially after receiving that nice compliment from Simon Harley-Dickinson.

“Flan Philippe, figs in phyllo Philippe—everything sounds delectable. But when at the Fern Court, one must order the tarte Philippe. No other dessert compares. By the way, how do you like the Hixby’s Guide?”

She, too, seemed to be misty.eyed all of sudden; perhaps it was a consequence of some errant fumes from the onion soup being served at another table.