Read Online ICAP 2 - The Hidden Gallery by Maryrose Wood - Free Book Online Page B

and look: The reply has already come.” The very idea of such prompt, no-nonsense execution of one’s responsibilities was so admirably Swanburne-like that Penelope’s spirits were quite lifted.
    As well they should be, for in Miss Penelope Lumley’s day the London post office was nothing if not efficient. Deliveries were made five times daily, thanks to a fleet-footed army of postal workers who whisked the mail from here to there before one could say jack-rabbit. Affixed with a one-cent stamp bearing the likeness of Queen Victoria herself, a letter would reach its destination within hours of the time it was sent.
    Penelope was so dazzled by this marvelous display of postal competence—and for a mere penny, mind you, as long as the letter weighed less than half on ounce—she did not even notice that the correspondence in her hand was not from Miss Mortimer at all. Only after she had made her way upstairs, set the children to work on their journals, added two sugars and a splash of cream to her tea, and given it a stir (to her credit, Margaret had delivered the tea tray without spilling a single drop, and managed a small plate of biscuits, too)—only then did Penelope settle herself in a chair, slit open the envelope, and begin to read.
    Â 
    Dear Miss Lumley,
    Well, it was a treat to meet you and the children. Wanted to tell you I’ve begun work on several new plays at once; thanks for all the inspiration!
    Just a reminder: If you keep the North Star in view, and the wind at your back, you’ll have no problem at all navigating wherever you please.
    Cheers,
SHD
    â€œWhy, this is from Simon Harley-Dickinson!” she exclaimed. Then she clapped her hand over her mouth, for even she did not fully understand why she would be made so excited by the receipt of this brief correspondence from the wrong person.
    â€œLumawoo happy,” Beowulf observed as he dabbed at his watercolors.
    â€œNew friend,” Alexander agreed, pausing to sharpen a pencil.
    â€œSimawoo,” Cassiopeia chanted absently as she drew. “Simawoo, Simawoo, Sim ahwooooooo —”
    â€œTut-tut, children! That is enough conversation for now; please attend to your journals.” Penelope tucked the letter into her apron pocket and quickly regained her professional composure, on the outside, at least.
    For a few minutes, the scratching of pens and swirling of paintbrushes were the only sounds in the tiny, makeshift nursery. Then:
    â€œAs Agatha Swanawoo say: Less talk, more do.” Alexander sounded completely serious, and he and his siblings had their heads bent over their work, but it seemed to Penelope that all three of the Incorrigibles were suppressing giggles. She put on her sternest governess voice.
    â€œNo doubt Agatha Swanburne did say something along those lines, but whether she did or not, it is advice well worth taking. Now, how are your journal entries about our trip to Buckingham Palace coming along? Do you have any questions about neoclassical architecture? The use of pediments? The practice of primogeniture in the British hereditary monarchy?” Penelope knew she was babbling, but she could not help it. The unexpected letter from Simon seemed to have made her brain go all fizzy.
    â€œDone.” Alexander put down his pencil and proudly held out the paper to Penelope. At a much larger scale, Alexander had sketched his own childlike version of the type of alpine scenery depicted in the tiny watercolors of the Hixby’s Guide . His landscape featured a crystal blue lake and a meadow dotted with prettywhite flowers, with snowcapped peaks in the distance.
    The drawing took Penelope by surprise, but she could hardly say she was disappointed, for it was a very charming picture. “Alexander, how delightful!” she said warmly. “When I look at this, I feel as if I can smell the fresh mountain air.” She demonstrated by sniffing. “See? It is so vivid as to seem