The Penderwicks at Last

  “I haven’t forgotten everything after all—I remember this piano! I think I hid under it once.” She let her fingers trail over the keys, picking out snatches of melody. “How were Alice and the sheep?”

  “One of the sheep was friendly. I don’t know whether Alice likes me.”

  “But of course you like—” Batty broke off when she saw her younger sister’s frown. “Sorry, I forgot about Deborah.”

  “I do like Alice, though. And I found raspberry bushes.” Lydia gazed around the room—and didn’t like it much. Really, there was no guarantee that the white shapes were furniture. Anything could be hidden under those sheets. “Is the whole house like this? Covered up and spooky?”

  “I haven’t seen all of it yet. Mostly the kitchen, some closets, and here.” Batty closed her eyes for a minute, searching through old memories. “You know, I think Mrs. Tifton yelled at me in this room. And Skye and Jeffrey were here, too, but not Hound, and I was terrified because he wasn’t there to protect me.”

  Lydia thought this room suitable for many kinds of unpleasantness. “We should stay out of it from now on.”

  “This is the music room—I have to be in here. I’ll fill it with music and banish the bad feelings.”

  Lydia thought that taking the furniture covers off would also help. But it was true that if anyone could banish bad feelings with music, it was Batty. She loved music, embraced it, exuded it, lived it, and had a motto that said so: Musica anima mea est, which meant “Music is my life.” Lydia didn’t have a motto yet, though she’d experimented with a few, asking her father to translate each into Latin, as he had for Batty. She’d memorized each, just in case it turned out to be the right one, but so far none had been. For a while, she’d thought about making Non omnes amo—“I do not like everyone”—permanent, but it didn’t have quite the right energy.

  Batty had slipped back into the Merrily We Roll Along score, playing and singing “Old Friends.” Lydia was tempted to dance along—but not with those white shapes watching, and not while she was getting steadily hungrier. She convinced Batty to shut the piano lid and go eat the lunch their parents had sent along.

  * * *

  —

  The sisters turned lunch into a picnic, sitting beside an elaborate marble fountain. If the water had been on, it would have gushed out of the jugs held by the fountain’s three chubby cherubs. Lydia was pleased that the cherubs seemed more cheerful than old Zeus, but nonetheless, she slipped a bit of her lunch into each of the jugs—a spoonful of potato salad for one, carrot salad for another, and broccoli salad for the third. She was too hungry to share any of the rolls with butter, or the peaches and cookies. Nor did she offer the dog snacks to the cherubs—these were essential for keeping Feldspar away from the potato salad, and Sonata from the butter. (They each had their favorites.)

  When everyone had eaten their way to comfort, Batty announced that the next activity would be cleaning, and they would begin with the kitchen. Lydia felt that cleaning should wait until there were more Penderwicks to share the burden. She felt it even more acutely when Batty led her to what at Arundel was called a kitchen, but what anywhere else would be mistaken for a giant’s lair that happened to have a bunch of ovens and refrigerators in it. Plus, it wasn’t just ridiculously big, it was also, by Lydia’s standards, already quite clean enough.

  “This looks fine to me,” she told Batty. “Maybe a touch of sweeping and dusting, and then we can go explore the gardens and meadows.”

  But Batty was looking up, up, to the high ceiling, especially into its corners, of which there were many, since the kitchen was not only huge but full of nooks and offshoots, each one with its own set of corners.

  “See those?” she said, pointing to several tangles of barely visible, delicate webs. “Where there are webs, there are spiders. We need to find them and put them outside.”

  Spiders were in the subset of living creatures that Lydia had never taken to, despite Batty’s influence. She would never kill one, but she also had no interest in seeking them out.

  “Maybe they’re happy where they are.”

  “Next week this kitchen will be overrun with people, and the spiders will definitely not be happy then. Help me look for containers.”

  After opening and shutting a few dozen cupboards, Batty found a stack of small plastic containers perfect for transferring spiders from one location to another. Lydia found something she considered more practical—a pile of aprons. She used one to cover her head, and tied two around her waist, one for her front and the other her back. Now she felt safe—a spider would have to have unusually good aim to land on any part of her not protected by aprons.

  Spiders aside, Lydia also felt like the aprons had taken her inside The Sound of Music, by combining two of Maria’s identities. The apron on her head represented Maria the nun, and the ones around her waist, Maria dancing on the mountaintop. Lydia flung out her arms, twirling around and around, while Batty used a chair to clamber up onto the countertops, initiating her search for spiders. It didn’t take long.

  “Here you go, my lovely, walk into my parlor,” she said. “Got him. Lydia, take this one outside and set him free.”

  Lydia stretched up to receive the container-plus-spider, almost fell when Feldspar rushed over to see if the container held food, exited the mansion through the nearest door, put the container on the ground, and took off the lid. Inside was the tiniest spider she’d ever seen, and also the most terrified—too stunned by the recent cataclysm to move. Lydia had to tap the container to convince him to scuttle away into the forest of grass blades.

  “How many spiders do you think there are?” she asked Batty when she got back inside.

  “Lots. Hello, darling spider, we’ve come to rescue you.” Batty handed another container to Lydia. “This one’s a little bigger than the other one.”

  “How much bigger?” Peeking inside, Lydia found herself eye to eye with not just the biggest spider she’d ever seen, but a spider so colossal—at least, this is how she’d tell the story later—that it was able to use two of its long-as-pipe-cleaner legs to throw off the lid and the other six to vault out of the container and onto Lydia.

  What followed was not a dance Lydia could be proud of. Her jeté of terror was clumsy, the following leaps and dips shaky, and one doesn’t usually scream while dancing. Then everything got worse, because the spider disappeared and could have been anywhere. Lydia tore off her three aprons, frantically shook herself—and there it was! The demon spider was crawling up her leg! Lydia flung herself from one end of the kitchen to the other, continuing to scream until the spider shot off her leg and fled into a dark refuge underneath one of the ovens.

  “Really, Lydia,” said Batty.

  “I know.” She picked up her aprons and tied them back on. “Sorry.”

  “Maybe you’d be better off sweeping or dusting in another room where there are fewer spiders. I spotted brooms in that tall cupboard.”

  Lydia didn’t point out that since spiders don’t automatically prefer kitchens, they could be anywhere, but she figured that as long as Batty wasn’t there, actively encouraging them to show themselves, most spiders would sensibly stay hidden. Still, she had to make a decision about which was scarier—roaming through the mansion alone or getting ambushed by Godzilla spiders.

  “Here’s another big one,” said Batty. “You’d better go now.”

  Armed with a broom, Lydia set off looking for an un-spooky room to sweep. She took her time, wandering down long halls, making random right and left turns, until she unexpectedly arrived at the mansion’s splendid entranceway—on the other side of that immense front oak door she hadn’t been able to get through. She’d heard about this place from her sisters—its grandeur, its glowing stained-glass windows that cast rainbows of color. And here was the majestic staircase, winding gracefully into the upper reaches, and crying ou
t to be used as a dance stage.

  No matter that Lydia was dressed for The Sound of Music. With the broom, she would dance to “Defying Gravity” from Wicked, and here she went, upward, one step to the next, humming off-key and gesturing with her broom, just as Elphaba surely would have done had she visited Arundel. Lydia was heading into the final verse, the broom held triumphantly high, when she heard a creak, like that of door hinges in need of oiling. She halted mid-step and watched as the oak door swung open. There, in a blaze of sunlight, stood a woman who appeared to have the right to open any Arundel door she felt like opening, no matter what she’d sworn about staying away forever. If that hadn’t given away the woman’s identity, there was also this—she looked like she’d just bitten into a sour pickle. For an instant, Lydia could delight in Alice’s imitation skills, but very quickly dismay set in, along with the realization that she and Batty were in for a rough time.

  “Who are you?” Mrs. Tifton’s question was loud and sharp. “And how did you get into my house?”

  LYDIA DESCENDED THE STAIRS with dignity, refusing to cower like a thief. She knew she wasn’t breaking any laws by being on the steps, though she wasn’t quite as sure it was legal to be wearing the Arundel aprons.

  “I’m Lydia.” That was truthful without giving away anything important, like being a Penderwick.

  “Lydia who? And what are you doing here? Tell me!”

  Abruptly, Lydia’s courage failed. She needed reinforcements, which she desperately wished could be Jane and Ben, but there was no putting off Mrs. Tifton for a whole day, and Batty was better than no one.

  “Excuse me for a minute, please,” she said, and turned on her heel to flee the ogress, blindly negotiating the maze of halls—left, right, right, left—and only by luck ending up in the kitchen. Batty was still on the counter, coaxing yet another spider into a container to add to the stack she already had. Even in the midst of the Mrs. Tifton trauma, Lydia took the time to hope none of the new spiders was as large as the one who’d attacked her.

  “Batty,” she gasped, “Mrs. Tifton’s here.”

  “Ha-ha. Come to me, sweet arachnid. That’s my girl.” Batty popped on the lid. “One more safe.”

  “Not ha-ha, Batty. She’s really here.”

  “What do you mean, here?”

  And then came the sound of someone walking—tap tap tap tap—still faint, but getting closer.

  “She’s here, here?” Batty was white with fear. “Lyds, she doesn’t like dogs—hide them, quick!”

  Lydia shoved Feldspar through a closet door, noticing too late that it wasn’t a closet, but a staircase down to a shadowy cellar. Next went Sonata, sleepily trotting down behind him. As a final gesture, Lydia ripped off the aprons and threw them, too—unfortunately landing one on Feldspar’s head. He stopped in confusion, but the tap-tapping footsteps were coming ever closer, so Lydia shut the door and leaned against it, hoping Sonata would help Feldspar work it out.

  “They’re in the cellar,” she whispered to Batty.

  “What else is down there?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “This is a nightmare.” Batty climbed down from the counter, still clutching a spider-occupied container, when Mrs. Tifton arrived, talking into her phone.

  “Why would Jeffrey have invited—?” She paused, frowning. “Yes, Cagney, I do realize I said I’d never come back. But that doesn’t mean Jeffrey could— What did you say? A wedding? A wedding! Whose wedding? Get over here now, this instant!”

  She ended her call and glared from one sister to the other. “According to Cagney, you know my son. How did you talk him into handing over my home?”

  “Actually, it was Jeffrey’s idea for us to come here,” said Lydia, hoping to draw Mrs. Tifton’s attention away from Batty, whose hands were shaking. The spider must have thought it was in the middle of an earthquake.

  “Lydia, I’ll handle this,” said Batty.

  “Handle? Excuse me! What you will handle is getting out of here,” snapped Mrs. Tifton. “And what’s in that plastic box?”

  Lydia knew without a doubt that Batty should ignore Mrs. Tifton’s second question—that if anything could worsen this situation, it would be bringing the woman face to face with a spider. But Batty wasn’t thinking clearly. She opened the container to give Mrs. Tifton a peek at its inhabitant, and Mrs. Tifton did what naturally she would—shrieked, and swatted Batty’s hand away, without, thank goodness, dislodging the spider. Lydia didn’t think either she or Mrs. Tifton would live through an encore of the spider-on-the-loose episode.

  “What on earth are you doing?” gasped Mrs. Tifton. “There’s a spider in there!”

  “She’s rescuing it,” explained Lydia. “She believes in equality for all creatures. She doesn’t eat meat or fish, and not even insects, though luckily there isn’t a lot of opportunity for eating insects. Yet.”

  Mrs. Tifton stared in disbelief. “Who are you people?”

  “We met long ago, though maybe you don’t remember.” Batty didn’t sound hopeful about the not remembering. “We’re…Penderwicks.”

  “Pender—!” Mrs. Tifton’s pickle face was in full force. She whipped out her phone and hit redial. “Cagney! You didn’t tell me they were Penderwicks! You’d better be on your way.”

  While Batty added the container to the spider-condo tower and Lydia stayed put, guarding the door to the cellar, Mrs. Tifton tapped again at her phone. This time there was no answer, and when she left a message, it made both Batty and Lydia wince, especially Batty.

  “Jeffrey, this is your mother. I’m at Arundel with the Penderwicks. The Penderwicks! What were you thinking? Call me!” She hung up and threw herself onto the bench of a cozy breakfast nook.

  Batty had gone back to rescuing spiders, doing her best to pretend that she and Lydia were alone in the kitchen. But Lydia stared openly at Mrs. Tifton, busily adjusting her inner version of the woman—gleaned from her sisters’ old stories—to the reality. This Mrs. Tifton was no towering menace. Even in her high heels, she was barely as tall as Batty, and she had less an air of threat than of chronic unhappiness. Now she was on her phone again.

  “Mimi, you’re not going to believe this. Remember that family I told you about—the people who ran wild here about fifteen years ago? One of the sisters had a big crush on Jeffrey….Yes, them. They’re here in the mansion—two of them, anyway….No, not the one who had the crush on Jeffrey. She was blond and these aren’t. Mimi, they think they’re here for a wedding!…I don’t know yet, but it couldn’t be either of these two—they’re not old enough. The brunette is a teenager, and the redhead—” Mrs. Tifton turned to Lydia. “How old are you?”

  “Eleven.”

  “Eleven. The father must have remarried….Hold on, let me look.” Now Mrs. Tifton was carefully studying Lydia’s hair. “Bright but not garish copper, with golden highlights and some streaks of walnut brown…Yes, it’s gorgeous, but, Mimi, you don’t seem to understand what it feels like to have these people encamped in my home!…All right, I will. Bye.”

  Lydia was doing her best to study her own hair, which isn’t easy without a mirror—you can see only what’s long enough to pull in front of your eyes. She’d never heard her hair described the way Mrs. Tifton had, and wondered how much of that was accurate. She couldn’t ask Batty, who wasn’t near enough to have heard—apparently, there were a lot of spiders at the far end of the kitchen. And asking Mrs. Tifton would feel like begging for compliments, so she couldn’t do that.

  There were other things Lydia also wanted to ask Mrs. Tifton, like how she’d dreamt up the idea about Skye having a crush on Jeffrey. And how had it felt to have the attic cleared out by a thieving husband, and why was she at Arundel, anyway? But she couldn’t ask any of that. And yet, she didn’t want this silence to continue for too long, not with the dogs wandering the mansion’s subterranean r
egions and capable of barking or howling at any moment. Oh, here was something she could safely ask:

  “Do you go to the theater a lot in New York City?”

  Mrs. Tifton frowned, looking for hidden meanings but unable to come up with any. “I suppose so. One does.”

  “Musicals? If I lived there, I’d go to a musical every week to study the dancing.”

  “Thank heavens,” said Mrs. Tifton.

  At first Lydia thought that Mrs. Tifton was grateful that Lydia liked musicals, but that wasn’t it. She was thanking heavens for the arrival of Cagney and a woman who Lydia knew was Alice’s mom—she had the same quirky smile. Alice had come, too, her eyes no longer red and swollen. She dashed past Mrs. Tifton to join Lydia.

  “You can call my mom Natalie if you want,” she whispered. “Jack’s friends do.”

  Lydia wanted to point out that not only wasn’t she Jack’s friend, she wasn’t even certain she was Alice’s friend, but Mrs. Tifton was loudly proclaiming her woes, which made it difficult to be heard.

  “And then she tried to frighten me with a huge spider! Cagney, I need these people out of here immediately.”

  “I understand it was a shock, Brenda,” answered Cagney. “If only you’d told us you were coming.”

  “It was a spur-of-the-moment trip to see Mimi Robinette. She’s having trouble with her ex-husband and wanted to talk to someone with plenty”—she glanced at the Penderwicks, then finished the sentence with an unintelligible murmur—“plenty of hmm-hmm-hmms.”

  Lydia figured that the hmm-hmm-hmms were Mrs. Tifton’s ex-husbands, of whom there had indeed been plenty. She also thought she recognized the name Robinette from the old stories. Hadn’t there been a boy named Robinette who Jeffrey’s mother was always forcing Jeffrey to play with? Lydia wished she could ask Mrs. Tifton this, too, but then she remembered that the Robinette boy had been a bully, and that Jeffrey had loathed him.