Secrets at Sea Read online

  Oh, you should have seen that noble chamber in all its quiet grandeur. The famous paintings on the paneled walls. The gently tinkling chandeliers. The tapestry cushions, personally worked by Princess Louise, who is artistic. Then, just at the stroke of noon, probably, there came a stirring and the occasional cheep.

  The Persian carpet suddenly filled up with a murmuring multitude of mice. Out of the woodwork we came. You know how we are. Always just a whisker away, whether you know it or not.

  But never so many in one place. All the palace mice, of course, and we greatly outnumber the humans. Greatly. And the mice of the better London families. Then the foreign mice visiting with their royal humans. The King of the Belgians alone was accompanied by a retinue of forty mice, and he was but one king among many. And yes, New York City mice. Vanderbilts. A major infestation. The carpet was gray with us.

  There is nothing like a palace wedding to draw a fashionable crowd. And the flowers on the fender were much admired. Sprays and cascades of orange-bloom petals and lily of the valley, plucked straight from the palace greenhouse. The Duchess and I had been up half the night.

  She went first, of course, the Duchess did, to her place at the front, to represent the mother of the bride. Down the aisle between the crowds she hobbled on her matchstick, wearing her rusty tiara and a caterpillar boa.

  For music, the entire chorus of The Nutcracker began to hum the wedding march. But they were rather drowned out by a military band, blaring now from the forecourt below the windows. And so Beatrice started down the aisle to the strains of “Rule, Britannia.” She carried a burgeoning bouquet of four late violets, white ones, picked dew-fresh that very morning from a shady corner of the palace gardens.

  The wedding guests made a path for her across the Persian carpet, leading to the fender before the hearth. She was a lovely bride, of course, and you know how Beatrice likes to be the center of attention. Several of the foreign mice dropped curtsies as she passed, not quite knowing whether she was royal or not.

  From a small explosion of tulle between her ears, a train of point lace fully six inches long flowed down behind her. It was white lace, ivory with age—a snippet off Queen Victoria’s own train from her long-ago wedding day.

  At Beatrice’s throat, hung from a length of dental floss, was a single pearl—one from Camilla’s necklace that had escaped being restrung. Her wedding gown, ivory like her veil, was simple and girlish, and hiked at the rear to accommodate her tail. She has a pretty way of flailing it. And seven petticoats beneath, so she seemed to skim just above the pile of the carpet, like a floating doily. I ran up her dress myself, with the help of six or eight needle-mice of the palace staff.

  Beatrice proceeded on the arm of Lamont, who had shore leave for the occasion. He sported a very tight wing collar and a small black bow tie that looked suspiciously like Cecil’s. Being the man of the family, Lamont was to give Beatrice away. He was very much on his dignity. And he knew I was coming down the aisle right behind his unsightly tail.

  I was naturally maid of honor. My bouquet was of three waxy begonias, pink to match my dress, which is right for my coloring. Behind me came Louise as bridesmaid, completing our party. We are of course neighbors now, Louise and I, as the Henslowe family’s London house is nearby the palace, only a whisker away. Louise was in lavender, which is more Camilla’s color than hers. But we looked nice.

  She seemed to skim just above the carpet, like a floating doily.

  It was a day beyond our wildest dreams, and my eyes grew misty as we approached the fender. Then there before us was the clergy-mouse, come directly from Westminster Abbey. He wore a purple silk stole, embroidered, around his neck and held the tiniest prayer book you ever saw. And spectacles, which put me in mind of Aunt Fannie Fenimore from our old life.

  Beside him stood the groom. Ramrod straight upon his mighty haunches. Snowy white fur. Ruby eyes. Gorgeous whiskers. Nigel.

  Yes, Nigel. Also on shore leave for the occasion. I couldn’t talk her out of him. It had been love at first sight, but I had insisted on a palace wedding. I’d put my foot down. You do what you can.

  Lamont was leading Beatrice up to Nigel now. I busied myself arranging her veil and her tail. As she handed me her violets, she goggled her eyes at me and wiggled her ears. You know Beatrice. Then she turned to Nigel, and her future.

  The clergy-mouse adjusted his spectacles to begin: “Dearly beloved . . .”

  And my mind spun backward to our old lives, on the far side of all the surging sea. A moment flashed before me like a glimpse from deep within a crystal ball. There was the ancient humped figure of Aunt Fannie Fenimore. Bald patches, spectacles, and all: Aunt Fannie upon her powder puff throne.

  I remembered the day I’d gone to her through the hedge to learn about our futures. I recalled her extending both her old hands stretched wide. “This is how you hold on to your family,” she had said.

  You hold them with open hands so they are free to find futures of their own. It’s just that simple.

  Before you knew it, Beatrice and Nigel were united in the bonds of matrimony, sealed with a kiss. And back up the aisle they proceeded. “’ Ello, ’ello,” said Nigel, nodding to left and to right as Beatrice hung on his arm. From below the windows in the forecourt, the military band struck up “God Save the Queen.”

  CAKE CRUMBS AND dancing followed. But the Duchess’s dancing days were behind her. Palace servants seated her at the edge of the dance floor on a small silver ring box that belonged to Princess Louise. There she sat tapping time to the music with her matchstick.

  The members of The Nutcracker chorus hummed “The Blue Danube” waltz, and Nigel and Beatrice took to the floor. It wasn’t a proper ballroom floor. It was Persian carpet. But Nigel took Beatrice in his arms and stepped forward. She stepped back, and off they floated as all the mouse multitude pattered applause.

  Then what do you suppose happened?

  Out of nowhere appeared Lord Peter, Mouse Equerry. Only a whiff of bay rum aftershave, and there he was, bowing from the neck before the Duchess of Cheddar Gorge. Oh, those aristocratic ears! I never cease to marvel. If I am remembering correctly, he wore a silk cravat overflowing a grosgrain waistcoat from his London tailor. And a cutaway coat with tails. Two tails plus his own.

  The Duchess’s withered hand came up, and he kissed the air above it. She smiled up at him, showing her terrible teeth. Then she nodded in my direction.

  And he was before me.

  My heart skipped a beat. I buried my nose in my waxy begonias in a sudden fit of shyness. Under my fur I went pink as my dress.

  But he waited until our eyes met. Then he spoke. “I hope you have saved this waltz for me, Miss Cranston. And many more besides.”

  Then I was in his arms. Don’t ask me how. I don’t dance. I never had. When would I? But we were turning and turning in the waltz, swept away upon the beautiful blue Danube, while all the world watched and wondered.

  You should have seen the look on Louise’s face.

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  About the Author

  DESCRIBED BY The Washington Post as “America’s best living author for young adults,” Richard Peck is the first children’s book writer ever to have been awarded a National Humanities Medal. His extensive list of honors includes the Newbery Medal (for A Year Down Yonder), a Newbery Honor (for A Long Way from Chicago), the Edgar Award (for Are You in the House Alone?), the Scott O’Dell Award (for The River Between Us), the Christopher Medal (for The Teacher’s Funeral), and the Margaret A. Edwards Award for lifetime achievement in young adult literature. He has twice been a finalist for the National Book Award. Mr. Peck lives in New York City.

  Also by Richard Peck

  Novels for Young Adults

  Amanda/Miranda

  Are You in the House Alone?

  Bel-Air Bambi and the Mall Rats

  Blossom Culp and the Sleep of Death

  Close Enough to Touch

  Don’t Look
and It Won’t Hurt

  The Dreadful Future of Blossom Culp

  Dreamland Lake

  Fair Weather

  Father Figure

  The Ghost Belonged to Me

  Ghosts I Have Been

  The Great Interactive Dream Machine

  Here Lies the Librarian

  The Last Safe Place on Earth

  A Long Way from Chicago

  Lost in Cyberspace

  On the Wings of Heroes

  Princess Ashley

  Remembering the Good Times

  Representing Super Doll

  The River Between Us

  A Season of Gifts

  Secrets of the Shopping Mall

  Strays Like Us

  The Teacher’s Funeral

  Those Summer Girls I Never Met

  Three-Quarters Dead

  Through a Brief Darkness

  Unfinished Portrait of Jessica

  Voices After Midnight

  A Year Down Yonder

  Novels for Adults

  Amanda/Miranda

  London Holiday

  New York Time

  This Family of Women

  Short Stories

  Past Perfect, Present Tense

  Picture Book

  Monster Night at Grandma’s House

  Nonfiction

  Anonymously Yours

  Invitations to the World