Secrets at Sea Page 9

  Moreover, from this night forth, Louise wasn’t the only one with a human. And mine had been born with a title.

  I worked myself under Lord Sandown’s door and into the night. I was absolutely exhausted, and longed for my jewelry case. But I was far from there, and this endless night held yet another surprise to shock me half out of my fur. Read on.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Secrets the Dark Night Keeps

  WE TAKE PRIDE in finding our way home, we mice. But I dragged from deck to deck, half asleep on my feet. Still, I kept one eye out for the cat who might be keeping one eye out for me.

  At long last I was on the right deck. I slumped through the carpet, weaving along the creaking, sleeping ship. A little woozy, I slipped beneath a cabin door. But cautious. Always cautious.

  Surely my sisters were home before me. A shaded light burned within. Camilla was not in the bed. Nor Louise at the foot of it. I looked underneath. No eyes glowed from there. Beatrice was making herself scarce.

  But the cabin was not empty. Far from it. A young lady sat on the dressing-table bench, turned away to the only chair. She wore something gauzy, softly draped: a gown for receiving a guest. Her hand extended to a gentleman there in the chair. Immaculate black and white. Wing collar. A good head of hair, center-parted.

  He was a stranger to me. But I knew who he was, who he had to be. Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle, I thought to myself as my eyes liked to pop out of my head. He leaned forward over the young lady’s hand. He kissed it.

  Oh dear. Humans kissing. I went beet-red under my frosted-pink fur. I didn’t know where to look, and I was all eyes. My hand drew up uncertainly in that way I have.

  “My darling,” the doctor said.

  I nearly passed out. Now I was scrambling back, wiggling under the door, once more in flight.

  I hadn’t been in Camilla’s cabin at all.

  I’d been in Olive’s.

  And I’d just witnessed Olive being kissed by the doctor.

  Oh, what secrets the dark night keeps.

  I darted on down to the next door and squirmed under it, dizzy with what I’d witnessed. Home at last. But where was my breath? It took forever to find.

  And there was Camilla, in her flannel nightie, climbing into her bed. Louise was just bounding up on the foot of it. I had not been missed. Camilla was eager to tell Louise all about the evening, every detail. And Louise was eager to pretend she didn’t already know. Her little head cocked, all ears.

  Neither of them could be bothered to notice me soaring up on the dressing table, dropping into the tufted jewelry case, beside the orchid corsage. No one was eager to hear of my adventures, which were every bit as exciting as anybody else’s. Every bit.

  Though at one point Camilla said, “Why am I smelling cake?”

  And that would be me.

  At least there was more room in the jewelry case now that Camilla’s pearls were gone and would have to be restrung. I was unstrung myself. My head and tail tingled. Beatrice was already there, sound asleep. Her nose found my ear. “Oh stop at once,” she murmured, deep in some unsuitable dream. “I implore you.”

  ON THE DAYS that followed, the entire ship could talk of nothing but the sudden romance that had broken out between Camilla and Lord Peter Henslowe. A whirlwind romance had burst into being at a royal reception with the breaking of a string of pearls. But that’s the way with an ocean voyage: Dynasties have been decided.

  Camilla hardly had time to change her clothes five times a day. For breakfast, then a turn on the deck with Lord Peter. For lunch and then their game of shuffleboard. For tea and yet again for dinner. She was in and out of the cabin, and so were her maids. We three, Louise and Beatrice and I, bickered under the bed for days.

  “Thanks to me,” Louise endlessly recalled, “Camilla has snagged Lord Peter Henslowe, a major catch. Truly top-notch. His family—the Henslowes, you know—have two castles and a house in London. They ride to hounds. Hounds, my dears. Lord Peter will be an earl one day, and that will make Camilla a countess. A countess.” Oh how Louise preened. She grinned and grinned to show her useful teeth. We were meant to remember pearls pattering at a certain social occasion.

  “A countess is, of course, a useful thing to be,” I observed. “I am myself slightly acquainted with the Countess of Clovelly.”

  Louise bristled. “The Countess of Clovelly? Don’t be absurd, Helena. You don’t know any humans.”

  But then Beatrice, who never listens, butted in. “Isn’t Camilla too young—”

  “Not for a lord,” know-it-all Louise replied. “And his is an ancient family.”

  I cleared my throat. “We are ourselves a very old fam—”

  “Well, if it hadn’t been for me,” said Beatrice, horning in again, “all the Upstairs Cranstons would have been thrown bodily out of the Princess’s reception, and us with them. I snatched them from certain social shame. I saved all our bacon. Fortunately, I know my way around Mrs. Cranston.”

  Beatrice popped her eyes and waggled her whiskers as she’d done from the top of Mrs. Cranston’s ball gown.

  Oh how they preened, my proud sisters. I merely sat back, my tail arranged, my hands gathered before me. I had a secret or two up my furry sleeve that would send them staggering, if I chose to share it. If and when. I—Helena, the oldest.

  “You are looking very smug, Helena,” Louise remarked. “I can’t think why.”

  LAMONT FOUND US bickering beneath the bed. A maid had just breezed out the door with Camilla’s ironing. Lamont breezed in. “ ’Ello, ’ello,” said the bothersome boy. “I cahn’t linger, as I ’ave me duties. But ’ere’s a delivery. Look wot it is!”

  He’d pushed in among us. Now he sat back on his spindly shanks. In his hand was a bouquet: baby’s breath and a stalk or two of lily of the valley, tastefully tied up in thread. Hothouse blooms, no doubt from the florist’s floor.

  “Compliments of ’Is Lordship, Peter Henslowe, Mouse Equerry to the ’uman one. Me and ’im is good mates now. Me and the Mouse Equerry.”

  “The Mouse Equerry and I,” I said.

  “The Mouse Equerry and I,” said Lamont.

  How well we recalled Lord Peter’s bow, past us to the Duchess. Those aristocratic ears. The tail that was pure poetry. Rank and appearance, and plenty of both.

  We were lost in thought. The ship rose on a swell, hung there, then settled, then rose again. Though no moan came from Olive’s cabin.

  Louise found her voice. “Who are those flowers for?”

  Sly Lamont made us wait, spinning out the moment. Then he handed the bouquet over to Beatrice.

  “Me?” She pointed an innocent finger at herself. “How nice.”

  “It would be Beatrice,” Louise muttered. “How typical of the entire male sex. Honestly. They go for her type every time.”

  Beatrice stuck her nose in the flowers. A stalk of lily of the valley curled around one of her ears.

  Louise’s brain was running riot. She babbled on. “Still, since Camilla is going to end up as Her Ladyship, married to Lord Peter Henslowe and living in two castles and their London place, I will naturally make my home with them. Camilla and I have never been parted, you know. We’ll be quite English. And I assume there’ll be servants.”

  Louise nodded rather grandly to Beatrice, who was sniffing her flowers. “Beatrice and the mouse–Lord Peter will of course play a role in our establishment.”

  Beatrice sniffed her flowers. Louise preened. How suddenly she’d sketched out an entire future for Beatrice and herself. I was left out, and I was hurt. But would I let that show? You know better than that.

  “Do not put your cart before your horse, Louise,” I merely said, rearranging my hands. “There’s many a slip betwixt cup and lip. Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

  “Rome?” Beatrice looked up from her bouquet. “Are we going to Rome? Where is it?”

  WE WERE ALMOST in sight of land now. Beams from European lighthouses swept the nighttime horizon. Too ex
cited to sleep, Camilla chattered till all hours to listening Louise.

  I tossed and turned. Then when I slept, I dreamed a familiar dream. In it Beatrice sat silently up. She rose and picked her way across the hatpins. Then she was gone like a puff of smoke.

  I awoke with a start and saw it was true. I was alone in the night and the jewelry case, with nothing beside me but a crushed stalk of lily of the valley.

  Beatrice was gone.

  I lay there, bolt awake. Then a face appeared above the lock, peering in. It was Louise. “Move over,” she whispered. “Camilla is using her chamber pot.”

  There was certainly enough room. “Where’s Beatrice?” Louise asked, settling.

  “You tell me,” I whispered back.

  “Honestly, that girl,” Louise said.“She will throw away the chance of a lifetime and lose her reputation. You should have kept an eye on her, Helena.”

  “Yes, I suppose I should have,” I sniffed, “since I have nothing else to do and no life of my own.” I sniffed again for good measure.

  “On the other hand,” I observed, “Beatrice may be up on the open deck with Mouse Equerry Lord Peter this very minute. A rendezvous. They may be whispering sweet nothings into each other’s ears, and planning a future.”

  “We can only hope,” Louise sighed. “Beatrice does seem to have him on the hook. Now if she can only reel him in. Honestly, they go for her type every time.”

  With that Louise went sound asleep on the crushed lily of the valley. I tossed until dawn broke through the portholes. Then back Beatrice came. She was just about to drop into the jewelry case when she saw Louise’s sleeping form. She drew up a hand. Then she nuzzled in between us. Her nose nestled near my ear, and she snored convincingly.

  But I was not deceived.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Dynasty and Destiny

  THROUGH THE MIRACLE of the wireless telegraph, news of the whirlwind romance between Camilla Cranston and Lord Peter Henslowe reached two continents before we docked. Evidently the London newspapers were full of it, and the New York papers took note. There are no secrets at sea.

  With every account, Lord Peter’s family grew more ancient, their castles bigger. And Camilla grew richer and richer: an American heiress. The Heiress of the Year. It was a story that had everything because Lord Peter was thought to be hard to catch. And Camilla had caught him just by being herself.

  “A pearl at any price,” the newspapers called her. They scrambled for photographs of her. When they couldn’t find any, they ran pictures of other girls entirely, and called them Camilla.

  We were the talk of the ship, even Louise and Beatrice and I. Being, as we were, Cranstons ourselves. And Camilla was not our only claim to fame. No indeed. A rumor had swept the ship of a secret engagement between the Mouse Equerry Lord Peter and . . . Miss Beatrice Cranston, of all mice. I don’t know how that rumor started. Certainly not with me. I blamed Louise.

  We were the talk of the ship. At dinner Cecil led us to the best yardstick, and mice stood on their spools for a better look at us. The room glowed with eyes upon us. Mice we had not met wanted to know us now. New York City mice. There were mice of the Vanderbilt family on this crossing, and even they glanced our way. We basked. Beatrice wore a sprig of baby’s breath over one ear. Fame is a funny thing. Fame is like a secret. Both are hard to keep.

  BUT IT WAS our last night at sea before word reached Mr. Cranston. He was often the last to know anything. I believe he picked up the news about Camilla and Lord Peter Henslowe in the gentlemen’s billiard room, or someplace where men gossip.

  The biggest steamer trunk stood open on the floor of Camilla’s cabin. The room was a beehive. Maids rushed about, raising dust, folding Camilla’s clothes, dressing her for dinner. Probably fussing with her hair.

  We three, Louise and Beatrice and I, couldn’t see everything from under the bed. The steamer trunk blocked the view. Flowers for Camilla from Lord Peter crammed the cabin, sprays and baskets of them. There wasn’t room to swing a you-know-what.

  The dinner gong sounded through the ship, and the door banged open. It was Mr. Cranston, no doubt filling it up. We saw only the big knobs of his shoes.

  “OUT!” he howled, scattering the maids. We jumped and huddled. He strode in.

  Behind him hovered Mrs. Cranston. She was back in her ball gown. We recognized the skirts—changeable watered taffeta.

  “Now, Floyd,” she said, dithering.“Now, Floyd.”

  “What’s this I hear about you and some English . . . twerp?” he thundered at Camilla.

  Twerp? We quaked, under the bed.

  Camilla was there at her dressing table. I believe she might have been pulling on her gloves, fitting them over each finger. “He is Lord Peter Henslowe, Papa,” she said, strangely calm and sure of herself.

  “I don’t care if he’s the King of England!” roared Mr. Cranston, putting his big foot down.

  “There is no King of England, Papa,” Camilla said. “There’s a queen. Queen Victoria.”

  “AND I DON’ T CARE ABOUT HER EITHER,” Mr. Cranston bellowed. You could have heard him throughout this British ship.

  “I hope this Lord Peter What’s-His-Name doesn’t think you’re rich!”

  “No, Papa,” Camilla replied. “I have told him we are poor. Poor as church mice.”

  We goggled at one another, under the bed.

  “POOR!” Mr. Cranston boomed. “Girl, if we were poor, you wouldn’t be traveling first class!”

  “Now, Floyd,” Mrs. Cranston said.

  Mr. Cranston turned on Mrs. Cranston. “I blame all this on you, Flora,” he barked. “I lay all this at your door. We have not blundered off to the ends of the earth to marry this girl off. She’s only sixteen years old!”

  “Seventeen, Papa,” said Camilla, cool as anything. “Eighteen in the fall. I will have my hair up by then. Peter and I will gladly wait six months. After all, it will take that much time to plan the wedding.”

  “Oh! The wedding!” Mrs. Cranston cried. “The wedding! What shall I wear?”

  An awful silence fell. Fumes seemed to rise from Mr. Cranston. Sulfurous fumes. “Six months?” he said in a low and dangerous voice. “Six months?” Once again he rounded on Mrs. Cranston. “Woman,” he said, “you seem to forget this whole business was to get Olive off our—to get Olive married. NOT CAMILLA!”

  “Now, Floyd—”

  “It will take Olive more than six months. It’s liable to take Olive SIX YEARS!”

  “No, it won’t, Papa.”

  Though there was hardly room, someone new had entered Camilla’s cabin. Someone in a long, gauzy gown, pea-green.

  It was Olive.

  All the other Upstairs Cranstons turned to her. Louise and Beatrice and I crept nearly out into the light, drawn by this scene. We gazed all the way up Olive. On her best days, she was sallow, but this evening she wasn’t as pea-green as her dress. She looked quite dignified in an older-sister way. She looked nice.

  “I am myself engaged to be married, Papa.”

  Mr. Cranston liked to have bulged out of his wing collar. “What the—”

  “To the ship’s doctor, Papa. Dr. Fanshawe.”

  You could have heard a pin drop. Mr. Cranston’s mouth moved and moved before any sound came out. “I suppose this Dr. What’s-His-Name is another English twerp!”

  “No, Papa. He’s from Cleveland.”

  Mr. Cranston’s face was an alarming shade of deep purple now. “Well, I hope he doesn’t think we’re rich!”

  “Oh yes, Papa. I told him you were the richest man in Westchester County,” Olive replied. “But he said he would marry me anyway.”

  Olive smiled. Quite a pleasant smile. “You see, I haven’t been sick since the lifeboat drill. I’ve just been seeing the doctor.”

  Another astonished silence fell. In fact, it came crashing down. Far below us the ship’s engines throbbed.

  Mrs. Cranston reeled, then rallied. “A doctor? My Olive’s marrying a d
octor!”

  The heavens seemed to open. Mrs. Cranston threw her arms around Olive, then reached for Camilla. They danced in all the space there was. They did jigs and fandangos. They kicked in their skirts, a dance of joy and triumph. Mr. Cranston was caught somewhere in the middle.

  We drew back under Camilla’s bed to keep from being trampled and mashed flat. The noise was deafening. “Two weddings!” Mrs. Cranston shrieked. “Two weddings!”

  Beatrice and Louise were struck almost dumb with surprise.

  “Olive, of all humans, finding a husband entirely on her own!” Louise goggled. “Is that not the most surprising thing you ever heard in your entire life, Helena?”

  A dance of joy and triumph.

  “Actually, it is not.” I gathered my hands. “I’ve known about it for some while.”

  “Helena, you couldn’t have,” Louise said, and Beatrice agreed. “Olive has spent the whole voyage in her cabin, where you have never been.”

  “As it happens, I was in her cabin, possibly at the very moment of their betrothal. There was some kissing.”

  “Then why didn’t you tell?”

  “I wasn’t asked.” I sniffed, slightly.

  WHEN THE UPSTAIRS Cranstons were finally gone, Lamont squeezed himself in under the door.

  “ ’Ere, you three,” he said in his awful accent. “You’ll be late for your dinner. It’s Gala Night in the mouse dining saloon. There’ll be confetti, flaming pudding, and three cheeses: a boursin au poivre, a pecorino Romano, and an Emmenthaler—that’s the one with the ’oles. Dancing to follow.”

  We stirred.

  “I will meself conduct you,” he said grandly. “I know all the shortcuts now. Get you there in’arf the time. I know this ship like the back of me ’and.”

  “Hand, Lamont,” I said.

  “’And,” he said.

  “Then we can all four have dinner together,” I said. “It will be like our first night. Like old times.” I gathered us all up, in my mind.