Well here I am with chapter number two. I have survived Halloween, much to
the dismay of Oprah's psychic, and I went as Mary Poppins, and it was
great. Thus, why it took me so long to update. Now to reply to my first
reviews!
Marylinisca - Yes, I borrowed some names from the brilliant Jane Austen. ( I'm actually her descendent! I had no idea until last week when my mom told me. Will wonders never cease?
Nako-Chan - My, my, how the tables have turned! Hehe! Well, one of my favorite authors is reviewing my fic! Wow! Thank you for the review, it was VERY complimentary, especially since you didn't care if Sherlock was in it. Wow. I'm VERY flattered! When are you going to continue with that Sherlock/ Phantom story? I was quite in to it.
March Hare - You are indeed pulling a Watson. ( But to get so much praise from my favorite author is praise indeed! Those were some of the best compliments I've ever had! And now I will abuse this right of replying to bother you about another chapter for Mayhem in Manhattan. I am evil, yes. Oh, and I loved your letter to the editor, it was adorable.
And I promise that this is the last slow chapter for a while. Chapter three's gonna start shakin' things up a little bit.. Yo.
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The Case of the Baker Street Irregular
Chapter 2: Bedclothes and Boarding
The next morning Andrew awoke to find himself in his own bedroom, smothered in warm sheets and blankets. There was no trace of the previous day's mud, and his bedclothes were as crisp and clean as if they had just come from the laundry. To his great surprise his entire room was pristine. The few toys he was allowed had been scooped up into his toy chest and his usual mess of half-read books were back in their appropriate places on the shelf.
Andrew had never been allowed to play with toys much. His father had always associated them with weakness, declaring that "The young soldiers of her Majesty's empire must be built to lead, not to play!" The only time Andrew ever remembered having any toys other than tin soldiers and wooden battle ships was when his mother was still alive. He remembered very little about his mother; the little he did know had come from vague and abrupt stories from his Aunt Agatha. From her stories he had been able to create an image of her; the only image he had. His father had, from the even rarer stories Mrs. Bingley told him, taken every photograph and painting of her and thrown them into the fire. The two had never gotten along, but Mrs. Bingley believed that her death had affected the Captain deeply.
The story of his mother's death was one of the only stories Andrew knew well because his father had spoken of it too, but only once. Andrew, being of a curious young age at the time, had asked his father where his mother was.
"I shall tell you, boy, so be sure you are prepared to listen for I shall tell you only once." Andrew, being five at the time and therefore absolutely sure of everything, nodded. "Very well, I shall be brief, for hers was a brief and foolish death," the Captain had said, rolling a cigarette with his strong, thin fingers and looking the miniature Andrew dead in the eye, "Elizabeth was fond of the sea, as am I. We would go out on a rowboat every day on the sea. Those were the better days, Andrew. There is no need to hide from you that we soon fell out of favor with each other. You were too young at the time to notice. Anyway, your mother still loved going out on that damned, decrepit rowboat every day, only she brought friends and relatives with her. Not me," the Captain's eyes slowly left Andrew's and, after a time, reached the glowing fireplace of his study, "That was her downfall, Andrew; her Waterloo. Against my advice - and me being a Sea Captain of the Royal Navy you'd think she would have listened to me - she went out to sea with a cousin of hers on that damned boat on a day when the weather was sure to turn treacherous. Surely enough it did. Both Elizabeth and her cousin were drowned."
Captain Wallace had taken the last puff of his cigarette, then, and thrown it into the fire. Andrew had still been staring at him, tears running down his cheeks. His father had turned away in disgust, "Who taught you to cry at every sad thing you heard, boy? In my opinion the world is bettered by the disappearance of idiots such as your mother who go out on leaky boats in stormy weather."
"Was she pretty?" Andrew had asked.
"What?"
"Was she pretty, father?"
"Call me Captain, boy."
"Captain. was she pretty?" Captain Wallace had peered stonily at his small son for a moment.
"The most gorgeous in the Empire, son," he had replied. Andrew had grinned, "Do you really think I would marry anyone who wasn't?" The grin had faded, but held.
Andrew had never heard the Captain speak of his mother since. His Aunt Agatha's stories, though sporadic, had been more informative. All he had ever really gotten out of her was that his mother had had freckles just like his, and dark hair, just like his.
"Your mother had the patience and kindness of a saint," his Aunt had said, "Nobody else could have tolerated your father for that long."
And that was all the kind of information he could get out of her. Every time he had persisted, she had stopped abruptly and said, "Don't ask foolish questions. Now get me a gin and tonic, Toad."
Due to the number of similar conversations, Andrew had become an expert at mixing various alcoholic beverages over the years.
* *
*
Andrew schlumped out of bed and over to his wardrobe, where he was met with a slight inconvenience.
"Drake!" he called.
His clothes were completely missing. There wasn't even a sock left! And why wasn't Drake answering?
"Drake!" he called again, "Mrs. Bingley?" No reply. Where could they possibly be? They had always come when he'd called them before, however infrequently. Come to think of it, the house did seem oddly still. There was usually someone around.
The sharp reality of his Aunt's death cut him like a cold blade. She'd always had the servant's in her room. The servants had been within calling distance because they had always been talking care of her. Now, he supposed, there was no reason for any of the servants to be on the third floor at all.
Andrew tip-toed down the freezing cold corridor in his nightclothes. Even though the other servants were all downstairs, Mrs. Bingley was his nurse- maid. Her only job was to take care of him, so when on earth was she?
"Mrs. Bingley!" Andrew called again loudly. His echo was his only response. No Mrs. Bingley, no Drake, and no clothes. He silently cursed whoever took his clothes. But honestly, he thought, who on earth would want them? He hopped from foot to freezing foot. The late August air was chilly in the morning and the previous day's rain had made it more so. The gray, gloomy light being cast from the large gothic windows seemed to make the hall colder and sadder than it already was.
"Child, what on earth are you doing out here in your nightclothes?!"
Andrew jumped a foot in the air. Mrs. Bingley was standing behind him with a wicker basket and a huffy disposition. He hadn't heard her come up behind him; he had been looked at a painting of Sir Reginald, who had the biggest wart Andrew had ever seen.
"What are you doing out of your bedroom? You'll catch your death, you will!" clucked Mrs. Bingley, ushering him back into his room, "Go on, back to your room! Quick, quick, quick!"
"But Mrs. Bingley." protested Andrew as the short, plump woman threw a comforter over his shoulders, "I couldn't find you! And all my clothes were gone!"
Andrew looked enquiringly at his nanny who was avoiding his eyes. She pulled Andrew's traveling clothes and coat from the wicker basket. Andrew looked from Mrs. Bingley, to the basket, then back the Mrs. Bingley. Traveling clothes?
Andrew looked at her with the most piercing look that he could muster, "Why have you brought these to me?"
"So you don't freeze, child! Really, Andrew, use your head," Mrs. Bingley said a little too quickly. Andrew continued to glare at her. She had never been very good at hiding things from him; she always buckled under pressure like a house of cards.
"Don't give me that look, child, it gives me a chill right down my spine, it does! Your Auntie used to give me that - that same look."
Mrs. Bingley quickly pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed her misty eyes. Andrew looked uncomfortably at the floor and pulled his clothes out of the basket. He hadn't meant to make her cry. Feel guilty, yes, but not cry.
"I'm sorry, Nanna," he said sheepishly.
He was immediately sorry for his apology when Mrs. Bingley nearly broke several of his ribs in a large-armed hug.
"Oh bless your sweet little soul, child!" she hiccoughed, "Thinkin' it was you that made me cry! Oh you were never anything but gentle, child and I pray to God that school won't change you!"
"What school?!" shouted Andrew into Mrs. Bingley's stomach. A bell rang somewhere in the house. She released him and he inhaled for the first time in several minutes, massaging his ribs.
"That'll be the cab. Get dressed, boy, don't dawdle!" ordered Mrs. Bingley as she bustled out of the room.
School? Cab? Andrew dressed as quickly as he could and ran down the stairs, determined to get to the bottom of whatever was going on. He'd never been to a cab in his life. Every time his father had mentioned Andrew going away to a school, his Aunt Agatha had launched something large and heavy at his head, and often hit her mark. For an old, invalid lady she'd had pretty good aim.
Andrew hurtled down the stairs and raced through the dining room, into the hall, and smack into his father, nearly knocking him over.
"Idiot boy," muttered Captain Wallace, picking his son up and dusting him off, "Well, at least you're on time. We'd only just realized that all your clothes were packed."
"Packed?" asked Andrew, following his father's quick footsteps out the door and over to the carriage.
"Yes," the Captain replied, "We're going on a trip to London."
"And you packed all of my clothes?" asked Andrew in fair disbelief.
"No," he replied, "Mrs. Bingley packed all of your clothes and it was entirely unnecessary. That woman is senile."
Andrew's heart leapt. He was going to London? With his father? His father had never taken him anywhere before, and now they were going to London, of all places! The Captain even seemed to be in a fair mood!
"Why are we going to London?" asked Andrew. There had to be a catch, it was too good to be true. His Aunt had always warned him against things that were too good.
"To see my lawyer," his father answered, not unkindly, "And to see some sites. Have you ever seen Madame Toussaud's Wax Museum, Andrew?"
"Never," answered Andrew, grinning, not caring if it was "too good" anymore. To his unending astonishment, the Captain smiled back.
"Well, then we must make a stop there, and Buckingham Palace of course."
He and Andrew climbed into the cab and started on their way to the train station, Andrew inquiring about London and the Captain relating stories of old times. Andrew was nearly beside himself with joy at the train station. He'd never traveled by train before and had always wanted to. The train ride was even more thrilling than the cab ride down. So much, indeed, that Andrew passed out from sheer exhaustion and excitement on his first train ride to the city.
* *
*
When Andrew woke up he had a startling sense of déjà vu. He was again snuggled in a warm bed in his nightclothes. He pressed his face hard into his pillow.
"Let it be real," he prayed into it, "Please don't let it have been a dream!" He looked up. It wasn't his room! The walls had flowered wallpaper instead of his shady blue, and upholstered furniture and wardrobes resided in the room as well.
The door creaked open and a cranky-looking woman in a funny sort of bonnet poked her head in.
"Your father wants you downstairs in five minutes for breakfast. Look sharp!" she squawked, shutting the door. Andrew leapt out of bed and threw his clothes on.
"This must be a boarding house," he said to himself. He was rather disappointed. His father usually required the best of the best wherever he went, and Andrew seriously doubted that this place was London's finest. He exited his room and appeared in a small hall where other doors exactly like his were facing each other, with indicating brass numbers. The wooden floor was worn, but clean, showing the weariness of centuries of feet. The faded paintings of flower pots and framings of old wood-cuts only enhanced the weight of age that seemed to seep through the peeling wallpaper. Andrew was fascinated by its antiquity, its mystery. Having never been exposed to anything older than Drake, this was actually quite fascinating.
"He's here. You may serve now," said his father, who was already seated at the table. The bonnet-woman who was hovering by the captain's side glared at Andrew as if he was personally responsible for all her troubles, and slumped off to the kitchen.
"Where are we?" asked Andrew, as he sat down at the table.
"Proctor St. London, England, m'boy," said his father jovially taking his napkin and putting it on his lap.
"Really?" said Andrew excitedly, "What shall we do first today?"
"What would you like to do first?" asked the Captain. Andrew thought his jaw had to be hanging 'round about the knee area. Did his father actually ask him what he wanted to do? Someone must have replaced his father with a look alike during the night, for this wasn't the Captain Wallace he remembered.
"The Wax Museum!" said Andrew quickly.
"The Wax Museum it is!" said his father, "We shall be visiting my lawyer Mr. Applegate first, but then we'll have the afternoon to ourselves. Oh, and you should keep an eye out for Mme. Griswold. She keeps a clean house, of course, but I believe she bites."
Andrew was so happy he could have been bitten by the bonnet-woman a thousand times without caring. His father actually wanted to do something with him!
Mme. Griswold chose that moment to waddle back into the dinning room with a steaming bowl of god-knows-what. "It's five pounds a week for dinner, Captain."
"Yes, Madame Griswold," said the captain smoothly, "You have been kind enough to mention that to me every ten minutes since I arrived. I assure you that I will remember. I cannot pay you upfront, as I told you, but I shall when I pay for the room at my departure. Are we quite clear?"
Madame Griswold glared icily at the Captain, "Does he wet the bed?" she asked.
"Who?" asked the Captain, looking around the small dining room.
"The boy," said Mme. Griswold, staring right at Andrew, "Because if he does- "
"I do NOT wet the bed!" exclaimed Andrew angrily. He was ten years old! He hadn't wet the bed in years! Did this woman think he was an infant or something?
"I assure you that Andrew has been properly potty trained for quite some time," said the Captain lazily, "And I'll thank you to leave us in private while we dine, Madame."
"Very good, Captain," said the land lady. As she walked away Andrew thought she looked rather like an overweight bulldog that couldn't quite support its own bulk on its stubby, fat legs. Wet the bed? Him?
After Andrew had fumed into the vapors of his soup for a moment or two, he began to eat. He dropped his spoon and groused silently to himself. Stupid woman! He thought She has to make a decent meal, doesn't she. Can't even make fun of her properly.
"Are you finished, Andrew?" asked the Captain. Andrew stared. His father had finished his meal in a few moments flat.
"A trick you learn in the navy, m'boy," Captain Wallace said, "Eat your meal fast, or someone else will."
Andrew tucked that little bit of information away in the same drawer of his brain that stored all of Mrs. Bingley's advice about washing properly and Drake's advice on betting on horses at the horse tracks. Needless to say, moths had eaten away at most of the information.
A few minutes later, Andrew and Captain Wallace were out on the curb. The Captain stuck his hand out and, to Andrew's amazement, a handsome cab pulled right up to the curb where they were standing. A lean man with some worn, but clean middle class wear, hopped off of the top of the cab.
"Evenin' govner'!" said the chap cheerfully, "Where can Oi take you gents today?"
"144 Camden Road, please," said the Captain, "And be quick about it. If I am late for this meeting I shall hold you personally responsible."
The cabby huffed, "Well if it ain't Jesus Chroist 'imself!" he said, opening the door of his handsome. The Captain climbed right in, but Andrew hesitated, looking at the cabby. It must be nice to be tall he thought, comparing his own stout stature to the lean and extremely tall cabby's. He sighed.
"Wos the matter, eh?" said the cabby to Andrew, not unkindly.
"Nothing," replied Andrew.
"Nuffink, eh?" said the cabby, slapping some dust from his cap, "Well, since it's yer firs' roide on a handsome, 'ows about you sit wif me, eh?"
"Alright!" said Andrew, "How did you know that it was my first time in a handsome?"
"Whot?" said the cabby, looking startled, "Oh! Tha'. well, y'know, 'snot every day you see folks' eyes loight up when they see a cab, now is it? 'Op on up, Andrew."
Andrew climbed up to the carriage seat. He was so high up! It was fantastic! He could see over the sea of stylish hats weaving in and about the streets. The cabby hopped up next to him.
"Your favver says is' awriot. An' if its' a'wrioght wiv 'im, it's a'wrioight wiv me. And the name's Bert, boi the way. Bert Merdock at your service!" he announced as if he were the Prince of Wales, shaking Andrew's hand vigorously.
"Is this a fun job, Bert?" asked Andrew as the handsome cab began to move, "You know, driving a cab?"
"Certainly," said Bert, happily jogging the horses with the reins, "But moi firs' love always 'as been an' always will be chimney sweepin'."
"But they're dirty, aren't they, chimneys?" asked Andrew, most of his attention drawn to the shops and other various activities on the streets of London.
"Coal dust is bad for the lungs but good for the soul," quipped Bert, "An' Oi'll tell you sumfink else. There ain't nuffink loik the rooftops of London at nioght. It's a whole ovvuh world up there, Andrew."
"But nevvah go up there if you ain't acquainted wiv the area. You can go for moiles just on rooftop, but you'd bettah know where you ah when you come down. A lad can get in a moity piece of trouble that way," said Bert, "And some othah advoice for your stay in good ol' London: Always tip the droivah."
Andrew looked over. Bert was holding out his had expectantly with a mischievous sparkle in his eye. Andrew wasn't sure if he was joking or not. He pulled the only coin he had out of his pocket. It was an Indian- head penny that Drake had given him after he had visited a cousin in America. Andrew had no use for it. It couldn't be spent in England, so why not?
"I wos jus' jokin' ya lad!" said Bert quickly, "You don' 'ave to-"
"Just take it," said Andrew, shoving it into his hands, "I don't want it anyway. It's from America, you know."
"Alroight," said Bert, flipping the coin into his pocket, "The next toime Oi see you, Oi'll give it back to ya."
"Andrew, come down," said his father who was standing on the curb. Andrew turned with a start. He hadn't even noticed the cab had stopped.
"Sorry," said Andrew, "I was just-"
"Come, boy. We have much to take care of before the day is out," said the Captain.
"Thank you, Bert. Shall I see you again?" asked Andrew as he stepped off the Cab, helped by his father.
"I dare say we will, Andrew!" said Bert, "Toodaloo, gents!"
Andrew waved goodbye and walked over to his father who was standing under a sign which read,
The Law Offices of Messrs. Applegate and Orange.
Marylinisca - Yes, I borrowed some names from the brilliant Jane Austen. ( I'm actually her descendent! I had no idea until last week when my mom told me. Will wonders never cease?
Nako-Chan - My, my, how the tables have turned! Hehe! Well, one of my favorite authors is reviewing my fic! Wow! Thank you for the review, it was VERY complimentary, especially since you didn't care if Sherlock was in it. Wow. I'm VERY flattered! When are you going to continue with that Sherlock/ Phantom story? I was quite in to it.
March Hare - You are indeed pulling a Watson. ( But to get so much praise from my favorite author is praise indeed! Those were some of the best compliments I've ever had! And now I will abuse this right of replying to bother you about another chapter for Mayhem in Manhattan. I am evil, yes. Oh, and I loved your letter to the editor, it was adorable.
And I promise that this is the last slow chapter for a while. Chapter three's gonna start shakin' things up a little bit.. Yo.
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The Case of the Baker Street Irregular
Chapter 2: Bedclothes and Boarding
The next morning Andrew awoke to find himself in his own bedroom, smothered in warm sheets and blankets. There was no trace of the previous day's mud, and his bedclothes were as crisp and clean as if they had just come from the laundry. To his great surprise his entire room was pristine. The few toys he was allowed had been scooped up into his toy chest and his usual mess of half-read books were back in their appropriate places on the shelf.
Andrew had never been allowed to play with toys much. His father had always associated them with weakness, declaring that "The young soldiers of her Majesty's empire must be built to lead, not to play!" The only time Andrew ever remembered having any toys other than tin soldiers and wooden battle ships was when his mother was still alive. He remembered very little about his mother; the little he did know had come from vague and abrupt stories from his Aunt Agatha. From her stories he had been able to create an image of her; the only image he had. His father had, from the even rarer stories Mrs. Bingley told him, taken every photograph and painting of her and thrown them into the fire. The two had never gotten along, but Mrs. Bingley believed that her death had affected the Captain deeply.
The story of his mother's death was one of the only stories Andrew knew well because his father had spoken of it too, but only once. Andrew, being of a curious young age at the time, had asked his father where his mother was.
"I shall tell you, boy, so be sure you are prepared to listen for I shall tell you only once." Andrew, being five at the time and therefore absolutely sure of everything, nodded. "Very well, I shall be brief, for hers was a brief and foolish death," the Captain had said, rolling a cigarette with his strong, thin fingers and looking the miniature Andrew dead in the eye, "Elizabeth was fond of the sea, as am I. We would go out on a rowboat every day on the sea. Those were the better days, Andrew. There is no need to hide from you that we soon fell out of favor with each other. You were too young at the time to notice. Anyway, your mother still loved going out on that damned, decrepit rowboat every day, only she brought friends and relatives with her. Not me," the Captain's eyes slowly left Andrew's and, after a time, reached the glowing fireplace of his study, "That was her downfall, Andrew; her Waterloo. Against my advice - and me being a Sea Captain of the Royal Navy you'd think she would have listened to me - she went out to sea with a cousin of hers on that damned boat on a day when the weather was sure to turn treacherous. Surely enough it did. Both Elizabeth and her cousin were drowned."
Captain Wallace had taken the last puff of his cigarette, then, and thrown it into the fire. Andrew had still been staring at him, tears running down his cheeks. His father had turned away in disgust, "Who taught you to cry at every sad thing you heard, boy? In my opinion the world is bettered by the disappearance of idiots such as your mother who go out on leaky boats in stormy weather."
"Was she pretty?" Andrew had asked.
"What?"
"Was she pretty, father?"
"Call me Captain, boy."
"Captain. was she pretty?" Captain Wallace had peered stonily at his small son for a moment.
"The most gorgeous in the Empire, son," he had replied. Andrew had grinned, "Do you really think I would marry anyone who wasn't?" The grin had faded, but held.
Andrew had never heard the Captain speak of his mother since. His Aunt Agatha's stories, though sporadic, had been more informative. All he had ever really gotten out of her was that his mother had had freckles just like his, and dark hair, just like his.
"Your mother had the patience and kindness of a saint," his Aunt had said, "Nobody else could have tolerated your father for that long."
And that was all the kind of information he could get out of her. Every time he had persisted, she had stopped abruptly and said, "Don't ask foolish questions. Now get me a gin and tonic, Toad."
Due to the number of similar conversations, Andrew had become an expert at mixing various alcoholic beverages over the years.
* *
*
Andrew schlumped out of bed and over to his wardrobe, where he was met with a slight inconvenience.
"Drake!" he called.
His clothes were completely missing. There wasn't even a sock left! And why wasn't Drake answering?
"Drake!" he called again, "Mrs. Bingley?" No reply. Where could they possibly be? They had always come when he'd called them before, however infrequently. Come to think of it, the house did seem oddly still. There was usually someone around.
The sharp reality of his Aunt's death cut him like a cold blade. She'd always had the servant's in her room. The servants had been within calling distance because they had always been talking care of her. Now, he supposed, there was no reason for any of the servants to be on the third floor at all.
Andrew tip-toed down the freezing cold corridor in his nightclothes. Even though the other servants were all downstairs, Mrs. Bingley was his nurse- maid. Her only job was to take care of him, so when on earth was she?
"Mrs. Bingley!" Andrew called again loudly. His echo was his only response. No Mrs. Bingley, no Drake, and no clothes. He silently cursed whoever took his clothes. But honestly, he thought, who on earth would want them? He hopped from foot to freezing foot. The late August air was chilly in the morning and the previous day's rain had made it more so. The gray, gloomy light being cast from the large gothic windows seemed to make the hall colder and sadder than it already was.
"Child, what on earth are you doing out here in your nightclothes?!"
Andrew jumped a foot in the air. Mrs. Bingley was standing behind him with a wicker basket and a huffy disposition. He hadn't heard her come up behind him; he had been looked at a painting of Sir Reginald, who had the biggest wart Andrew had ever seen.
"What are you doing out of your bedroom? You'll catch your death, you will!" clucked Mrs. Bingley, ushering him back into his room, "Go on, back to your room! Quick, quick, quick!"
"But Mrs. Bingley." protested Andrew as the short, plump woman threw a comforter over his shoulders, "I couldn't find you! And all my clothes were gone!"
Andrew looked enquiringly at his nanny who was avoiding his eyes. She pulled Andrew's traveling clothes and coat from the wicker basket. Andrew looked from Mrs. Bingley, to the basket, then back the Mrs. Bingley. Traveling clothes?
Andrew looked at her with the most piercing look that he could muster, "Why have you brought these to me?"
"So you don't freeze, child! Really, Andrew, use your head," Mrs. Bingley said a little too quickly. Andrew continued to glare at her. She had never been very good at hiding things from him; she always buckled under pressure like a house of cards.
"Don't give me that look, child, it gives me a chill right down my spine, it does! Your Auntie used to give me that - that same look."
Mrs. Bingley quickly pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed her misty eyes. Andrew looked uncomfortably at the floor and pulled his clothes out of the basket. He hadn't meant to make her cry. Feel guilty, yes, but not cry.
"I'm sorry, Nanna," he said sheepishly.
He was immediately sorry for his apology when Mrs. Bingley nearly broke several of his ribs in a large-armed hug.
"Oh bless your sweet little soul, child!" she hiccoughed, "Thinkin' it was you that made me cry! Oh you were never anything but gentle, child and I pray to God that school won't change you!"
"What school?!" shouted Andrew into Mrs. Bingley's stomach. A bell rang somewhere in the house. She released him and he inhaled for the first time in several minutes, massaging his ribs.
"That'll be the cab. Get dressed, boy, don't dawdle!" ordered Mrs. Bingley as she bustled out of the room.
School? Cab? Andrew dressed as quickly as he could and ran down the stairs, determined to get to the bottom of whatever was going on. He'd never been to a cab in his life. Every time his father had mentioned Andrew going away to a school, his Aunt Agatha had launched something large and heavy at his head, and often hit her mark. For an old, invalid lady she'd had pretty good aim.
Andrew hurtled down the stairs and raced through the dining room, into the hall, and smack into his father, nearly knocking him over.
"Idiot boy," muttered Captain Wallace, picking his son up and dusting him off, "Well, at least you're on time. We'd only just realized that all your clothes were packed."
"Packed?" asked Andrew, following his father's quick footsteps out the door and over to the carriage.
"Yes," the Captain replied, "We're going on a trip to London."
"And you packed all of my clothes?" asked Andrew in fair disbelief.
"No," he replied, "Mrs. Bingley packed all of your clothes and it was entirely unnecessary. That woman is senile."
Andrew's heart leapt. He was going to London? With his father? His father had never taken him anywhere before, and now they were going to London, of all places! The Captain even seemed to be in a fair mood!
"Why are we going to London?" asked Andrew. There had to be a catch, it was too good to be true. His Aunt had always warned him against things that were too good.
"To see my lawyer," his father answered, not unkindly, "And to see some sites. Have you ever seen Madame Toussaud's Wax Museum, Andrew?"
"Never," answered Andrew, grinning, not caring if it was "too good" anymore. To his unending astonishment, the Captain smiled back.
"Well, then we must make a stop there, and Buckingham Palace of course."
He and Andrew climbed into the cab and started on their way to the train station, Andrew inquiring about London and the Captain relating stories of old times. Andrew was nearly beside himself with joy at the train station. He'd never traveled by train before and had always wanted to. The train ride was even more thrilling than the cab ride down. So much, indeed, that Andrew passed out from sheer exhaustion and excitement on his first train ride to the city.
* *
*
When Andrew woke up he had a startling sense of déjà vu. He was again snuggled in a warm bed in his nightclothes. He pressed his face hard into his pillow.
"Let it be real," he prayed into it, "Please don't let it have been a dream!" He looked up. It wasn't his room! The walls had flowered wallpaper instead of his shady blue, and upholstered furniture and wardrobes resided in the room as well.
The door creaked open and a cranky-looking woman in a funny sort of bonnet poked her head in.
"Your father wants you downstairs in five minutes for breakfast. Look sharp!" she squawked, shutting the door. Andrew leapt out of bed and threw his clothes on.
"This must be a boarding house," he said to himself. He was rather disappointed. His father usually required the best of the best wherever he went, and Andrew seriously doubted that this place was London's finest. He exited his room and appeared in a small hall where other doors exactly like his were facing each other, with indicating brass numbers. The wooden floor was worn, but clean, showing the weariness of centuries of feet. The faded paintings of flower pots and framings of old wood-cuts only enhanced the weight of age that seemed to seep through the peeling wallpaper. Andrew was fascinated by its antiquity, its mystery. Having never been exposed to anything older than Drake, this was actually quite fascinating.
"He's here. You may serve now," said his father, who was already seated at the table. The bonnet-woman who was hovering by the captain's side glared at Andrew as if he was personally responsible for all her troubles, and slumped off to the kitchen.
"Where are we?" asked Andrew, as he sat down at the table.
"Proctor St. London, England, m'boy," said his father jovially taking his napkin and putting it on his lap.
"Really?" said Andrew excitedly, "What shall we do first today?"
"What would you like to do first?" asked the Captain. Andrew thought his jaw had to be hanging 'round about the knee area. Did his father actually ask him what he wanted to do? Someone must have replaced his father with a look alike during the night, for this wasn't the Captain Wallace he remembered.
"The Wax Museum!" said Andrew quickly.
"The Wax Museum it is!" said his father, "We shall be visiting my lawyer Mr. Applegate first, but then we'll have the afternoon to ourselves. Oh, and you should keep an eye out for Mme. Griswold. She keeps a clean house, of course, but I believe she bites."
Andrew was so happy he could have been bitten by the bonnet-woman a thousand times without caring. His father actually wanted to do something with him!
Mme. Griswold chose that moment to waddle back into the dinning room with a steaming bowl of god-knows-what. "It's five pounds a week for dinner, Captain."
"Yes, Madame Griswold," said the captain smoothly, "You have been kind enough to mention that to me every ten minutes since I arrived. I assure you that I will remember. I cannot pay you upfront, as I told you, but I shall when I pay for the room at my departure. Are we quite clear?"
Madame Griswold glared icily at the Captain, "Does he wet the bed?" she asked.
"Who?" asked the Captain, looking around the small dining room.
"The boy," said Mme. Griswold, staring right at Andrew, "Because if he does- "
"I do NOT wet the bed!" exclaimed Andrew angrily. He was ten years old! He hadn't wet the bed in years! Did this woman think he was an infant or something?
"I assure you that Andrew has been properly potty trained for quite some time," said the Captain lazily, "And I'll thank you to leave us in private while we dine, Madame."
"Very good, Captain," said the land lady. As she walked away Andrew thought she looked rather like an overweight bulldog that couldn't quite support its own bulk on its stubby, fat legs. Wet the bed? Him?
After Andrew had fumed into the vapors of his soup for a moment or two, he began to eat. He dropped his spoon and groused silently to himself. Stupid woman! He thought She has to make a decent meal, doesn't she. Can't even make fun of her properly.
"Are you finished, Andrew?" asked the Captain. Andrew stared. His father had finished his meal in a few moments flat.
"A trick you learn in the navy, m'boy," Captain Wallace said, "Eat your meal fast, or someone else will."
Andrew tucked that little bit of information away in the same drawer of his brain that stored all of Mrs. Bingley's advice about washing properly and Drake's advice on betting on horses at the horse tracks. Needless to say, moths had eaten away at most of the information.
A few minutes later, Andrew and Captain Wallace were out on the curb. The Captain stuck his hand out and, to Andrew's amazement, a handsome cab pulled right up to the curb where they were standing. A lean man with some worn, but clean middle class wear, hopped off of the top of the cab.
"Evenin' govner'!" said the chap cheerfully, "Where can Oi take you gents today?"
"144 Camden Road, please," said the Captain, "And be quick about it. If I am late for this meeting I shall hold you personally responsible."
The cabby huffed, "Well if it ain't Jesus Chroist 'imself!" he said, opening the door of his handsome. The Captain climbed right in, but Andrew hesitated, looking at the cabby. It must be nice to be tall he thought, comparing his own stout stature to the lean and extremely tall cabby's. He sighed.
"Wos the matter, eh?" said the cabby to Andrew, not unkindly.
"Nothing," replied Andrew.
"Nuffink, eh?" said the cabby, slapping some dust from his cap, "Well, since it's yer firs' roide on a handsome, 'ows about you sit wif me, eh?"
"Alright!" said Andrew, "How did you know that it was my first time in a handsome?"
"Whot?" said the cabby, looking startled, "Oh! Tha'. well, y'know, 'snot every day you see folks' eyes loight up when they see a cab, now is it? 'Op on up, Andrew."
Andrew climbed up to the carriage seat. He was so high up! It was fantastic! He could see over the sea of stylish hats weaving in and about the streets. The cabby hopped up next to him.
"Your favver says is' awriot. An' if its' a'wrioght wiv 'im, it's a'wrioight wiv me. And the name's Bert, boi the way. Bert Merdock at your service!" he announced as if he were the Prince of Wales, shaking Andrew's hand vigorously.
"Is this a fun job, Bert?" asked Andrew as the handsome cab began to move, "You know, driving a cab?"
"Certainly," said Bert, happily jogging the horses with the reins, "But moi firs' love always 'as been an' always will be chimney sweepin'."
"But they're dirty, aren't they, chimneys?" asked Andrew, most of his attention drawn to the shops and other various activities on the streets of London.
"Coal dust is bad for the lungs but good for the soul," quipped Bert, "An' Oi'll tell you sumfink else. There ain't nuffink loik the rooftops of London at nioght. It's a whole ovvuh world up there, Andrew."
"But nevvah go up there if you ain't acquainted wiv the area. You can go for moiles just on rooftop, but you'd bettah know where you ah when you come down. A lad can get in a moity piece of trouble that way," said Bert, "And some othah advoice for your stay in good ol' London: Always tip the droivah."
Andrew looked over. Bert was holding out his had expectantly with a mischievous sparkle in his eye. Andrew wasn't sure if he was joking or not. He pulled the only coin he had out of his pocket. It was an Indian- head penny that Drake had given him after he had visited a cousin in America. Andrew had no use for it. It couldn't be spent in England, so why not?
"I wos jus' jokin' ya lad!" said Bert quickly, "You don' 'ave to-"
"Just take it," said Andrew, shoving it into his hands, "I don't want it anyway. It's from America, you know."
"Alroight," said Bert, flipping the coin into his pocket, "The next toime Oi see you, Oi'll give it back to ya."
"Andrew, come down," said his father who was standing on the curb. Andrew turned with a start. He hadn't even noticed the cab had stopped.
"Sorry," said Andrew, "I was just-"
"Come, boy. We have much to take care of before the day is out," said the Captain.
"Thank you, Bert. Shall I see you again?" asked Andrew as he stepped off the Cab, helped by his father.
"I dare say we will, Andrew!" said Bert, "Toodaloo, gents!"
Andrew waved goodbye and walked over to his father who was standing under a sign which read,
The Law Offices of Messrs. Applegate and Orange.