CHAPTER EIGHTThe Birthday Dinner IS THERE SUCH A THING AS A PERFECT WEEK? A perfect day, maybe, but seven whole days of paradise? The Penderwicks would say yes, that the seven days between their visit to the Arundel attic and Jeffrey's birthday party would be forever locked in their memories as perfect. Skye liked to say later that the week seemed that way only because they had not yet met Mrs. Tifton. Maybe she was right. Certainly, through either good luck (Skye's theory) or magic (Jane's), Mrs. Tifton did stay out of sight all the way up until the birthday party, leaving Arundel and its treasures to the children. During those wondrous days, Jeffrey took the girls over every inch of the estate grounds, showing them the old springhouse buried in the side of a hill, the path behind the cottage that led to a bubbling stream, the hiding place under the Greek pavilion, the lily pond with its dozens of frogs, the ancient trash-burying ground where you could dig up old pots and pans, and, on one especially hot day, the controls that turned on the garden fountains. Everyone, even Rosalind, who should have known better, jumped into the streams of water that leapt into the air before Cagney came running to turn the fountains off again, but since it was Cagney, he just laughed and told them not to do it again. On top of all that, each sister had her private joys. For Batty, it was Hound sleeping with her every night and, almost as special, daily visits with Rosalind to see Cagney's rabbits. Sometimes Cagney was there, but more often he wasn't, and then Rosalind would let Batty open the screen door just far enough to slide in two carrots, then watch from outside as Yaz and Carla nibbled. For Jane, it was soccer practice every day with Skye and Jeffrey, plus the Sabrina Starr book, which was growing ever more exciting. (Sabrina had made several flying visits to Arthur but had not yet figured out how to get him out of his window and into her balloon.) For Skye, the best times were the long, wild romps through the gardens with Jeffrey by day and the calm of her clean, white, tidy bedroom at night. And Rosalind? She cherished Cagney's early-morning visits to water the Fimbriata rosebush and the time he'd take afterward to sit and talk on the porch. By using Anna's First Rule of Conversation with a Boy—Ask lots of questions—Rosalind was learning a lot about Cagney Like how he was saving his money to go to college, because he wanted be a high school history teacher and baseball coach. And when he had accomplished all that, he would buy a house in the country and raise a family with enough kids for a basketball team (a baseball team being too large even for him) and, in his spare time, write books about the Civil War. Every night, Rosalind carefully wrote down everything Cagney had said and sent it in a letter to Anna. And so the days slid by, each better than the one before, and everyone thought that their perfect vacation at Arundel would last forever and ever and ever. Then came the birthday party. “Smile, troops!” said Mr. Penderwick, and pushed the button on his camera. Nothing happened. “The other button, Daddy,” said Rosalind. “Ah, yes.” He peered over his glasses at the camera. This time there was a flash of light. “Take another one, Daddy. Hound wasn't smiling,” said Batty. “He doesn't deserve to smile,” said Skye. A half hour earlier, Hound had thrown up on Skye's—that is, Mrs. Tifton's—silver party shoes. Rosalind had thoroughly cleaned the shoes, but now they squished at each step. “Do my knees show in the picture?” Jane asked. Her knees were scraped from the morning's soccer practice. “I told you before, your skirt is long enough to cover the messy parts,” said Rosalind. “Okay, here we go,” said Mr. Penderwick. Another flash of light went off. “Daddy, no! Batty had her gum side toward the camera,” said Rosalind. Batty had gotten chewing gum stuck in her hair that morning, and though Rosalind had cut it out as neatly as she could, there was now an awkward gap in Batty's curls. “Okay, one last shot. Vincit qui patitur,” said Mr. Penderwick. “Concentrate, everyone,” said Rosalind. “Beautiful,” said Mr. Penderwick as the camera flashed again. “My four princesses.” Rosalind looked anxiously at her sisters. They did look nice. Skye was as sleek and undainty in her black dress as she could possibly be, and Jane was so delighted with her sailor's dress that she kept twirling the full skirt out like a parachute. Batty was, of course, wearing her wings, but Churchie had chosen a bright yellow fabric for her, saying that if the child insisted on being a bug, you might as well let her be a brightly colored bug. And Rosalind hoped that she herself looked all right. Her striped dress fit like a glove, and she had piled her hair on top of her head. She had put on lipstick, too, but then rubbed it off before coming downstairs. Anna believed that lipstick looked silly until at least eighth grade. “Are we ready to go?” she said. “Who has Jeffrey's presents?” “I do,” said Jane, picking up a large shopping bag. “Everyone say the rules again,” said Rosalind. “Please and thank you to everything, keep your napkin on your lap, and don't argue with or make faces at Mrs. Tifton,” said Jane and Batty. “Skye?” said Rosalind. “I know the rules,” said Skye. “Hound wants to come with us,” said Batty, and Hound barked to back her up. “He says he'll escape if we don't take him.” Hound's latest attempts at jail-breaking had been to dig under the fence. He hadn't made it out yet, but Mr. Penderwick was spending a lot of time filling in holes. “Don't worry about Hound,” said Mr. Penderwick. “He and I are going for a long walk in search of Rudbeckia laciniata.” “And you won't miss us for dinner, Daddy?” said Jane. “I'll be fine. Hound and I are having hot dogs. You all enjoy yourselves and say happy birthday to Jeffrey for me.” The girls took the long way to Arundel Hall, as Rosalind didn't trust they could make it through the hedge tunnel without damaging their finery. Once in the gardens, they made a quick detour to hide the shopping bag under the Greek pavilion—they had agreed earlier to give Jeffrey his presents after the party, without Mrs. Tifton around—then walked around the mansion to the kitchen door. They wanted to show Churchie the results of her handiwork. “Churchie, it's us,” said Rosalind, knocking. But it was Cagney who opened the door. “Wow, you girls look great.” “Except for my shoes.” Skye shifted from one foot to the other to demonstrate her squishiness. “It's Hound's fault they're wet.” “Okay. Except for Skye's shoes, you girls look great.” He grinned at Rosalind, who blushed and wished she hadn't. “Cagney, bring them in here,” called Churchie from the kitchen. The girls went into the kitchen, where they found not only Churchie, tossing a big salad, but Harry, leaning against the sink and eating a dinner roll. Today his shirt was yellow. “I came over for the fashion show,” said Harry. “Don't listen to him,” said Churchie. “He and Cagney came to eat. Now let me look at you girls.” They formed a line. Jane curtsied, then twirled her skirt around. “You all look gorgeous, just like flowers in bloom.” “Thanks to you, Churchie,” said Rosalind. “We love our dresses.” “Don't they look gorgeous, Harry?” “Absolutely.” Harry picked up another dinner roll. “Where's Jeffrey?” asked Skye. “In the dining room with Mrs. Tifton and Mr. Dupree,” said Churchie. “The boyfriend,” whispered Jane to Skye. “Yes, the boyfriend. Mrs. Tifton told me to escort you there when you arrived.” “Oh, dear.” Rosalind straightened Jane's sailor collar and smoothed Batty's curls over the gum place. “You'll do fine,” said Cagney He gave Rosalind a thumbs-up sign, which she ignored with all her might, determined not to blush again. “After all, what can she do to us?” said Skye. “Let's go see Jeffrey.” Churchie led the girls through the pantry and down a short hallway and stopped beside a wide doorway. “Here we are. Now get in there and do yourselves proud.” She gave them each a kiss on the cheek, then disappeared back toward the kitchen. Jane peeked around the edge of the doorway and whispered, “They're standing at the other end of a very, very long room.” Rosalind took a firm grip on Batty's hand—she knew poor Batty would rather be anywhere else—and stepped into the entranceway For once, Jane hadn't been exaggerating. The dining room was so long that the people standing together at the other end looked like little dolls. The backs of little dolls, anyway, for all three were facing away from the girls. Rosalind hesitated. It didn't seem right to creep down that long room behind Mrs. Tifton's back. “Let's shout hello,” said Skye. “That would not make a good first impression,” said Rosalind. “Sabrina Starr and her companions were too proud to sneak up on their enemies,” said Jane. “Let's go home,” said Batty. “What are we, men or mice?” Skye stood tall, her shoulders back, to show that she, at least, was no mouse. “You're right,” said Rosalind. “Troops, advance.” They struck out, Rosalind in front with Batty, Skye and Jane behind. One step, two steps, onward they went, and still the people at the other end didn't turn. Eight steps, nine steps, ten steps, down that long, long quiet room. Or it would have been quiet if not for Skye's shoes. It seemed that the closer the girls got to Mrs. Tifton, the louder Skye squished, like a monster jellyfish with feet. Rosalind looked pleadingly at Skye, but Skye shook her head and frowned—she couldn't help it. The three people at the end of the room were looking larger now Mrs. Tifton was in a fancy purple dress, and Dexter and Jeffrey were both wearing suits. Jeffrey also seemed to be weighed down by something slung over his shoulder, something thick and brown that hung all the way to the floor. “What's Jeffrey doing with that log?” said Batty. “I don't think it's a log,” said Rosalind. “It looks like a log,” said Batty. Thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six steps. Then Jeffrey looked over his shoulder. For one brief second, Rosalind saw a look of misery on his face, and then it was gone, and he was smiling. Slowly and carefully, he turned himself and the big brown thing around. Whatever it was, it was heavy, and now it was hidden behind him and even more mysterious. “Mother, the Penderwicks are here,” the girls heard him say. Mrs. Tifton turned to face them. And the sisters immediately wished she would turn away again. Walking down that long room behind her back was nothing to doing it under her gaze. Oh, what a gaze! The girls tried to describe it to their father later. It was like steel, said Rosalind. No, like a hawk, said Skye. You could tell she doesn't like animals, said Batty. She was just like the Queen of Narnia, not Queen Susan or Queen Lucy, but the mean one that turned everything into winter, said Jane. Not that she isn't pretty, added Rosalind. Pretty, humph, said Skye, she looked like her face would crack if she laughed. Altogether, Mrs. Tifton was one of the last people you would want to talk to, let alone eat dinner with, and if it wasn't for Jeffrey, Rosalind would have turned her sisters around and marched them right back out of the room. But they couldn't desert Jeffrey, not like that, not on his birthday. So they kept on walking. Forty-nine steps, fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two, and finally fifty-three. “Halt,” said Rosalind under her breath, and they all did. “Ah,” said Mrs. Tifton, then paused for a moment— which seemed like an hour to everyone else—while she inspected the Penderwicks. “So these are the girls my son spends all his time with. What do you think, Dexter?” She turned to the man standing beside her. Dexter was handsome—the girls agreed on that later—dark-haired, with just a touch of gray at the temples and a distinguished-looking mustache. But unfortunately, he looked like he knew exactly how handsome he was. “Very nice,” he said. Then he smirked. Rosalind had seen smirks before, but never one quite so— smirkish. Again she thought of flight—however cowardly and craven—but then glanced at Jeffrey and saw that the look of misery was back. She gave him a thumbs-up, just like the one Cagney had given her, and was rewarded by a smile. “Now, Jeffrey, introduce us,” said Mrs. Tifton. “This is Rosalind,” said Jeffrey. “She's the oldest.” “Hello, Rosalind,” said Mrs. Tifton. “What a charming dress.” Rosalind froze. What was she supposed to do now? With everything else to worry about, she had forgotten to worry about Mrs. Tifton recognizing her own dresses. “You got it at the Salvation Army. Right, Rosy?” said Skye. “Yes, that's right,” said Rosalind, and while she was grateful to Skye for rescuing her, she thought the Salvation Army was going a little too far. Mrs. Tifton seemed to think so, too. “Oh,” she said, looking even stiffer than before. “These are Skye, Jane, and Batty,” said Jeffrey quickly. “And this is Mr. Dupree.” Mrs. Tifton laid her hand possessively on Dexter's arm. “Now, Jeffrey, why don't you show the Penderwicks your birthday present?” “All right,” said Jeffrey without enthusiasm, and heaved himself around again, dragging his burden back into view. It wasn't a log. It was a large leather golf bag. “Put it down, Jeffrey, and show us the clubs,” said Mrs. Tifton. Jeffrey slid his shoulder out of the bag strap and stepped away from it. It wobbled a moment, about to fall, but Jeffrey caught the shoulder strap just in time. He pulled a club halfway out. “This is a driver. You hit the balls with it.” “I didn't know you liked golf, Jeffrey,” said Skye. “Well…,” said Jeffrey. “It's a beautiful golf bag,” Rosalind offered. “A golf bag fit for kings,” said Jane. “Mr. Dupree is an excellent golfer. He's arranged for Jeffrey to have lessons at the country club,” said Mrs. Tifton. “A country club fit for kings,” said Jane. “Only kings who belong,” Dexter touched his mustache complacently. “It's private, you know.” “A private country club fit—” Jane stopped short when Skye lightly jabbed her in the ribs. Rosalind hoped Mrs. Tifton hadn't seen the jab, but she agreed that it had been necessary. Jane was plainly slipping into her nervously-spouting-nonsense mood. “Now, Jeffrey, why don't you seat your guests?” said Mrs. Tifton. Jeffrey let go of the shoulder strap and turned away. Once again the bag started to wobble, and though Skye attempted a flying save, she was too late. The bag crashed to the ground, narrowly missing Mrs. Tifton's high heels. “Jeffrey, for heaven's sake, be careful!” she said. “Those clubs cost me the moon.” “Sorry, Mother,” he said, struggling to haul the thing back upright. He lugged it across the room and leaned it in the corner. “Well!” said Mrs. Tifton. “Now maybe we can sit down. Dexter, pour me a glass of wine.” The table wasn't as long as the room, but still it was much too long for the number of people eating dinner—the seven place settings of china and lace napkins were all stuck mournfully at one end, leaving the rest of the vast, shiny surface empty. The head of the table was for Mrs. Tifton, and she indicated that Jeffrey would be on her right and Dexter on her left. Jeffrey led Rosalind to the chair next to Dexter's, and Batty, who was still holding Rosalind's hand, went along and sat down beside her. That left Skye and Jane to fight it out for the seat next to Jeffrey, but they solved that by agreeing that Skye could have it for dinner and Jane for dessert. Rosalind wasn't happy to be so close to the smirking Dexter, but she didn't want any of her sisters near him, either. To avoid him, she turned toward Batty, just in time to see a pair of butterfly wings disappearing beneath the table. She grabbed them before they vanished altogether and quietly hauled Batty back up into her chair. “Stay in your seat,” she whispered. “I don't like it up here,” said Batty. “I don't, either. Stay in your seat, anyway.” Rosalind looked across the table at her other sisters. Skye was talking to Jeffrey and tapping a spoon against her crystal water glass—please don't let her break it, Rosalind prayed—and Jane was staring fixedly at the ceiling. What was she looking at? Glancing upward, Rosalind was startled to see that the ceiling was painted all over with men and women in togas, lolling around and eating grapes. “That cost a fortune,” said Dexter. Rosalind jumped. “Excuse me?” “The ceiling. Some French artist had to lie on his back on scaffolding to paint it, just like Michelangelo in the Sistern Chapel. Set Mrs. Tifton's great-grandfather back thousands.” Rosalind had learned in art class about Michelangelo painting a ceiling somewhere, though Sistern Chapel didn't sound quite right. But she knew it was impolite to correct a grown-up, even an obviously unintelligent one, so she decided to ignore both Dexter and the toga wearers above her. Instead, she looked around at the paintings on the walls of the dining room. Most were of people, and from their air of self-satisfaction, Rosalind guessed they were relatives of Mrs. Tifton. Particularly that stern-looking man hanging behind Skye. He was wearing an olive green uniform all covered with medals and looked like he ate nails for breakfast. “Rosalind, that's my dear papa, General Framley,” said Mrs. Tifton. “Now, who do you think looks exactly like him?” “You?” said Rosalind, wishing people would just leave her alone. “Me?” Mrs. Tifton gave out a little tinkle of a laugh. “Of course not. I meant Jeffrey. He's the image of his grandfather.” Skye snorted, and Jane looked doubtfully from the portrait to Jeffrey and back again. Rosalind held her breath, for she knew that either one was capable of blurting out that Mrs. Tifton might want to get her eyes checked. But peace was maintained, for just then Churchie sailed into the room, pushing a silver cart on wheels. “Dinner is served,” she called out gaily. For the next few minutes, Rosalind could relax. There was lots of bustling around and serving of delicious food, and Churchie talked the whole time about how hungry everyone must be and how beautiful everyone looked and how it wasn't every day people turned eleven and how everyone should be careful not to get food on her wings, this last said along with a gentle pinch of Batty's cheek. But then Churchie was gone, and Rosalind started to worry again. She knew that the odds were low of getting through the whole meal without some sort of upset. If only no one would talk, then they might be safe. As if she had read Rosalind's mind and disagreed, Mrs. Tifton started up a conversation. “Girls, I must apologize for the lack of male escorts. We had hoped that Jeffrey's friend Teddy Robinette would be here, too, but he got a bad cold at the last minute.” “Jeffrey's told us all about Teddy,” said Skye. “Haven't you, Jeffrey?” “Mm-mmh,” said Jeffrey, busying himself with his napkin. “A nice boy from a good family,” said Mrs. Tifton. “And now, you must tell me all about yourselves. I like to know everything I can about Jeffrey's friends. Let's start with Skye.” She looked at Jane. “I'm Jane,” said Jane. “Excuse me,” said Mrs. Tifton. “Well, there are a lot of you, aren't there.” “I play soccer,” said Jane, glancing over at Rosalind, who nodded encouragingly “And I write books. I'm writing one right now about—” “How interesting,” interrupted Mrs. Tifton. “And Mr. Dupree here is in the publishing business. Maybe he can give you some pointers.” “Really?” asked Jane. “Sure, kid,” said Dexter. “Bring your book around when you've finished it.” “Wow! I will! Thanks!” said Jane, all aglow. Rosalind's heart sank. She hated it when untrustworthy people made promises they wouldn't keep. “Now, what about you, Rosalind?” said Mrs. Tifton. “I'll bet she wants to be a fashion model,” said Dexter, showing all his teeth. “Fashion model!” said Skye. And that was it for Skye's self-control. Rosalind knew it, and she barely cared anymore. Still, she tried to stop her sister. “It doesn't matter,” she said. “It does matter,” said Skye. “None of us will do anything as idiotic as fashion modeling.” Looking daggers at Skye, Mrs. Tifton tossed off her glass of wine, then poured herself another. “And, pray tell, what will you do?” Skye was undaunted. “I'm going to be a mathematician or maybe an astrophysicist. Jane's going to be a writer, of course, and Rosalind hasn't decided yet, but Daddy says that she's well suited for international diplomacy.” “And I suppose your littlest sister is going to be president of the United States,” said Mrs. Tifton. Everyone looked at Batty, who was trying to hide behind the water pitcher. “She wants to be a veterinarian,” said Jane. “But Daddy thinks she's going to be a Renaissance woman.” “That means someone who's good at a lot of different things,” Skye explained. “Mr. Dupree and I know what it means, Jane,” said Mrs. Tifton. “I'm Skye.” “Blue Skye, blue eyes,” said Jane. “That's how you can remember. You see, the rest of us have brown eyes.” Mrs. Tifton looked at Jane as though Jane had purple eyes with yellow stripes, then said, “Well, Dexter, we may not know much about astrophysics, but at least we know what Jeffrey's going to be when he grows up.” “So do we. A musi—ouch!” said Skye. Jeffrey had kicked her under the table. “Papa and I planned it out long ago, when Jeffrey was still a baby. He'll attend Pencey Military Academy and then West Point, just like Papa did, and he'll be a soldier, just like Papa was. And someday, Jeffrey, too, will be a brave and beloved general.” Mrs. Tifton turned around in her chair and raised her glass to the portrait of General Framley. “Cheers, Papa. We miss you.”