The Riddle of Penncroft Farm Read online

  “But why didn’t you give it to one of your boys, Sandra?”

  “Because I remembered you didn’t just give it to George. He had to earn it in that historical treasure hunt of yours.”

  Aunt Cass’s face wrinkled into a smile. “Yes, that was quite a challenge for George, but he finally figured out the hiding place on his own. All it took was the right spirit.”

  “That’s all he’d ever say, the rat; he was so smug about keeping it secret! After that I never could find him when we played hide-and-seek. It must have been a great hiding place.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Aunt Cass said softly.

  “I don’t suppose you’d tell me where it is, would you?” asked my mother hopefully.

  “I’ve never told anybody, Sandra. It has to be discovered, you know. Just like your brother did,” Aunt Cass replied, an unreadable look on her face.

  There was nothing unreadable about Mom’s expression—her disappointment was obvious. “Well, anyway, I’ve brought your toy back where it belongs, Cass,” she said, and went out.

  Aunt Cass flipped the ball into the cup two more times. Itching to try it, I stretched out my hand without thinking.

  My father must have noticed. “Maybe there’s someone else here who might like a chance to ‘earn’ the thing,” he said.

  Aunt Cass’s faded blue eyes studied me intently. “I have only one thing to say to you, George,” she said, then paused. I guess I expected her to say something about my doing a treasure hunt like Uncle George. Instead, she frowned and sternly asked, “Why didn’t you pick more peas?”

  There was a kind of strangled choke of laughter from Dad, but he only asked if Aunt Cass had been upstairs looking out the window. “Lars thought he saw you waving from his bedroom window as we drove in,” he said, sounding amused.

  “Oh, he did, did he?” Aunt Cass raised one eyebrow and gave me a funny look, as if she were trying to guess what size I wore or something. Then she turned back to Dad. “Now Erik, you know I seldom go up these stairs anymore.”

  “That’s what I told him. He must be so sleepy he’s seeing things. C’mon, Lars, I’ll show you the way to bed,” Dad said.

  I was too tired to argue. Silently I followed him up the narrow staircase and down the dark hallway to my room. I went straight to the window. A shade fluttered a little in the breeze, but there was nothing faintly resembling the guy on the Pioneer 10 picture.

  Dad joined me at the window. “You must have seen the curtains blowing behind the shade,” he said. He pulled down the sash. “Can’t leave this open—it’ll probably get pretty cold tonight. After all, it’s almost Halloween. Now, hop into bed as fast as you can, Lars. See you in the morning.”

  “Wait a minute, Dad. Why did Aunt Cass ask me about picking peas? Does she have all her marbles?” I asked.

  “Every one,” Dad chuckled. “She was referring to the last time we were here. She had a bumper crop of peas in her garden and sent you and Peter out there with big buckets to pick some. Peter kept at it, but you came back in a couple of minutes—with only two peas in your bucket. She couldn’t understand why anybody would let little things like heat, bugs, or a very wet diaper get in the way of pea picking.”

  “I’ll pick peas for her now if she likes,” I offered nobly, “just as long as I don’t have to eat any.” There was nothing I hated more than peas.

  “I’m sure she’ll be happy to hear that. Good night, Lars,” Dad said, and went out.

  Quickly I got ready for bed. As I climbed under the canopy, I glanced up, remembering my can o’ pee pun. With a smirk, I started to slide under the covers. But my feet made it only partway down, stranding my knees somewhere in the vicinity of my chin.

  I’d been bamboozled by Aunt Cass.

  2

  Downward Ho the Wagon

  I woke up with jumbled covers and cold toes. For a minute I couldn’t remember where I was, then it all came flooding back: Pennsylvania, Penncroft Farm, Aunt Cass, and the apple-pied bed.

  Pulling the blankets around me, I leaned out from under the canopy to look for the pictures Mom had mentioned, but found only one—a painting of a man about my dad’s age. The picture was almost entirely black and white, from the guy’s short, dark hair and black coat to the snowy ruffles of his shirt. The only color on the canvas was the bright blue of his eyes, which seemed to be gazing solemnly at me. Trailing covers, I crossed to read the metal plate on the painting: George Hargreaves, Painted by Charles Willson Peale, Philadelphia, 1805.

  Suddenly, the unmistakable scent of frying bacon wafted up to my nose. Hurrying into my clothes, I went down the stairs two at a time, then stopped at the kitchen door to look around.

  An enormous stone fireplace, deep and high enough for me and several friends (if I’d had any) to stand up in, covered one wall. A big copper kettle swung from a long black rod, and there were metal objects on the hearth that looked like something from a torture chamber. A wooden bench with a tall back stuck out from each side of the fireplace.

  At the other end of the kitchen, Dad sat at the table, reading the paper. Mom was manning the toaster while Aunt Cass fried eggs and bacon at a modern stove.

  When I heard Mom ask who Aunt Cass was playing tricks on these days, it sounded like my cue, so I cleared my throat loudly from the doorway. Both women jumped, and Aunt Cass repeated that pledge of allegiance business with her hand to her heart.

  They both said good morning, then Mom turned back to her aunt. “Speaking of tricks, Cass, I told Lars that instead of trick-or-treating, we’d have an old-fashioned Halloween party here. Could we cook in the old fireplace? Maybe mull cider in the old copper kettle and pop corn like we used to? Maybe invite some friends?”

  Aunt Cass took a deep breath and straightened up. “Of course, Sandra,” she said briskly. “I’ll call Judge Bank.”

  She slipped the eggs out of the frying pan onto the plates, Mom passed the toast and nudged Dad out of his newspaper, and we all began to eat. From across the table, my great-aunt gazed at me as soberly as the guy in the picture upstairs, but the way her lips twitched wasn’t solemn at all.

  “So, George,” she said, “how did you sleep?”

  “No problem,” I replied, squelching a smile, “once I got used to the short bed. Then it was easy as apple pie.”

  Dad spoke up, something he seldom does before finishing his first cup of coffee. “These antique beds are a little short for me, too, Cass. Guess I’ll have to set up our king-size bed.”

  “If you think these beds are short, you should see the one George Washington slept in at Valley Forge,” Mom put in. “It’s only about five feet long, and he was over six feet tall. I’ve never understood how he did it.”

  “The beds were shorter in those days because people slept propped up on pillows. They believed it prevented tuberculosis,” Aunt Cass explained. “The notion probably started because sitting up eased their breathing when they did get a lung disease.”

  “Even if Washington slept sitting up, I bet he wasn’t very comfy on that short bed at Valley Forge,” Mom retorted. “Gee, Lars, I can hardly wait to show you his headquarters up there!”

  “The main Valley Forge museum is interesting, too,” Aunt Cass said with a sniff. “Although I don’t feel that it tells the whole story. Not everybody around here supported the Revolution, you know. It was really a civil war—the first American civil war.”

  Mom glanced at Dad and nervously crumbled her toast into her saucer. “Um . . . Aunt Cass . . . I’ve been meaning to ask you about that museum idea of yours. You mean a kind of portrait gallery or something, with that pair of Peale paintings upstairs?”

  “Only half a pair, actually,” I said, my mouth full of egg.

  Mom’s eyes opened wider. “Aunt Cass,” she sputtered, “you didn’t sell one of the family portraits, did you?”

  “Simmer down, Sandra. Of course I didn’t sell it—I gave it to the Hargreaveses. They’re descendants of George and his wife and have just as much ri
ght to the portrait as we do.”

  “You mean Will Hargreaves? Is he still around?”

  “Next farm over,” replied Aunt Cass.

  “The one called Blackberry Hill Farm?” asked Dad. “That’s a beautiful old place. Didn’t know any Hargreaveses lived there.”

  “A Hargreaves son married into the family over there around the time of the Civil War. That makes Will a distant cousin.”

  “He and George used to pal around,” Mom chimed in. “Oh, Aunt Cass, remember when the two of them went through that hippie phase? They were so disappointed when you liked their ponytails!”

  Dad stood up. “Well, I’ve got to go. Don’t unpack everything today, honey. We’ve got lots of time to settle in,” he said.

  Aunt Cass nodded. “He’s right, Sandra. The boxes can wait.”

  Mom went over to Dad. “Okay, we won’t go into a frenzy. But I am going to get our bedroom set to rights, so you don’t have to sleep sitting up. And Lars, I don’t expect apple-pie order in your room right away, but at least make the bed.”

  “Right,” I said, sneaking a look at Aunt Cass, who was sneaking an amused look back.

  After Mom and Dad went out, Aunt Cass slapped her hands down on the table. “Now then, how would you like a tour of your new home?” she asked.

  “Okay,” I said, mostly to be polite.

  “Help me clean up and afterward I’ll show you around.”

  I cleared and wiped the table, then swept the plank floor while Aunt Cass did the dishes. Then she picked up a sweater and put it on. “Better wear your jacket,” she said. “Sandra put it in one of the settles last night.”

  “Huh?”

  “The settles—those high-backed benches. The seats open up. That’s where I keep hats and mittens and things.”

  I flipped open one of the wooden benches. My jacket was inside. “It looks like my coat is already settled in,” I punned.

  “You’re a punster—good,” remarked Aunt Cass without a glimmer of a smile. “Always liked puns; never much good at making ’em up. Come on.” She pushed open the door and we went outside.

  As I shut the door behind me, I touched the leather thong hanging underneath the handle. “So that’s a latchstring,” I said, innocently.

  Aunt Cass shook her finger at me, then said, “Now then, George, we’ll go to the orchard first. That used to be the heart of the farm. Of course, the fruit trees are dead now, more’s the pity.”

  We walked up past the barn and the pond that lay beyond it. Aunt Cass pointed out two sycamore trees at the pond’s edge that were planted to mark the location of drinkable water in colonial times.

  “Ah,” I said, pretending more interest than I felt.

  She glanced at me, then moved through a rickety gate in the zigzag rail fence.

  “Don’t try climbing this fence until your dad has a chance to see if it’s safe. I’m afraid I’ve let it go since I have no more animals to keep in. No sheep in the meadow or cows in the corn,” she said. “Here’s the orchard. It doesn’t look like much now, but generations back it was a working orchard with more than a thousand fruit trees—apples and pears and peaches.”

  “Are these Seek-no-further apple trees?” I asked.

  Aunt Cass sighed. “No, those all died and were chopped up for firewood years ago.”

  I climbed one of the sturdier-looking trees and looked around. “Hey, somebody’s riding a horse over there,” I said.

  “That’s probably Pat Hargreaves.”

  “You mean there’s a kid living so close?” I exclaimed. “Named Pat? My best friend in Minneapolis is named Patrick!”

  “Wouldn’t it be nice to become best friends with a Pat here, then?” Aunt Cass said, her face crinkling in an impish smile. “And this Pat’s a particular favorite of mine. Goes to the same school you will, probably in your class. And crazy about horses—practically lives in the saddle. Do you ride?”

  “Only a couple of times at camp. I fell off once when the saddle slid under the horse’s belly.”

  “Maybe you could get Pat to teach you how to ride.” She peered up at me. “I hope the two of you will get along. Pat’s terrific—helps me out around Penncroft Farm. I don’t know what I’d do without—George! What are you doing up there! Be care—!”

  I jumped out of the tree before my great-aunt could finish her sentence. Her affection for Pat Hargreaves made me a little jealous. I half hoped he wouldn’t turn up in my class.

  “I imagine you’ll meet the Hargreaveses at meeting on Sunday,” Aunt Cass said. “They’re Friends, too.”

  “I thought they were relations,” I said, brushing pieces of bark off my jeans.

  “I mean they belong to the Society of Friends. It’s our religion, Lars. We’re pacifists—we don’t believe in war. Some people call us Quakers.”

  “I thought you meant the Hargreaveses were amigos.”

  “As a matter of fact, they’re amigos, too,” she said, smiling. She took my arm, and we started back toward the barn.

  I looked at the distant rider again. “There’s something else I don’t get. If the Hargreaveses are descendants of our ancestors who owned Penncroft Farm, why didn’t they end up with it?”

  Aunt Cass gave me an approving look. “I like honesty in a man,” she said, “and honesty in a woman, for that matter. So I’ll tell you straight. It’s always been a family tradition to leave Penncroft Farm to the member of the next generation who has a little something extra, a sort of feeling about the place—I guess you could call it being a kindred spirit. Your uncle George was the one in your mother’s generation and he . . . well, you know what happened to him.

  “Now, Pat is a kindred spirit, but also an only child who will inherit Blackberry Hill Farm. That’s why, when your mother told me years ago that she wasn’t interested in moving here, I thought to leave Penncroft Farm for a museum. And this is one of the things to be exhibited.”

  She pointed to an old wagon, parked under a kind of lean-to attached to the barn. The barn was built into the side of the hill, and a fairly stiff slope ran down to the driveway below. I wondered how they had gotten the wagon up there.

  “This wagon dates back to the American Revolution,” Aunt Cass said, giving the wheel a little thump with her hand. She gave me another of those measuring looks.

  I didn’t care how old the thing was, but it occurred to me that if I couldn’t ride on top of a horse with style, maybe I could learn to drive one. “Have you got a horse to pull it, Aunt Cass?” I asked eagerly.

  “Afraid not, but we do have some harness, and Pat keeps the wagon in pretty good repair. Maybe now that you’re living here, we can buy a horse to get the old rig moving again. That is, if you’ll learn from Pat how to hitch up and drive it properly.”

  “Pat Hargreaves seems to be an expert on everything,” I said, more or less to myself.

  My muttering didn’t get past Aunt Cass. “No, not quite everything,” she said, patting my hand. “But remember: Pat grew up in the country and you’re a city boy. Things are a bit different out here.”

  “You can say that again.” I climbed up on the wagon and sat down on the seat. Underneath was a lever. I grabbed it and pretended to shift gears. I guess I thought it was too rotten or rusty to do anything. I was wrong. The lever moved easily in my hand and the wagon started to roll.

  “Look out!” I shouted at Aunt Cass, who stepped backward in the nick of time, only to lose her balance and fall to the ground. I looked back to where she lay, too worried about her to think about what was happening to me. Then, as the wagon rolled past the house, I caught a glimpse of Mom at the window. The look on her face scared me. As the wagon lurched down the steep, rutted drive, picking up speed with every passing second, I tried to get up the nerve to jump off, but the sight of the ground rushing by kept my hands riveted to the wagon seat. With rising panic, I fixed my eyes on the pike below and the bone-breaking drop-off I knew was beyond it. In my mind I could see myself flying through the air and hear t
he splintering of wood. Then, suddenly, just before the wagon hurtled across the road to plunge over the edge, somebody reached out and pulled hard on the lever. The wagon groaned to a stop.

  For a moment I sat there, hearing nothing but my own gasps and the faint creak of the Penncroft sign. Then, once I caught my breath, I started to think. Somebody had pulled that lever. That somebody had not been me. I whirled around on the seat to see who was behind me. There were some iron tools, some leather straps, and a rusty old pulley. No one was on the wagon but me.

  I stared down at my own hand; except for the bitten-off fingernails, it didn’t look like the one I’d seen grip the lever. Dazed, I peered around. Had I imagined the whole thing?

  My mother’s voice broke into my confusion. “Lars, are you all right? Answer me! Lars!” She sounded pretty hysterical.

  “I’m fine, Mom,” I shouted back, my voice a bit shaky.

  She came running down. “How did you stop that thing?”

  “I didn’t. There was . . . that is . . . didn’t you see anybody in here with me?” I quavered.

  “Honestly, Lars! This is no time to be fooling around. Where’s Aunt Cass?”

  I suddenly remembered where I’d left Aunt Cass. “Oh, Mom, she fell! Up there!” I jumped down from the seat and sprinted up the hill. Aunt Cass was sitting helplessly in the middle of the gravel driveway, her hands over her face. When I squatted down next to her, I saw that she was shaking all over.

  Mom knelt down. “Are you all right?” she asked anxiously.

  My great-aunt dropped her hands, and we could see how helpless she was—helpless with laughter.

  Seeing that she was all right, I blurted out, “Aunt Cass, did you see anybody on the wagon with me? I saw this hand pull the lever and . . .”

  “Panic can do strange things to your perceptions, honey,” Mom said soothingly as she helped Aunt Cass to her feet. “I saw you go by, Lars. You were the only one in that dreadful wagon.”

  Aunt Cass stared at me, then nodded emphatically. “George, I think you’ve been properly introduced to Penncroft Farm now!”