Clementine Rose and the Surprise Visitor 1

by Jacqueline Harvey

  About the Book

  Clementine Rose was delivered not in the usual way, at a hospital, but in the back of a mini-van, in a basket of dinner rolls.

  So begins the story of a lovely little girl who lives in Penberthy Floss in a large ramshackle house with her mother, Lady Clarissa, Digby Pertwhistle the butler and a very sweet teacup pig called Lavender.

  When her scary Aunt Violet arrives unexpectedly, the household is thrown into disarray. What is it that Aunt Violet really wants and what is she carrying in her mysterious black bag?

  From the author of the best-selling Alice-Miranda series.

  For Linsay and Julie, who helped dream her up, and for Ian, as always

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title

  Dedication

  Chapter 01

  Chapter 02

  Chapter 03

  Chapter 04

  Chapter 05

  Chapter 06

  Chapter 07

  Chapter 08

  Chapter 09

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Cast of Characters

  About the Author

  Also By

  Copyright Notice

  More at Random House Australia

  Clementine Rose was delivered not in the usual way, at a hospital, but in the back of a mini-van, in a basket of dinner rolls. There was no sign of any mother or father.

  Pierre Rousseau, the village baker, had made several stops that morning before his last call at the crumbling mansion known as Penberthy House, on the edge of the village of Penberthy Floss. As Pierre’s van skidded to a halt on the gravel drive at the back door, he thought he heard a faint meowing sound.

  ‘Claws, that better not be you back there,’ Pierre grouched. He wondered if he had yet again managed to pick up Mrs Mogg’s cheeky tabby when he stopped to make his delivery at the general store. Claws had a habit of sneaking on board when Pierre wasn’t looking and had often taken the trip around the village with him.

  But Claws did not reply.

  Pierre hopped out of the van and walked around to the side door. A faded sign in swirly writing said ‘Pierre’s Patisserie – cakes and pastries of distinction’. He grabbed the handle and slid open the panel.

  ‘Good morning, Pierre,’ a voice called from behind him.

  ‘Good morning, Monsieur Digby,’ Pierre called back. ‘You must ’ave a full ’ouse this weekend, non?’

  ‘No, Lady Clarissa just likes to be prepared in case there’s a last-minute rush,’ said Digby.

  But there never was a last-minute rush. Digby Pertwhistle had been the butler at Penberthy House for almost fifty years. He had started working for Lord and Lady Appleby as a young man and when they both passed away over twenty years ago their only child, Lady Clarissa, had taken charge. Digby loved Lady Clarissa like a daughter.

  As well as the house, Lady Clarissa had inherited a small sum of money from her parents. But Penberthy House had sixty rooms and a roof that leaked in at least sixty places. Soon the money had all been spent and there were still more repairs to be done. So to help pay the bills, Lady Clarissa had opened the house to guests as a country hotel. Unfortunately, business wasn’t exactly booming. Penberthy Floss was a very pretty village but it was a little out of the way.

  Although Lady Clarissa didn’t always have the best of luck with the house, she had the most incredible good fortune with competitions. It had started years ago when she was just a child. With her mother’s help she had sent off an entry to the newspaper to win a pony. Three days before her ninth birthday, a letter had arrived to say that she was the winner of a shaggy Shetland, which she called Princess Tiggy. Her love of contests had continued and everyone in the village knew of Lady Clarissa’s winning ways. Mrs Mogg would put aside newspapers and magazines and make sure that she marked all of the competitions available.

  Over the years, Lady Clarissa had won lots of different things that helped her keep the house running. There were electrical appliances, a kitchen makeover and even several holidays which she gave to Mr Pertwhistle in return for his hard work. She often gave prizes she didn’t need to her friends in the village too. They frequently protested and said that she should sell her winnings and pay for the upkeep of the house, but Lady Clarissa would have none of it. If Penberthy House was a little chilly from time to time, or they had to keep a good supply of buckets to set around the place whenever it rained, it didn’t matter. Just as long as the people she cared about had everything they needed.

  But that’s all quite beside the point. This morning there was a delivery that would change Lady Clarissa’s life more than any prize could.

  Pierre Rousseau and Digby Pertwhistle were standing beside the delivery van chatting about the weather when Pierre put his forefinger to his lips.

  ‘Shhh, did you ’ear that?’ he whispered.

  ‘What?’ Digby replied. The old man cocked his head and frowned.

  ‘That noise, like a kitten,’ Pierre explained.

  ‘No, I don’t hear anything but I’d better take those rolls and get a move on,’ Digby said as he glanced into the van. They were entertaining three guests that evening. It wasn’t exactly a full house, but more visitors than in the past few weekends. Perhaps things were looking up.

  Digby pulled the basket towards him. He picked it up from the edge of the van and staggered under the weight.

  ‘Good grief, man! What did you put in these rolls? Bricks?’ Digby exclaimed.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Pierre, looking shocked.

  Digby Pertwhistle handed him the basket and Pierre strained under the unexpected weight. ‘Sacrebleu! My rolls are as light as a feather. That rotten Claws, he must be ’iding in the bottom of this basket. My bread will be ruined.’

  Pierre lifted the tea towel that was covering the rolls.

  His mouth fell open. He looked, then gently put the basket back down in the van, rubbed his eyes and looked again.

  Digby Pertwhistle looked too.

  Both men stared at each other and then at the basket. Fresh white dinner rolls surrounded a tiny face with rose-pink lips and bright blue eyes.

  Pierre finally found his voice. ‘That’s not Claws. It’s a baby.’

  ‘It’s a baby, all right,’ Digby agreed. ‘But where did it come from? And more importantly, who does it belong to?’

  Pierre reached into the basket and gently lifted the infant out. It was dressed in a pink jumpsuit and had a fluffy white blanket around it. Pinned to the blanket was an envelope addressed to Lady Clarissa Appleby, Penberthy House.

  ‘It’s not my usual delivery,’ Pierre said. ‘But it is meant for Lady Clarissa.’

  ‘How did the baby get into the van?’ Digby Pertwhistle wondered out loud.

  ‘It must have been when I was at Mrs Mogg’s store,’ Pierre replied. ‘But I don’t remember seeing anyone in the village.’

  Cradling the tiny child in his arms, Pierre Rousseau, followed closely by Digby Pertwhistle, made the most important delivery of his life.

  Lady Clarissa was in the kitchen up to her elbows in washing up. A newborn baby was the last thing she expected on that sunny spring day. But Lady Clarissa took the child’s arrival in her stride, just as she did most things.

  The note pinned to the baby’s blanket read:

  Dear Lady Clarissa,

  Her name is Clementine Rose and she is yours. The papers attached to this letter say so. No one can take her from you. Please do not look for me. I came on the wind and now I am gone.

  Love her, as I wish I
could have done.

  E

  Pierre suggested they call the police. ‘It’s not right to find a baby in a basket of dinner rolls,’ he declared.

  Digby added, ‘It’s not right to find a baby without a mother.’

  But from the moment Lady Clarissa locked eyes with Clementine Rose, a bond was struck. Lady Clarissa was in love. Digby Pertwhistle was too. And the paperwork was all in order.

  The old man bustled about the house finding this and that. He remembered that Lady Clarissa’s baby things had been stored years ago in the attic and, without a word of prompting, he set off to find what he could.

  Pierre disappeared into the village and returned with a box of baby requirements. He bought nappies and formula and even dummies and bibs. He had two young children of his own. His daughter Sophie was just a month old, so he knew a lot about babies.

  ‘Mrs Mogg, she will come and ’elp tonight with your guests,’ he explained.

  Clementine Rose gurgled and cooed, she slept and she ate. But she hardly ever cried. It was as if she knew right from that first moment how much she was loved and adored, even though she was far too young to understand it at all. And over the years she grew up and no one could remember what life had been like before that fateful morning she arrived in the basket of dinner rolls.

  Clementine Rose stared at her reflection in the hall mirror. She wrinkled her nose and furrowed her brow and concentrated as hard as she could. She stared and stared, her blue eyes gazing back at her like pools of wet ink. But no matter how long she thought about it, her ears simply would not wiggle.

  ‘How do you do that, Uncle Digby?’ Clementine turned around and looked at Digby Pertwhistle as his rather large ears flapped like washing.

  ‘Years of practice,’ the old man replied.

  ‘But I practise every time I walk past this mirror,’ she said, ‘and no matter how hard I try, my ears don’t wiggle at all.’

  Digby looked at her and smiled. ‘You’re good at lots of other things, Clemmie.’

  ‘Like getting into trouble,’ Clementine replied. ‘I’m good at that.’

  Digby grinned at her. It was true that the child had a knack for getting into all sorts of scrapes, even when she wasn’t trying.

  ‘Clementine, are you up there?’ her mother called from the bottom of the stairs. ‘I’m going to see Mrs Mogg and collect the mail. Would you like to come?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ Clementine called back. ‘But I’m still in my pyjamas.’

  The telephone rang before Lady Clarissa could reply. She walked over to the hall table and picked up the receiver.

  ‘Good morning, Penberthy House, this is Clarissa,’ she said. ‘Oh, hello Odette, how are you?’

  On hearing that name, Clementine ran halfway down the staircase towards her mother.

  ‘Yes, of course we’d love to have Sophie and Jules. That’s fine. No, no guests on Sunday night. It’s no problem at all. We’ll see you then. Bye,’ Clarissa said and hung up.

  ‘Are Sophie and Jules coming?’ Clementine called. She was bouncing up and down on the spot like Tigger.

  ‘Yes, on Sunday. Pierre and Odette are going to look at a new van and its hours away. They’re going to stay in Downsfordvale for the night.’

  Clementine’s eyes lit up. Sophie was her best friend and Jules was Sophie’s brother, who was two years older.

  ‘I can’t wait!’ Clementine was already thinking about all the things they could do.

  ‘Well, you’d better run along and get dressed quick smart if you want to come with me to the village, Clemmie. We have some guests arriving this afternoon and I need to get back and make a start on dinner,’ her mother instructed.

  Clementine skittered back upstairs to the landing.

  ‘And I’d better get on and dust those bedrooms,’ said Digby. He turned from the mirror he was polishing and grinned at Clementine. ‘We don’t want our guests complaining about grubby rooms.’

  ‘No, that’s true. There are enough other things they can complain about,’ she replied. She was thinking of the previous weekend, when a lady called Mrs Pink ran screaming into the hallway saying there was a snake under her bed. Clementine was in her room on the third floor when she heard the commotion and suddenly remembered that she had been playing in that room the day she lost her giant rubber python. It seemed Mrs Pink had found it and wasn’t at all happy about it.

  Lady Clarissa had to give the woman three cups of tea and a promise of a reduced charge before she’d go back into the room. Clementine was sent to apologise to Mrs Pink, who spent ten minutes telling her off for being so careless with her things, and then the next hour complaining about her sore feet and her bad back and her creaky bones. Clementine had decided right there and then that getting old was not a very sensible thing to do.

  Now Clementine ran off to her bedroom. She had been sick with a cold all week and was looking forward to getting out of the house. And she couldn’t wait for Sophie and Jules to come on Sunday too.

  ‘There you are, Lavender.’ Clementine found her pet lying in the basket on the floor at the end of her bed. ‘We’re going to see Mrs Mogg.’

  Lavender looked up and grunted.

  Clementine thought for a moment about what she would wear and then got dressed as quickly as her fingers would allow. She snapped Lavender’s lead onto her collar and together the two of them hurried downstairs to meet her mother.

  ‘Oh, Clemmie, that looks lovely. A little overdressed for collecting the mail, perhaps, but I think Mrs Mogg will be thrilled to see you in it,’ Lady Clarissa commented.

  Clementine twirled around. ‘Mrs Mogg makes the best dresses in the whole world.’

  Clementine wore a navy smocked tunic and her favourite red patent Mary Jane shoes. Lavender, her tiny teacup pig, wore a sparkling ruby-red collar, which matched Clementine’s shoes perfectly.

  Lady Clarissa tucked Clementine’s blonde hair behind her ear and re-clipped her red bow.

  Lavender squealed.

  ‘And I’m sure that Mrs Mogg will notice how lovely you look in your new collar too, Lavender,’ said Lady Clarissa as she reached down and patted the top of the tiny silver pig’s head.

  No one knew where Clementine got her sense of style but it was there, all right. As a baby she would point at things she liked and wave away anything that she didn’t want to wear.

  Given the poor state of Lady Clarissa’s bank balance, she couldn’t afford to buy much for Clemmie. But dear Mrs Mogg loved to sew and as a result Clementine had a huge wardrobe of clothes to wear for every occasion. The child especially adored dresses and as Mrs Mogg loved to make them for her, it was a match made in heaven.

  Clementine held Lavender’s lead and the three of them took their usual shortcut into the village. They walked through the field at the back of the garden, over the stone bridge across the stream and finally through the churchyard of St Swithun’s, where Father Bob was tending his roses by the fence. His ancient bulldog, Adrian, was fast asleep, snoring, on the steps of the church. In the driveway of the rectory next door, Clementine Rose could see Father Bob’s shiny new hatchback gleaming proudly in the sun. Her mother had won the little car but decided that Father Bob had much more use for it than she did.

  ‘Good morning, Lady Clarissa. Good morning, Clementine,’ he called. ‘And good morning, Lavender,’ he said in a funny deep voice.

  ‘Hello Father Bob,’ the two called back. Lavender squeaked her hello.

  ‘Your roses are looking magnificent,’ Clarissa said.

  ‘Thank you, dear. Just between us,’ he said, and tapped his finger to his nose, ‘I’m hoping for a win at the Highton Mill flower show, God willing. I seem to lose out to Mr Greening from Highton Hall every year and I think it’s about time I took home the cup. That one there,’ he said, pointing at a particularly beautiful crimson rose, ‘is called William Shakespeare and it might just do it for me.’

  Clementine skipped over to the fence and pulled one of the blooms t
owards her.

  ‘Careful, Clemmie,’ her mother called, but it was too late. The stem snapped and the perfect rose fell to the ground.

  ‘Oops!’ Clementine exclaimed. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right, Clementine,’ said Father Bob. He walked over and picked it up. ‘It’s weeks until the show and that flower would have long been finished. Take it with you.’ He handed her the stem.

  ‘I didn’t mean to break it,’ she replied.

  Father Bob waved her away. ‘Of course you didn’t. It’s just a rose, Clementine. Another will grow in its place, my dear.’

  The child smiled, even though she wasn’t entirely sure she was happy. She hoped that Father Bob was telling the truth when he said he didn’t mind.

  Clarissa and Clementine said goodbye and together with Lavender they walked out through the stone gateway at the front of the church and across the road to the store. Mrs Mogg’s old tabby cat, Claws, was sunning himself on the bench seat on the veranda. Clementine reached down to give him a pat and he purred like a diesel engine. Lavender knew better than to come within the cat’s reach, having been scratched on the snout several times before. A bell tinkled as Clarissa opened the shop door.

  Clementine leaned over and nuzzled her neck against Claws’s face. She was rewarded with a sandpapery lick on her ear.

  ‘Yuck, Claws, that’s revolting.’ She wiped her ear, then tied Lavender’s lead to the opposite end of the bench. She patted the pig’s head and followed her mother into the store. Clementine loved its smells: cold ham, hot pies, musk lollies and most of all Mrs Mogg, who smelt like rose petals and powder.

  ‘Good morning,’ chirped Margaret Mogg. She was standing behind the counter carefully placing a batch of fresh scones onto a cake stand. ‘And don’t you look lovely, young lady,’ she said to Clementine.

  ‘It’s my favourite,’ Clementine replied.

  ‘Well, let me have a proper look at you then.’ Mrs Mogg twirled her finger and Clemmie spun around. ‘Gorgeous. But I’ve got another on the go.’ She winked as she reached under the counter and pulled out some pink polka dot material. ‘What do you think about this, then?’