The Long-Lost Home

by Maryrose Wood

  As for the ballet itself, she was too distracted by her sewing to follow the story closely, but it involved a great many ballerinas dressed as birds doing complicated dance steps. “It rather puts me in mind of Dr. Westminster and his dancing chickens,” Penelope thought as she snipped a loose thread with her teeth. The Swanburne veterinarian had a real knack for animal training and had once succeeded in teaching chickens to dance (to be fair, the chickens deserved most of the credit). “But these dancers are far more nimble than chickens, and better fliers, too,” she decided. “No wonder their tutus are in constant need of mending.”

  Penelope sewed and stole glances at the stage, and a part of her wished it would never end, but at last the ballet was over. Now all eyes turned to the footlights, as each dancer came forward to take a bow and bask in the applause. This was her chance. Quickly she hid behind a garment rack and slipped on the outfit she had fashioned. Her own plain dress she left behind on the rack, on the off chance there might one day be a ballet about governesses. It was unlikely, perhaps, but surely not impossible!

  One glance in the backstage mirror confirmed that she was unrecognizable. “A great many costumes went into this one costume,” she thought, pleased with both her disguise and the potential math lesson, but there was no time to solve the costume/costumes problem just now. For the finishing touch, she placed the princess’s emerald ring on her finger. She grabbed her carpetbag (which she had bedecked with feathers, to make it more elegant) and slipped through a door that led to the auditorium. The audience roared and clapped, and she made her way in the darkness to the back of the theater. There she blended in perfectly with the wealthy patrons of the ballet. She applauded with vigor and shouted “brava, brava,” just like everyone else.

  The prima ballerina was the last to come out, and received twice the applause of everyone else. Her admirers rushed the stage and handed her one bouquet after another, until her arms could barely hold all the flowers. As she bowed low, first to one side of the audience, then to the other, the great red velvet stage curtain closed majestically behind her.

  There was a rather large hole at the far end of the curtain that had not been there at the evening’s start.

  “Whoops! I had best be on my way.” Penelope tugged at the red velvet cape she now wore and drew it close ’round her shoulders as she made a hasty beeline for the exit. It was a pity about the stage curtain, but really, what choice had she had? The weather was brisk, and she could hardly go traipsing around Saint Petersburg without a wrap. “Anyway, a bit of fabric is fair payment for my work on the tutus,” she thought, “for I did sew on quite a few feathers!”

  IF THERE WAS ONE THING Penelope had learned from Madame Babushkinov, it was this: people are often judged by their clothing in the same way that a book is judged by its cover.

  And if there were two things Penelope had learned from Madame Babushkinov, the other one was this: when powerful-seeming people behave badly and demand to be waited upon and obeyed, very often they will get their way. For it is a rare, brave soul who will stand up to a figure of authority in high dudgeon, a fact that Penelope now hoped to take advantage of.

  To that end, the costume she had fashioned was designed not for warmth or comfort, but solely to impress. The gold satin skirt was wrapped and layered like a flaky golden pastry from a Parisian bakery. (Her inspiration had been the legendary tarte Philippe, a delicious confection, far more delicious than other desserts; in fact, it is the most delicious dessert ever invented.) The bodice was a deep-green silk embroidered with gold thread, and fitted snugly around her waist. Fur cuffs edged each long emerald sleeve, and the cape of thick red velvet fell from her shoulders like, well, a curtain. It cascaded to the ground and swirled elegantly about her feet. A tiara sparkled upon her head, and the emerald ring glittered on her hand. The ring was key. She could claim to be royalty and no one would question it, as long as she wore that ring!

  “Now I shall put my theory to the test,” she thought. Outside the theater, dozens of carriages were lined up at the curb. She chose the most elegant among them and lingered nearby, waiting for its owners to approach. They were a handsome middle-aged couple, very prosperous looking. The lady wore a long fur coat, the gentleman a gleaming silk top hat. He inclined his head toward his companion and spoke excitedly in Russian. The lady laughed in answer.

  “A marvelous performance!” Penelope interjected as they passed by. She spoke in poshly accented English. She did not care if her words were understood; her accent, dress, and jewelry would be doing the talking for her.

  The couple looked at her, uncertain. She fluttered a hand toward them, as if waving to her subjects. At the sight of the emerald ring, their puzzled expressions disappeared and they began fawning on her shamelessly, for surely this was an English princess on holiday!

  “Yes, it was magnificent,” the lady replied in crisp English.

  Her companion bowed low. “My lady, do us the honor to share our carriage. Let us drop you at your hotel. Where are you staying?”

  In a perfect imitation of Lady Constance Ashton, Penelope let out a trilling laugh. “The finest hotel in Saint Petersburg, of course!”

  “The Grand Hotel, of course! There is no other like it in the world!” the man exclaimed. He waved off their coachman so that he might personally help Penelope into the carriage. During the short ride, they pressed many invitations upon her—to parties, to the opera, to the spectacular dacha of a wealthy male friend, a very eligible bachelor!—but Penelope said no, as she was leaving town “quite soon. Family business,” she explained.

  “Back to England, then,” the gentleman declared. Jovially he added, “The work of royalty is never done, eh?” He seemed to be fishing for some clue as to her title, rank, and connections.

  Penelope merely smiled.

  THE GRAND HOTEL SURELY LIVED up to its name. It was the length of a city block and could have easily been mistaken for a palace. Penelope’s dazzled companions insisted on walking her through the lobby. It was good manners, true, but also they wanted to be seen with her. They kept swiveling their eyes this way and that to discover who in Saint Petersburg society might notice them with their new royal friend and start some fantastic rumor as a result.

  When at last they bade her farewell at the reception desk, Penelope did not say thank you. Instead she dismissed them coolly with a nod, as if she had done them a favor by gracing them with her presence, even for a short while.

  After they had gone, she addressed the clerk. Carelessly she laid her hand upon the desk to show off the emerald ring, and she spoke in the most imperious tone she could manage. “I require a room, if you please.”

  “You shall have our finest, my lady!” The clerk was goggle eyed at the jewel. “Under whose name shall I put your account?”

  “I would prefer not to say whose name, so as not to draw attention to myself,” she replied, “but if you must know, I am a close cousin of my nation’s queen. You may put the room charges to her account, but I would prefer you did not gossip about it, sir!”

  “Your nation’s queen?” He looked puzzled. “Do you mean—”

  “Queen Victoria, yes, of course!” she said, nearly yelling. “The Queen of England, though I have no wish to make that publicly known.” She gave him a withering look. “I do hope you are trustworthy, sir! It is so difficult to hire trustworthy employees. My father, the Duke of—well, I would rather not mention what he is the duke of, so as not to draw attention to myself. Let me just say that my father complains about the help most bitterly! His master of hounds is afraid of dogs. His steward cannot recall the multiplication tables. It is a frightful inconvenience.”

  “I think I know your father,” the clerk blurted. “Is he the Duke of Derby?”

  “He very well may be,” she snapped. “Now find me a room at once. I have had an exceedingly long day.” It was a curious feeling, to carry on with absolutely no concern for other people. To say there was no fun in it would be untrue; on the other hand,
she had no wish to make it a habit. “I warn you, sir, I can be a stickler when it comes to my accommodations. I imagine you know the story of the princess and the pea?”

  “No, my lady,” he squeaked in fear.

  “Well, never mind,” she said, realizing her error. Telling a story to better explain her meaning was something a governess would do, and at the moment she was no governess. Great royal ladies did not seek to be understood. They sought to be obeyed.

  “Have fresh flowers brought in, first thing,” she commanded. “I cannot bear to rise from bed without fresh flowers in the room. And chocolates!”

  “Yes, my lady.” This kind of talk seemed not to surprise him at all. “Fresh flowers and chocolates. I hope our royal suite will please you.” He jotted it all on his pad. “How long will you be staying with us?”

  “Regrettably, I cannot stay long,” she said, and she did regret it, for it seemed a shame to spend only one night in such a marvelous place. “I must return to England as soon as possible. Find out what vessels sail tomorrow, and book my passage on the first one to leave.”

  This was the whole point of her plan, of course. She intended to obtain passage to England without having to pay a single kopek, all by impersonating a lady of great wealth and royal relations. That those who were most able to pay their way were the least likely to be asked to was ironic, to be sure. Imagine if she had appeared at the Grand Hotel in her plain brown governess’s dress and demanded a royal suite charged to Queen Victoria’s account! She would have been shown the door at once.

  For now, at least, the hotel clerk was convinced. “As you wish, my lady. One passage to England, first ship out. I shall confer with the harbormaster. Will you require anything else?

  When she opened her mouth to answer, it nearly blossomed into a yawn. The clock that hung on the wall said it was nearly eleven thirty—an alarmingly late bedtime for Miss Penelope Lumley, but just another night at the ballet for a cousin of Queen Victoria!

  “I would like a pot of strong tea,” she replied, “a small box with tissue paper in it, and a trusted messenger, for I have an important errand that must be taken care of right away.” The princess’s ring had performed brilliantly. Now she would have it delivered to the general’s house by midnight, as promised. The Babushkinovs were late risers, and she had already told them she would spend the night at the Saint Petersburg Home for Poor Bright Governesses. By the time they realized their own governess was not coming back, she would be out to sea, on her way home, at last!

  “Tea, certainly. Messenger, right away! All expenses to be charged to the account of Victoria, Queen of England. . . .” The hotel clerk muttered as he wrote it all down. “Including your passage to England?”

  She graced him with a small, royal smile. “Of course. I know my cousin will be grateful for your service.” At this the man blushed and stammered so much, he could barely find the key to the royal suite, but at last he did. The messenger was already waiting. Penelope stole a final glance at the emerald ring before tucking it safely into the box and handing it over, with her instructions.

  “The true value of such objects is their beauty, which can never be gambled away,” she thought, watching the man go. “Still, I wish the captain good luck with his angry general!”

  In that moment, despite all that had happened, she finally did think of the unhappy Babushkinov family with something like forgiveness. Possibly it was because she was too tired to be cross, and would soon be leaving Russia in any case. Or perhaps kindness and forgiveness were so much a part of her nature that they kept popping to the surface, like one of those cheerful yellow bath duckies they have nowadays. They can be held underwater by force, but their true nature is to float, and they will always find a way to do so when given the chance.

  “Yes, I wish them all the best of luck.” She fought back another yawn and was grateful she had any sort of bed to sleep in that night. “May they learn that their family can be as happy or unhappy as they choose to be!”

  THE NINTH CHAPTER

  A messenger is blamed, but fairly.

  AND THAT IS HOW MISS Penelope Lumley, once a Poor Bright Female and later a lowly governess in a grand house, attended the Imperial Russian Ballet from a seat closer than any royal box, and spent a night in the finest suite of the most luxurious hotel in Saint Petersburg. Saint Petersburg, the capital of all of Russia! A city known for its opulence!

  The sleepy pretend princess was escorted to her rooms by a fleet of crisply dressed bellboys and hotel maids. They offered to hang up her clothes, close the drapes, open the windows, turn down the bed, pour champagne, run a hot bath, and so on, but Penelope dismissed them all with a bleary-eyed wave.

  Alone at last in the royal suite! In other circumstances she could have spent hours admiring the fine antiques, the priceless art, and even the jewel-encrusted eggs lined up proudly in a gilded cabinet: a royal chicken coop for some very unusual chickens. So much of the decor was plated in gold, it was as if King Midas himself had been a guest here and carelessly laid his hands on everything within reach.

  At the moment, however, Penelope’s only wish was to wrestle herself out of that absurd outfit and into her own plain flannel nightdress before nodding off. She laid the gown neatly over a stunning Louis XV gilt wood armchair that would nowadays be in a museum. She removed her tiara and placed it on the head of the gold-leafed marble cherub that served as one of the bedposts. “I shall wear my royal costume again in the morning, to board whatever magnificent ship bound for England the clerk has booked passage on,” she thought, giving the cherub a fond pat on the cheek. The stone child’s face looked a bit like Cassiopeia when she was sleeping. “And I must remember to be rude and bossy for the whole voyage. Truly, acting a part is a great deal of work! Perhaps it grows easier with practice. I will have to ask Simon about it—yawn!—when I get home.”

  In this sleepy but optimistic spirit, she climbed into the high, wide bed, slipped between sheets of pure satin, and laid her head on a pillow stuffed with eiderdown. This was no princess-and-the-pea type situation. The mattress was soft as a cloud, and the bed’s exhausted occupant slept so deeply and so well that no dreams dared disturb her.

  But alas, and woe! The fulcrum of fortune has a way of seesawing from one condition to its opposite with no warning, like a sudden squall on an otherwise balmy day. It was all because of the messenger. (Those of you who are familiar with the saying “Don’t blame the messenger” may protest. However, facts are facts, and no one ought to object if just this once the messenger is blamed, for indeed it was his fault.)

  In a nutshell: Not everyone is as honest as our dear Miss Lumley. The messenger’s curiosity about the contents of the little box got the better of him, and he peeked. Once he saw the gem inside, his promise to deliver the box to the general’s house by midnight was forgotten. The messenger had some urgent gambling debts of his own to pay, and he knew of a broker who bought valuable items for cash, no questions asked. This broker would not mind being awoken at midnight if there was some quick and profitable business at hand!

  Straight to the broker the messenger dashed. Midnight came and went. At one o’clock in the morning, a square-jawed private arrived at the barracks, roused Captain Babushkinov, and informed him that the furious general had challenged him to a duel. Pistols at dawn!

  The captain was mightily upset. He was upset that his sleep had been interrupted, and more upset to learn about the theft of the ring, but he was most upset about the duel. To get shot was a bad outcome, and so was shooting a general, so the thing was bound to end badly no matter what. Madame Babushkinov insisted that the police be called. She had an eye for jewelry and was able to describe the stolen ring in perfect detail between bouts of tearful yelling, “That thief of a governess! Thank goodness we still have our good name, which no one can ever take from us!”

  The always-fascinating sound of grown-ups fighting soon woke the Babushkawoos. The twins could not follow what was going on but challenged the amu
sed private to a duel by hurling their nightcaps at his feet. He had made their mother cry: an insult that could not go unanswered!

  Veronika eavesdropped more carefully, for she assumed all the shouting must have to do with her. Once she understood that no, it was because her governess had been exposed as a criminal, it was as if a weight had been lifted from her, and she began to think more clearly than before. Quietly, and unnoticed by the others, she looked everywhere for the precious letter from the ballet. It was gone. She alone put dva and dva together, but she said nothing, for the grown-ups were still arguing about the ring and the duel.

  Yet the discovery that there was no audition, had never been an audition, and would never be an audition was such a jolt to her system that it caused her to have what is known as an epiphany. (The exact nature of her life-changing insight was Veronika’s business alone. Perhaps someday she would write her own book about it, just as that young Tolstoy fellow would write his. For now, it is enough to know that the girl smiled, yawned, and stretched like an ordinary child, not a dancer. Then she went back to bed, where she slept more soundly than she had in many months.)

  As for the ring, the shady characters who dealt in stolen items were well known to the Saint Petersburg police, and officers were dispatched to interview them all. It was now nearly three in the morning, and the particular broker we are concerned with was snoring in bed, but a policeman pounding on the door got him up again. He denied knowing anything about a ring with a green stone, a red stone, a polka-dot stone, or any other type of stone, and made outraged protests about the late hour, the absurd accusation, the mud trampled on his clean floor by the policemen’s dirty boots!

  The officers looked around, opening drawers, emptying closets, and making a dreadful mess. Eventually they left, with a threat to return in the morning and search the whole place twice as thoroughly in the daylight.