The Long-Lost Home

by Maryrose Wood

  It had been a rough ride to board the ship—the barrel had been tipped on its side and rolled across a wooden ramp to the deck, then righted and lined up with all the others. During the ordeal, she had imagined herself as Edith-Anne Pevington from the Giddy-Yap, Rainbow! books she had loved so much as a child. Edith-Anne’s knack for breaking wild ponies to the saddle was demonstrated many times in the series, but there was always a great deal of bucking and kicking to endure. Once or twice the fictional heroine was tossed off, to land with her face in the fictional dirt. It was not exactly like being rolled in a barrel, but it was close enough to keep Penelope from panicking till the banging and tumbling were over.

  Now, somewhat recovered, she considered her options. “It is only a matter of time before I am found out. Better to announce my presence than wait to be discovered,” she decided. “But first we must get far enough from shore that they would not consider turning back. Fishermen are honest, hardworking folk. I expect they will treat me fairly, once they learn I am ‘along for the ride,’ so to speak.”

  And so she waited, for an hour, or perhaps two. It was woefully uncomfortable. Worse, some feathers from her carpetbag had come loose and were floating around the barrel in time to her breath, threatening to make her sneeze. She fought the urge for as long as she could, but as Agatha Swanburne once said (the wise founder had a terrible head cold at the time), “Sooner or later, every sneeze will have its day, ah-choo!”

  “Ah—ah—ah-choo!” Penelope managed to wriggle one hand over her mouth, but it was too late. A moment later the lid of the barrel was pried off, revealing a circle of blue sky that was instantly eclipsed by a man, peering in. His pale complexion and round face would have made him a dead ringer for the man in the moon, if the moon had wispy blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a puzzled expression.

  He blurted some strong words of surprise in his native tongue. Soon a whole constellation of faces appeared, all looking down at Penelope.

  “Good morning,” she said.

  “God morgen!” the moon-faced man replied. The rest laughed.

  Penelope tried to stand, but her legs had fallen asleep. As she flailed, several strong arms reached into the barrel to help. With their aid, she rose like a jack-in-the-box, swaying unsteadily as her eyes adjusted to the light.

  “Good morning!” She spoke more confidently now that she was upright and could breathe properly. “I am on your boat quite by accident, for which I apologize. We shall have to make the best of it.” Before her stood a dozen men with fair, red-cheeked complexions and eyes in a permanent squint. They were dressed in work pants and thick knitted sweaters and caps. A few wore bibbed overalls made of oilcloth. All were blond and tall and broad shouldered as Vikings.

  “I would like to speak with your captain.” She reached up to nudge her bent tiara back in place. It had taken quite a beating in the barrel. “Tell him that a close relative of England’s queen is aboard this . . . this . . .” She glanced at the weatherworn decks, the mended sails and seaweed-encrusted ropes, and of course the stink of fish was everywhere, but she thought it best to be polite. “This fine, seaworthy vessel.”

  The men must have understood at least some of her meaning, for they began talking excitedly among themselves. “Kaptein, ja! Kaptein Strøm!” they agreed. Two lifted her out of the barrel as if she weighed no more than the air, and they gently guided her with their rough hands and tattooed forearms as she took one wobbly landlubber’s step after another, to the captain’s cabin.

  CAPTAIN ROLF STRØM WAS A man of few words who worked fiercely hard for a living. He knew the value of money, which is to say he knew exactly how many tons of herring he and his men had to draw from the sea every week in order to make a profit. The idea of trying to get something for nothing offended him to the core, and he made this very clear.

  “Stowaway!” He pointed at Penelope. Then he ran his finger across his throat.

  Penelope gulped, adjusted her rumpled velvet cloak, and tried once more to convince the captain, through pantomime and whatever words in English or French he seemed to recognize, that she was not a stowaway precisely, but more of an accidental passenger, and that the Queen of England would pay generously for her safe passage home, but Captain Strøm was not born yesterday, as the saying goes. He knew a liar when she was sitting in front of him, wrapped in a filthy piece of stage curtain and balancing a broken costume crown on her head.

  “We no go to England,” he said. “We go where fish go.”

  “A small detour?” she begged.

  “The fish,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “do not catch themselves.”

  His reply had the pithy wisdom of Agatha Swanburne, and who could argue? Luckily for Penelope, back on land Captain Strøm was the doting father to a houseful of tall, strong-limbed daughters, and it was not in his great Nordic heart to toss her overboard. He would provide his accidental passenger with a private bunk, as she was the only female on board, but otherwise she would enjoy the same creature comforts that he and his crew did. Which is to say, none.

  Her bed was a thin blanket spread across a wooden shelf. Her tattered dress was no match for the blustery winds at sea. She was given a spare set of cabin boy’s clothes that were only a little too large for her: a pair of wide-legged cotton duck trousers, and a thick knitted sweater and cap, just as the crew wore. If not for these, she would have been chilled to the bone.

  “The way royal ladies are expected to dress is terribly inconvenient,” she thought, once she had changed into this warmer and far more comfortable uniform. “I wonder how Queen Victoria manages it? I do hope she gets a day off now and then, and can run about playing with the dogs on the lawn in sensible footwear and a warm hat.”

  After a bit of practice walking in trousers, which she rather liked once she got used to it, she ventured on deck. “Alf!” one of the sailors barked. Soon others did the same. “Alf! Alf!” Worried, she glanced at the sky to see if the moon was full—was this ship also under some sort of wolf curse? But it turned out the first mate’s name was Alf. Everyone was afraid of the kaptein, who said little, but all the sailors liked Alf. He was one of the few aboard who had learned a bit of English during his travels, although his favorite word seemed to be “Nope.” He greeted Penelope with a friendly smile.

  “Nope,” he said, by way of greeting. He managed to introduce himself and the others and compliment her on her uniform. “Nice pants,” he said, patting his own, for now Penelope was dressed like the rest of the crew.

  “Alf,” she said, once she realized they could converse, “can you tell me the name of this ship?” The other men had gone back to swabbing out the dories, stacking them neatly one inside the next. There the little rowboats would sit like Russian nesting dolls, until morning came and it was time to fish once more.

  “Nope,” he said, and added, “Eikenøtt.”

  To Penelope’s ear it sounded like “I cannot.” She frowned, for to give an answer of “I cannot” when asked a direct question struck her as rude. “I beg your pardon,” she said firmly, “but if I am going to be sailing among you, surely you can tell me the name of the ship.”

  Alf explained her question to the others, who performed their answer as a charade. They made little squirrel faces, nibbling away with imaginary buck teeth, while holding their paws—that is to say, hands—in front of them.

  “Eikenøtt,” Alf said, gesturing to his men. “What ekorn eat.”

  “Ekorn?” Penelope repeated. “Do you mean squirrels and acorns?” It took a bit more nibbling, whisker stroking, and tail twitching to establish that by ekorn the fishermen meant squirrel, while eikenøtt seemed to be the Norwegian word for acorn.

  “Acorn! That is a curious name for a ship,” she said, but the name pleased her all the same, since it reminded her of home.

  That night she struggled to find a comfortable position in which to sleep. Imagine the luxurious cruise she might have taken if not for that foolish messenger! All those tasty chef-prepared
meals, the well-appointed stateroom, the soft, silk-sheeted bed! Instead, here she was on the good ship Acorn, in a bunk that was as small and hard as a nutshell and not nearly as cozy as a squirrel nest in the treetops would be.

  But then she thought of Nutsawoo, and her heart swelled. Any discomfort would be worth getting back to Ashton Place. As soon as she was able, she vowed to give his tiny, not-too-bright head as many head scratches as he—or she—wanted, and some tasty eikenøtts, too.

  THE TENTH CHAPTER

  Nothing is more sealike than the sea.

  DEAR OLD NUTSAWOO! NO DOUBT you too have wondered about the goings-on in the treetops of Ashton Place, as that dimwitted rodent prepares for the great adventure in store. To raise children is no joke, for one never knows how they will turn out. Some children are raised by wolves and still manage to acquire kind hearts and excellent table manners. Others are given every advantage—doting parents, a splendid dacha in which to spend the summer months, a scholarship to the best schools in Saint Petersburg—and yet grow up to be shady brokers in stolen goods, or hotel messengers of dubious morals. As Miss Charlotte Mortimer once told her favorite pupil, “No one’s fate is written in India ink.” It is up to each of us to decide what sort of person we wish to become.

  Which raises the questions: Was Nutsawoo eagerly looking forward to having a nestful of baby squirrels to raise? Was the expectant rodent determined to be the very best squirrel parent possible? It is pleasant to think so, but frankly it is hard to tell what is in a squirrel’s mind, unless it is autumn, in which case the answer is eikenøtts, eikenøtts, and more eikenøtts.

  As for that other parent-to-be, Lady Constance Ashton, normally she was the sort of person whose thoughts flew out of her mouth willy-nilly whether anyone was listening or not, but on the topic of her own impending motherhood, she had said little. Still, anyone whose life is in the midst of great change needs a trusted friend to confide in. In the days since the hiring of Mrs. Elsinore Penworthy, the two ladies had formed a deep womanly bond. On sunny afternoons they strolled arm in arm through the daffodils, which were already at the peak of cheerful yellow bloom.

  “I wonder why the daffodils blossom first and the tulips come after,” Lady Constance observed on one of their walks. “Is it the same every year? Or do they take turns? If I were a tulip, I think I should tire of always being second.”

  “Perhaps the tulips prefer to come last,” Mrs. Penworthy replied. “In the theater, it’s the star of the show who takes the final bow. And it’s the last bite of cake that’s the sweetest, don’t you think?”

  “Quite so, Mrs. Penworthy! Dessert is the best part of any meal.” When feeling playful, Lady Constance liked to draw out her friend’s name in a singsong voice that started in a high pitch and dropped to a low one, and she did so now. “Mrs. Penworthy! Do you think I will be a good mother?”

  “Of course you will, dear,” the tall, broad-shouldered baby nurse replied. “You’ll take to it like a duck takes to water! Speaking of which, look at this dreadful mud puddle from all that spring rain we’ve had. You musn’t step in that; it’ll ruin your pretty shoes. Let me give you a lift, won’t you, Lady C?”

  “Certainly—whee!” she cried merrily, as Simon effortlessly scooped up her pregnant bulk and carried her over the puddle as if she weighed no more than a feather. “You are so wonderfully strong, Mrs. Penworthy! I expect it’s from so many years of carrying babies around.”

  “Sure, Lady C, that’s the reason why,” the baby nurse said, chuckling. And so their stroll continued.

  That Mrs. Penworthy was really Simon Harley-Dickinson in disguise was known only to the Incorrigible children, Mrs. Clarke (whose closet had supplied much of his—that is to say, her—wardrobe), and Old Timothy, who always seemed to know the truth of what was going on at Ashton Place. Otherwise the sprawling household went about its business and took the newcomer at face value. Lady Constance certainly did. When the weather was too cool or wet to walk outside, they sat in the baby’s room, knitting. Lady Constance had never knitted before. Nor had Simon, but his knowledge of sailor knots was vast, and he quickly realized that knitting was simply rows of knots hitched together on needles. Soon he was an absolute whiz at it. While Lady Constance dutifully knitted a baby hat, one slow stitch at a time, Simon whipped together sweaters, scarves, and mittens for everyone in the household, blankets for the baby’s crib, and baby clothes galore.

  The Incorrigible children were thrilled when they found out, for learn to knit was on the to-doawoo list, and now that Master Gogolev was gone, they had all the free time in the world. (Poor Master Gogolev! As you might imagine, he never recovered from his terrifying encounter with the Ghost of Librarian Past. His nerves were shot. He could no longer drag himself upstairs to the nursery; in fact he could scarcely get out of bed. Finally, and with some pointed encouragement from Mrs. Clarke, who had had quite enough of his ceaseless demands and complaints, he asked Lord Fredrick if he might take a long restorative holiday abroad, at a spa. “All right, but stay away from tar pits—that’s my advice,” Lord Fredrick had said in reply. Gogolev left on the next train. What became of him afterward we may never know. Perhaps someday he was once again able to enjoy a piece of toast without weeping. Perhaps his horror of librarians also faded in time. We can only hope, for after all, few things are more enjoyable than a snack of tea and toast while curled up with a library book.)

  As for the Incorrigibles’ desire to join in the knitting: at first Lady Constance protested, for she still held strong opinions about what a bad influence the wolf children would be on her own child. Mrs. Penworthy did not argue the point, but merely said, “Well, for now that’s not a worry, since your wee little Ashton isn’t born yet. And the children do so want to make presents for the baby. Presents! Isn’t that sweet?”

  “I suppose so,” Lady Constance answered, unsure. The three Ashton wards did seem harmless at the moment, as Alexander and Beowulf helpfully wound tangled skeins into neat balls of yarn, while Cassiopeia used her abacus to calculate how many stitches to cast on for baby-sized booties and bibs. Mrs. Penworthy actually seemed to like the Incorrigibles, and Lady Constance trusted her new friend’s opinion more than anyone’s, except Fredrick’s, of course. Too, Lady Constance was terribly fond of presents, and she imagined her baby would be as well, for who doesn’t like presents?

  In this quiet way, a change in the lady’s thinking took place. Not all at once, with shouted arguments and a big to-do, but in the more usual way people change—bit by bit, starting with a tiny, acorn-sized willingness to try something new, followed by patient repetition, until what once was so uncomfortably foreign and strange no longer feels strange at all. Soon it was commonplace to find the five knitters peacefully gathered in the baby’s room, needles click-clacking away.

  During these days Madame Ionesco kept to herself. Simon said it was partly because she was working baker’s hours—she baked bread all night and slept during the daytime—but mostly to do with her “preparations” for the first full moon in May. “It’s highly mysterious, I know, but she won’t say more than that,” he told the children. They longed to see their spooky friend, but all in good time. For now, there was a fresh basket of superb bread every morning, no Gogolev moping about, and countless baby presents to knit. Best of all, their dear friend Simawoo was close by, in two equally lovable versions if you counted Mrs. Penworthy, which of course they did.

  If only Lumawoo would come back! Then everything would be perfect.

  THE ACORN WAS BUILT FOR fishing, not travel. It went out empty and came back when the hold was full, after weeks or even months at sea. Everyone aboard worked, and the work lasted all day, every day, from the hour when the pink light of dawn crept over the horizon to well past nightfall, when the stars shone softly in the half-lit sky and moonlight danced over the water.

  Penelope expected that she too would be put to work. She did not mind, for she had been raised to be useful. She could mend all those knitted sweate
rs, or patch a torn sail. She could embroider pocket handkerchiefs for the crew, although these down-to-earth fellows might be just as glad to wipe their noses on their sleeves. “I could give lessons in any number of subjects,” she thought, “but not poetry. There are simply too many poems about shipwrecks, which would hardly be suitable, given the circumstances.”

  But when she asked Alf about a job, he only said, “Nope!” It was just as well, for she was so seasick at first she could barely stand. By the third day she had gotten her sea legs, which meant she felt queasy only part of the time. That afternoon she ventured on deck for some air, and Captain Strøm himself approached her. They had not spoken since their first interview, which Penelope chalked up to him being busy and perhaps shy, never mind the fact that she did not speak Norwegian.

  He towered over her, taller even than Captain Babushkinov. The skin across his cheekbones was cracked and reddened from a life spent outdoors, and his eyes were blue as glacier ice.

  “Pay,” he said, and held out his hand.

  There is a brutal honesty at sea. There are things that float and things that sink, and no amount of talk can change one to the other, or persuade a sail to fill when there is no wind. Three days aboard ship had already weakened Penelope’s capacity to lie. She mumbled her threadbare story about being the cousin of England’s queen, but her heart was not in it, and she fell silent.

  Strøm stood before her, implacable as the tides. “Pay,” he said, “or fish.”

  “Fish?” she said weakly, for the idea of baiting a hook made her queasy all over again. “But surely there are other jobs I could do . . . and the Queen of England will cover any expense. . . .”

  “Queen, ha ha!” he said, and strode away. Moments later he returned with a fishing pole, which he placed in her hands like a scepter. “Queen of fish!”