The Long-Lost Home

by Maryrose Wood

  Mater Lumley drew her lap blanket ’round her; she was the very picture of coziness and comfort. “Charlotte and I were as close as sisters could be. We still are, though circumstances prevent us from seeing each other as often as we would like. Dreamy Susannah, she used to call me! Even as a child I was fond of poetry. Charlotte was more of a practical type.”

  “She is an excellent headmistress,” Penelope said in all seriousness, but for some reason the remark made her parents laugh.

  “Well, I have no doubt of it!” her mother said. “You already know what became of Charlotte. As for me, I grew up and fell in love with a kind and talented man.” She glanced warmly at her husband. “And here he is. Hans Lumley. Your father.”

  “Hans Lumley,” Penelope repeated softly. She had a sudden impulse. “May I have some paper, and a pencil? I would like to draw our family tree.”

  Pater Lumley chuckled as Mater Lumley answered, “Of course, but that is your second question.”

  Blast! Genies could be tricky, and so could parents, it seemed! At least she had one question left. A large sheet of drawing paper and a sharpened pencil were easily found among her father’s art supplies. Penelope drew a circle with her own name right in the middle, and drew lines and boxes all around. “Hans Lumley is my father,” she said, writing it in. “My mother is Susannah Lumley, who has a half sister, Charlotte Mortimer.” She looked up. “That makes Miss Mortimer my aunt.”

  “Correct.” Mater Lumley got on the floor next to Penelope to help. “My mother, Theodora, is your grandmother. She is still alive, though we see her rarely; she is quite an explorer! Her mother, Agatha Swanburne, was your great-grandmother, and Agatha’s twin brother, Pax Ashton—”

  “Was my great-grand-uncle.” The sudden onslaught of relatives made her head spin. “Edward Ashton is his son. That means Edward Ashton and I . . .”

  “Are some sort of cousins. We shall have to let Cassiopeia and her abacus figure out which kind.” Mater Lumley laid a hand on her arm. “Are you all right, Penny? You look pale. Shall I find some smelling salts?”

  “I am quite well.” Penelope stared at the paper, already covered with marks. After a moment’s hesitation, she wrote Edward Ashton’s name down beneath Pax’s, for they were father and son. Then she drew a faint line between her name and his. Cousin, she wrote.

  The pencil hovered in the air. “And what about the Incorrigible children?” she asked.

  “Is that your third question?”

  “Yes.” For this was the question Penelope had wanted to ask all along.

  Mater Lumley held her gaze a long time before she spoke. “Hans and I are the Lucky Lumleys, indeed. We have been blessed with four children.”

  “Four clever, good-hearted, auburn-haired children,” Pater Lumley added, from his seat near the fire. “And from what Charlotte has told us, you have been a perfectly wonderful big sister, Penelope. We are so very proud of you all.”

  Penelope had long known the answer, in her heart. But hearing her own long-lost parents say it aloud was like a spring thaw at the South Pole. A lump in her heart that she had not even known was there began to melt, and the water flowed, mostly from her eyes.

  Mater Lumley hugged her and spoke in her ear. “It is too much to explain now, but know that we did all we could to protect you. We hid you in plain sight at Swanburne, in the care of family and friends. There you escaped Edward Ashton’s notice for many years—thanks, in part, to the hair poultice! That was Charlotte’s idea. We were not quite so lucky with the younger three. Edward Ashton snatched them away to serve his own terrible schemes, although I believe he will fail in the end. As you see, providence has cared for all four of you very well, so far.”

  “Old Timothy was a great help, too,” Pater Lumley remarked. “The man makes a decent sandwich, if I do say so myself!”

  One would have thought Penelope would have run out of tears by now, but she wept again with joy and grief and wonder, until she had soaked her own pocket handkerchief and several of her parents’, too. “We are all one family,” she said, gazing at the family tree written out before her. “I am an Ashton, and a Swanburne, and a Lumley, and an Incorrigible!” She blew her nose. “But Edward Ashton believes there is a fifth.”

  Mater Lumley’s eyes grew wide. “I beg your pardon?”

  “The wolf’s curse said there were five murdered cubs to be avenged. Edward Ashton believes his efforts have failed because he has only found four of us. He is convinced that you have had another child.”

  “Well, that is unexpected!” Mater Lumley’s voice stayed lighthearted even as her cheeks went pale. “It is bad news that he thinks so, Penelope. We must act quickly. For he will be searching for us, now.”

  A dreadful feeling rose in Penelope then, sharp and cold as a plunge into a frozen sea. It was the iced-over, heartless feeling that enables some people to do terrible things for what they believe are perfectly justifiable reasons.

  But then she thought, “This must be how Edward Ashton feels all the time,” and she took a long, deep breath, and then another, and waited until the feeling passed. Her nose filled with the aroma of good tea and excellent cake and her mother’s lavender-scented perfume, mixed with the pleasant burning-wood smell from the fire that her father was tending even now. It was the smell of family, and now that she had breathed deeply of it, she knew she would never be without it again, no matter what.

  She stood, determined. “I must get back to England, and to the Incorrigibles,” she said. “There is a fortune-teller there, an expert on curses and all things supernatural, who may be able to help us yet—but there is not much time.” She looked from one parent to the other. “I know it is far. But there must be a way.”

  Her parents exchanged a glance. “There is a way,” her father said.

  “Well, what on earth is it?” Penelope blurted, annoyed. Honestly, they were being as enigmatic as Old Timothy!

  “What on earth, indeed!” her father said. Now he was smiling. “The answer is plain as the paintings on the wall.”

  “Paintings?” She looked around at the art-filled apartment. “What do paintings have to do with it?”

  Mater Lumley cocked her head to one side just as Cassiopeia Incorrigible would have done. “My dear Penny,” she said, eyes twinkling, “I hope you are not afraid of heights.”

  THE TWELFTH CHAPTER

  “Made happy by the verdant scene.”

  PARENTS! THEY COULD BE MYSTERIOUS and maddening, or so Penelope was quickly learning. Over her protests bedtime was declared, for she had used up her three questions and that, as the elder Lumleys said, was that.

  Her father fashioned a cozy nest out of blankets, and her mother offered one of her own nightdresses to wear, and an embroidered pillow that read, The difference between a dream and a plan is a to-do list. It was an experience common to most childhoods, though new to Penelope—that of drifting off to sleep as her parents spoke quietly in another room, trying not to be overheard. The comforting, murmuring sound was like the lap of waves against the hull of a watertight ship, and she slept as well as she ever had in her life.

  She awoke to find her cabin boy’s trousers and warm knit sweater on the foot of her bed, neatly folded and smelling of fresh soap and wood smoke. They must have been washed and hung near the fire overnight to dry. She bathed and dressed quickly, for she wanted to look at those paintings in the morning light. Plain as the paintings on the wall? Afraid of heights? Whatever could Pater and Mater Lumley have meant?

  Her parents were already up. The kitchen smelled marvelous, of coffee and shaving soap and lavender water, and a hot breakfast cooked by one’s own mother. Penelope peeked into the pot on the stove—porridge with jam, excellent!—but turned her attention to the walls.

  “Don’t you like porridge?” her mother asked.

  “I do, very much. But first I intend to examine these paintings.” She stood in front of the nearest one with a look of deep concentration on her face.

  Pat
er Lumley chuckled. He had finished his meal and was now at the kitchen counter, making sandwiches. “I’ll offer a hint if you like.”

  “No, thank you.” Penelope’s eyes were fixed on the painting. “I took several art appreciation classes at Swanburne and did rather well, I am proud to say. If there is some hidden meaning to be found, I will find it.”

  She finished looking and moved on to the next painting. Then the next. “They are landscapes,” she said after examining a dozen. “Lovely ones, too. But there is nothing symbolic. No mythological figures, either.”

  “Hmm,” her father said, cutting the sandwiches into perfect triangles. Mater Lumley sipped her coffee with a look of private amusement.

  Penelope folded her arms and squinted, then made a telescope out of her cupped hands, but to no avail. “To see past the obvious, I must look the way the Incorrigibles sniff,” she thought. She concentrated afresh, wholeheartedly, and without distraction, and drew all the powers of her attention together as if weaving many thin strands into a mighty rope, strong enough to hold a ship at anchor.

  “Eureka!” she exclaimed at last. “Although they depict a variety of landscapes, each of these paintings uses the same point of view.” (As the art critics among you know, point of view simply means where the painter has imagined him or herself to be in relation to the picture. For example, a picture of a person in a barrel might be drawn as if one were outside the barrel looking in, or inside the barrel looking out. It is the painter’s artistic license that makes such feats possible, just as poetic license lets poets write convincingly about terrible shipwrecks and storms at sea without getting the least bit wet.)

  “Point of view, eh?” Pater Lumley wrapped the sandwiches in clean napkins, ready for a picnic. “Tell me more.”

  “See? The painter is in the air.” Penelope stepped closer and gestured at the canvas. “One might even call it a bird’s-eye view. The green meadow stretches out below like a carpet, and those little dots of white—is that edelweiss?—are like points of light.” She turned to him. “Did you once live on a very high mountain?”

  “Yes, but there is more to it than that,” he said, with maddening mysteriousness.

  Her mother interjected. “Eat your porridge, Penny. We will be leaving very soon.”

  Penelope was hungry and glad to obey. Her parents made quick preparations together without needing to say a word, as if they had done it many times before. Soon there were two good-sized rucksacks packed full and propped against the wall, each cleverly designed to strap onto a person’s back. Mater Lumley opened Penelope’s feathered carpetbag, placed the sandwiches inside, and fastened it shut.

  Mater Lumley looked at her husband. “We should go as soon as Penny is done with breakfast,” she said quietly. “I have that cold, prickly feeling down the back of my neck. He cannot be far.”

  Pater Lumley nodded. “Time to pull down the curtain,” he said, and disappeared outside.

  Penelope finished swallowing and wiped her lips with a napkin. “What curtain?” she asked. “Where are we going? ‘He cannot be far. . . .’ Do you mean Edward Ashton? I think you must.”

  “Three questions, all at once!” Mater Lumley answered in mock dismay. “Well, all right. The third question you have answered yourself. As for the second: we are going where we are urgently needed, and faster than you can imagine.”

  “England!” Penelope exclaimed. “And the curtain?”

  Mater Lumley moved the rucksacks to the top of the stairs, as if that brought them one step closer to leaving. “Your father and I live in Frankenforde only part of the year. We stay as long as it takes to sell enough books and paintings to tide us over the rest of the time. He has devised a way to make sure no one bothers the shop while we are—elsewhere. It involves a curtain.” She smiled. “Your father has a knack for stagecraft, I think!”

  Naturally Penelope wanted to ask where “elsewhere” might be, and how on earth they were going to get to England so quickly, and whether by any chance her theatrically inclined father had ever heard of a young playwright named Simon Harley-Dickinson, but Pater Lumley had bounded back upstairs, and there was no more time for questions.

  “All done,” he said. He put on an extra-warm coat, as if he expected to be going someplace cold, and strapped on a rucksack.

  Mater Lumley did the same. To Penelope she said, “There is a coat and hat in your carpetbag, and food and water. It’s a bit heavier than it was, but I know you can manage it. This way, Penny—no, not through the shop. We will slip out the back door.”

  Moments later, they were in an alleyway that connected to the back alleys and rear yards of all the shops and houses in Frankenforde. Penelope followed her parents through countless twists and turns. They reached the edge of town without once setting foot on the street or in the square, and without being seen by anyone.

  Beyond the village was the forest. There was no path in sight. Only a silent, shadowy maze of tall trees, blocking out the dim light of dawn.

  Her parents did not hesitate.

  What choice did she have but to follow?

  AND SO, LIKE A CHARACTER in an old fairy tale, Penelope marched bravely into the dark German woods. Unlike most young people in fairy tales, she had both her mother and father to guide her. Even so, her parents each made a shh! gesture when she attempted to speak. The woods were quiet; apparently they needed to stay that way. But her mind was full of questions.

  “To say we are going to England is all very well, but how? It must involve being high up, since Mater Lumley asked if I was afraid of heights,” Penelope mused. “Curious! I wonder if we will scale a mountain, with crampons and a pickax? Or perhaps the trip will involve a magic carpet, or heaven forbid, a flying broomstick! Imagine trying to hold on to one of those at high speed!”

  This train of thought may sound childish, but bear in mind that Penelope had muddled through without her parents for many a year. Now they were here and had taken charge, which left Penelope “off duty,” as they say. Frankly, it was a relief to be able to think like a child for once, and although she did not wholly believe in magic, who knew? Perhaps things worked differently here in Germany, home of the Brothers Grimm and their peculiar tales about frog kings and golden geese, cottages made of candy and people no bigger than a thumb, little girls in bloodred capes and, of course, any number of tricky and dangerous wolves.

  The Lumleys marched until they reached a lake. “If it were winter, we would skate across,” Mater Lumley remarked. Pater Lumley strode to a large rock outcropping not far from the bank. Hidden among the rocks was a small rowboat and a pair of oars, which he proceeded to drag to the lake’s edge. Penelope hopped in with a sailor’s ease.

  It was good to be on the water again. The wind was against them, but Pater Lumley was a strong rower. Within half an hour they reached the opposite shore. This time they hid the boat in a hollow among the roots of an enormous tree. Thick green moss grew over the hollow like a stage curtain; one would never know the tree had such a hiding place within.

  “You have done this many times,” Penelope said to her mother.

  “Countless times, yes. This is my favorite place in the world.” Before them was a meadow, as lush and green as a fairyland. The trees that circled it stood tall and straight, like kindly protectors. There was a special quietness about the place, punctuated now and then by the high trill of birdsong.

  Mater and Pater Lumley walked with purpose into the meadow. Penelope scampered after them.

  “‘I wander through the meadows green,’” Mater Lumley recited softly as she walked.

  “‘Made happy by the verdant scene,’” Penelope interrupted. “‘Wanderlust!’ It is my favorite poem. Did you write it?”

  Pater Lumley took his wife’s hand. “Yes, she did. And all the other poems in that volume, too.”

  Mater Lumley turned to her. “I gave that book to Charlotte for you, Penny. I called them melancholy poems because we were apart, but they are also full of the joy I always f
eel here, in this meadow. It is the place that renews my hope.”

  “And now here I am, standing in the meadow green.” Penelope’s mind whirred. “Wait—you said you left a clue for me. Was it in the book of poems? If so, I never found it.”

  “It was the tides of fate that brought you back to us, then,” Pater Lumley said.

  Mater Lumley frowned. “Where is the book now?”

  “With the Incorrigible children. I gave it to them when I was sent to Plinkst.”

  She looked relieved. “That’s all right, then. You will see them soon enough, and if they have solved it, I’m sure you’ll hear all about it. Next time we are together, we will have a good chuckle over it.”

  “What do you mean, ‘next time we are together’?” Penelope asked, but her parents did not answer.

  “Here we are,” Pater Lumley said, hands on hips. Both her parents turned their faces to the sky.

  There, like a strange, giant flower blooming in the middle of the tender spring grass, was an enormous balloon. It floated serenely at treetop height and was tethered with ropes to a circle of stakes that had been hammered firmly into the earth. Beneath it hung a large basket, woven out of reeds. It was not unlike the basket Margaret used to carry the clean laundry up and down the stairs at Ashton Place, except that it was big enough to hold a passenger or two.

  “Is this yours?” Penelope asked, awestruck.

  Pater Lumley shook his head. “No, but we have a balloon of our own, even larger than this one. It is on its way but is not here yet.”

  “If this is not your balloon, whose is it?”

  “Why, it’s mine, governess! Mine, all mine!”

  A man stood up in the basket. He was a tall fellow with white muttonchop whiskers. He wore a pith helmet that had been painted to match the balloon’s bright patchwork of colors and patterns, with a small, brave flag flying on top.

  “Admiral Faucet!” she gasped. “What are you doing here?”

  “Piloting a balloon, obviously!” he bellowed. Nimbly he climbed down a rope ladder to the ground. “The balloon business is booming, or ballooning, if you don’t mind the pun. It’s both profitable and full of derring-do, which makes it an entirely suitable enterprise for a brave explorer like myself. I remember you, governess! You taught those three wolf children the Ashtons keep as pets. Excellent trackers, as I recall. We all went chasing after that big bird that got loose in the woods. What a marvelous pursuit that was!”