The Long-Lost Home

by Maryrose Wood

  “‘A Swanburne girl may arrive early, or in the nick of time, but she is never late,’” Penelope said.

  “That’s pithy,” the Madame said approvingly. “Well, you’re all here, finally. Now we can talk. Sit down already!”

  There was nothing to sit upon in the shed but upended dough buckets, but they sufficed. Simon leaned forward, all eagerness. “Does that mean there’s a way to undo the curse without committing—” He glanced at the children and dropped his voice. “Rhymes with birder?”

  “Blurred her?’” Alexander offered.

  “Preferred her?” Beowulf suggested.

  “Maybe you misheard her,” Cassiopeia crowed.

  “Bloody murder!” the soothsayer yelled, impatient. “Yes, yes! I’ve got it all figured out, more or less. What do you think I’ve been doing back here?”

  “Baking Gypsy cakes?” Beowulf said, full of hope.

  “Besides that. I’ve been working on the curse.” She too found a bucket to sit upon; luckily Simon turned it over quickly, before she fell in. “A curse is like a contract. Two parties sign on the dotted line. Neither one of them can change it. Unless!”

  “Unless?” They all said it at once.

  Madame Ionesco swung her legs until they kicked the bucket, so to speak. “Unless both parties agree to the change. It falls under Amendments and Modifications, page six hundred forty-two in the Soothsayer’s Almanac of Curses and Spells, Third Edition. I had to do a lot of research, I hope you realize.”

  “Thank you for your hard work,” Penelope said, meaning it.

  “I’m just saying, don’t be surprised at the bill. Anyway, if both parties agree, you draw up a new contract to replace the old. One signs, the other signs, and abracadabra! You’re done.”

  Simon looked skeptical. “Hang on, Madame. In this case, one of the parties involved was Admiral Percival Racine Ashton, who’s long dead, correct?”

  She rolled her eyes. “One of the deadest. You should hear him! What a bore. I wouldn’t want to get stuck next to him at a party.”

  Penelope was thinking hard. “And the other party was the sacred wolf of the island of Ahwoo-Ahwoo. Surely she’s dead by now as well?”

  The fortune-teller shrugged. “Dead, alive. It’s hard to say. Those magic animals are kind of in-between to start with.”

  Simon paced ’round the tiny shed, ducking his head occasionally because of the low ceiling. “So how do we get a long-dead admiral and a hard-to-say-if-she’s-dead magic wolf to tear up an old contract and sign a new one?”

  Madame Ionesco cracked her knuckles as if preparing for a fight. “Dead is the least of our problems. It’s the negotiation I’m worried about. We’ll find out when the full moon comes.”

  “That’s tomorrow.” Simon turned to Penelope. “At least we won’t have Edward Ashton to worry about.”

  “Perhaps,” she said, for she knew how sharply fate can swerve between one day and the next. “We shall find out tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,” the children agreed. It was another line from that Scottish play whose title cannot be spoken. Perhaps someday Madame Ionesco could remove that curse as well. If so, she would surely go down in the history books as a hero to all in the theatrical firmament. However, as both Agatha Swanburne and her great-granddaughter were fond of saying, “First things first.” It was one of their pithiest sayings, and one of the wisest, too.

  ONLY ONE DAY LEFT TILL the first full moon of May! Lady Constance seemed untroubled. She no longer took long walks in the garden. Instead she passed the time in her private parlor with various companions, Mrs. Clarke or Margaret, or of course Mrs. Penworthy, but most often now it was Fredrick who sat by her, pouring tea and rolling skeins of yarn as the mother-to-be knitted in slow motion, by the window. Her constant prattle had given way to a dreamier state. Row by row she knitted a baby’s bib, but she would stop every few stitches and stare into the thin air, as if thinking thoughts too deep to be understood by anyone, most of all herself.

  “Fredrick,” she said during one such interval. “What is that object in the sky?”

  “Do you mean the sun, dear?”

  She answered calmly but firmly. “No, I do not mean the sun. The sun is not an object in the sky, like a kite, or a ball tossed into the air. The sun is a burning source of light and heat, like a candle, only it is very large and very far away. I imagine you are surprised I know that, but I do, for I have been taking books from the library now and then. And reading them!”

  “Is it a bird, then?” Fredrick guessed. “Sparrow, perhaps? Nuthatch? Warbler?”

  “I am not playing a game, Fredrick. Honestly! Come see for yourself.”

  Lord Fredrick got up and parted the curtains. “Well, blast! It looks like a full moon to me. I could swear it’s a day early. But what’s it doing in the garden?”

  She stood up to get a better view. “Why, the moon is in the garden! How odd. It was in the sky a moment ago. It must have . . . landed.”

  Fredrick grew agitated. “Blasted almanac! I checked and double-checked. The full moon’s not till tomorrow, so what’s it doing here now? Yap. Woof.” He tried to make himself yap and bark, but they came out as ordinary words. “All clear. There must be some sort of mix-up.”

  “I should say so. For not only has the moon landed in my garden, it seems to be shrinking quite rapidly. Waning, is that what it’s called? Yes! The moon is waning, right before our very eyes.” She pursed her pretty bow lips. “It looks like a soufflé that has begun to deflate. Oh, now I am desperately craving a soufflé for lunch! I know we just had breakfast, but I am eating for two, after all.”

  “This is most disturbing. I’ll have Old Tim find out what’s what.” Fredrick rang the bellpull as he shouted, “Timothy! Timothy!”

  Penelope, the children, and Simon had arrived back at the house at the same time Lord Fredrick was yanking on the bellpull. The enigmatic coachman nearly knocked them over as he dashed up the stairs. “Coming, sir! Out of my way, cubs! Ahoy, sailor. Pardon me, Penworthy!”

  “That’s Mrs. Penworthy to you, you old rogue! Allow me to introduce my cousin, Alf, a cabin boy on leave . . .” But Old Timothy was already gone. “Wonder where Old Tim’s going in such a rush,” Simon remarked as they made their way to the third floor. “Some sort of horse emergency, perhaps? Anyway, Alf, I’m still trying to figure out the bit about four wolf babies. What did Madame Ionesco mean by that, do you suppose?”

  Penelope brushed the question off. “Why, I expect it is like The Three Musketeers, by Mr. Alexandre Dumas. There are four musketeers in it, despite the title. Poetic license, perhaps?”

  “Hmm. I don’t see the connection. And if I read my cabin boys right,” he added slyly, “you know something you’re not saying.”

  Penelope blushed, for she had no wish to deceive Simon, of all people. She let the children enter the nursery ahead of them so she could speak privately. “You are quite right, of course. I have news that is going to come as a great shock to the children. I want to make sure to tell them in just the right way, at just the right time.” Frankly, she had no idea how the Incorrigibles would react. Would they be glad to have a big sister or disappointed to lose a governess? And what about Mater and Pater Lumley? Doubtless the children would be full of questions about their parents, very few of which Penelope could answer, as she had hardly had the chance to ask any questions herself.

  Meanwhile, Nutsawoo was urgently tap-tap-tapping at the window. The children struggled to open it, but the top latch was stuck.

  “Nutsy, what’s the matter? We don’t see you for weeks, and now you’re all demanding.” Simon strode to the window and got it open again. What he saw made him blurt a few words that were perfectly suitable for a sailor, but not often heard from a baby nurse—at least, not while children were present.

  “What’s the moon doing on the ground?” Alexander asked, quite reasonably.

  “Fall of Rome? Fall of moon!” Cassiopeia loved all the pha
ses of the moon, but the full moon was her favorite.

  “Moon balloon!” Beowulf declared, after a moment’s careful observation. It could have been the start of a poem, but it was also an accurate description of what he saw.

  Penelope ran over to look. “That is no moon,” she said, overjoyed. “It is the Long-Lost Lumleys!”

  THE FOURTEENTH CHAPTER

  Moon plus moon equals two moons!

  WHAT PENELOPE HAD TOLD SIMON in the nursery was true: On the one hand, she was eager to share the strange and happy truth of the Lumley family tree with the Incorrigibles. On the other hand, she waited. She wanted to tell them at just the right time, in just the right way, using just the right words. Yet, as fans of the Scottish poet Mr. Robert Burns well know,

  The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men

  Gang aft agley.

  (To “gang aft agley” means to often go astray, much like Mrs. Penworthy’s wig, which was easily knocked askew.)

  These curious words are from the poem called “To a Mouse,” but the sentiment does not apply solely to rodents, or to wigs, for that matter. What they mean is this: whether one is a man, a mouse, a governess, or an Incorrigible, the great plot twists of life will arrange themselves as they see fit, regardless of how much fretting and planning one does in advance. This is not cause for alarm. Quite the opposite; it is a comforting reminder that worrying serves little purpose. Worse, it takes up valuable time that could be better spent reading novels, taking walks in a shaded park, having friends over for tea and biscuits, and any number of equally pleasant pursuits.

  Out to the garden the five young people ran. The balloon had crashed right in the middle of the daffodils. The wicker basket was large and shaped like a gondola, just as Admiral Faucet had described. The balloon itself had been cleverly camouflaged as a full moon. Now it was almost completely deflated and lay in a heap on the ground. Beneath it were three figures, struggling to get out from beneath the fabric.

  The Incorrigibles had personal experience being covered by bedsheets while pretending to be ghosties, so it was all one big man-in-the-moon costume to them. They knew just what to do, and they ran full tilt to help this troika of newcomers wriggle free.

  “One! Two! Three!” the children yelled, and lifted the crumpled balloon up, up, and away.

  None of the three were strangers to Penelope, of course, although she was surprised to see Miss Charlotte Mortimer among them! The children also knew and loved Miss Mortimer, for they had met her at the Swanburne Academy. She embraced them fiercely. “My dear children! Just who I wanted to see!”

  Pater Lumley stepped forward from the wrecked balloon. Mater Lumley did, too, and took her husband’s hand. They had the strangest expressions on their faces.

  “Alexander. Beowulf. Cassiopeia. We are your parents,” Pater Lumley said. “I am sorry we have been away so long.”

  Luckily, the Incorrigibles were prepared. As they had been taught to do by their governess, they used their very best socially useful phrases. Truly, their manners were beyond reproach.

  “How do you do?” Cassiopeia said grandly, with a curtsy that touched the ground.

  “Greetings, noble parents. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Beowulf tipped an imaginary hat and bowed with flair.

  “We welcome you to Ashton Place, respected ancestors!” Alexander proclaimed, then clicked his heels together three times, in the Russian style. Beowulf did the same, and Cassiopeia performed a ballerina twirl on tiptoes. The children seemed quite pleased with themselves.

  “Well, I’m glad that’s all settled,” Mater Lumley said, and laughed.

  Penelope laughed, too, for it was just what she had said to the children upon first meeting them. “Allow me to introduce Simon Harley-Dickinson,” she said, pushing him forward.

  “And Mrs. Penworthy,” Alexander added, for complete accuracy.

  Simon shook Pater Lumley’s hand and bowed to both ladies. “It’s a true pleasure. Forgive my costume. There’s a long story attached—”

  Miss Mortimer placed a hand on his arm. “And we are eager to hear it, Simon, but it will have to wait until later. We have a more urgent problem. It seems our balloon had a stowaway.”

  “Edward Ashton,” Penelope blurted. It was not a question. She knew her adversary too well.

  Simon wheeled around, searching. “Blast! I was hoping we’d seen the last of that scoundrel.”

  Miss Mortimer looked grim. “Yes. It is because of Edward Ashton we landed so abruptly. He’s gone quite mad, I fear. There is a great deal to tell you. But not here. Not in the open.”

  Penelope glanced over her right shoulder, then her left, but saw nothing but trees, brave yellow daffodils, and the fallen moon balloon. Still, she trusted Miss Mortimer’s judgment. “We had best go to the house, then,” she said, leading the way. “Mrs. Clarke will find us a safe place to talk, and a hot meal, too. I expect she will be happily surprised to see me, and overjoyed to meet you.”

  Pater Lumley turned to the Incorrigibles. “Come along, children. Follow your sister.”

  Confused, the boys looked at Cassiopeia, who was behind them. The little girl shrugged. Then all three heads swiveled to Penelope.

  “Sistawoo!” they howled, full throated. No need for bows and curtsies, handshakes and socially useful phrases now! They pounced on her like a trio of cubs, yapping and laughing till they were breathless with joy. It was all they could do not to lick her face, although, to be frank, she would not have minded one bit.

  (Which only goes to prove—although no further proof is needed—that sometimes “just the right words” are no words at all. No disrespect to Shakespeare, Tolstoy, or Moby-Dick is intended by this, for every poet knows it already. As the proverb tells us, “Speech is silver, silence is golden.” And nothing more need be said about that!)

  ON THE WAY TO THE house they passed Old Timothy, heading toward the garden. His pace was remarkably slow. He stopped often to sniff the flowers, and there were plenty to sniff, since it was the first week of May and nearly everything was in bloom. He ambled, he strolled, he sauntered, and seemed in no rush to get to his destination.

  “Good day, good day,” he remarked. “What a fine day for a group of strangers with no prior knowledge of each other to meet by chance on the garden path, as it were.”

  The Incorrigibles thought he was joking. “But you know who we are!” they cried.

  “Do I, though?” He gave them a stern, cockeyed look. “Most people don’t know the first thing about who they are, never mind the rest of humanity! How am I, a poor old coachman, supposed to keep track of all those names and faces? All I know is that Lord Fredrick called for me all urgent like, and told me the full moon had dropped from the sky and landed in the flower beds. He saw it and Lady Constance saw it, too, or so he claims. I know it can’t be true, and therefore it isn’t true, but I promised I’d have a look nevertheless.”

  “But why can’t it be true?” Beowulf said, giggling. It was fun to provoke the enigmatic old fellow.

  “Because!” he roared. The children jumped back. “Because the full moon isn’t till tomorrow! That’s a simple fact of time and space, and no amount of yapping can change it. Now step aside, all you perfect strangers, and I’ll be on my way as if we’ve never met.”

  “But we have met!” the children crowed.

  The coachman lowered his voice. “If I tell Lord Fredrick that a moon balloon full of visitors fell from the sky, it’d raise questions, wouldn’t it? And questions tend to want answers, don’t they? And the poor man has enough on his mind as it is, with tomorrow being the first full moon of May. A fact you people ought to bear in mind! If you exist! Which I’m prepared to say you don’t. Now good day, and we’ll not speak of this again.”

  “Quite right. Good day to you too, sir!” Miss Mortimer said, deeply amused.

  “Wait. Almost forgot.” He reached inside his coat. “Funny, the random rubbish birds steal for their nests and then drop along the way.
Here, sailor boy; you take it. It’d prop open a window in a pinch.” He handed Penelope the object in question and went on his way, calling over his shoulder, “Can’t have flotsam and jetsam in the flower beds, no sirree!”

  Penelope was speechless. It was her book of melancholy German poems in translation! The children recognized it at once. “We lent it to Master Gogolev when he was writing poems,” Alexander explained. “Then he was gone, and the book was, too.”

  Beowulf sniffed the binding. “It used to smell like Lumawoo. Now it smells like an unhappy person with no friends.”

  “Master Gogolev must have given it to Edward Ashton,” Pater Lumley said to his wife, who had gasped in surprise at the discovery. Now she looked rueful.

  “He should have asked first,” Cassiopeia said crossly.

  “Yes, he should have,” Penelope agreed. She was amazed to have the familiar and much-loved book back in her hands. “But it no longer matters, for the book has found its way home, as we all have.” A torn strip of black fabric—from Edward Ashton’s cloak, perhaps?—was tucked inside as a bookmark. She opened to the marked page, and read aloud.

  “I wander through the meadows green

  Made happy by the verdant scene.”

  “That book is how Edward Ashton found us in Frankenforde. The clue is on the first page,” Mater Lumley added, in answer to Penelope’s questioning look.

  Penelope flipped to the beginning. “‘Published by Degrees,’” she read, “‘at fifty-four North and twelve East, Globus-Strasse.’”

  “Globus-Strasse means Globe Street,” Alexander translated, for he still remembered some German from his earliest years.

  “And ‘published by degrees.’” Simon stroked his chin. “Hang on! Fifty-four degrees north and twelve degrees east. Those are numbers of latitude and longitude. If I had my maps handy—”

  “You would discover that they point to Frankenforde.” Pater Lumley patted the young navigator on the back of his floral-patterned dress. “Good thinking, Simon. It’s the rare baby nurse who could figure that out so quickly!”