The Long-Lost Home

by Maryrose Wood

  Penelope looked around. “Where is—” She almost said Simon by mistake. “Where is Mrs. Penworthy?”

  Madame Ionesco chuckled. “Oh, that one fainted half an hour ago. The squeaking girl went to get smelling salts—not to worry!” A quick peek ’round the far side of the bed revealed Simon out cold on the floor. He snored manfully and seemed quite comfortable.

  And there, sitting up in bed in a rose-pink bed jacket, was Lady Constance. Her eyes were bright, and her face was flushed with pretty pink circles on each cheek. Her butter-colored hair had been combed into a simple ponytail. She looked rested and radiant and very, very pleased with herself.

  “Poor Mrs. Penworthy!” she said with a merry laugh. “You would have thought she had never seen a baby being born before! I shall tease her about it for months. I was quite brave, though, wasn’t I, Madame Ionesco?”

  Madame squeezed her hand. “You were terrific.”

  “Constance, you devil!” Lord Fredrick had reached the wicker cradle, and he grinned from ear to ear. “Well, this is a surprise! That’s not a Bouncing Baby Ashton at all.” He puffed out his chest. “That’s two babies. Hi-dee-ho! Two! A ready-made family!”

  “I had no idea,” Lady Constance said modestly. “But I was rather large.”

  The babies were alike as two peas in a pod, and nestled against each other just as they had in the womb, snug in the blankets that had been knitted just for them. “One’s a boy and one’s a girl,” Madame Ionesco said, “but don’t ask me which is which.”

  “It’s their birthday!” Beowulf pointed out. At once the Incorrigibles began to sing.

  “For these are jolly good babies,

  For these are jolly good babies,

  For these are jolly good babies,

  And so say all of us!”

  The newborns slept through the singing—as well as the hip-hip, hoorays!—that followed, but the noise did manage to rouse Simon. “Good morning!” he exclaimed, sitting up. “What am I doing on the floor?” Then his head cleared. “Wait a minute. The baby!” Then his head cleared a bit more, and he switched to his Mrs. Penworthy voice. “I meant to say, the baby! Did I miss it?”

  “No. You missed two babies!” Cassiopeia crowed with glee.

  There was a crash of broken crockery in the parlor, as if a tea tray had been upended.

  “Clumsy old Tim! Sounds like we’ll be needing a mop,” Mrs. Clarke said, not at all cross. But the door was flung open, and Edward Ashton burst into the bedchamber brandishing a knife.

  “Hey!” Pater Lumley exclaimed. “Those were my best balloon-tying knots! How did you get loose?”

  “They were superb knots, sir,” Ashton replied. “Impossible to untie. Which is why it was so kind of you to leave a knife within reach.”

  He raised his right arm. In his hand was the bread knife that Pater Lumley had used to make sandwiches. The blade was still streaked yellow with mustard, or perhaps it was the gold threads of the bellpull cord, or both.

  “Where is Old Timothy?” Penelope cried.

  “Out cold.” Ashton nodded at the housekeeper. “Mrs. Clarke, my apologies for breaking a good teapot on the coachman’s exceptionally hard head.”

  “Never mind the teapot, you brute! Poor Tim! At least you didn’t commit—” But then Mrs. Clarke caught herself. “Rhymes with birder,” she finished.

  Edward Ashton’s face twisted. “I have no wish to harm that old man. Despite what you think of me, I am no monster.”

  “You’re no hero, either,” Simon snapped. “Barging in with a knife and scaring the daylights out of us all! You ought to be ashamed.”

  “I do not pretend to be a hero. But I will save my family. It is regrettable I can only save half.” He turned to Mater and Pater Lumley, who did not flinch, even with the tip of the bread knife wobbling in their direction. “You say you have four children. Are you quite sure?”

  “Of course,” Mater Lumley said. Her husband nodded.

  “Five are needed to undo the curse.” His voice grew sharp. “How many are missing, wolf children?”

  “One,” Cassiopeia squeaked, for although she was frightened, she could never resist a math problem. “One is missing.”

  “Not anymore.” There was a terrible look on Edward Ashton’s face. “For now there is a fifth.”

  “And a sixth, too!” Lady Constance must have still been under the influence of the special bread Madame Ionesco had provided, for these terrible goings-on seemed not to trouble her at all. “Not that I’m boasting, mind you! That would be ill-mannered.”

  Ashton’s face registered surprise, for he had not yet looked inside the cradle. “Do you mean they are twins? How unexpected. But it changes nothing. It is only fair—there must be some sacrifice on Pax’s side as well, it seems. So be it! I must . . . be strong! I must . . . do . . . what I have sworn . . . to do!” He swayed on his feet, bread knife high in the air.

  Penelope understood his mind at once. “Monster! They are your own grandchildren! Would you sacrifice them, too?”

  “Of course not, governess.” His dark eyes glittered. “I need only one.”

  “Children—stand back!” Penelope yelled, lunging toward the madman. “He means to harm the babies!”

  WHAT HAPPENED NEXT HAPPENED ALL at once, in the blink of an eye. It was one of those moments when people’s true natures are revealed, for when there is no time to think, one can only act from the heart. (Of course, to write it all at once would turn the page into an inky blotch, which would be as difficult to read as invisible ink. Instead, imagine the following events happening in concert, the way the instruments of an orchestra commence playing together at the swoop of the conductor’s baton.)

  “That’s Cook’s best bread knife! You hand that back right now!” Mrs. Clarke bellowed, reaching for Edward Ashton’s upraised arm.

  “Ahwoooo!” With a howling battle cry, teeth bared and fists raised, the Incorrigibles rushed to the defense of the babies by forming an Incorrigible pyramid in front of the cradle. Cassiopeia stood with one foot each on the shoulders of her brothers.

  “Stop this instant!” Penelope cried, as she flung herself between Edward Ashton and the Incorrigibles.

  “Blast! That’s no way to behave in front of my wife!” Lord Fredrick leaped forward to seize Edward Ashton from behind.

  Simon Harley-Dickinson, still on the floor, sprang to his feet and shouted, “Oh, no you don’t!” He put his head down and charged at Edward Ashton like a furious bull charging at a matador’s red cape.

  Alas, due to his poor eyesight Lord Fredrick missed his target and ended up sprawled on the carpet. Mrs. Clarke got hold of Ashton’s free arm, but madness and fury had roused his last surge of strength, and she was dragged behind him as he lurched toward the cradle. Simon’s head caught him square in the belly, which caused him to double over, groaning. His knife-wielding arm buckled and somehow—it was good luck for Ashton, but bad for Simon!—hooked itself ’round Simon’s neck, with the gleaming knife edge pressed against the young bard’s throat.

  No one dared speak, except for one person.

  It was the person who had been bravest of all that day. Clearly she had bravery left to spare.

  “You leave Mrs. Penworthy alone!” Lady Constance Ashton yelled. Unable to get out of bed, she hurled the very last chocolate on her tray at the attacker.

  The chocolate hit Ashton in one eye, knocking him sideways. That was all the chance Simon needed. He twisted free. With a blind sweep, Ashton slashed the bread knife in Simon’s direction but caught only the horsehair wig, which was now impaled on the blade.

  By this time Miss Mortimer and Mater Lumley had made it to the front ranks. They seized Ashton firmly, one on each side, as Pater Lumley grabbed Ashton’s forearm with both hands. Still the madman’s white-knuckled grip held firm. The wig dangled comically from the knife’s tip.

  “Fools!” Edward Ashton cried. “Fools! Let me go! If the curse is not ended, we are all doomed, don’t you understand? D
oomed! Doomed!”

  Lord Frederick squinted. “Bit dramatic, there, don’t you think? Here, I’ll take that off your hands.” Lord Fredrick reached out for the bread knife, but his father only tightened his grip.

  Miss Mortimer spoke in that stern headmistress tone that no Swanburne girl had ever found the will to disobey. “Edward, release that knife at once.”

  But Edward Ashton was no Swanburne girl. He growled and snarled like a caught animal, and it was all they could do to hold him.

  “I’ll take care of this, Charlotte.” It was Old Timothy, swaggering in the door like a captain on the deck of his own ship. He rubbed the fresh bump at the top of his skull and winced, but he seemed otherwise unharmed. “You can put the knife down now, Eddie,” he said, in the same soothing tone he might use to calm a frightened horse. “There’s a good lad. Now give that to Old Tim, ta-tum, ta-tum, ta-tum,” he murmured as he reached one gnarled hand fearlessly toward the blade.

  It was uncanny to see how Old Timothy’s cooing voice acted upon the villain. Edward Ashton’s face lost its twist of rage and went slack, and his grasp on the knife softened with each ta-tum. It was if the coachman’s words were a time machine that brought the trembling madman back to days long past, before years of murderous intrigue had twisted little Eddie Ashton’s spirit into one fueled only by vengeance and fear.

  Old Timothy never let up his hypnotic murmuring. “Good boy, Eddie, just let it go . . . there’ll be a treat in it for you, just hand the knife over to your old friend Tim . . .”

  Through it all Madame Ionesco stood swaying, eyes closed, humming softly to herself. One would have thought she was hardly paying attention. But the moment the knife dropped into Old Timothy’s hand, her eyes flew open.

  “I’ll take that, Timmy boy,” she said, extending a hand. Old Timothy gave her the bread knife. Mrs. Penworthy’s horsehair wig was still upon it.

  “Go ahead with your singing and soothsaying, folks,” Old Timothy said. “I know when a horse is broke to harness, and this one surely is. I’ll make sure he doesn’t cause any more trouble. Come along now, Eddie. I’ll bring you someplace you can rest.”

  Meek as a lamb following his flock, Edward Ashton took Old Timothy’s arm. No one doubted that the enigmatic coachman had the situation well in hand this time, but Pater Lumley went with them, just in case.

  AFTER THEY WERE GONE, LORD Fredrick rubbed his eyes. “Blast! That fellow looked like Judge Quinzy to me, but you all kept calling him Edward. Now I’ve got the strangest feeling. Is there something I’m missing?”

  Before anyone could explain, a howl unlike any that had so far been heard that day echoed throughout the house.

  “AHWOOOOOOOOOO!”

  Then came an ear-piercing scream, like a thousand unoiled door hinges all swinging at the same time. Whatever Margaret had just seen had frightened her terribly!

  Thump-thump, thump-thump!

  Heavy footfalls trotted menacingly up the stairs. The Incorrigible children sniffed.

  “Mama Woof?” Cassiopeia said. She sounded uncertain.

  Alexander shook his head. “Not exactly,” he said.

  “I smell ghosties,” Beowulf added, with a gulp of fear.

  The door opened.

  This was no ordinary wolf, nor even a highly unusual wolf, but something far more strange and powerful.

  It was Mama Woof on the outside, but it was not Mama Woof on the inside.

  The children could tell this at once. Mater and Pater Lumley could not, but good manners were good manners, after all.

  “My dear Mother Wolf,” Mater Lumley said in a shaking voice, “if I could have written you a thank-you note, I would have. We are so grateful for the excellent care you took of our children—”

  The giant beast threw back its head. “AHWOOOOOOOOOO! I am the sacred wolf of Ahwoo-Ahwoo!” Its voice shook the room, a thunder of rage and grief. “I have come for justice! Blood for blood! A pelt for a pelt!”

  Everyone looked at Madame Ionesco.

  “Sometimes you have to wake the dead. Sometimes they wake up by themselves.” The soothsayer shrugged. “Saves me a lot of work, frankly.”

  The wolf swept its glowing eyes ’round the room and took in each terrified countenance. “Murderer!” This was aimed at Lord Fredrick. “I know you by your face, Ashton! And by your companion. That cabin boy who shadowed your every step.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Lord Fredrick replied, bewildered.

  Simon stage-whispered in his ear. “Freddy, she thinks you’re the long-dead Admiral Ashton who committed the rhymes-with-birder of her cubs, and that Miss Lumley here is Pudge, the cabin boy.”

  “And I thought my eyesight was poor,” Lord Fredrick whispered back. “Ought I play along?”

  “If it were me, I’d give the performance of a lifetime.” Simon looked up. The enormous creature towered over them all.

  “All right.” Lord Fredrick tugged at his collar. “What should I say?”

  Madame Ionesco rolled her eyes. “Apologize, Fred! Do it like you mean it!”

  “Right!” Lord Fredrick cleared his throat. “Well, Sacred Wolf of Ahwoo-Ahwoo—may I call you Wolfy?”

  “No!” the beast roared.

  “All right, I’ll just get to it, then! On behalf of the entire Ashton family, past, present, and future, I’d like to say I’m sorry. Really, awfully sorry about that business with the wolf cubs. It was a dreadful thing to do. We’ve all learned a great deal, and you won’t be seeing any more bad behavior from us. On my word, I am truly sorry.” He broke character. “Blast! I feel even worse about it, now that I’m a father myself.”

  Madame Ionesco nudged him in the ribs. “And . . . go on . . . the curse . . .”

  “Yes, yes, almost forgot!” He gulped. “I sincerely hope you’ll undo this curse you’ve put on us Ashtons. I do appreciate your consideration, what?”

  The wolf growled, long and fierce.

  Madame Ionesco listened hard. “Okay. I think she’s saying maybe that’s a good start. . . .”

  “I can speak for myself!” the wolf roared. “Sorry doesn’t bring back my cubs! Why should I undo the curse?”

  “To make peace, doggie.” Even the soothsayer looked frightened. “Let bygones be bygones.”

  “Put the past behind us, so to speak,” Lord Fredrick added.

  The wolf’s fur bristled all along its back. “No! Nothing can undo the past!”

  Madame Ionesco turned to the others and shrugged. “So sorry, guys. Not gonna happen. It’s been a pleasure. I hope your gruesome ends come quick and easy. I know it’s not what we hoped for, but you win some, you lose some.”

  “Wait! Nothing can change the past, it’s true.” Penelope stepped forward till she was face-to-face with the frightening beast. “The past is over. A sunk cost, if you will. All the pains and losses, the mistakes and misdeeds—none of these can be undone.”

  The wolf’s eyes glowed like torches in the dim room.

  Penelope took a breath and went on. “However, the terms of the curse are clear. They say that only one side of the family can remain, or both will perish. I would argue that only one side does remain.”

  She turned and gestured to the Incorrigibles. “For here we have Alexander, Beowulf, and Cassiopeia, and me, Penelope. We are the four Lumley children, the great-grandchildren of Agatha Swanburne.”

  Miss Mortimer’s gentle smile and her mother’s encouraging look gave her confidence, but so did the words of Agatha Swanburne, and the wisdom gleaned from every story of bravery and pluck she had ever heard or read. She turned toward the cradle. “And here we have the great-grandchildren of Agatha’s twin brother, Pax. It was four generations ago that the family tree split in two. The curse foretold that we would always be at war with each other. That in order to survive, one side would have to throw the other to the wolves, so to speak. Yet here we all are.”

  “Brothers and sisters,” Alexander said.

  “Sisters and brothers,” Beowulf chimed in.<
br />
  “And pets!” No doubt Cassiopeia was thinking of Nutsawoo.

  The wolf pulled back its lips in a snarl, revealing its deadly teeth.

  Mrs. Clarke gasped, but Penelope was no longer the least bit afraid. “Lord Fredrick. Is it true that you told the Incorrigibles that your own children were to be raised alongside them, like siblings?”

  “Yes, I did. Simpler that way, what?” He turned to his wife. “You don’t mind, do you, dear?”

  Lady Constance yawned prettily; what a long day she had had! “I do like simple things, Fredrick,” she replied sweetly. “The simpler the better!”

  “Yes, as Occam’s Razor reminds us.” Penelope stood by the Incorrigibles. “And moments ago, when the lives of Lord and Lady Ashton’s newborn babies were threatened, it was these three brave children who ran to protect them, was it not?”

  “You did also, Penny, dear,” Miss Mortimer interjected. “All four of you hurled yourselves into harm’s way to save those innocent newborns.” She looked at the wolf and spoke imploringly. “The descendants of Agatha Swanburne stood ready to sacrifice themselves for the descendants of Pax Ashton. Surely that makes them one family again.”

  The spirit-wolf’s eyes narrowed to slits. “My cubs were slain for their pelts and perished on the bloodstained sands of Ahwoo-Ahwoo. I demand blood for blood! A pelt for a pelt!”

  There were twin whimpers from the cradle, as the babies briefly roused and then sank back into their newborn dreams. Penelope racked her brains, but she had said everything she could think of to say. Was this what was meant by a hopeless case? When you had done your best, and it was still not good enough?

  Yet even a hopeless case was never without hope; this she believed to her very bones.

  Madame Ionesco frowned. “Blood and a pelt, hmm! You drive a tough bargain, doggie. All right. Bring me that bowl of borscht, would you, big sister?”

  By now the soup was cold, but Penelope knew better than to question the mysterious Madame. Carefully she lifted the tray and carried the bowl of rich red soup to the soothsayer.