Freddy, you know how stubbornly I believed your father was still alive and would someday return. But I have come to see that my belief was nothing more than a wish. It is Ward, so like and yet so unlike your father, who has cured me of my false hopes. Perhaps that is why I feel so attached to him.
My dear son, you have always had a good heart, and I imagine that fatherhood comes quite naturally to you. I look forward to meeting my grandchildren as soon as the croquet tournament season is over. Ward sends his regrets, for he is not inclined to take a trip to England; he says he has traveled quite enough in his life and is utterly fatigued by it. The only place he might someday return to is the Alps. He longs to hike there in the summer months, he says, when the edelweiss is in bloom, for he sometimes has a strange feeling he left something there, something important, and that if he could only find it, he would be quite himself again. Did I mention he was enigmatic? Sometimes he reminds me of that old coachman of yours.
Your loving mother (now a grandmother, too!),
Mrs. Hortense Ashton
Mrs. Clarke came upon the letter while straightening Lord Fredrick’s desk. To read it without permission could be considered a kind of eavesdropping, but it was there in full view, and she was only human, after all. Wisely, she decided to keep its contents to herself. “After all, a letter from one’s mother is a person’s private business,” she reasoned. “And I’ve no intention of starting any wild rumors, especially ones that might trouble the sleep of poor Miss Lumley! Surely she’s had enough excitement already.”
Still, it was a credit to the British postal service that a letter from so far away could arrive at Ashton Place so quickly, especially given the vast quantities of mail they were suddenly called upon to deliver. For Ashton Place was positively buried in congratulatory notes and baby gifts. Lady Constance delighted in each one, and she personally wrote countless prompt thank-you notes while the babies gurgled in their cradle.
“I am setting a good example for the children,” she explained to Margaret, who could scarcely believe her eyes. “One is never too young to learn good manners! By the by, there is a letter here addressed to Miss Lumley—will you bring it to her? This mark on the envelope has been made to resemble the royal seal. Someone must be playing a joke on our governess, ha ha!”
Margaret did as she was asked, and naturally she too thought the letter was a joke. Penelope knew otherwise. After a few deep calming breaths to quell her shaking hands, she managed to slit open the envelope and unfold the letter within.
My dear Miss Lumley (or shall I call you cousin?),
I am writing with regard to a bill from the Grand Hotel in Saint Petersburg, Russia, which was sent to my particular attention at Buckingham Palace. Am I right in deducing that these charges were incurred by you? A night in the royal suite, flowers, chocolates—I am fond of chocolates myself, so I cannot object—and an entire wagonload of beets! You must have developed a taste for them while traveling abroad. Personally, I prefer a dish of good English peas.
I have been to Saint Petersburg only once, to attend the wedding of an old school friend of my husband’s. The tsar insisted on giving us tickets to the ballet, as he is absurdly proud of it, but to be frank, Albert and I are more the types to enjoy a good cricket match and a beer, followed by an early bedtime. In any case, we were starving; we skipped the ballet and went to dinner instead.
But about your bill: I ought to tell you that my steward was quite cross, as he had no record of approving such an expense. He brought it to my attention during our weekly budget meeting. (Yes, even the Crown must keep to a budget! Castles tend to be drafty; you cannot imagine the amount of firewood we go through.) I recognized your name as the young governess who had written to me in such a heartfelt way a year or so ago, expressing your concerns about the poor. A Swanburne graduate, as I recall?
“I assure you,” I told the steward, “Miss Lumley is not the sort of girl to run up an extravagant hotel bill and send it to her queen unless she had a very, very good reason to do so.” I can only imagine what sort of predicament you must have been in, and I do hope that things have worked out happily for you and yours.
I have instructed my steward to pay the bill in full, and you may put the matter out of your mind. However, if there should come another occasion when you have need of the royal purse, I encourage you to ask permission first. Failing to do so sets a poor example for the little princes and princesses, never mind the members of Parliament.
As ever, your devoted Sovereign,
Victoria, Queen of the Realm
Penelope was surprised to read this, for how on earth did the Grand Hotel learn her real name? But then she remembered how she had signed for the flowers and chocolates by mistake.
This letter was not the only mail she had received. The previous day, a whole sack of mail had been delivered, thanks to the Princess Popkinova! The old woman had had all the mail addressed to Penelope packed up and forwarded from Plinkst to Ashton Place.
What a mountain of correspondence it was! Several months’ worth of daily letters from the Incorrigible children and Simon, and quite a few letters from Miss Charlotte Mortimer and Mrs. Clarke, too. Simon lugged it up to the nursery for her and grunted mightily when he put it down.
Penelope hoped Svetlana had not had the burden of dragging the heavy mailbag back to the post office. “Yet who knows,” she said to Simon, for she had told him all about the Russian girl. “A trip to the post office may have been a window of opportunity for her to escape from Plinkst herself. I wish her well! Though I expect I will never know what becomes of her. It is a strange feeling, to meet people who make such a vivid impression, and then not know how things turn out for them.”
Simon nodded. “Just like going to the theater. Once the curtain comes down, the story’s over. Then everyone gets to imagine their own version of what happens next.” His eyes took on their characteristic gleam. “Think of us, for instance. How do you imagine we’ll all turn out?”
“Us? You mean you and me, and the children, and everyone else here at Ashton Place?” She thought for a moment. “Well, I expect Lady Constance and Lord Fredrick may well turn out to be better parents than anyone could have expected. And I would not be surprised if Fern and Edward grow up to be the best of friends, and are as sweet and clever as two children could be.”
“A bit woofish, too, I’ll wager!” Simon smiled. “And there’s no harm in that, is there?”
“Certainly there is not,” she said. “As for the Incorrigibles . . .” She closed her eyes for a moment, to better imagine it. “Alexander could grow up to be a navigator, and perhaps serve in the Royal Navy. Beowulf is so sensitive and creative. . . .”
“A moody poet, perhaps?”
“I think painting is his true calling. Perhaps someday there will be an entire gallery at the British Museum devoted to his art. And Cassiopeia has a fierce sense of justice, don’t you agree? And the courage to stand up to figures of authority in high dudgeon. I would not be surprised if she sat on the bench someday.”
Simon laughed. “Just so. The Honorable Cassiopeia Incorrigible Lumley. I can picture it, clear as day!”
The thought of little Cassiopeia in a white wig and judge’s robes, dispensing justice with the fair, firm confidence of a true Swanburne girl, made Penelope grin from ear to ear. It was an amusing game, to imagine what might become of each of them!
“All right, what about Madame Ionesco?” Simon asked, leaning back in his chair.
Penelope pretended to gaze into a crystal ball (it was really the nursery globe). “I foresee the spooky Madame will have very good fortune indeed. Her Gypsy cakes will become an international success!”
Simon paused. “And Edward Ashton?”
The question drained the laughter from her. “He will have to sort out his own fate. I will not imagine a future for him, but trust that the scales of justice will weigh in suitably.”
Hmm! Whom had she left out?
“Mrs. Clarke wil
l live on happily and dote on the babies. Margaret and Jasper may well start a family of their own someday. Old Timothy—well, he is quite an enigma! Whatever the future holds for him, I expect there will be a touch of mystery about it.”
Simon held her gaze.
“And what of you? And me?”
Penelope blushed but did not look away.
“The Incorrigible Lumleys—that is to say, my brothers and sister—will still be needing a governess. I expect I shall stay on at Ashton Place in that capacity for some time yet. But in years to come, who knows? I might like to try my hand at writing poetry, or books of stories. Like Giddy-Yap, Rainbow!, perhaps! Or something altogether different.”
He nodded approvingly. “Say, I like those pony books, too! And don’t forget about the bard of Ashton Place, Mr. Simon Harley-Dickinson. What’s his fate, I wonder?”
“Hmmm . . . I shall have to check my crystal globe.” She gave the nursery globe a spin, closed her eyes, and imitated Madame Ionesco once more. “Your pirate play will be a smash hit in the West End. The crystal ball don’t lie, honey. Your show is a hit! Or was. Or will be.”
He bowed to his imaginary audience. “Thank you, thank you!” This prediction was music to Simon’s ears.
Pleased, Penelope kept up the Ionesco act. “You will have a long voyage ahead!” she intoned, waving her hands over the globe.
His face changed. “A long voyage!” he exclaimed. Clearly he was no longer playing. “Wait, are you sure you’re not just pretending to be a soothsayer?”
“Simon, do you mean you are setting sail once more? So soon?” To say her heart sank was an apt metaphor, considering the subject. She swallowed hard and tried to sound brave and cheerful. “Although . . . I suppose, knowing your love of seaborne adventure, I ought not expect you to stay on dry land for long.”
He fidgeted in his chair. “Funny you should mention the sea,” he said. “Penelope, I’ve been thinking.”
“About what?” she said, her voice squeaking like Margaret’s.
“About, well . . .” He cracked his knuckles, pushed his hair off his forehead, tugged at his collar. “All right, I might as well spit it out. I’ve been thinking . . . about Bertha.”
This was not what she had been hoping to hear. “You mean Bertha the ostrich?” she replied needlessly, to hide her disappointment.
He leaned forward, excitement shining in his eyes. “The very one. The big bird’s got to get back to Africa somehow.” He took the globe in his own hands and turned it from one hemisphere to the other. “What do you say we take her home? From rainy England to the sun-bleached sands of the Sahara!”
Either time had stopped or her breathing had, or both. A trip to Africa with Simon! What fun it would be—and yet . . .
“Bertha surely deserves to go home, as much as any of us do,” she said carefully. “But if I may be frank—”
“You may, of course!”
“Thank you—well, I have only just gotten home myself. And I confess, I have grown weary of train schedules and troikas, seasickness and hot air balloons.”
He stroked his chin. “You’ve got travel fatigue, and no wonder. So you’d like nothing more than to stay put for a bit, then?”
“I would.” She gestured at the heap of mail. “As you see, I have a great deal of correspondence to catch up on, and the children have hardly had a proper lesson for months. But Simon, if you want to take Bertha home to Africa, by all means . . .”
“I do,” he said quickly, “and at the same time I don’t. On the one hand, it would be a grand adventure. But on the other hand . . .” He sat up, scratched his head, and then wrung his hands in a nervous gesture that would not have looked out of place on Nutsawoo. “Well, as we’ve just established,” he finally said, “you’ve just gotten home, which is a powerful argument in favor of me staying put. And then there’s Fern and Edward to consider. I am the baby nurse, after all. I can’t just pick up and leave. I’ve got important responsibilities! Or Mrs. Penworthy does, which is the same thing.”
Penelope started to laugh.
“Now, don’t laugh, it’s all quite serious!” he said, though he was laughing, too. “And I’d like to get to know your parents. They’ve got heaps of stories to tell, and I do love a good plot twist.” His voice softened. “I expect you’d like to get to know them better, too. You’ve all been apart a good long while, to say the least.”
Indeed they had, but no more. Mater and Pater Lumley had declined Lord Fredrick’s invitation to live in the grand house at Ashton Place but had happily accepted his offer of a small cottage on the grounds. They would run a bookstore, give painting lessons, and assume Madame Ionesco’s bakehouse duties when she was off prognosticating, for they had surely learned a thing or two about baking while in Frankenforde. The Incorrigible Lumley children would live in the cottage with their parents, but the nursery would also remain theirs to enjoy, and they would be free to come and go as they wished.
As for Penelope, she was too fond of her lovely room to leave it altogether, but she also rather liked waking up in her parents’ cottage, to the smell of coffee and shaving cream and lavender water, and it seemed right that she too should come and go between them as she wished. After all, at sixteen she was nearer a grown-up than a child, but she had missed a great deal of what most people think of as childhood, and now she could have her fill. Happily there was no rush, about any of it—the brave adventure of growing up, or the sweetness of being a well-loved child, safe under her parents’ roof. Truly, she had all the time in the world.
Simon was giving her the most tender, cow-eyed look. “I am grateful that you understand my position,” she said. It came out rather formally, for a lump had formed in her throat, and she was trying not to cry.
“Oh, I do understand,” he assured her. “I absolutely do. And I think—that is—I hope you understand mine. Meaning, if you’d rather stay put for a bit, then I would, too.”
She looked down at her hands, now folded neatly in her lap. His rested carelessly on his knees. The question of what it would it be like to hold hands took shape in her mind at the exact moment his hand reached out and took hers.
“I believe—yes, I do understand.” Then she smiled, and so did he, and all nervousness left her, for it seemed a decision of sorts had been made between them. But all she said was “Do you think Bertha will mind waiting just a bit longer to go home?”
He withdrew his hand and sat up straight, grinning. “Not at all. In fact, I think she’s rather excited about the new babies. Nutsawoo’s babies, I mean.”
Yes, Nutsawoo! The long-lost scamp had become a frequent visitor once more, usually with an adorable troika of squirrel babies scampering behind, and another grown-up-sized squirrel, too.
“I’m sure Bertha will want to see Nutsawoo’s family grow up a bit before we set off,” Simon continued. “Why, I saw her just this morning acting as a stepladder for the little ones to get to the high branch of the elm!”
“An ostrich serving as baby nurse to a litter of squirrels?” Penelope chuckled. “What are the odds of that happening, I wonder?”
“It’s unexpected, sure. But what isn’t?”
At that moment the Incorrigible Lumleys came racing in. They had taken to having parents as readily as ducks take to water, as the saying goes, and had already enjoyed a hearty breakfast prepared by their father. He had artfully arranged the plates to resemble Mama Woof, with fried eggs for her yellow wolf eyes, crisp bacon strips for whiskers, and two halves of buttered brown toast for her alert, upright ears.
During their meal they had enjoyed some cheerful poetry read aloud by Mater Lumley. It was a lovely poem by Mr. William Wordsworth, called “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud,” although nowadays most people simply know it as “Daffodils,” as that is what the poem is about.
I wandered lonely as a Cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and Hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden Daffod
ils. . . .
After both meal and poem were consumed, the Incorrigibles said thank you very much, asked to be excused, cleared their dishes from the table, and set out in search of adventure. This is the proper way to manage having parents. After all, once they have been loved, fed, clothed, and educated, most children are well able to fashion their own entertainments, and the wise Mater and Pater will let them. (Interestingly, it is when children know their parents are close at hand that they feel most able to bravely set off into the world. There is a bittersweet irony in this, whose full meaning only becomes apparent when one has children of one’s own.)
The Incorrigible Lumleys began their day’s to-doawoos by visiting Fern and Edward in the babies’ room, and offering some brief lessons in yapping, woofing, howling, burping, wiggling, napping, and other essential skills. Then they ran upstairs to the nursery and went straight to the window, to check on Nutsawoo’s family. Squirrels are no geniuses, mind you, but the squirrel babies already knew how to line up on the branch of the elm to beg for treats. Naturally, the children were happy to oblige.
After that, they said good morning to Penelope and clambered onto Simon as if he were a tree suitable for climbing. Only then did they see the great pile of correspondence.
“Our letters!” they cried, and scrambled down again. Simon made a comic show of being capsized, but as he had often proved, he had sea legs enough to weather storms far worse than this.
Penelope gazed upon the littlest Lumleys with a look that was equal parts loving big sister and exceedingly fond governess, and indeed, the two feelings were so thoroughly mixed together there was no telling them apart. “They are your letters, indeed. What an impressive collection! I am eager to read them, each and every one.”
“Mine have maps,” Alexander explained.
“Mine have math problems!” Cassiopeia said, and ran for her abacus.
“Mine have poetic meter. A villanelle, actually,” Beowulf added modestly.
Penelope ruffled his hair. “A villanelle, my word! Aren’t you clever!”
The Long-Lost Home Page 27