That Miss Penelope Lumley had a knack for inventing catchy sayings was hardly surprising, given where she had gone to school. That she also had the ability to learn from her mistakes and replace a poorly thought-out plan with a better one—well, that, too, should come as no surprise to anyone familiar with the plucky young governess, or with her alma mater, either.
For, indoors or out, Penelope was a Swanburne girl, through and through.
THE SECOND CHAPTER
It was not quite the bird they were expecting.
AS YOU MAY KNOW, “ALMA MATER” is a Latin phrase that means “nourishing mother.” To nourish is to feed and make grow; therefore, a nourishing mother would be the one who has fed you and raised you so that you might grow up into the strapping young man or woman you are no doubt well on your way to becoming.
Nowadays, of course, “alma mater” is what people call the place where they went to school and, one hopes, were fed countless yummy bites of knowledge from a vast and scrumptious buffet of education. All of the poor bright females who graduated from the Swanburne Academy would consider the school their alma mater; some might even place small, boastful signs on the backs of their pony carts that read YOU HAVE JUST BEEN PASSED BY A SWANBURNE GIRL.
But Miss Penelope Lumley had no pony cart, much as she would have liked one. And to her, the words “alma mater” had always held a special, private, and, up until quite recently, altogether sadder meaning.
For Penelope had been enrolled at the Swanburne Academy as a very young girl, no older than Cassiopeia was now (that is to say, five or six at the most), and through all the long years since, she had not heard one word from her mater—that is, mother—or her father, either. Both Mater and Pater Lumley seemed to have slipped completely out of the picture the instant they dropped off little Penny at school. They never sent a present on her birthday or a congratulatory note after final exams (even when, year after year, their hardworking daughter ranked at the top of her class). Nor was there a get well soon card the time when Penelope had chicken pox and had to spend three days taking warm milk baths to stop the dreadful itching.
There had been no letters, no telegrams, and not a single picture postcard. There had been no word at all—that is, until Penelope’s recent adventure in London with the three Incorrigible children. Just prior to the trip, Penelope had been given a guidebook by her former headmistress at Swanburne, the kind and elegant (and, as Penelope had also discovered, secretive and mysterious) Miss Charlotte Mortimer. The guidebook was titled Hixby’s Lavishly Illustrated Guide to London: Compleat with Historical Reference, Architectural Significance, and Literary Allusions, though Penelope preferred to call it the Hixby’s Guide, as there are only so many hours in a day. But instead of Big Ben and Buckingham Palace, the illustrations showed crystal-blue alpine lakes and edelweiss-covered meadows populated with snow larks, mountain hares, and other wildlife of that Swiss ilk.
(Some of you are no doubt wondering if elk are also of that ilk. Sadly, they are not. Elk have not been seen in Switzerland in many a year. In the interests of scientific accuracy, please strike the idea of elk from your mind. If you must, think of ibexes instead, a fierce and agile type of goat with great spiraling horns. Marmots will also do in a pinch, but under no circumstances should you think of elk. No. Elk. The elkless among you may now proceed.)
Despite its peculiarities, Penelope had grown fond of the Hixby’s Guide, for the pictures were charming and the brief descriptions were written in jaunty, if enigmatic, verse. Penelope had always had a keen liking for poetry. Alas, the book had been lost in a high-speed chase involving singing pirates and a howling parrot. (Again, please refer to Pirates on Holiday for details. The opening-night reviews were printed in the London Times and several other newspapers of record; they can be found at your local library indexed under operettas, seaworthy; flops, theatrical; or even parrots, thespian.)
Only after Penelope had returned to Ashton Place with more puzzles to solve than even Cassiopeia’s abacus could keep track of did she receive a letter from Miss Mortimer revealing that the Hixby’s Guide, had, in fact, been a gift sent by Penelope’s parents.
Mater Lumley! Pater Lumley! Who would have guessed they could draw?
Even though the precious book was lost, Penelope’s joy at knowing her parents were alive and thinking of her filled her heart with a deep and quiet joy. For a while. But then all sorts of troubling questions began to creep into the usually optimistic young governess’s mind. For example:
If Miss Mortimer had been in contact with Penelope’s parents, why had she kept it a secret?
What was the point of all that alpine scenery, when what Penelope had really needed for her trip was a guidebook to London, which was a confusing city on foot and even worse if one needed to take the omnibus?
And the biggest, most heart-wrenching question of all: If the long-lost Lumleys were alive and well, then where, oh where, had they been all these years?
Where, indeed? For it is one thing to think your parents have not sent a birthday card because they are being held captive in a dungeon, or are journeying through untamed lands that lack an efficient postal service, or are, sadly, dead. Penelope had considered all these possible explanations over the years, and dozens more as well. But it is another thing altogether to realize that the whole time you were pining and wondering and shedding the occasional lonely and self-pitying tear as you soaked your chicken pox in the foamy slime of the milk bath, trying not to scratch, your long-lost mater and pater were romping through the edelweiss near a chalet somewhere, sketching flinty-eyed mountain goats and composing bits and pieces of, it must be said, rather mediocre poetry.
In short, now that she knew they were alive and well and fully capable of putting pen and paintbrush to paper, Penelope could not help being deeply angry with her parents, while at the same time missing them more than she had in many a year.
It was an unexpected development, to be sure. It left her feeling confused and a bit lost, like a person dropped in a strange city with only a useless guidebook to find her way around. A Swanburne girl does not mope, as Penelope had been taught countless times, and so she tried her best to put the whole subject out of her mind and think of other, happier things. But just as the instruction “do not think of elk” will cause great herds of the antlered beasts to come thundering through one’s brain at inconvenient moments, the more Penelope tried to not think about her parents, the more keenly everything seemed to remind her of them.
Even now, as she escorted the Incorrigible children on their first-ever outdoor bird-watching expedition, she could not help noticing the small white flowers scattered throughout the lush grass of the parkland surrounding Ashton Place. It was not edelweiss, of course, for edelweiss is not native to England, but it was close enough to make Penelope’s thoughts gain force and speed, like a velocipede flying down a hill.
“I will think of bird-watching and only bird-watching,” she told herself sternly. “And absolutely no snow larks! Only your average, everyday English birds.” But it was no use. Now that she was outside, away from the nursery and its chores and the useful distraction of Edith-Anne Pevington and Albert, the windows of Penelope’s mind were flung open, so to speak, and all her cross and lonely feelings came billowing in freely, whether she wanted them to or not.
“Lumawoo? See bird!”
“We shall see some very soon, Alexander,” she replied, but inside she was thinking, “Not only am I cross with my parents, but I am rather piqued at Miss Mortimer, too, for she has kept secrets from me. No doubt she would say it was for my own good, but surely I ought to be the judge of that. I am nearly sixteen, after all. And she has not replied to any of the letters I have sent since returning from London! I wonder why?”
“Is very large bird, Lumawoo. Not warbler.”
“Many birds are bigger than warblers, Beowulf. A full-grown pheasant can be positively robust,” Penelope said absently before returning to her train of thought, which was now zoom
ing along like a Bloomer steam locomotive at full tilt. “And what of all those frightening things she told me about the children being in danger, with dire fates foretold, curses upon their heads, and so on? Not to mention her insistence that I keep my hair dyed this drab, dark color. ‘Be on the lookout for unexpected events,’ she said, but surely that is impractical advice. For unless one has the gift of prognostication, are not all events at least somewhat unexpected? Even when we think we know what is likely to happen, surprises tend to pop up willy-nilly—what? Wait!”
“Lumawoo! Ostrich!” Cassiopeia sounded highly excited. But Penelope was not looking in the same direction.
“Ostriches are native to Africa and are known for their lovely plumes; you may have seen some in Lady Constance’s hats. But that, I believe, is a cuckoo. Beowulf, quickly; take out your pencils, you will want to get this down—”
“No cuckahwooooo!” Beowulf howled insistently. The startled bird to which Penelope referred (it was a yellow-billed cuckoo, to be precise) flew off. Penelope turned to Beowulf with a frown.
“I know it is enjoyable to be out-of-doors, Beowulf, but you must try to rein in the howling, or you will get all the dogs in the county started—oh, my!”
“Lumawoo!” All three children gestured wildly. “Ostrich!”
“Lumawoo! Ostrich!”
“Yes, I can see that.” Penelope was stunned, for before her stood what was indisputably an ostrich. The creature was nearly a foot taller than she was (to be fair, most of that height was neck and legs), and it had the most curious expression on its face—as if it were the giant bird that was shocked to encounter a young governess and her three young charges on the grounds of an English country estate, and not the other way ’round.
The ostrich tipped its head from side to side, and gave a little shimmy with its broad, feathered tail.
“Long way from Africa,” Alexander observed. “Bad navigating.”
“Need more paper,” Beowulf said, for this was a great deal more bird than he had come prepared to draw.
“Big egg,” Cassiopeia added admiringly.
“What on earth…” But before Penelope could say “…is an ostrich doing at Ashton Place?” the giant creature blinked and bounded off into the woods on its spindly legs at a truly astonishing speed. In a moment it was gone—as thoroughly and completely as if it had never been there at all.
Penelope’s mouth hung open, but no words came out; there was so much to say that she hardly knew where to begin. What they had just seen was not merely unexpected; it was utterly impossible. And yet…
Cassiopeia reached down and picked up a long, arched feather that had fallen from the ostrich’s tail. “Plume,” she announced. She stuck the jet-black feather in her hair and began prancing around and chirping orders in a wicked imitation of Lady Constance Ashton. “Mrs. Clarke, get my tea! Margaret, get my dress!”
The boys giggled and bowed. “Yes, Lady Plume. Right away, Lady Plume.” Under normal circumstances, Penelope would have scolded the children for being disrespectful, although the truth was that she, too, often found Lady Constance to be a rather silly person. But these were hardly normal circumstances, were they? If parents could disappear with no explanation, and children raised by wolves could tame squirrels and take up bird-watching as an educational (and so far, inedible) hobby, and a dedicated and well-trained governess could, not once but twice in the same morning, utterly fail to notice what was right in front of her—well, everything had gone topsy-turvy, and that was all there was to it.
“Ahoy!” Alexander had his captain’s spyglass up. “Vessel on the horizon.”
“Heavens, what can it be this time? A herd of elk?” Penelope exclaimed, at her wit’s end.
All four of them turned to look. Something—or someone—was coming up the path from the house.
“Is bird!” Cassiopeia pointed and waved her plume excitedly, no doubt hoping for another ostrich sighting.
“Is…train?” Beowulf said, confused, for the shape was fairly stout, although, to be fair, not nearly as stout as a steam engine would be, and of course there were no train tracks running along the path.
“No bird. No train.” Alexander peered through the glass. “Is Mrs. Clarke.”
Penelope took the glass and looked for herself. “It is Mrs. Clarke. And she appears to be trotting.” She paused to rub her eyes, for if there was one thing that could have surprised her more than, say, finding a full-grown ostrich running loose on the grounds of Ashton Place, it would be the sight of Mrs. Clarke out for an afternoon’s jog.
The approaching rhythmic jingle-jingle-jingle of a great ring of keys banging against ample hips confirmed it: It was Mrs. Clarke, the head housekeeper of Ashton Place, chugging toward them at a slow but steady speed. Her waddling gait was a snail’s pace compared to the ostrich’s swift departure, but for Mrs. Clarke it was remarkably quick. Penelope and the Incorrigibles watched in amazement as she plodded across the grassy field and came to a stop before them.
“Miss Lumley! Miss Lumley! There you are. My, that was brisk!” Mrs. Clarke was mildly out of breath, but she bore a pleased expression. “What a lovely day it is! If there wasn’t so much work to do in the house, I’d take a nice long ramble outside myself.”
“Mrs. Clarke….” At this juncture Penelope might have said any number of things: “We have just seen an ostrich” or “Would you like to join us on our bird-watching expedition?” or even “Is there any hope of having lemon tarts with tea today?” But instead she blurted, “It appears you have been exercising.”
The older woman’s cheeks were already pink from exertion, but her proud blush shone through nevertheless. “Why, yes, I have, here and there, I must confess! I was complaining about feeling winded on the stairs, you see, and Old Timothy gave me some advice about how to fix it. He said I ought to do what he does when a carriage horse goes lame and has been off work for a while. You build up its strength bit by bit. Short trips at first, and then a bit longer, then add a bit of weight in the carriage, until soon the beast is better than new. And faster, too.”
She pounded herself on the chest. “I’m not quite ready for the Derby, mind you, but I’m picking up my pace, to be sure. And look at you children! I scarcely recognize you, you’ve grown so big. You boys will be wanting new trousers soon; I spy a bit of ankle peeking out. And where did you get that pretty bit of plumage, Cassawoof?” (Mrs. Clarke was the only person besides her brothers whom Cassiopeia let call her by her nickname; she would have let Penelope call her that as well, of course, but Penelope felt she ought not encourage too much woofiness in the children, and therefore always used their proper names.)
“Ostrich,” the girl replied, pointing in the direction of the bird’s exit.
“Fell out of a ladies’ hat, did it? Well, it suits you, dearie. But speaking of ladies”—and now Mrs. Clarke’s cheerful tone changed to a more anxious one—“Lady Constance is in an awful tizzy, Miss Lumley. That’s why I came toddling out to find you and the children, so you can prepare yourselves.”
Penelope felt a wave of relief: At last, here was a piece of news that was completely unsurprising. “Thank you for your concern, Mrs. Clarke, but you needn’t worry. The children and I have survived Lady Constance in a tizzy before.”
“Not like this one.” Mrs. Clarke took the opportunity to stretch out her calves. “A messenger showed up at the door with the news. It seems we’re to receive a very important guest, and Lady Constance is in a state of fuss and bother the likes of which I’ve never seen before and hope I never see again. If only Lord Ashton were home!”
Penelope could think of only one person important enough to cause such pandemonium in the household, but a visit from Queen Victoria seemed altogether unlikely, despite the fact that Her Majesty and Penelope had recently exchanged some pleasant correspondence. “Still, it would be a delightful surprise,” she thought, and was about to ask if it was, in fact, the Queen of England who was on her way, but Mrs. Clarke had finish
ed stretching and went on.
“We are receiving Lord Fredrick’s mother. Goodness, how long it’s been! It must be ten or twelve years since we’ve seen her. She’ll be staying for dinner and who knows how long after that. Why she couldn’t let a poor housekeeper know ahead of time is beyond me; the kitchen is in an uproar! I shouldn’t be surprised if you and the children will be expected to make an appearance. I’d advise you to hurry back to the house at once and scrub up a bit, just in case.”
“We certainly shall. Thank you for the warning, Mrs. Clarke. I wonder if you could tell me: Why has Lord Fredrick’s mother not visited for so long?”
But the portly housekeeper was already chugging back the way she came. She gave a wave good-bye without turning ’round, and the jingle-jingle-jingle of her keys quickly faded into the distance.
Penelope was glad to see Mrs. Clarke so full of pep, but she wished the housekeeper had paused to answer her question. Lord Fredrick Ashton was a strange fellow, and Penelope had grown deeply curious about some of his odder traits: for example, his fascination with full moons, the dates of which he kept meticulously circled in his almanac, and which seemed to coincide with unexplained disappearances and fits of barking and scratching. “They say that the apple does not fall far from the tree. Perhaps meeting his mother will be instructive,” she thought. To the children she remarked, “Look at her go! Mrs. Clarke may well be ready for the Derby before long.”
At the mention of a horse race, the children began snorting and rearing up like three spirited ponies. Mrs. Clarke had been quite right to notice how much the Incorrigibles had grown—less than a year had passed, and already Alexander had gained an inch and a half. Seeing him paw the ground and whinny only served to emphasize how leggy and coltish he had become. Beowulf had also gotten taller, and even Cassiopeia had lost a touch of her baby plumpness about the cheeks.
The Unseen Guest Page 2
