It was much like the way small children can devour head-sized mounds of cotton candy with sticky-handed glee one summer, only to discover that by the time summer rolls ’round again, the notion of plunging one’s face into a glob of spun sugar has lost much of its appeal. After that happens, there is no turning back: the love of such gluey, toothache-inducing treats will soon give way to an appreciation for bittersweet chocolate and tarte Philippe, onion sauce and strong, ripe cheese (not all at the same time, of course).
Whether this shift in taste is a gooden thing or a baden one is a matter of opinion, but that it happens is a fact of life, and no amount of burying one’s head in the sand will make it otherwise. Penelope was just beginning to understand this, and frankly, she was not sure how she felt about it. In the words of Madame Ionesco, “People change, darling. People change.”
WHEN THE CHILDREN WERE SLEEPING and she was alone in her room, Penelope once more took out the curious volume about the cannibals. The pages were warped and brittle from having been soaked again and again in seawater and then, she imagined, laid out to dry in the sun. The ink had run; the text, where it survived, was written in enigmatic verse, and the centerfold map was almost completely obscured with smears and blotchy stains.
Penelope closed the covers with care, but even this small movement caused the yellowed pages to crackle. Could this account really have been written by Simon’s great-uncle Pudge, when he was a cabin boy so many years ago? “One of Lord Fredrick’s ancestors was an admiral, known for his seafaring adventures,” she thought. “If they were on the same voyage, it could explain how this book ended up in the Ashton Place library. If only I could make sense of it!”
But it was no use. Perhaps Simon would learn something interesting from Great-Uncle Pudge himself, at the old sailors’ home in Brighton, and send news. Of course, any news at all from Simon was good news, and what could be more interesting than that?
THE NO-LONGER-WIDOW ASHTON SOON DECIDED to return to the Continent, but not to mourn. She said she wanted to see her friends, to devote more time to croquet (“I have long wanted to improve my jump shot,” she explained, “but until now I was too sad to apply myself properly to the task”), and, of course, to wait for Edward’s return.
Her son treated her kindly enough, but once she was gone Lord Fredrick was visibly relieved. “If I had to hear one more word about dear old Dad risen from his gooey grave, with his dreamboat eyes like the dark side of the moon…why, it’s enough to bring on a headache. Blast! Has anyone seen my almanac?”
Lady Constance cooed fondly and falsely over the children while her mother-in-law was watching, but that too changed the moment the lady was gone. “Fleas! How disgusting. More and more I feel you should have left those wild, filthy creatures in the woods, Fredrick. To think your mother prefers them to the idea of us having children of our own! Well, we shall see about that, won’t we? Babies are a dreadful bother, of course, but I cannot stand being told I cannot have something, even if it something I do not particularly want…. Fredrick? Fredrick! Are you listening?”
Bertha seemed happy enough in the POE, for now. But Penelope resolved to write to the director of the London Zoo and see if there was some way to return the big bird to Africa, so she might live out her days in her native habitat, among others of her long-legged, dim-witted kind. In the meantime, the children kept her company and took occasional rides on her back, but only when she was in the mood.
As it happened, Nutsawoo and Bertha got along quite well, for they possessed similar levels of intelligence (although Nutsawoo may have had a bit of an edge). Bertha liked to race with him around the POE, and the shining-eyed, bushy-tailed squirrel learned many new tricks to earn himself tasty bits of SPOTs, all of which he frantically buried, for the summer was drawing to a close.
IT TOOK SOME WEEKS FOR the opportunity to present itself, but eventually Penelope was able to sneak into Lord Fredrick’s study and get another look at the portrait of Edward Ashton. The burly man whose likeness stared down at her would never be mistaken for Quinzy, at least at first glance. One was tall and big bodied, the other was tall and trim. One had a thick head of silvery hair; the other had a thick head of ink-black hair. Both had dark eyes, but that hardly proved they were the same eyes, did it?
“The Widow Ashton was convinced they were, but after wanting and hoping and dreaming about it for so long, the poor woman could easily be convinced of anything.” Penelope kept her gaze fixed on the portrait, so that she would not have to face the glassy stares of all those dead, stuffed creatures. “What a tragedy, to spend one’s life waiting for a loved one who may nevermore return. Nevermore!” she could not help adding, although there were no peas nearby to toss in the air.
Yet the very thought made her blush scarlet, for how many heavy-hearted hours had Penelope spent longing for just such a reunion? Was she, too, living in a haze of hope? Was she so lost in the fog of wishing that she could no longer see what was right in front of her, as plain as the nose on her face—or the hair on her head, as Old Timothy had once, enigmatically, remarked?
“Almost done, miss?” Margaret squeaked nervously from the hall. The reluctant girl had been persuaded to serve as lookout. She would not dare set foot inside the study herself, of course, because of all the dead animals.
“In a minute,” Penelope murmured. “The nose on his face…the hair on his head…what am I failing to see?” She stepped closer to the painting. There were the pale, long fingers. The slight, contemptuous curl to the lip. And those eyes—black they were, and bottomless as tiny twin tar pits.
Penelope was not a playwright, like Simon, but she had once attended nearly all of the first act of a show in the West End, so she was no stranger to stagecraft, either. (The title of the show should be on the tips of the tongues of those of you who have been paying attention to this point and therefore need not be mentioned here; no doubt you recall that the plot had to do with pirates.) “If he lost a great deal of weight,” she thought, “and blacked his hair with dye, and wore glasses to conceal his eyes, and covered that distinctive sloping Ashton nose with putty, of the sort actors use to change their appearances…the sort that might get sticky and soft if the wearer stood too close to an open flame…”
It was all quite improbable and unbelievable; unlikely and implausible, too. And yet, hypothetically, it was possible that “Judge” Quinzy, who might not really be a judge, was actually the long-dead Edward Ashton, who might not really be dead, despite Quinzy’s claim that he was only pretending to be Edward Ashton—which could, of course, be a lie.
“But if that were so,” Penelope thought, once she had wrapped her mind around it all, “why would Edward Ashton fake his own death? And why would he turn up now, so many years later, and lurk around his former home in the guise of a judge?”
And what did the Incorrigible children have to do with it all? For by now Penelope was quite sure it was Quinzy, or Ashton, or whoever he was, who had set Bertha loose to begin with, and all as a way of getting the Incorrigible children back into the woods, where Lord Fredrick’s hunting party might find them, and where they might come to some dreadful harm, accidentally or otherwise. If not for Old Timothy…
“The hunt is on, Mr. Quinzy-Ashton-Whoever-You-Are,” she whispered to the portrait. “The hunt for answers, that is. But from now on, I shall be the hunter, and you shall be the one pursued. I wonder where you will turn up next?”
DESPITE ALL THE PRECAUTIONS TAKEN, it soon became evident that Miss Penelope Lumley had acquired some fleas of her own. “It is just as well,” she thought ruefully, as she worked a fresh coat of Miss Mortimer’s poultice into her hair. “For I am overdue for a treatment of this mixture, and Miss Mortimer has made it quite clear that she intends for me to use it regularly. Her package has arrived just in time.”
And it had: At long last, Penelope had received a reply from Miss Mortimer, complete with a fresh supply of the hair poultice, some picture postcards for the children showing animals from the various zoos
of Europe, and a letter to Penelope as well. Now that the poultice had been applied and her head wrapped firmly in a towel so that it might set there for an hour before rinsing, Penelope sat down to read her long-awaited correspondence.
My dear Penny,
Well! After many weeks of travel I have returned to a towering pile of mail, much of it from you! Once again, family business has caused me to go abroad. No doubt any questions you posed to me in your earlier letters have long since been sorted out, so I will not waste ink and paper answering them now.
I hope you have found time to enjoy the great outdoors during this fine summer weather. Book learning is all very well, but as Agatha Swanburne liked to say, “If you want fresh ideas in your head, get some fresh mud on your boots.” I am sure I hardly need to remind of you that.
Do you recall meeting Miss Swanburne? I expect you do not; you were so very small, and she was in the final months of a long and highly satisfactory life. (She was always a bit cagey about telling her age, but we thought she might have been ninety-six when she finally entered the Realm Invisible.) You had just arrived at school, four or five years old at most, and were feeling a bit sad and lost, as little girls do when away from home for the first time. Even in her frail condition, Miss Swanburne took a special interest in you. “That,” she said to me after you had gone, “is a true Swanburne girl. She has the look.”
Speaking of Swanburne: Your alma mater soldiers bravely on, although there are struggles. Books and pencils and porridge oats get dearer by the day, and the girls go through embroidery floss at an alarming rate. The trustees have begun to solicit donations to help pay expenses, with mixed success. You may be interested to know that, while I was abroad, a certain Judge Quinzy was appointed to the board of trustees. It is unusual for a gentleman of his means and influence to show such an interest in the education of poor girls, so when he contacted the board and offered his services, along with the promise of a generous donation, they welcomed him with open arms.
In his letter he mentioned that he belongs to the same gentlemen’s club as Lord Fredrick Ashton. It is a small world, is it not?
Warmest regards, from your loyal friend,
Miss Charlotte Mortimer
About the Author
MARYROSE WOOD is the author of THE MYSTERIOUS HOWLING and THE HIDDEN GALLERY, the first two books in this continuing series about the Incorrigible children and their governess. These books may be considered works of fiction, which is to say the true bits and the untrue bits are so thoroughly mixed together that no one should be able to tell the difference. This process of fabrication is fully permitted under the terms of the author’s Poetic License, which is one of her most prized possessions.
Maryrose’s other qualifications for writing these tales include a scandalous stint as a professional thespian, many years as a private governess to two curious and occasionally rambunctious pupils, and whatever literary insights she may have gleaned from living in close proximity to a clever but disobedient dog. You can visit her online at www.maryrosewood.com.
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Other Books by Maryrose Wood
THE INCORRIGIBLE CHILDREN OF ASHTON PLACE, BOOK I: THE MYSTERIOUS HOWLING
THE INCORRIGIBLE CHILDREN OF ASHTON PLACE, BOOK 2: THE HIDDEN GALLERY
Credits
Jacket art © 2012 by Jon Klassen
Jacket design by Sarah Hoy
Copyright
Balzer + Bray is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
THE INCORRIGIBLE CHILDREN OF ASHTON PLACE Book 3: The Unseen Guest. Text copyright © 2012 by Maryrose Wood. Illustrations copyright © 2012 by Jon Klassen. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
ISBN 978-0-06-179118-5 (trade bdg.)
12 13 14 15 16 CG/RRDH 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
EPub Edition © FEBRUARY 2012 ISBN: 978-0-06-209931-0
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