And there were some fine gambling establishments in the capital, let it not be forgotten! As was true of many men of his circle, gambling was a favorite pastime of the captain’s: cards, dice, horse races, roulette wheels, all of it. One stroke of good fortune and his financial woes would be over! Or so he told himself, as he sat there contemplating the trip. Yes, this summons to the capital was good news, wonderful news, nothing short of miraculous, just as his brilliant wife had said; an unexpected opportunity that could solve all their problems with a well-placed word to a general, or even better, with a lucky roll of the dice!
What a strange evening it had been! It was like a violent storm that ended quickly, leaving the mildest sunshine it its wake. The samovar had cooled and was silent, and Svetlana had taken Baby Max away for a diaper change. The exhausted Babushkawoos looked questioningly from one parent to the other. A moment ago these mysterious adults had been in a screaming argument, but now they seemed satisfied and self-absorbed, as if each had privately declared him- or herself the winner. Little did any of them know it was Miss Penelope Lumley, who sat placidly sewing in her corner, who was the evening’s true victor.
Madame paused to rearrange her skirts, now that the smelly baby was gone from her lap, and drew her three eldest children close to her. “Don’t pay any mind to your father’s grumbling! He has already said yes, and there is no turning back. We will borrow; we will steal if we must. But in three days—or perhaps two, if we make haste!—we leave for Saint Petersburg!”
THE FOURTH CHAPTER
The Incorrigible children are given a job to do.
MADAME BABUSHKINOV WAS BEING OPTOOMUCHSTIC when she said they might leave for Saint Petersburg in two days. This means there was too much optimism in her thinking. Optoomuchism was a rare occurrence in the Babushkinov household; in Plinkst it was nearly unheard of. One was far more likely to encounter its opposite, which is pessimax, the maximum degree of pessimism one can endure before sinking into full-on weltschmerz. (Bear in mind, it is never accurate to fix one description to a group of people, but it is also true that ways of thinking can be as contagious as a yawn. One person spreading pessimax can easily plunge a dozen acquaintances into despair. In the words of Agatha Swanburne, “Swim in a tar pit and you’ll come out sticky.”)
However, Captain Babushkinov knew how to move troops and supplies from one stronghold to the next, and he had it right: even working at full tilt, it could not have taken a minute less than three full days to prepare for the trip. Svetlana was given enough chores to occupy a regiment, from polishing all the family’s boots to making sure the horses that would pull the troika were properly shod. These tasks she did grimly, in keeping with her unfortunate circumstances.
From morning till night it continued: the choosing of outfits, the practicing of pirouettes, the making of to-do lists. None of this need be gone into in detail, for the point of any journey is the taking of it. What comes before is boring, dull, tedious, and frankly uninteresting. “Anyone can pack a suitcase, but only the brave set sail,” as Agatha Swanburne also said. Truly, the wise founder had a pithy saying for most, if not all, occasions.
During these same three days, however, events elsewhere—that is to say, in England, on the estate of the notoriously wealthy, hopelessly nearsighted, and increasingly worked-up father-to-be, Lord Fredrick Ashton—were as far from uninteresting as the frozen tundra of Siberia is from the balmy beaches of the Black Sea. Fortunately for us, and unlike Miss Penelope Lumley, we can return to Ashton Place simply by reading about it, and so we shall. Thanks to the tireless efforts of Mrs. Clarke, the baby’s room is nearly finished, and surely that is well worth a look. . . .
“HOLD ON NOW—I’VE ALMOST GOT it. There!” Mrs. Clarke was not a small woman, nor a young one, but she scurried down the ladder as nimbly as a squirrel. After several tries, the painting she had been trying to hang on the wall was now perfectly centered between the windows of the sunny bedchamber that was being readied for the new baby.
She gazed at her achievement with satisfaction, hands planted solidly on hips. “A bit of art is just what the room needed. As our dear Miss Lumley would say, it’s never too soon to begin a child’s education! That picture of yours is a perfect example of—what did you say the style was again, dear?”
“Ominous Landscape,” Beowulf explained. “But not too ominous. Baby Ominous.”
It was true: If the Baby Ominous Landscape style of painting had not previously existed, Beowulf had surely invented it now. The painting he made especially for the Barking Baby Ashton’s room portrayed a dense wood, but not a spooky one, as broad beams of yellow sliced through the trees to make cheery patches of sunlight on the mossy forest floor. Animal eyes glinted from the shadows, but they were the eyes of friendly bunnies. The birds perched in the trees were not vultures but gentle cooing doves, with a few comically roosting chickens mixed among them.
As for the figures who occupied the foreground of the work—well, yes, they were wolves, but they were happy, gentle wolves and featured a mama wolf tenderly playing with her cubs. Overall, a perfect balance of light and shadow had been struck. One could say the painting had gravitas, but not gloom. (Gravitas, gravity, and even the word “grave” all come from the Latin word gravis, which means heavy. If something has gravitas, that means it is serious and possesses dignity. Beowulf was the sort of artist who liked to put a bit of gravitas in his work, but he knew that a painting for a baby’s room ought not to cause bad dreams, either. As you see, his present for the baby was both handmade and chosen with the recipient in mind, which is the best kind of present there is.)
Mrs. Clarke propped the ladder by the door. “It’s lovely, dear. I can’t imagine the baby not liking that picture, especially since it’s from one of his . . .” But her words tapered off, for what relation were the Incorrigible children to the new baby, exactly? Obviously they were not siblings. Companions? Housemates? “Fellow children,” she concluded. “It’s a gift from one of his fellow children, and that will surely please him. And look how perfectly it matches the wallpaper!”
As she had nervously explained to Lord Fredrick and his haggard houseguest just the other day, she had chosen a nature theme for the baby’s room. Lord Fredrick had quite a chuckle over it. “Nature, quite right! As if the child were napping in the woodsy woods, among the wild animals, what? Har, har!” The wallpaper was a leaf pattern in a pale green, and the ceiling had been painted a bright sky blue, with loopy clouds in shades of white floating here and there.
The crib itself was an elaborate wicker swinging cradle that squeaked when it rocked. Cassiopeia could not resist giving it a push every now and then, so she could listen to the way the skaweeking slowed and faded as the crib stopped moving. She did it once more. Skaweek, skaweek, skaweek, skaweek . . .
“Oil can?” Alexander suggested.
Mrs. Clarke shook her head. “Best leave it be. That’s the same crib His Lordship slept in as a baby. We never fixed the squeak because it meant a person could hear when the little scamp was climbing out in the middle of the night, as he liked to do every so often.”
“Sure he did! Every four weeks, on the night of the full moon.” Old Timothy leaned in the doorway, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He had carried the ladder upstairs and was waiting to take it away when Mrs. Clarke was done with it. “No need to mince words, Mrs. Clarke. Young Freddy was a, well—unusual child, and that’s the truth.”
Mrs. Clarke gave her apron an irritated tug. “I’m not mincing words, you strange old man. I’m minding my own business, and you should mind yours.”
The enigmatic coachman jerked his head in the direction of the Incorrigibles. “It’s too late for keeping secrets, Nell! As if these three cubs didn’t know how stirred up the moon can make a person feel. Wild and lonesome inside, and restless as the wind, till the only thing to do is throw back your head and let loose. Ahwoooooo!” He crooned a long, soft howl, so wolflike it made the skin on the backs of the children’s necks p
rickle. “And soon we’ll have a wee little moonstruck Ashton on the premises. Imagine that! Let’s hope he’s not the last of the line.”
“What a thing to say about a child who’s not even born.” Mrs. Clarke placed a pile of clean folded blankets in the crib, jostling it. Skaweek, skaweek was the noise it made as it rocked from side to side. Skaweek, skaweek. “Poor lamb,” she murmured, as if the baby were already in there, nestled among the blankets. “He’ll be an odd one, if the past is any guide—Oh, there it is again!”
Her eyes widened and her shoulders drew back sharply. “It’s like a sliver of ice rubbed down my spine. It’s been happening nearly every day lately. Just like when Mr. Clarke passed! For weeks afterward I’d be going about my business in a sad fog. Then all at once I’d get the strangest notion he was standing just behind me, looking over my shoulder. I’d spin around to see—but there’d be nothing, nothing at all, and then I’d get that same icy shiver, like I just had now.”
“Sounds like ghosties,” Cassiopeia said, unafraid.
The housekeeper flinched. “In a baby’s room? I hope not!” She stilled the crib with a hand, as if it might move again of its own accord. “Then again, who knows what sort of mischief goes on Beyond the Veil? I’d like to think we just shimmy out of our old worn-out bodies and float calmly to the realm invisible when our time comes, but perhaps that’s not always the case.”
Old Timothy snorted. “I’ll say. There’s a world of difference between being dead and being at rest.”
“‘O HAMlet, WHAT a FALLing OFF was THERE,’” Alexander proclaimed. His siblings nodded in agreement. Hamlet was one of the better ghost stories they knew.
Mrs. Clarke turned to the coachman and wagged a finger. “Now don’t you say anything else frightening, Old Tim! You’ve got the children spouting nonsense. I’ll barely sleep tonight as it is, after all this talk of you know what.”
Beowulf cocked his head to one side. “Shakespeare?”
“Rhymes with toasties, my boy! I’d rather not speak the word again.” Mrs. Clarke began folding the basket of cloth diapers and comically miniature baby clothes she had brought to fill the dresser drawers. “Lord knows a new baby ought to be a joyful occasion, but this icy shiver of mine leaves the most peculiar feeling when it’s gone. Like something dreadful is on its way. Like time is running out.”
Her voice dropped, as if she were speaking mostly to herself. “I haven’t felt right since Miss Lumley’s been gone, that’s the truth of it. This big old house isn’t the same as when she was here, dancing through the halls, pilfering books from the library and spouting words of wisdom from that school of hers! Poor thing! Poor Miss Lumley! I hope she’s all right.”
The Incorrigibles looked grave. Cassiopeia emitted a small, high whimper that made Mrs. Clarke remember where she was. “Whoops, silly me, running off at the mouth! Of course she’s all right—there’s no one more brave and clever than our Lumawoo, is there, children? I’m sure she’s managing just fine.” She grabbed one of the clean cloth diapers and used it to blow her nose.
The children ran to console her, though they could have used some consoling themselves. Old Timothy rolled his eyes. “Enough bellyaching. There’s work to be done,” he grumbled. He tipped the ladder sideways and edged it through the door.
As he did, Lord Fredrick and his wife turned the corner at the end of the hall. “Don’t fret, my dear. The advertisement will be in Thursday’s paper. I’m sure we’ll have dozens of ladies to choose from,” he said as they approached. “One of them’s bound to be suitable. Whoops! Easy, there, Tim! Mind your ladder, unless you want to try your hand at a bit of jousting.” Lord Fredrick chuckled and played at jousting for a moment. “Awfully medieval, jousting. A man could get hurt. I’ll stick to billiards, what?”
Old Timothy grunted enigmatically and propped the ladder in the hall. Lady Constance paid him no mind as she sailed into the room. “Suitable is not good enough, Fredrick! The baby nurse must be perfect. Strict, but not too strict. Kind, but not too kind. It is far too easy to spoil a child with affection, one must beware— Eek!” The lady’s shriek was so sharp and sudden that everyone looked down to see if a wee mousie was scurrying about, but her round, doll-like eyes were fixed on the Incorrigibles. “The wolf children! What are they doing in here?”
Alexander snapped a salute. His two siblings did likewise. “Baby Room Inspection Service reporting for duty, your noble ladyness,” he said. “This room has been deemed acceptable for the young heir-to-be.”
“Aye aye, sir!” Beowulf added. He and his brother clicked their heels together for emphasis. It was a habit they had picked up from Captain Babushkinov. The children’s memories of their former friends in Plinkst were bittersweet at best, heartrending at worst, but the heel-clicking gesture was both invigorating and enjoyable, and they saw no reason to give it up.
“You are very big, Lady Globe.” Cassiopeia curtsied and spread both arms wide, as if to embrace the earth itself.
“Lady Globe?” Lady Constance’s expression soured. “Does she mean I look like some sort of planet?”
Mrs. Clarke stammered an explanation while the children volunteered to name all the planets, but Lord Fredrick interjected, “Nonsense, dear. You’re sleek as a racehorse. I’d never believe you were with child if Dr. Veltschmerz hadn’t said so.”
That made his wife beam. She perched her hands on either side of her enormous middle as if showing off a tiny wasp waist. “It’s true that we Barbeys are known for never losing our figures. And I am still wearing all my favorite dresses, so it must be so!” As you may recall, Miss Constance Barbey had been her name before she married Lord Fredrick. However, the seamstress Madame LePoint had been letting out all of Lady Constance’s dresses for months, and the lady was none the wiser.
“I hope you like how the room’s coming along, my lady,” Mrs. Clarke said, for she was rightly proud of it. “It’s not finished, of course! But we’re getting closer by the day. Why, I’ve already put some diapers in the drawers.”
“Diapers!” Lady Constance shivered in distaste. “What an awful word. I hope I shall not have to hear it again.” She walked around the room, inspecting. “I am not convinced about this wallpaper, Mrs. Clarke. It is very leafy.”
“It’s symbolic,” Beowulf offered. “It symbolizes leaves.”
“Leaves, yes . . .” Lady Constance chose a book from a small bookshelf that had been placed beneath the window. “Giddy-Yap, Rainbow!” she read, and confidently declared, “This story is about a pony. I can tell from the picture of the pony on the cover. But babies cannot read.” She frowned. “Can they?”
“Not at first, my lady,” Mrs. Clarke explained. “But even very young children like being read to. Our own Miss Lumley taught me that.” (It was Mrs. Clarke who had placed these books in the baby’s room, for, as previously mentioned, she had grown fond of the Giddy-Yap, Rainbow! tales. She sometimes read them aloud with great feeling when she was alone in her room, between bites of licorice. If caught, doubtless she would have blushed and said it was just practice for reading to the children, and that may have been true in part—but mostly she did it because she liked to. She liked saying the words and hearing them, and she liked imagining herself, a plump, widowed housekeeper with more of life behind her than ahead, as a wide-eyed young girl astride her first pony, learning to ride and having adventures and growing up all over again. It was like having a time machine and a fountain of youth rolled into one, and all between hard covers!)
Next, Lady Constance stopped in front of Beowulf’s painting. “What a strange picture,” she said. “It is gloomy, but not entirely so. One might say it is both gloomy and cheerful. But oh, my! Wolves! That will never do. It ought to show a bowl of fruit, or a queen with a dog in her lap, or some cut flowers waiting to be put in vases. Isn’t that what the best paintings have in them?”
Beowulf growled, just loud enough for his siblings to hear. This was quite out of character for a well-mannered Incorrigib
le, but not entirely out of character for an artist whose work has been so rudely unappreciated. Alexander pinched his brother’s arm in warning, and the younger boy covered his mistake with a bit of theatrical throat clearing. But Cassiopeia could not resist defending her brother.
“It’s art, you big Globe,” she said to the lady, none too respectfully.
Lady Constance looked around, suspicious. “Symbolic wallpaper? Books and art? What sort of a baby’s room is this?”
“Well, it’s not quite finished yet, as I said! And this painting is a present for the baby, isn’t it, Beowulf, dear? All three of the children made presents for the baby. Isn’t that lovely?” Mrs. Clarke said, trying make peace.
Judging by the look on her face, Lady Constance remained unconvinced.
IT WAS TRUE THAT THE Incorrigibles had made presents. They were generous by nature, but in this case their motives were complex. Frankly, there was something nerve-racking about not knowing how the burping, crying, diaper-wetting new arrival might change things at Ashton Place.
This is a perfectly ordinary way to feel about the arrival of new babies, of course. In such situations, kindness is all that is truly required, but “A present couldn’t hurt,” as Agatha Swanburne had often advised. In that spirit, Beowulf had made his painting, and Alexander had built a clever toy called a kaleidoscope. It was made from one of those newfangled telegraph tubes that the postman had given him as a curiosity, with some bits of broken mirror and a handful of sequins and sparkly beads cadged from Madame LePoint.
The Long-Lost Home Page 6
