“Under no circumstances am I to be disturbed,” he announced, “for I am hungry beyond endurance, and I require absolute silence to gain the full enjoyment of my meal.”
“I shall do my best to oblige.” The curtains rustled, and the man who called himself Judge Quinzy (you know the imposter’s true identity, of course!) stepped away from the window and into Gogolev’s view.
Gogolev was so startled, he nearly knocked over the tray. This made him doubly upset, for what a catastrophe that would have been! “Who are you, sir, to impose upon my company in this manner? Did you come in the window like a burglar? Is it my bread you want? Or my herring? I warn you, I shall defend myself—and my lunch—with vigor, and no mercy!” Gogolev brandished the cover of the platter like a shield. The poor man had worked up quite a head of steam, but this is what comes of letting oneself get too hungry.
Edward Ashton spoke sternly. “Get hold of yourself, sir! That you failed to notice me is no fault of mine. I entered this room moments before you did, through the very same door, and was standing by the window the whole time. I am no burglar but a friend of Lord Fredrick Ashton’s.” He stepped closer to the sniveling tutor. “We have met before, in Brighton. Perhaps this will jog your memory: I am a man of the law.”
Gogolev flinched. “Man of the law . . . met in Brighton . . . are you Judge Quinzy? Yes, of course you are! Forgive me, your honor! I meant no insult, I swear!” It should be noted that Master Gogolev had a terrible fear of the law, due to a lost library book from childhood that weighed heavily on his conscience still. The mere sight of a police officer or a judge was enough to make him perspire with anxiety. “But it is a strange coincidence to see you here at Ashton Place. The last time we met, you were a legal adviser to my former employers. The Babushkinovs.” His eye twitched as he said the name.
“I have many clients,” Ashton replied smoothly. “Surely there is nothing strange about that. The simplest explanation is often the best, Master Gogolev. It is the lesson of Occam’s Razor. I would expect a professional educator to know that.” He made a circuit of the room, peeking into corners and behind the furniture. “Where are your students? That is who I have come to see.”
“My students?” Gogolev had forgotten all about them. He glanced around the nursery and shrugged. “They were here a while ago. They must have gone to take their exercise out of doors.”
“Unsupervised?” Edward Ashton roared in anger. “The master of this house pays you to keep a close eye on his wards, you incompetent! Do you have any idea how much is at stake should they wander off?” He sniffed. “What’s that I smell? Something burning? Something fishy?”
Gogolev’s fear of the law was great, but his selfish desire not to share his lunch was even greater. However, if you have ever tried to hide a large tray of smoked herring in a modest-sized room, you know the aroma is potent, no matter how quickly you slam down the lid you were previously using as a shield, nor how many cozy pillows embroidered with wise sayings you hurriedly pile on top.
“No doubt it is my burning passion for poetry you smell.” Gogolev wheeled to face his interrogator. “And my fishing for a perfect turn of phrase! For I suffer from a broken heart, and have spent hours in this very room, writing verse as a balm for my pain.”
He grabbed the sheaf of papers he had been working on earlier and shoved them into Edward Ashton’s hands. “Here are my latest masterworks! Though I fear they are too groundbreaking to find favor with the general public.”
“Is this yours, too?” Edward Ashton removed a small hardcover book from within the pile of papers. It was bound in leather and much read, from the look of it.
The tutor grimaced. “Bah! No. It is some nonsense belonging to the children. A book of poetry, translated from the German. Pure rubbish, in my opinion.”
“‘Wanderlust,’” said Ashton, turning the pages. “‘I wander through the meadows green, Made happy by the verdant scene.’ It seems a harmless little poem. What is your objection?”
Gogolev seized the book back. “Harmless? Look at the cover! A Collection of Melancholy Poetry. That is what the title promises. But ‘Made happy by the verdant scene’? What kind of melancholy is that?” He flipped through the pages with mounting irritation. “It is the same all the way through. Charming descriptions of mountain goats and ibexes! Blooming edelweiss and cute babies! This is not poetry. Where is the suffering? The torment? The thwarted dreams?”
“Edelweiss and babies. Fascinating.” Ashton’s tone was quite changed. “You don’t mind if I borrow this dreadful book, do you, my good man?”
It was not Gogolev’s book to lend, but the dark-eyed man of the law stood before him, expectant. Something snapped within the poor fellow. He turned pale and could not answer.
“Master Gogolev? Are you listening?” Edward Ashton stepped closer to the trembling tutor. “Give me the book, if you please.” He extended a hand slowly, like an accusing ghost.
“Ahh! Ahh!” Gogolev stammered and swooned. The sight of a stern judge demanding a book from him had been the stuff of his nightmares since childhood. He rubbed his eyes, but the fearful apparition would not go away.
“Am I dreaming, then? But the herring smelled so real!” In despair and confusion, he let the book slip through his hands. “Take it, spirit! Take it, and be gone!”
Ashton caught the volume neatly as Gogolev sank to the floor. “Thank you, my dear Master Gogolev.” He turned the book over in his hands and leafed through the first pages. Something he saw there made him catch his breath. Then he smiled. “Of course I did not find them in Switzerland, for they were not there,” he murmured. “Not in Switzerland at all.”
But now, thanks to this idiot tutor and a book of mediocre poetry, he knew exactly where to look.
He traced a finger along the book’s cover, where the faded imprint of the author’s name was pressed into the leather, though the gold leaf had long since worn away. Only a fool would leave such an obvious clue, and sign her name so! But they were all fools. An optimistic, naive collection of fools, bred from the foolish founder of the line. They must be culled, like runts from a litter. This was how the Ashtons would survive.
One more moon. It was enough time, but barely. He would need to leave England at once. Tomorrow he would book passage on a ship, any ship. This time he would not fail.
But to Gogolev he only said, “Mind your students, sir! Make sure they stay at Ashton Place! They must not run off. And keep this conversation to yourself. Tell no one I was here. Understood?”
Still cowering, Gogolev agreed to everything. If only he had never lost that library book in the first place! If only the herring were real! If only he could wake up from this awful dream!
ALAS, AND WOE! IF MISS Penelope Lumley had only known that her book of melancholy German poetry in translation was now in the clutches of Edward Ashton! You may imagine how she would feel about it, for this was the book of poetry Miss Mortimer had given her as a gift, many years before. It had been Penelope’s most treasured possession ever since, and when she was shipped off to Plinkst, she had left it with the Incorrigible children as a keepsake of her affection.
But Penelope did not know anything about this plot twist—at least, not yet. She was still with her employers, who had long ago succumbed to that dreaded condition known as travel fatigue. After countless miles by troika and train they were exhausted, queasy, and generally out of sorts. With the new clothes they could not afford now rumpled and covered with grit, the bedraggled Babushkinovs and their quiet but unusually alert governess arrived in Saint Petersburg at last.
Saint Petersburg! Penelope struggled to hide her excitement. Like London, Saint Petersburg was built along a central river, called the Neva. Also like London, this sprawling city was both the nation’s capital and the home of its royal rulers. In London, this was Queen Victoria. In Saint Petersburg, it was Tsar Nicholas, a tall, stern military man with a fiery temper and an obsession for order. (Nicholas was an autocrat, which means he was the
sort of leader who tries to make his own people afraid of him. Under Nicholas’s reign, the Russian national anthem was “God Save the Tsar,” and the Russian national opera was A Life for the Tsar: A Patriotic Heroic-Tragic Opera. If any Russian bards had dared write a comedic operetta, it might well have been called The Tsar on Holiday, but comedic operettas were not a type of theater one often saw in Russia, a fact that remains true to this very day.)
Saint Petersburg! Saint Petersburg! Captain Babushkinov haggled with the cab driver who would take them from the train station to their lodgings. Penelope felt a pang. To think she had arrived at the home of the Imperial Russian Ballet yet would not have the chance to see them perform! It was a bitter disappointment.
To save money, the captain had arranged for them to stay in military housing. Madame Babushkinov was furious to discover that their “hotel” was really a barracks, a single large hall with cots all in a row, and a washing-up room they would have to share. Luckily, the only other resident was a young artillery officer named Leo. He was visiting the capital while on leave, or so he modestly explained as he helped unload their luggage from the cab.
He seemed a bookish sort of fellow, with a serious face and heavy straight eyebrows that sloped downward over his dark eyes. Penelope saw him several times in the common room of the barracks as she and the children explored their temporary quarters. On each occasion, he was either reading or scribbling in his diaries. (Penelope and the Babushkinovs had no way of knowing this, but the thoughtful young man they were expected to share a bathroom with would prove to be one of the greatest novelists of all time. His name was Leo Tolstoy, and he would go on to write several literary masterpieces about war, peace, families both happy and unhappy, and other important topics that continue to fascinate readers to this very day.)
It was rare that women stayed in the barracks. A curtain was provided to hang like a screen, to give some privacy to the cots assigned to Madame Babushkinov, Penelope, and Veronika. Young Tolstoy generously helped with this task but showed no interest in befriending the captain to boast about his own exploits, or to gossip about wars and politics and career advancement, as one might expect of a junior officer.
Instead, shortly after dinner, he approached Penelope in the common room and asked if he might sit quietly and observe the Babushkinov children. He told her that he had been thinking about the nature of childhood and planned to write about it, and wanted to better remember what being a child was like, as he was nearly twenty-four and it already felt so very long ago.
Gladly she said yes, for she welcomed the company. Together they sat and watched Veronika, Boris, and Constantin at play.
“These children are horrible,” Tolstoy shortly observed, thus displaying the deep insight into human nature that would characterize his later work.
“They are,” Penelope agreed. She felt immediately at ease with this young man, who seemed to possess a wisdom beyond his years. “The whole family is unhappy, for reasons too complicated to explain.” She paused, but her instinct told her it was all right to confide in her new acquaintance. “I once had hope for these children, and tried to teach them as I was taught, but my efforts failed.”
“No hopeless case is truly without hope,” he said fervently. “What did you try to teach them?”
“Oh . . . to be kind,” she stammered. His directness took her by surprise, as did his unwitting use of the Swanburne motto. “To think of others as well as of oneself. To be grateful, not just for good fortune but for all fortune, the good and the bad, for it is life’s nature to offer a bit of both. To use good manners, not just with one’s friends but with everyone, even strangers.”
“Do you mind if I take some notes?” he asked, and removed a stubby pencil from his coat pocket. Penelope shook her head no, of course she would not mind. “Please, go on,” he urged.
She closed her eyes, to better remember all she had learned at school: not only the capitals of nations and techniques of watercolor painting, but the truly important things. “To spend time in nature, and not laze about indoors when the weather is fair,” she said. “To be curious about everything in the world, and every person whom you meet. To be a loyal friend and avoid gossip. To always carry a book in case of missed omnibuses or long lines at the grocer’s, for no moment spent reading can ever be thought wasted. To keep one’s room tidy and strive for early bedtimes.”
“And where did you learn all these wise things?” he inquired.
Penelope sat up straight and proud. “At the Swanburne Academy for Poor Bright Females. In Heathcote.”
“Poor Bright Females, yes.” His eyebrows knitted together in an expression of profound concentration. Then he snapped his notebook shut and jumped to his feet. “Someday I will start my own school for peasant children!” he blurted, and took his leave abruptly, the way people do when they have had a marvelous idea and wish to think it through before it fades.
Penelope did not mind. His intensity reminded her of Simon Harley-Dickinson, and she took comfort in the thought that her new friend and Simon would get along swimmingly, if they should ever have the chance to meet. (Whether the notion of a Tolstoy Academy for Poor Bright Peasants was conceived at this very moment we cannot know, but later in his life Leo Tolstoy did in fact open a school for peasant children. He even wrote little primers designed to teach these children how to read. That he did all this while also penning some of the greatest novels ever written simply goes to show that “Those who do, do much. Those who talk, talk much.” That is how Agatha Swanburne once put it, anyway.)
IN SAINT PETERSBURG IN APRIL, the last light of dusk faded quite late in the evening, but for once the Babushkinovs chose an early bedtime, as they were exhausted. Being in the barracks put Madame on her best behavior, for she knew how important the charm of an officer’s wife could be to securing his advancement! Yet without the freedom to blame and criticize and order people around, she could find little to talk about. She soon crawled into her cot in silent irritation and turned to face the wall.
The children were likewise worn out and went to bed with only minor griping about the lumpy mattresses and thin, scratchy military blankets. Once tucked into her own narrow cot, Penelope fell asleep in an instant and dreamed she was back at Swanburne. But the illusion did not last, for the captain’s rumbling snore from the other side of the curtain was a sound she would never have heard at school. (Her bunkmate had snored with gusto, make no mistake. But Cecily’s snores were of the piping soprano kind, and blended nicely with the morning birdsong.)
She awoke refreshed, and quite early, in time to get the very first cup of tea from the samovar in the common room. She sat and sipped and considered her next move. “The Babushkinovs will soon discover that the letter that brought them here was a fake, so I must act quickly,” she thought. “If I simply walk out, they will come looking for me. No . . . best to slip away under the pretext of some complicated errand. It will be hours before they realize I have not returned, and that will give me the advantage of a head start. All I need is a window of opportunity.” (A window of this kind is no ordinary hole in the wall. Such windows open, but briefly and only once. To dither and dally when the window of opportunity opens means to end up with one’s nose pressed against the glass of fate, gazing with regret at what might have been. There is an old saying that advises us to “look before you leap,” but to leap without looking is not nearly as bad as to look, and look again, and never work up the courage to leap at all.)
By the time Penelope returned, Veronika had arisen, in a deep crisis of confidence. She claimed to have forgotten not only how to dance, but how to walk. Paralyzed with fright, she lay facedown on her cot, moaning into the pillow.
Madame Babushkinov was ill equipped to console the child, for she was a bundle of nerves herself and chattered nonstop. “I am done wasting away in Plinkst, that is for certain!” she announced. “This is where I belong! The culture! The excitement! Listen to me, Ivan. Once our Nikki is in the ballet, I shall have
to stay in Saint Petersburg to supervise her. A girl of her age needs a mother. We will lease an apartment here, in the city. Wouldn’t you like that, precious girl?”
Veronika raised her tear-streaked face from the pillow. “Only if the savages stay home,” she said heatedly. “Boris and Constantin can live in Plinkst. If they come here it will ruin everything!”
The captain put down his newspaper. “An apartment in Saint Petersburg?” he said to his wife, incredulous. “You will spend me into bankruptcy!”
“We want to go home!” the boys wailed, for this idea of their mother abandoning the family to live with Veronika did not sit well with them.
“Fine, fine,” the captain retorted. “We shall all go home at once!”
Madame snatched his newspaper away and scolded, “Ivan Victorovich, stop tormenting the child!” as Veronika shrieked wildly into her pillow.
“We want to walk outside and throw stones in the river!” the boys demanded.
This was the most sensible thing any of them had said so far. Penelope quickly volunteered to take them, for she was desperate to get away from the quarreling. Her window of opportunity to escape had not yet opened, but in the meanwhile she could at least take a walk and see her surroundings. For she was in Saint Petersburg, home of the Imperial Ballet and countless other wonders, and who knew if she would ever pass this way again?
BORIS AND CONSTANTIN WERE SMUGLY victorious about having an excursion while their sister was left behind. They spent the first quarter hour of their walk gloating. Then they began planning the lies they would tell Veronika upon their return, about all the wonderful adventures she had missed.
“We’ll say we saw an organ grinder with a monkey,” suggested Boris.
“And a fire eater,” said Constantin.
“A fire-eating monkey! Who does tricks.”
“While riding a horse.”
“No, a camel.”
“Camels stink. A horse is better.”
The Long-Lost Home Page 10
