The Mysterious Howling (18 page)

Hanging onto the door to keep himself upright, Lord Fredrick himself half swung, half stumbled into the sitting room.

“Fredrick!” Lady Constance leaped to her feet.
“Wherever have you been?”

“Oh, here and there. Merry Christmas, dear! Just got home I'm afraid. Sorry to miss the party and all that. But no great loss when you think of it. Christmas comes every year, that's lucky, what?” He looked pale and tired, and he held his hand up to his face as if the soft light sifting through the sitting room curtains was blinding him. Then he let go of the door and grabbed the back of a nearby settee for support. Penelope noticed there were scratches on his neck and the backs of his hands.

“What's going on in here, then?” He squinted in Penelope's direction. “You look familiar. Blast it all, now I remember. You're the governess, are you not?”

“For the moment, yes,” Penelope mumbled, staring at her shoes.

Lady Constance's expression was cool and masklike once more. “She
was
the governess, Fredrick. In fact, I was just about to fire Miss Lumley when you walked in.”

“Fired! Bad luck, that. It's not easy to find work these days.” Lord Fredrick yawned widely. “But I say, Constance, if Miss Lumley here goes, who will look after the Incorrigibles?”

Lady Constance wrung her hands; for some reason, it made Penelope think of Nutsawoo. “Fredrick, now that you are home, we have a great deal to discuss. Oh,
I have been waiting for your return; it has been simply awful! The Incorrigibles must be sent away. If only you had been here to see what happened last night at the party! Those wretched children are not fit to live among humans. They must be sent to the orphanage, or the workhouse, or back to the woods, I don't care—”

“They most certainly will not. Finders keepers, what?” He laughed and then winced at the volume of his own chuckle. He clutched at his head and continued speaking, much more softly. “Anyway, I don't know what you mean, Constance. I heard the party went quite well.”

Lady Constance could barely whisper her reply. “Really? And from what source did you hear this?”

“That new chap at the club, Quinzy. Ran into him leaving just as I was coming in. He said it was jolly good fun. Maytag downed a bear, and Hoover took down a fourteen-point stag. Made me sorry I missed it, to tell you the truth! As for the children, they are mine. I found 'em and I shall keep 'em here at Ashton Place until I'm good and done with 'em. And they'll need someone to look after them, so you may as well leave this Lumley person exactly where she is. Unless you want to raise them yourself, what?”

Lady Constance was so choked with rage, she could not speak but merely sputtered,
Eh-eh-eh-eh
.

“That's settled, then.” Lord Fredrick rubbed his temples gingerly. “Now, if you don't mind, I need a headache lozenge, and some dyspepsia tablets, and a vinegar compress, nice and cool, please. Would you ring for someone to bring them to me? But not until I leave! Don't want to risk hearing the bell. That would be agony, what?” He lurched unsteadily to the door.

“Fredrick, dear?” All at once, Lady Constance resumed speaking in her customary sweet tone, as if it were the only voice she possessed. “Do you happen to know anything about a letter?”

“A letter? Why, there's twenty-six of 'em—which one do you mean?” He chuckled, but silently this time.

“Silly. I mean, did you send a letter to Leeds' Thespians? Telling them what sort of
tableaux
to prepare?”

He looked puzzled. “Why on earth would I do that? Thespians! Waste of money if you ask me.” His hand went to his head once more. “Ring for that compress, would you? I'll be in my study, resting. With any luck I'll be up and about later, after the lozenge takes effect.”

“You're not thinking of going to the club, are you?” Lady Constance asked in alarm.

“Not today, dear, no. Not quite up to it, I'm afraid.” But something in his voice made it seem as if he wished he were.

A
FTER
L
ORD
F
REDRICK LEFT
, the two young women sat in silence for a moment. Then Lady Constance burst into tears.

Penelope was not without sympathy, but she was not sure what would be the proper way to express it, given that she had just narrowly escaped being fired from her job by the person she now felt obliged to comfort.

“There, there,” she said tentatively. It seemed to do no harm, so she repeated it. “There, there.”

Lady Constance sprang up from her seat and wiped her eyes as she paced around the room. “How can he
refuse
to realize that the children should be sent away! They are fiendish and untamed! They are entirely inconvenient! They are not even related to me. They are orphans. It is time they took up their rightful place as burdens on society! Any sane person in my position would think so. If you were me, Miss Lumley, I assure you, you would feel exactly the same.”

Penelope felt tempted to point out that, if she were Lady Constance, naturally she would feel the same, for she would no longer be Penelope; therefore, the comparison was lacking in both logic and persuasive oomph. But Lady Constance was on a bit of a tear and kept talking.

“But, no, Fredrick will not hear of it. Finders keepers,
that's all he ever says on the subject. Miss Lumley, it appears I am trapped! I am stuck with the lot of you; that much is clear. We shall have to make the best of it, then.” Her round doll eyes narrowed. “But if my suspicions and yours are correct, and the children were provoked on purpose, that means someone—
someone
wanted to make a fool of me by sending that letter to the thespians! And releasing that squirrel into the house! And I intend to know who it was.”

“I believe I know,” said Penelope eagerly. “I believe it may have been Old—”

But she stopped, for she did not know, for certain. And was it not true that Old Timothy was the most trusted servant in the household? Surely between her word and his, his would prevail.

Nor was he the only suspect; he was merely one among many, and now this letter provided fresh and strange evidence—but in whose direction did it point? Too, Penelope longed to ask about the strange staircase the children had discovered upstairs, but she did not feel it wise to confess to Lady Constance that they had wandered into the attic without permission.

Further use of her powers of deduction would have to wait. For now it was enough to know that she and the Incorrigibles would remain together at Ashton Place
and that Lady Constance might serve as an unlikely ally in the task of solving this puzzle.

“Lady Constance, we are confronted with a mystery,” was what Penelope finally said in answer. “It reminds me of the words of Agatha Swanburne: ‘One can board one's train only after it arrives at the station. Until then, enjoy your newspaper!'”

“Enjoy your newspaper?” Lady Constance gave a little snort. “What on
earth
does that mean?”

Then Lady Constance tossed her head and stamped both her feet in impatience. It was a gesture Penelope found endearingly ponylike, and the young governess allowed herself a smile.

“It is never one hundred percent certain what the sayings of Agatha Swanburne mean,” she explained gently, “but my former headmistress, Miss Charlotte Mortimer, always insists that that is part of their value. As for the one about enjoying your newspaper, I would interpret it this way: Sometimes the wisest course of action is to simply wait and see what happens next.”

Her answer gave Lady Constance pause. “Well, it is difficult to argue with that,” she said, after a moment. Then she went to ring for Lord Fredrick's lozenge.

E
PILOGUE
A Letter to Miss Charlotte Mortimer

W
ITH SO MUCH TO PONDER
, and so much tidying up to do (for of course Penelope and the children volunteered to help clean up the dreadful mess that had been made), it was nearly a week before Penelope had organized her thoughts sufficiently to write to Miss Charlotte Mortimer about this first, eventful Christmas at Ashton Place.

She and Cassiopeia were seated in the nursery near the window, where the light was good for writing and Cassiopeia could enjoy the antics of Nutsawoo playing
in the branches. Alexander and Beowulf were a little ways away, reenacting the Battle of Hastings with toy soldiers, but they were doing it quietly, and everyone was content.

After wishing her a Happy New Year and inquiring how she liked the journal Penelope had sent as a gift, in quick strokes Penelope told Miss Mortimer about the unsavory
tableaux,
the unexpected letter, the uninvited squirrel, and the unthinkable hunting expedition. She decided not to mention the mysterious howling from behind the attic wall, at least not for now. The more time passed, the more she doubted she had really heard anything, and ever since the embarrassment of mistaking Old Timothy for the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, she had vowed not to let her imagination run so wild in the future.

She concluded her letter with her thoughts on the question of who might have let the squirrel in, and why. Then she added a postscript about how all the fuss had ended happily, for not only had she not been fired from her position and the children sent away, but the whole escapade had led to the addition of dear Nutsawoo to their lives.

You know I believe that all children should have pets if it can possibly be managed,
she wrote.
I feel it is beneficial
to give even the littlest children responsibility for something more helpless and in need of care than themselves. In this way selfishness is avoided, generosity is nurtured, and the heart's affections are exercised until they can bend and stretch to encompass all the world's creatures
.

Penelope signed her name and then blew on the ink to dry it before folding the letter and addressing it for the post. During the letter writing Cassiopeia had taken out her doll-sized combs and brushes and amused herself by playing with Penelope's hair, as little girls so dearly like to do, even to this very day.

“Lumawoo hair, pretty, look.”

“I am not in the habit of gazing into mirrors for entertainment,” Penelope said distractedly. But she was secretly pleased by the compliment. With all the hullabaloo of getting ready for the party, she had never had time to apply the herbal poultice Miss Mortimer had sent to her, but even without it she noticed how her hair seemed to be remaining in good health—perhaps it had even acquired a bit more shine in the last week or so. No doubt the abundant food at Ashton Place and fresh country air agreed with her.

“Look,” Cassiopeia said again, as she brushed Penelope's hair down its full length, now about halfway down her back. “Apples.”
Apples
was her current
word for all things reddish. “Cassawoof apples, Lumawoo apples,” she repeated.

Before Penelope could see what on earth the girl meant, Cassiopeia pulled a lock of her own auburn hair loose from its ribbon, laid it next to a lock of her teacher's, and draped them forward over Penelope's shoulder, where they could both see them intermingled. The color was identical.

“Apples,” Cassiopeia said, delighted with the discovery. “Same apples!”

“Silly girl,” Penelope said fondly, as she quickly twisted her hair back into its customary bun. “It is just a trick of the light I am sure. Now, let us read another chapter of
A New Friend for Rainbow—
but this time I expect you to follow along. It is time you began learning to read for yourself. . . .”

And, with little Nutsawoo nestled in Cassiopeia's lap (for he too seemed to enjoy a good story), that is just what they did.

To Be Continued
. . .

Abundant thanks to my agent, Elizabeth Kaplan, who would make a superb governess, and to my remarkable editor, Donna Bray, who loves
Jane Eyre
as much as I do. They are both Swanburne girls, through and through, and I am lucky to know them.

Thanks to Alessandra Balzer, Ruta Rimas, and all the excellent people at Balzer & Bray and HarperCollins Children's Books for their support and enthusiasm. I'm especially grateful for the attentive copyediting by Kathryn Silsand and Kimberly Craskey. Special thanks to Melissa Sarver at the Elizabeth Kaplan Literary Agency for her smarts, good cheer, and unfailing professionalism.

Squealing fangirl thanks to Jon Klassen, whose illustrations are so marvelous they make me want to howl with joy.

I salute and thank the many faithful family members and friends whose patient and supportive energies help keep this writer from slipping too far down the slope, especially Beatrix, Harry, Laury, Mana, Andrew, Joe, and of course, Bob. Lil' the dog deserves a nod also, and a scratch behind the ears.

Sincere thanks to Professor Michael Oil for his useful comments, especially regarding the work of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Portions of the book were written and revised during several delightful residencies at the Lasagna Cottage Writer's Sanctuary and Snack Shack; for this I am deeply grateful. (To my fellow authors: do not endeavor to apply for this residency; it is offered by invitation only and, frankly, there is not much room at the cottage. However, the lasagna is delicious.)

Maryrose Wood

April 17, 2009