The Mysterious Howling (3 page)

“Tell me, then,” she said, “about Ashton Place.”

Lady Constance brightened at once and launched into an animated description of the house: the history, the architecture, the furnishings. Everything on the premises, she explained, was of the highest quality. The most valuable antiquities had been acquired by her husband's great-grandfather, Admiral Percival Racine Ashton, who had designed and built the house and was himself a figure of historical importance—

“Ahwooooooooooooooooooo! Ahwoooooooooooooo!”

“Woof! Woof!”

At the sound, the pink circles on Lady Ashton's cheeks visibly shrank and disappeared, as if someone had rubbed them out with an eraser.

“Pardon me,” she said abruptly, rising. She scurried across the drawing room and tugged repeatedly on the bellpull that hung by the door. Penelope could hear it ring in some faraway part of the house.

Mrs. Clarke appeared on the instant.

“I'm terribly sorry, my lady,” she said quickly, “we've done our best to keep them quiet—”

“Mrs. Clarke!” Lady Constance interrupted, in a loud voice full of false cheer. “Surely those hunting dogs need to be fed! They sound
entirely
desperate!”

Then she leaned over and whispered rapidly in Mrs. Clarke's ear. Mrs. Clarke clapped her hand over her mouth and listened. When Lady Constance was done, Mrs. Clarke glanced nervously at Penelope and then back to her mistress.

“Of course, my lady, I will see to—the dogs—at once.” Then she left.

Lady Constance walked slowly back to her seat, lowered herself carefully, and heaved a most unladylike sigh. Her golden, delicately curved eyebrows frowned in deepest concentration as she glared at the carpet.

Recall that it was Penelope's first job interview; there was nothing for her to compare the experience to except a historical account she had once read describing the interrogation of military prisoners during the
Napoleonic Wars. This hardly seemed relevant. However, the look on Lady Constance's face had grown quite serious, and Penelope guessed that the pleasantries must now be over.

She took a deep breath and braced herself to answer probing questions about her literary and scientific knowledge, her skill at mathematics, penmanship, and musical composition, her grasp of geography and the rules of lawn tennis, and her familiarity with the rudiments of first aid.

“Well,” said Lady Constance decisively, after a pause, “Miss Lumley. You are certainly everything I had hoped for in a governess, and more. May I offer you the position?”

“What?” Penelope exclaimed, unable to hide her surprise.

“Forgive me! Of course you need to know the terms. I am utterly hopeless with numbers, but Lord Ashton drew this up for your perusal before he left for business this morning.” She handed Penelope a folded sheet of heavy notepaper, monogrammed with a large, decorative
A
.

Penelope opened it and read. The neat writing within indicated salary, number of holidays, sick leave, and so forth. The terms were generous, excessively so.
Ridiculously so, in fact.

“I do hope the salary is adequate! If you require, Lord Ashton will make any necessary adjustments.” Lady Constance looked at Penelope with a strangely blank expression on her face and waited for her answer.

“These terms are perfectly acceptable,” Penelope finally choked out.

“Excellent, excellent!” Lady Constance sprang from her seat once more and paced around the room. “You must start at once. Today, in fact! I will send instructions to your school—Swansea? Swansong? You must remind me of the name—to send the rest of your things.”

“My trunk is in the carriage that brought me from the station,” Penelope said. “I have no other possessions.” She was suddenly dizzy and thought this must be what people meant when they said that a person was “in shock.” But she managed to stand up, and Lady Constance impulsively took her right hand in both of her own.

“Miss Lumley,” she said, “may I have your solemn oath that you will embrace the position of governess and fulfill its duties from this day forward? I would hate to endure the
crushing
disappointment I would feel, if you should suddenly change your mind.”

Penelope straightened and returned the lady's gaze with as much forthrightness as she could muster, given the rapid turn of events.

“The word of a Swanburne girl is as solemn an oath as anyone could require,” she replied. “Have no fear on that account. I accept.”

And with that, they both affixed their signatures to the bottom of the letter of terms that Lord Ashton had prepared. Penelope hardly thought this necessary, but Lady Constance assured her that signed, binding contracts were the custom in these parts, a charming formality which she would not dream of omitting.

T
HE
T
HIRD
C
HAPTER
The source of the mysterious howling is revealed
.

W
HEN PEOPLE EXPERIENCE
a sudden, happy change of fortune, it often comes as a great shock to the system. Reckless personalities may do foolish and extravagant things, such as buying a yacht even if they are prone to seasickness and do not know their port side from their aft, while more cautious souls might busy themselves with trivial, repetitive tasks as they wait for the surprise to wear off. Many a winning lottery ticket holder, upon receiving the news, has spent the entire afternoon methodically sharpening pencils; for all we know some
are sharpening still, their winnings yet unclaimed.

Temperamentally speaking, Penelope was more of a pencil sharpener than a yacht buyer. Earlier that very morning, she had been a sleepy girl on a noisy train, but now she was a professional governess in an enormous and unimaginably wealthy house. Part of her was itching to run to the nursery, meet the children, and begin instructing them immediately in Latin verbs and the correct use of globes. She was also eager to write Miss Charlotte Mortimer a letter, telling her the excellent news. But even more powerful than those urges was the urge to unpack her trunk and carpetbag and put her room in order. After all, Ashton Place was her home now, and as Agatha Swanburne often said, “A well-organized stocking drawer is the first step toward a well-organized mind.”

Penelope's trunk was brought up to a small, second-floor bedroom, and Mrs. Clarke sent a young lady's maid named Margaret upstairs to help “put away your frocks and bonnets,” as the girl explained in her shy, squeaky voice. But when Penelope explained that she had brought many books and few clothes, all of which she would prefer to arrange herself, Margaret curtsied and left the new resident of Ashton Place to her own devices.

With so few possessions, Penelope did not take long to complete her task. Within half an hour her garments were hung up or folded in dresser drawers, and a dozen carefully chosen books were displayed on the small shelf near the door, including her very own brand-new copy of
Edith-Anne Gets a Pony,
a good-bye gift from the girls at Swanburne. It was the first book in the Giddy-Yap, Rainbow! series—an excellent present, of course, but Penelope would have preferred
Silky Mischief,
which was her favorite. No matter; now that she would be earning a salary, Penelope resolved to buy copies of the entire series to read aloud to her pupils—what a happy chore that would be!

The rest of the books she left in the trunk for the present, until they could find their permanent home in the nursery. There would be so much to do! She wondered if she would be allowed to have breakfast with the children and, if so, at what time. The interview with Lady Constance had been so brief and strange that there had been no chance to delve into such details.

“Still,” she thought, “there will be plenty of opportunity to learn the ins and outs of my new position ‘on the job,' as it were. For now, my sole occupation should be to acquaint myself with my new home—starting with this charming room.”

At Swanburne, Penelope had always shared her sleeping quarters. The dormitory halls had each held a dozen girls, two to a cot. So, to have her own bed, in her own room, was an unheard-of luxury. And such a room! The flocked wallpaper had a delicate floral print, the floors were covered with fine Arabian carpeting in a leaf-and-ivy pattern, and the mahogany dresser had drawer-pulls carved in the shape of mushrooms. The four-poster bed was covered with soft, moss-green bedding embroidered with every decorative stitch Penelope had ever learned and many she had never seen before.

Best of all: Tall French windows opened to a small, private balcony. Penelope threw the windows open and stepped outside. How delightful it was! Out here she could sit and take the air, read, admire the gardens near the house, and gaze at the majestic forest in the distance—

“Ahwooooooooooooooooooo!”

“Woof! Woof!”

“Ahwooooooooooooooooooo!”

There it was again—the baying, barking, and howling of the dogs. Could they be hungry again so soon after being fed? Did they miss their master and long for the thrill of the hunt? Or was there something else
amiss? The noise seemed to be coming from the direction of the barn.

“Ahwooooooooooooooooooo!”

“Woof! Woof!”

“Ahwooooooooooooooooooo!”

“There is something beyond hunger in these cries,” Penelope thought. She recalled all the times she had tagged along after Dr. Westminster, the Swanburne veterinarian. Once she saw him cure a dog of excessive howling by pulling a single badly rotted tooth. The relief that flooded the poor creature's face when the offending bicuspid was removed had impressed Penelope greatly at the time, and she resolved then and there to never let an animal suffer when comfort could be given.

“Ahwooooooooooooooooooo! Ahwoooooooooooooo!”

Surely some medical difficulty was at work here as well? For this was no ordinary howling, but an anguished cry from the very soul of one—or more—otherwise mute beings!

“Ahwoooooooooooooo!”

“Ahwoooooooooooooo!”

“Ahwoooooooooooooo!”

“Since the children are not yet ready to make my acquaintance,” she thought, seizing her cloak, “I have
no duties to speak of and, therefore, none I can be accused of shirking.”

Her decision was made. She left her room and headed downstairs. She would visit the barn at once, to see what aid she might render to the miserable creature—or creatures—within.

“M
ISS
L
UMLEY
! M
ISS
L
UMLEY
! Please—wait—you musn't—”

Mrs. Clarke chased Penelope across the grounds, but Penelope had the advantage of youth, not to mention two minutes' head start. The older lady was clearly unused to exercise; by the time she caught up with Penelope, her face looked like the scarlet top of a mercury thermometer just prior to bursting.

“Miss Lumley, it is not proper for you to wander the grounds unescorted—”

“With all respect, Mrs. Clarke, are you deaf?” All Miss Mortimer's advice to Penelope about restraining her natural boldness was forgotten; in Penelope's view, this was a true emergency. “There is a wounded animal in the barn, or perhaps more than one! I am going to see what the trouble is.”

“You should wait,” Mrs. Clarke gasped, “for Lord Fredrick to return home—”

“By then it may be too late.” Penelope quickened her pace even more. “But tell me, how many beasts are in there? And how long have they been carrying on so?”

“Miss Lumley, you don't understand!” The two ladies had reached the barn, and Mrs. Clarke flung herself in front of Penelope, blocking the doors. “It's the children,” she said, shaking with upset. “The children are”—
huff, puff
—“inside”—
puff!
—“the barn!”

“The children!” Penelope stopped short. “With those agitated dogs? Surely that is unwise!”

Mrs. Clarke merely stammered, “Eh!—eh!—eh!” but offered no explanation.

Then Penelope had a terrifying thought. “Perhaps the children grew worried for the safety of their beloved ponies and rushed inside to protect them!” she cried. “Surely that is what I would have done, had I been in their place!”

“Ponies?” Mrs. Clarke looked bewildered. “What ponies? We don't have any ponies—”

“Ahwoooooooooooooo!”

“Ahwoooooooooooooo!”

“Ahwoooooooooooooo!”

Without further discussion, Penelope shoved the distraught housekeeper aside, leaned her full weight
against the great wooden doors, and pushed them open.

As the sunlight flooded the dark interior, the howling abruptly stopped. Penelope looked around. The barn smelled strongly of leather and hay, but the stalls—at least, those she could see—were empty. The sudden silence was broken only by the panting of Mrs. Clarke, who stood silhouetted in the doorway, clutching her voluminous bosom.

“Hello?” Penelope said, in a soft, soothing tone. “Oh, you unfortunate creatures, are you all right?”

Slowly, noiselessly, something moved inside the barn. Three sets of eyes glinted from the dark corners of the rearmost stalls, where the sun did not reach.

“Come here.” Penelope wished she had thought to bring some scraps of meat with her to lure the poor frightened things. “Come out where I can see you.”

The creatures obeyed.

They were not dogs, or ponies, or any other kind of four-legged animal. They were three children, and they stared at Penelope with the shining, watchful eyes of wild things.

They were three children, and they stared at Penelope with the shining, watchful eyes of wild things
.

All three were wrapped in coarse saddle blankets but wore no other clothing, not even shoes. Their hair was long and tangled and of the same distinctive
auburn color, which marked them unmistakably as siblings.

They were a boy, whom Penelope guessed to be in the vicinity of ten; another boy, of a size and age approximately three years younger than the first; and a little girl, no more than four or five.

“Well, hello,” Penelope said again, even more gently, to hide her astonishment.

One of the children (it was impossible to tell which one) let out a low growl. Mrs. Clarke gasped, but Penelope paid her no mind.

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” she said to the children, with all the professionalism she could muster. “I am Miss Lumley, your new governess.”

The girl displayed her teeth. The younger boy licked his lips in a most animal-like fashion, while the elder boy merely stared at Penelope. Penelope, who had spent many a useful hour assisting Dr. Westminster at Swanburne, was not in the least bit alarmed. She stiffened her spine and stared back.

He narrowed his eyes.

Penelope narrowed hers as well. Very carefully, so as not to frighten anyone, she made a quiet rumble in the back of her throat that was half purr, half growl.

After a moment, the boy smiled and flopped down
on the hay, rolling over on his back and waving his limbs in the air. The other two watched him carefully; as soon as he was on the ground, they relaxed their tense postures and joined him. Soon the hay was flying everywhere as the children yapped and tumbled over one another quite playfully, until all three lay at Penelope's feet.

Penelope allowed herself a small sigh of relief. “Well, I am glad that's all settled. Now, can you say ‘hello'?” She repeated it slowly. “Hello, hello, hello.”

“
Hallooooo,
” the eldest boy replied, in a soft, lilting howl.

“
Ahwooooo?
” the middle boy added, with a questioning tone.

“
Woof,
” barked the girl, rolling happily on her back. Then she grinned. “
Woof, woof!
”

I
T WAS ALTOGETHER IMPOSSIBLE
to believe, and yet, standing there in the big wooden barn, with the sunbeams coming in slantwise through the cracks in the shutters to illuminate these three alarmingly unkempt children, Penelope realized there was something strangely familiar about the discovery she had just made. It was poor Silky she was thinking of: His chestnut coat dulled with lack of care, burrs stuck in his
forelock, he was distrustful of humans, and prone to bite, at least at first. . . .

“But Silky's behavior was not his fault, for he had known no kindness or tender care in his life. Alas, his new owners, the Krupps, were so cross at having been tricked into buying such a difficult pony for their darling Drusilla that they could not find one grain of sympathy in their hearts for the untrained, unfriendly beast
.

“Poor Silky! Soon he would have even more reason to be mistrustful, for in their frustration the Krupps arranged to sell him to Mr. Alpo, the dreaded horse retirer. Mr. Alpo was a shady character who bought unwanted ponies like Silky and promised to ‘retire' them to faraway meadows, while all along planning to deliver them to the slaughterhouse—