The Unmapped Sea (27 page)

Lady Constance spluttered in disbelief. “But . . . but . . . Fredrick, what about our child?”

“Yes, what about our child? Good question! In fact, I would like our child to be raised alongside these three. Like brothers and sisters.” He turned to
the Incorrigibles. “Don't think this changes things, of course. You're not Ashtons, and never will be. But the baby will need company.” He peered at the three of them until he could tell them apart. “You'll be . . . a—a junior governess,” he said to Cassiopeia, and then, to her brothers, “and you two will be like junior tutors.”

Unsure how to respond, the children turned to Penelope. Lord Fredrick's offer pleased them greatly, of course, for who would not like to help take care of a baby? Yet it was so unexpected, and so bittersweet, too, to come just as they were losing their own dear Lumawoo!

Penelope looked at Lord Fredrick with newfound respect. “I think it is a marvelous idea. Thank you,” she added meaningfully, for now she understood. As long as the Incorrigible children were close at hand, every
yap
and
woof
and
ahwoo
that came out of the Barking Baby Ashton's mouth would simply be blamed on their influence. People would find it charming and funny, not freakish. There would be no shame at all attached to the baby's “condition,” and that, she knew, was what Lord Fredrick wanted for his child above all.

Of course, Lord Fredrick did not know what she and Edward Ashton did—that the curse threatened them all with gruesome ends if a solution was not
found before the baby was born in the first place.

“But in the words of Agatha Swanburne, formerly Agatha Ashton, we shall catch that omnibus when it arrives, and not one moment before,” she thought, trying to cheer herself. She took the children aside and spoke to them with all the reassurance she could muster. “My dear Incorrigibles, you must obey Lord Fredrick. If he wants you to help care for his child, then that is what you will do. He is your legal guardian; that means it is up to him where you live. If he says Ashton Place is your home”—she felt a sob rising in her throat, and fought it back—“why then, that is where your home is.”

“It is your home, too!” they cried, and hurled themselves at her.

She shook her head. “Not anymore.” She looked up at Lord Fredrick, who grinned from ear to ear. “My lord, may I ask—who will be in charge of the children's education? They have very nearly mastered the multiplication tables. I would hate to see all that effort go to waste.”

Captain Babushkinov must have been eavesdropping from his table. He put down his fork. “Take Gogolev!” he said. “I am tired of watching him mope around the estate. My wife will have to find another man to flirt with.”

Madame Babushkinov turned a color that could only be described as beet red, but in front of everyone she had no choice but to play along. “My husband is joking, of course. Master Gogolev is incompetent and prone to unpleasant moods, but please, take him if you like. We will not need him anymore, now that we have Miss Lumley.”

Gogolev stood and wiped his lips with his napkin. “Madame, I accept your insults as my due,” he said, with a curt bow. Then he turned to Lord Fredrick. “Lord Ashton, I will humbly accept a position in your household, if you will have me.” Overcome, he clasped his hands to his chest. “In fact, I beg you to have me! It is worse than being a hundred serfs, to be the slave of a mad passion like the one I hold for Julia, the baby nurse, who thinks less of me than if I were an insect under her foot! I plead with you, sir, as one man to another—put an ocean between us! If you do, I might have a chance for happiness, at last!” He fell to his knees, weeping. “Please, Lord Ashton . . . let me stay with you! Help turn these tears of grief and humiliation into tears of—if not joy, at least, something like contentment.”

No one wanted this spectacle to continue, so it was quickly arranged. Gogolev would be the new tutor at Ashton Place.

Alas, his reprieve was brief, for Madame Babushkinov was now angry. She sidled over to Julia and hissed, “Just as my husband longed to be rid of Gogolev, ten times that much do I long to be rid of you! You have more faults and shortcomings than a saint could bear, and I know you have designs on my husband!”

Julia trembled and stooped, and her eyes darted every which way.

“Fire both of them!” yelled the princess, waving her cane. “No great loss, either one.”

“The Ashtons will soon need a baby nurse,” Madame Babushkinov loudly declared. “My dear Lady Constance, I insist you keep Julia as well. You must! Consider it a gift from me to you. I will not take no for an answer.”

Lady Constance was indifferent to the matter, and left it up to Mrs. Clarke. The housekeeper shrugged and agreed, for not even a matador accustomed to actual bullfighting would choose to argue with Madame Babushkinov in high dudgeon.

Julia stopped whimpering long enough to make a rare show of spirit. “Fine! I will stay in England! I am sick of Plinkst. I am sick of beets and borscht and my foolish love for the captain! I am sick of being abused by his wife! I would be baby nurse to a hyena to get
away from this family! I would marry anyone who asks me, to escape these dreadful people!”

Gogolev fell to one knee before her. “Do you mean that, Julia?” he gasped.

“Yes! Anyone! Anyone but you, Gogolev. You are much too ridiculous, with your gloom and your bad poetry and your refusal to wear a hat.”

“Ah!” Gogolev cried, tearing at his hair. “My purgatory of love is eternal! The pain! The torment! But on the bright side, at least I, too, will be far away from those horrible, dreadful Babushkinovs.”

He and Julia both looked at Penelope with pity. Miserable as they were, clearly they thought she had gotten the worse part of the bargain.

E
PILOGUE

A
SUDDEN VIOLENT STORM POSTPONED
the ship's departure until two o'clock, but it was one of those storms that leaves the softest, brightest sunshine in its wake. Like an apology from above, the sky cleared, and the seas grew calm. The extra hour for gossip and rumor ensured that the servants from Ashton Place knew all about Penelope's sudden change of employment. They gathered at the foot of the chain pier to bid her farewell. Margaret was there, already crying, and Jasper held her hand for comfort.

Mrs. Clarke alone had planned to remain at the
hotel, for she had already said her good-byes and did not think she could “bear it again,” as she had told Margaret. Yet when the time came, there she was at the pier, standing solidly behind the Incorrigible children. Master Gogolev stood next to them, for he was in charge of them now.

The captain and his wife had already boarded the ship with their children and the princess. Julia was back at the hotel, being run ragged by Lady Constance. Her new mistress was as demanding as ten babies, as Julia would soon discover, but at least she did not need to be pushed in a carriage.

Penelope stood at the foot of the chain pier, with her few possessions in her carpet bag and a heart made of heaviest iron. Still, she resolved to be brave and brisk.

“Children, come close,” she said, gathering them near her. “There is no need for tears, for we will see one another soon again.”

They nodded.

“I will expect many picture postcards,” she said. “And I will send many to you as well. Master Gogolev will teach you some Russian words, and doubtless I shall learn some, too. The verbs will be a challenge, of course. . . .” But then she trailed off, for Cassiopeia had begun to cry.

“But what will we tell Nutsawoo?” she said, sniffling.

Penelope took a deep breath. “Why, I shall send the little scamp a picture postcard of his own. Perhaps one from the Russian Imperial Ballet! It will all be a grand adventure. Keep at your lessons faithfully, my dears. I shall look forward to a good report from your tutor.”

Now the boys had grown wobbly lipped.

Penelope could stand no more of this. “Mrs. Clarke, I think the children have had enough of this brisk ocean air. Is it not time for tea and biscuits at the hotel?”

Mrs. Clarke gave her a raw look but understood it was time to take the children away. “Come along, dearies. You, too, Master Gogolev; why, you look like you could use a few biscuits yourself! Poets have to eat, too, you know,” she said, and took him by the arm.

Before the children left, Penelope kissed them, one, two, three. “Loveawoo, loveawoo, loveawoo,” she murmured, which was all that needed to be said. They smiled bravely and waved and followed Mrs. Clarke down the boardwalk. Penelope watched them go. She could have stood there forever, watching them. If ever there was a moment to wish that time might actually slow to a stop, this would have been it.

“Fair winds to you,” came the voice she hoped never to hear again, though she knew it was a vain hope. “I hope you enjoy your time in Plinkst. The bad news is that it is an unpleasant place; the good news is, your days there are numbered.” Edward Ashton bowed. “When the gruesome end comes, I hope you will think of it as a sacrifice. A noble sacrifice, for the sake of your own flesh and blood. We are enemies, Miss Lumley. But we are family, too.”

S
IMON INSISTED ON WALKING HER
onto the ship. Down the length of the chain pier they walked, across the gangplank and onto the deck. He looked at home aboard ship, she noticed. He knew how to stand and sway in time with the movement of it. He poked around and examined every square inch of the vessel, as if he were thinking of buying it. He rapped on the mast and tugged at all the knots in the ropes.

“It's a fine square-rigger,” he said, gazing up at the fluttering sails. “It's a good ship. It'll carry you across the sea safely, don't you worry.” His eyes dropped to his shoes, and he cleared his throat, suddenly shy. “Say, Dr. Martell told me that my letters in bottles all washed up in Brighton. Fancy that! I was wondering, did you happen to read them?”

“Every word,” she said.

He looked embarrassed. “Penelope, I want you to know . . . what I said in those letters . . . it's not quite like it sounds. . . .”

It did not matter, she realized, for her heart was already broken. “There is no need to explain,” she said evenly. “I realize that you were lonely at sea. I would not hold you to sentiments written under such . . . unusual . . . circumstances.”

“No, that's not what I mean! You
can
hold me to them. I mean, I want you to hold me to them. Especially now, that you have to leave. What I mean to say is . . .”

He rubbed at his hair and scuffed his feet like a schoolboy.

Penelope felt light-headed, but also impatient—they did not have much time! “Simon, are you trying to say that you still feel the same as you did when you wrote those letters?”

“No! I don't feel the same as what I said in those letters. What I mean is, I feel much more than that. I fancy myself a bard, of course, and believe me, I tried to put a few words together, but I never was able to say it big enough. What I said in those letters is no more than a puddle. What I feel in my heart . . . is like
the sea.” He spread his arms wide. “Like the seven seas, and seven times seven!” He paused. “Seven times seven is—wait . . .”

She smiled through tears. “Forty-nine seas is the answer. Which would be a great many seas,” she said.

“Well, that's my point.” He took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. “Boy, it's good to be on the deck of a ship! That smell of the salt air gives a man hope.” He had that faraway look in his eye. “I wouldn't mind setting sail with you, through all forty-nine seas and then some,” he said, coming back to the subject at hand. “But even better would be staying on dry land. If you'd have me, that is.”

Penelope was truly at a loss for words, but her shining eyes spoke sonnets.

Clang clang! Clang clang!
It was the warning bell that meant the ship was about to sail. Urgently Penelope took him by both arms.

“Simon, you must speak to Madame Ionesco. Tell her about the wolves of Ahwoo-Ahwoo, and the exact wording of the curse, and the fifth cub! Ask her if there might be another way to end this curse—one that does not involve any of us getting thrown to the wolves.”

“I will tell her. If anyone can help us, she can. She's a proper expert on curses and spookiness.”

“I am afraid, Simon,” she admitted. “This curse threatens to be the end of us.”

“Madame Ionesco will know what to do,” he insisted.

Penelope wished she could be as sure. “And promise me you will keep an eye on the Incorrigibles!” she said, her eyes welling up. “They are so clever and brave, but Edward Ashton will be lying in wait for them.”

“I will, Penelope! I will! And I promise, if there's any trouble at Ashton Place, I'll take the children to live with me. They can be theater apprentices in London.”

She was crying now, but still found strength to object. “But—but they would have such late bedtimes!”

“I'll make sure they don't. I promise.”

Clang clang! Clang clang!

There was nothing more to say. They wrapped their arms around each other, tightly and for dear life, as if each of them was the mast to which the other one was lashed, in the midst of a swirling storm.

“Write to me, Simon,” she said with a sob. “Care of the Babushkinovs' failing beet plantation in Plinkst!”

“I will, Penelope! I promise!”

Clang clang! Clang clang!

“All ashore that's going ashore!” the first mate cried.

They had to let go.

“I'll wave till I can't see you anymore,” he said. “And
then for a few minutes after, just to be sure.”

Her heart too full to speak, she nodded.

He walked away from her, just a few steps. Then he turned back. “If they have sauerkraut on board, make sure you eat it. You don't want to get scurvy.”

“Aye aye,” she managed to say, and gave a small, sad salute.

This time he walked away and did not turn 'round. The next time she saw that familiar, well-loved face, he was standing on the shore, waving, while she waved back from the deck of the square-rigger. Before long the ship set sail, and the faces on the shore turned to mere specks. Soon enough, they could not see each other anymore.

Still, she waved.

Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.

Water, water, everywhere,
And all the boards did shrink;
Water, water, everywhere,
Nor any drop to drink.

The lines were from that strange and unsettling poem by Mr. Samuel Coleridge, about the ancient mariner and the albatross. The poetic meter (it was all rhyming quatrains, more or less) tolled in Penelope's head, in time to the rhythmic slosh of water against the hull.

“Curses and prophecies are all very well, but nobody knows what the future truly holds. As sure and ruthless as he is, not everything may go according to Edward Ashton's plan, in the end,” she thought stubbornly.

She looked over the bow at the tossing seas. The crests of the waves were streaked with foam, like the mouths of rabid dogs. She wanted to press her hands over her ears against the din of the howling wind, the mournful sound of the balalaika playing belowdeck, the gruff barks of the sailors and the moans and tantrums of the weeping, seasick Babushkinov children.

But she did not cover her ears. Instead, she listened, until the sounds of the voyage filled her down to the soles of both feet. Freely she felt the pain in her own heart, the loss of the Incorrigibles, of Simon, the helplessness of being in a vast ocean with nowhere to run to, a prisoner of time and tide.

How long would it be before she had news of them all? Would the Russian postal service prove as swift
and efficient as the one in London? Or would it be more like the Tidal Post, an unpredictable maelstrom of currents and wind?

“If Simon's messages in bottles could get to me, anything is possible. I must not lose hope,” she said, and then, as if to convince herself, “After all, no hopeless case is truly without hope.”

But never in her life could Penelope recall feeling more hopeless than she did now. Not even the words of Agatha Swanburne offered any comfort; she felt she could not remember a single saying if her life depended on it.

“I am reminded of when I was a girl at school in music appreciation class,” she thought. “All that Russian music, with its passionate outbursts, clamor, and noise. It was one storm at sea after another—oh, how it used to give me a headache! But now I am beginning to understand.”

She lifted her face to the cold, wet wind, and sighed from a place so deep and sad within her she had not previously known it existed. She did not weep, for there was no point. She did not even protest. This was simply how things were at present, and she would have to endure what came next as best she could. She was a Swanburne girl, after all, and even the rising tide
of
weltschmerz
in her heart could not keep her spirit submerged for long. “All voyages come to an end,” she thought. “They must, for even the vastest sea is rimmed by a welcoming shore.”

But at that very moment the horizon shifted, and the faint outline of the shore at Brighton could no longer be seen. The beach was gone; the chain pier was gone, too. She squinted and rubbed at her eyes, as though that might clear away the mist, but to no avail.

“Water, water, everywhere,” she whispered, though there was no one to hear her but the sea. She looked up, half expecting to see an albatross. Luckily, there did not seem to be any supernatural birds of that spooky ilk anywhere near, only the chalk-white gulls—or were they terns?—swooping and cawing overhead.

“Be brave, my dear Incorrigibles. I shall return, though I do not know when, or how. And when I do . . .” She stopped. For surely her own parents had said these same words to her when they left her in the care of Miss Charlotte Mortimer at the Swanburne Academy for Poor Bright Females, so many years ago.

And where were her parents now? Edward Ashton claimed to know. Was he really intending to pay them a visit? Could they too be in danger? That thought alone
was enough to fill her with a determination so deep no anchor could ever touch the bottom of it.

“I
will
return,” she said aloud, blinking the mist from her eyes. “And I will put things right—but my way, not his. Somehow, I promise, I will. . . .”

To Be Continued . . .