The Unmapped Sea (5 page)

He patted the pocket of his jacket anxiously as he waved her inside. “Good, it's still there. Blasted almanac! I've been up since dawn looking for it. Wanted to check the dates of the full you-know-what.”

“Moon?” she suggested, trying to be helpful. He cringed.

“Yes, moon! Finally found it on the shelf right there, near that dead duck. How it got there I've no clue, but I don't want it to fly away again. The book, not the
duck.” He moved to light a cigar, then stopped. “Bit early in the day for a cigar, I suppose. Sit down, if you please. Would you like coffee? I'll ring for some.” He swiped at the bell pull that hung near the door, but missed.

“No, thank you, my lord.” Penelope was more of a tea drinker, personally. And why on earth would Lord Fredrick send for her? The sheer unexpectedness of it threatened to knock what she had planned to say about learning the difference between gulls and terns right out of her head. “If I may inquire—what sort of business . . . ?”

He snorted. “Baby business! That's what sort of business. Do you know, I'm going to be a father before long?”

“I did know that, sir.” Her heart sank. Surely Lord Fredrick was not also in need of a lesson about how babies are born? Hesitantly she added, “My sincere congratulations to you and Lady Ashton.”

Too restless to sit, he paced the length of the study. “Congratulations, ha! I wish I felt that way. You've never been a father, I take it? No, of course not. Believe me, it's quite an odd feeling. And the baby's not even here yet.” The servants still told the story of how Lord Fredrick had reacted when he learned that his wife
was expecting. “Expecting what?” he had exclaimed, dumbfounded. “A baby? Nonsense. Surely there's been some mistake.” He prowled the halls for hours, one floor after another. Then he locked himself in his study until cigar smoke drifted like fog through the crack beneath the door.

Whether he had since warmed up to the idea of fatherhood no one knew, but since emerging from his study that day, he had been kinder to and more patient with Lady Constance than he had ever been before. One might even say he doted on her, in his fashion. He spent far less time at his gentlemen's club, and was more willing to endure his wife's meandering streams of conversation, although he still had little to say in answer but “Harrumph!” “Blast!” and “Imagine that!” Luckily, Lady Constance was more of a talker than a listener and rarely paused for breath, so Lord Fredrick's conversational skills were more than sufficient.

He perched on the arm of his chair. “A baby, a baby, a baby. Blast! A man gets married, and this is what happens. I suppose I was a fool to think it could be avoided forever.” He sprang up and gestured with his unlit cigar. “I've made my peace with howling during the full moons—but no child of mine ought to go through it.” He stopped and fixed her with his blurry
gaze. “I won't have it. I simply will not. Miss Lumley, you've got to do something.”

“Me?” Penelope was amazed.

“Yes, you. Who else? You and the wolf children and Old Timothy are the only ones who know about my howling fits. And Mother, too, of course, but she's still traipsing around Europe, playing croquet and waiting for my dead father to turn up again. Highly unlikely, I'd say! Poor fellow, what a way to go. Drowned in a tar pit, and while on holiday, too. Gooey, gooey, gooey.” He lost himself in the sad memory for a brief interlude, then shook it off. “It's plain as day, Miss Lumley. You're an educated person, and you've experience with wolfy matters. No, don't object! I know my affliction and the children's canine carrying-on are not the same thing. I'm not sure I believe in curses, mind you . . . but it seems there's a curse out there that believes in Ashtons.”

If only she could tell Lord Fredrick about Pudge's diary, and Madame Ionesco's warning, and all of it! But he was Edward Ashton's son, after all, and Edward Ashton was no friend to her or the Incorrigible children. To end the curse on his family had become his obsession, so much so that he had faked his own death and lived in disguise under the name of Judge Quinzy,
to better conceal his actions. Whatever danger the children were in, Edward Ashton was the source of it. Of that she was certain.

“So it would appear, my lord,” she ventured. “Perhaps if we knew more about this curse—the exact wording of it, for example?”

“The who and the why of it don't matter. Putting an end to it does. I've got to do everything I can for Constance, and for the child.” He paused to gaze out the window, then let the curtains fall. “The girl may have married me for my money, and perhaps she does like me a bit, too, heaven knows why. I think I'm a bit of a bore, personally. But I'll tell you one thing: When she wed me, she didn't sign up to raise a barking baby Ashton. And if you don't come up with a cure before the first of May, a barking baby Ashton is just what she's going to have.”

“The first of May!” she exclaimed. Now she realized what Madame Ionesco must have meant when she had said “time is running out.” Edward Ashton had once told her that the curse could not be ended in his generation, but in his son's—meaning Fredrick's. Once the baby was born, would it be too late?

Worn out at last, Lord Fredrick crumpled into his chair. “Yes, the first of May, more or less. What a
legacy to pass on to my son.”

“But what if it is a girl?” Penelope blurted.

“It won't be. There have been no girls born in the family since . . . well, I don't know when.” Lord Fredrick put down the cigar, and his hands grew still. “My only concern right now is for my wife, and my son. Poor lad! Come his first full moon, he'll howl those little mewling howls, like a newborn pup, and then what am I supposed to tell his mother? I know she's suspicious. ‘Where are you off to this time, Freddy? Why must you go to your gentlemen's club again? Why are you so itchy? Why do you make those dreadful noises?' My pretending to get rashes and whooping cough is not fooling her anymore. Enough, I say. It's time to get to the bottom of it. The truth is, Miss Lumley, I've no one else to turn to.”

He looked so forlorn sitting there that Penelope could almost—but not quite—forgive him for all the taxidermy. “I shall do my best, my lord. But I too have a request.” She took a deep breath. “A trip to Brighton offers a cornucopia of educational opportunities—”

Lord Fredrick jumped up from his seat. “Right! That's the other thing. You're coming to Brighton. The Incorrigibles, too. No protests, please! I'm sick of hearing people complain about the weather. Put on a hat,
for heaven's sake. You'd think we were going to the South Pole, the way the servants carry on.”

All that Penelope was prepared to say regarding tides, seashells, and the life cycle of the hermit crab melted like candy floss in her mouth. “We shall be delighted to join you and Lady Ashton on holiday, sir,” she answered meekly.

He squinted in her direction, as if trying to get a better view of her. “Well, good. Good! You're not a whiner, Miss Lumley. I like that about you. My wife and I leave later today, at one o'clock. Old Timothy will drive us in the carriage; I'll trust no one else to do it. The servants will go tomorrow by train, with the luggage. You can travel with them.” He paused. “According to the almanac, the full moon's next Tuesday. Perhaps the wolf children can keep me company. Don't worry, I'll be no danger to them. But a bit of companionship would be a nice change.”

“Very well, my lord,” she said, keeping her voice steady.

His blurred gaze softened. “It's an extraordinary thing not to be judged, Miss Lumley. At least the Incorrigibles have one another. I've suffered alone, all these years.” Abruptly he turned and pounded his fist on the desk, so hard the ashtrays rattled. “No child of mine
will go through it! I swear it!” Wincing, he flexed his fingers, gave the hand a shake, and shoved it into his pocket. “That's all,” he said gruffly. “You may go.”

Penelope rose to obey, but she had scarcely made it to the door before Lord Fredrick called, “Miss Lumley, wait. Why did you come to see me? You wanted something, I expect. A salary increase? A day off? Whatever it is, the answer's yes. As if I care what people get paid. You can't imagine how much money I have. An army of Ashtons couldn't spend it all.”

“I . . . that is . . . I had simply intended to say bon voyage,” she stammered.

“Ha!” Lord Fredrick's laugh was short and sharp as a bark. “Bon voyage. That's French, what?
Arrivederci
's Italian. I wonder how wolves say good-bye.” He threw back his head and playfully howled. “So long-
ahwoo
! I'm joking! It's not a full moon yet.” He patted his jacket pocket, and his face fell. “Blast! It was right there a minute ago. Why is that curséd almanac always disappearing?”

T
HE
T
HIRD
C
HAPTER
The children discover what the moon can do.

T
HE CONVERSATION WITH
L
ORD
F
REDRICK
left Penelope's head spinning. (Not literally, of course. To say a person's head is spinning is merely a figure of speech. Even an owl's head cannot spin, although, remarkably, it can swivel nearly all the way 'round. Human heads can safely be turned, but actual spinning should only be attempted by tops, globes, Russian ballerinas, and other items more suited to the task.)

She stopped on the stair landing to collect her thoughts. “How strange and unpredictable the Ashtons
are,” she said to the potted fern, the only other living creature present. “That Lord Fredrick will soon be a father has made him a new man in some respects. It is remarkable what happens when one begins to think of others, and not only of oneself. Still, he is an Ashton, and I must be careful for the children's sake. One never knows where danger may lurk.”

She thought of Madame Ionesco's warning and frowned. How
were
the Incorrigibles mixed up in all this? True, they could be a bit barky and prone to howling when excited, but otherwise they seem untouched by anything resembling a curse. They were three happy, bright, and eager children, and the full moon had little effect on them, other than to inspire the writing of poetry in praise of its milky, faraway beauty.

“Then again, Madame Ionesco is a fortune-teller, and prone to spooky pronouncements.” She turned her head to check the state of her bun in the landing mirror. The rich auburn color of her hair caught the light. For all the years that Penelope had been a student at Swanburne, Miss Mortimer had ordered regular applications of a hair poultice that kept all the girls' hair tinted the same dark, drab shade. It was only after leaving school that Penelope discovered the unusual
hue of her own hair, which—oddly—resembled the color of the Incorrigibles' hair as closely as one pea matches another. (The children were not fans of peas in a culinary sense, but surely there is nothing distasteful about using peas as a figure of speech.)

“Dear Miss Mortimer,” she thought. “Her reasons for ordering the use of the hair poultice remain mysterious, yet she is a private person in any case. Imagine her not telling anyone that Agatha Swanburne was her grandmother! I am quite sure I should never be able to keep such a secret.”

Penelope adjusted a few stray hairpins and continued upstairs. At the nursery door she paused and sniffed, and took comfort in the smell of paint and turpentine and horsehair brushes, for it meant the children were happily and safely occupied.

Was it wise to take them away from the security of Ashton Place, to solve a strange curse cast long ago? Firmly she pushed away the fear. “Great-Uncle Pudge is the key,” she thought. “Once we are in Brighton, somehow I must persuade him to reveal what happened on Ahwoo-Ahwoo, including the exact wording of the curse upon the Ashtons.”

That Pudge had sworn to speak to no one about that ill-fated trip except the long-dead admiral posed
a serious obstacle, but Penelope was not a Swanburne girl for nothing. “As Agatha Swanburne once said, ‘The pony that shies at the fence today may take the jump tomorrow. If not, one can always take down the fence.' In any case, we shall cross that boardwalk when we come to it,” she resolved as she opened the nursery door. “First . . . to Brighton!”

A
S PLANNED
, L
ORD
F
REDRICK AND
his wife left that afternoon. A light snow fell as the carriage came 'round the long, curved driveway to the main entrance of Ashton Place. It was the clarence, the largest and most luxurious carriage owned by the estate, and it was pulled by the finest pair of grays in the stables. The seats were piled with lap robes, and a lidded metal bucket of hot coals nestled in sand had been placed inside to warm the carriage's interior.

Two lines of numb-fingered servants stood by the door holding umbrellas, so that not a single frozen flake would fall upon Lady Constance as she made her way from the house. She was wrapped in a fur-trimmed cloak fit for an Arctic explorer and leaned heavily on two young coachmen, one at each elbow. They would have the responsibility of lifting her up and inside the carriage.

Old Timothy struggled to keep the horses calm; he stood at their proud heads and murmured soothing words, but the sharp tingle of snowfall on their broad backs made them restless and easily spooked. At the slightest movement of the black umbrellas, their ears swiveled back in fear. Perhaps they believed a flock of giant ravens had landed nearby. They snorted steam from flared nostrils and stamped their hooves on the frozen ground.

Still, Lady Constance could not be rushed. Even as her gallant helpers lifted her, she paused in midair to give whispered instructions to a shivering Mrs. Clarke. “Make sure to have my summer gowns sent to
bella Italia—
to Genoa, or Rapallo, or whatever sunny, elegant resort Fredrick has chosen! Remind Madame Le Point to alter the gowns first, of course, for my tummy grows rounder by the day.”

“Very good, my lady,” Mrs. Clarke said through chattering teeth. “Of course, the weather may not be quite as warm as all that—”

“And send my fair-weather bonnets, the lace-trimmed ones, and a parasol to shield me against that strong Mediterranean sun. Oh, I cannot wait to see what fashions are on parade at the seaside resorts of Italy!”

Mrs. Clarke mumbled something about galoshes
and a woolen muffler, just in case, but Lady Constance only laughed and said “
Arrivederci,
Signora Clarke! See you at the beach!” She extended one airborne foot toward the snow-dusted carriage, and the uncomplaining coachmen finally were able to deposit her inside.

Once the carriage door was shut and latched, Old Timothy leaped into the driver's seat. “Hey, yah!” he called, flicking the reins.

He would have his work cut out for him keeping such high-spirited animals to a snail's pace, but Lord Fredrick's orders were clear. “No bumpety-bumps, now!” Lord Fredrick gave the old coachman a firm clap on the back before taking his seat inside the carriage, next to his wife. “Take it at a crawl, if you please. Think of her delicate condition, what? We'll go halfway today and stay over at a roadside inn. You manage the horses, and I'll manage Constance. Blast! I think you might have the easier job of it, Old Tim!”

“A
TRIP
! A
TRIP
! A trip
ahwooo
!” Penelope saved her announcement for the next morning, as she knew the prospect of a trip would have kept the children awake far past their usual bedtime. As she expected, they became wildly excited at the news. They pushed away their half-eaten breakfasts and ran to get their suitcases.

“Are we taking Bertha to Africa?” Cassiopeia asked. As much as the children liked having Bertha at Ashton Place, they knew an ostrich did not belong in England. The giant bird was to be returned home as soon as someone suitable could be found to take her.

“Not this time.” Penelope lined up all their snow boots in a row for cleaning. “We are going on holiday with Lord and Lady Ashton, to a town called Brighton.”

“Where is Brighton? North by northeast? South by southwest? Approximate altitude? Sorry, Beowoo, did not mean to kick your head.” Alexander had climbed halfway up the drapes to get his compass, spyglass, and sextant down from a high shelf. He was fond of mapmaking and liked to keep track of where things were; besides, one never knew when one might be called upon to navigate. Simon Harley-Dickinson had taught him that.

“Brighton is by the sea—careful, Alexander! Next time you might simply pull a chair by the shelf to stand upon.” Penelope dashed to the window and lifted him down to safety. How much he had grown this past year! He was almost too heavy for her to lift. “The easels will not fit in suitcases, Beowulf. We shall have to make do with sketchbooks and pencils for the duration of the trip.”

No easels! The children's disappointment was keen,
and a fresh bout of
weltschmerz
threatened to take hold. Then Penelope casually mentioned that if they caught any hermit crabs at the beach, she
might
consider letting them bring the curious creatures home as pets. That turned the tide in an instant. “Crabawoo, crabawoo!” they chanted happily as they tossed sock balls into their suitcases.

Penelope stood before the bookshelves with folded arms and considered what sort of lessons might be suitable for a trip to the seashore. “As Agatha Swanburne once said, ‘The right question is the one that answers itself,'” she thought. Quickly she gathered some books about shipbuilding, the search for the Northwest Passage, and a nature guidebook titled
Favorite Shorebirds of England: A Seaworthy Guide to Plovers, Sandpipers, Gulls, and Terns (Footprint Identification Charts Included at No Extra Charge)
.

She even found a poem with a maritime theme. (No, not
The Wreck of the Hesperus
, but another, spookier poem that took place aboard a haunted ship.) It was a strange poem, frankly, and she did not understand it fully herself, but on the bright side it did contain a gloomy supernatural bird. (No, not
The Raven,
but a different gloomy supernatural bird. Why unhappy birds feature so prominently in poetry and
whether these two birds in particular perhaps knew each other are both intriguing questions. Alas, there is no time to discuss them now, for Penelope and the children are not done packing, and they do have a train to catch.)

The suitcases filled quickly, and Penelope had to be firm when the children begged to pack their bathing costumes and sun hats, just in case. “A beach holiday in January is not a beach holiday in August,” she reminded them. Yet even as she tucked extra mittens in the suitcase corners, she too felt a pang of disappointment. “If only it were summer, so we could go sea bathing and walk barefoot on the sand, and watch our footprints be washed away by the surf!”

(Little did Penelope know how well she would soon get to know the sea and its currents and tides, its sickening swells and storm-tossed waves, its incomprehensible vastness and mystery! Alas, there will be much more on that topic later. For now, in the words of the plucky young governess herself: “First, to Brighton . . .”)

Clang clang! Clang clang!

“All aboard the noon train to Brighton! Don't dawdle, now. We've a schedule to keep and there's snow on the tracks!” The conductor's bell rang up and down the
station platform, but his efforts to rush the passengers along were in vain. Mrs. Nellie Clarke was in charge of the staff of Ashton Place, and they took orders from her, not the London, Brighton, and South Coast Railway. Truly, in a battle of wills between Mrs. Clarke and a shiny red Bloomer steam engine, the smart money would be on the housekeeper.

Under her leadership were the dozen or so servants she had personally selected for the trip. Some had hardly traveled at all before, and stood silent and wide-eyed as they anxiously waited their turn to board. Others chattered and joked. Margaret squealed like an unoiled hinge every time the idling locomotive belched a billow of steam from its stack.

The Incorrigibles were in high spirits and not at all nervous, for they considered themselves to be seasoned travelers. Once onboard, they settled into their seats. They smiled sweetly at the conductor and wriggled with joy as the train lurched into motion, with a marvelous accelerating
chug-chug, chug-chug
of the wheels. They pressed their noses to the window, but the scenery was dreary. The rolling fields were piebald as a Holstein cow, white in the hills and hollows where the snow had gathered, and dark where the bare earth peeked through.

After ten minutes passed, they began to pester their governess.

“Are we almost there?”

“How much farther, Lumawoo?”

“Can we play sled dogs on the train?”

“Can we have snacks?”

“Can we have treats?”

“Can we hear a poem, please?”

This last request she was willing to consider. However, the poem she had selected for their holiday studies was so perfectly maritime themed that she thought it really ought to be saved for Brighton, when she could intone its spooky refrains in the fresh salt air with the roar of the surf as accompaniment.

“Now is not the time for poetry. All this
chug-chug, chug-chug
of the wheels would interfere with our appreciation of the poetic meter.” Even as she said this, the rhythmic sway of the train gave her an idea. “I know! Let us study the tides. That is a seaworthy topic, to be sure. Alexander, you might want to pay particular attention, for tides are important to navigation.”

“Aye aye, Cap'n!” he said, and sat up straight. His siblings did as well.

“Tides are what make the water near the shore change its depth,” she began. “The water goes up at
high tide, and down again at low tide.”