know they are of the finest character, of course!”

“I don’t imagine a proper young lady like you would

have come for the interview otherwise,” he said, giving

her a sly, sideways look. Penelope wondered if she was

being teased and decided that it was unlikely, since

she and the coachman had just met. In any case, he

proceeded to answer her question.

“Lady Constance is fond of chocolates and flowers.

She’s very young, very pretty, and a bit on the spoiled

side, in my opinion.”

“You speak quite freely of your employers,” Penel-

ope commented.

“Ha! I’ve the right to speak my mind. I’ve been

working for the Ashtons since Lord Fredrick was a

boy—whoa, whoa!”

Startled by the sudden rise of a flock of geese from

the roadside, the horses had broken into a canter. The

coachman quickly pulled them back to a steady trot.

“As for Lord Fredrick,” the coachman continued,

“he spends more time at his gentlemen’s club than

you’d expect of a newly married man, but to each his

own, I say. For sport, he loves to hunt. Fox and deer,

hares and badgers and all manner a’ birds. On occa-

sion he’s bagged more . . . unusual prey.”

It seemed to Penelope that a note of mystery briefly

entered his voice, but it disappeared just as quickly.

“Any other questions?”

Despite his gruffness, Penelope smiled. After shar-

ing such a pleasant journey in the fresh air, she felt that

she and coachman were now friends and could trust

each other.

“Tell me about the children! I so look forward to

meeting them.”

“Ah,” he said, his face suddenly clouding over. “The

children are—well, I do think it’s Lady Ashton’s place

to discuss the children, I do.”

And, except for one brief and heartfelt outburst

(which would not occur for another three-quarters of

an hour), that was the last word he spoke for the rest

of the journey.

take out a favorite volume of poetry to pass the time.

And that is exactly what Miss Penelope Lumley did.

She may have been young and alone, in a strange place

with no real home to return to and on her way to a job

interview, but she was also much, much more than her

current circumstances would indicate.

She was a Swanburne girl, through and through.

One of Agatha Swanburne’s sayings, which Penelope

had often heard (you may think of her as Penelope

from this point forward, for now you have made her

acquaintance), was this: “All books are judged by their

covers until they are read.”

She had never understood the true meaning of this

expression until now. Imagine: A studious-looking girl

of fifteen, primly dressed, perched on a large, battered

trunk and reading a well-thumbed volume of obscure

poetry—what tableau could more perfectly match what

any reasonable person might expect a young governess

to look like?

It was, as they say nowadays, perfect casting. Doubt-

less that is why the coachman from Ashton Place took

only a moment to recognize Penelope on the platform.

In spite of her youth, he addressed her with all the

deference due a professional educator. Nor did he offer

any complaint at the alarming weight of the trunk.

“Full a’ books, I take it?” He grunted as he hoisted

it into the carriage. Then he held the door open for her

to enter. Penelope hesitated.

“May I ride outside, next to you?” she asked. “The

weather is so fine, and I am curious to see what the

town of Ashton is like, in case I am asked to stay,” she

added, striking what she hoped was the right note of

humility. Swanburne girls were encouraged to be con-

fident and bold, but Miss Mortimer had also advised

Penelope to show some restraint when meeting new

people—“only until you get to know each other a bit,”

she explained. Penelope had always found Miss Mor-

timer’s advice to be well worth taking.

“Hmph,” the coachman said, but he helped Penel-

ope climb up next to him in the driver’s seat. Penelope

noted the horses’ gleaming coats with approval. Her

soft spot for animals was well known at Swanburne—

indeed, that is what had caught Miss Mortimer’s eye in

the advertisement for the position. Could it truly have

been only a week since that fateful day? If Penelope

closed her eyes, she could still hear Miss Mortimer’s

voice. . . .

“Listen to this, girls: ‘Wanted Immediately: Energetic

Governess for Three Lively Children.’” Miss Mortimer

She followed the conductor down the aisle, stagger-

ing from side to side as the train lurched to a stop. The

scrubbed-looking youth blushed scarlet as he heaved

her trunk and carpetbag onto the platform.

“I do apologize, miss!” He extended a hand to help

her descend the steep metal stair. “It’s only that I didn’t

want you to miss your stop—”

“And as you can see, I have not.” She nodded her

thanks and then shook her head, as if to say, “How

ridiculous, meow! To think I would travel all this way

only to miss my stop, meow meow! ” But in the end she

offered him a tiny smile, and this was enough to make

the young man swell with pride at the fine service he

had provided that day.

In fact, the competence and dedication of the young

conductor would soon come to the attention of his

superiors, who would waste no time offering the stal-

wart fellow a promotion. Over the years, he would work

his way up through the ranks and eventually become

Chief Locomotive Officer, a position that would ren-

der him modestly well-to-do and a perfectly well-liked

chap to all who knew him.

But this happy ending, like so many others, was

still far off in the future. For now, the conductor sim-

ply watched through the window as the train pulled

away. He saw how the rapidly receding Miss Lumley

stood unmoving among the great puffs of steam, the

blood-curdling scream of the wheels singing high

over the melancholy tenor of the train whistle and the

deep bass roar of the engine. Like the conductor, at

that moment Miss Lumley had no way of predicting

whether her life would turn out happily or in some

other, less desirable way.

Luckily, she knew better than to brood about

such things. Although only fifteen years old, she was

a recent graduate of the Swanburne Academy for

Poor Bright Females. During her years at that well-

regarded school, Miss Lumley had been taught a

great deal, of both an academic and a philosophical

nature. At the heart of her education were the say-

ings of Agatha Swanburne, the school’s founder and

a woman of unparalleled common sense (she was, as

you have already guessed, the very wise woman pre-

viously mentioned). These pithy kernels of truth were

not unlike those you might find inside the fortune

cookies at a Chinese restaurant—although you can be

sure that neither Agatha Swanburne nor Miss Lumley

had ever set foot in such an establishment.

Agatha Swanburne, Miss Lumley felt quite sure,

would not succumb to nervous fits simply because she

The First Chapter

The First Chapter

One home is forsaken in hopes

of finding another.

It was not Miss Penelope Lumley’s first journey on a

train, but it was the first one she had taken alone.

As you may know, traveling alone is quite a dif-

ferent kettle of fish from traveling with companions.

It tends to make people anxious, especially when en

route to a strange place, or a new home, or a job inter-

view, or (as in the case of Miss Lumley) a job interview

in a strange place that might very well end up being

her new home.

She certainly had much to be anxious about. During

the journey her worried thoughts had included the

following:

Would she arrive at Ashton Place on time for her

interview, or would masked bandits storm the train and

take the passengers hostage? She had never personally

encountered a bandit, but she had read of such things

in books, and the very idea gave her goose bumps.

Would she be able to answer correctly should her

prospective employers quiz her on, say, the capital

cities of midsized European nations? “The capital of

Hungary is Budapest!” she had recited in her mind,

in time to the clickity-clack of the train wheels. “The

capital of Poland is Warsaw!”

Would she be served tea and toast upon her arrival,

and if she were, would she end up with marmalade

all over the front of her dress and run from the room

weeping?

Clearly, being anxious is a full-time and rather

exhausting occupation. Perhaps that explains why Miss

Lumley, despite her inability to remember the capital

of Norway and her reluctance to muss her hair by lean-

ing her head against the back of her seat, had finally

succumbed to the soothing sway and rumble of the

train. For the moment, at least, she had stopped worry-

ing altogether, for she was soundly and deeply asleep.
To be more specific: She was lost in a dream of long
ago, a dream filled with laughter and Black Forest cake
and sun-dappled meadows that rang with the singing
of adorable birds—
“Miss? Miss?” The conductor stood in the aisle next
to her seat and spoke a bit louder than he normally
would, in order to be heard over the screechy din of
the train’s brakes being applied.
“Is it the bandits?” Miss Lumley cried, half asleep.
“For, though unarmed, I will fight!”
“There are no bandits, miss.” The conductor looked
rather embarrassed. “Forgive me for disturbing you,
but we are arriving at Ashton Station. May I remove
your luggage from the train?”
As a very wise woman (whom we shall soon hear
more about) once declared, “There is no alarm clock like
embarrassment,” and by the time the conductor spoke
the word luggage, Miss Lumley was far more awake than
she wished to be. Had she really said something about
bandits? She had seen cats fall clumsily from windowsills
and then walk off as if nothing undignified had hap-
pened; this, Miss Lumley realized, was her wisest course
of action. Best not to mention the bandits, ever again.
“You are forgiven,” she said as she stood, “and you

may.”