The Fourth Chapter part.4

intensely observed, and the whole room gave her a sad

and queasy sensation in her tummy.

“Tenderhearted, eh? Pity,” Lord Fredrick said.

“Hunting is a marvelous pastime. Communing with

nature and all that! Although it can be dangerous. In

my own family there have been some—unfortunate

accidents.” He jerked his head behind him in the direc-

tion of the portraits. “They met gruesome ends, all

of ’em. Positively gruesome! All killed while hunting.

Except for my father, Edward—although his end was

most gruesome of all, in its way. Never even found the

body. Anyway, that’s how I caught ’em—the children,

I mean. It was on a hunting expedition, right here on

the grounds of Ashton Place. You can see for yourself;

the Ashton Woods are very large indeed. I’ve hunted

in that forest my whole life, and still, there are corners

I’ve never seen.”

He paused to chew the end of his cigar. “It was ten

days ago. I was out stalking with a pair of my favorite

hounds and Old Timothy, the coachman—you’ve met

him, I take it? He’s a trusted family servant and knows

how to keep quiet in the trees. I often take him out

with me, to carry water for the dogs and so forth.”

“I have met him,” she replied. “He picked me up at

the station.”

Lord Fredrick nodded and went on with his tale.

“We’d ventured deep into the woods, deeper than

usual, until we wandered into a clearing and star-

tled some birds into the air. I’d gotten off a shot at a

good-sized something or other, maybe a pheasant. Old

Timothy was certain I’d hit it, but neither of us saw

where it fell, so we set the dogs loose to find it. Instead,

they flushed those three ragamuffins out of the under-

brush, naked as the day they were born and yapping

and howling like a litter of wolf cubs.” Lord Fredrick

took a deep puff on his cigar. “If Old Timothy hadn’t

seen what they were in time to stop me, I might have

gotten off a shot or two.”

“A ‘shot or two’—you mean, at the children?” The

queasy feeling in Penelope’s tummy was growing

worse, and she wished she had something safe and

familiar to hold: her poetry book, perhaps, or the small

pillow cross-stitched with one of Agatha Swanburne’s

sayings—“Complaining Doesn’t Butter the Biscuit”—

that her school friend Cecily had made in sewing class

and given her for a birthday present two years before.

“I can’t see for toffee at distances, I’m afraid,” Lord

Fredrick confessed, although he did not sound the

least bit apologetic. “I can read the newspaper as well

as the next man, if I hold it close, but more than twelve

The Fourth Chapter part.3

narrow nose, sloping forehead, and prominent, some-

what pointed ears depicted in the ancestral portraits

that hung on the wall behind where he sat. Penelope

could read the names off the engraved brass plaques

mounted below each painting: Admiral Percival Racine

Ashton. The Honorable Judge Pax Ashton. Lord Edward

Ashton. The one of Lord Edward was her least favor-

ite of the paintings (although she could not honestly

say she liked any of them); he was a very rotund man

and even the painted-on buttons of his coat looked as

if they wanted to pop off the canvas. She found his

expression decidedly unpleasant and made a point of

averting her smoke-stung eyes from that harsh, heavy-

lidded gaze.

“Of especially naughty children, it is sometimes

said, ‘They must have been raised by wolves,’” Lord

Fredrick finally remarked, tapping his cigar into a

bronze ashtray shaped like a fox. “And, by Jove, these

rascals actually were!”

“I take it,” Penelope said, blinking, “that they are

not your own natural-born children, then?”

“Mine? Certainly not. I don’t know who in blazes

they belong to, nor do I much care to know.” His eyes

glinted with pleasure. “A fascinating trio they are,

though. Suitable for scientific study, what? I suppose

you want to hear the story of where I found ’em.”

“It may be useful in explaining their current con-

dition,” Penelope said, unflinching. She could forgive

the enigmatic coachman, Mrs. Clarke, and even silly

Lady Constance for concealing the truth from her

until after she had accepted the position, but she really

was quite furious that the children had been locked in

the barn. Mrs. Clarke assured her that food and water

was brought in daily and that they had plenty of hay

and the saddle blankets for warmth—but no watercolor

paints? No decks of cards? Not a single book to pass

the time? Granted the children could not yet read, but

surely they could turn pages and admire the illustra-

tions? To Penelope’s way of thinking, it approached the

barbaric.

“Very well, but I warn you, it’s a most unbelievable

tale.” Lord Fredrick leaned back in his armchair. “Miss

Lumley, have you ever gone hunting?”

“No,” she said quickly. “I am rather tenderhearted

about animals, in fact.” She fixed her eyes straight

ahead as she spoke. Except for where the paintings

hung, the walls of the study were completely covered

with stuffed and mounted heads of every imaginable

type of beast—from tiny rabbits to a massive, antlered

elk. Their sightless glass eyes made Penelope feel

The Fourth Chapter part.2

Discouraged but hardly defeated, Penelope felt she

had no choice but to plead with Lady Constance in

person. Mrs. Clarke looked ready to object, but Penel-

ope laid a hand on her shoulder. “Remember Silky!”

she said with feeling, and after that Mrs. Clarke could

only nod and wish her Godspeed.

Penelope marched straight to Lady Constance’s

chambers. Her knock received no answer. She knocked

again and called through the door.

“Lady Constance, it is Miss Lumley, the govern-

ess! I must have your ear for a moment regarding the

children. Their current accommodations are quite

unacceptable.”

There was a thud and a small crash from inside.

After a moment, Lady Constance opened the door a

crack and immediately began to wail. “You gave me

your word,” she cried. “You signed a contract! Oh,

please, Miss Lumley! Do not leave us before you begin!

I am beside myself. It is only six months since Lord

Fredrick and I were married. I am not fond of children

in general, and to suddenly become the foster mother

to three—and to three such wild, dirty, incorrigible

creatures—well, I am quite over my head!”

She popped a small chocolate into her mouth,

clutched at her temples, and swooned. Luckily

Penelope’s reflexes were swift, and she caught her new

mistress before she hit the floor.

“Lady Constance,” Penelope said, putting her back

on her feet, “you must give me leave to settle the chil-

dren in the nursery. After all, they are in your care.”

Wisely, Penelope chose not to offer her opinion of the

care they had received so far.

“You will need to speak to Lord Ashton about that.

I am much too ill to make any decisions,” Lady Con-

stance replied, retreating back inside her private parlor.

“He will be home within the hour.” With that, she

slammed her door shut and could not be persuaded to

converse any further.

Penelope used the hour wisely; she made up the

children’s beds, tidied the nursery, and cleared it of

breakable objects. She also instructed the kitchen to

bake plum cakes, and the scent of fruit and cinna-

mon was already wafting through the house. It had

even permeated Lord Fredrick’s study, where she now

sat across from the man himself, waiting for him to

speak.

Sadly, the sweet cake-baking smell could not mask

the far less delicious odor of Lord Fredrick’s cigar. The

current master of Ashton Place had the same long and

The Fourth Chapter part.1

arrangements for you, but I will come back very soon.

And I will bring fresh milk and plum cake when I do.”

Whether the children understood her exact mean-

ing was unknown, but the general tone of her words

seemed to have gotten across, for there was no more

howling. Also, as soon as Penelope rose to leave, the

youngest of the three leaped into the warm spot on the

ground where Penelope had been sitting and curled

up in a ball; the look on her face was very much like

contentment.

That started Mrs. Clarke wailing all over again, and

Penelope had to lend her a fresh handkerchief before

they could make their way back to the house.

The Fourth Chapter

Lord Fredrick tells a most

unbelievable tale!

Penelope’s notion that the children ought to be

brought inside at once and settled in the nursery met

with some resistance from her walking companion, at

least at first.

“Lady Constance will have to”—huff, puff—“give

her permission,” said Mrs. Clarke, who, if anyone had

asked her, would have sworn that the journey both to

and from the barn was decidedly uphill.

“Permission? For children to live indoors? I should

think she will!” Penelope exclaimed. “What other

answer could she give?”

To that, Mrs. Clarke gave no reply. The brisk walk

back to the house was making her too winded to con-

verse intelligently. “All this trotting to and fro will be

the”—huff!—“death of me!” she wheezed, although,

as you already know, regular aerobic exercise was far

more likely to improve her cardiovascular fitness than

cause her demise.

Penelope, meanwhile, could not erase the leering,

pocked face of Mr. Alpo—for that is how she imagined

him to look—from her mind’s eye, and it simply made

her desire to protect the children all the more urgent.

“In that case,” she said firmly, “Lady Constance will

have to come out to the barn and view the situation

for herself.”

When they arrived at the house, Mrs. Clarke had

to sit down and drink a glass of blackberry cordial to

settle her nerves, so young Margaret was instructed

to deliver the message to Lady Constance. She soon

returned, and even the comically squeaky tone of

Margaret’s voice could not conceal the sternness of

her mistress’s reply: Under no circumstances would

Lady Constance venture outside that evening. She had

retired to her private rooms until further notice and

would take supper alone due to a severe headache.

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 own-

ers, 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—

“No! Edith-Anne couldn’t bear to think of it, but

what could she do? It was her own Rainbow—dear,

sweet Rainbow!—who had the patience to run alongside

Silky, hour after hour. Who took the carrots Edith-

Anne gave her and nosed them through the fence at her

snorting, unhappy friend. Who showed Silky, through

patient example, how pleasant it was to be groomed

by an adoring little girl, to have one’s hooves rubbed

with oil, and then to have all those bright red ribbons

braided through one’s mane!

“When Mr. Alpo arrived, halter in hand, to take

his prize, how shocked he and the Krupps were to see

Drusilla perched happily on Silky’s back! His clean coat

shone in the sun as he and Rainbow trotted side by side

through the course Edith-Anne had prepared for them:

circling to the left, circling to the right, a wide figure

eight, then diagonals across and back, and a perfect

finish in the center. The ponies even took a bow.”

Penelope had to stop there—partly because the tale

was over, partly to wipe her eyes (the story always

touched her deeply), but mostly because of the dread-

ful noise emanating from Mrs. Clarke.

Naturally Mrs. Clarke had been amazed by the sight

of three filthy children slowly settling themselves into

the dirt and hay at Penelope’s feet, drawn by her voice

and rapt as kindergartners, although surely they could

not understand a word of Penelope’s story—but Mrs.

Clarke herself was now weeping uncontrollably at the

tale of Rainbow and Silky. It took several moments for

her to compose herself enough even to blow her nose.

“I think that is all the story we have time for now,

children,” Penelope said gently. “Now you three must

stay here in the barn quietly for a bit, while I go make

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 Penel-

ope paid her no mind.

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” she said to the chil-

dren, 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 stiff-

ened 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 fly-

ing 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 ques-

tioning tone.

“Woof, ” barked the girl, rolling happily on her back.

Then she grinned. “Woof, woof! ”

It was altogether impossible to believe, and yet,

standing there in the big wooden barn, with the sun-

beams 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 chest-

nut coat dulled with lack of care, burrs stuck in his

“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 chil-

dren 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. “Per-

haps 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.

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

amiss? The noise seemed to be coming from the direc-

tion 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 exces-

sive 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.

“Miss Lumley! Miss Lumley! Please—wait—you

musn’t—”

Mrs. Clarke chased Penelope across the grounds,

but Penelope had the advantage of youth, not to men-

tion 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 mer-

cury 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 ani-

mal 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—”

The Fourth Chapter part.2

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 won-

dered 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 oppor-

tunity 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 howl-

ing 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

The Third Chapter

The source of the mysterious

howling is revealed.

When 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 sur-

prise 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 enor-

mous 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 excel-

lent 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.

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.

Napoleonic Wars. This hardly seemed relevant. How-

ever, the look on Lady Constance’s face had grown

quite serious, and Penelope guessed that the pleasant-

ries must now be over.

She took a deep breath and braced herself to

answer probing questions about her literary and scien-

tific 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 busi-

ness 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 posses-

sions.” 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.”

dissolved. “We are in dire need of a governess, there is

no doubt. It’s just that”—she seemed to be struggling

to find words and avoided Penelope’s gaze—“children

are not a very interesting topic, I find. That is to say,

children are merely—children. All more or less alike.

Don’t you agree?”

Penelope did not, but she did not say so. It had just

occurred to her that Lady Constance was far too young

to have school-age offspring of her own. Whose chil-

dren were they, she wondered, whom Lady Constance

found so unworthy of discussion?

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

Lady Constance brightened at once and launched

into an animated description of the house: the his-

tory, the architecture, the furnishings. Everything on

the premises, she explained, was of the highest qual-

ity. 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.

“. . . children are not a very interesting topic, I find.”

“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, low-

ered 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 describ-

ing the interrogation of military prisoners during the

were a bit too large for her face.

The round eyes gave her the appearance of a doll,

as did her pink-hued cheeks and upturned nose. Penel-

ope knew little about fashion, but even she could see

that Lady Constance’s tiered silk gown was of the most

extravagant style. It called to her mind the words of

Agatha Swanburne: “That which can be purchased at a

shop is easily left in a taxi; that which you carry inside

you is difficult, though not impossible, to misplace.”

Lady Constance smiled charmingly. “Well! I have

never interviewed a possible governess before! I feel

somewhat nervous; you must forgive me.”

“It is my first interview as well,” Penelope offered,

“so perhaps between the two of us we will muddle

through.”

Lady Constance smiled again and stirred her tea.

An awkward moment passed, until the two young

ladies spoke at once.

“Where are the—”

“What do you—”

“Pardon me!”

“No, you must go first, of course,” Lady Constance

declared. Penelope briefly imagined those round, doll

eyes were taking in her plain dress and sensible foot-

wear, but shooed away the thought as fast as it came.

“I have you at a terrible disadvantage, I realize,”

Lady Constance went on. “I have seen your résumé

and letter of recommendation from Miss Mortimer, so

I feel I know a great deal about you. Your headmistress

has described you in the most glowing terms. But you

must have many questions about life here at Ashton

Place. Please ask; I will do my best to answer, and we

will let the conversation proceed in that way.”

She sat back pertly in her chair and folded her

hands, as if she were the one in need of a job.

“If you insist.” Penelope felt suddenly cautious

at the notion of having to interview her prospective

employer. “I understand that you are seeking a govern-

ess for three children. Perhaps you might tell me their

ages and a bit about them.”

“Oh!” Lady Constance trilled a strange, forced

laugh. “Let us not talk about the children just yet.”

Penelope thought this an odd response, frankly.

“Forgive me,” she said after a moment. “I don’t mean

to pry. But a governess for the children is the available

position, is it not?” She smiled what she hoped was a

warm and friendly smile. “I hope there has not been a

mistake?”

“Oh no, heavens, no!” Lady Constance stirred her

tea again with vigor, although the sugar had long since

sideboard. Mrs. Clarke seemed more nervous than

Penelope; she babbled nonstop. “Have a seat there by

the window, dear. The air will refresh you. You must

be starved! There’s tea at hand, but now that you’re

here I’ll bring up a tray of sandwiches in case you feel

peckish. Speaking for myself, I can’t travel more than a

half mile from home without taking some refreshment,

and here you’ve come all the way from who knows

where—”

“Heathcote. Excuse me for interrupting,” said Penel-

ope, “but what is that unusual sound?”

Mrs. Clark’s mouth slammed shut and stayed that

way for a count of three, and then flew open again to

emit another stream of even more rapid chatter. “What

sound? I’m sure I don’t hear any sound, certainly not

an ‘unusual’ sound or any other type of sound that one

wouldn’t normally expect to hear in a busy household

such as this—”

“It is an unusual sound,” said Penelope, tilting her

head to listen. “It’s coming in the windows. It has a sort

of a howling feeling to it.”

“A how—a how—!” Mrs. Clarke’s rushing river of

words suddenly went dry. At that moment a bell rang

from some distant place within the house. It was a pleas-

ant, mellow-toned bell, but even the airiest, tinkling

chime can be rung insistently and in a panic, and that

was unmistakably the type of ringing this was.

Mrs. Clarke gave a small, involuntary yelp. “Ai!

That’ll be Lady Constance. I’ll go tell her you’re

here and settled. And I’m sure I don’t hear anything

like a how—a how—well, nothing unusual, to be sure!

Here, let me close the windows, dear, so the bugs

can’t get in—”

At which point, despite the frantic ringing of the

bell and Penelope’s comment that the breeze was, in

fact, quite refreshing and that it would be a pity to

shut up windows on such a lovely autumn day, Mrs.

Clarke took pains to shutter and bolt every window in

the room.

“Would you care for some tea, Miss Lumley?”

“Thank you kindly, I would.”

Lady Constance poured the tea herself. “So per-

haps she is not completely spoiled,” thought Penelope

with relief. Lady Constance had appeared within

moments of Mrs. Clarke’s departure, quite breathless,

as if she had raced down the halls. Otherwise she was

much as Penelope had pictured her: perhaps nineteen

or twenty at the most, with blond hair the color of

butterscotch pudding and pale, circular blue eyes that

through was part of the estate. There were orchards

and farms and groups of other, much smaller houses

as well. These were the cottages in which the servants

lived, and where the blacksmith, tinsmith, and tanner

plied their trades. There was even a smokehouse for

the curing of fresh bacon, ham, sausage, and all sorts

of meat-based delicacies that would nowadays be pur-

chased in a supermarket, uninterestingly wrapped in

plastic.

And Penelope noted with delight: There was a barn

big enough to house a whole herd of ponies, with their

long, lovingly brushed tails and red ribbons braided

prettily through their manes—oh, how Penelope wished

the job were already hers! But the interview was still

ahead, and she resolved to keep her wits about her.

The driveway approaching the main entrance

curved around formal gardens of great beauty, now

tinged with the first brushstrokes of autumn color. The

coachman brought the carriage straight to the front of

the house and assisted his passenger brusquely to the

ground. A kind-faced, square-built woman of middle

age was waiting to greet the new arrival.

“Miss Lumley, I presume?”

Penelope nodded.

“I’m Mrs. Clarke, the head housekeeper. Thank

goodness you’ve arrived! Lady Constance has been

asking for you every quarter hour the whole blessed

day. Don’t make such a stricken face, dear. You’re not

late. Lady Constance tends to be impatient, that’s all

it is. But look at you—you’re hardly more than a child

yourself! Jasper, see to her bag, please!”

The carpetbag was whisked inside by a young man

who appeared from nowhere. As for the trunk of books,

which the coachman was struggling to lift—“Leave that

in the carriage for now,” Mrs. Clarke directed. She jan-

gled the large ring of keys she wore at her waist and

gave Penelope an appraising look. “Until we see how

things go.”

Mrs. Clarke hustled her directly to the drawing

room in such a flurry of chatter Penelope barely had

time to gape at the grandeur of the house’s vast inte-

rior. Still, it was impossible to ignore the sheer size

and quantity of the rooms, the plushness of the car-

pets underfoot, the curtains of sumptuous velvet, the

way the woodwork shone with the burnished glow of

a dark jewel.

The drawing room had been prepared for the inter-

view as if it were a stage set, with two chairs drawn

near each other and a tea tray already in place on the

all goes well, I will live here at Ashton Place, a strict

but kind-hearted governess with three clever pupils

who both fear and adore me.”

Penelope had read several novels about such gov-

ernesses in preparation for her interview and found

them chock-full of useful information, although she

had no intention of developing romantic feelings for

the charming, penniless tutor at a neighboring estate.

Or—heaven forbid!—for the darkly handsome, brood-

ing, and extravagantly wealthy master of her own

household. Lord Fredrick Ashton was newly married

in any case, and she had no inkling what his complex-

ion might be.

“Or perhaps I will mumble my way through my

interview like a dimwit and be sent home again in

shame,” she fretted. “Though, alas! There is no home

for me to return to!”

At which point the carriage hit a pothole and flew

thirteen-and-one-half inches into the air before crash-

ing down again. The driver took this opportunity to

break his silence with the brief and heartfelt outburst

mentioned earlier, but it is not necessary to reprint

his exact words. Fortunately, Penelope was unfamiliar

with the expression he used and was, therefore, none

the worse for hearing it.

However, she took the interruption as a reminder

that wallowing in self-pity, even in the privacy of her

own mind, was not the Swanburne way. Instead, she

cheered herself with the idea that she might soon have

three pupils of her own to teach, to mold, and to imbue

with the sterling values she felt so fortunate to have

acquired at school. If each child came equipped with a

pony, so much the better!

And then, abruptly, they were out of the trees and

coming over the crest of a hill, passing between great

stone pillars that framed a tall and forbidding black

iron gate.

Once through the gate, she could finally see before

her the house known as Ashton Place.

The coachman was right: Ashton Place was a very

grand house indeed. It was perfectly situated in the

sheltered lowland ahead and big as a palace, with the

lovely symmetrical proportions of the ancient Greek

architecture Penelope had so often admired in her his-

tory books at Swanburne.

From the hilltop vantage of the gate Penelope could

see that the surrounding property numbered not in the

hundreds, nor the thousands, but in the tens of thou-

sands of acres—in fact, the forest she had just passed

The Second Chapter

Penelope and Lady Constance

converse to the accompaniment

of strange noises.

If you have ever visited a theme park full of roller

coasters, water slides, and thrilling games of chance,

you were undoubtedly tickled half to death by it all. But

then, just when it seemed the excitement had reached

a fever pitch from which you might never recover, the

tedious ordeal of waiting in a long line for the bath-

room may have suddenly made you so bored that you

wished you were home in bed with the flu.

So it was with Penelope. Despite the two days of

anxious travel she had just endured and the impor-

tant job interview that awaited her, as she sat there

trapped in the carriage seat next to a coachman who

had decided not to talk, Penelope grew excruciatingly

bored. She decided it would be rude to glance at her

poetry book.

“I shall have to resort to the scenery to keep me

occupied,” she thought, turning her mind to the task.

They were now passing through stately woods. Duti-

fully she admired the golden-tipped canopy of leaves

and observed how the sunlight could penetrate only

here and there, dappling a lush undergrowth of ferns.

Some of these she could identify even from a distance:

Hart’s-tongue ferns, cinnamon ferns, and some with

attractive crinkled edges she thought were called cor-

rugated ferns or, if they weren’t, ought to be. Penelope

had once attended a lecture at Swanburne given by

the deputy vice president of the Heathcote Amateur

Pteridological Society, and considered herself quite

knowledgeable about ferns as a result.

Then she imagined the trees as they would soon look

in the full blaze of autumn color—and then afterward,

in winter, as a field of bare-branched giants standing

on a blanket of white. It made her wonder (although

not aloud), “And where will I be come Christmas? If