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.”