The Incorrigible Children of Ashton Place: Book I: The Mysterious Howling

Dedication

For Mike

—M.W.

CONTENTS

Dedication

The First Chapter

The Second Chapter

The Third Chapter

The Fourth Chapter

The Fifth Chapter

The Sixth Chapter

The Seventh Chapter

The Eighth Chapter

The Ninth Chapter

The Tenth Chapter

The Eleventh Chapter

The Twelfth Chapter

The Thirteenth Chapter

The Fourteenth Chapter

The Fifteenth and Final Chapter

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Extras

The Collected Wisdom of Agatha Swanburne

Excerpt from The Incorrigible Children of Ashton Place: Book II: The Hidden Gallery

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About the Author and Illustrator

Praise

Books by Maryrose Wood

Credits

Copyright

About the Publisher

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 different 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 interview, 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 leaning 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 worrying 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 happened; 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.

She followed the conductor down the aisle, staggering 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 stalwart 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 render 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 simply 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 sayings 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 previously 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 was standing alone on a train platform in a strange town with all her meager worldly goods around her, wishing that she had never had to leave her beloved school to make her own way in the world. But it could not be helped. Miss Lumley had graduated (a year early and at the top of her class, it should be said), and there was no longer any room for her at the academy, what with the constant influx of Poor Bright Females waiting for a spot to open up! That is how Miss Charlotte Mortimer, the kind headmistress at Swanburne, had explained the situation.

A person’s life can certainly change a great deal in two days, Miss Lumley thought. And yet, she reminded herself, Agatha Swanburne would not waste a moment worrying about things that couldn’t be helped, or events that hadn’t happened yet, or subjects that were otherwise useless to dwell upon. Nor would she squeeze her own right hand tightly with her left, close her eyes and pretend, just for a moment, that it was Miss Charlotte Mortimer holding her hand and that, when she opened her eyes, she would be surrounded by familiar people and places, and everything in her life would remain as it had always been.

No, Agatha Swanburne would sit calmly upon her trunk to wait for her ride to Ashton Place, and perhaps 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. Doubtless 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 confident 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 Mortimer’s advice to be well worth taking.

Hmph, the coachman said, but he helped Penelope 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 often shared breakfast with her favorites among the students and would read the newspaper aloud to them as they gobbled up their boiled oats and milk. ‘Knowledge of French, Latin, History, Etiquette, Drawing, and Music will be Required—Experience with Animals Strongly Preferred.’ Animals! Did you hear that? It is the perfect job for you, Penny, dear!" Her warm voice had throbbed with conviction as she handed Penelope the page torn from the latest edition of Heathcote, All Year Round (Now Illustrated). No arguments! You must have an interview. I will write your recommendation at once.

Now that same sheet of newspaper was carefully folded and tucked inside Penelope’s volume of poetry, serving as both bookmark and, she hoped, lucky charm. It sounds as if the children are deeply attached to their pets, she told herself, as the horses clip-clopped along the road through the ancient forest that lay between the village and the estate, and that means they are likely to be from a kind and fun-loving family, and we shall all get along splendidly.

The idea was so comforting, she almost asked the coachman what sort of animals she could expect to meet at Ashton Place. She dearly hoped there were ponies on the premises. Penelope had secretly wished for a pony ever since she was a tiny girl and discovered the Giddy-Yap, Rainbow! books in the Swanburne library. The adventures of Rainbow and her young mistress, Edith-Anne Pevington, had filled many a happy hour curled up on the window seat of Miss Mortimer’s office. The volume titled Silky Mischief, in which Rainbow’s gentle influence saves an ill-tempered pony on a neighboring farm from a gruesome fate, left an especially lasting impression. Penelope had reread it more times than she could count.

But upon reflection she felt it would be more polite to inquire about other topics first. She adjusted her bonnet and pulled her cloak around her against the early autumn breeze.

Tell me, sir: What sort of a house is Ashton Place?

Very grand, as you’ll soon see. Four generations of Ashtons have lived out their days there. The coachman paused and clucked encouragement to the horses and then went on. I reckon it’s lucky a house can’t speak. If it could, Ashton Place could tell all manner a’ secrets.

Penelope found his imagery quaint, if a tad unoriginal, but knew better than to say so. Instead, she asked, And what sort of people are Lord and Lady Ashton? I 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, Penelope 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 occasion 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 sharing 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.

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 bathroom 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 important 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. Dutifully 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