The Unmapped Sea (24 page)

Simon spun the luggage cart 'round until the man faced them. “Time to confess, you scoundrel!”

It was Edward Ashton. There were scratches on his face, and one of his eyes was swollen shut. Despite his predicament, he spoke with the cool authority of a judge.

“Good evening. Forgive me for remaining seated; I am somewhat hobbled at the moment.” To Simon, he said, “As for confessions, I suggest you ask these ferocious children to explain their actions.”

Simon took a step toward him. “You sneaked into their room. Isn't that explanation enough? And you set fire to the Left Foot Inn!”

Edward Ashton's dark eyes glowed like the polished onyx in one of the princess's many jeweled rings. “Why on earth would I set fire to a hotel full of innocent people? What do you take me for, Mr. Harley-Dickinson? Some kind of monster?”

It was then that Master Gogolev rushed in, holding a violin in one hand and dragging a man in a toga with the other. “I caught him!” the tutor cried. “I caught a
glimpse of his toga through the window, and ran outside in pursuit. Here is your Emperor Nero.”

Gogolev handed the violin to Alexander. When he let go of his captive, the man tottered for a moment, then slowly crumpled to the floor.

“The Fall of Rome?” the Incorrigibles guessed, as if the toga'd man was simply playing charades.

“Why, it is the clerk from the Left Foot Inn!” Penelope exclaimed. “Wait—so
you
were Emperor Nero?” With a terrible feeling of dread, she glanced at Edward Ashton. His face was unreadable.

Captain Babushkinov's neck swelled with rage. “Napoleon!” he roared, and lunged for the man's throat. Dr. Martell and Simon struggled to hold him back.

The clerk cowered and tried to hide himself beneath the carpet. “You madman! I'm not Napoleon Bonaparte! How many times must I tell you?”

“To set fire to a hotel full of guests is a terrible crime. Perhaps you ought to explain yourself, sir,” Dr. Martell said sternly.

The man sniveled. “I just . . . couldn't stand it anymore. The hotel was full of guests! The Babushkinovs had returned! All I wanted was to close my eyes till my headache went away. Then some crazed wolfman
came and barked in my face about borrowing a cloak. ‘Take what you want, wolfman, just bring me a headache lozenge!' I told him. Imagine my surprise when he reached into his pocket and handed me one. But I dropped the lozenge, and watched, helplessly, as it rolled and fell through a crack in the floorboards, never to be seen again.”

“Nevermore!” the Incorrigibles crooned, in support of his sad tale.

“That was the last straw. There was never any fire; I just wanted you all to go home! I sneaked behind the scenery and set out some smudge pots, like they use in the theaters to create the effect of smoke and mist. I had some left over from my thespian days. When the ghost of Hamlet's father made his entrance, and the stage swirled with fog—talk about spooky! This toga was from a production of
Julius Caesar
, in which I performed the title role. ‘
Et tu, Brute?
'” he declaimed. “The fiddle is mine. I used to play at country dances for extra cash, between my theatrical engagements.”

“Do you know the schottische?” Beowulf asked eagerly. He demonstrated a few steps.

The strange man was about to reply, but Simon interjected. “Say, I know you! You're Napoleon Smith! I saw your Hamlet in Chepstow, years ago. You were
terrible, if you don't mind me saying so. All your iambic pentameter got off on the wrong foot.
TA-tum, TA-tum, TA-tum!
It was painful to listen to.”

“Not as painful as my reviews. The critics carved me up like a Christmas goose. I gave up the stage and became a hotel clerk. But I still know a trick or two of stagecraft. ‘Alas, poor Yorick!'” the man intoned, awkwardly misaccenting the words. “ ‘To be, or not to be!' Alas! To wit! Forsooth!”

On and on he babbled, and a pitiable figure he was. The police were summoned, and shortly thereafter the unfortunate thespian-turned-clerk was handed over to the authorities.

“Don't forget your violin,” Alexander said, and handed the fiddle back to him. The man named Napoleon Smith plucked a sad refrain as he was hauled away.

“He was a terrible actor, true, but no one should be reduced to this. Theater critics!” Simon said, and shook his head.

M
ASTER
G
OGOLEV SEEMED TO BE
waiting for someone to acknowledge his heroic single-handed capture of the arsonist, but now that Napoleon Smith was gone, all eyes turned to Edward Ashton on the luggage cart, still patiently waiting to be untied.

He addressed the Babushkinovs. “Captain, and my dear madame, it was you I came to speak with, to discuss our plans for the morning. But since the relevant parties are here now, I see no reason to wait. Shall we proceed?”

Simon held up a hand. “Not so fast! I'm still waiting to hear why you sneaked into the children's room in the middle of the night.”

“Yes; identify yourself, please,” Dr. Martell demanded, just as suspicious. “It seems you are known to the Babushkinovs, but that does not explain your actions.”

“He is Edward Ashton,” Penelope said quietly. “He is Lord Fredrick's father, long presumed to be dead.”

“An absurd accusation,” Ashton retorted. “Why not find Lord Fredrick and ask him? I don't see him here.”

“It is absurd, but it is also true. And Lord Fredrick is indisposed this evening, as you well know,” she replied, willing her voice to be firm. Whatever Edward Ashton and the Babushkinovs had planned was about to be revealed, and the feeling in her heart was not optimistic at all, but something far more frozen and doomed.

Captain Babushkinov pulled on his whiskers. “I don't know what you mean about dead Ashtons. This
is my legal adviser. Judge Quinzy.”

The hint of a mocking smile crept across Edward Ashton's face. “Judge Quinzy is precisely who I am. And I suggest you release me at once. Otherwise, I shall be forced to call the police and have these violent wolf children taken into custody.”

“Violent wolf children!” Simon was livid. “Don't make me laugh! You may not be an arsonist, but you're a fake, and a schemer—”

“Mind your words, or I shall charge you with slander!” Ashton threatened. “I came to the hotel to see my clients, the Babushkinovs, and deliver a signed copy of the contract they engaged me to prepare. I walked down the wrong hallway by mistake—the east wing, instead of the west—and was attacked! By the wolf children,” he added, in response to Madame Babushkinov's anxious look. “These untamed creatures misled Boris and Constantin into thinking I was a dangerous intruder, and naturally they defended themselves. Your two fine sons were not at fault, I assure you, madame.”

The Incorrigibles looked bewildered. “Excuse me, but that is not what happened, Judgawoo,” Alexander said politely.

“Wolf children should be seen and not heard,” he
replied coldly. “Captain, the contract is in my coat pocket. Please, see for yourself.”

Captain Babushkinov stepped forward, reached into Ashton's pocket, and pulled out a sheaf of papers, which his wife snatched out of his hands.

“The contract, at last!” She hugged the papers to her. “Judge Quinzy, I cannot thank you enough. You have been a good friend to us.”

“In the first place, he's not really a judge,” Simon said, indignant. “In the second place, he's no friend to anyone but himself.”

“Enough talk!” Madame Babushkinov snapped. “This place sickens me. Now that the papers are final, there is no need to wait any longer. We leave tomorrow. Miss Lumley, you will come with us. From now on you work for the Babushkinovs.”

“I—I beg your pardon?” She was sure she must have misheard.

Madame Babushkinov held up the document like a torch. “That is what this contract says. You shall be governess to our children. Pack your things. Tomorrow we leave for Plinkst.”

“But that cannot be—that is to say, it must be an unfortunate misunderstanding. . . .” The look of triumph on Edward Ashton's face turned her heart to
lead. “But this is England!” she protested. “No one can enter me into an agreement without my consent. We do not have serfs, as you have in your country. People are free to come and go as they wish. Why, it has been almost ten years since slavery was outlawed here!”

Captain Babushkinov chuckled. “Ah. Ha. Hah! Yes, you are free, unless you sign a contract that says you are not. Perhaps next time you might read what you sign, eh? Show her, Natasha.”

Madame Babushkinov held out the contract. Penelope took it with shaking hands. She recognized the first page at once: it was the letter of terms she had signed on her first day at Ashton Place, when she accepted the position as governess to the as-yet-unnamed Incorrigible children. The contract was a “charming formality,” or so Penelope had been assured at the time.

There was no denying that it was her signature affixed to the bottom. The terms she had agreed to swam before her eyes. “. . . right to transfer to another party . . . legally binding in all nations and sovereign states, without exception . . . failure to adhere to the terms of this contract punishable by imprisonment . . .”

She turned to the pages that followed. It seemed that a large sum of money had already changed hands in order for the Babushkinovs to purchase her contract.
“And Lord Fredrick Ashton has already agreed to this ‘transfer to another party'?” she asked, though she could already see the answer, in the form of Lord Fredrick's signature, featuring a distinctive, swirling capital A.

The captain folded his arms. “I refer all questions to legal adviser,” he said.

“Yes, he has agreed,” Edward Ashton replied. “It is a pity he cannot tell you himself, but as you already observed, he is ‘indisposed' this evening. I hope that does not hurt your feelings, Miss Lumley. But business is business.”

It was as if she had fallen through a sheet of ice into the dark waters below. The contract threatened to slip from her numb fingers. Gently Simon took the papers from her and handed them to Dr. Martell, who put on his glasses and began to read.

The Incorrigibles had been trying hard to follow all this, but like most grown-up conversations about contracts and business and money, to them it was a train of words about uninteresting topics that simply went around in circles. However, whatever was being said was clearly making their governess unhappy, and Simon looked madder than both Babushkinov twins put together.

Cassiopeia tugged on Penelope's sleeve. “Lumawoo, what does it mean?”

“It means your governess is coming home with us,” Madame Babushkinov said. “To Plinkst.”

“To Plinkst, hurrah!” cheered the twins, and Veronika twirled.

“To Plinkst?” Cassiopeia's eyes were wide.

“Plinkst?” Beowulf echoed.

One look at Penelope's face confirmed that it was true.

“Very well,” said Alexander, speaking for them all. “If Lumawoo is going to Plinkst, then we will go, too. We will be Incorrigible Babushkawoos.” The three siblings stood tall and fearless. Variously they imagined how their lives might now unspool. They would become ballet dancers and army captains, dig for dinosaur bones in Siberia, train wolfhounds, learn to fence. They would be gloomy poets and failed beet farmers. It was hardly the future they had been expecting, but what future is? The Incorrigibles did not lack in the spirit of adventure. They had been raised by a Swanburne girl, after all.

“Hurrah! You shall live with us!” the twins crowed. “Our vows of eternal friendship shall last—eternally!”

Madame Babushkinov shook her head. “No, it is out of the question. We have four children of our own;
there is no room for more. We need a governess; that is all.”

“Mama, please!” The Babushkawoos wrapped themselves around her legs. “We love them! We have sworn eternal friendship!”

“Out of the question!” Impatiently she tried to peel them off. “They are Lord Ashton's wards, not ours. If they came to Plinkst, they would have to work and earn their own keep. They would end up as serfs on our estate. Serfs!” she repeated, and gave a shiver of disgust, followed by a meaningful look at her children.

Veronika was the first to recoil. She let go of her mother and gazed at Alexander like a tragic fawn. “What a shame, that our eternal friendship should have to end so soon. But dear Alexander, I swear, when I gaze through the window of my carriage as I travel to the dress shop, or to my dancing lessons, or the shoe shop or the jewelry shop or the furrier, and I see you in the distance, toiling in the beet fields, I promise I shall think of our time together fondly, and also with shame, for how was I to know to what depths you would someday sink? And I will weep for that distant time—meaning, now—when we were social equals. Alas, that time is already past.” Veronika bowed her
head, and rose high onto her tiptoes, and took tiny fluttering steps away from the Incorrigibles.

“My daughter, you may have some brains after all,” her mother said approvingly. The twins also looked repulsed, and mumbled some words of regret. Then they backed away to hide behind their father.

“Then we shall be serfs!” Beowulf declared with passion. “We will learn to grow beets!” His siblings nodded. The Incorrigible children hardly knew what beets were, and if they had they might have thought twice about this offer, but they would do anything to stay with their beloved Lumawoo. If the Babushkinovs had owned a pea plantation, the Incorrigibles would have gone to Plinkst to become pea farmers and eaten nothing but peas at every meal. That is how deeply they wished to stay with Penelope.

“Nyet,”
said the Captain firmly. “My wife is too proud to say it, but I am not. The beet farm is failing. The serfs are hungry. Soon they will starve. Is not easy being a peasant.”

Madame Babushkinov rolled her eyes. “A hundred times I told him! We never should have gotten out of the hat business.”