IF YOUR SISTER LAVINIA TAKES the last biscuit from the biscuit tin and leaves you nothing but crumbs, you might very well feel mad as a hornet, but if you are wise as an owl, you will stay cool as a cucumber and sweetly ask your mater to bake a fresh batch. Happy as a lark, you will take the oven-warm biscuits up to your private tree house and, hungry as a horse, devour them all yourself. Then it will be Lavinia’s turn to be mad as a hornet—unless she discovers your clever scheme and, gentle as a lamb and sweet as a kitten, somehow persuades you to share.
Why comparisons to insects, animals, and even vegetables are so often used to discuss matters that have only to do with humans is a question that philosophers have yet to answer. Consider the expression “dead as a dodo.” Dodos, as you know, are extinct; therefore, this rather gloomy phrase means that the thing being described is not merely dead. It is very dead; in fact, it is extremely and permanently dead, and likely to remain so.
Granted, the differences between “dead,” “very dead,” and “extremely and permanently dead” are not easy to comprehend. What is clear is that, in Miss Lumley’s day, as in our own, dodos are as dead as, well, dodos, but the carelessness of humans is far from extinct. Scaling a slippery, snow-capped mountain without the proper equipment can lead to a gruesome end, no matter how thrilling the scenery. And many fine poems have been written about shipwrecks, but only a foolish captain would knowingly set sail into stormy seas.
Certainly no one of good sense would sail headlong into the whirling, tornado-like temper of Lady Constance Ashton, if it could be helped. When highly agitated, as she was now, Lord Fredrick’s young bride had a regrettable tendency to blow over anything in her path.
“I cannot believe that the very first time I am to meet my mother-in-law it is with less than an hour’s notice, and of course Fredrick is not even at home! How is it possible that the Widow Ashton could arrive with no warning? Or did she write to Fredrick, and he simply forgot to tell me? If that is the case, I may scream from the sheer frustration of it all! Margaret, what is taking so long?”
It had fallen upon poor Margaret, the good-hearted and squeaky-voiced housemaid, to help Lady Constance change into a fresh gown and fix her hair so that she might receive her unexpected guest. But Lady Constance would not stay put; she raced from window to window and peered out to see if the Widow Ashton’s carriage had arrived.
“It’ll go quicker if you hold still, ma’am.”
“How can I hold still at a time like this? Wait—do you hear something? Do you suppose it is her? Why are there so many trees by the windows? I can scarcely see a thing!”
“Patience, m’lady. Like my old mum likes to say, a watched pot never boils.”
No doubt Agatha Swanburne would have agreed with this homespun wisdom, but the advice went unheeded, for Lady Constance had just reached the same conclusion that Penelope had come to that very morning. “This is absurd; I cannot tell anything from looking out the windows. Follow me, Margaret!” Clutching a powder puff in one hand and a container of face powder in the other, Lady Constance ran out of her dressing room, down the stairs, and out the front door of Ashton Place. Breathless, she scanned the property, first in one direction, then in the other. “She is not here yet,” Lady Constance cried, throwing her arms wide in despair. Every time she gestured, she left a trail of rose-scented powder. “Oh, it is torture! If she truly is coming, I say she ought to get here at once and put an end to this dreadful waiting.”
Margaret took her frantic mistress by the arm. “My lady, if you please, come inside and stand by the mirror so I can pin up your curls in the back.”
On most days a mirror would have been an excellent way to focus Lady Constance’s attention, but today was not most days, for when Lady Constance saw her reflection she shrieked.
“Eek! I look like a ghost!” In fact she had powdered herself into an otherworldly pallor, which she now tried to fix by powdering herself even more. “Margaret, you must do something about my face. To look at me, anyone would think I was a bloodless old crone of twenty-five.”
“I will, in a moment, my lady. First I must get your hair put up properly. And your dress is not even fastened.”
“Face, hair, dress—why is it all so complicated? If I were a bird, I would wear the same feathers every day and no one would think less of me for it.” Lady Constance batted at her face with the puff until she all but disappeared in a perfumed fog. “What if she hates me, Margaret? Men can be very attached to their mothers; at least, that is what I have heard. Perhaps the Widow Ashton will speak meanly of me to Fredrick and turn him against me.”
“I hope not, ma’am.” Margaret had nearly gotten all the wayward yellow ringlets pinned into place, but at her well-intended reply, Lady Constance spun ’round in a panic and the pins went flying.
“You hope not? You hope not? Why? Do you actually think there is the tiniest shred of possibility that Fredrick’s mother might find me…unappealing?”
“No, of course not, my lady.”
“Of course not is right. It is ridiculous to worry. I am lovely and charming; everyone says so. Ah-choo! Oh dear, the powder is all up my nose. Ah-choo! Ah-choo!”
“Take my handkerchief, ma’am.”
Lady Constance did, and blew her nose into it noisily, talking all the while. “On the other hand, who knows what sort of person Fredrick’s mother is? She might be perfectly dreadful and dislike me for no reason at all. Fredrick hardly speaks of her, but Fredrick hardly speaks of anything, ah-choo! Did you know, Margaret, the woman did not even attend our wedding? I find that terribly rude. Ah-choo!”
“If my lady will let me get at these buttons…I am sure my lord’s mother must have had a good excuse—”
“Oh, she had a fine excuse! Apparently the Widow Ashton has been in deep mourning ever since Fredrick’s father was killed in some sort of gruesome accident, many years ago. I ask you, is that a reason not to attend your own son’s wedding?”
“Killed in an accident, tsk tsk! Poor Widow Ashton, what a sad and lonely life she must have.” Margaret whizzed through the buttons on the back of the dress and tied the sash at the back of the skirt into a floppy bow.
“Do you really think Fredrick’s mother is sad?” Lady Constance’s look of surprise was made comical by her clown-white face. “To lose one’s husband in a gruesome accident is a serious misfortune, I suppose. If anything as horrible as that were to happen to me, I would do nothing but cry for a week, at least—but no! Fredrick is going to live a long, healthy life.” She stamped both her feet for emphasis, as if trying to squash an elusive bug. “I will have to insist upon it, for it would be dreadfully dull if he did not. Wait, what is that noise? Someone is coming, it must be her, and I am not ready, not nearly ready—”
“I see biscuit!”
“No, I see biscuit!”
“Giddy-yap, giddy-yap, Rainbowooooo!” Just as their governess had instructed, the Incorrigibles had raced the whole way home until, laughing and breathless, they reached the door at nearly the same time, with both boys claiming first dibs on the winner’s biscuit. Cassiopeia was a fierce competitor, too, of course, but her legs were the shortest; also, the plume in her hair had fallen out at one point, and she had to run back to get it, thus costing her valuable seconds.
In the excitement of their galloping, the children had slipped far ahead of their governess, who at the moment was nowhere to be seen.
“Eeeeeee!” Lady Constance shrieked as the three children burst into the house and skidded to a stop at her feet.
“Ahwoooooo!” the children howled, for they were equally startled to find themselves in a near collision with what appeared to be the ghost of Lady Constance.
“Ahwoo, you say? Ahwoo?” Lady Constance tiptoed backward in horror until her back was pressed flat against the wall. “What will Fredrick’s mother say if she finds the three of you here, drooling and barking and ahwooing away? Why, she will think I am a fool to harbor such uncivilized creatures in the house that still bears the proud name of Ashton! Miss Lumley, you must conceal these Incorrigible children at once.” She ran outside, searching. “Where is Miss Lumley? Monstrous creatures! What have you done with your governess?”
Beowulf discreetly wiped his mouth (for the exertion of the race had left him drooling, just a bit) and gestured toward the path. “Lumawoo coming,” he said.
Alexander peered through his spyglass. “Slower than ostrich, faster than Mrs. Clarke.”
“Do you like my plume?” Cassiopeia waggled it in front of Lady Constance’s face. It tickled the lady’s nose and brought on more sneezes that sent hairpins flying every which way. Margaret scurried to gather them up.
“Ah-choo! You are quite mad, all three of you. Ah-choo! I don’t know why Fredrick insists that you live here. As soon as he returns I am going to put my foot down, once and for all—”
“Pardon me, but there is a carriage coming up the drive, my lady.” Margaret rubbed Lady Constance’s cheeks with her sleeve to remove the excess powder, but the sneezing fit was already under way.
“Ahwoo! I mean, Ah-choo! Oh, I am all confused! I simply cannot greet Fredrick’s mother with the three of you standing at the front door as if you belonged here. Ah-choo!” A wicked look came over the lady’s face. “Children, do you know how to play hide-and-seek?”
Lady Constance had never suggested a game to the Incorrigibles before; in fact, she scarcely spoke to the children at all if it could be helped, so they were not sure how to respond.
“Gesundheit, and pardon me, your gracious ladyness.” Of the three Incorrigibles, Alexander was the most adept at the socially useful phrases Penelope had taught them. “We do not know hide-and-seek. Is it a good game?”
“Why, it is the very best game of all!” Lady Constance made her eyes grow wide in that false, excited way that grown-ups sometimes do when talking to children. “Hide-and-seek is when the three Incorrigible children run very far away and stay there, quiet as mice. And sooner or later, somebody just might come out to find you! Ah-choo! Doesn’t that sound fun?”
“No run in forest?” Beowulf asked dubiously, for he recalled Miss Lumley’s instruction from earlier in the day.
“Yes run in forest.” Lady Constance clapped her hands in exaggerated delight. “Yes, yes, yes, you must run into the forest, just as far away as you can. Can you do that, children? For I think it would be quite an adventure for you, and I would much prefer you to be out of sight and out of mind and absolutely out of the house for the duration of the Widow Ashton’s visit.”
She smiled hugely, baring her pearly white teeth in what could only be called a wolfish grin. “I will give you the loveliest present if you could scamper off and not come back. A nice, crunchy bone, perhaps?”
The children looked tempted. But before they could begin to play this interesting-sounding game, the clippety-clop of hooves and the clattering of carriage wheels announced that it was too late.
“She’s here! Oh, my hair! My face! My nose! Ah-choo!” Lady Constance wailed.
“Ma’am, your buttons have come undone!” Margaret squeaked.
“Hide,” Beowulf suggested to his siblings. No doubt he was still thinking about the possibility of a bone, for he dearly loved to gnaw. But Lady Constance misunderstood.
“Hide? Ah-choo! Very well, then—if you three will not, then I shall hide! After all, Fredrick’s mother cannot dislike me if she has not met me.” And with that, Lady Constance kicked off both of her pretty silver shoes and began to haul herself into the low, spreading branches of a nearby tree.
At the sight of her mistress shinnying up the gnarled trunk, Margaret, whose voice tended to rise in pitch when she was nervous, let out a squeak that only bats could hear and raced into the house to get help, thus leaving the three Incorrigible children alone to greet their guest.
AS ANYONE WHO HAS EVER eaten a box of Cracker Jack caramel-coated popcorn already knows, life is full of surprises. On a good day, one might find a colorful plastic top that spins; on a great day, the rare and much-coveted secret decoder ring. Alas, not all surprises are so pleasant. Long-absent parents send puzzling, alpine-themed gifts, and enjoyable bird-watching expeditions are cut short by the arrival of guests.
That life’s unexpected plot twists are not always to our liking should never be cause for despair. Even Agatha Swanburne, who had never tasted Cracker Jack in her life, once said, “Better to make the best of a bad situation than to make the worst of a good one.” Surely the secret decoder ring would be a more thrilling prize to find inside the box than yet another uninteresting sticker, but either way, one can still enjoy the popcorn.
Yet there are times when even the pluckiest among us fail to follow this sage advice. Instead of muddling through and making the best of things, we pull the blankets over our heads and hope that whatever is troubling us will simply go away and leave us alone. This is called “burying your head in the sand,” and the expression comes from a widely held but mistaken belief about ostriches. You see, somehow the rumor began that when the giant birds wish to hide themselves, they burrow their heads into the sand and assume that if they cannot see their enemies, their enemies cannot see them, either.
It is true that ostriches have exceedingly tiny brains relative to their size, yet even ostriches are not quite as dim-witted as all that. And no doubt the brain of Lady Constance Ashton was far bigger; however, it seemed she did put some stock in the idea that if she fled the scene, she could prevent the Widow Ashton from seeing her and therefore from disliking her. But a shoeless, whimpering lady in a half-buttoned gown dangling from the branch of a tree is hardly inconspicuous. It was only the Widow Ashton’s inability to see objects clearly without her pince-nez that prevented her from spotting her daughter-in-law the moment she climbed out of her carriage.
(A pince-nez was a sort of eyeglass popular at the time. It had no earpieces, as modern eyeglasses do, but stayed on by means of a pinching mechanism that tightly gripped the bridge of the wearer’s nose. No doubt this was just as painful as it sounds; nowadays the pince-nez is as extinct as the dodo. In the case of eyeglasses, at least, progress does have its advantages.)
The three children stood at attention as the Widow Ashton approached. She was a tall, handsome woman no older than sixty, dressed in a black crepe gown with a crisp white collar and cuffs, and a veiled cap pinned on top of her head. She swooped toward the house, arms stretched wide. “Freddy!” she cried. “Oh, my Freddy, someone show my boy to me at once; it has been much, much too long!” She gave a cursory glance to the children—and then a second, far sterner look. “Three, already? Horrors! It seems I am too late.” She peered forcefully through the pince-nez. “But wait; Freddy has been married less than two years. Even you—yes, you, the littlest one—are older than that, are you not?”
“I estimate five,” said Cassiopeia, who believed it was important to be accurate when speaking about numbers. By now she had slipped on Lady’s Constance’s grown-up lady shoes and was feeling quite fancy in her ostrich plume and pretty silver heels.
“You are not my Freddy’s, then. Who are your parents?”
Cassiopeia turned to her brothers. The boys exchanged looks and shrugged.
The Widow Ashton frowned. “You do not know who your parents are? That is peculiar, to say the least.”
“I’ll tell you what’s peculiar.” A distinguished-looking gentleman with white muttonchop sideburns strode around the back of the carriage. He wore khaki trousers tucked into tall leather boots, a safari jacket, and a pith helmet. His walking stick was topped with the carved head of a lion frozen in midroar, but he seemed to use it more for effect than as something to lean upon, for his step was quite spry. “Blast! You won’t believe this, Hortense! Bertha is missing.”
“Missing? How is that possible, dear? I thought the cage was locked.” She turned to the children. “This is my friend Admiral Faucet.” She pronounced it faw-say. “He is a famous explorer. Although if you don’t know who your parents are, I don’t expect you’ve heard of him, either.”
“Alexander Incorrigible, at your service,” Alexander said with a gracious bow.
“Beowulf Incorrigible. How do you do?” Beowulf clicked his heels together neatly and added a little hop to make it even more special.
Admiral Faucet did not reply; his gaze was fixed on Cassiopeia. “What on earth?” he exclaimed. With a sudden swashbuckling gesture, he used the lion-mouthed handle of his cane to snatch the plume from Cassiopeia’s hair.
“Mine!” she yelled, and began pummeling him on the leg. The thickness of his tall boots must have absorbed the blows, for the admiral did not seem to mind or even stop to acknowledge his tiny attacker. He was too busy examining the feather. He stroked it, held it up to the light, and even gave it a sniff.
“Where’d you get this plume, little girl?”
“Grrr.” Cassiopeia disliked being called little, for in her own mind she was just the right size.
“Never mind, then; I don’t talk to children who growl.” He turned his attention to Alexander. “You look like a sensible lad. Answer me, yes or no: Have you children seen my ostrich?”
Alexander hesitated, for the admiral’s question was poorly phrased and therefore difficult to answer without sounding rude. For yes, the children had seen an ostrich, but Alexander had no way of knowing if it was the exact bird that the admiral considered his own. “I don’t know,” he said, squirming. “What did it look like?”
The admiral scratched at his whiskers. “Let me see. It’s about six feet tall, and it’s a bird. Does that narrow it down for you, laddybuck?” He pounded his cane into the ground. “It looks like an ostrich! How many ostriches a day do you see in this place?”
“Don’t lose your temper, Fawsy dear. They are only children.” The Widow Ashton lowered her voice to a loud whisper. “They must not be very well educated, either. They don’t even know who their parents are.”
The Incorrigibles could hear her, of course. Beowulf in particular took offense, for he was quite serious about his studies. To prove it, he recited the first lines of a poem that Penelope had begun teaching the children after their interest in birds had taken a firm hold.
“Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—”
Still cross about the plume, Cassiopeia fiercely chimed in:
“While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.”
Not to be outdone, Alexander finished the verse:
“‘’Tis some visitor,’ I muttered, ‘tapping at my chamber door—
Only this, and nothing more.’”
Using their fists and feet, the three children started tapping and rapping and rapping and tapping. Alarmed, the Widow Ashton took a step backward. Admiral Faucet held out his cane, ready to strike.
Luckily for all, it was at that very moment that Miss Penelope Lumley arrived. She held one shoe in her hand and began calling from the end of the curved driveway that led to the front of the house.
“Children, there you are! As you see, I broke the heel off my shoe running over the rocky path and had to hop the rest of the way home.” She hopped once, to demonstrate. Then she noticed the visitors. “How do you do, ma’am? Sir?”
The Widow Ashton looked Penelope up and down through her pince-nez. “Are you my son’s wife, then? Lady Constance? You are obviously energetic, and sensibly dressed, too, if a little plainly. No silly froufrous for you, I see! I admire that in a young lady.”
Penelope stood on one leg like a stork and did her best to curtsy. “Thank you, but I am the children’s governess, ma’am. My name is Miss Penelope Lumley. I work for Lord Ashton, and these three children are his wards. Do I have the pleasure of speaking to Lord Ashton’s mother?”
The Widow Ashton nodded. Admiral Faucet waved his walking stick in the air. “Ashton’s wards, eh? And what have these three moppets done with my Bertha? They took one of her plumes, see?” He narrowed his eyes at Cassiopeia, who, despite being only a quarter of his size, narrowed her eyes right back.
Penelope turned to the admiral. “Pardon me, sir. Who is Bertha?”
The admiral’s cheeks turned ruddy with anger, which threw his white muttonchop sideburns into bold relief. “My ostrich! My ostrich that I shipped at great expense all the way from Africa! Do you have any idea how difficult it is to catch an ostrich? They’re mean and stupid but faster than a Thoroughbred. That’s why I want to import them to England. For racing. It’s a business venture that simply cannot fail. That is, unless my Bertha is lost.”
“We did see an ostrich on our walk, sir. It…I mean, she—Bertha—ran off into the woods,” Penelope explained. “She was remarkably fast. And quite a lovely bird,” she added, to be polite.
“Nicest ostrich we’ve seen,” Alexander agreed.
The answer seemed to calm the admiral. “She is a beauty, isn’t she? Well, that’s all right, then. I was afraid she’d gotten lost at the dock, or someplace along the road, but it sounds like she just wiggled out of her cage a bit earlier than planned. Bit of exercise will do her good. I’ll have to round her up somehow. Blast, why couldn’t you children just say so?”
“Fawsy darling, be sweet. Didn’t you hear the governess? These are my son’s wards.” The Widow Ashton gave each child a dewy smile in turn. “Alexander, was it? Beowulf—who could forget a name like that? And what are you called, dear?”
“Cassagrrrr,” Cassiopeia muttered, for she was still cross about the plume. “How d’ you do.”
The widow slipped her arm through the admiral’s. “See how polite they are, Fawsy? I would have expected my Freddy to marry a flighty, silly sort of girl; that was always his type—but anyone who could raise three such well-behaved children must be of a more substantial character. What a relief! Now, Fawsy, give Cassagurr back her feather. It looked so pretty in that lovely auburn hair, didn’t it?”
“All right, sugarplum. You know best.” He chuckled and held the ostrich feather out to Cassiopeia. “Take your plume back, little growler. We might as well be friends. After all, if all goes according to plan, I’ll end up being your grandpapa.”
“Grandpapa Admiral?” Alexander asked, confused.
“That’s right, dear.” The widow nervously tugged at her veil. “Admiral Faucet wishes us to wed. I have not yet given him my answer, of course, for I would never agree to remarry without Fredrick’s blessing. That is why we have come home, to Ashton Place. That, and this ostrich-racing business—but Fawsy, perhaps we ought not to speak of these things until Fredrick is present. I wonder if he is at home?”
Weeeeeeeeee!
The Widow Ashton peered around her through her pince-nez. “Miss Lumley, what is that dreadful squealing noise? Do you keep pigs?”
“Not in the house, my lady.” It might have been a screech owl, but owls were nocturnal and therefore would not be out in the daytime. A frightened pig was also a fair guess, yet Penelope could swear the sound was coming from the treetops, which ruled out pigs completely. (As in the case of ostriches and dodos, the inability of pigs to fly has been well documented.)
Weeeeeeeeee!
The Widow Ashton winced and stuck her fingers in her ears. “It sounds frightfully close. Perhaps Fredrick has ordered a roast suckling for dinner in honor of our visit.”
“Blast, I hope so.” The admiral patted his stomach. “On safari you live on beef jerky and canteen water. Not very appetizing.”
Weeeeeeeeee!
Eeeeeeeeeek!
Crack—thump—
With a final crash, followed by an “ow,” the source of the squealing was revealed: It was Lady Constance, now sprawled on the grass like a broken doll. During the entire conversation between the Widow Ashton, the Incorrigibles, the admiral, and Penelope, Lady Constance had clung bravely to her branch. Somehow she managed not to make a sound: not when she learned of an ostrich running loose on the grounds of Ashton Place, nor at the absurd praise heaped on the Incorrigible children by the Widow Ashton. Even the scandalous news that her supposedly grieving mother-in-law seemed to be on the brink of remarriage did not force a peep from the precariously balanced Lady Constance.
But then came Nutsawoo. Naturally, the lady’s unexpected presence in the tree had attracted the squirrel’s attention, and being nearly tame, the hungry scamp had come right up to her to beg for treats. Lady Constance had held on desperately while Nutsawoo perched not six inches away from her face, gazing pleadingly into her eyes.
That was when Lady Constance began to squeal. It was not until Nutsawoo tapped her on the nose with an acorn to make his request for a snack perfectly clear, like so:
Tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap.
Lady Constance had clung bravely to her branch.
that her weeeeeeeeee turned to an eeeeeeeeeek; she lost her grip on the branch and tumbled to the ground in full sight of all. Nutsawoo was dragged down as well. After freeing himself from the nest of yellow curls on Lady Constance’s head, the surprised squirrel leaped onto Cassiopeia’s shoulder for a quick nuzzle and a biscuit crumb before skittering away.
“Stop that vicious rodent!” Lady Constance yelled as she rolled on the grass, for what was left of her dress was tangled all ’round her. “I will have it made into a collar at once!”
No doubt Cassiopeia would have objected strongly to that remark had she had the chance, but the Widow Ashton spoke first. She peered down through her pince-nez. “Who on earth is this dirty, uncouth, and uncivilized creature?” she demanded.
Penelope gulped. “May I present your daughter-in-law, Lady Constance Ashton.”
Lady Constance looked up and smiled. There were leaves in her hair, rips in her stockings, and dirt smudged across both cheeks. “Mother Ashton,” she trilled, spitting out a piece of bark and extending both arms upward, as if offering an embrace. “I am so happy to meet you at last!”