EXCEPT IN THE BOOK-FUELED REALM of her imagination, Penelope had never ridden a pony at full gallop. However, she did have a distant recollection of being given a piggyback ride by Dr. Westminster, the Swanburne veterinarian, when she was still a very small girl. Exactly how small she could not remember, but small enough to be given piggyback rides, in any case.
“Bow wow wow wow!”
“Bow wow wow wow!”
Penelope had been right when she said the wolves and Bertha could stay well ahead of Lord Fredrick’s hunting party; in the forest they hurdled over fallen trees and leaped through narrow crevices that a group of men on horseback would have to go around. However, Lord Fredrick’s pack of hounds did not have these limitations, and from the sound of it, the dogs were getting closer by the minute. Too late Penelope realized that the pack had circled ’round the edge of the wood, ready to cut them off before they reached the POE.
“We are heading toward the dogs—we must change course!” she yelled, but Admiral Faucet was now well into the spirit of the chase and was whooping and hollering so much she could not make herself heard. Moments later they emerged from the forest. All that lay between them and the safety of the POE were the rolling meadows of parkland that surrounded Ashton Place, dotted here and there by a towering, wide-canopied tree and beribboned with the winding paths upon which Mrs. Clarke liked to take her morning jog.
The baying of the hounds grew louder, and the wolves ran faster still, panting hard to keep up with the swift and long-legged bird. It was not until the stately house called Ashton Place came into view that Penelope thought of how terrified the household staff would be to see a pack of wolves bounding across the property, so near the house and the livestock. Would the wolves be in danger? Or had all the men with rifles gone out with Lord Fredrick and his party?
“Bow wow wow wow!”
“Bow wow wow wow!”
The hounds tore around the edge of the trees, and the wolves came sharply to a stop. Bertha squawked and hissed, and the two breathless groups of canines stood nose to nose, staring and growling. Penelope signaled to the children to dismount and stand clear. The wolves were larger and stronger, but the beagles had them outnumbered five to one (that is to say, there were five beagles for every one wolf; as you already know how many wolves there were, the exact number of beagles can easily be figured with the use of an abacus). A dreadful fight seemed imminent.
The admiral slipped off Mama Woof’s back and began waving his cane at the dogs. “Scat, you silly dogs,” he shouted. “Off with you, now—and stay away from my ostrich.” But being scolded only made the hounds more agitated. They bayed in chorus and tried to inch closer to Bertha.
“Bow wow wow wow!”
“Bow wow wow wow!”
“Woof.” Mama Woof’s deep, wolfy voice echoed over the hills. The bow-wow-wowing turned to whimpers and whines.
“Woof,” repeated Mama Woof, more sternly this time. The pack of hounds fell silent. Twenty tails drooped down between four times as many legs.
“Yap?” the lead beagle asked nervously.
“WOOF,” insisted Mama Woof. The dogs fell to the ground and rolled on their backs, paws trembling in the air (you may work it out for yourselves exactly how many paws; however, it is safe to assume there was one paw per leg). Mama Woof and the other wolves took turns growling in the dogs’ faces. Penelope had to restrain the Incorrigible children from doing the same; reluctantly they obeyed, but they added their own growls and snarls from a distance.
After that the dogs and wolves were on more friendly terms, with the wolves firmly in charge. Any hound that got snappy with Bertha was promptly corrected, and the pack of yowling beagles provided a noisy but festive escort back to the POE. The admiral rode proudly on Mama Woof, crowing and singing like a victorious general returning from battle, but Penelope kept looking over her shoulder. “The wolves have been our protectors while we were in their native habitat,” she thought, “but if they are seen in ours, it will not be so easy for us to protect them.” Nature was “red in tooth and claw,” according to the admiral, yet Penelope feared it was here, among the landscaped grounds and formal gardens, in sight of the peaceful, smoke-plumed chimneys and the thoroughly civilized neoclassical facade of Ashton Place, that blood might, at last, be shed.
BEFORE LONG, BERTHA HAD BEEN set loose in her Permanent Ostrich Enclosure and was being fed SPOTs by the children. As you no doubt recall, these were the Savory Pickled Ostrich Treats the admiral had invented, and Bertha did seem to like them very much. Armed with the treats, the children could not resist trying to teach Bertha some tricks, but the small-brained bird was not a terribly good student. Cassiopeia tried to show her some basic facts of multiplication, but Bertha proved even less adept at math than Nutsawoo, who could at least comprehend that three acorns made a more filling snack than two.
Meanwhile, Admiral Faucet excused himself to a small shed off the main POE that he called the POE Home Office, or POEHO for short. There, he said, he planned to “draft a new letter to my potential investors. Racing wolves! Half-human child jockeys! It’s one brilliant moneymaking scheme after another!”
The exhausted wolves lapped water from a trough (contrary to popular belief, ostriches do drink water if it is available, although they can manage without it for long stretches of time as well). Penelope’s fear for the wolves’ safety was well founded, for moments after they had arrived at the POE, two workmen who were patching the roof of the barn saw them from above and raised a cry: “Wolves, wolves! Lock up your sheep! Wolves, wolves! Close the doors!” It was only a matter of time before an angry mob arrived.
Reluctantly, Penelope approached Mama Woof. Water dripped from the beast’s whiskered muzzle, and her yellow eyes were dim with fatigue. “I know you have run a long way and would like to rest,” Penelope said softly, “but for your own sake, you and the other wolves must go back to the forest at once.”
Mama Woof threw back her head and howled, soft and sad. With a full heart, Penelope called the Incorrigibles over. “Alexander, Beowulf, Cassiopeia, it is time to say good-bye.”
The three children threw down their SPOTs and ran to embrace Mama Woof and the others. This was the moment Penelope had dreaded. Would the children wish to return to the forest with their animal friends? They had seemed so happy in the woods, and so at home in that surprisingly cozy cave—who was Penelope to say that life at Ashton Place was better? True, there was plumbing, and cooked meals, and knickknacks that were dusted daily, and banisters to slide down when none of the household staff was looking, but could these compare to the burbling streams that ran through the woods, the pinecones and hazelnuts one could freely gather from the mossy floor, the trees one could climb and the vines one could swing from?
The more Penelope turned it over in her mind, the more convinced she became that the children might actually be better off in the forest. “Think how marvelous it would be to live among so many fascinating ferns, growing in their native habitats,” she thought with quivering lip. “And the children will still have one another, and the wolves, too…I am the one who will be left, all alone, once more….” Elk, elk, elk—now that the distraction of the chase was done, there it was; like so many other matters about which one is tempted to put one’s head in the sand, the problem of the long-lost Lumleys was no closer to solving itself than it had been before.
The four wolves and three children exchanged many hugs and licks, friendly barks and gentle nips. Penelope’s feelings spun in such rapid succession she could not even name them; it was like a pinwheel of emotions whirling inside her, faster and faster, until each blended into the next.
“So long,” said Cassiopeia, kissing one wolf on the nose.
“Farewell,” said Beowulf as he let his face be washed once more.
“Auf Wiedersehen,” said Alexander. He clicked his heels and bowed to the wolves.
“Good-bye, Mama Woof,” Penelope whispered. “I hope we meet again quite soon.” When or where that meeting might take place, she did not dare imagine. The wolves would not be welcome in the nursery; that much was certain.
The four wolves sat and offered their paws for a final shake. The beagles bayed a mournful parting song. Even Bertha raised a wing in salute. Then the wolves of Ashton Place were off, slipping like four shadows through the meadow grass and over the rolling fields until they disappeared beyond the tree line into the mysterious woods beyond.
Penelope scarcely dared look at the Incorrigibles. Six shining eyes gazed longingly at the forest; at least, that is what she imagined the children felt. “Surely they should be allowed to choose,” she thought, bravely blinking away her tears. “If not, then I am no better than the admiral, to keep living creatures locked up in places where they would rather not be.” The nursery at Ashton Place was a pleasant room, well stocked with books and toys, not to mention a fond and dedicated governess, but Penelope had no intention of turning it into a PIE—a Permanent Incorrigible Enclosure from which there was no chance of escape.
“Children, you do not have to stay,” she tried to say, but scarcely any sound came out, for her voice was choked with feeling.
The Incorrigibles looked at her with an expression of joyful surprise. “Lumawoo, you have learned how to make rabbit call!” Beowulf said in admiration, but the thunder of approaching hooves prevented Penelope from correcting him. It was Lord Fredrick and his party, arriving at last. The men and their horses looked winded and unhappy. Lord Fredrick seemed particularly unwell; his eyes were bleary and red, and there were dark, puffy circles beneath them, as if he had been up all night.
Six shining eyes gazed longingly at the forest…
He was snappily dressed, at least, like all the other men. They were clothed for the hunt in scarlet coats, white trousers, and neat black caps. Penelope saw familiar faces among them: the Earl of Maytag was there, and Baron Hoover, both friends of Lord Fredrick from his gentlemen’s club. She scanned the rest of the party to see if the man who called himself Judge Quinzy was also present. As far as she could see, he was not.
“Ostrich chase! More like a wild goose chase, that’s what this was!” Lord Fredrick was in the midst of vigorously scolding some unfortunate person; his voice was hoarse and froggy, and now and then he made an odd, sneezy, barky sort of sound. “I may not be able to see much, yap! But I should think a pack of experienced bird hounds would be able to sniff out the one and only ostrich in England. Woof! Instead they lead us to geese, ducks, warblers, nuthatches—I’ve never known the dogs to have such trouble telling one bird from another. Next time, bring a guidebook, what? Ah-whoo!” he sneezed as they approached the POE. “And then the blasted beagles run off and disappear altogether, yap! Yap, yap!”
“Very sorry, my lord. Not sure what went amiss with the hounds today. I promise it won’t happen again.”
The speaker dismounted with a thud. It was Old Timothy! He wore the green waistcoat that marked him as the master of hounds. The hunting horn was slung at his hip.
Penelope thought quickly. If Old Timothy had served as master of hounds for the day, that meant it was Old Timothy who had blown the horn that warned her and the children that Lord Fredrick was coming. And it was Old Timothy who had apparently directed the dogs to lead this well-dressed hunting party everywhere but where Bertha might be found.
Penelope suppressed the urge to go throw her arms around the neck of this enigmatic fellow and give him a hug of thanks. Surely it all meant that the strange coachman truly was a friend to her and the Incorrigibles, in spite of his gruff manner and puzzling remarks. “On second thought, an embrace would be unseemly,” she concluded, “but perhaps I could invite him to tea, as a way of saying thank you.” Yet somehow she doubted he would accept such a friendly gesture. Still, she resolved to express her gratitude in some fashion.
“Ah-whoo! Blast this head cold, yap!” Lord Fredrick scratched frantically at one ear. “As far as I’m concerned, the day’s been a total loss. Hardly worth dragging myself out of my sickbed—why, what’s this?” Lord Fredrick squinted in the direction of the POE. “It’s not a bird, what? Too big to be a swan, eh? The pigs haven’t begun to grow wings, have they? Har har!”
“I’m no expert, of course, but I believe it may be the ostrich.” Baron Hoover guided his horse near Lord Fredrick’s. “Looks like the hounds have sniffed her out after all. Always find it in the last place you look, eh, Freddy? Ha!”
The Earl of Maytag slid off his mount and walked right up to the edge of the POE. Before Bertha could evade him, he reached over the fence and plucked a plume from her tail, which made her hiss mightily.
“Hoover’s right, Freddy. See for yourself.” He handed the long, arched feather to Lord Fredrick. “An exotic creature, to be sure. Once she’s stuffed she’ll make a handsome addition to your study. You can put her next to the elephant’s-foot umbrella stand.”
Lord Fredrick held the feather close in front of his eyes, trying to focus. “Hmm,” he muttered. “I was expecting something bigger—woof!”
“Stand back from my bird, if you please!” The bellow came from Admiral Faucet, who emerged from the POEHO and strode angrily toward the assembled hunting party. “The hounds did not find Bertha. I did—with a bit of help from the wolf children. So the ostrich is still mine, Ashton. Finders keepers, that’s what you said.” Faucet awkwardly petted the bird on the neck, which made her kick forward (for ostriches can only kick forward, due to the way their knees are built) and snap at him with her beak. He smiled through gritted teeth. “As you can see, she’s all out of sorts from being away from me, poor creature. I’ll thank everyone to leave her alone.”
Lord Fredrick shrugged and scratched under his hunting cap. “Keep your blasted bird, Faucet. If I’d known the hunt would be such a bore, I’d have stayed in bed. Take my horse, Timothy; I’m done for the day. I need my headache lozenges, and a nap. And—woof!—keep Constance away from me, would you? She’s been bombarding me with questions ever since Mother told her all that nonsense about full moons, yap! Pardon me.” He glanced up at the sky with nervous, darting eyes. “Blasted head colds. They never last more than a day or so….”
AFTER LORD FREDRICK LEFT, THE hunting party broke up. There was talk of a lavish dinner to be served later that evening, followed by cigars and brandy, card games and billiards. None of the men paid any mind to Penelope or the children, although Baron Hoover did tip his hat in her direction as he turned to ride off. She acknowledged his greeting with the merest nod. They had met twice before: once at the disastrous holiday ball at Ashton Place, and once at a gentlemen’s club in London, where Penelope and the children had been sent to deliver Lord Fredrick’s misplaced almanac and where she had hoped to get some helpful advice from Judge Quinzy—this was before she learned that he was no judge, of course.
Penelope did not like or trust any of Lord Fredrick’s society friends, but Baron Hoover seemed not quite as awful as the Earl of Maytag. However, his wife, the Baroness Hoover, was monstrous, rude, and condescending, and like the Earl of Maytag, she scarcely considered the Incorrigibles to be human. Penelope hoped that the presence of her husband did not mean the baroness was now being entertained at the house as well. Even Lady Constance, who seemed to naturally prefer phony, ill-mannered people over gentle, true-hearted ones, found the baroness to be unpleasant company.
And speaking of hearts, true and not so true, Admiral Faucet’s lie about being the one to find Bertha did not sit well with Penelope. On the other hand, the bird was clearly better off with the admiral than with Lord Fredrick, so she had let it pass. Life in a POE was far from ideal, but it was better than being stuffed full of sawdust. At least, Penelope hoped Bertha would see it that way.
“Next to the elephant’s-foot umbrella stand, he says. Why, the cheek!” the admiral fumed. “These men of the aristocracy have no vision—no heads for business! Life’s been too cushy for them; that’s the trouble. Once I come into possession of my start-up capital, and Faucet’s Ostrich Extravaganza is up and running, they’ll be falling over each other for tickets. Let’s see who has the upper hand then. And don’t forget, governess—ostrich racing is only the beginning.” Mumbling his grand schemes, the admiral strode back toward the house. Penelope could swear she saw Bertha sigh with relief as he went.
“‘An apple with no worms is best, but the apple with one worm tastes better than the apple with two,’” she said to the bird, quoting the wisdom of Agatha Swanburne, although she had little hope that Bertha would understand. “And perhaps, someday, there will be a way to return you to your native habitat. Although Africa is certainly a long distance away.”
“Come, dogs, come, dogs.” Old Timothy summoned the hounds with a low whistle. Until now they had been nosing around the POE, gobbling up dropped bits of SPOTs, and scampering between Bertha’s legs as if she were one of them, only taller and two legged and not nearly as smart. At the sound of his whistle, the dogs ran to Old Timothy’s feet and sat in four neat rows, tongues out, their droopy ears lifted, waiting for his next command.
“You do have a knack with animals, Timothy,” Penelope said approvingly. “Dr. Westminster would be impressed with your training techniques….” But then her voice trailed off.
“Westminster, eh? Sounds like a fine gent. Penny for your thoughts, miss?” The remark startled Penelope out of her reverie, for “Penny” is what Miss Mortimer always called her, and no one else ever did. In this case, of course, Old Timothy meant “penny” as in a small amount of money; “Penny for your thoughts” was his way of asking what Penelope was thinking about.
In fact, she was thinking how unfortunate it was that poor Bertha had ended up so far from her original home and family, and how the bird might perhaps be worried that she would never see them again. “Just like me, and like the Incorrigible children as well,” she thought with a wave of sadness. Of course she had no idea if ostriches cared about that sort of thing; perhaps there was some advantage to having a skull full of eyeballs instead of brains. But to Old Timothy, she merely said, “I was thinking that the children have been working on a guidebook about birds. You may borrow it if you like.”
“And why would I want to do that?” he said with a sneer.
Penelope smiled through misty eyes. She could see through his gruffness now, or thought she could. “I heard Lord Fredrick say that all of these perfectly trained dogs could hardly tell one bird from another today.” She touched Timothy’s arm and gave him a knowing look. “Now, why do you suppose that was?”
The enigmatic coachman tilted his head to one side. “Couldn’t say, miss. But even a bloodhound from Scotland Yard gets a head cold now and then. Say, looks like you’ve got a spot of mustard there on your skirt. Best ask Margaret to get that out for you, before the stain sets.”
With another short, low whistle and the crook of a finger, he bade the dogs follow him. Then he wheeled and walked off without so much as a good-bye, but with two orderly columns of beagles marching in step behind him. Even their tails wagged in unison: hup, hup, hup, hup.
It was not until much later, after Penelope and the children had removed their pith helmets and lined them up on the nursery shelf, taken off their stained and rumpled safari outfits, bathed and changed into fresh, clean clothes, eaten a hot, home-cooked supper in the nursery, and settled in for a bedtime read-aloud (Penelope put Robinson Crusoe away for the time being, and instead chose to read from her book of German poetry in translation, in particular the poem called “Wanderlust,” which was fast becoming the children’s favorite, as well as her own)—it was only then, after the poem had been read and the children tucked into bed, and Penelope had returned to the comforts of her own charming room to brush her dark, drab hair one hundred strokes before bedtime, that it occurred to her to wonder: “How did Old Timothy know it was mustard?”