The Mysterious Howling: Chapters 7–9

She had chosen Dante because she found the rhyme scheme pleasingly jaunty, but she realized too late that the Inferno’s tale of sinners being cruelly punished in the afterlife was much too bloody and disturbing to be suitable for young minds.

Penelope could tell this by the way the children hung on her every word and demanded “More, more!” each time she reached the end of a canto and tried to stop.

Obediently Beowulf sat down, and Alexander stepped up to declaim:
“Yum, yum. Squirrel!
No! No!
Yum, yum. Cake?
Yes! Yes!”

Penelope smiled indulgently. “And what do you call your drawing?”

“The poem is called ‘Wanderlust.’”
“Wanderlust?” Alexander seemed to like the sound of the word and said it again. “Wanderlust!”
“Yes.” Penelope felt suddenly shy. “It means ‘having a strong desire to travel.”

The poem was originally written in German but I have it only in translation. It begins like this:
“I wander through the meadows green,
Made happy by the verdant scene—”

“Wanderlust, Lumawoo!” Alexander said warmly, while Beowulf nodded in agreement, and this bolstered her courage a great deal.

“So, Miss Lumley, have the Incorrigibles been civilized yet?” Lady Constance gave her a wan smile.

She may have officially been a governess for only a few weeks, but it wounded her professional pride to have her students talked about in such a cavalier manner.

"...Oh, how ridiculous men can be. A girl of your station will likely stay a spinster and not have to concern yourself with such matters.”

Still, she felt that a final, desperate, and heroic attempt to change the course of events that now led inexorably and disastrously to the children attending Lady Constance’s party seemed called for, and so she gave it her all.

Penelope retreated to the nursery, accompanied only by the sharp reproach of her own miserable thoughts.

She bleakly wondered if there was any chance the children could be made ready for such an important and complicated public appearance in such a short time.

She rued the hours that would be lost from their studies; now all her efforts would have to focus on preparations for the party.

The word itself was enough to send a chill through the bones of many a Swanburne girl, for quite a few of those Poor Bright Females were actual orphans, and no matter how plucky and well cared for an orphan may be there is still something regrettable about having become one; that fact cannot be soft-pedaled.

No doubt it was nothing more than a glib remark, meant as a joke, but it sounded as if Lord Fredrick had no intention of sending the children away.

“I used to dance like that all night long when I was younger,” she declared. Her face was red, but her eyes were a-twinkle. “Margaret will have to teach you; she’s a spry young thing. I haven’t the wind for it anymore.”

For some reason, Jasper’s presence made Penelope feel even more bashful and awkward about this whole dancing business than she already did, but once Margaret explained that the Highland Scottish was properly done as a partner dance, Penelope had to admit that Jasper’s participation would come in useful.

Margaret fussed admiringly over Cassiopeia’s long auburn hair (the boys’ “poetic” tresses had finally been trimmed by one of the farmers who was known to have a knack for sheep shearing, with no injuries reported).

Despite her personal misgivings, Penelope thanked both of the young servants profusely for their willingness to spend their time furthering the children’s education.

But Penelope’s reverie about the Imperial Russian Ballet was soon drowned out by the ruckus of two ruddy-cheeked servants careening dangerously around the nursery, while the children stamped their feet to keep time.

But Penelope’s reverie about the Imperial Russian Ballet was soon drowned out by the ruckus of two ruddy-cheeked servants careening dangerously around the nursery, while the children stamped their feet to keep time.

But Penelope’s reverie about the Imperial Russian Ballet was soon drowned out by the ruckus of two ruddy-cheeked servants careening dangerously around the nursery, while the children stamped their feet to keep time.

The children eagerly copied the steps, and what they lacked in accuracy they made up for in verve.

Her tiny outstretched hand pointed across the room, where the proud, gray head of a wolf stared balefully from yellow glass eyes.

“It is by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. That is the poet’s name. Can you say it? Longfellow.”
“Longfellooooooo?” they repeated listlessly.

“The skipper he stood beside the helm,
His pipe was in his mouth,
And he watched how the veering flaw did blow
The smoke now West, now South...."

“Ahwooo!” Alexander crooned a soft, agonized howl.

Despite her calming words to the children, in the privacy of her own heart Penelope was still haunted by Cassiopeia’s plaintive cry at the sight of the wolf’s head in Lord Fredrick’s study.

The thrill of an unexpected late-night visit was just the thing to knock all those melancholy musings out of her head; it held the promise of adventure.

The thrill of an unexpected late-night visit was just the thing to knock all those melancholy musings out of her head; it held the promise of adventure.

Dinner plates, dessert dishes, creamers, skewers, candlesticks, butter dishes, forks, spoons, teapots, trays, platters, ladles, tureens—the long table was covered end-to-end with treasure.

Her eloquence would earn a standing ovation from the dazzled spectators, who would find it impossible to believe that this mere girl of fifteen was not a trained lawyer.

“Poor Fredrick! He is such a doting and perfect husband in every conceivable way, but now and then his temper becomes quite excitable.”

“Not like London, where you can throw a party whenever you please. I find the gaslights of London thrilling—ah, but you have never seen them? You must. The charms of the city are quite preferable to this rustic life, in my opinion.”

For an awful moment Penelope thought that she might have unwittingly become Lady Constance’s confidante.

It is a supply of the same herbal poultice used to treat your hair at Swanburne.

But as she watched poor Cassiopeia endure what was without question a very long fitting for such a short dress (the little girl being only a smidgen over three feet tall), it occurred to Penelope that the simple, unspoiled life at Swanburne might suit most children far better than being forced to stand still for hours while a dressmaker wrapped one ’round and ’round in expensive sateens, sticking terrifying pins here and there and scolding “Don’t move, don’t move!”

“Feh! So drab! Nothing clashes, but nothing matches, either. Tant pis!" This was a French expression Penelope understood to mean “too bad, tough luck, that’s the way the croissant crumbles,” or something along those lines.

She imagined something more refined, perhaps an off-the-shoulder silk with a gathered bodice and small, tasteful bustle.