The Long-Lost Home: Chapters 8–9

By means of bribery and persuasion and threats, Madame Babushkinov had finally convinced her to stop acting like a coward and get out of bed.

“Lay an egg, lay an egg, lay an egg!” her brothers teased as they watched her sink low, knees akimbo.

After her toilette, the proud Madame had gone to the common room and imperiously demanded of a lowly soldier that he go and procure buttered rolls and fresh coffee for her and the children.

“Cash for the commissary, are you mad? I asked for rolls and coffee, not a jewel-encrusted egg! Don’t you know who we are? We are the Babushkinovs! Our name is all the credit we need!”

Any joy she had once taken in dancing had left her, as had her grandiose dreams of being, at twelve years old, the youngest prima ballerina in the history of ballet.

Now she simply wanted the ordeal to end.

She wished them no harm, for that was not her way—but nor did she feel obliged to concern herself with the fate of that unhappy, unpleasant, and unrepentant family.

She had the uncompromising look of a former dancer, “or a Latin teacher at Swanburne,” Penelope thought, suppressing a smile.

“You are here to work?” the woman said, in slow, deliberate French.

There were fancy dresses made of silk and velvet and chiffon, men’s breeches and brocade vests, miles of taffeta and endless lengths of ribbon, and countless boxes of tiaras and leather slippers.

There were fancy dresses made of silk and velvet and chiffon, men’s breeches and brocade vests, miles of taffeta and endless lengths of ribbon, and countless boxes of tiaras and leather slippers.

Now all eyes turned to the footlights, as each dancer came forward to take a bow and bask in the applause.

(Her inspiration had been the legendary tarte Philippe, a delicious confection, far more delicious than other desserts; in fact, it is the most delicious dessert ever invented.)

The bodice was a deep-green silk embroidered with gold thread, and fitted snugly around her waist.

At the sight of the emerald ring, their puzzled expressions disappeared and they began fawning on her shamelessly, for surely this was an English princess on holiday!

“I do hope you are trustworthy, sir! It is so difficult to hire trustworthy employees. My father, the Duke of—well, I would rather not mention what he is the duke of, so as not to draw attention to myself. Let me just say that my father complains about the help most bitterly! His master of hounds is afraid of dogs. His steward cannot recall the multiplication tables. It is a frightful inconvenience.”

“I warn you, sir, I can be a stickler when it comes to my accommodations. I imagine you know the story of the princess and the pea?”

As you wish, my lady. One passage to England, first ship out. I shall confer with the harbormaster. Will you require anything else?

In other circumstances she could have spent hours admiring the fine antiques, the priceless art, and even the jewel-encrusted eggs lined up proudly in a gilded cabinet: a royal chicken coop for some very unusual chickens.

The fulcrum of fortune has a way of seesawing from one condition to its opposite with no warning, like a sudden squall on an otherwise balmy day.

At the far end of the dock, a Norwegian trawler was being loaded with provisions.

“I smell fresh water, salt, hardtack, and sauerkraut. And all these empty barrels were once filled with”—she sniffed deeply, to sort it out from the general fishy smell of the dock—“not sole, not flounder, but herring, if I am not mistaken....Empty barrels! Eureka!”

A few wore bibbed overalls made of oilcloth.

Penelope gulped, adjusted her rumpled velvet cloak, and tried once more to convince the captain, through pantomime and whatever words in English or French he seemed to recognize, that she was not a stowaway precisely, but more of an accidental passenger, and that the Queen of England would pay generously for her safe passage home, but Captain Strøm was not born yesterday, as the saying goes.

Luckily for Penelope, back on land Captain Strøm was the doting father to a houseful of tall, strong-limbed daughters, and it was not in his great Nordic heart to toss her overboard.