The Long-Lost Home: Chapter 13–Epilogue

And leaning out of a balloon in flight is never advisable.

“I surely have. It’s a magnificent vessel, much larger than this one. Looks a bit like a gondola! It’s nicely camouflaged, too.”

“Hold on, now,” Simon said warily.

“That’s Mrs. Penworthy to you, you old rogue! Allow me to introduce my cousin, Alf, a cabin boy on leave...” But Old Timothy was already gone.

She knew her adversary too well.

“It was not until we were quite close, but still high above the forest that surrounds Ashton Place, that Edward Ashton made himself known. He hauled himself up the ropes. Before we could subdue him, he smashed a pair of thick spectacles he must have had with him and used the broken glass to poke our balloon full of holes. Like Swiss cheese.”

It was quite an experience for the Incorrigibles to hear this spellbinding story, especially since it was about them.

“Yes. We worried that any attempt at rescue could backfire. And we dared not provoke Edward Ashton to action, for we feared what his action would be.”

“Chanteloup was my nom de plume,” Mater Lumley said modestly.

Margaret, who was not privy to all the complexities of the situation, seemed puzzled by this sudden outcry for baking expertise.

The cowlike lowing sounds came at intervals, and an impromptu waiting room sprang up in the parlor.

He scrambled up the vine-covered trellis that led to the balcony quite nimbly for an old bowlegged coachman.

There was a crash of broken crockery in the parlor, as if a tea tray had been upended.

The wolf swept its glowing eyes ’round the room and took in each terrified countenance.

She looked at the wolf and spoke imploringly.

“Two sides have turned to one. Not through violence, but through compassion and kindness. The tree that was split down the middle has grown together once more.”

“No need to apologize, Mrs. Penworthy! Many a lady has resorted to artificial means when her own natural beauty was in need of a boost, as the Americans say. I have dabbled in a bit of rouge and lip tint myself now and then. But not to worry. My dressmaker, Madame LePoint, knows the finest wigmakers in Paris. She can have a new wig made for you that is far more flattering.”

By this time it had been explained to him who “Quinzy” really was, a revelation that Lord Fredrick took rather well, given the circumstances.

“If you would give me an invoice, I will take the matter up with Lord Fredrick as soon—well, as soon as he is done changing diapers.”

The dead duck on the mantelpiece let out a single protesting quack, but the portrait of Edward Ashton remained unchanged.

After some pleasantries about her croquet game (she had been practicing a great deal and had improved tremendously, she said), she wrote: 
And now, Freddy, allow me to share news of a more personal nature.

Your father was so sharp minded, so unflappable.

After a few deep calming breaths to quell her shaking hands, she managed to slit open the envelope and unfold the letter within.

Castles tend to be drafty; you cannot imagine the amount of firewood we go through.

“Mrs. Clarke will live on happily and dote on the babies. Margaret and Jasper may well start a family of their own someday. Old Timothy—well, he is quite an enigma! Whatever the future holds for him, I expect there will be a touch of mystery about it.”