The Long-Lost Home by Maryrose Wood

Author:Maryrose Wood
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2018-05-23T16:00:00+00:00

THE NINTH CHAPTER

A messenger is blamed, but fairly.

AND THAT IS HOW MISS Penelope Lumley, once a Poor Bright Female and later a lowly governess in a grand house, attended the Imperial Russian Ballet from a seat closer than any royal box, and spent a night in the finest suite of the most luxurious hotel in Saint Petersburg. Saint Petersburg, the capital of all of Russia! A city known for its opulence!

The sleepy pretend princess was escorted to her rooms by a fleet of crisply dressed bellboys and hotel maids. They offered to hang up her clothes, close the drapes, open the windows, turn down the bed, pour champagne, run a hot bath, and so on, but Penelope dismissed them all with a bleary-eyed wave.

Alone at last in the royal suite! 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. So much of the decor was plated in gold, it was as if King Midas himself had been a guest here and carelessly laid his hands on everything within reach.

At the moment, however, Penelope’s only wish was to wrestle herself out of that absurd outfit and into her own plain flannel nightdress before nodding off. She laid the gown neatly over a stunning Louis XV gilt wood armchair that would nowadays be in a museum. She removed her tiara and placed it on the head of the gold-leafed marble cherub that served as one of the bedposts. “I shall wear my royal costume again in the morning, to board whatever magnificent ship bound for England the clerk has booked passage on,” she thought, giving the cherub a fond pat on the cheek. The stone child’s face looked a bit like Cassiopeia when she was sleeping. “And I must remember to be rude and bossy for the whole voyage. Truly, acting a part is a great deal of work! Perhaps it grows easier with practice. I will have to ask Simon about it—yawn!—when I get home.”

In this sleepy but optimistic spirit, she climbed into the high, wide bed, slipped between sheets of pure satin, and laid her head on a pillow stuffed with eiderdown. This was no princess-and-the-pea type situation. The mattress was soft as a cloud, and the bed’s exhausted occupant slept so deeply and so well that no dreams dared disturb her.

But alas, and woe! 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. It was all because of the messenger. (Those of you who are familiar with the saying “Don’t blame the messenger” may protest. However, facts are facts, and no one ought to object if just this once the messenger is blamed, for indeed it was his fault.)

In a nutshell: Not everyone is as honest as our dear Miss Lumley. The messenger’s curiosity about the contents of the little box got the better of him, and he peeked.

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