Amanderella and the Ppockingstull Treasure Chapter 3

Chapter 3.

 

Preparations.

 

“I have her letter here,” said Lady Gottsnobbler, holding it between two fingers as though it might explode. She handed over the document with a tremble that made her bracelets jangle like nervous wind chimes.

Amanderella read it.

Dear Aunt and Uncle Gottsnobbler,

I do hope you won’t mind my writing out of the blue, but I find myself in a situation of the most peculiar nature. I cannot explain it properly on paper, not because I don’t trust you, but because I don’t trust the postman, who has a habit of reading envelopes upside down and thinking it counts as minding his own business.

Word has reached me of Amanderella’s astonishing adventures: the Amazon monkeys, the Bangolin fruit, the Moors mystery,, all quite marvellous. And it occurred to me that she, of all people, might know what to do about… well… this. I cannot explain it properly on paper. Not because it is frightening, but because it is… well… complicated.

I hope you will forgive the suddenness of this note, but I find myself in a situation that requires a level head, a sharp mind, and preferably someone who once knew how to climb out of the dormitory window without being caught.

As you know, since my parents passed away a few years ago,, very peacefully, I assure you,, I have been managing Sillingwold Lodge on my own. Normally this is no trouble at all. The roof only leaks in three places now, and the chickens have stopped coming indoors unless invited.

I shall arrive on Thursday. Please don’t panic. Everything is perfectly under control.

Probably.

Maudline Ppockingstull

When she finished, Amanderella sat down. “Thursday is tomorrow.”

Her mother let out a tiny squeak,, the sort a mouse might make if it had just seen a fox, “Yes, dear. We realised that only a moment ago.”

Her father nodded miserably. His nose,  long, thin, and quill‑like, drooped in despair. “We thought Thursday was further away. We were using the old calendar.”

Lady Gottsnobbler gave another squeak, this one slightly higher. “Tomorrow! Oh heavens. We are not prepared for visitors. Not in our condition.”

Lord Gottsnobbler looked around the drawing room as if noticing it for the first time in a decade. His nose stiffened into its familiar writing‑position. “Good grief. When did the dust settle on the dust? I shall have to write a letter. To someone. Possibly the Ministry of Domestic Decay.”

Amanderella glanced at the mantelpiece. “Sometime between me leaving and now.”

Her mother wrung her hands. “We cannot have Maudline Ppockingstull arriving to this. She was always such a vigorous girl. She will notice everything. Everything. Even the things we haven’t noticed yet.”

Her father nodded gravely. “We must tidy. Immediately. Before she thinks we have fallen into ruin.”

Amanderella raised an eyebrow. “You have fallen into ruin.”

“Not anymore,” her mother said, brightening with sudden, fragile pride. “Not since the diamond‑finding paid off the roof repairs. But the villagers don’t know that, and I would rather Maudline didn’t either. She was always so… athletic. She might try to help.”

Her father shuddered. “She once reorganised our entire tool shed in under ten minutes. I never found the spade again. I wrote a letter to the Tool Shed Preservation Society. They never replied.”

Her mother clapped her hands in sudden alarm. “Quick! Someone fetch the good curtains! And the respectable teapot! And the cushions without holes!”

Her father hurried to the door. “I shall alert the gardener.”

Amanderella reminded him gently, “The gardener fainted.”

“Then I shall alert the cook.”

“We don’t have a cook.”

Her father paused, nose twitching like a quill searching for ink. “Ah. Yes. Pecuniary difficulties.”

Lady Gottsnobbler fluttered about like a distressed hen. “Never mind! We shall manage. We must manage. Maudline Ppockingstull cannot arrive to find us looking… impoverished. She might try to lift something heavy. Or us.”

Amanderella folded Maudline’s letter and slipped it into her pocket. “Mother, Father, calm yourselves. Maudline is not coming to inspect the curtains. As you know from the letter, she needs my help.”

Her father nodded. “I wonder what help she needs, and why she cannot write it in the letter. Suspicious. Very suspicious. I may have to write to the Postmaster General.”

Amanderella’s boots gave a thoughtful squeak. “I don’t know. But if Maudline Ppockingstull is worried enough to come here, it must be very peculiar indeed.”

She laughed softly. “I wonder if she still complains about people not saying the first ‘P’ in her name, as she always used to at school.”

Amanderella stood up, dusted off her gloves, and clapped her hands once. The sound was sharp enough to make both her parents jump like startled pheasants.

“Right,” she said. “We have one day. Less than one day. So, we are going to be organised.”

Her mother blinked. “Organised?”

Her father looked doubtful. “In this house? Without a committee? Or a chart?”

“Yes,” Amanderella said firmly. “Mother, you take the dining room. Father, the hall. I’ll do the drawing room and the kitchen. If we work quickly, we can make the place look almost respectable.”

Her mother brightened. “Respectable!”

Her father murmured, “Respectable‑ish. At best.”

Amanderella ignored this. “Move.”

Lord Gottsnobbler marched into the hall with the air of a man who had been given a mission and intended to complete at least half of it before collapsing. He seized the feather duster, sneezed explosively into it, and dropped it at once.

“Right,” he muttered. “Umbrella stand first. It has been leaning at a suspicious angle for years.”

The umbrella stand fell over immediately.

Amanderella, passing through, set it upright without breaking stride. “Try again, Father.”

She pulled the curtains open. A cloud of dust billowed out like a sandstorm escaping from a forgotten desert. Her boots gave a horrified squeak.

She coughed. “Mother, when did these last see daylight?”

Her mother called faintly from the dining room, “Before the Crimean War, I think! Possibly earlier!”

Amanderella beat the curtains until they stopped shedding enough dust to bury a small pony, then turned to the mantelpiece. She lifted a porcelain shepherdess and frowned.

“Sticky,” she muttered. “Jam cupboard incident.”

She wiped it clean with brisk efficiency.

In the dining room, Lady Gottsnobbler was attempting to polish the long table with a cloth that had clearly retired years ago. She scrubbed harder, then harder still, until the cloth tore in half with a sound like a sigh.

Amanderella appeared in the doorway. “Mother, stop. Use this.” She handed her a fresh cloth from her own bag,, explorers always carried useful things.

Her mother beamed. “Oh, Amanderella, you think of everything. Except husbands. But everything else.”

“I try,” Amanderella said, already moving on.

In the kitchen, she opened the cupboards. “Empty. As expected.”

Her father hovered behind her, nose twitching with administrative anxiety. “Visitors expect food.”

Her mother wrung her hands. “We could offer tea.”

Amanderella opened the tea tin. “We have no tea.”

Her father brightened. “We have water. And cups. Mostly.”

Amanderella closed the tin. “I’ll ride into the village later. We’ll manage.”

By late afternoon, the Hall looked… not perfect, but no longer alarming. The curtains hung straight. The mantelpiece gleamed. The dining room was passable if one didn’t look too closely at the tablecloth or breathe too heavily near the sideboard.

Amanderella surveyed the results with a critical eye. “Better. Much better.”

Her mother nodded proudly. “Almost presentable.”

Her father added, “And only one minor disaster.”

Amanderella frowned. “Which one?”

Her father pointed to the hall. “The umbrella stand.”

It had fallen over again.

Amanderella set it upright with a sigh. “We’ll deal with it later. For now, we’re ready. Well, as ready as we will ever be.”

Lord Gottsnobbler’s nose twitched. “I shall write a letter of complaint to the umbrella stand manufacturer. This is unacceptable.”

Lady Gottsnobbler dabbed her forehead. “Oh dear. Tomorrow. A vigorous girl. In this house. I must lie down.”