The Curious Conundrum of Charlemagne Crosse

By PJ McIlvaine

​Precocious Charlemagne Crosse had an idyllic childhood until the night her parents Sir Archibald and Lady Lavinia vanished in the aftermath of a solar eclipse. Shipped off to disreputable boarding schools, Charlemagne’s life is bleak. However, on her sixteenth birthday, Charlemagne unexpectedly regains her wealth and freedom. Upon her return to the ancestral Crosse mansion, she’s reunited with black sheep Uncle Alistair and his new family: his wife, the exotic Antoinette, and her peculiar daughter Simone.  
Charlemagne is summoned to a meeting with the mercurial Queen Victoria who still grieves for her late husband Prince Albert. Victoria reveals that Sir Archibald, an eccentric inventor, was under Crown orders to devise a way to contact Albert in the afterlife. The queen is convinced that only Charlemagne can decipher the clues that her father surely left behind.  
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Supported by a cast of diverse characters, Charlemagne embarks on a perilous journey through the seedy underbelly of an alternate Victorian London. And with another solar eclipse looming, it might be Charlemagne’s best—and last—chance to reunite with her parents.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Orange Blossom Publishing
• Release date: Sep 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9781949935806

PJ McIlvaine

PJ McIlvaine is a prolific author/screenwriter/writer/journalist. PJ is the author of the AmazonUS best-selling VIOLET YORKE, GILDED GIRL: GHOSTS IN THE CLOSET (April 2022, Darkstroke Books), her debut middle-grade supernatural historical mystery adventure about a sassy poor little rich girl/Titanic survivor who sees ghosts in 1912 Manhattan. PJ’s debut picture book LITTLE LENA AND THE BIG TABLE (May 2019, Big Belly Book Co.), with illustrations by Leila Nabih, is about a determined little girl tired of eating with her annoying cousins at the kid’s table, only to discover that the grown-up big table isn’t much better. Her second published picture book, DRAGON ROAR (October 2021, MacLaren-Cochrane Publishing), illustrations by Logan Rogers), is about a lonely, sick dragon who has lost his mighty roar and the brave village girl who helps him find it again. PJ is also under contract with Oghma Creative Media for a series of Creature Feature picture books (2023-2024). PJ is also a co-host and founding member of #PBPitch, the premiere Twitter pitch party for picture book creators. PJ has been published in numerous outlets including The New York Times and Newsday. PJ also does features and interviews for The Children’s Book Insider newsletter. Also, PJ’s critically acclaimed Showtime original family movie MY HORRIBLE YEAR with Mimi Rogers, Karen Allen, and Eric Stoltz, was nominated for a Daytime Emmy. PJ lives in Eastern Long Island with her family along with Luna, an extremely spoiled French Bulldog, and Sasha the Psycho Cat. 

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Table of Contents

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Discussion Questions

Acknowledgements

About The Author

© ٢٠٢3 PJ McIlvaine

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, in part, in any form, without the permission of the publisher.

Orange Blossom Publishing

Maitland, Florida

www.orangeblossombooks.com

[e-mail]

First Edition: September 2023

Library of Congress Control Number:

Edited by: Arielle Haughee

Formatted by: Autumn Skye

Cover design: Sanja Mosic

Print ISBN: 978-1-949935-79-0

eBook ISBN: 978-1-949935-80-6

Printed in the U.S.A.

Dedication

To my beloved grandmother, Charlotte Barbaret, my fiercest champion.

Prologue

The humpback crone shuffled slowly down the dimly lit corridor, the pathetic wails and pitiful screeches of the afflicted and the possessed souls behind their cell doors slapping at her like a broom. Her gnarled hands had a deathly grip on a tray and every tottering step she took was as if she bore the entire weight of the world on her rounded shoulders.

In the bare kitchen area lit only by a candle, a bearded man sat at a small wooden table, the smoke of his pipe drifting above his sailor’s cap like a dragon’s breath.

The woman set the tray on the table with a smack.

So, Her Highness turned up her nose again? Her loss is my gain, though I doubt my weight will be thanking her. He reached for the tray.

The woman plopped down next to him. Easy for you to say. The poor girl doesn’t eat enough to keep a bird alive. She was already a slip of a thing when she was admitted. Mark my words, Mr. Ingram, there’s strange mischief afoot.

Unconcerned, he continued to eat, the gruel running down his shirt. And I repeat, Mrs. Ingram, that is none of your concern. The doctors—

Doctors! she spat out. If it weren’t for them, our Daphne would still be alive. She went to the cupboard and took out two glasses and a bottle. It’s a sin, I tell you. A girl of her breeding and stature locked up in this hell hole for weeks on end with no one to look out for her interests.

She is not without visitors, he replied calmly as he scooped what was left in his bowl with his fingers.

Scoundrels and scalawags! the woman thundered. I don’t trust the lot of them, especially the one with the fancy airs, strutting about like a rooster in a barnyard.

Aye, I know the one. Mr. Fitzroy?

She snorted as if the name offended her. If that even be the bloke’s real name. She poured herself a drink and took a languorous sip.

Content, Mr. Ingram belched loudly. Well, she won’t be our concern much longer.

Mrs. Ingram’s goblet hung in mid-air. What are you blabbering about?

I overheard the nurses whispering earlier. A surgeon has been engaged.

I don’t believe you, she snapped. What kind of surgeon?

The kind that does experimental surgery. He leered at her. They want to cut into her brain like a slab of sweetbread.

Mrs. Ingram recoiled, aghast. What did I tell you? Monsters. Savages. If Dr. Atwill were here, he’d put an end to that nonsense.

But he’s not, more’s the pity. He stood up and stretched. Time for my evening rounds. Shall I check in on our little girl before I turn in for the night? She might enjoy a cuddle or two before they crack her head open like a hard-boiled egg.

She flew at him like a peregrine, screeching and scratching. You stay away from her.

Stunned, he fell back against the table and dabbed at his face; blood trickled down his cheek.

Blimey, woman. You’re as mad as she is. He lumbered down the corridor.

She sat down again, took another drink, and sobbed, inconsolable. My Daphne would have been almost her age. She moaned even harder. Oh my poor, deluded child. What in the world are we to do?

Chapter One

By the time Charlemagne Alexandria Crosse was a year old, she could write her name in cursive. By the age of three, she had memorized her favorite Charles Dickens novel A Tale of Two Cities . While most girls her age played with paper dolls, she had traversed the world twenty–three times and was fluent in four languages. Up until she was ten years old, Charlemagne had the most wonderful, idyllic childhood that any child could have ever hoped for or imagined. This was because her parents did not treat her like a helpless child to be fussed and fretted over. From the moment Charlemagne came into the world, her parents, Sir Archibald, an inventor of strange and curious things, and Lady Lavinia, a portrait artist and freethinker, regarded her as their equal in every respect.

Now, this is not to say that the Crosses were perfect. Far from it. Sir Archibald had a fondness for rogues, beggars, and Americans. Lady Lavinia’s weakness was black licorice, brandy, and a pathological hatred of the letter S. Charlemagne herself had an aversion to yellow vegetables, plaid, and furry caterpillars. Aside from these few digressions, the Crosse family lived quite happily in the ancestral Crosse home, Four Squared in Twickenham, a grand manor house with lush green meadows. Built and designed by none other than Lord Arthur Crosse in 1642, who was by reputation a jovial drunk known for his mischievous sense of economy and space, all the rooms in the house were round with not one corner to be found. Within the house were any number of secret spaces and panels, hidden doors, and winding tunnels, which enabled Lord Arthur to keep his wife in the dark about his many indiscretions. The turret on the third floor was Charlemagne’s domain. There, tutored by her parents, she spent many blissful hours.

So it was a cruel twist of fate that Charlemagne was in her most favorite room in the world (aside from Papa’s laboratory) when on November 16, 1868, at precisely 8:01 p.m., her sublime childhood was shattered by events beyond her control.

She had just finished reading for the fourth time (but certainly not the last) David Copperfield when she heard footsteps creeping up the spiral staircase. She thought it was Papa bringing a heaping bowl of Mrs. Frye’s raisin rice pudding topped with nutmeg whipped cream. Mrs. Frye was their housekeeper/cook who had faithfully and loyally served the Crosse family, along with her husband Herbert, for decades.

Alas, such was not the case.

All Charlemagne saw were thick black boots. For years afterward, she had horrible nightmares about black boots, and she could neither stomach the smell, sight, nor the mention of rice pudding.

No need to beat around the bush, dear reader: Charlemagne was now an orphan, for Sir Archibald and Lady Lavinia were gone, the victims of a tragic, yet unspecified, accident. Charlemagne’s sole living relative, Uncle Alistair, was an adventurer who had on a whim decamped to the Amazon a number of years before on an archeological expedition; whether for glory or, as rumor had it, to escape an ill-advised affair of the heart, had never been determined. If Alistair would ever return to his home country or if he was even still alive, was open to serious debate in the private men’s clubs in London he’d been known to frequent.

Thus, with no last will or testament in place, Charlemagne swiftly ended up under the guardianship of Benedict Glee, a court-appointed solicitor, and truly, there was nothing gleeful about him. He was a sour dwarf of a man coupled with an equally grim-faced wife. In short order, Charlemagne was shipped off to a succession of boarding schools, each one more disagreeable and deplorable than the last, until she ended up in Mrs. Sledge’s School for Wayward Girls.

For four long, excruciating years, Charlemagne endured cruel slights and insults and all manner of indignities (a tale best left for another time) that would have crushed a girl of lesser intelligence, strength, and courage. Her vain, ill-mannered, pompous classmates tormented her to no end. Bullied and battered by her so-called peers, all of lesser class, stock, and temperament, there were many nights when poor Charlemagne cried herself to sleep and prayed for deliverance, her only companion a one-eyed, black-as-coal alley cat she called Pumblechook. Yet even at her lowest points, when life was bleak and depressing, and it seemed that nothing would ever change, Charlemagne still dared to hope. No matter what had been taken from her, she was still a Crosse, and she held her head high. Her parents would’ve expected no less.

The answer to Charlemagne’s fervent prayers came the night of her sixteenth birthday. As she slept in a cold, damp room, huddled under a threadbare blanket, a thin manila envelope was mysteriously slipped under her bedroom door. While the envelope may have been thin, the information it contained was double its weight in gold, for it changed the course of Charlemagne’s life. The following morning, after finding the envelope and reading its contents, she promptly packed what little she had and departed post-haste, but not before telling the shocked headmistress what she could do with her asylum.

Mr. and Mrs. Glee had ensconced themselves at Four Squared as the presumptive lord and lady of the manor. To say that they were less than gleeful upon Charlemagne’s arrival would be quite an understatement. Mincing no words, Charlemagne gave them two hours to vacate the premises; they fled in less than one with only the clothes on their backs.

The reason for their hasty departure, as you might have probably already surmised, lay in the envelope that Charlemagne had so serendipitously received. It was Sir Archibald and Lady Lavinia’s last will and testament, which specified in no uncertain terms that their estate was to be held in trust until Charlemagne’s sixteenth birthday. For on that day, Charlemagne would gain full, complete, and unfettered access to her fortune and freedom. (As for the Glees, save your pity for wretches more deserving; they crawled back to the deep, black hole from which they came, never to be seen or heard from again.)

Charlemagne soon realized, even with just a cursory glance of the estate finances, that whatever perfidy the Glees had committed paled in comparison to her wealth. Sir Archibald had been a shrewd and capable investor, his holdings vast, his numerous patents and inventions a continuing source of income and revenue. In short, Charlemagne was extremely wealthy; in all probability, excluding the queen, she was the richest girl in the British Empire.

This revelation, as you could imagine, was bittersweet, for Charlemagne missed her beloved parents dearly. No fortune could have ever replaced them, and she would have gladly forsaken all her wealth for another hour or even a minute with them. Still, a thousand questions swirled in Charlemagne’s mind, questions that seemingly had no answers forthcoming.

That would change the afternoon Charlemagne received some unexpected visitors. And that, for all intents and purposes is where this strange and perplexing tale truly began.

Chapter Two

"I still can’t believe that you’re here safe and sound, Miss Charlemagne. It’s a dream come true. Isn’t it, Herbert? Mrs. Frye jiggled like a bowl of figgy pudding as she flounced into the study holding a tray of chamomile tea and hazelnut biscuits. As stout as her husband was thin, she smelled of cinnamon and nutmeg, warm and comforting. Herbert can tell you. Not a day passed that we didn’t pray for your saf e return."

Mr. Frye fiddled with the fire. Aye.

We knew that Glee fellow was up to no good. My blood boils at the memory of it. Mrs. Frye frowned as she poured a cup and handed it to Charlemagne, who sat at her father’s desk, deep in contemplation. Such an odious fellow to whisk you away in the middle of the night telling us that you’d gone to join your uncle in the Americas. Balderdash. I told Herbert and anyone with an ear that it stunk like week-old monkfish. Didn’t I, Herbert?

Mr. Frye nodded, a man of few words and even fewer actions.

And to think that you were under our noses the entire time in London. I cannot bear to think of what you have suffered. Ah, but all that’s behind us now. Her face brightened I said I’d always care for you as if you were my own flesh and blood, and it’s a promise I intend to keep. Isn’t that so, Herbert?

Mr. Frye was too preoccupied with his tea to reply.

Charlemagne slowly nibbled on a cookie, savoring each morsel as if it were her last. What are you concerned about, Mrs. Frye? Is it that you think I’m poor? Are you afraid that the Glees pilfered my inheritance away on their extravagances?

Mrs. Frye tugged at her husband’s sleeve. Set the child’s mind at ease, Herbert.

Mr. Frye cleared his throat. Miss, we’ve managed to sock away some money for our old age. Not much, mind you, but enough for the three of us. We’ll get by. This was probably the most loquacious he’d been in years.

Charlemagne’s eyes filled with stinging tears. It had been a long time since anyone had extended the slightest bit of warmth and kindness to her. You’ve no idea how much that means to me. But the truth is, I’m far from poor thanks to Papa’s foresight and vision. She motioned at the papers strewn over the desk.

Can it be so? Mrs. Frye burst into tears and wiped her eyes with a worn rag.

Mr. Frye comforted his wife. Didn’t I tell you that every cloud has a silver lining?

But much has changed in my absence. What is that curious structure at the top of the hill? Charlemagne had noticed it upon her arrival.

That’s the conservatory Lord Crosse built. Don’t you recall? You followed him around like a duck during its construction, Mrs. Frye explained.

Charlemagne frowned. Her memory was pitch-perfect. Mrs. Frye must be confused.

Good heavens, Mrs. Frye exclaimed. Your visitor. In all the excitement, I forgot. Please excuse me, miss.

Visitor? Charlemagne was bewildered. Who could this person possibly be? She’d been at Four Squared less than a day. Could this person be the one who had her parents will?

Mrs. Frye extended a fancy, gold-embossed card to Charlemagne: Frederick Bagshaw, Esq., Financial Officer, The Royal Bank of England. The name meant nothing to her.

One of Glee’s cretins, no doubt, Mrs. Frye huffed. I put the old fool in the library, but I can just as easily show him the door with my foot.

Charlemagne thought quickly. What had been one of Papa’s favorite sayings? To catch a rat, one must build a better trap. No. Tell Mr. Bagshaw I shall be with him directly and apologize for the delay with Papa’s best port.

As you command, milady, Mrs. Frye said with a quick bow.

Charlemagne hurried to the library. Her father had fancied himself a bookhound and took enormous pride in amassing rare editions and manuscripts. Aside from the towering shelves, the centerpiece of the room had been a majestic portrait of Sir Archibald and Lady Lavinia. Charlemagne was appalled to see that the beloved portrait had been summarily replaced with a garish caricature of Mr. and Mrs. Glee sitting on thrones adorned with rose petals. Dressed in Napoleonic attire with an array of medals that he’d never earned, Mr. Glee resembled a stuffed bird. As for the corpulent Mrs. Glee, mummified in a gown, a pearl collar hung around her doughy neck tight as a noose.

Bagshaw crouched his skeletal frame in an overstuffed chair by the crackling fire. Sporting a monocle over his right eye, he was a pinched prune of a man who exuded obsequiousness like bargain-bin French cologne. A silver-tipped cane with an eagle’s head lay against his knee. When he saw Charlemagne, he rose to his feet and clutched the cane for support lest he fall on his backside and snap in two like a dry twig.

Charlemagne eyed him warily. Mr. Bagshaw, I presume?

Dear girl. Bagshaw reached for her hand to deliver a clammy kiss, but she pretended not to notice. I apologize for the late hour. We were delighted to hear of your safe return and had to verify it with our own eyes.

Charlemagne was incredulous. Mr. Bagshaw, you insult me. You speak as though I’d been on a grand tour. Make no mistake. I was held prisoner through no fault of my own.

Bagshaw took another sip of his drink. I cannot begin to fathom the indignities you suffered. In our defense, that abominable Glee kept us in the dark with untruths and outright forgeries. I assure you that he will be dealt with most harshly in the proper venue.

Pardon me if I’m not convinced that Glee will be brought to justice. Regardless, I expect the bank to make whole on his perfidies. My parents would insist upon it.

Bagshaw nodded. All in due time. For the moment there are urgent matters which must be addressed. I have documents that require your signature. He reached into his coat pocket and took out a sheaf of papers.

What kind of papers? Charlemagne didn’t bother to hide her skepticism.

Bagshaw laughed as if he were dealing with a simpleton. It’s just a formality, nothing to worry your pretty little head about. You must realize that due to your tender age, you cannot be expected to comprehend or administer the vast complexities of your inheritance.

Charlemagne bristled. You allowed that vagabond to do so without so much as a cursory investigation. A beet farm in Romania? Oyster harvesting in Alaska? Not to mention funding an expedition to find King Solomon’s mines.

Undeterred, Bagshaw cleared his throat and pressed on. It is the bank’s position that with no responsible adult or blood relative to guide you, the best and most prudent course of action is—

That will not be necessary, Mr. Bagshaw. A tall, burly, broad-shouldered man in a tweed overcoat stood under the ghoulish portrait. He smiled kindly at Charlemagne. Do you not remember me?

A distant memory stirred in Charlemagne’s mind, but as hard as she tried, she couldn’t quite place it.

I beg your pardon. Who might you be? What is your interest in this matter? Bagshaw snapped as he adjusted his monocle.

That is for Queenie to say. The man took a step forward. I know it’s been a long time, but surely you haven’t forgotten me. You were six years old, a scamp in pigtails with a runny nose. You sat under the big elm tree in your mother’s garden as you read Voltaire to a motley assortment of rag dolls.

Charlemagne’s heart leapt into her throat. She could not—dared not—bring herself to believe it. Uncle Alistair? she said in a hushed whisper.

His face softened like a pillow. My dear, have I changed that much?

She stared at him, perplexed. Yes, there was something familiar about this gentleman. The creases in his forehead, his sharp features, chiseled like stone. She saw her beloved Papa in his sea-green eyes and aquiline nose. But the strawberry-blond hair of his youth had given way to gray patches, and his stubble beard was somewhat unseemly, even brutish. She could see him being her Uncle Alistair, yes. Even so, she was torn. There was something foreign about him, strange and unsettling. Others might be fooled by his polite manners, but not Charlemagne. This man wasn’t to be trifled with if wronged. She sensed his vengeance would be swift