The Unseen Guest

by Maryrose Wood

  Cassiopeia snorted as if her governess had made a hilarious joke. “No biscuits,” she said. “Only sandwiches. And friends.”

  Penelope’s breath came short again. “What kind of friends?”

  Cassiopeia threw back her head and crooned a soft “Ahwooooo.”

  PENELOPE FOUND IT DIFFICULT TO sleep that night. She tossed and turned and drifted in and out of strange, restless dreams about a guidebook. On the cover it read Three Incorrigible Children, Thought to Be Raised by Wolves, As Seen Outdoors in the Deep, Dark Forest. But when she opened the pages, she saw only wolves: three of them, snarling and yellow eyed, with blood dripping from crescent-shaped fangs. Even in her dream she recognized them as being the wolves from the painting that adorned the secret attic of Ashton Place. She and the children had found it quite by accident in the mayhem that ensued after Lady Constance’s disastrous holiday ball. It was an Ominous Landscape, painted by the same second-rate artist whose portrait of Agatha Swanburne hung in a secret gallery at the British Museum…and both were signed with the letter A….

  “Who painted you?” she asked the wolves in her dream, but they would not answer.

  The two nights that followed were no better. On the second night she dreamed she was riding on a train; either it was a very large train, or she was a very small Penelope, for her feet dangled off the edge of the seat and came nowhere near the floor. She climbed up onto her knees and pressed her nose against the glass, gazing at the mountains in the distance. The hat she wore was trimmed with long ribbons of yellow silk. She chewed upon the ends of the ribbons (for in the dream little Penny was anxious, although the older, dreaming Penelope could not tell why), and the frayed edges tickled the tip of her nose until finally the child sneezed.

  “Gesundheit,” said the man who accompanied her. Sleeping Penelope scratched her nose and pulled the covers over her head.

  The third night she awoke from a dream so frightening she could not remember it at all, save for the sound of galloping hooves.

  This time she could not get back to sleep. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and looked at the clock. It was three hours past midnight, “what a poet might call ‘the darkest hour,’” she thought, meaning it was the darkest time of night, just before the first rosy glow of dawn began to brighten the eastern sky.

  In only a few hours’ time, she and the children would line up outside the POE for inspection by the admiral, with their rucksacks strapped to their backs and pith helmets fastened beneath their chins. Penelope had spent the last three days reading up on outdoor survival skills. Now she knew how to use crampons and a pickax to scale a glacier, and was keenly aware of how cautious one must be around cannibals. But was this what she would need to know to survive in the forests of Ashton Place?

  She found herself wishing Simon could come exploring with them (his navigational skills would have been a real asset, not to mention his twinkling eyes and finely formed features), but she knew it was out of the question. In any case, she had learned a handy tip about the way moss grew on trees that she felt would be invaluable should they get turned ’round in the woods, if she could only remember: Was it the east side of trees that grew the moss, or the west?

  The moonlight played on the leaf-and-ivy pattern of the carpet and the floral print of the wallpaper. In the darkness of her cozy bedchamber, with her moss-green bedspread and the drawer pulls in the shape of mushrooms, she could almost pretend she was in the forest already.

  Even so, Penelope could not shake her feeling of dread. She rose and stepped through the tall French windows that led to her private balcony. “The trees cannot hurt me,” she whispered, clutching the rail. “The darkness cannot hurt me. Why, then, am I afraid of the woods at night?”

  The cool air washed over her, fluttering her nightdress against bare legs. It was the hour before dawn, but the moon was high and bright, only one night short of being full. Surely it was enough to light the way of a person who might be in the mood for adventure.

  “Miss Mortimer always encouraged the girls to go for walks when we were puzzling over a difficult assignment,” Penelope thought. “‘Walking is thinking,’ she liked to say. And if I face my fears tonight, I will be all the braver tomorrow, in front of the children, and that is what matters most.”

  Barefoot and silent as a cat, Penelope padded downstairs. Throughout the sleeping house, the clocks were softly chiming three o’clock. “Hup, hup, hup, hup,” she said under her breath to bolster her courage. “A brave explorer am I.”

  She made her way to the side door near the kitchen that the servants used to go in and out. With a final deep, calming breath, Penelope stepped out into the moonlight and began to walk.

  “Why, then, am I afraid of the woods at night?”

  TERRIFIED AT FIRST, BUT GAINING courage with every step, Penelope had gone scarcely fifty feet from the house and was just beginning to relax and enjoy the feel of the dew-wet grass on her bare feet and the chirping predawn trills of the first songbirds of the day when she heard a strange (one could even say enigmatic) grunt.

  “Who’s there?” she said sharply, turning.

  “They say the early bird gets the worm. But isn’t it a bit too early for worms?”

  It was Old Timothy, the coachman. He was a wizened fellow who seemed to always turn up at the most unexpected times. He had a habit of making grouchy, riddling remarks, but he had also shown himself to be a friend to Penelope and the children, at least when he chose to be. Even in the daylight he made Penelope nervous, though, and now—what was he doing here, in the dead of night? Had he followed her from the house?

  “Timothy!” she exclaimed, and then lowered her voice. “You startled me. Why are you wandering the grounds at this hour?”

  “The same might be asked of you, miss.” He glanced down at her feet. “At least I had the sense to put my shoes on.”

  She was glad he could not see her blush; what had possessed her to leave the house in her nightdress? “I could not sleep,” she explained, “and decided to walk outside on impulse. Even I do not quite know why.”

  “I think I do.” He cocked his head to one side. “You’re taking the wee ones into the woods tomorrow, aren’t you? Looking for that giant turkey of the admiral’s.”

  “Bertha is an ostrich.” She hugged herself against the cool night air. “A flightless bird, native to Africa. Their brains are surprisingly small, but the eggs—”

  “Ostrich, turkey; it’s all the same to me. And you want to know if it’s safe. So you came wandering out of doors to check.” He gestured around them. “Any danger so far? See any pirates?”

  She smiled then, for she remembered how bravely Timothy had helped them escape from those awful pirate thespians in London, with their sharp-edged swords and loud, intricately rhymed choral numbers. “To be frank, you are the most frightening thing I have encountered.”

  He snorted and grinned his crooked grin. “Sounds like you’ll be all right, then.”

  Somehow his curt reassurance made all her fears come rushing back. “Do you truly think so? Are the woods safe?”

  “Safe for who, miss?” He cocked his head to the other side, one eye open wide, one squinting. “It’s safe for bears, unless a wolf’s around. And it’s safe for wolves, unless there’s a hunter in the trees. The hunter feels safe with his gun in his hand, unless he should come upon…” He made a flapping gesture with his arms.

  “Murderous pheasants,” she replied, sounding grim. “I understand. One never knows where danger lurks.”

  “Aye.” For a moment Penelope imagined his eyes switched places, but it was just that the open one now squinted and the squinty one had opened. “The woods are full of surprises. But so is the house, miss. So is the land, and so is the sea. Look in the mirror while you’re at it. You’ll find surprises there, too. Questions and answers, plain as the nose on your face and the hair on your head! Mysteries and mouseteries, that’s what you’ll find….”

  His eyes were switchin
g places again, and his wild talk made Penelope’s head hurt. “Timothy, I believe you mean well, but please do not speak in riddles. A simple answer is best.”

  “Then ask me a simple question.” He leaned close. “What is it you really want to know? Is it safe in the woods for three children who howl at the moon? Safe for a scared governess who doesn’t know a warbler from a nuthatch?” He folded his hands and pleaded in a little girl’s voice: “‘Old Timothy, please, look in your crystal ball and tell me: How will it all turn out?’ Well, I’m no Gypsy fortune-teller, miss. You want to know if it’s safe to go into the woods tomorrow? You won’t find out eating crumpets on the settee. Go into the woods. You’ll get your answer there.”

  A cloud passed over the moon. The darkness was sudden and so complete it made Penelope gasp; it was as if someone had thrown a bag over her head.

  “One way or another, you’ll find out.” Old Timothy’s voice swam through the pitch black. All up and down Penelope’s arms, her skin turned to goose bumps. A breeze rustled the leaves, and she shivered.

  When the cloud passed and the moonlight returned, the coachman was gone.

  “BLAST! WHERE’S MY ALMANAC?”

  The morning of the day of their excursion dawned warm and hazy; a person could almost (but not quite) convince herself that the enigmatic talk of the cool moonlit hours had never happened. The household had a drowsy summertime feel about it, and everyone seemed to be moving in slow motion—all except for Lord Fredrick Ashton, who was twitchy and agitated and once again seemed to have misplaced his prized possession.

  “Have you seen it, Mrs. Clarke? No? Look a bit harder then, would you?” He loped up and down the stairs with Mrs. Clarke in hot pursuit, batting himself rapidly behind one ear with a cupped, pawlike hand, as a dog might do if it was trying to rid itself of fleas. “Feeling a bit of a cough coming on—bark! Woof! Pardon me—don’t tell me I’ve got my dates mixed up again….”

  “It’ll turn up, m’lord,” Mrs. Clarke assured him. She was scarcely out of breath, even after all that running up and down stairs. “In the very last place you look, mark my words!” But Lord Fredrick was too busy scratching to concentrate, and his condition seemed to grow worse by the minute. He demanded an ice pack and a headache lozenge and retired to his study, and Mrs. Clarke set the servants to searching each room in turn. They all knew what the almanac looked like; their miserably uncomfortable master seemed to mislay it with every full moon.

  Admiral Faucet, on the other hand, was in superb spirits. The Permanent Ostrich Enclosure had been finished (to Penelope it looked like a fenced yard with an oversized chicken coop at one end, but the hand-painted sign that read POE was a thing of beauty), a hearty pre-expedition breakfast had been eaten, and Lord Fredrick’s withdrawal from the trip seemed imminent. “It’s all going according to plan,” the admiral whispered to Penelope as she and the children gathered near the entrance to the POE. “Better for all of us if Ashton stays home, what?”

  Penelope could not disagree, but she felt uneasy; Lord Fredrick was her employer, after all. Was it dishonest to have planned this trip precisely in such a way that he could not come along? Could a governess be fired for failing to report such a ruse? Penelope often had to remind herself that her role in the lives of the Incorrigible children was based on her being an employee of the Ashtons. The children were not her wards, after all; they were Lord Fredrick’s. “If I am ever to lose my position, he could send them off to boarding school, or to an orphanage, or anywhere he pleased, really,” she fretted as the children eagerly presented themselves for inspection. “And who would care for them properly then?”

  It all seemed so risky and ill-advised. Yet the thought of Lord Fredrick galumphing blindly through the woods with a hunting rifle at his side was even worse. “Sometimes there is no right thing to do,” she concluded. “There are merely a number of wrong things, and one must choose the least wrong among them.” (Those of you who have ever taken a multiple-choice quiz and found yourself searching in vain for “none of the above” will no doubt understand exactly what she meant.)

  The admiral showed no sign of such misgivings; he marched back and forth and twirled his cane with glee. “Line up, troops!” he barked. “Size order, men! And, uh, little growling girl.”

  Giggling, the children obliged. In the preceding days, Mrs. Clarke had somehow managed to secure explorer outfits for all of them, and for Penelope as well, and they stood straight and tall in their safari jackets, boots, and cunning little pith helmets.

  Stern and officious, the admiral scowled down at each Incorrigible. “You’ve signed up for this mission, pups, and there’s no turning back. The ostrich is loose, and the ostrich must be found.”

  “The ostrich must be found, sir!” the children chanted in reply.

  “The forest is deep and dark, and full of danger. There will be danger and discomfort at every turn.”

  “You said ‘danger’ twice,” Beowulf interjected.

  The admiral threw him a sidelong glance. “That’s because there’s a lot of it, lad! You will use all of your skills, your sniffing and tracking—”

  “Sniffing and tracking, sir!”

  “Rumm, rumm,” Cassiopeia added, puffing up her cheeks like a bullfrog.

  “And your croaking, if called for. And we shall not rest until Bertha is found and securely leashed, for her safe return to this very POE. Understood?”

  “Aye, aye, Captain Admiral, sir!” To the children it was all great fun. Penelope’s scalp was already sweaty beneath her pith helmet, and she found herself shooing away imaginary gnats.

  “Aye, aye, yes, that’s the spirit,” the admiral muttered, glancing at his pocket watch. “Ashton’s late. No surprise there. We’ll give him sixty more seconds, and then hup, hup, hup! Off to Parts Unknown!”

  The children started to hup, hup, hup and march in place. At approximately the forty-second mark, Lady Constance Ashton appeared on the drive, making a beeline toward the POE. She was nearly skipping and seemed to be in a happy, even festive mood. At some distance behind followed the Widow Ashton, accompanied by Margaret, who held a sunshade over the older woman’s head.

  Lady Constance carried her own parasol trimmed all ’round with ruffles, in the Parisian style, and wore a frightfully flouncy frock. “What a glorious, glorious, glorious day,” she trilled. “How are my three Incorrigible children today, hmm? How is my Cassawoofy-woofy-woo? Ready to go off into the woods?”

  She reached into her reticule and drew out a folded letter. “Admiral Faucet, I regret to inform you that my husband is indisposed. He has sent a note for me to give you expressing his sincere regrets. Here it is.”

  The admiral unfolded the note and read aloud. “‘Sorry, old chap. Can’t make it. Sick as a dog. Good luck with the bird. Still think you ought to shoot it, what? I’ll form a hunting party and catch up with you tomorrow. Remember, if my hounds find it before the wolf children do, it gets shot and stuffed and goes in my study with all the rest. Finders keepers, what? Yours, Ashton.’”

  A shadow moved over the admiral’s face like a cloud passing over the moon. By now the widow and Margaret had arrived, in time to hear Lord Fredrick’s note. “I am sure he doesn’t mean that, Fawsy dear,” the Widow Ashton said. “He was always a joker, my Fredrick. Why, did I ever tell you about the time he smeared honey and pepper all over one of the kitchen cats, just to see if he could make it sneeze?”

  “Fredrick never jokes when it comes to his hunting parties,” chirped Lady Constance. “And speaking of parties, I must go, for I have a luncheon engagement at a charming French café in town. Bonne chance on your expedition, little foster children!” She reached down and tweaked Alexander on the cheek.

  “Ow!” he yelped.

  Lady Constance clasped her hands over her heart. “Au revoir, Incorrigibles! While you trudge through the underbrush and pitch your tents in the mud, I shall pass the long hours by wearing pretty clothes and going to tea with my lady friends.” She dabbed
away a tear. “And shopping, too. I will miss my maternal responsibilities during your absence, of course, but I shall endure it somehow.”

  “So come with us?” Cassiopeia sweetly suggested.

  Lady Constance almost dropped her parasol. “Oh, no, no, no no no! You must have all the fun. Out there.” She gestured vaguely toward the forest. “In the wilderness, with the bugs and the badgers and those hungry, hungry wolves!”

  Since the widow was watching, she then proceeded to give each Incorrigible a hug, although she did so by putting her arms in a wide circle and placing them ’round each child like a hoop, so that she did not actually come into contact with any of them.

  “This trip feels dangerous to me. Be careful, my darlings.” The Widow Ashton was already starting to sniffle. “After all I have suffered, how could I bear losing you three in some gruesome accident out there in the woods?”

  “How could she ‘bear’ it; did you hear that?” The admiral nudged Alexander with an elbow and chuckled. He turned to the widow. “Don’t be dramatic, dear. Think of it as a nature hike. Bertha is fast but none too bright; it shouldn’t take us long to catch her. With any luck we’ll be back by supper. Wouldn’t want to trouble that trigger-happy son of yours to come find us, eh?”

  The Widow Ashton nodded and draped herself around Lady Constance. “With Fawsy gone, and the children too, and Fredrick indisposed—why, Ashton Place will be empty as a tomb! You, Constance, will be my rock. Cancel your plans; we must spend every moment together. Not shopping and lunching and gadding about like silly things, but here at home, quietly, reading to each other and sewing and praying for the safe return of our loved ones. You will be like a daughter to me—the daughter I never had.” Her voice caught, and she buried her weeping face in the delicate silk shoulder of Lady Constance’s white dress.

  After a long, frozen pause, Lady Constance stiffly patted her mother-in-law on the back. “Mother Ashton, I am afraid sewing would be much too dangerous. The needles are exceedingly sharp.” She disentangled herself from the sobbing widow, and the little pink circles of her cheeks turned pale as she examined the ruined shoulder of her dress. “Margaret, cancel my lunch with Lady Guilford. It seems I will be staying at home today. Have a headache lozenge and a box of chocolates sent to my private parlor, at once!”