The Unseen Guest

by Maryrose Wood

  Without question, then, in a race between an ostrich, a wolf, a racehorse, and a middle-aged housekeeper in tip-top shape, the smart money would be on the ostrich. And with Bertha now setting the pace, and the threat posed by Lord Fredrick’s hunting party urging them ever onward, it is fair to say that the wolves of Ashton Place, despite being weighed down by their passengers, ran faster than any wolf had ever run before.

  Their mission was urgent, but even so, Penelope found herself enjoying the adventure. The sadness and worry about her parents that had been plaguing her for weeks, the gloomy refrain of “elk, elk, elk”—all of it had been drowned out by the constant surprises and discoveries of this excursion into the woods: the unexpectedly cozy cave, for example, and the unseen visitor who left useful items in the trunk. And, of course, there was the mystery of the sandwiches—who could have known that cheddar and apple was her favorite?

  It was a great deal to ponder, but “A busy mind is a cheerful mind,” she thought, recalling one of Agatha Swanburne’s more popular sayings (that is to say, it had been stitched onto more pillows than any other; this may have been because it was one of the wise lady’s shorter sayings as well). “It is not that I have forgotten about my parents, of course not! But I have been so busy with my own adventures, and we have been in more or less constant danger, which is highly distracting. It makes one forget about even very important things…. Why, perhaps that explains it!” she realized. “Perhaps my parents have not really forgotten me, either—perhaps they are simply busy having adventures. Oh my! Perhaps they are in danger, too! That would be dreadful—stop!” she cried, for she had spotted a curious object lying on the earth.

  What could it be? It was black in color, curved on top like a dome, and about the size of—well, a human head, to put it plainly. As you know, the idea of cannibals had recently been introduced to Penelope’s mind; her first horrified guess at what this head-sized object might be is far too gruesome to repeat here. However, despite her misgivings, she felt certain they ought to investigate.

  The wolves and Bertha obeyed her order to halt, and Mama Woof helpfully circled ’round so Penelope could get a better view. The head-shaped whatsit floated on the surface of a large puddle of uncertain depth, which no doubt had been left by the strong rains of the previous night. “It is a man’s hat,” she concluded with relief. “But whose? It looks a bit like one of those new derby hats that have lately become all the rage.”

  (Unbelievably, the word “derby” is also a nickname for a type of snug-fitting, dome-shaped men’s hat invented by a Mr. Bowler, which was just becoming fashionable in Miss Lumley’s day. The bowler hat soon became such a common sight at the Epsom Derby that people began calling it a derby hat. But this is the way it goes with words: Hats turn into horse races and horse races into hats, dah-bees into derr-bees and derr-bees into dah-bees, until no one knows exactly what is meant by what is being said.)

  Alexander slid off his wolf and stepped delicately through the murky puddle. He picked up the hat and examined it.

  “Not hat. Helmet. Very dirty.” He rubbed the object with his sleeve and held it up to show Penelope. The dark color that she had mistaken for the stiff black felt of a bowler hat was merely a thick coating of mud.

  “A pith helmet! Why, that must belong to Admiral Faucet. But where could he be?” Penelope looked around but saw only moss, trees, and some lovely specimens of the common but ruggedly attractive swashbuckler fern, with its long, swordlike fronds and thick stems that were sturdy as peg legs.

  Alexander wiggled his feet around in the muck. “Sunk in tar pit,” he declared, gingerly backing out of the puddle.

  “No more hup, hup, hup,” Beowulf said mournfully. He and his sister were still astride their wolves, and the beasts whimpered in sympathy.

  “Gruesome,” Cassiopeia agreed. “Oh, well.” She did not sound terribly sad, for she had still not forgiven the admiral for trying to take away her plume.

  “Blast!” came a voice. “I’m up here!”

  They looked up. The admiral hung upside down, suspended from a high branch of the tree. Both of his ankles were tangled in some sort of rope. His face was beet red and, judging from his tone of voice, he was in a foul mood, but otherwise he seemed unharmed.

  “Blast that Ashton!” he said. “I’m caught in one of his hunting snares!”

  “Tallyho,” warned Alexander. “Uncle Freddy is on his way.”

  “Poor Admiral. Soon you will be stuffed.” Cassiopeia sounded rather cheerful at the prospect. “Don’t be sad. I will visit you in Uncle Freddy’s study.”

  “You will be easy to draw,” Beowulf added. “I will draw you very nicely.”

  The admiral wiggled and kicked, which made him swing wildly, like a piñata in the midst of being beaten. “Cut me down at once! I have no intention of being stuffed, or drawn, or any of it. Say—looks like you caught my Bertha after all. Nicely done, cubs. Bad Bertha, running away! I ought to give you a whipping for all the trouble you’ve caused. But don’t worry; soon you’ll be locked up in the POE, safe and sound.”

  Bertha hissed. Penelope was strongly tempted to leave the admiral where he dangled and let Lord Fredrick and the hounds deal with him, but as usual, her kinder nature prevailed. “Perhaps the admiral will agree to sit still for a portrait, Beowulf. In the meantime, we had best cut him down and continue on our way. Lord Fredrick’s party will be here any minute.”

  Beowulf shinnied up the tree in which the snare was set and quickly cut the admiral down by gnawing through the rope with his teeth. Admiral Faucet fell to the ground and landed in the puddle with a mighty, messy splash. Splattered with mud from head to toe, he sat up and rubbed his head. Alexander handed him his helmet.

  “Ow,” said Beowulf sympathetically.

  “Ow, bow wow, woof!” his wolf steed agreed. It was only now that he was right side up that Admiral Faucet noticed the presence of the wolves. His eyes grew wide, and then wider still at the sight of Beowulf sitting astride his wolf as naturally as a child riding a hobbyhorse. “By Jove, will you look at that?” he exclaimed in wonder. “What sort of creatures are those?”

  “Woofs,” Cassiopeia explained, patting hers between the ears.

  The admiral snorted. “Nonsense. If they were real wolves, they would have eaten you.”

  “They are real but unusual wolves.” Penelope could not help boasting a little. “And fast ones, too. We are riding them back to Ashton Place.”

  “Fast wolves? Riding wolves?” He climbed to his feet, and his eyes narrowed with greed. “Racing wolves, you mean! What a capital idea!”

  The day’s adventures had made Penelope feel rather bold, and she spoke in her sternest and most Swanburnian tone. “I hope you have not forgotten, Admiral, we still have Bertha’s safety to consider. The longer we stand here, the closer Lord Fredrick’s hunting party comes. Luckily our mounts are better suited to the dense forest than a group of men on horseback.” Penelope slid off Mama Woof and gestured for the admiral to get on. “Admiral, you ride Mama Woof. She is the largest and strongest, and will be able to carry you with ease.”

  The admiral hemmed and hawed as the giant beast approached. Mama Woof smiled in her fashion, which is to say she pulled her carnivorous lips back over those razor-sharp teeth. She wagged her tail so hard that it whacked the admiral repeatedly on the side of his leg.

  “See? She likes you,” Beowulf said, but the admiral seemed unconvinced. His teeth began to chatter in fear.

  “But who will carry Lumawoo?” Cassiopeia asked, turning to her governess. “You cannot run like Mrs. Clarke.”

  Penelope smiled. “That is true, although with a bit of practice I should hope I would be able to at least keep up with the dear lady.” She glanced at Bertha, who had fixed the admiral with a menacing stare (and to be stared at by an ostrich is no laughing matter, for their eyes are the size of billiard balls; it is why there is so little room left in their heads for brains). “I shall ride Bertha, if she will allow me th
e privilege. Beowulf, will you call her closer?” He did. Penelope gave a gentle downward tug on the TOT, and the bird knelt low enough for her to climb aboard.

  Penelope was pleased with the change. The soft, feathered back of the ostrich was far more comfortable to sit upon than the coarse fur of the wolf had been, and she still held the leash ends of the TOT, which she could easily pretend were pony reins. “Imagine what I shall write to Simon about this!” she thought. “We have gone from watching warblers through a window to barebacked-ostrich riding, all in the course of week. He will surely be impressed—”

  “Bow wow wow wow!”

  “Bow wow wow wow!”

  It was the baying of the hounds, now close enough to hear.

  “Bow wow wow wow!”

  “Bow wow wow wow!”

  Boom!

  Alexander gazed up at the blue sky that peeked through the leaves of the trees. “Thunder?” he asked dubiously.

  “It sounds like your uncle Freddy has gotten off a shot.” The threat of gunfire was enough to make Admiral Faucet clamber onto Mama Woof’s back at last. “The man’s blind as a newborn rat. Whoever taught him to shoot ought to be brought before a judge.”

  “Imagine what I shall write to Simon about this!”

  His remark made Penelope think of Judge Quinzy, the unsettling friend of Lord Fredrick’s whom she had reason to believe was not a judge at all. But now was not the time to think of that.

  “Follow me,” Penelope cried. For effect, she gave a little shake on the leash ends of the TOT, just as if they were a set of reins attached to a pony’s bridle.

  Of course, the children could not resist yelling: “Giddy-yap, Bertha!” to get things started. Penelope did not mind this one bit. Nor did Bertha, who took off in a blaze of speed, while behind them the admiral shouted: “Run! Run like the wind, you bloodthirsty beast! Awhoo-hoo, this is capital! Better than the Epsom Derby. Governess—we must talk!”

  THE TENTH CHAPTER

  The wolves confront the hounds, while the admiral keeps Lord Fredrick at bay.

  EXCEPT IN THE BOOK-FUELED REALM of her imagination, Penelope had never ridden a pony at full gallop. However, she did have a distant recollection of being given a piggyback ride by Dr. Westminster, the Swanburne veterinarian, when she was still a very small girl. Exactly how small she could not remember, but small enough to be given piggyback rides, in any case.

  Like Dr. Westminster, Bertha ran on two legs, as opposed to galloping on four. No doubt it was the similarity of their gaits that prompted Penelope’s memory, but the two had little else in common: For example, Dr. Westminster was extremely clever and Bertha was not clever at all. Bertha was taller and much speedier than Dr. Westminster, and Dr. Westminster was rarely covered with feathers. (One cannot truthfully say he was never covered with feathers, because there was one time when he spent the night in a chicken coop caring for some fledgling chicks that had, unfortunately, caught the people pox and were very itchy indeed. The night was cool, and he wore a boiled-wool coat of the type that fur and feathers tend to stick to. By morning he looked as if he were in a man-sized chicken costume. When he emerged from the coop, the girls screamed with delight and begged him to keep the coat as it was, but he thought he might frighten the cows if he made his rounds in the guise of a giant chicken. Practical as ever, the girls proceeded to pluck the coat and use the feathers to make pillows upon which to embroider the sayings of Agatha Swanburne. Sewing such pillows was a favorite pastime of Swanburne girls; they were often exchanged as gifts and occasionally used in pillow fights, and all the window seats at school were made cozy with them.)

  “Bow wow wow wow!”

  “Bow wow wow wow!”

  Penelope had been right when she said the wolves and Bertha could stay well ahead of Lord Fredrick’s hunting party; in the forest they hurdled over fallen trees and leaped through narrow crevices that a group of men on horseback would have to go around. However, Lord Fredrick’s pack of hounds did not have these limitations, and from the sound of it, the dogs were getting closer by the minute. Too late Penelope realized that the pack had circled ’round the edge of the wood, ready to cut them off before they reached the POE.

  “We are heading toward the dogs—we must change course!” she yelled, but Admiral Faucet was now well into the spirit of the chase and was whooping and hollering so much she could not make herself heard. Moments later they emerged from the forest. All that lay between them and the safety of the POE were the rolling meadows of parkland that surrounded Ashton Place, dotted here and there by a towering, wide-canopied tree and beribboned with the winding paths upon which Mrs. Clarke liked to take her morning jog.

  The baying of the hounds grew louder, and the wolves ran faster still, panting hard to keep up with the swift and long-legged bird. It was not until the stately house called Ashton Place came into view that Penelope thought of how terrified the household staff would be to see a pack of wolves bounding across the property, so near the house and the livestock. Would the wolves be in danger? Or had all the men with rifles gone out with Lord Fredrick and his party?

  “Bow wow wow wow!”

  “Bow wow wow wow!”

  The hounds tore around the edge of the trees, and the wolves came sharply to a stop. Bertha squawked and hissed, and the two breathless groups of canines stood nose to nose, staring and growling. Penelope signaled to the children to dismount and stand clear. The wolves were larger and stronger, but the beagles had them outnumbered five to one (that is to say, there were five beagles for every one wolf; as you already know how many wolves there were, the exact number of beagles can easily be figured with the use of an abacus). A dreadful fight seemed imminent.

  The admiral slipped off Mama Woof’s back and began waving his cane at the dogs. “Scat, you silly dogs,” he shouted. “Off with you, now—and stay away from my ostrich.” But being scolded only made the hounds more agitated. They bayed in chorus and tried to inch closer to Bertha.

  “Bow wow wow wow!”

  “Bow wow wow wow!”

  “Woof.” Mama Woof’s deep, wolfy voice echoed over the hills. The bow-wow-wowing turned to whimpers and whines.

  “Woof,” repeated Mama Woof, more sternly this time. The pack of hounds fell silent. Twenty tails drooped down between four times as many legs.

  “Yap?” the lead beagle asked nervously.

  “WOOF,” insisted Mama Woof. The dogs fell to the ground and rolled on their backs, paws trembling in the air (you may work it out for yourselves exactly how many paws; however, it is safe to assume there was one paw per leg). Mama Woof and the other wolves took turns growling in the dogs’ faces. Penelope had to restrain the Incorrigible children from doing the same; reluctantly they obeyed, but they added their own growls and snarls from a distance.

  After that the dogs and wolves were on more friendly terms, with the wolves firmly in charge. Any hound that got snappy with Bertha was promptly corrected, and the pack of yowling beagles provided a noisy but festive escort back to the POE. The admiral rode proudly on Mama Woof, crowing and singing like a victorious general returning from battle, but Penelope kept looking over her shoulder. “The wolves have been our protectors while we were in their native habitat,” she thought, “but if they are seen in ours, it will not be so easy for us to protect them.” Nature was “red in tooth and claw,” according to the admiral, yet Penelope feared it was here, among the landscaped grounds and formal gardens, in sight of the peaceful, smoke-plumed chimneys and the thoroughly civilized neoclassical facade of Ashton Place, that blood might, at last, be shed.

  BEFORE LONG, BERTHA HAD BEEN set loose in her Permanent Ostrich Enclosure and was being fed SPOTs by the children. As you no doubt recall, these were the Savory Pickled Ostrich Treats the admiral had invented, and Bertha did seem to like them very much. Armed with the treats, the children could not resist trying to teach Bertha some tricks, but the small-brained bird was not a terribly good student. Cassiopeia tried to show her some basic facts o
f multiplication, but Bertha proved even less adept at math than Nutsawoo, who could at least comprehend that three acorns made a more filling snack than two.

  Meanwhile, Admiral Faucet excused himself to a small shed off the main POE that he called the POE Home Office, or POEHO for short. There, he said, he planned to “draft a new letter to my potential investors. Racing wolves! Half-human child jockeys! It’s one brilliant moneymaking scheme after another!”

  The exhausted wolves lapped water from a trough (contrary to popular belief, ostriches do drink water if it is available, although they can manage without it for long stretches of time as well). Penelope’s fear for the wolves’ safety was well founded, for moments after they had arrived at the POE, two workmen who were patching the roof of the barn saw them from above and raised a cry: “Wolves, wolves! Lock up your sheep! Wolves, wolves! Close the doors!” It was only a matter of time before an angry mob arrived.

  Reluctantly, Penelope approached Mama Woof. Water dripped from the beast’s whiskered muzzle, and her yellow eyes were dim with fatigue. “I know you have run a long way and would like to rest,” Penelope said softly, “but for your own sake, you and the other wolves must go back to the forest at once.”

  Mama Woof threw back her head and howled, soft and sad. With a full heart, Penelope called the Incorrigibles over. “Alexander, Beowulf, Cassiopeia, it is time to say good-bye.”

  The three children threw down their SPOTs and ran to embrace Mama Woof and the others. This was the moment Penelope had dreaded. Would the children wish to return to the forest with their animal friends? They had seemed so happy in the woods, and so at home in that surprisingly cozy cave—who was Penelope to say that life at Ashton Place was better? True, there was plumbing, and cooked meals, and knickknacks that were dusted daily, and banisters to slide down when none of the household staff was looking, but could these compare to the burbling streams that ran through the woods, the pinecones and hazelnuts one could freely gather from the mossy floor, the trees one could climb and the vines one could swing from?