The Unseen Guest

by Maryrose Wood

  MADAME IONESCO SLEPT UNTIL TEATIME and woke up famished. By now Lord Fredrick had grudgingly agreed to meet the soothsayer, for he had been roundly scolded by his wife. (“After all, Fredrick, it is your father’s ghost she plans to rouse; surely you can show some interest!”) The Widow Ashton would not join them and sent a note saying that she would prefer not to see or speak to anyone before the séance. Instead, she planned to stay in “private contemplation, out of respect for the momentous events which are about to occur.”

  Madame Ionesco nodded approvingly. “A smart woman. ‘She who keeps her mouth shut rarely says something stupid.’ You can quote me on that.” Thoughtfully she picked up a sugar-dusted biscuit and ate it in one bite. “I have communed with the spirits this afternoon. Very comfy bed, by the way! I have asked permission to Part the Veil. The spirits have answered me—like they always do!—and the answer is yes. The séance will take place tonight. At midnight.”

  Lady Constance nearly fell off the sofa. “Tonight? Midnight! I am afraid that is impossible, Madame. In the first place, I must be in bed by ten o’clock or my eyes will be horribly puffy in the morning. In the second place, I am planning to invite a great many people, and that will take some time, as Miss Lumley will have to write out all the invitations and, frankly, she is a bit slow. In the third place, I have ordered a magnificent gown for the occasion, made entirely of veils; isn’t that clever of me? And it will not be ready until Wednesday at the earliest. Surely we can keep you occupied until then? Perhaps you would like to tell our fortunes with cards or see our love lives in the coffee grounds? No doubt your crystal ball needs polishing, after all that dusty travel.” She nodded in the direction of the housekeeper, who stood placidly in a corner. “Mrs. Clarke here is in charge of everything; she will see that you have what you need.”

  “The séance will be tonight,” the soothsayer repeated, more forcefully this time. “We do not keep the dead waiting. Not that they have anyplace to go, but still, is good manners. Also, I have a hair appointment on Thursday in the city, and I do not wish to change it. And no guests! The spirits will appear only before people already here, in the house. Twelve people must attend, and twelve only.”

  “Twelve! Only twelve? But Lady Furbisher had hundreds of guests when her spiritualist was in town,” Lady Constance protested. “What is the use of having a séance, if no one will be there to praise me for hosting it?”

  “Reading palms, easy. Crystal ball, easy. Speaking to the dead, not so easy! To reach those on the other side, conditions must be perfect. Trust me, honey. Twelve people. Twelve o’clock.” Madame Ionesco sat back and folded her arms, and her eyes rolled up in her head until they were aimed at the ceiling. It was a most impressive display.

  “Fredrick, do something! Tell her!” Lady Constance implored.

  Lord Fredrick pulled at his shirt collar as if it had tightened like a noose. “It’s all superstitious claptrap anyway, dear. Let’s do what the woman says and get it over with.”

  Madame Ionesco crooked a finger at Lord Fredrick. “Claptrap, you say? You should know better, mister. Twelve moons in the year means twelve people at the séance. No more. No less.”

  The mere point of her finger seemed to make Lord Fredrick itch. He scratched behind his ear and muttered something that sounded like “Rubbish…twaddle—hmm, I feel a bit of a rash coming on…. Probably a false alarm, but a warm milk bath never hurt anyone….” With eyes darting nervously about the room, he excused himself and left.

  “Moons again! I am sick to death of moons!” Lady Constance exclaimed in defeat. “And however shall we get twelve on such short notice? Very well. There will be me, Fredrick, Fredrick’s mother, and the admiral. Some of Fredrick’s friends have stayed on after the hunting party; Baron Hoover and his wife are still here, and the Earl of Maytag, too. That makes seven.” She frowned at the soothsayer. “Do you count?”

  “Of course I count,” snorted Madame. “Who counts more than me?”

  “All right, we have eight. We need four more. I can always order some of the servants to fill in the empty seats, if necessary. Not Margaret, she would become frantic, poor thing, although it would be terribly amusing to watch. How about you, Mrs. Clarke?”

  Mrs. Clarke shook her head. “I’d prefer to leave the dead rest in peace, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  “The wolf babies make twelve,” Madame Ionesco said darkly. “Bring the wolf babies. They must be there as well.”

  “Do you mean those dreadful Incorrigible children? There are only three of them, thank heavens—oh, I suppose you mean including their governess. Very well. Miss Lumley and the children will come, although I expect the untamed creatures will be swinging from the chandeliers in no time. Speaking of chandeliers, can we have the séance in the ballroom, at least? It will lend a sense of occasion, despite the lack of guests. Drat! I am keenly disappointed not to have a party to rival Lady Furbisher’s! I suppose the wedding celebrations will make up for it, though.”

  IN THIS WAY THE SÉANCE was arranged. Afterward, Mrs. Clarke told Penelope nearly all of what was said, for Penelope had not been asked to join Madame Ionesco and the Ashtons for tea, and why should she be? She was only the governess, after all. (Mrs. Clarke left out the part where Lady Constance accused Penelope of being slow at writing invitations, which was an unkind remark as well as being untrue, and therefore not worth repeating.)

  Now it was time to act. Penelope scribbled a letter to Simon with precise details about which of the house’s windows opened to the ballroom (including a hastily drawn map), sealed the envelope with wax, and had it hand-delivered by Jasper himself, so there could be no mistake about which humble farmhouse to bring it to.

  “Tonight you will sleep in your clothes, children,” she announced as she put the children to bed an hour early. They happily complied, for they were under the impression that they would be attending some sort of late-night welcome party for Madame Ionesco. Penelope could not quite bring herself to explain the more ghoulish aspects of what a séance might entail, for then the children would never have fallen asleep at all, so she let them think what they would. After they were asleep, she paced the nursery like the captain of a lost ship, waiting for some glimpse of a star to steer by.

  Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

  Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!

  The clock struck half-past eleven. It was time. She twisted her hair into a fresh bun and splashed cold water on her face. Then she roused the children, gave each head of shining auburn hair a quick smoothing with a damp comb, and helped them put on their shoes. The three stood swaying on their feet, eyes half closed, and sleepwalked downstairs with Penelope shepherding them from behind. She hoped they might stay groggy for the duration and thus be spared any disturbing encounters with ghosts and the like, but Lady Constance had a different idea.

  “Boo!” she screeched, jumping out from behind one of the potted trees that flanked the ballroom’s entrance. Naturally the children were startled and reacted with an outpouring of howls and barks, followed by fierce growling. Afterward, all three were vividly awake, their eyes wide with excitement and fear.

  Lady Constance wagged a finger at Penelope. “Shameful behavior! Please bear in mind that I will not tolerate any repeat of what happened at the Christmas ball.” She addressed the children sternly. “No matter what terrifying and bloodcurdling events unfold during the séance, you must stay perfectly still and quiet as mice. No howling! No barking! No biting!” Then, unable to resist another chance to tease, she added, “Unless wicked ghosts appear and threaten to eat us. Then I shall surely scream myself. Eeeeeeek!”

  The three Incorrigibles looked at Lady Constance as if she were quite mad, for even they knew there was no such thing as cannibal ghosts. Then they saw the fortune-teller arrive and fell upon her with affection. Madame Ionesco greeted Penelope with a knowing smile and the children with warm, enveloping hugs.

  This familiar reunion did not go unnoticed. As the doors to the ballroom were fl
ung open and the other guests came in, the admiral sidled up to Penelope and spoke quietly into her ear. “Why do I feel certain you had a hand in this séance business, governess?”

  “I am sure I do not know,” she replied, which was not quite the same as denying her involvement.

  “Don’t you? All this nonsense about raising the ghost of Edward Ashton. I think it’s your idea. I think you’d do anything to interfere with my plans.”

  Penelope’s temper flared, but she kept her voice hushed, as the children were not far off. “Perhaps that is because your plans are all at the expense of other creatures. If not for you, Bertha would be on the African savannah right now, doing—well, whatever it is ostriches like to do. As for the children, I will never permit them to be part of your exhibitions.”

  They followed the others in. The ballroom was eerily empty. It had been furnished only with a long table surrounded by precisely one dozen chairs. The rest of the vast room was decorated in spooky fashion: There were floral arrangements in the shapes of skulls and tombstones, and the floor had been strewn with dead leaves, although it was still summer. The candelabras were lit, but only half the usual number, leaving most of the room in shadow. Smudge pots of incense released plumes of scented smoke that drifted, wraithlike, along the floor.

  Penelope proceeded warily through the pale, perfumed fog. The admiral held her chair for her and kept his voice low so only she could hear. “Remember, there’d be profit in it for you as well. I’d hire you to manage the wee beasties, as you seem to have a knack for training them. If you say no, I’ll just find someone else. Somewhere there’s a former circus employee or zookeeper who’d be grateful for the job.”

  “Beasties! You are referring to my pupils, sir.”

  “You may be their teacher, but they’re not ‘your’ pupils. These children are Fredrick’s, to dispose of as he sees fit. Once I’m his stepfather, I’ll win him over to my way of thinking, mark my words.”

  Penelope thought of Simon, who by now must be hidden somewhere nearby. “You seem rather confident that the shade of Edward Ashton will approve your marriage plans, Admiral.”

  “That’s because I am confident.” He chuckled. “Everyone has a price, governess. Even the dead.”

  The clock struck midnight. “Boo!” Lady Constance exclaimed, clapping her hands and whirling her skirts in the vaporous air. “Boo! Boo! Watch me, Fredrick. What fun! Doesn’t this look ghoulish?”

  “Raising the dead is no joke,” Madame Ionesco warned. “But why take my word for it? Soon you will see for yourself. Sit down, everyone. It is time to begin.”

  THEY ALL HAD TO WAIT for Madame Ionesco to clamber onto her chair at the head of the table, for she was no taller than Alexander and far less spry. Once settled, she spread her arms wide. “Now is when the Veil will part, but it will not stay open for long,” she intoned, looking around. “Do we have the required number?”

  The Incorrigible children quickly added it up. Cassiopeia counted by twos, Beowulf by threes, and Alexander by fours, but it all came out twelve in the end. All of the expected attendees were there, and most were in merry spirits. There was Baron Hoover and his wife, the baroness, and the Earl of Maytag, who looked sardonic as ever. The Incorrigible children sat near Madame Ionesco, and Admiral Faucet took the seat next to Penelope. Lord Fredrick and Lady Constance were at the far end of the table. The Widow Ashton was dressed all in black and seated on the other side of the admiral. Her face was so somber and pale that she might almost be mistaken for a ghost herself.

  The Earl of Maytag spoke in a deep voice of authority. “We are gathered here today…wait, that’s the marriage ceremony!”

  “Har har!” chortled Hoover. “Wrong funeral, what?”

  “There will be a wedding soon enough, I hope.” Admiral Faucet smiled toothily at the widow, but she gave him only a sad look in return.

  “Close your eyes, people,” Madame Ionesco ordered. “Everybody take hands. Try not to think. Let me see who’s out there.” She scrunched her eyes shut.

  “‘Hold hands and try not to think’—that’s it?” the baroness whispered in scorn. “No mystical incantations? No casting of runes?”

  Madame Ionesco opened one eye and glared at the baroness. “If you want to see a show, go to the theater! Now hush. I’m listening to dead people.” To the widow, she said, “Remind me, honey. What was your husband’s name?”

  “Edward.” The widow’s voice wavered. “Edward Ashton.”

  “Edward, right, uh-huh.” Madame closed her eyes again. “Okay, dead people, let’s get this over with. Edward Ashton, are you there? Your widow needs your blessing to remarry. Be a good egg and speak up. We’ll wait.”

  The inhalations and exhalations of twelve people made a soft, sighing wheeze in the otherwise soundless room. Penelope imagined she heard, not far off, the quiet breathing of a thirteenth, unseen and uninvited, guest. Simon ought to be just outside the window by now. She wondered how long he would wait to speak.

  “It seems this may take a while. Perhaps I ought to call for some snacks to be brought in?” Lady Constance whispered to her husband.

  At the word “snacks,” the Incorrigibles began to fidget, but Madame Ionesco shushed everyone with a finger.

  “Spirits of the dead,” she muttered. “What’s up tonight? Come visit. It won’t take long, I promise.”

  The silence pressed down upon them. Finally the Widow Ashton cried out, “He is angry with me, is that it? He refuses to speak to me!”

  Madame Ionesco touched her fingertips to her temples. “Huh. This is weird.”

  “No argument there,” snorted Baron Hoover, which made his wife titter.

  “Is not that he will not speak.” Madame Ionesco frowned. “Is that he is not there. No offense, Lady Widow. Are you sure the man’s dead?”

  The Widow Ashton gasped. “Of course he is! He drowned in a tar pit.”

  Admiral Faucet spoke consolingly, but Penelope felt his hand clench beneath the table. “I guess the seer’s vision can’t penetrate through the goo. Sorry, my dear. At least now you’re free to make up your own mind. Shall we turn the conversation to happier topics? Like our wedding, for instance? I think we’ve waited long enough.”

  Penelope was becoming tense herself. Where was Simon? Why did he not speak? He must be able to hear them, for the ballroom windows were open; she could see the curtains moving in the breeze.

  “A medicinal tar pit,” the widow repeated, as if in a trance. “But the body was never found….”

  The soothsayer clucked in sympathy. “A tar pit? What a mess. Sorry, honey. I cannot tell you where he is, but if I had to make a bet, I’d say he is on this side of the Veil, not the other.”

  The Earl of Maytag laughed. “Blast! I came here to hear dead people talking, and I’m not leaving until I do. Who else can you ring up?”

  Madame Ionesco shrugged. “There are many souls on the other side. Many more than are on this one. Not all of them wish to speak. Not all wish to be silent. Be careful who you wake.”

  The suggestions rang out.

  “Shakespeare!”

  “Cleopatra!” That was Lady Constance’s idea.

  “Thucydides?” Alexander said shyly, for he still had some questions regarding the causes and consequences of the Peloponnesian War, which he had recently studied, and thought the ancient Greek historian might be a good person to ask.

  “How about my great-aunt Mabel?” Baron Hoover offered. “She passed on when I was a boy. Sweet old lady. Baked a lovely lemon cake.”

  “No offense, dear,” the baroness said, “but I’d rather talk to Napoleon than your aunt Mabel.”

  “Well! This séance has been a tremendous disappointment so far,” Lady Constance declared. “Thank goodness there were not more people here to witness it. I think we ought to ring for dessert.”

  For once Penelope found herself agreeing with her mistress, and not just about dessert. The evening had turned into a joke, but ghost or no ghost, it wa
s urgent that the widow get her answer from Edward Ashton. Where, oh where, was Simon? Had he been detained or gotten lost? Had Penelope made an error on the map? She had been in rather a hurry when she sketched it.

  “What kind of dessert?” Beowulf asked before his siblings shushed him.

  “I believe the chef has prepared a delicious pie,” the admiral replied with a smug sideways look at Penelope.

  That did it. The mocking remark about pie or, rather, PIE, spurred her to act. If Simon were within earshot, he must speak now, or else all was lost. Penelope rose to her feet and yelled, “Shades of the departed! We cannot see you, but we know you are there. Who on the other side of the Veil has a message for us? Speak at once, if you please! We cannot wait any longer!”

  A creak. A snap. And then:

  “Mmmph! Mmmph! Mmmph!”

  “Is it Aunt Mabel?” the baron asked eagerly. “Sounds a bit like her. She often forgot to put in her dentures.”

  Madame Ionesco jumped as if pinched. “Yow! Hmm, this is strange. I’m getting a message from someone long dead…someone whose name starts with the letter A…ah…ah….”

  “Maybe it’s Aristotle,” joked the earl.

  “Ashton! Edward Ashton!” the widow cried.

  “The name is coming, wait for it….” Madame Ionesco scrunched her face until it looked like one of those ugly dolls people inexplicably make from withered apples. “Ah…. ah…”

  “Ahwoooooooo!”

  The howl was piercing and so close, it felt as if it might be coming from within that very room. The Incorrigibles, who had behaved in an exemplary fashion all this time, could contain themselves no more. They leaped up onto the table and threw back their heads.

  “Ahwooo!”

  “Ahwooo!”