by Joan Aiken
"It's that perishing unicorn,” someone exclaimed furiously. “—Never ought to have been allowed to come—"
But at that moment Candleberry came galloping in hot pursuit of something that was flying along the terrace carrying a light. As they passed through the illumination of the bonfire this was seen to be an enormous dark bird carrying a lighted candle, the flame of which streamed over its shoulder.
"Good heavens,” cried Sir Leicester, who had gone very pale, “it's the family raven."
"Please, my dear singers,” implored Mr. Pontwell, who thought of nothing but his performance, “let us have a little order. What do a few coats and scarves matter? Or a little natural fauna? Let me hear a nice spirited rendering of ‘We Three Kings.’”
But at that moment a man dashed towards them from the television camera, crying: “Bring that unicorn back. It's miraculous! A real unicorn chasing a ghostly raven—good Lord, this will be the television scoop of the century! Stand back, will you? Who owns the unicorn? You, sir? Can you get him to come this way?"
Mark called Candleberry, and the unicorn galloped back, driving the raven in front of him. It was still crossly looking for something to light with its candle. It had been foiled by the electric lamps and had had to fall back on the heap of coats. At last with a croak of decision it swooped down and set fire to somebody's carol book.
"Stop it, stop it,” shrieked Mr. Pontwell, but the TV expert at the same moment shouted “Hold it, hold it. Stand aside, you others. Hold out your books. This is wonderful, wonderful!"
Only Mr. Pontwell was not pleased with the evening's work. Everyone else was warmed and exhilarated by the fire and informed that their fees as television performers would amply cover the loss of coats and carol books. Sir Leicester himself seemed to have disappeared, but his chauffeur drove the choir back, cheerful and chattering, at about three in the morning.
"Poor man,” said Harriet to Mark, “I expect he's worrying about what dreadful doom is going to fall on the House of Gramercy. After all, it's not so funny for him."
At breakfast next morning the telephone rang. Mr. Armitage answered it, and after listening for a few minutes, began to laugh.
"It was Sir Leicester,” he said, returning to the table. “He's had his dreadful doom. The architect's report on Gramercy Chase has come in, and he's learned that the whole place is riddled with dry rot. It's all got to come down. He's simply delighted. He rang up to ask if I knew of a comfortable cottage for sale."
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The Ghostly Governess
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The house stood a little way above the town, on the side of a hall. The front windows looked out on a great bare expanse of downs, stretching into the distance. From the pantry, and the bathroom, and the window halfway up the stairs, you could see down the river valley to Lynchbourne, the smoky port two miles away, and beyond its roofs, masts, and funnels was the silver line of the sea.
The children approved of the house at once; it was old and full of unexpected corners, with a smell of polished floors and lavender and old carpets. The family had taken it furnished for August.
"I asked the agent and he said we could use the piano,” said Mrs. Armitage, “so you'll be able to keep up with your practicing."
But Mark and Harriet made secret faces at each other. They preferred the idea of hide-and-seek in the unexplored cupboards or picnics on the downs, or taking a boat down the river to the sea. They also explored the town—it was hardly more than a village—below the house. The thing they liked best was a cottage down by the river. The paths in its gardens were all paved with oyster shells, and there were two great carved dolphins on either side of the door.
"I wonder who lives there,” said Mark. “I bet they've got some lovely things inside."
But the cottage seemed to be unoccupied. The windows were all closed and curtained, and no smoke came from the chimney. They found out that it belonged to an admiral, so it seemed probable that he was at sea.
By the end of a week they felt as if they had been there all their lives. Every day they asked if they could take out a picnic lunch, and the Armitage parents declared that they had never known such peace; they hardly saw the children from breakfast till suppertime.
"But I'm glad to find that you're keeping up your practicing,” said Mrs. Armitage. “I heard you playing that little German tune—what is it?—'Du Lieber Augustin'—very nicely the other evening."
"Oh, yes,” said Harriet, and looked blank. The conversation turned on other things. Afterwards when she compared notes with Mark they agreed that neither of them had ever played “Du Lieber Augustin."
"Do you suppose Father might have?"
"He never plays anything but Bach and Beethoven."
"Well, someone must have played it, because I was humming it this morning, so I must have heard it somewhere."
"Maybe it was on the wireless. Let's take our bikes down to Lynchbourne and see if there's a new ship in."
They forgot about the incident, but later Harriet had cause to remember it. She woke in the night very thirsty, and found that her glass was empty. Coming back from the bathroom, she thought she heard a noise downstairs and paused. Could someone be playing the piano at half past one in the morning? Harriet was not at all timid, and she resolved to go and see. She stole down the stairs in her slippers. Yes, there it was again—a faint thread of melody. She pushed the drawing-room door open and looked in.
The moon was setting and threw long stripes of light across the floor and the polished lid of the grand piano. There was nobody in the room. But as Harriet stood in the doorway she heard faint tinkling music which sounded more like a cottage piano than a Bechstein, and after a moment a quavering old voice was lifted in song:
"Ach, du lieber Augustin, Weib ist hin, Gold ist hin,
Ach, du lieber Augustin, alles ist hin."
The piano keys were moving up and down by themselves.
Harriet ought to have been terribly frightened, but she was not. The quavering voice sounded too harmless. She stood in fascination, watching the keys move and wondering how long it would go on, and if, perhaps, she were dreaming.
Presently the music stopped, and there was a sound of the stool being pushed back. Harriet took a step backwards. On the edge of the patch of moonlight she saw a little, frail old woman, dressed in a long gray skirt, white starched blouse, and a gray shawl over her shoulders.
"Ah,” she said in a brisk but kind voice, “you don't know me yet, child, I am your new governess. Come, come, where are your manners? I should see a nice curtsy."
"How do you do,” said Harriet, curtsying automatically.
"I hope we shall get along very well,” the old lady continued. “Strict but kind is my motto, and always ladylike behavior. If you want an example of that, you have only to look up to our dear queen, who is such a pattern of all the virtues."
"Yes,” said Harriet absently, looking at her enormous cameo brooch, velvet neckband and elastic-sided boots. The governess reminded her of the old yellow photographs in her grandmother's house.
"But now, child,” said the old lady, “you must be going for your afternoon rest. It is nearly two o'clock. Later we shall begin to know each other better. By the way, I have not yet told you my name. It is Miss Allison. Now run along, and don't let me find you chattering to your brother during the rest hour."
"No, Miss Allison,” said Harriet mechanically, and such was the governess’ spell over her that she turned round and did indeed go straight back to bed and sleep.
Next morning at breakfast Harriet was silent, as if stunned. However, her father and brother talked all the time, and her silence was not noticed.
Later, when she and Mark were sitting in a quarry, eating the eleven o'clock installment of their lunch (chocolate and buns), Mark said:
"What's happened to you? Toothache?"
"No. Mark,” Harriet said, “do you remember the other day when Mother s
aid something about my practicing ‘Lieber Augustin,’ and I hadn't, and we thought it must have been the wireless?
"Well, I think we've got a ghost in the house.” And she told him the story of her last night's adventure.
Odd events were not uncommon in the Armitage family, so Mark did not, as many brothers would have done, say, “Rats, you're trying to pull my leg.” He sat reflecting for a while. Then he said: “What did you say her name was?"
"Miss Allison."
"And she was dressed in a sort of Victorian costume?"
"Yes. I don't know what sort of time exactly—it might be anything from 1840 to 1900 I should think,” said Harriet vaguely, “but, oh yes, she did say something about looking up to our dear queen as a pattern of propriety. It sounded like Queen Victoria."
"I do hope we see her again,” said Mark. “It sounds as if her day and night were the exact opposite of ours, if she told you to go and rest at two in the morning."
Harriet agreed with this. “And another thing,” she said, “I believe she's only visible in the complete dark. Because at first she was sitting in the moonlight playing the piano—at least I suppose she was—and I couldn't see her at all till she stepped out of the light into the darkness."
"Well, well, we'll have to start picketing her. I supposed she gets up when it gets dark."
"Nonsense,” said Harriet, “that wouldn't be till after ten. You never heard of a governess getting up at ten, did you? No, I bet she gets up in the light, just as we get up in the dark in winter."
"Anyway we'll have to have one of us watching for her at night,” Mark went on. “We'll have to do it in shifts and get some sleep in the daytime. We'd better start now."
"Let's have lunch first."
So they ate their picnic and then dutifully lay back on the springy turf and closed their eyes. But it was not a great success, for one or the other of them kept bouncing up with brilliant ideas on ghost-governesses. They agreed that it would be best if they both watched together the first night in case she turned out not to be the mild inoffensive creature that she had appeared to Harriet. They also agreed to take pencils and notebooks with them, in case she took advantage of her governess-hood and started teaching. Besides, they might learn something interesting.
At last they did achieve an intermittent doze, in the hot sun and the silence, and lay there for a couple of hours. Then they picked an enormous basketful of cowslips and started home for a late tea.
That night they listened carefully until the parents had gone to bed, and then slipped downstairs into the drawing-room. As before, the moonlight lay across the floor, but much farther round. Everything was silent, and all they could hear was their own breathing. Harriet began to have a dreadful feeling of disappointment.
"Perhaps she won't come again,” she whispered gloomily.
"Nonsense,” said Mark, “we've hardly been here any time. If your feet are cold, sit in the armchair and tuck them under you."
Harriet thought this a good idea. They sat on, and now they could hear the grandfather clock ticking in the hall, and the lonely lowing of a cow somewhere below in the valley.
All of a sudden a quiet voice said: “Ah! Children! There you are. I've been looking for you everywhere. This, Harriet, is your brother Mark, I presume?"
Harriet's heart gave a violent jump, and then began beating very quickly. Miss Allison was standing, as she had been yesterday, on the edge of a pool of moonlight. She held a ruler in her hand and looked benevolent, but just slightly impatient.
Harriet got up and curtsied, and then she introduced Mark, who was standing with his mouth open, but otherwise looked fairly collected.
"Now we will go to the schoolroom,” said the governess, “and that is where I should like you to wait for me in future. We will only come to the drawing-room for music lessons on Tuesdays and Fridays."
The children cast anxious glances at each other, but followed her upstairs meekly enough, watching with interest as she twinkled in and out of patches of moonlight in the corridors, and wondering which room she had decided to use as the schoolroom. They found that it was Mark's bedroom, which was very convenient, as Harriet whispered to him.
"Don't whisper, Harriet dear,” said Miss Allison, who had her back turned, “it's unpardonably rude.” She was doing something which looked like writing on an invisible blackboard. “There, that's finished. Now, Harriet, will you bring your back-board out of that corner and lie on it. I wish to see you on it for at least half an hour every day, to give you a ladylike and erect deportment.
Harriet had a look in the corner but saw nothing except Mark's tennis racket and a box of balls.
"I don't see it,” she said unhappily.
"Nonsense, dear. Your left foot is on it at the moment. Try to be observant."
As Harriet's left foot was resting firmly on the floor, she felt rather injured, but, catching the governess’ eye, she hastily stooped, picked up an imaginary back-board with both hands, and carried it to the middle of the room.
"It would help,” she said to herself, “if I knew what the dratted thing looked like. But I suppose it's as long as I am."
"Put it down, child. Now lie on it. Flat on your back, arms at your sides, eyes looking at the ceiling."
Harriet lay down on the floor, looking at Miss Allison doubtfully, and was rewarded by a nod.
"Now Mark,” said the governess briskly, “I have written on the blackboard a list of Latin prepositions followed by the ablative case. You will occupy yourself in learning them while I write out an exercise for you both. Harriet, you can be trying to think of twenty wildflowers beginning with the letter l."
She sat down at an invisible table and began briskly writing on nothing. Mark looked gloomily at the empty space where the blackboard was supposed to be, and wondered how he could learn a list of words he couldn't see. This adventure, it seemed to him, was a bit too much like real life. He wished Miss Allison was a more conventional ghost with clanking chains.
Harriet gave him a grin, and then, as Miss Allison looked particularly occupied, she whispered:
"A, ab, absque, coram, de..."
Mark's face cleared. Of course, now he remembered the words. Thank goodness he had learned them at school. He thought for a moment anxiously of what would happen if they didn't know what she had written on the blackboard, but anyway, that was in the future. No use worrying about it now.
At the end of what was presumably half an hour, Miss Allison turned round.
"Well!” she said. “Harriet, you may put away your board. Mark, let me hear you recite. You should have it by rote now."
"A, ab, absque,” he began.
"Never let me see you recite like that, Mark. Hands behind your back, feet in the first position, head up.” Mark obeyed peevishly.
"Now begin again."
"A, ab, absque, coram, de,
Palam, clam, cum, ex and e
Tenus, sine, pro, in, prae
Ablative with these we spy."
"Very good, Mark, though your pronunciation is a little modern,” she said. “You may open that blue tin and have a caraway biscuit."
Mark looked about for a blue tin, saw none, and opened an imaginary one.
Harriet did rather badly over her wildflowers beginning with l. Half the ones she thought of, such as lady's smock, lady's slipper, lady's tresses, lords and ladies, and all the lesser stitchworts and lesser chickweeds were disqualified, leaving her with a very poor list. She got no caraway biscuit. However, as Mark's had been imaginary, she did not greatly mind.
After this, they had to do embroidery. It also was totally imaginary. They held invisible pieces of linen, threaded invisible needles, and sometimes for the fun of the thing stuck them into their fingers and squeaked with imaginary pain. It was all very amusing. It soon appeared that even if they couldn't see their work, Miss Allison could. She kept up a running fire of comment, from which they gathered that Mark's was bad and Harriet's fairly good. This seemed reasonable
enough. Mark was rather indignant at being expected to do embroidery, but after a while the governess began to read aloud to them a fascinating book called Improving Tales, all about some good children and some bad ones, so he just stuck his needle in and out and listened.
"There,” said Miss Allison finally, “that will do for today. For your preparation you will both turn to page two hundred in your Latin grammars and learn the list of words beginning:
"Amnis, axis, caulis, collis,
Clunis, crinis, fascis, follis—and you will also each write me a composition entitled ‘Devotion to Duty.’”
"Please,” said Harriet, “which is our Latin grammar?"
"Why, Crosby, of course. The blue book. Now run along, dears. You will want to get ready for your walk."
Mark wanted to go to bed, but she gave him such an extremely firm look that he went out with Harriet.
"You'll have to sleep on the sofa in my room,” she whispered, “and creep back as soon as it's light. I wouldn't dare try to disobey her."
"Nor me,” he whispered back. “She looks much firmer than any of the masters at school."
Luckily it was very warm, and there were some spare blankets in Harriet's room, so he was quite comfortable and slept well.
They were both rather silent and sleepy at breakfast, but afterwards on the river bank they discussed things.
"What are we going to do about those wretched essays?” asked Mark sourly. “I'm blowed if I write about devotion to duty."
"Oh, that's all right,” Harriet replied. “Don't you see, the composition will be just like the embroidery. We'll show up an imaginary one."
"I don't quite understand that,” said Mark, screwing up his eyes and throwing stones into the mudbank; the tide was rapidly running out.
"Nor do I,” agreed Harriet candidly, “but I think it's something like this: you see, she must have taught hundreds of children when she was alive, and I expect she made them all do embroidery and write about devotion to duty. So when we give her our imaginary things, she thinks about the ones she remembers. See what I mean?"