The Unseen Guest Read online

  “Have you lost your mind, miss? This is a carriage road; it’s no place to be doing your morning calisthenics. Move along, now.”

  “Simon!” she called, jumping up and down, for she was sure she had spotted him inside.

  “Simon says, jumping jacks, I don’t care what you call it! Now step aside and let me pass.”

  “What’s the hurry, driver?” The door of the carriage swung open, and Simon leaped out; a moment later he stood before Penelope, grinning. “Miss Lumley—I mean, Penelope—what a perfect treat it is to see you! Feels like a long time, and no time at all, if you follow my meaning.”

  “Hello!” she cried, and then said it again, since she was so very glad to see him. “Hello!” The two of them stood staring and beaming at each other. Awkwardly, Penelope held out a hand. Simon shook it vigorously.

  Penelope looked around. “And…where is Madame?”

  He jerked his head toward the carriage he had just left. “Sound asleep in the cab. Dreaming of other dimensions, I bet. Pardon me for asking, but what are you doing out here on the road?”

  She took a step closer and spoke quietly, so that the carriage driver would not hear. “Mr. Harley-Dickinson—I mean, Simon—upon reflection I realized it would be best for me to intercept you before you reached Ashton Place, so that you and I might speak in private about the reasons for my summons. I have my own carriage and driver here.”

  “The plot is afoot, eh?” Simon scratched his chin. “We could switch carriages altogether, but I hate to wake Madame. She was muttering the most interesting things in her sleep. I was hoping for a clue about the Great What’s to Come, or a forecast for tomorrow’s weather, at least.”

  “Your driver can take Madame Ionesco. She is expected at the house and will be warmly welcomed. You can ride back with me.” She lowered her voice even more. “It may be better if we speak out of Madame’s hearing as well.”

  He arched one of those perfectly formed eyebrows. “Right-o, then. I’ll get my bag. Didn’t bring much, but I wouldn’t want to be without a pen and paper at a time like this. Inspiring things are bound to happen.”

  It took but a moment for Simon to remove his traveling satchel from one carriage and move it into the other. The coach carrying Madame was dispatched to Ashton Place. After giving the other driver a generous head start, Timothy muttered something about taking the long way back to the house so they might better enjoy the scenery. Then he chuckled and clucked the horse to a lazy walk.

  Now that Simon was finally here (and sitting next to her, in the backseat, rather close!), Penelope could scarcely decide what to say first, and the whole story tumbled out in a mad rush. She explained about the Widow Ashton’s arrival with Admiral Faucet, and quickly sketched her adventure with the children in the forest, in pursuit of Bertha.

  “But now the admiral plans to make Bertha into a champion ostrich racer, and then, when her racing days are through, turn her into…” She searched for a kind way to say it, but the best word she could come up with was “Victuals. With onion sauce.”

  “Onion sauce!” exclaimed Simon. “What a way to go. Poor old bird.”

  “Not only that. He wants the children to be part of his exhibition as well, the ‘Bloodthirsty Wolf Children of Ashton Place,’ or some such nonsense. But without the Widow Ashton’s money, he can do none of what he plans. He has proposed marriage to her in the most flowery terms, but I am sure he is only after her fortune. The widow is unsure about marrying him but seems inclined to do so anyway—unless she knows for a fact that her dear dead husband, Edward Ashton, would not approve. Therefore…” She paused for breath, for she had been talking nonstop. “I have persuaded her that we must have a séance.”

  Simon stroked his chin in that thoughtful way of his. “A séance? Ah-ha! So Madame Ionesco has been summoned to deliver the message from dead Edward, from Beyond the Veil! Dead Edward says no, the wedding is off, and the admiral can go look for another rich widow to fleece. Brilliant scheme, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  “I do not mind,” she said, rather formally, but inside she was very pleased.

  “One potential glitch, as far as I can see: What if dead Edward says yes?”

  “I have thought of that as well,” Penelope replied, for this is precisely what had made her say “Eureka!” earlier. “First—and I mean no disrespect to her soothsaying abilities—but I feel it is far from certain that Madame Ionesco will truly be able to summon the shade of Edward Ashton. Do you agree?”

  Simon glanced around, as if making sure no ghostly eavesdroppers could hear them. “I remain agnostic on that point. If anyone can, Madame Ionesco can, that much I will say. But that doesn’t mean anyone can, does it?”

  Penelope nodded. “The fortune-teller may have a true gift, but the situation is unpredictable, and we must plan for various outcomes. As Agatha Swanburne once said, ‘Trust whom you like, but rely on yourself.’ Therefore I propose that someone with a keen sense of the theatrical, a talent for mimicry and improvising dialogue—a playwright, perhaps?—be engaged as an understudy to the ghost, as it were.”

  Simon’s face lit up. “Aha! So if the shade of Edward Ashton fails to appear on command, or does appear but provides an answer other than the one we require, this playwright you mention could take over the role, so to speak.”

  “Precisely.” Penelope was so excited that she wanted to jump up and down and clap her hands, but of course this was impossible while sitting in the backseat of a carriage. Instead she smiled and said, “Simon, your gleam of genius is undimmed. Will you do it?”

  “Will I? Just try to stop me! They say that Shakespeare himself played the role of Hamlet’s father’s ghost! I’ll be walking in the footsteps of giants, and once again, Miss Lumley—Penelope—the adventure is all thanks to you. Before we met, my life was dull and boring! Tedious and uninteresting! But no more.”

  The carriage stopped.

  “Is it the wheel?” Simon asked, ready to leap out. “I must confess, I have a knack for fixing a broken spoke. Shall I take a look?”

  “The wheels are fine. Just giving the horse a breather.” Which was an odd thing for Old Timothy to say, frankly, since the horse had been walking at a leisurely pace the whole time. The coachman stared straight ahead, but his words were directed at Penelope. “The young gentleman won’t be staying at the house, I take it?”

  Old Timothy’s face was as blank as a mask. Penelope began to say something to the enigmatic coachman but stopped as the good sense of his remark sank in. She turned to Simon. “Timothy is correct. You must forgive my lack of hospitality, Simon. But given the secret role you will be called upon to play at the séance, I think it is best that you remain unseen for now. If no one knows you are here, you cannot fall under suspicion.”

  “There’s a kind of logic in that,” he agreed. “Although I hope we’re not just sticking our heads in the sand about it all. Say, do you think we ought to tell Madame Ionesco about this understudy business? It’s not so easy to pull the wool over the eyes of a prognosticator, after all.”

  Penelope frowned, for this indeed was the last and deepest mole hole in her scheme, and the one in which she feared they were most likely to step and twist an ankle, so to speak. “I would not want to insult her, of course. But if she knew what we intend, she might object to conducting the séance to begin with….”

  With a soft “hey-yah” from Old Timothy, the carriage resumed its slow progress. By the time they reached the edge of the parkland that surrounded the house, Simon and Penelope had reluctantly decided that it would be best not to tell Madame about their plan to have Simon step into the role, should the ghost of Edward Ashton fail to appear. Whether this would prove to be the right decision or not remained to be seen. But Bertha’s life was at “steak” (if you will forgive the pun), and the children’s safety and future hung in the balance as well. Much as they regretted the dishonesty, they felt they had no choice.

  Without being told, Timothy turned the carriage
down a side road that led to some humble farmhouses nearby. Arrangements were quickly made for Simon to stay with Jasper’s family, whom Penelope recalled could use the extra help because of the new baby. The family was delighted by the visit and gladly accepted Simon as a local lad recommended by that clever young governess at Ashton Place who had worked such miracles with Lord Ashton’s wild wolf children. Simon also proved to have a knack for calming a squalling infant, so he was quickly put to work. In the hubbub, Simon and Penelope had no real chance to say good-bye, but she whispered a promise to send a message later on, with details about when and where the séance would take place, as soon as it had been arranged.

  Timothy drove the carriage back up to the main road and then proceeded to Ashton Place, where he discreetly stopped a short way behind the barn, out of view of the main house. As Penelope climbed out, she shyly mentioned that she hoped there would be no need for Old Timothy to mention their early-morning excursion to anyone.

  He snorted in disdain and looked at her with his changeable, cockeyed stare. “A true coachman never says where he’s been, miss. Or tells where he’s going.”

  “I am glad to hear it—”

  “A coachman who repeats what he overhears in the backseat of a carriage wouldn’t keep a job for very long, make no mistake.”

  “I appreciate your discretion—”

  “And I’ve been a coachman for a very long time. Since before you were born, and for some years before that, too. What I hear, I don’t hear, if you know what I mean.”

  “Thank you,” she said simply, for she had no wish to provoke him further. He undid the harness and led the horse away to the stables, clucking and talking softly the whole way, with promises of a good rubdown with a towel and a currycomb, followed by a breakfast of oats after the beast was cool enough to eat.

  Watching him left Penelope with two very different ideas to ponder as she walked up the drive back to the house. The first was how nice it was to see someone treating a horse with such care and respect. Naturally, it made her think of Edith-Anne Pevington and Rainbow, but to try to draw any further comparison between the grouchy, bow-legged old coachman and the fictional rosy-cheeked heroine would be absurd. “Dr. Westminster had a similarly nice way with animals,” she said to herself. “Perhaps that is what I am reminded of now.”

  Her second thought was how odd and thoroughly unexpected it was that, of all the people she had met since coming to live at Ashton Place, it was Old Timothy whom she had come to rely upon the most. Whether that, too, would prove a mistake also remained to be seen. But there was no more time to puzzle over it, for she had already missed breakfast with the children, and although she had left detailed instructions for them about how they were to begin their morning lessons without her, even from where she stood, she could spot Beowulf leaning perilously close to the nursery window.

  “Cuckoo!” he yelled excitedly as he saw her approach. He pointed at a nearby tree limb. “Cuckoo! Cuckoo!”

  “Careful, Beowulf!” she called up to the window. She broke into a run. “Careful! I am on my way!”

  THE THIRTEENTH CHAPTER

  Shocking news arrives from Beyond the Veil.

  LADY CONSTANCE WAS WILDLY EXCITED about the arrival of the soothsayer and had instructed the household staff to welcome Madame Ionesco as a visiting dignitary. “Think of her as an ambassador from the Realm Invisible,” she said, as if this selfsame Realm were nothing more than a midsized European nation that just happened to be populated with the spirits of the dead. There was scant time to make arrangements, but Mrs. Clarke ordered a lovely bouquet to be cut from the gardens, and a ruddy-cheeked bagpiper in a kilt was hired to play a fanfare of greeting that broadcast its nasal echo for miles around.

  “What a racket,” Madame Ionesco said appreciatively of the bagpiper, as she stumbled half asleep from the hired carriage and flashed her semitoothless grin. “If that’s not enough to wake the dead, nothing is. What a good sleep I had! Did I miss breakfast? Some eggs and bacon would be all right. Porridge on the side. I take milk and three sugars with my tea. Keep the flowers, honey; they make me sneeze. And somebody pay the driver, that’s a dear.”

  A hearty meal was hastily prepared and served in the dining room, although the table was only set for one, as Lady Constance had already eaten and Lord Fredrick wanted no part of this “prognosticational poppycock,” as he called it. Lady Constance chatted as the soothsayer ate and pressed her for details about the séance. Should musicians be engaged to enhance the spooky atmosphere? Where should the guests sit for the best view of the supernatural proceedings? Would the ghostly visitors from Beyond the Veil require place settings for food and drink? And so on.

  Instead of answering these questions directly, Madame finished her meal and announced her pressing need for a glass of sherry and a meditative nap, so she might commune with the spirits in earnest. Straightaway she was installed in a large and luxurious guest room that Lady Constance selected especially for her. It was nicknamed the Egyptian Room because of the decor, which included a glass table held up by a pair of lifelike sculpted cheetahs (complete with painted-on spots), an antique clock that did not run but was in the shape of an obelisk, and a portrait of Cleopatra hanging above the washbasin. “Ruler of all Egypt, can you imagine? However did she find the time? Perhaps we can ask her ourselves at the séance, tee hee!” Lady Constance remarked gaily to Madame Ionesco, who nodded and yawned.

  “If that’s not enough to wake the dead, nothing is.”

  Margaret was instructed to carry Madame’s small bundle of belongings upstairs and turn down the bed. She did what was asked of her, but the poor girl was so terrified of the Gypsy’s mystical abilities that her knees knocked and her eyes stayed fixed on the floor. Madame Ionesco reached up and patted her on the cheek as she passed. “Don’t worry, honey. Whatever the letter J means, it’s all going to work out, just you wait and see.” This made Margaret squeal and shriek all over again, but this time with delight, for it was well-known among the household staff that she and Jasper were on particularly friendly terms.

  “But why were we not invited to greet Madame as well?” the Incorrigibles complained when Penelope finally arrived at the nursery, hauled Beowulf away from the window, and explained what all the ruckus and bagpiping had been about. Of course, she left out any mention of Simon, whose presence needed to be kept secret.

  “You shall see Madame Ionesco soon enough,” she assured them. “In any case, you must finish your lessons before making social engagements. Who would like to show me their morning’s work?”

  The children obediently took out their projects. With no time to prepare a more complicated lesson, Penelope had left instructions for them to count how many pigeons landed in the branches of the elm tree outside the nursery window while she was out and to record the figures in what she unthinkingly called a PIE chart, by which she simply meant Pigeons In Elm. That the acronym for Pigeons In Elm was the same as that for Permanent Incorrigible Enclosure had not even occurred to the distracted governess, who had been in a tizzy deciding which dress to put on, among other concerns. But the children knew nothing of the admiral’s plan and had simply understood their assignment to mean that the chart should be in the shape of a pie, complete with slices.

  As it turned out, the pie-shaped chart worked wonderfully well. In fact, the “pie chart” remains in use to this very day, although the Incorrigible children themselves are rarely, if ever, given credit for its invention. (Why pie charts have stayed so popular while pudding charts, cupcake charts, and even tart charts have sunk into obscurity is a mathematical mystery, but perhaps it ought not to be, for who does not like pie?)

  Inspired by their success, the children were soon making charts in the shapes of their other favorite objects (although the sextant, squirrel, and chewable shoe-shaped charts did not hold a candle to the pie version). Penelope was grateful that they had found such a clever and educational way to keep themselves occupied, for she was as twitchy a
s a squirrel in autumn, with nothing to do but sit and count the minutes until the soothsayer awoke from her nap and the final plans for the séance could be arranged.

  Even her trusty Giddy-Yap, Rainbow! books failed to distract her. All at once they seemed silly and predictable, and as she turned the pages she found herself wishing for something wildly unexpected to occur: for Edith-Anne to boldly defend the farm against an attack by cannibals, for instance, or for Rainbow to leap over the fence and gallop off with a herd of wild ponies that had never known the feel of a bit in their mouths or a saddle on their backs and that would snort in disdain if anyone tried to braid foolish ribbons through their tangled, windswept manes.

  “How long could Madame Ionesco possibly sleep, after napping that whole time in the carriage?” She chewed her nails and could not stop staring at the clock. “I must think of something, anything, to keep my mind off this infernal waiting!”

  Elk, elk, elk. As if in answer, the pesky refrain bubbled to the surface of her whirling brain, in time to the soft click of the second hand marching ’round the clock face. “You call this waiting?” the imaginary elks seemed to scold. “When you’ve already spent more than half of your life waiting for your parents to come back from wherever it is they’re hiding? As the Sage Elk of the Forest once said, ‘A watched antler never grows.’ Stop moping and do something useful instead!”

  Now, you may think it silly to take advice from imaginary elks, but good advice is nothing to sneeze at, no matter what the source. Agatha Swanburne would doubtless have said much the same thing, although the wise old founder would have put it more like this: “Busy hands and idle minds have knitted many a sweater; busy minds and idle hands have knitted many a brow.”

  Alas, Penelope was deep in brow-knitting mode. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Once more she tried to interest herself in the sweet misadventures of Edith-Anne Pevington, who not only lived with two loving and easily locatable parents but had her own pony to boot. It was no use. In fact, she decided that the book irritated her mightily, and she shut the cover and returned it to the shelf without even saving the page.