The Unseen Guest Page 4

  Cassiopeia turned to her brothers. The boys exchanged looks and shrugged.

  The Widow Ashton frowned. “You do not know who your parents are? That is peculiar, to say the least.”

  “I’ll tell you what’s peculiar.” A distinguished-looking gentleman with white muttonchop sideburns strode around the back of the carriage. He wore khaki trousers tucked into tall leather boots, a safari jacket, and a pith helmet. His walking stick was topped with the carved head of a lion frozen in midroar, but he seemed to use it more for effect than as something to lean upon, for his step was quite spry. “Blast! You won’t believe this, Hortense! Bertha is missing.”

  “Missing? How is that possible, dear? I thought the cage was locked.” She turned to the children. “This is my friend Admiral Faucet.” She pronounced it faw-say. “He is a famous explorer. Although if you don’t know who your parents are, I don’t expect you’ve heard of him, either.”

  “Alexander Incorrigible, at your service,” Alexander said with a gracious bow.

  “Beowulf Incorrigible. How do you do?” Beowulf clicked his heels together neatly and added a little hop to make it even more special.

  Admiral Faucet did not reply; his gaze was fixed on Cassiopeia. “What on earth?” he exclaimed. With a sudden swashbuckling gesture, he used the lion-mouthed handle of his cane to snatch the plume from Cassiopeia’s hair.

  “Mine!” she yelled, and began pummeling him on the leg. The thickness of his tall boots must have absorbed the blows, for the admiral did not seem to mind or even stop to acknowledge his tiny attacker. He was too busy examining the feather. He stroked it, held it up to the light, and even gave it a sniff.

  “Where’d you get this plume, little girl?”

  “Grrr.” Cassiopeia disliked being called little, for in her own mind she was just the right size.

  “Never mind, then; I don’t talk to children who growl.” He turned his attention to Alexander. “You look like a sensible lad. Answer me, yes or no: Have you children seen my ostrich?”

  Alexander hesitated, for the admiral’s question was poorly phrased and therefore difficult to answer without sounding rude. For yes, the children had seen an ostrich, but Alexander had no way of knowing if it was the exact bird that the admiral considered his own. “I don’t know,” he said, squirming. “What did it look like?”

  The admiral scratched at his whiskers. “Let me see. It’s about six feet tall, and it’s a bird. Does that narrow it down for you, laddybuck?” He pounded his cane into the ground. “It looks like an ostrich! How many ostriches a day do you see in this place?”

  “Don’t lose your temper, Fawsy dear. They are only children.” The Widow Ashton lowered her voice to a loud whisper. “They must not be very well educated, either. They don’t even know who their parents are.”

  The Incorrigibles could hear her, of course. Beowulf in particular took offense, for he was quite serious about his studies. To prove it, he recited the first lines of a poem that Penelope had begun teaching the children after their interest in birds had taken a firm hold.

  “Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

  Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—”

  Still cross about the plume, Cassiopeia fiercely chimed in:

  “While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

  As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.”

  Not to be outdone, Alexander finished the verse:

  “‘’Tis some visitor,’ I muttered, ‘tapping at my chamber door—

  Only this, and nothing more.’”

  Using their fists and feet, the three children started tapping and rapping and rapping and tapping. Alarmed, the Widow Ashton took a step backward. Admiral Faucet held out his cane, ready to strike.

  Luckily for all, it was at that very moment that Miss Penelope Lumley arrived. She held one shoe in her hand and began calling from the end of the curved driveway that led to the front of the house.

  “Children, there you are! As you see, I broke the heel off my shoe running over the rocky path and had to hop the rest of the way home.” She hopped once, to demonstrate. Then she noticed the visitors. “How do you do, ma’am? Sir?”

  The Widow Ashton looked Penelope up and down through her pince-nez. “Are you my son’s wife, then? Lady Constance? You are obviously energetic, and sensibly dressed, too, if a little plainly. No silly froufrous for you, I see! I admire that in a young lady.”

  Penelope stood on one leg like a stork and did her best to curtsy. “Thank you, but I am the children’s governess, ma’am. My name is Miss Penelope Lumley. I work for Lord Ashton, and these three children are his wards. Do I have the pleasure of speaking to Lord Ashton’s mother?”

  The Widow Ashton nodded. Admiral Faucet waved his walking stick in the air. “Ashton’s wards, eh? And what have these three moppets done with my Bertha? They took one of her plumes, see?” He narrowed his eyes at Cassiopeia, who, despite being only a quarter of his size, narrowed her eyes right back.

  Penelope turned to the admiral. “Pardon me, sir. Who is Bertha?”

  The admiral’s cheeks turned ruddy with anger, which threw his white muttonchop sideburns into bold relief. “My ostrich! My ostrich that I shipped at great expense all the way from Africa! Do you have any idea how difficult it is to catch an ostrich? They’re mean and stupid but faster than a Thoroughbred. That’s why I want to import them to England. For racing. It’s a business venture that simply cannot fail. That is, unless my Bertha is lost.”

  “We did see an ostrich on our walk, sir. It…I mean, she—Bertha—ran off into the woods,” Penelope explained. “She was remarkably fast. And quite a lovely bird,” she added, to be polite.

  “Nicest ostrich we’ve seen,” Alexander agreed.

  The answer seemed to calm the admiral. “She is a beauty, isn’t she? Well, that’s all right, then. I was afraid she’d gotten lost at the dock, or someplace along the road, but it sounds like she just wiggled out of her cage a bit earlier than planned. Bit of exercise will do her good. I’ll have to round her up somehow. Blast, why couldn’t you children just say so?”

  “Fawsy darling, be sweet. Didn’t you hear the governess? These are my son’s wards.” The Widow Ashton gave each child a dewy smile in turn. “Alexander, was it? Beowulf—who could forget a name like that? And what are you called, dear?”

  “Cassagrrrr,” Cassiopeia muttered, for she was still cross about the plume. “How d’ you do.”

  The widow slipped her arm through the admiral’s. “See how polite they are, Fawsy? I would have expected my Freddy to marry a flighty, silly sort of girl; that was always his type—but anyone who could raise three such well-behaved children must be of a more substantial character. What a relief! Now, Fawsy, give Cassagurr back her feather. It looked so pretty in that lovely auburn hair, didn’t it?”

  “All right, sugarplum. You know best.” He chuckled and held the ostrich feather out to Cassiopeia. “Take your plume back, little growler. We might as well be friends. After all, if all goes according to plan, I’ll end up being your grandpapa.”

  “Grandpapa Admiral?” Alexander asked, confused.

  “That’s right, dear.” The widow nervously tugged at her veil. “Admiral Faucet wishes us to wed. I have not yet given him my answer, of course, for I would never agree to remarry without Fredrick’s blessing. That is why we have come home, to Ashton Place. That, and this ostrich-racing business—but Fawsy, perhaps we ought not to speak of these things until Fredrick is present. I wonder if he is at home?”

  Weeeeeeeeee!

  The Widow Ashton peered around her through her pince-nez. “Miss Lumley, what is that dreadful squealing noise? Do you keep pigs?”

  “Not in the house, my lady.” It might have been a screech owl, but owls were nocturnal and therefore would not be out in the daytime. A frightened pig was also a fair guess, yet Penelope could swear the sound was coming from the treetops, which
ruled out pigs completely. (As in the case of ostriches and dodos, the inability of pigs to fly has been well documented.)

  Weeeeeeeeee!

  The Widow Ashton winced and stuck her fingers in her ears. “It sounds frightfully close. Perhaps Fredrick has ordered a roast suckling for dinner in honor of our visit.”

  “Blast, I hope so.” The admiral patted his stomach. “On safari you live on beef jerky and canteen water. Not very appetizing.”

  Weeeeeeeeee!

  Eeeeeeeeeek!

  Crack—thump—

  With a final crash, followed by an “ow,” the source of the squealing was revealed: It was Lady Constance, now sprawled on the grass like a broken doll. During the entire conversation between the Widow Ashton, the Incorrigibles, the admiral, and Penelope, Lady Constance had clung bravely to her branch. Somehow she managed not to make a sound: not when she learned of an ostrich running loose on the grounds of Ashton Place, nor at the absurd praise heaped on the Incorrigible children by the Widow Ashton. Even the scandalous news that her supposedly grieving mother-in-law seemed to be on the brink of remarriage did not force a peep from the precariously balanced Lady Constance.

  But then came Nutsawoo. Naturally, the lady’s unexpected presence in the tree had attracted the squirrel’s attention, and being nearly tame, the hungry scamp had come right up to her to beg for treats. Lady Constance had held on desperately while Nutsawoo perched not six inches away from her face, gazing pleadingly into her eyes.

  That was when Lady Constance began to squeal. It was not until Nutsawoo tapped her on the nose with an acorn to make his request for a snack perfectly clear, like so:

  Tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap.

  Lady Constance had clung bravely to her branch.

  that her weeeeeeeeee turned to an eeeeeeeeeek; she lost her grip on the branch and tumbled to the ground in full sight of all. Nutsawoo was dragged down as well. After freeing himself from the nest of yellow curls on Lady Constance’s head, the surprised squirrel leaped onto Cassiopeia’s shoulder for a quick nuzzle and a biscuit crumb before skittering away.

  “Stop that vicious rodent!” Lady Constance yelled as she rolled on the grass, for what was left of her dress was tangled all ’round her. “I will have it made into a collar at once!”

  No doubt Cassiopeia would have objected strongly to that remark had she had the chance, but the Widow Ashton spoke first. She peered down through her pince-nez. “Who on earth is this dirty, uncouth, and uncivilized creature?” she demanded.

  Penelope gulped. “May I present your daughter-in-law, Lady Constance Ashton.”

  Lady Constance looked up and smiled. There were leaves in her hair, rips in her stockings, and dirt smudged across both cheeks. “Mother Ashton,” she trilled, spitting out a piece of bark and extending both arms upward, as if offering an embrace. “I am so happy to meet you at last!”

  THE FOURTH CHAPTER

  Rhetorical questions are asked, but other questions are not.

  IT WAS SCARCELY AN HOUR after this incident that Lord Fredrick returned to Ashton Place. He suffered from the same poor eyesight as his mother, only much worse, and it took some energetic squinting before he realized who she was. At that point he simply harrumphed and said, “Well, look what the cat dragged in.” Luckily, his mother’s joy at seeing him so overshadowed the unfortunate first impression made by Lady Constance that, after a few joking remarks about “wives growing on trees” and so forth, the story of Lady Constance’s tumble from the branches became a source of merriment.

  At least to the gentlemen it did. Once introductions had been made, the entire party settled in the drawing room. While the Widow Ashton fussed over the children—she would not hear of them going back to the nursery but insisted on keeping them near her on the settee; she even requested tea and cakes to be brought in, though it was not yet close to teatime—Lord Fredrick and Admiral Faucet slapped their knees and exchanged tree-themed puns.

  “Ashton, I think your wife was out on a limb, har har!”

  “Don’t be a sap, Faucet. Her bark is worse than her bite. Ha!”

  “Maybe she ought to pack her trunk and leaf. Ho ho!”

  “A’corn she will, knock on wood!”

  Lady Constance endured the teasing with a frozen smile. “I was only playing hide-and-seek with the children,” she explained. By this time she had been hauled back to her dressing chamber by Margaret to bathe and change all over again and had emerged looking more like her usual doll-like self, if a bit scratched about the arms and legs. “We were having such fun, weren’t we, children? But those three naughty imps forgot to come looking for me! Why, I could swear they left me in that horrid old tree on purpose, with nothing but filthy squirrels and birds for company.”

  Penelope sat with her hands folded, in a narrow, straight-backed chair. Under normal circumstances she might have objected to letting the children stuff themselves with cake before dinner, but the prospect of eavesdropping on the Ashtons was so deliciously tempting, she let it pass. “Perhaps Lady Constance will not be the only surprise to tumble out of the Ashton family ‘tree,’” she thought, unable to resist a leafy pun of her own.

  (It should be noted that puns are easily spread from one person to the next, much like the common cold. To understand why, consult the Law of Contagious Puns, a little-known corollary to Newton’s First Law of Motion, the scientific principle that explains why an ostrich in motion is likely to remain in motion, at least until the bird gets tired. To understand why plump housekeepers jog faster when heading downhill, consult Newton’s Universal Law of Gravitation. To understand why slices of plum cake placed on a tray in front of three hungry children tend not to remain on the tray for very long, one need only have a taste. Clever as he was, Isaac Newton never got around to discovering the Universal Law of Cake, which remains in effect to this very day.)

  “What kind of bird?” said Alexander, opening his notebook.

  The question took Lady Constance by surprise. “Why, a bird bird, of course. With wings, and feathers, and a…what do you call it? Beak.” Her giggle cut shrilly through the air. “What other kind is there?”

  All three of the Incorrigibles leaped up to answer.

  “Warbler. Nuthatch. Robin. Shrike,” said Beowulf, counting on his fingers.

  “I believe Lady Constance meant that as a rhetorical question,” Penelope interjected, but the children’s enthusiasm for the topic had already taken over.

  “Finch. Wren. Blackbird. Owl.”

  “Not just owl: barn owl, screech owl, snowy owl, great gray owl…”

  “Hawk. Osprey. Eagle. Gull.”

  “Ostrich!” shouted Cassiopeia, climbing on top of an ottoman. “Kiwi. Emu. Dodo!”

  Alexander held up a hand. “No dodos.” The three children sadly shook their heads.

  The Widow Ashton clasped her hands together. “Such clever children, knowing all those complicated names. And how I miss playing hide-and-seek! Do you remember, Freddy, the jolly times we had when you were just a wee little nearsighted boy? You always had to be the one who hid, since you could never see well enough to seek for anyone.”

  “Quite so,” Lord Fredrick mumbled, rising. “Say, Faucet old chap, come join me in my study for a cigar. Too much chitchat going on in here, what?” Without a backward glance, the lord of Ashton Place strode from the room. Admiral Faucet nodded to the others and followed. The Widow Ashton sighed to watch them go.

  “My son has changed a great deal in ten years, and yet I know that deep inside he is still my Freddy. Isn’t it nice that he and Fawsy are getting along so well?” She offered more cake to the Incorrigibles, who accepted with glee. “I do so love children, don’t you, Constance? What happiness they bring to a home!”

  Lady Constance nearly dropped her teacup but recovered. “How right you are, Mother Ashton. Not a day goes by but I think of how our lives were changed the instant my Fredrick took these three ferocious, I mean adorable, children under his wing. I only wish we
had three more just like them.”

  Cassiopeia mumbled something in reply. Her mouth was full of cake, so the word was hard to make out, but Penelope thought it sounded like “mayhem.”

  “Quite so,” the widow agreed. “It broke my heart that I had only my Freddy. How I would have loved a bigger family, and especially a sweet little girl to spoil, like Cassagurr! But that would have been unwise.” A shadow flitted across her face; then she brightened. “Miss Lumley, you and the children will join us for dinner, I hope? After so many years away, I long for the whole family to be together at the table.”

  “If you wish,” Penelope replied, glancing at Lady Constance.

  “Of course they will join us,” her mistress said through gritted teeth. “I never take dinner without my sweet little Cassawoofy-woofy-woo.” Stiffly she patted Cassiopeia on the head.

  “Careful of my plume,” Cassiopeia warned. But then she smiled at all the unexpected attention. For what child does not like being treated kindly by an adult? Even a silly, cross, and not entirely truthful adult like Lady Constance Ashton?

  AS MISS LUMLEY WOULD LATER explain to the Incorrigibles, a rhetorical question is one that is asked, but that no one is expected to answer. “For what child does not like being treated kindly by an adult?” is a rhetorical question. So is “Why, it seems I’ve taken your saddle by mistake, Miss Pevington; how could I be such a dunce?” Not to mention the old standby, “Do bears live in the woods?”

  There are countless such examples, but to catalog them all would take weeks, and who has time for that? (Note that “Who has time for that?” is also a rhetorical question. The curious among you may feel free to search for more instances within these pages, if you find that sort of treasure hunt enjoyable. And who doesn’t?)

  Yet about one thing there was no question at all. In a few hours’ time, Penelope and the children would have no choice but to join Lord and Lady Ashton, the Widow Ashton, and Admiral Faucet for dinner. This was hardly a regular occurrence. The children nearly always had supper in the nursery with Penelope, who would read aloud to them as they ate. Most recently they had been enjoying a poem called “The Raven,” by Mr. Edgar Allan Poe. This was the poem they had begun reciting to the Widow Ashton earlier; it was about a man who keeps a gloomy talking bird as a pet. “Nevermore!” the bird was prone to cry, at frequent, rhyming intervals. “Nevermore!” Every time the raven cried “Nevermore!” the children would toss their peas in the air and try to catch them in their mouths. Professional educator that she was, Penelope was proud to have devised a way to combine the study of poetry and the eating of vegetables into a single enjoyable lesson.