But that was in the nursery. How would the Incorrigible children fare in the dining room, where they would be expected to sit still between courses, eat their vegetables straight off their plates, and remain quiet and attentive as the grown-ups droned on about prime ministers, the trouble in Burma, and whether the price of gold was going up, down, or sideways? Even an ordinary child who had been raised indoors and was used to the strange ways of adults would find such a meal intolerably dull. The last time the Incorrigibles had attended a grown-up dinner party had been at Christmas, and on that occasion, well…to put it delicately, all squirrel had broken loose.
Penelope tried to be optimistic. “Even without ‘The Raven,’ there will be no shortage of stories to keep the children amused,” she told herself. They would all be eager to hear more about Bertha, the runaway ostrich, and the admiral’s many thrilling adventures in far-off lands. “And surely Lord Fredrick and his mother will have a great deal of ‘catching up’ to do,” she thought. “He hardly said a word to her earlier, in the parlor, before heading off with the admiral. I wonder why? Did the shock of seeing his mother again leave him speechless? Was there so much to say, he simply did not know where to begin? Or are there other reasons he did not wish to engage in ‘chitchat,’ as he called it?”
There were other questions she might have asked, too. For example: How would Penelope react if her parents showed up at the door, bearing bouquets of edelweiss and perhaps a bottle of celebratory schnapps? Would she weep with grief, or whoop with joy? Would she stand there shyly, clutching her favorite book of German poetry for comfort? Or would she become tongue-tied at the prospect of saying those unfamiliar words “mother” and “father” and have to fall back on the same socially useful phrases she had taught the Incorrigibles to use when making polite conversation with strangers? “A pleasure to see you again after all these years, Mrs. Lumley—or shall I call you Mater?”
Precisely what Penelope would do, how she would feel, and what she would say if it were her long-absent parents who turned up at the door, with piles of overdue presents and many apologetic remarks about how terribly, terribly sorry they were about missing the last ten or so years of her life—well, these were questions Penelope was in no hurry to ask. To do so would only make her disappointment that much worse when, day after day, the longed-for guests failed and failed and failed yet again to arrive.
An unasked question was hardly the same thing as a rhetorical one, as Penelope well knew. But neither sort was likely to be answered anytime soon.
DINNER WOULD BE SERVED AT eight o’clock, as was the Ashtons’ custom. This was perilously close to the Incorrigibles’ bedtime. Penelope had implored the children to take naps in the afternoon so as not to be grouchy later, but their excitement made sleep impossible. Instead Alexander wrote lists of questions to ask the admiral about latitude and longitude, the best kind of compass to use in a damp jungle climate, and other navigational topics, and Beowulf busied himself sketching a portrait of Bertha, which he intended to give the Widow Ashton as a gift.
Cassiopeia was both pleased and embarrassed at being singled out by Lady Constance, and this confusion made her even more agitated than her brothers. She tried on every dress she owned to see which would go best with her plume. In the end she could not choose and asked Beowulf to gnaw marks into a pair of acorns so that she might roll them as dice and decide that way. She also demanded a pair of silver-heeled shoes like the ones Lady Constance had worn earlier, but there were none in her closet; all she had were her usual sturdy lace-up boots and her party shoes from the previous Christmas, which she had already outgrown. She stared glumly at the boots until she got the idea to paint them silver with some of Beowulf’s paints and set about doing that.
Penelope had less trouble deciding what to wear, for she spent more of her governess’s salary on books than clothes and saved the rest in accordance with Agatha Swanburne’s wise financial advice: “Nest eggs do not hatch unless you sit on them for a good long time.” Shortly before eight she slipped on her best summer dress (which was very much like her everyday summer dresses, except for a bit of lace around the collar). She undid her hair, brushed it out, and rewound it into a neat, freshly pinned bun.
She sighed as she did so, for the dark, drab color of her hair was the same unappealing shade she had worn all through childhood—a shade she had only recently learned was the result of the Swanburne hair poultice that Miss Mortimer insisted she continue to use at regular intervals. That Penelope’s natural hair color was the same vivid auburn as the Incorrigibles’ had been revealed when she had briefly stopped using the poultice; why her hair color ought to be hidden was yet another pressing question left unanswered by Miss Mortimer.
“Perhaps she will explain when she answers the many letters I have sent. Best not to think about it until then,” she told herself, briskly tugging down her dress sleeves and giving her hair a final smoothing. One might say she had chosen to bury her head in the sand about the whole thing, but in any event it was time to go to dinner. Cassiopeia’s boots were now so soggy with silver paint as to be unwearable, so Penelope advised her to cram her toes into the too-small party shoes and leave her heels hanging out the back like slippers, and off they went.
They were met just outside the dining room by Mrs. Clarke, who offered the children more helpful advice. “Take some bread so you don’t get peckish, but save your appetite for dinner. It’s rude to ask personal questions, but show an interest in the other guests. When in doubt, smile! Without baring your teeth, of course; people might take it the wrong way. Just be yourselves, dearies. But on your best behavior! And whatever you do, don’t be nervous.”
She might as well have told them not to think of elk. By the time the butler opened the heavy double doors to the dining room and gestured for them to enter, the Incorrigibles were panting with fear. Penelope, whose own tummy had begun to do flip-flops when she realized she had forgotten the difference between consommé, crudités, and crème brûlée, any of which might potentially show up on the dinner menu, had to give the children a gentle shove before they dared go in.
Ivory-colored place cards with names written in elegant script showed where each person was supposed to sit. The great wooden dining chairs were as big as thrones, but someone had thought to put pillows on the seats intended for the children, so at least they had some hope of being able to see their food. Cassiopeia had just mustered the courage to climb up and reach for a breadstick when the doors opened once more. The butler announced in a booming voice:
“May I present Lord Fredrick Ashton and his mother, the Dowager Lady Ashton. Admiral Faucet and Lady Constance Ashton. Dinner is served.”
“But we know who they are,” Cassiopeia blurted. Penelope shushed her with a finger.
“That’s ‘faw-say,’ my good man. Not ‘faucet,’” joked the admiral. He gave his walking stick a twirl. “Do I look like a piece of plumbing to you? Though I’ve been known to smoke a pipe now and again. Pipe, har har!”
Lord Fredrick took his place at the head of the table; Lady Constance sat at the opposite end. The guests had been arranged boy-girl, boy-girl, with the Widow Ashton, Alexander, and Cassiopeia on one side, and Beowulf, Penelope, and the admiral on the other. Servants lit the candles and the soup was brought in, followed by a savory pudding, a fish course, and finally the main dish: six brace of pheasants arranged on a silver platter, served with roasted turnips and a chestnut puree.
The children found it all quite tasty and did not ask for ketchup once. During the meal, Lady Constance made bright, careless remarks about shopping and the weather, and the admiral told manly tales of exploration and danger in distant lands. Thanks to their governess, the children know how to appreciate a good story and were excellent listeners. But Lord Fredrick showed no interest whatsoever in the conversation and concentrated grimly on his food. His mother seemed too full of emotion to either speak or eat. Finally, she reached over and took her son by the hand.
“You
must be angry at me for staying away so long, my dear. I would not blame you if you were.”
“Not at all, Mother. Everything’s fine.” He did not look up from his plate.
The widow withdrew her hand. “How suddenly our lives can change, and all because your father wanted to take a spa vacation! If only I had known the gruesome end that lay in wait for my Edward, I would never have agreed to the trip. Oh, the bloodcurdling horror of it all!”
“They say a spa can be very good for colds,” Lady Constance announced. “Why, just today I had a terrible fit of sneezing—”
“Personally I shall never visit one again,” said the widow. “No more spas. Never!”
“Nevermore!” said Cassiopeia. With relief, Penelope saw the boys resist the urge to toss their turnips in the air, as they were accustomed to doing with the peas.
The Widow Ashton adjusted her pince-nez and launched into her tale. “It was at the world-renowned spa at Gooden-Baden, near the Black Forest of Germany. From far and wide, people would come for the mineral springs, the eucalyptus saunas, the saltwater soaks, and the green mud baths, not to mention the Black Forest cake.” She dabbed her eyes with the corner of her napkin. “It was Edward’s idea to go. He thought he might find it rejuvenating, or so he said. His health had always been so delicate, you see.”
Penelope remembered all too well the portrait of Edward Ashton she had once seen hanging in Lord Fredrick’s study. He was a tall, portly man, hardly the type most people would call delicate.
“On our third day at Gooden-Baden, as I lay abed waiting for my morning tea tray to arrive, Edward went for a soak in the medicinal tar pits. He never came back. All they found was his Bavarian hunting hat, floating on the surface of the tar, with those jaunty feathers sticking up and a sweet little sprig of edelweiss pinned to the hatband. A sticky trail of bubbles and a ruined hat. That was what was left of my husband. The hat was new, too; he had only just purchased it in the gift shop….”
The widow was overcome by emotion and had to pause. “Poor hat,” said Beowulf with feeling, perhaps missing the deeper meaning of the widow’s tears. Penelope also found the tale moving, but despite her sympathy she found herself wishing that the Widow Ashton had not chosen to tell such an unappetizing story at the dinner table. And why, oh why, did she have to mention edelweiss?
“I could not bear the thought of coming home to Ashton Place by myself,” the widow went on. “And how could I leave Gooden-Baden? I knew my Edward was down in the tar pits somewhere, for the body was never recovered. I moved to a nearby convent to mourn. Years passed, and the Sisters of Perpetual Sobbing begged me to shed my mourning clothes and rejoin the world of the living. ‘No,’ I said. ‘No! I will never!’”
This time all the Incorrigibles chimed in. “Nevermore!” they cried. Somehow a turnip found its way from Cassiopeia’s plate to Alexander’s. Penelope tried to kick a warning under the table, but her foot hit the admiral’s cane instead and gave a nasty stub to her toe.
“Finally, the kind sisters threw me out. Perhaps my incessant wails of grief were getting on their nerves. Who knows? I rented a small chalet in a neighboring village and joined a croquet club. It was there that I met Admiral Faucet.”
“Good gravy,” the admiral remarked as he helped himself to the last of it. “Can’t get food like this in the jungle, no sir!”
The widow smiled through her tears. “The admiral grew fond of me, and in time I came to enjoy his company as well. He made his honorable intentions known. Yet something was amiss. One night, unable to sleep, I took a long walk in the Black Forest.”
“Cake!” the children yelled.
“After dinner,” said Penelope quietly. “Finish your vegetables first.” The children stared ruefully at their plates.
The widow closed her eyes, remembering. “Deep in thought among the towering pines, the answer came to me: I could not start a new life until I faced the past. I needed to come home and get Fredrick’s blessing. And I wanted Fawsy dear to see Ashton Place and to understand who I once was, before the dreadful accident that took my Edward….”
“I like it here,” the admiral said, energetically slicing his meat. “After so many years exploring Parts Unknown, I’m ready to settle down. I have plans, big plans. There are fortunes to be made, with the right bird and a bit of capital to get things started.”
“Surely you are not thinking of living here, at Ashton Place?” Lady Constance exclaimed. “The house is much too small.”
“Don’t be silly, dear, the house is enormous. A herd of elk could live inside and you’d scarcely notice them. Oh, Edward!” the widow cried suddenly, as if her husband had just walked into the room. “Everywhere I look I see memories, haunting the rooms like ghosts! How well I recall the medicines he used to take…the therapeutic ointments…the quack doctors and faith healers who would come by on a weekly basis….” Her voice trailed off into a fresh series of tragic sobs.
Lady Constance put down her fork. “Fredrick, you never told me your father was sickly.”
“Was he? Blast, I hardly recall.”
The Widow Ashton removed her pince-nez to wipe the lenses, for they had grown foggy from all the moisture. “You wouldn’t remember, Fredrick; it was before you were born. But I cannot forget: All that howling and barking and scratching, whenever the moon was full. ‘Ahwoo,’ he would moan, the whole night long. ‘Ahwoo, Hortense! Ahwoo!’”
The children looked intrigued. “Ahwoo?” Alexander inquired politely.
“Yes, ahwoo! I could never get a good night’s sleep at the full moon. It was not until the night Fredrick was born that my husband’s ailments ceased. I thought it was a miracle: My husband had been cured, and we had a fine, strong child as well—the first of many, I hoped. Until a month went by…poor Fredrick…” She looked at her son and pity softened her features. “And how is your condition, Freddy dear?”
“Oh, I’m fit as a fiddle, more or less,” he said, eyes darting this way and that.
“Have you been cured?” his mother exclaimed. “Surely that is cause for celebration!”
“Cured of what?” Lady Constance’s trilling laughter was like the shattering of a window. “I hope you haven’t been keeping secrets from me, Fredrick.”
Fredrick drained his glass. “Now, Mother, I haven’t troubled Constance with any of that nonsense. There’s nothing to tell, really. Itchy rash. Coughing fits. A stiff brandy and a headache lozenge, and I’m good as new.”
“Don’t make light of your suffering, dear.” The widow turned to Lady Constance. “Since the day he was born, every four weeks like clockwork, the episodes would come on. Scratching and howling and barking like a wild thing! The doctors were mystified. It was as if the condition had jumped from Edward to Fredrick without missing a moon. It’s why I never had another child. I was terrified that it was something hereditary. It was very clever of you to take in wards, Fredrick. I dread to think how any natural-born children of yours would suffer from the same ailment.” She beamed at the Incorrigibles. “And now you have these three delightful children to raise, just as if they were your own. Surely that will be enough.”
“How odd that you never mentioned any of this to me before, Fredrick.” Lady Constance turned her fake smile to her mother-in-law. “But what about Fredrick’s grandfather? Surely he was a specimen of health.”
“The Honorable Pax Ashton.” The Widow Ashton’s lip curled in distaste. “He was a judge. He died before Edward and I married, so I can’t speak for his health, but he was said to be a most unpleasant person.”
The admiral gestured for more wine. “I’d be unpleasant, too, if I were a judge. All those hangings! It’d wear on a man, I should think.”
“Fredrick has a great friend who is a judge. Judge Quinzy,” Lady Constance said proudly. “He is an older gentleman, very distinguished and charming, if I do say so. Perhaps your husband knew him? I expect they would have been about the same age.”
Penelope’s ears perked up, for
she knew, as the Ashtons apparently did not, that the person who called himself Judge Quinzy was using a false name. This she had discovered while in London.
“Quinzy?” The widow frowned. “I do not know the name. He must not have been very important, if Edward didn’t know him.”
Penelope glanced at the grandfather clock and stifled a yawn. It was nearly ten, but all this talk of lethal tar pits and strange illnesses had kept the children riveted. And now hangings! She wondered if they would be able to sleep that night, and if so, what sort of dreams they might have. Personally, she had heard quite enough of these unsavory tales and longed for the sweeter pleasures of Rainbow in Ribbons, or A Friend for Rainbow, or even No More Sugar Cubes for You, Rainbow, which was a rather preachy tale about a trip to the veterinary dentist that lacked some of the charm of the other books in the series. Any of the Giddy-Yap, Rainbow! books would do nicely.
“Pax Ashton was known to be cruel and dishonest and was famous for taking bribes,” said the widow. “Even so, no one deserves to die in the horrible and excruciatingly painful way he did. His end was not more gruesome than my Edward’s, perhaps, but close….”
“It was gruesome all right,” Lord Fredrick agreed. “Pass the turnips, what?”
“And how exactly did your grandfather die, Fredrick? I don’t believe you’ve ever told me,” Lady Constance asked in a high, strained voice.
The Unseen Guest Page 5
