Perdita (25 page)

Auntie—it is almost as if she stands at my elbow while I sit here and write. I am certain that she would not care for this house, or for the city, for that matter, yet I find myself seeing her in my mind's eye, ever in her apron. Sometimes she has come to me in my dreams, smelling of bread and candles—and I am always
comforted.

March 8

At last I have finished my horned grebe (
Podiceps
auritus
). I suppose I may be quite pleased with it, for Dr. McTavish has been almost lavish in his praise. The gray tints across the plumage gave me no end of trouble. I think that this is the very first piece of work in which I feel that my abilities have met with his expectations. I think
I
am even a little astounded at the progression of my
skills.

Yet, I don't know why, it recalls to my mind the time when we first let Dewi off his leash and I was so surprised to see him return when I called him, despite his still being a puppy and his obvious enjoyment of a newfound liberty. I feel an unusual restlessness in finishing this piece, as if my training has given me both a sense of obligation and freedom all at the same time. Now, perhaps like Dewi, I shall wander off a bit—but shall I also always return when commanded so that I might practice the skills which I seem finally to have
mastered?

March 14

It is only two days more until Dr. McT.'s performance, and we have practiced and practiced until I feel as if the house were full of birds! I am sure that I will fall asleep to the sound of a sora (
Porzana
carolina
), for Dr. McT. has insisted that he perfect it, and today he must have repeated it a hundred times. Or perhaps it will be a snipe (
Gallinago
delicata
) that will keep me awake tonight—truly I do not know how he imitates the strange courtship sounds it makes! It shall be a wonderful event, I am sure. Dr. McTavish says I am to be his “queen” for the evening, for then he will not dare to disappoint, though how he could possibly anticipate anything other than resounding success I cannot imagine. Aunt Louise and Grandpere return tomorrow, and I am so pleased that Aunt Louise shall be here for the debut of my gown. I am quite like a child, for every day I pull it out from my closet and stand admiring it before the
mirror.

March 15

Today Dr. McT. had me clean and polish all his whistles and the funny bits of metal that he places in his mouth as he performs his birdcalls, and he teased both Allan and me terribly by pretending to swallow one! We soon caught on, for after he collapsed into his chair and sated himself on the expressions on our anxious faces, he began choking like a pomarine jaeger (
Stercorarius
…?), and then he started wheezing like a Caspian tern (
Sterna
caspia
), and finally swooned into his chair like a tufted puffin (
Fratercula
cirrhata
). We could barely stop laughing, it was all so ridiculous, and when we both scolded him most furiously for fooling us, he merely turned coolly to us and hooted
Strix
varia
, the barred owl, and started us all over again. We had to beg him to stop, for our sides were hurting
so.

Stercorarius
pomarinus
—I think I am very close to having mastered almost all the Latinates. Dr. McTavish insists upon it and now has me learning even the binomials of trees, though I still think of them just as
my
trees
.

March 16

Truly I did feel as a queen this evening, though I am perhaps a little silly in admitting it. A good queen, mind you—and though there were many very beautiful women present (far more lovely than I shall ever be!), still I felt a strange and yet exquisite sense of holding court. Dr. McTavish was quite distinguished in his evening clothes—he wore a plum-colored waistcoat that I had never seen before, but it suited him perfectly. He was most gracious to his guests and kept me close to his side, introducing me to a rather large number of young men, and yet he would not let any of them take me off his arm. Indeed, I felt a little like a bird perched on his shoulder, and at times it seemed as if his visitors came close to peer at the curious creature he had tamed to stay by his
side.

Yet he had an almost unfriendly encounter with George—Dr. McT. was almost derisive in his tone toward
him.

“Marged belongs with me,” he said to him. George said nothing, and Dr. McTavish continued, “A rare bird is ever to be forfeited by those who choose not to see her,” and then he moved us briskly away, I looking up to observe George's expression and finding him grinning in a cynical fashion. It was a most disagreeable sight! I think I must have shivered and shrunk away, for his expression changed in a flash as he looked at me, and it was as if a mask had been removed for an instant and the actor behind it
revealed.

But I had little time to dwell upon this, for Dr. McT., unbeknownst to me, had placed a chair close to his own, and to my surprise, I was to sit next to him throughout his performance, housekeeper to the silver case in which he keeps his whistles. I was a little flustered at first, planning to slip away when he turned his back, but it was as if he anticipated my thoughts, and he caught me twice and replaced me in my chair: the audience amused and enjoying all of this impromptu comedy. At last I succumbed, and just before Dr. McT. began his birdcalls in earnest, I caught Allan beaming upon me from the front row of chairs, and the rascal even gave me a
wink.

I do not think there was one among us who was not spellbound by the performance. I cannot explain, even to myself, how Dr. McT. does it—for he is a large man, white-haired and whiskered, and his beard is full and streaked with a lustrous sort of gray and not at all like any bird I can imagine. But still, he makes us see birds, not just hear them. It is in his eyes and the movements of his head and body, not just in the sounds he makes. We all found ourselves becoming very quiet and leaning toward him, watching intently and holding our breaths as if he might fly off at any
second.

Dr. McT.'s owls were most remarkable, especially his vocalizations of the screech owl (
Megascops
asio
), as he uses no aids in reproducing the sounds for this bird. I held my breath while he performed this one, for he told me that it is really quite a difficult call to master. For the male trill, he must tilt his head back and hold just the smallest amount of saliva behind his front teeth and on his upper palate to produce a slightly gurgling sound, and yet whistle through his pursed lips at the same
time.

Undoubtedly, though, the audience was the most enthralled with his ivory-billed woodpecker (
Campephilus
principalis
), which Dr. McT. says he always saves for the end. He had the audience come upon it after trekking through a swampy woods, our boots wet and muddy, our spirits flagging just a little and yet determined to see it, though the gnats and mosquitoes buzzed about us voraciously. (I am almost sure I saw Effie swat at one near her hair, so convincing was his description!) And then, at last we saw it, high upon a branch, stripping the bark and searching greedily—and many of us no doubt thought gruesomely—for larvae. Dr. McT. rapped the wood loudly with his “bill,” and then he turned his head toward the audience, the bird suddenly catching a roomful of people looking at him. No one dared move, and then, after what seemed like eons, he gave its peculiar
kent
call. Everyone gasped after he had finished it, and Allan cried “encore”—and then as Dr. McT. performed it again (it is the most unusual and bizarre series of sounds!), the room erupted into
laughter.

There was a great burst of applause, and we all broke up after that. Dr. McTavish was instantly swarmed by enthusiastic ladies who showered him with profuse admiration. I found myself with Allan and Dr. Reid: Allan was almost giddy with excitement, and Dr. Reid sent Allan on a mission to secure us “something edible” from among the throng at the tables. My grandpere came to us, and he seemed very pleased; he spoke little, but he eyed the rooms and the congestion of people in them approvingly, and I wondered if he perhaps was recalling pleasures of his own past. Aunt Louise was among the crowd around Dr. McT., quite unable to reach him and speaking French rapidly to her immediate neighbors, who, I rather suspect, knew not a word of what she was saying, but they humored her most graciously. Dr. McT. caught my eye and how his own sparkled—I had a sudden image of Claude turning over on his back and offering up his belly for a good
rub!

At one point, Grandpere turned to Dr. Reid and, speaking to him in French, asked him if he had enjoyed the performance, and much to my surprise, for he has never done so before, at least in my presence, Dr. Reid responded in the same tongue. He spoke it most beautifully, and I think I must have shown both my amazement and my admiration, for he looked at me with an impish grin—not unlike the one I had seen on his visage the first time I had met him at the Fates. He seemed pleased with me this evening; his eyes glowed appreciation so openly that I, like the royal bird I was for the evening, found myself preening just a little under his
gaze.

The house was very crowded, but still across the room, I could see George with Mr. and Mrs. Stewart, as well as Caroline and her father—and Allan, perhaps forgetting us, was being divested of the two plates he was carrying. But I was determined not to care. I cannot explain it, but somehow I felt that my grandpere stood square to Mr. Ferguson, bishop to bishop…and I wondered that I, a lightkeeper's daughter, could feel herself a
queen.

And Caroline—is she a queen as
well?

Tad once told me that there is only one true queen on a chessboard. I remember asking him which one it was, and he asked me what I thought in return. I hazarded that she was always the one that won the game, and he shook his head
slowly.

“No, child,” he said. “A queen may lose the game at hand, but ever is she a
queen.”

Now, what has put that memory into my mind
tonight?

March 21

Cold and gray—and so dreary! Five days of this unending bleak cold—and everyone wishes to stay indoors. I went for a long walk by myself, and even the forests behind the house seem dispirited and rather low that a stubborn cold snap has come upon them so late in the season. We are all waiting for signs of change—of earth thawing and snows melting. I find myself wishing so fervently to be
home.

I try so hard not to think of it! Indeed, I have even forbidden myself to write of it, but I do not know what has become of George—or the Fergusons. There is a great silence on this subject, and somehow I dare not ask Dr. McT. about
it.

March 23

Mr. Thompson arrived today and he is quite—inexplicably changed! Not in his appearance so much, though he is quite tanned as a result of his exposure to the sun, but he is certainly changed in his demeanor. I am not at all sure that Dr. McTavish is pleased with
it.

I recall him being so reticent and quiet in his manner; though we did get a glimpse of his theatrical talents one evening when he gave us the most extraordinary recitation. Perhaps it is these gifts that have been loosened in him, for he has acquired a deportment that is most definitely thespian. For one thing, he has adopted Italian expressions and sprinkles them quite liberally throughout his speech, and he also kisses his fingers most expressively. Moreover, he seems to have lost all his timidity around Dr. McTavish, and—how shall I describe it?—he has become most colorful in his dress. This evening before dinner, Dr. McT. asked him where he had acquired such an “execrable” suit of clothes, and this set in motion a long and seemingly inexhaustible address on “the fashion.” Grandpere positively disdains to be in the same room with Mr. Thompson, but Aunt Louise is fascinated and encourages discussion particularly on this subject. I am not at all sure what results this may
produce.

March 25

Mr. Thompson has refused to accompany us to the lodge, and Dr. McT. is furious with him. For my part, I suppose I am rather relieved that the storm has broken and now we may at least return to some semblance of
normalcy.

Oh—but Aunt Louise is inadvertently to blame! She has invited Mr. Thompson to visit Montreal, and I am sure that Grandpere is not pleased, though he is too well bred to counter his daughter's invitation. But it afforded Mr. Thompson an opportunity to decline what he termed Dr. McTavish's “invitation to accompany him in the pursuit of ornithographic trivia.” Such a statement hardly sat well with the doctor, but I must say that he took it in stride and largely ignored him. Oh—but then Mr. Thompson proposed that we build an aviary at the top of the house and instead have the birds delivered to save the Doctor and his poor assistants the bother of trudging off to “the edges of civilization,” as he called it. I heard Dr. McTavish mutter, “
Risum
teneatis,
amici,”
but in the most unfriendly way, and so I tried to introduce another topic. Mr. Thompson, however, would not cease and began to ridicule the “northern climate” and its beastly insects and explained to Aunt Louise that men in such locales were required to grow their hair as thick and as uncomely as a bear's.

I think Aunt Louise and I both heard Dr. McT.'s warning growl, for we joined forces and both rushed Mr. Thompson from the room on some pretense. Good heavens—does a voyage to Europe always produce such spirited effects in hitherto retiring and diffident young
men?

March 26

We are to go home April 15—not long after George's show. Dr. McT. has told me, and I immediately wrote Tad to tell him of our intended return. The journey will probably take at least two days, and we must be very careful not to overtax Mother's energies, but she seemed so pleased when we told
her.

Dr. Reid thinks that she will continue to improve as long as we do not “mollycoddle” her, and I am to be especially vigilant in explaining all this to Auntie Alis. I do not think that Dr. Reid entirely approves of our departure, for he was quite gloomy during our consultation and has insisted that I receive extra instruction from the nurses who have attended her—almost as if he doubts my
abilities.