Perdita (9 page)

I checked my watch,
surprised to find that it was almost noon. There was no sign of the
archivist.

I made my way toward the front desk and returned a large stack of books to the librarian. She handed me a note: Dr. Elliot was almost finished searching the death indexes and would be back after
lunch.

I walked out to the parking lot just as Clare pulled up, and we drove into town for a bite at a local diner. It took a very long time for the middle-aged waitress who usually served me to come take our order. She greeted me warmly but glared at Clare with undisguised
hostility.

“Coffee?” Rachel asked her
brusquely.

“We'll start with water.” Clare didn't look up from her menu. “I'm trying to get my brother to cut back on his caffeine.” I stared at her in surprise. Rachel looked from one of us to the other and then ambled
off.

“Clare? What
the—?”

“Didn't you see?” Her eyes followed Rachel's surly retreat to the counter. “I'd guess you're a favorite of hers, and she's just a mite possessive. And besides, I practically am your
sister.”

“You're nothing of the
sort!”

“Well, I'm hungry then,” she retorted. “And I have a feeling that as your sister, I'll get my lunch
faster.”

The service did seem to pick up after
that.

“Did you find a death certificate for Marged Brice?” Clare examined her tuna sandwich
doubtfully.

“Not yet, but the archivist is still working on it for me. He'll probably have something for me after
lunch.”

“Then what did you do all
morning?”

“I've been reading up on James T. McTavish. He's also mentioned in the diary. Do you know
him?”

“McTavish? I seem to associate birds with
him.”

“That's right—every serious birder knows about Dr. McTavish. He's a kind of Canadian
Audubon.”

She took a bite of her sandwich and began to chew it
carefully.

“Clare, is your food okay? I don't think Rachel's up to poisoning
anyone.”

“Don't mind me.” She laughed. “It's been a while since I've been in a
diner.”

“I'm sorry.” I frowned. “I should have taken you somewhere else. The only real attraction here is—well, the
coffee.”

“Stop,” she protested. “I'm perfectly fine. Now, what were you saying—serious birders. Do you remember how I used to pester your father to do his birdcalls? I especially loved his chickadee. Didn't he once say something about getting a higher pitch if you whistled out the side of your
mouth?”

“My dad was pretty good, but he wasn't in the same league as McTavish. Apparently the doctor had an extraordinary repertoire of birdcalls.” I told her about McTavish's famous performance of a robin searching for worms on the lawn of Buckingham Palace. Queen Victoria had been delighted with it, and so with royal approval, he became an instant
celebrity.

“A stuffy, proper Victorian pretending to be a robin? I can hardly imagine
it—”

“I don't think McTavish was all that stuffy, though no doubt he was proper. But there's also a mystery associated with
him.”

“A
mystery?”

I waited as Rachel drifted past and then explained that when he was in his fifties, McTavish began to suffer from arthritis in his fingers and eventually had to hire assistants. There was one particular artist who worked for him for many years—someone who painted under the initials of DEJ. “Practically all of McTavish's illustrations after 1898 are signed McTavish/DEJ.”

“Who was DEJ?” Clare
asked.

“That's the mystery. No one knows. But there's been quite a bit of
speculation.”

Clare waved at Rachel. “Could we have our coffee now?” she called out
sweetly.

I told her about one theory that intrigued me: several art historians had speculated that DEJ was McTavish's mistress, a much younger woman whom McTavish fell for in “a moment of
indiscretion.”

“Hmm. Are you thinking of Marged Brice?” Clare
asked.

I nodded. “But the
mistress
bit doesn't fit. McTavish was very much—well, an avuncular presence in her
life.”

“Perhaps it developed into something more romantic later
on?”

I shrugged. “My guess is that it didn't. But it seems that there are quite a few art historians who would give their front teeth to know who DEJ
was.”

We drove back to the archives, and I invited Clare to come in with me, promising her that I wouldn't be
long.

Dr. Elliot met us in the reception area. “I've done a search of all the online death registries,” he announced, giving Clare an appreciative glance as he handed me copies of the death records for Hugh Brice and his wife, Fabienne, as well as those for Alis and Gilbert
Barclay.

“Anything for a Marged Brice?” I asked
hopefully.

“No, I'm sorry. There's no record of death for a
Marged
Brice or a
Margaret
Brice. I've done a complete search, just as you
requested.”

“Would you mind doing a national search as
well?”

“I've done that—or rather, a colleague of mine in Ottawa did it as a favor to me. There's no existing record of death for her in any of the death indexes. And I called the district office—there's nothing in the county's hard files
either.”

My face must have showed my disappointment. “Of course,” he added, “death records are occasionally
misplaced.”

Clare glanced at me and raised her eyebrows. “Square
one?”

“Would you wait here for a few minutes?” Dr. Elliot asked politely. “I think I have something that might interest
you.”

Clare started flipping through a book that Dr. Elliot had left out for me. “Garth, come look: here's a plate of Stewart's
Sylvan
Chapel
. Isn't it
gorgeous?”

“Yes,” I said absently, looking over her shoulder—then it suddenly hit me. Could the painting of the cedar grove mentioned in the diary be George Stewart's famous
Sylvan
Chapel
? It was almost inconceivable, but Marged's description of the painting above George's studio fireplace was uncannily close to the reproduction before me. How had she expressed it? A grove of trees with smooth, twisting trunks—the tops of the trees seeming to
move…

Clare turned a page, and suddenly we were both looking at a grainy photograph of the artist himself. Stewart was around forty years old and cut a ruggedly handsome figure as he stood before an easel at an undisclosed location. Standing to his right was a young woman. He was holding her hand, but her features were maddeningly
blurred.

“Clare, do you think the woman's hair comes to a point in the middle of her
forehead?”

She peered closely at the photograph—and then looked up nodding. “Yes, she definitely has a widow's
peak.”

The caption underneath the photograph read,
Canadian
artist
George
Stewart
with
model, 1900
.

“He's holding her hand rather affectionately, don't you think?” I looked up and caught her smiling softly. “Didn't I tell you he was very good-looking,” Clare murmured. “Maybe you should also do a search for a marriage
certificate.”

“Professor Hellyer.” It was Dr. Elliot coming up from the basement. “I wanted to show you these. Just for interest's sake. I found them quite by accident; they were in our newspaper files.” He gave me two
photographs.

Together Clare and I examined the first one. It was a black-and-white shot of the November 25, 1958, installation of
Sylvan
Chapel
at the National Gallery of Canada. George Stewart's younger brother, Allan, was shaking hands with Prime Minister John Diefenbaker while Governor-General Vincent Massey looked
on.

“Allan was tutored by Marged Brice,” I explained to Clare. “He's probably well into his seventies in this
picture.”

“How much older was Marged
Brice?”

“She was five or six years older than
Allan.”

“So she would have been in her early eighties in this picture.” She bent over the photograph. “Here's a woman who looks to be about that old.” She pointed to a white-haired woman sitting in the front row of dignitaries. The woman's eyes were riveted on Allan Stewart, and her hands rested quietly in her lap. There was something eerily familiar about her long, sinuous
fingers.

“I think she has a widow's peak!” Clare exclaimed. Then she turned to me and said in a lowered voice, “I'm guessing that your Miss Brice at the Clarkson Home also has a widow's peak, doesn't
she?”

“Yes. But—lots of people
do.”

“How many?” she challenged. “And besides, isn't it a genetic trait that skips generations or something like
that?”

“Let's look at the second picture,” I
suggested.

The other photograph was dated June 22, 2006—again taken in front of
Sylvan
Chapel
at the National Gallery. This time the caption underneath identified Gregory Stewart at the center. He was leaning on a cane and presenting an envelope to a very pleased-looking director. The event announced a thirty-million-dollar endowment for a new “Stewart Wing” at the
gallery.

“Gregory is Allan Stewart's son,” I explained. “Apparently he's the relative who took care of Miss Brice before she came to the Clarkson Home—” Then I stopped. Miss Brice had referred to Gregory as her nephew—wouldn't that make Allan Stewart her brother-in-law?

“There she is!” Clare whispered, her voice betraying her excitement. “It's the same woman. I'm
positive!”

This time the white-haired woman was in a
wheelchair.

“She looks much thinner,” observed Clare, “but I think I can still see her widow's
peak.”

I slumped back, frowning. It just wasn't
possible!

Clare was leaning closely against me as she studied the photograph. “Are you absolutely sure she couldn't be the writer of that diary you just
read?”

I did a quick calculation. “This is silly,” I muttered. “She'd be one hundred and twenty-seven years old in this picture if that were the
case.”

Clare drew back, looking at me
guardedly.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean that the way it sounded.” I gently took her hand. “I didn't mean that
you're
silly. It's just that it's not possible for her to be the same
woman.”

“You're sure? Positively sure?” This time her voice was
hesitant.

I didn't
answer.

It was raining torrentially as we stepped out into the parking lot. I took off my jacket and turned it into a makeshift umbrella, Clare huddling close to me as we sprinted toward the
car.

We retrieved a very clean and glossy Mars from the vet and then headed back up the Peninsula. Mars kept sticking his head over my shoulder and licking my face while I
drove.

“What in God's name did they do to him?” I asked, almost
choking.

“Don't you like the smell of
eucalyptus?”

“For a
dog?”

“Eucalyptus is supposed to be a natural flea repellent.” She said it pertly, but looked at me sideways. “Besides, I'm sure Farley would love
it.”

“You've got me there. Farley loves anything involving a good ‘rub,'” I
conceded.

I peered through the large water droplets coursing down my windshield, my eyes watching for the cutoff to Cape Prius. I was just able to see the road bend before me when suddenly I hit the brakes and came to a complete
stop.

“Is anything wrong?” Clare asked
nervously.

I swallowed. “It just hit me—the initials
DEJ
.”

“What about
them?”

“They're the same as Allan Stewart's playful bird name for Marged
Brice.”

“Yes?”

“Allan called her a
dark-eyed
junco.
”

Clare's eyes lit up. “Oh my! And now you're the only other person in the whole wide world—besides your Miss Brice at the Clarkson—who knows who DEJ
is!”

I was silent for a few
seconds.

“Of course, now
I
know, too,” she added
softly.

Cape Prius—1897

June 19

Allan has been making great progress with his studies. We have borrowed a few books on botany from Dr. McTavish, and he has been coming here to our cottage to spare me walking out to the Basin, though my ankle is much stronger and I have assured him that it is almost completely healed. But I suspect another reason for this; Allan has taken a great interest in our light station. Uncle Gil has shown him how the weights are wound, and Allan has become quite an expert already. He has set up an ingenious method by which Tad and Uncle G. can watch the Light without leaving our kitchen. It is through a mirror fastened to the window on the inside, and most wonderful of all, when the weather is bad, Tad will be able watch the reflection of the light in the warmth of our back kitchen. Really Allan is such a clever
fellow!

I have not seen George these few days. Allan brings reports of the household. He tells me that the portrait was not ruined and that George was able to salvage it. Apparently Miss Ferguson is quite pleased with it. Allan implies Effie is tired of her sister-in-law and wishes that she would go away, but he says that George and Miss Ferguson spend a great deal of time together. He seems very pleased with this, and has already predicted a brilliant career for George as an artist. I did not know it, but Caroline Ferguson is an heiress of sorts—Allan says the Fergusons are even richer than his stepfather and that they have “oodles of
money.”

June 23

I saw him today. It was quite by
accident.

Allan and I were out for a walk—not a very long one because my ankle is still a little tender. But we went out, down by the north gate because Dr. McTavish had told us that there were two sandhill cranes (
Grus
canadensis
) near the marsh. It was a breezy afternoon, and as the road is shaded by trees on either side, we both felt, I think, a lovely sort of
idleness.

We rather foolishly came back by the woods, and Allan ran ahead laughing that I was too slow. Indeed I was picking my way rather carefully. But I came to a point in the path where a large tree had fallen, and its rotting trunk barred my advance. I realized that I would have to mount it and walk its length to reach the clearing. I was so vexed with Allan for going on ahead, for I was not sure of my footing and very mindful of what a false step would bring to my ankle. But I had no choice, and so I began to traverse it gingerly, taking very small
steps.

I was about halfway across when I heard a ripping sound and I stopped because my skirt had caught on a branch. I was annoyed at first, but then I became aware of the stillness of the forest, and I felt a lovely warm solitude envelop me, without feeling any loneliness. I heard a chickadee let out a
fee-bee,
fee-bee
—warning me that I was in its territory. Then of a sudden George was there, stepping out of a thicket. He does seem to emerge like an animal out of the woods sometimes! He had his sketchbook again and his satchel, and he looked at me with what seemed to me to be good humor. He put his hand to his chin, cocked his head, and pretended to eye me dubiously, as if he were studying a rather strange and unexpected
sight.

“You look like a bird that has been caught in a shaft of sunlight and it will not release her,” he remarked. “But I dare not make a sudden movement, else I frighten you, and then you will fly away and deprive me of your
presence.”

His voice was kind, and he looked very manly standing there, the sun giving golden lights to his dark hair, and his hands, strong and tanned, resting on his walking stick. He looked like a lord of the forest, and I—oh, ever perverse to him!—I bristled just a little under his easy self-possession.

I would not meet his good humor directly, nor would I be his bird! I put my hands on my hips and said a little crossly, “Is Allan with
you?”

I regretted the question as soon as it flew from my
lips.

George paused, and his expression changed almost imperceptibly. “No,” he said rather quietly. “I have sent Allan on
ahead.”

I did not move from my somewhat perilous position on the log but began to press my palms together, betraying, no doubt, my agitation; now the tears were ready, almost brimming over as I remembered his question at Clootie's and the portrait lying in ruins about me. I despised myself for being so weak, but I was at such a loss as to how to compose my features. I surely wished in that moment that I had a mask, a veil, to hide my face so that he would not see its
emotions.

He studied me closely and looked bewildered—a frown appeared, but it did not seem to me to express displeasure. He gazed at me intently, and it was as if he were trying to read something that moved too swiftly for him, as if the rapidity of thoughts that moved across my face puzzled
him.

“Miss Brice—” he began. I drew my breath in sharply and he stopped. “I have ever called you Marged. Would you permit me to do so
now?”

I nodded, as if to say that he could do as he pleased. He had the upper hand with me:
I
was disgraced before
him.

“A few days ago, I intruded into the privacy of your life with a question and manners that were—shall we say—ill-suited to a gentleman. I have regretted them ever since I uttered them. I do not excuse myself, but I do ask your
forgiveness.”

While he spoke, I studied his features with a scrutiny I had not yet permitted myself. It is a strong face, I thought, and I remarked the square line of his jaw and the shadow of where a beard was beginning to show. His voice was deep but clear, and the forest seemed to hush around it. His words lingered in the air momentarily before falling to the forest floor and joining the other leaves that had gathered
there.

“But—it is I,” I stammered. “I who have— imperiled—one of your beautiful paintings. It is I who must ask for your
forgiveness.”

He smiled gently. Was he mocking
me?

“Did you really think it was a beautiful painting?” he
asked.

I was confused. I could not tell if he were teasing me or
not.

“Well…” I faltered. “It was not finished when I saw
it—”

He interrupted me. “Did you like the one over the mantel? The one you were looking at when I came
in?”

I stood silent for a minute, my heart pounding
so.

Then, hesitating a little, I clasped my hands together, just as I had done in his studio, and I nodded—it was the only way that I could tell him how truly beautiful it
was.

He coughed and seemed a little embarrassed by my gesture. He shuffled slightly, as if the ground beneath his feet had shifted unexpectedly. But I do think it pleased
him.

Then he looked at me again and said earnestly, “Do you forgive
me?”

I nodded again, for still I could not speak. And I did forgive him. I forgave him fully and completely. I held nothing back—nothing for a future time when I might find fault against him. Again he seemed to recognize all this, and his face showed a not entirely reluctant appreciation. I saw him grateful to
me
—a foolish young girl, standing on a fallen log with her skirt caught in its branches! But I felt like a queen in that moment, surrounded by my court of faithful
trees.

He came to get me, and I could not look at him as he lifted me off the fallen trunk, my face was burning so! My skirt tore; there was an unmistakable sound of ripping fabric, but I pretended not to notice
it.

Is he amused by me, by all my silly antics? I don't care! I think his apology was
sincere.

I am afraid I will betray what is in my heart. I do not think that I have owned even to myself what is
there.

June 28

The fox is back—he showed himself to Allan and me as we rounded the cottage, and he stared at us for a few seconds before bolting into the hedge. Dewi has been barking furiously all night, and Auntie Alis says that we must keep the cat in. Agnes will stay with Mother, though Tad doesn't like an animal to be on the bed and will object, I am
sure.

Allan has some strange ideas about this fox. He says it has come to warn us, but he won't say of what. He says that the last time we saw the fox, Mr. Burton fell off his boat and drowned. It is true: it was a terrible accident, and I remember hearing Uncle Gil tell Auntie A. that Mr. Burton was a drinker, and that the government inspector suspected that he fell because he was intoxicated. That was why no one heard him, for perhaps he made no effort to save himself. Allan is sure it was murder, and I have to plug my ears to make him
stop!

We are getting along very well these days. Allan is interested in his studies and seems to enjoy the work we do together. But I think he likes to be around Uncle Gil and Tad the most. They do not seem to mind his company and he is somehow more—serious—when he is with them. Older, I suppose. Oh, he is still playful! I don't think he will ever be otherwise. He is always very polite to Mother and teases Auntie A. interminably, and even tricks her into giving him all kinds of treats. At first I was astonished to see it, but then I remembered that Luke might be close to Allan's age if he had lived, and of course Auntie would fancy her son and spoil him just a little as long as it brought no harm. Indeed, she scolds Allan all the time as if to make up for her moments of weak
indulgence.

We have had some truly astonishing news today. Mrs. McTavish is coming! She has never joined Dr. McTavish on his excursions to the Basin before, and why she has decided to come this season is a great mystery to us. Mr. Thompson says that Dr. McTavish is in an awful state about it and is quite put out by the thought of his Emmeline visiting him while he is on the verge of completing his book. Allan informed me that Mr. Thompson has met her, and he says that she is quite beautiful but a terror. For my part, I am rather curious now. She is coming on the
Mary
Jane
on Tuesday with the holiday boaters; first they will take an excursion to Adam's Rock and the Hotel, and then Dr. McTavish will send a boat to fetch her. No doubt the holidayers will carve their names on the stones again. How I hate to think of it! I wish the water would erase it
all!

July 1

It has been quite an extraordinary day. Poor Dr. McTavish! To be truthful, I cannot tell if he is vexed or relieved at the strange turn the day has
taken.

We heard in the early afternoon from one of the Indian fishermen that a large steamer had gone aground on a shoal. Further reports confirmed that it was the
Mary
Jane,
and we all grew quite concerned, for Mrs. McTavish is said to be on board. But strangest of all, the fishermen say that the passengers do not wish to be rescued—that they are all strolling about on deck and taking their tea, and some have even gone off the boat and are walking about on the
rocks.

I could tell by the manner in which he frowned that Tad was not pleased with this news, and Uncle Gil positively scowled with displeasure. I think I must share their disapproval, for though the day is clear and there is not a cloud in the sky—still—it seems as if these holidayers will provoke the Bay. They seem to goad it with their carefree airs. They have not seen it as we have. To be sure, it is one thing to be on the shore in a storm, but to be out there in the water…I shudder to think of
it.

They do not understand: one can never see the Bay completely. One never knows its full face. Those passengers have not seen, as we have, how a day may suddenly
change.

I do feel sometimes as if I live next to some great, slumbering beast that lulls me into thinking of it as just rocks and water. And then, every once in a while, it awakens and I realize that it is alive and powerful and that I am a tiny, helpless creature next to it! It could swallow me up—and Tad and Uncle Gil and Auntie Alis. And Mother, too! Without remorse. Just as an animal might, sating its prodigious
hunger.

Where is
its
heart? I wonder. Whence do its passions arise? I cannot tell if it is right in the center, deep, deep down, deeper even than where the fish can go. Or is it in the north, where the great jagged cliffs jut out and direct the bitter winds that sting us and whip the rain against our faces? Or in the south, like an animal withdrawn in its lair, back in the shadows and dozing until awakened by hunger or a sense of
intruders…

I think we will all be greatly relieved when these passengers safely reach their
destinations.

***

Mrs. McTavish refuses to come! Indeed, I am thinking that perhaps she is a bit of a “terror.” Apparently she has asserted in no uncertain terms that she will wait until the other steamer comes to collect her and the other passengers, and that she is determined to visit the Hotel first. George and Mr. Stewart and two of the fishermen took a small boat out to fetch her, but she insists that it is not safe. Mr. Stewart is quite a skilled boater, and he is furious at this insult. He says that Dr. McTavish can go get his wife the next time. George was laughing and shaking his head. Allan asked him if she were really a terror, and I nudged him to be quiet because Dr. McTavish might hear him. George said nothing, but his eyes twinkled as if to say that is only the start of
it.

Now I am not sure whether I wish to meet her or
no!

July 3

I have only a little time before the dawn, but I cannot sleep. Auntie Alis has insisted that I rest, but I cannot! I must write the day's events out, even if just to stop my thoughts from swirling so in my
head.

It is all very terrible—as if Allan's forebodings about the fox have come
true.

It was yesterday…the morning started out quietly, but it was overcast and the wind would gust so strangely, bursting as if out of nowhere and then disappearing as suddenly. I think I could tell that the day had not decided how it would proceed, but there was also something else. I was restless, and so I arose early and took a walk out to the Point. It was the water in the Basin that made me anxious. It is usually very still there, but I could see the boats drifting about, their masts bobbing up and down, and I could hear the men moving restively in their camps. The fishermen and some of the boaters knew, I am certain—that was why they had not yet gone out. From my side of the Basin, I could see, down at one of the fires, the same Indian man who went out yesterday with Mr. Stewart and George. He was standing with a small circle of fishermen around him, and as he talked, he kept gesturing out toward the
Bay.