Perdita (18 page)

He took one of my hands in his own, stilling it, and then he said, “Marged, I will never sell the painting of the trees. It will always be with you, wherever you
are.”

“Never?” I said. My voice sounded so peevish, so
querulous!

“Never,” he repeated, and I felt a soft reassurance steal over
me.

And then I must have fallen asleep, and I was dreaming. And some of my dreams were so sweet. I dreamed that George stayed beside me, holding my hand, and he whispered, “My heart, my heart,” into my ear, but ever so softly—like an owl's wings sweeping across a midnight
sky.

***

I do not know what day it is. Dr. Clowes says I have been very ill but that I am over the worst of it. He says that I must not exert myself and that I must rest and stay quiet. But I feel myself growing well—each day I am much
stronger.

Sometime earlier George brought over his picture of the cedar grove, and Tad has put it up where I can see it from my bed. And even now, as the light is changing, I can watch the trees and know them to be outside and close
by.

I feel a strange sadness, for I know that I must separate from my trees for a time. Tad has told me that once I am strong enough, Mother and I will be going with Dr. McTavish to his home in Toronto for the rest of the winter. He has not decided whether he will go with us or stay with Uncle Gil and Auntie. He says there is a doctor there who can help Mother and that Aunt Louise will come and that it would be best for me to accompany
her.

George and Dr. McTavish have not left the Basin yet, though they are making preparations and wish to leave before the winter storms commence. All the others are
gone.

I am looking at George's painting—at my sylvan chapel. In my heart I believe these trees will bless us and protect us during our journeys. I know that they will wait for me through the cold, gray winter—bending with the wind as it blows across them unseen—my trees. Ever graceful, ever prayerful…ever faithful to God's wild
breath.

And I, trusting to my
return.

“Are you sure that's
enough light?” I asked, walking toward
her.

“I prefer natural light.” Miss Brice hastily removed a pair of reading glasses and tucked them into her pocket. “I've never liked gas or electric light. Especially electric light. It's much too bright, and it hurts my
eyes.”

I could tell by her tone that she was pleased to see me. “Did you read my diaries?” Her voice quavered
slightly.

“Of course,” I thought. “She must be apprehensive about my
reaction.”

I told her I'd read them and then placed the journals in her lap. “In fact, I couldn't put them down. I stayed up two entire nights reading them. They're remarkable diaries. Needless to say, I was particularly surprised to find that the entries also featured two very famous
Canadians.”

“Oh, you mean George and Dr. McTavish. But let's not talk about all of
that
.”

“Pardon me?” I tried to suppress my surprise and disappointment. “Would you mind telling me
why?”

“Because”—she hesitated—“I'm aware that as a historian, you're probably much more interested in George Stewart, but Perdita is really the reason why I've had you read my
diaries.”

“Perdita? You mean the name you gave to the child buried in that
cemetery?”

She began to pluck absently at her housecoat. “No, I don't mean
that
little girl. But before we go any further, there's something we should get out of the
way.”

“What's
that?”

She sighed deeply, and I could tell she was making an effort to keep her voice calm. “You probably don't believe that they are my diaries. You probably think they couldn't be mine—isn't that
so?”

I waited for a few seconds before replying. “Marged,” I began gently, “you know, if you were the person who wrote those diaries—well, that would make you very old, wouldn't
it?”

“Yes.” She nodded firmly. “Yes, but I happen to
be
very, very
old.”

“Some people might find that hard to believe. I mean, hard to believe that someone could actually live for that
long.”

She turned to stare at me. “Do you? Do you find it hard to
believe?”

I cleared my throat. “Yes, frankly, I do. You see, if you wrote those diaries, then in a little over three months you'll be turning one hundred and thirty-five.” Again she nodded. “Marged, that's not—let's just say, not very likely. The oldest verified person on record is a woman who lived to one hundred and twenty-two years old. So a one-hundred-and-thirty-five-year-old person would break all the records
instantly.”

There was a long
silence.

“Yes, I know it's not likely,” she said at last, echoing my words. “But it's the truth.” She gave me one of her penetrating looks. “What would make someone like you believe
me?”

I explained that as a historian, I would look for something called empirical continuous documentation: a set of documents with dates that would connect her to the person's name on
them.

“But Ava's lawyers took away all those things! I could only hide my birth certificate. Isn't that good
enough?”

I shook my head. “That birth certificate could have belonged to someone else. Another female relative in your family, maybe an aunt—maybe even your mother.” I looked at her out of the corner of my eye as I said “your mother,” but she didn't flinch. “Are you sure you're not mistaken?” I asked softly. “Sometimes, as we age, we can get confused about
things.”

“I don't have dementia!” she exclaimed, her eyes blazing, and then she quickly took another deep breath, calming herself. “I know you have to ask me these things. It's just that I'm getting so tired of it all. I went over it again and again with the lawyers.” She looked out the window moodily. “I don't suppose you could arrange to take a piece of me? Then you could date me like those archaeologists do. How I wish I could give you a chip of bone, and then you could set your mind at rest about my
age.”

“Marged,” I insisted quietly, “believe me, I don't mean to offend you, but if you are the same Marged Brice as the woman listed on the birth certificate, then there would have to be some way to prove
it.”

“Has anyone ever asked you to prove who you
are?”

I shook my head, instantly chastened by her
question.

“Are you sure you don't have other documents?” I asked. “Say tax records or health cards or a passport. Do you have a driver's license? Even an expired one would be
helpful.”

“A driver's license! But that's not what you asked me. Don't you
remember?”

I looked at her
quizzically.

“You asked me, ‘Who is Perdita?' That was your question.” She leaned over and placed one of her hands on mine. “And then you said you would help me,” she whispered
hoarsely.

“Yes, I know I did. I've done a bit of research. I found out that there's a Perdita in one of Shakespeare's
play—”

“Oh, no, Garth, she's much older than that. Perdita goes back much further than Shakespeare. Oh, we
will
have to do it the other way! But I'm warning you, it won't have anything to do with tax records or driver's licenses or that kind of
thing.”

“I'm open to whatever you have in
mind.”

“But it might—it might change you—change the way you think about things.” She was studying my face again. “It's funny, isn't it? How our thinking can change. So suddenly sometimes. Things we never imagined. They can come upon us, like a bolt of lightning, can't
they?”

Without waiting for my reply, she reached into the drawer and pulled out another leather-bound book. “I want you to keep reading, Professor Hellyer, just for a little while longer. You see, I'm trying to be very careful this time.” She handed me the journal. “I just wish I knew how to prepare
you.”

“Prepare me for
what?”

“Don't ask me, Garth. Please don't ask me—at least, not
yet.”

Toronto—January 20, 1898

Dear Auntie Alis,

I am writing this very quickly, for this letter will go with Tad, as he has agreed not to be present when Grandpere arrives. This morning he told me that he will go home to be with you until Mother's treatment is finished, and although I begged him not to, he insists upon it. Grandpere has made Tad's absence a condition of
his
visit, and I feel so keenly the injustice of such a demand! But Mother's confinement cannot be too much longer, I feel.

I will not dwell upon this, since there is much I wish to write of—too much, I fear, for the time I have in hand, and I am sure I will forget something important and scold myself for it after Tad has left. Tad is packing up his belongings as I write and says that I must be quick—indeed he fears the roads may not be passable beyond Owen Sound, but he is determined to reach home nevertheless.

I am sorry that I have not written you a proper letter since coming here, but the weeks have gone by so quickly, and I am very surprised to find that it is nearly two months that we have been here. I miss both you and Uncle Gil very much, and a day does not go by when my heart does not ache for home—though between the hospital and Dr. McT.'s bird drawings, I am kept very busy, and so you must not think that I am neglected and left idle to wallow in self-pity.

Mother is generally well; she continues to respond to the treatment, and I usually spend the afternoons with her. She is especially content and peaceful after she has received her “manipulation,” as the nurses call it. Tad will explain, but this is a kind of slow, pushing movement of the hands over her limbs, and the doctors believe that these ministrations will assist in reversing the effects of the apoplexy. We have been wrong to keep Mother so still and quiet—or so her physician, Dr. Reid, has informed me. Here the nurses encourage her efforts to sit up by herself and to speak.

Sometimes they seem a little too forceful, and I must hold myself in check lest I interfere with them. But I cannot, in truth, argue with their methods, for Mother can hold a spoon quite securely in her right hand, and I do not think it will be long before she has the strength to bring it to her lips. It is just her speech that remains unimproved; the low gurgling sounds she makes are still perplexing, and sometimes I cannot discern whether she is expressing sadness, discomfort, or perhaps gratitude to us. I think this must tire Mother excessively, but she sleeps so pleasantly afterward, and I bring my books to her room and continue some of my studies as she rests.

I cannot even begin to tell you how many books Dr. McTavish has and the size of his
library!

Tad and I are always the first ones Mother sees upon waking in the afternoon, and she seems quite content to find us there by her side. She often presses my hand while I sit with her, as if to reassure me that she is getting well and that we may have confidence in her convalescence.

I am not sure if Tad informed you of this in his last letter, but Aunt Louise is now here, too; she is staying with us in Dr. McTavish's house and perhaps came to prepare the way for Grandpere. Tad will tell you that she is shy and a little nervous in her disposition—but perhaps it is because she must speak English among us and ever does she seem confused as to how to end her sentences. The result is a queer, rambling sort of speech, but I have grown quite used to it. Dr. McTavish has nicknamed her “mourning dove,” for she is very loving and gentle (and quite plump!). She and Tad have had many tête-à-têtes, and though I have not been privy to their discussions, I am sure that they have come to an understanding about Grandpere's unseemly
behavior.

Aunt Louise has certainly taken a fancy to me: she has procured almost a whole new wardrobe for me, as well as all the accoutrements of a fine lady. I am almost afraid that one day I will come to dinner in my undergarments, mistaking them for a fine gown—so elegant are some of these! She says that I must always wear a hat when I go outdoors—even if it is for a walk by myself about the grounds, and is not pleased with my habit of throwing a shawl over my hair. The hats Aunt Louise prefers for me are much too fancy, and already Tad teases me about my supposed fondness for
couture.

I must say at least a little about Dr. McTavish's house, for I know Tad will not do justice to it. It is quite an enormous and beautiful home; the floors and walls are all of a dark wood that Ethel, the housemaid, seems to spend endless hours polishing. The house is full of light—almost excessively so—as almost every room can be lit with gas even on days when the sky is overcast and gray. To me it seems to be at least three houses in one, for it has two very large wings and immense gardens at the back, and along one side there is a funny little courtyard, and also a stable where the doctor's two horses, Guy and Fawkes, are housed. Of all the rooms, I am drawn most to the dining room. It is a round room—the first I have ever seen—and the chairs and the table are of a heavy wood, most elaborately carved and upholstered in a deep damask fabric that shimmers in such a way that I am reminded of blackbirds. There are heavy curtains on all of the windows, and Mrs. Evans, the housekeeper, loops these up with gold cords during the day so that the room might be brightened for our meals. Unlike the other rooms, this does convey a somber aspect, but it is so interesting that I am ever enchanted by its rich colors and all its
ornaments.

My own bedroom on the second floor is of a lighter spirit, but it is very cozy. I have my very own fire, which Ethel lights for me in the morning before I have risen; and when I am gone in the afternoons, it is swept clean and a new one
laid.

Dr. McTavish's house is set back from the crest of a very steep hill, and from my window I can see the Lake in the distance, though it is too far away for me to hear its movements. The street on which he lives is named Spadina, and has other grand mansions upon it, but the road itself is a very long one and extends down the hill, where there is a denser collection of smaller houses and buildings. I am told the street ends right at the Lake, and Dr. McTavish says that its name is an Indian word, though there is some disagreement over what it
means.

Tad has spent very little time in the house, his hours consumed by his visits to the hospital—for such is what Mother's residence is called, though it also was once a private home. Now it is a hospital for patients with various illnesses, and there are several doctors there who have an expertise in the kind of ailment that has afflicted Mother. It is not far from here, and I can easily walk there, even in all the snow, for men have been hired to keep the roads and walkways cleared; indeed, they seem to always be about this work. They are strange, roughly dressed men of all ages, and some appear to be mere boys, but I am told that this kind of employment falls to those who are newly come to the city and that most of them speak only foreign languages. Yet thanks to their constant labors, I have had little difficulty in getting about and have discovered many pleasant walkways. I am quite strong again, and Aunt Louise is sometimes taken aback at my insistence on vigorous exercise; she seems to think my health delicate, but I think this is her general impression of all
women.

Tad will be able to tell you more about Mother's progress—except here I will assuage any fears you may have about the hospital's cleanliness. The building is not large, I am told, as far as such institutions go, and though it sits on a considerable property of woods and garden, I do not think a wandering speck of dust or errant flake of dirt would last seconds indoors, so clean and tidy is it kept! Mother's room is small but quite comfortable, and she has a large window that looks out upon what is now an old and neglected
orchard.

Nearby, but beyond the hospital grounds, are some lovely cottages—or so they are called, but to me they are quite large buildings in comparison to our own dwelling of that appellation. These belong to a group of artists, many of whom are friends of George Stewart. They have formed a kind of artists' community and have meetings and discussions about a variety of intellectual topics. Dr. McTavish is a member of this group and has hosted several of their gatherings. I find these occasions very interesting. The Stewarts have decided to winter in their Toronto home and so attend these gatherings as well; and I have been able to see Allan quite frequently as a
result.

Tad says I must finish with my letter. Please forgive me if it seems scattered, for I have had no time to compose my words and arrange my thoughts in a proper
order.

This separation is very hard on Tad! Even Mother seems to bear it better—though it was clear to me she was loath to have him leave her. Dear Auntie, I know you will be kind and tender to him. I fear I will meet my grandfather with a great anger in my heart. His request is so cruel—and Tad so generous to
him!

Please give my love to Uncle Gilbert and tell him that I miss him so very
much.

May God bless you all and keep you safe, and may we all be together again very
soon.

Your loving
niece,

Marged

Postscript. Tad is to give you a little sketch of a sparrow that has taken a fancy to my windowsill. Please tell Claude I miss him, too. And Dewi and Agnes and Flore. Kisses and hugs, my own Auntie
Alis.