Perdita (20 page)

Dr. McTavish says that not all birds lend themselves equally to taxidermy, but he admits that he has used several of Mrs. Ross's subjects as models for his drawings. When I asked him why Mrs. Ross does not rid herself of all the birds at one time, he observed rather wryly that if she did, he would have no reason to visit her. Given the current state of her reserves, Dr. McT. estimates that he must pay her at least seventy-five more visits at a rate of two or three birds per house call. He did have me laughing at that—and seemed so
pleased.

January 26

I have long sensed that Aunt Louise has wished to speak to me alone and about my grandfather, but I am almost sure she hardly knows where to begin. This morning I decided to take matters into my own hands. When she came into the studio, I continued at my task but greeted her in French. She insists upon discoursing in English with me, but I am convinced that this contributes to her unease. And so I told her that I must practice my French lest I forget it and asked her to tell me about Mother as a girl and how they were as children
together.

I have so longed to speak to her on this
subject!

Aunt Louise flitted about the room at first, but then she settled on the chair beside me and stayed for over two hours; she would have gone on longer, I am convinced, were we not interrupted by Peter's announcement of luncheon. I am beginning to realize how much she adores Mother; she refers to her by her middle name, Alphonse. In her eyes, she is both beautiful and accomplished, and as I listened, I wondered that she felt no jealousy of her sister. Aunt Louise describes herself as fat and clumsy—as the ugly one. It was useless to contradict her, for I think her quite pretty and I could hardly tell her that Dr. McT. finds her the “quintessence of pleasingly plump,” as he puts it. But it also became evident to me that Aunt Louise is her papa's favorite, and that there were many arguments
entre
Maman
et
Grandpere.

This remains a mystery to me, for it appears that Grandpere was very pleased with her intellectual abilities and did not spare any expense for her education. Aunt Louise explained that he believes very strongly that women should be properly educated, for Grandpere's grandmother was the celebrated hostess of a popular salon in Paris during the great revolution. My heart thrilled as Aunt Louise told me that this ancestress purportedly entertained Monsieur Benjamin Franklin (as she calls him)—though I rather suspect my aunt of adding her own embellishments. Aunt Louise whispered that even some of the more notorious Jacobins frequented the family home, and then she crossed herself devoutly. I could barely suppress a smile, she did it so earnestly. And Grandpere's own mother was a well-known satirist, writing under the initials S. A., and assumed to be a man because of her erudition. And then the story of a relative who served in the household guards under Napoleon III but was killed in the aftermath of a terrible battle—and then Aunt Louise whispered that she had heard it rumored it was a suicide for shame at the emperor's surrender. And then another story about a cousin who was mistaken for a Communard and shot by the Versailles army during the great fire in Paris—all because he wished to see the Tuileries burning instead of staying at home as his wife had urged him. This was all a jumble, coming from Aunt Louise's voluble lips, but I listened attentively, secretly delighted by her descriptions, and yet somehow I felt disloyal to Tad in succumbing to my excitement. I do feel so ignorant about all this history—and my family's role in
it.

At length, Aunt Louise came to a pause, and I could not prevent myself from asking her about herself. Was she not educated? Did not Grandpere have great aspirations for
her?

“
Mais
non,
” she exclaimed. “
Je
suis
très bête
!” And then she added, “
Comme
ma
mère
.”

I was a little shocked to hear her describe herself as stupid—and also my grandmother, for that matter. But surely my grandfather loved his wife; Aunt Louise describes them as quite a devoted couple, and Grandpere was heartbroken at her death when Aunt Louise was still a little
girl.

And so today I have learned something of my mother's early life—but remain quite in the dark as to her feelings for her father and the tensions that seem to have so divided
them.

January 29

Allan came today and we spent the whole morning together. I am newly shocked each time I see him; truly he is a boy no longer! It seems as if overnight he has grown six inches and everything about him—his hands and arms, his neck and the span of his shoulders—are now a man's. And yet his spirits are still those of a boy—I am sure! He still teases incessantly, and he has found a new devotee in Aunt
Louise.

Dr. McTavish is quite fond of Allan, too. I am coming to appreciate how extraordinarily perceptive a man he is. I wonder if it is his experience with birds, for he approaches people sometimes almost as if they
were
birds. I mean by this that he sees them as creatures with their own, unique characteristics. Not immoral qualities or inclinations necessarily, but just ways about them that are part of who they are. I am astounded by how many of his friends simply talk to him about themselves. To be sure, he takes copious mental notes, and I am often the beneficiary of his cogitations about all his strange acquaintances, but they do come to him, almost as birds to an outstretched
hand.

Once he said to me that a truly wild bird will never come to a human. I asked him why and he grew thoughtful. I remember that we were sitting by the fire at his lodge, both of us staring idly into its glowing
embers.

“I do not fully know,” he said at last. “But that is how I can tell that a bird is truly wild. The ones who will not come; they are the wild ones. You may stand quietly near them, if they permit you—but even in such proximity, there is no illusion about who is the stranger and who is not. Perhaps that is why I come to this cabin year after year…to be in the company of wild
things.”

He said it in such a way that I marked his words, and then I remember noting the distance between our chairs, and I began to ponder our own proximity to each other in that cozy room, the wind howling outside—me with my shawl across my shoulders and ready to depart into the growing darkness with Claude at my heels. I wondered if I were like a domesticated bird partaking of his gentle kindness—or were I the wild bird grown accustomed to his presence in my own
environs?

He did not look up at me, and the moment
passed.

January 31

There is a steep hill at the far boundary of Dr. McTavish's property and a precipitous footpath that winds its way down to the road below. A little farther, there is a terminus for the streetcar where often a fresh horse is exchanged for the poor creature that has just pulled its heavy load up the street. This footpath is used, I believe, mostly by tradesmen and the day servants who come to these houses early every morning and then depart often long past the dinner hour. I have watched them sometimes, disappearing down this pathway, heading farther south, and then descending into worlds that are unknown to
me.

Dr. McTavish has told me that this hill marks the old edge of the Great Lake, and that long ago, as the massive slabs of ice melted, the waters withdrew and left behind the long stretch of flat land that so appealed to the city's first settlers. I do not know why, but I am very drawn to this ledge. I will ever take this route on my walk to the hospital, for there is a copse I like to visit—where I like to pause and look down at the city and think of the waters that once covered it and the waves that once must have crashed and played where my feet now stand. The place is somehow both an edge and a dividing line; here I feel caught between the city and the open country that sits atop the large estates behind me. I must admit I possess a peculiar affinity to this place and its echoes of the Great Lake that stretches out like a gray ribbon near the horizon. Although my own Bay is many miles away, this Lake seems even more remote—almost lost, as if wounded, or imprisoned perhaps. I do not know! But I am troubled by its elusive presence. It is an odd thought, but I think that it is at this threshold, this edge between the old and the current Lake, that one might truly hear its movements—neither closer, nor farther away, but here at this juncture of land and spectral
waters.

Earlier this afternoon, I was in my usual place, stopping for a moment to watch the trees as they gently divested themselves of snow and straining my ears to catch sounds of the ancient Lake. I must have been so intent upon this that I did not at first notice a man walking up the pathway near me; as he drew nearer, I assumed it was a tradesman or one of the groundskeepers. It was George, however, wearing a dark, heavy coat and a thick scarf tucked in at his throat. He did not see me, as he was careful to observe his footing on the treacherous path, and it crossed my mind to let him pass by me unobserved, for he has been so strangely distant—as if uneasy around me, and it pains me so to see him thus. I had once thought that we might be—better friends—or so it seemed given his attentions to me during my illness. I wonder if he has forgotten giving me his painting? I would, of course, return it if he requested it, but I think my heart might break. I have taken to avoiding George because I sense somehow that it displeases him to see me. Perhaps I am too proud, but sometimes I find myself even a little displeased with
him
. What kind of a man is he really? I am so drawn to his paintings, and yet does their beauty truly belong to the man who makes
them?

I watched him reach the top of the hill, and I thought him so changed: his face so haggard and drawn that it frightened me to see him so wretched. I called out his name as he passed by the copse—my voice now ever tentative and shy around him, but this time I felt fear in it. He did not hear me—his hat was pulled close about his ears and he passed not five paces in front of me. I caught a closer glimpse of his face as he trudged forward—so hard and unhappy, oblivious to the crest of the hill and the movement of the trees as they dropped clumps of snow onto his hat. Oblivious to me. I hesitated and thought to call out his name again, but he was soon too far away. I walked to the hospital saddened and troubled—thinking of the Lake that no one seems to take heed of and feeling my own
inconsequence.

***

This evening, Dr. Reid accompanied me home after my visit to the hospital and stayed to dine with us. We had a pleasant walk together, for Dr. Reid was in high spirits and full of amusing conversation, and he was scrupulously attentive to me as we traversed icy patches of road, taking my arm firmly to guide me, and I was quite content in those moments to receive these solicitous attentions. I entered the house warm with animation and eager to take off my coat, for I felt flushed by our conversation and the brisk pace that our trek through the snow had
taken.

I was surprised to find George with Dr. McT. in the vestibule, and more so because for the first time in weeks he seemed genuinely pleased to see me. He greeted me warmly, and I think my heart was in a flutter as he shook my hand. I withdrew it rather quickly—and then I was annoyed with myself, for Dr. Reid was observing me closely and I knew that those sharp eyes of his miss little. Indeed, I caught him looking at me several times throughout the evening, and though I do not find his gaze unpleasant or ominous in the least, I feel somewhat transparent under his inspection. He knows too much of human nature, and I feel that I might betray myself too easily to
him!

I took extra care in my dress for dinner—and with my hair, too—and I held swift and pointed counsel with Edgar, who looked on all my careful ministrations with his usual reserve. It is true that he is but a common raven, but I have cleaned him up and elevated him to the status of “keeper of the pearls”—which pleases him immensely—and he has become my confidant. No doubt Mrs. Ross would disapprove of this usage of him, and he is still rather shabby on one side, but I have grown quite fond of him. I justified my preening to him with dispatch and then flew down the stairs, pausing at the bottom to collect my
wits.

I was a little aggravated with myself for seeming to be so pleased with George's sudden friendliness, and so I stilled my features and tried to look composed—but I will admit my heart was beating so loudly that I was afraid that Dr. Reid might
notice.

We had a lovely dinner in the round room, and though I am still unused to having dinner served in such a formal manner, I felt more at my ease than ever before. Dr. Reid told George and Dr. McTavish about accosting me at the fountain and of his determination to replace the statue of the three Fates with something “much more medical and less pagan,” lest his patients think his methods to be some form of quackery. Dr. McT. teased me, accusing me of producing unsettling effects on modern science, and I pretended to be nettled—but it was all in good fun and no one seemed to mind Aunt Louise's breathless and bewildering sentences in English. I do believe that at times she reminds me of Flora in
Little
Dorrit
, and Dr. McTavish positively tortures me with his little grin and seems to dare me to laugh out loud at her labyrinthine expressions. I pray that the angels prevent me, for I would be mortified to hurt her feelings and cause her even the slightest
embarrassment!

When she and I joined the men afterward in the front drawing room, they were well into a discussion of a Dr. Stone. She—for Dr. Stone is a woman—is a colleague of Dr. Reid's. She strikes me as a formidably accomplished person. She is among the first women to practice medicine here and is a great advocate for women in all the professions. Dr. McTavish expressed some reservations about her: apparently he was once the object of her wrath for speaking publicly against admitting women to the university, and although he has since modified his views, she has never quite forgiven him. This, it seems, is much to Dr. McT.'s amusement, and he continues to invite her to the various literary colloquies he convenes in his home, but she has yet to attend one. I was most surprised to learn that she is a neighbor of sorts and that she resides near the Spadina
Crescent.