Perdita (30 page)

Somehow I feel that everything about myself—all my strivings and even my stubborn perversities, but certainly all that is truly good in me—has been, is already here, out in the Bay. All that is myself has already been formed in the Bay, and it hardly matters what moment it is in which I breathe and live and die. I feel as if…I have already happened. I am already an echo of myself. I have already been lonely, restless, tranquil by these waters. They know me before I know
myself.

I think people come here sometimes—the boaters perhaps—and find a fragment of themselves. They do strange, incongruous things because it is only a piece, but nevertheless a piece of themselves. I cannot do this! I find everything here. All of me! There is nothing left behind, no other place that has a claim to me. Here my heart breaks whole. Here my soul is filled. Here my hate and anger are true storms—and here my love fills all the heavens and all the
earth.

Dearest George, may God bless you
always.

Yours,

Marged

April 30

George has left for New York. Dr. McTavish told me as I unpacked my paints and arranged them. It is almost as if he has told me that George will marry Caroline
Ferguson.

I think he told me so that I might be busy and not have to show my face to him. The Stewarts will be here next week, but I cannot expect that George will be among
them.

I do not think that what I feel is jealousy, but my heart feels as if it were full of sharp knives and that, as I walk about, they shift and pierce me anew. It is not just that I feel he will not be happy. What I feel—what I sense—is something more! As if some cold-blooded thing were pushing him forward and I am powerless to release him from it. Surely he must know that it is wrong—so wrong! I cannot believe that he might love
her…

I am crying and I must not let the others see my red eyes. Now I am left to wonder if he received my letter before he departed. Perhaps I will never
know.

May 2

Dr. McTavish says that I have become terribly brooding and that if I don't smile at him at least once soon, he shall cast himself into the
Bay.

He is anxious for me—of this I am aware, but I am not quite sure that he fully understands my temperament, and this causes him some unrest. I asked him if he ever had something that he wished for, but knew that he could not have. He answered promptly with a firm yes! I was surprised and asked him if he could tell me what it
was.

“An ostrich,” he said. “I have always wished to perform an ostrich, but I am far too stout and could never pull it off.” He looked so solemn as he said this that I burst out laughing—and then I think I was crying. And then he said, “You see—I do not dwell on the dark things as you do, Marged. I hoped for a smile, but have been granted your
laughter.”

May 5

Mother was asleep in her chair downstairs, and I came upon Auntie, though she did not hear me enter the room behind her. For once her hands were not busy, and she sat staring out the window and I could see that her thoughts were far
away.

I came up to her and put my arms around her, and in a slight, oh so slight movement, she rested her head against my arm. Somehow I knew she was thinking of Luke, of her little boy, so beloved, and whom she will not see again until her journey to the next life—and even in this, we are never spared all
uncertainty.

Of all of them—Mother and Tad and Uncle Gil—I think Auntie Alis would truly understand my sentiments. Though she hardly ever speaks of her own feelings, and her spoken words are often harsh and uncompromising—she would
understand.

May 7

Tad has had a talk with me. I am glad, for I feel as if my own thoughts have become a torment to me, and there is so little that he does not see and perceive about
me.

He asked me outright. We took a walk down to the gate to see if the beavers were causing a flood again, and he said, taking his pipe from his mouth and in his quiet way, “Marged, is your heart set upon George Stewart
then?”

I started to cry, and we stood looking at the gate—I with my arm in his—and he waited patiently until I might finish and compose
myself.

“He's a fine man,” Tad said finally, “but he knows not how to be content with being master of himself, but instead he wishes to rule all the world around
him.”

“Whatever do you mean, Tad?” I cried, for I found him to be so enigmatic, too!

He pulled on his pipe a bit, and then, as I quieted, he said, “My own father always told me that ‘tis the man as is the master, but ‘tis the woman who rules. I never knew what he meant by it until I married your mother. George will find it out soon enough, Marged, but it's a lesson no woman can teach him, nor any man
either.”

We were silent some moments, and then he asked me if I might leave off my writing for a bit and not let my thoughts sit so hard with me, but to let them come and go as they
might.

I was not so sure, but I have agreed to his
request.

“Garth!”

I jumped—it was Edna hurrying up the stairs behind
me.

“I'm sorry, but you can't see Marged. She's not up to a visit
today.”

I let her catch her breath. “Is everything all right?” I asked
anxiously.

“She's been complaining about an owl hooting in the backyard and keeping her up nights, so we gave her a sleeping pill. She's very eager to see you, though.”

Edna leaned against me heavily as I helped her back down the stairs. “I'm glad I caught you, Garth. I've been so busy, but I wanted to ask you how it's been going with that birth
certificate.”

“I'm still working on
it.”

“What do you think? Could she be the same Marged
Brice?”

“I'm certainly not saying she is,” I replied
evasively.

“I know, I know,” she grumbled. “But you're not saying she
absolutely
isn't
, are
you?”

I said
nothing.

“Good!” Edna exclaimed. “Then we're still in the game as far as the Longevity Project is concerned.” She paused on the bottom step. “Wait a minute. Take this before I
forget.”

She handed me a large manila envelope, then eyed me curiously, trying to peek inside as I opened it. “What is it?” she asked.

“Just something Miss Brice wants me to take a look
at.”

“Oh? I wonder what it could
be?”

I hesitated for a split second. “Actually, it's one of Marged's diaries. She's asked me to read some of
them.”

Edna gave me a shrewd look. “Marged mentioned she'd given you her journals. In fact, it was sort of my
idea.”

I reminded myself never to try to deceive
Edna.

“By the way—” She stopped me as I opened the front door. “Since you're already here, would you mind saying hello to Walter Graham? We're having a bit of a crisis
today.”

“What's he been up to?” Walt happened to be my favorite veteran at the
Clarkson.

“He's been upsetting the residents with some nonsense about a ghost in the home,” she said
disapprovingly.

“A
what
!”

Edna laughed. “Believe me, this isn't the first one he's
seen!”

I found Walt dozing in a lawn chair out under the trees by the front porch. I coughed a few times and then waited patiently for him to wake up. After a minute or so, I stepped closer and gently shook
him.

A breeze suddenly pushed a branch forward, and it grazed the back of my shoulder, making me wince as its needles pierced through my shirt and pressed uncomfortably against my
scar.

“Perfessor, is that you?” Walt sat up and blinked at me from behind an enormous pair of sunglasses. “Where the heck you been? I've been waitin' to finish that story about
Perugia.”

I apologized, saying that I had been busy doing something for
Edna.

Walt took off his glasses and rubbed his chin. “She sent you to read me the Riot Act, didn't
she?”

I smiled. “What's all this about a
ghost?”

“Is it my fault we got a new
ghost?”

“A new
ghost?”

“Yep. I been here eight years, but this one—it's a
doozy!”

I tried to keep a straight face. “Tell me about
it.”

Walt looked at me hard. “Yer not pullin' my leg, are
you?”

“No, Walt. I want to hear about
it.”

“Well, this one I never see, but I hear her. It's a little kid. She pats my face. Tells me I'm still alive, first thing in the
mornin'.”

“First thing in the
morning?”

“That's what I said. She pats my cheek jest like this. Jest soft like this.
Walter—alive!
That's what she
says.”

I looked at him and grinned. “Come on now, Walt!”

“I'm not kiddin',” he protested. “And I'm not complainin' neither. It's a nice way to wake up. I'm probably jest as surprised as she is that I'm still breathin'.” He sank back into his chair. “And I'm not the only one who's heard her. No, sir. Don't let that Edna say I'm the only one makin' all the
trouble.”

“Who else has heard this…ghost?”

Walt ignored my question. “Some of us are thinkin' that the new lady up on the third floor—maybe she's got somethin' to do with
it.”

“Why's
that?”

He cleared his throat. “Somebody said somethin' about her being pretty darn old. Like too old to be
alive.”

“Walt, listen. I've met her. Believe me, she's not a ghost. Her name is Marged
Brice.”

“Brice?” He gave me a sharp
look.

“Yes. Did you know the Brices? Hugh Brice the lightkeeper? You used to live up near Cape Prius, didn't
you?”

“I didn't know 'em, but I had a girlfriend—Esther—she worked for the daughter, for Miss Brice. In that big place of hers, off Dyer
Bay.”

“Do you remember the address? Or anything about the
house?”

“Nope. Can't say I do. It was a long time ago, Perfessor.” Walt closed his
eyes.

“Think back, Walt. Did your girlfriend ever talk to you about Miss
Brice?”

“Lemme think. Esther said she was a real nice lady. But—” He lowered his voice. “We all knew about her. We knew about her havin' a baby by the doctor. Back in those days, that was thought to be pretty bad. Not like today, eh?” He looked at me
rakishly.

“What doctor?” I was careful to sound
casual.

“You musta heard a' him. Yer a perfessor, I'm sure you heard a' him.”

“Do you mean a Dr. Reid?”

Walt shook his head. “Doc Reid? I knew him. He lived over in Griffon. I almost married the doc's housekeeper. Angela's her name. A real good-lookin' girl! But she chose Tom Phelps over me. Ha—he's dead and I'm still
livin'!”

“Was Dr. Reid the father of Miss Brice's child?” I
asked.

“Come to think of it—nope—I think it was the painter fella. But the baby died, and she went a little crazy. She kept on like it was still alive. Miss Brice kinda had a reputation as bein' a bit of a wild one.” He yawned and slumped back into his chair. “She's long dead, though,” he added, dropping his sunglasses. “Went to her funeral,” he
muttered.

“You went to her funeral?” I repeated quickly. “When was
that?”

“Poor Esther.” Now Walt could barely keep his eyes open. “It was in the wintertime. She died of the cancer. Couldn't get her in right away because the ground was froze
hard…”

Just then I heard the sound of frenzied
barking.

I picked up Walt's glasses, carefully placing them in his lap, and then quickly went to fetch
Farley.

He was standing near a flower bed at the back of the house, his body quivering and his eyes riveted on one of the upper
windows.

“Farley,” I called, but he wouldn't
move.

I marched over to get him. “Farley! Come!”

I looked up to see what had caught his attention. My eyes roved across the side of the house until they came to rest at Marged Brice's
window.

I stared—there seemed to be a small figure standing at her window, looking down at me. The form of a very small child with one hand raised and its forehead pressed against the
glass.

A sharp stab of pain shot through my left shoulder. I blinked and shook my
head.

And then the figure was
gone.

A low roll of
thunder came off the Bay as we sat out on the deck, watching a storm gathering on the horizon. I was handing Clare a glass of wine while Doug rummaged through my father's tackle
box.

“Did you see Miss Brice today?” she
asked.

I told her that Marged hadn't been up to it, but that she'd left me another
diary.

“I'm getting pretty hooked,” I confessed. “The last one left off with George Stewart going off to get married—and not to Marged
Brice.”

“Not to Marged Brice? What do you
mean?”

I shrugged and kept my expression neutral. “Marged had a rival: an American heiress named Caroline Ferguson. So far I haven't found any marriage record, so I don't know that he actually did marry her. But didn't you mention something about a secret
marriage?”

Farley darted past me, and Clare bent down to scoop him up. “Yes, but I've been hoping that Marged Brice was the
bride.”

Farley started producing one of his sputtering motor
sounds.

“You'd never be tempted by one of those nasty heiresses, would you?” she cooed at him. “You're far too sensible to do something like that.” Mars instantly came over and sat down at her feet, fastening his eyes on Farley. “Or you, Mars,” she added, reaching down to stroke his ears. “Of course you wouldn't be dazzled by all that money, either.”

A deafening clap of thunder rent the sky above
us.

“Hey, Garth, what's this?” Doug held up a silver fishing lure with a dark feather dangling off the
end.

“That's one of my father's creations,” I said, still watching Clare. Now she was cradling Farley in her arms and stroking his belly. I reached over and put my hand firmly on Mars's collar. “My dad claimed there wasn't a fish on the Peninsula that could resist
it.”

Clare glanced up at me, startled. “Your father's creation?” She quickly put Farley down. “But it couldn't
be!”

We waited, both of us surprised at her
outburst.

“What I meant was—it must be the same lure I used to catch that enormous whitefish. The one in the photograph I knocked off your wall, Garth.”

Doug stared at me. “What photograph?” he began, and then stopped abruptly. “Oh, never mind. Can I borrow it? I'm thinking of taking the boat out early tomorrow.” He turned his attention back to the tackle box. “Do you want to join me, Garth?” he asked, not looking
up.

“Sure,” I said
vaguely.

“Aren't you going to open your delivery?” Clare gestured toward the package she had placed on the table. “I'm surprised the driver let me sign for it. It has ‘confidential' and ‘express' and all kinds of urgent markings all over
it.”

Doug grunted. “Ha! That's a good one. As if he stood a chance! You probably—” He stopped himself
midsentence.

“Oh, I managed to resist steaming it open,” she said mildly. “But I'll confess to reading the return address. Who's Muriel
Hampstead?”

I picked up the package and turned it over, explaining that Muriel was a classics professor who had taught with my father. “She's an expert on Greek and Roman mythology, and my father collaborated with her on several
projects.”

“Ah, you think she can help explain who Miss Brice's Perdita is!” Clare's expression
brightened.

I nodded. “That's the idea. I called her up a few days ago. She wasn't up to talking long, but she told me that she and my father were working on a paper about a myth involving a
Perdita.”

We both got up as the first drops of rain hit the awning above us. Clare shivered slightly and reached for the shawl she had brought with
her.

“We'd better get inside,” I said, taking her arm. “Why don't you go ahead and open Muriel's package and I'll lay a fire. Then I'll see if I have anything edible to offer you
two.”

Clare sat down in my father's chair while I started to rip up some newspaper and carefully arrange the kindling. Doug followed with the tackle box and noisily dumped it on the dining room table. “Mind if I help myself?” he asked, eyeing the bottle of scotch I'd left
there.

I heard the rustle of pages as Clare thumbed through the manuscript. After a few minutes, she raised her head. “The paper Muriel wrote with your father looks murderous! It seems to be all about Aeolian dialects and one of Hesiod's works, the
Theogony
. But she's also included a letter addressed to you, Garth—a rather longish
letter.”

“Hesiod?” Doug muttered. “Am I supposed to recognize the
name?”

Clare got up and placed the package on my desk. “Douglas, must you always play the cretin?” She walked over to him and gently laid her head against his shoulder. “You know perfectly well Hesiod was a Greek poet, writing about the time of Homer,” she
added.

“Of course!” Doug quipped, putting an arm around her. “How could I possibly forget! And who's Homer, by the
way?”

“Hopeless.” She sighed as he gave her shoulders a squeeze. “Just
hopeless!”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Doug silently hand Clare the silver
lure.

She took it from him hesitantly, holding it up to the light and watching it slowly twirl at the end of her fingers. Suddenly she released it, and the lure dropped silently back into the tackle box. Doug gave her a quick look and fished it out again, but she'd already turned
away.

“Garth, do you know if your father kept any of Hesiod's works in his library?” she
asked.

“Check the shelf to the left—way up at the top,” I answered, returning my attention to the kindling. I placed two logs in readiness to one side, and then I turned
around.

I froze, my eyes on
Clare.

She had paused in front of the bookcase, her expression slightly pensive as she looked back at Doug, his attention still focused on the fishing gear. She was pushing her hair away from her face—almost exactly as she had done in the photograph—the shadow of a frown playing across her
features.

Our eyes suddenly
met.

“I don't think I can reach it; I'm not tall enough,” she said, just a shade unsteadily. “I'm afraid I'll have to ask Douglas to get
it.”

I got up quickly and went over, reaching past her and pulling down the
volume.

“Clare,” I said quietly, then I raised my voice. “And, Doug. I think you'll both have to stay for dinner.” There was another crash of thunder, and this time a sizzling stroke of lightning. “It seems to be the will of the gods. You can't go back out into that
storm.”

“Sure we'll stay,” Doug said easily. “I'm getting desperate. Practically all I've eaten since I got here is chicken
potpie.”

Clare glanced up at me, her expression curious but her eyes twinkling. “Well, it's not fair to expect Garth to eat it all, is
it?”

I laughed and took Clare's hand. “Would you take a look at Muriel's letter for me?” I asked, keeping my voice
low.

She searched my face, a little surprised. “Of
course.”

“Bring it into the kitchen, then.” I released her hand as Doug looked up. “And why don't you read it out loud. That way I can get started with some whitefish and listen at the same
time.”

“Actually—you know, I think I'll pass on dinner,” Doug announced. “I want to turn in early. Feel free to join me bright and early—if you're
up.”

“But, Douglas, the lightning!” Clare
warned.

“I'll be fine. Believe me, the odds are on my
side.”

“It's probably because you're cooking fish,” Clare whispered. “Douglas is funny. He likes to catch them, but he absolutely hates to eat
them.”

“I'm sure I could have found him something else,” I muttered, secretly pleased at Doug's sudden
exit.

“I guess it means more Georgian Bay whitefish for us.” Clare pulled a stool up close to the counter. “All right, are you
ready?”

“Please don't feel obliged to read it all the way through.” I watched her tie back her hair while she glanced rapidly over the first
page.

“Dear Garth,” Clare began, putting down her
wineglass.