Perdita (34 page)

“You put it in
the trunk of your
car?”

Clare was looking at me
astounded.

“It was perfectly safe
there.”

“It might be one of George Stewart's canvases,” she continued. “You must be aware of how valuable his paintings
are!”

I looked away, beginning to chafe slightly at her
tone.

“Garth, I'm sorry.” Her voice softened, and she dropped her eyes. “That was just the curator in me speaking! Shall we take a look at it
together?”

She began to clear off the dining room
table.

By the time I brought the package over, she was standing like a surgeon, ready with a pair of scissors and a couple of clean
cloths.

I placed it on the center of the table and stepped
back.

Clare carefully cut the twine and then, even more carefully, started to peel off the paper tape at the back. I stood watching her, taking the bits of tape and paper from her as she removed them and setting them to one
side.

It took us a good ten minutes to remove the exterior wrapping. Clare was extraordinarily thorough, peeling back each layer of paper one sheet at a time and very, very
gently.

Underneath the exterior packaging were several additional layers of a light brown paper. I glanced up at Clare, but she had a look of deep concentration on her face and had already started to detach the first sheet. After what seemed to be countless strips of the light brown paper, we encountered a thick swaddling of heavy white fabric, then straw, and at last a layer of soft
cloth.

Clare cautiously lifted the cloth away—and the back of a framed canvas appeared before
us.

“It's definitely a painting,” she said, looking up at me. Then she stepped away from the table. “You—you'll have to turn it over. I'm shaking too
much.”

I took a deep breath, not trusting my hands to lift it
out.

I waited for a few seconds, then I gingerly lifted the frame out of the remaining paper and turned it
over.

I gently blew off bits of straw from its surface, but even before they were completely cleared away, I recognized the
canvas.

I was thunderstruck. “Isn't this—isn't this
Sylvan
Chapel
?”

Clare placed her hand on my arm, gripping my wrist. “Yes!” she gasped. “That's Stewart's most famous
painting!”

I could hear her swallow, and then she moved up closer to me, hugging my arm as if to support
herself.

“But,” she whispered weakly, “it
must
be a copy—some sort of
reproduction!”

But even I knew—at a glance—that it was
not.

I shook my head. “No, the one in the National Gallery, the one that thousands of schoolchildren come to see each year—that's the
copy.”

We both looked up from the canvas at the same instant and stood staring deep into each other's
eyes.

She waited for me to
speak.

“George Stewart must have painted a second
Sylvan
Chapel
,” I said slowly. “But evidently he kept his word to Marged Brice. The original stayed with
her.”

Dear
Marged,

I am just returned from Montreal and have opened your letter awaiting me; alas, only to read of your engagement to George Stewart. I will be frank. It has distressed me almost beyond measure. You know the nature of my feelings toward you. I am sure that you can appreciate my disappointment in knowing that you do not, and feel that you cannot, return my
affection.

Yet I do not mean to criticize you for this, Marged, for your letter is so gentle and considerate, and I only wish that I could be satisfied with your gratitude and esteem for me as a doctor and as your friend, but I
cannot.

My feelings for you remain unchanged, and I wish you to know that I hope you will always regard me as someone who holds your welfare far above his own desires, and indeed, his disappointments. For this reason, I am urging you to take no rash action toward any marriage, at least until I might have had a chance to speak with you. I do not wish to intrude in your affairs, but as you know, my regard for you is of no ordinary
order.

I have become aware of a report that relates to George Stewart, and I am positive that you must know nothing of it. I have thought a great deal about this and feel quite strongly that you must be made aware of it before you take any further steps in regard to Mr. Stewart. I cannot, however, communicate this information to you in a letter and feel most strongly that I must speak with you directly. I have therefore written to Dr. McTavish and requested that he arrange for us to meet. I have received his consent and have booked a ticket for Monday
next.

Please know, Marged, that I have no desire to interfere with your happiness. You are far too dear to me for that to ever happen, and should you send me away forever, I would go with the best grace that I could muster, though with a heavy
heart.

Forgive me if this letter causes you any anxiety, but this matter is of such a serious nature that I cannot and will not remain
silent.

Yours always and
faithfully,

Andrew Reid

October 23, 1898—Toronto/Davenport Station/6:00 a.m.

Dearest
Marged,

I am writing this in haste as I wait for my
train.

By now you will have heard of my departure from McTavish and he will have fulfilled his promise to give you this letter before expressing his own views on a matter that I must tell you
of.

Yet you must believe me when I say that I knew nothing of these circumstances. Had I even the slightest suspicion of them, you must believe that I would have exercised much greater forbearance—that I would have loved you remains
unchanged.

Yesterday, I met with Andrew Reid as you desired and told him of your wish that he communicate his reservations regarding our marriage directly to
myself.

He did so—quite
candidly.

McTavish was there, too. I cannot tell whether I am glad or not, but I do know that he always has your best interests at heart and fiercely protects them, and for this I am at least
grateful.

Marged—I was married once. When I was twenty-two and studying to become a painter in Paris, I made a foolish and reckless choice. Against the counsel of my closest friends, I married a woman—an art student like myself—who also was studying under Frank McCauly, my former
mentor.

I knew it to be a terrible mistake after the first two months. I have not the time to relate the events that led me to this conclusion, but I dearly regretted my precipitous marriage, as did she, and it was not long before we agreed to
part.

I fulfilled my financial obligations to her generously, and we lived independent lives. We both agreed to leave the question of a more formal separation stand for the time being, and shortly afterward I left the
Continent.

Sixteen months after our separation, I received news that she had been killed in a fire. I went back to Paris, and we buried what we believed to be her remains. McCauly—who was also injured in the fire and who himself only lived for a few months after it—verified that she had been killed. At that point, I thought that this chapter in my life was closed
forever.

But yesterday Reid destroyed that
hope.

It seems she was not killed—that somehow Lydia managed to escape the fire but was badly injured. She wandered alone and confused for several days until she was found by a physician who was in Paris on holiday. She ended up under his care—that is, under the care of a Dr. David Petersen, an associate of Andrew
Reid.

Apparently Petersen fell in love with her and eventually married her. She, too, it seems, genuinely returned his affections but deceived him about her former marriage. She claimed that I had died in the fire and that she was now a widow. Eventually she even convinced herself that such was the
case.

Shortly after their marriage, Petersen moved with her to London and then to Halifax, and they have lived there together and apparently quite happily for the past thirteen years, now with two sons. Reid went on at length about what fine and good boys they
are.

Reid found out about this by sheer accident—or so he claims. He met with Dr. Petersen during a recent visit to Montreal—Dr. Petersen having taken his wife to a hospital there. I have learned that Lydia—Mrs. Petersen—suffers from a degenerative disease that has gradually destroyed her lungs and that the disease is likely to take her life in what may be only a few months. Apparently she has religious qualms about her duplicity to her husband and told Reid her secret while he was there. Dr. Petersen still does not know about her
deception.

Marged, I will write to you again and at length about this. I will be in Montreal for a few days, where I am to confirm the identity of my former wife. There is a very faint possibility that all this is a mistake, but I have prepared myself for the
worst.

My immediate reaction to this news is a determination to legally separate from her—yet Reid insists that I consider what consequences this would bring to her family, and especially to her
sons.

It goes against my instincts to write to you in this way, but I have little choice at the moment. I feel that I must go to Montreal and settle this whole affair quickly. Clearly there are many futures at stake now, including those of Dr. Petersen and his
children.

McTavish, however, insists that I immediately release you from our
engagement.

I cannot bring myself to do this, but my conscience as well as my recognition of your young age force me to acknowledge the validity of McTavish's position. Please believe that this and only this is what has prompted me—no, forced me!—to write this letter. That you would live to regret your promise to me…I am capable of selfishness, but not of that
kind!

Marged, I believe that we will find a way to be
together.

Let us both trust in each other, then. Let us both look to the moon each night—when we can—and know that the other is gazing on the same orb though hundreds of miles separate
us.

My own Marged! My darling—now we are both in those open waters of yours. Let us both look to our hearts to guide us through
them!

I will write as soon as I can from
Montreal.

You have all my
heart,

George

October 27, 1898

Dearest
George,

At last I know! Dr. McT. has given me your letter, and I have read it yet
again.

Your letter sits there on my desk: three seemingly innocent sheets of paper covered in your handwriting. Yet still it comforts me to know that our hands can somehow meet over these pages. Though it ends these terrible days of anxiety and waiting, it is still a devastating revelation to
me.

George—how can it be that you are still
married?

I am looking out at the moon, hovering in the sky outside my window. Why does it seem so fragile to me tonight? As if it might drop from the sky and disappear forever, and yet I know that it could not be
so!

Oh, George, what have they said to you? How could it ever be a question of releasing you? They do not know it, but we
are
married! No one could convince me otherwise. In my heart, in my soul, in all of my limbs—in all of me, George, you are my
husband.

Do you not
remember?

It was just after dusk, and through the trees I could see you heading back from the shore; you seemed so carefree and happy, your good humor spilling out and filling up all the air. It seemed to me that the forest leaned toward you, as if all of them—the cedars, the pines, the aspen—all were curious about the joyful man in their
midst.

We watched you, the trees and I—your form moving so gracefully along the path and the muscles of your chest and arms rippling in the waning light; your skin still wet and glistening from your swim in the Bay, a towel wrapped around your
waist.

I had come to fetch you, just as we had planned—yet the Bay was rough, and I had to drop anchor beyond the Point and then come to you overland. You thought that I had changed my mind and would come in the morning, but of course I came just as I said I
would.

And you were so beautiful! You saw it in my face, in my eyes, did you not? That I thought you so
beautiful…

And was that not our true wedding
night?

Though you brought me back to the cottage—don't you remember the stars that
night?

Were they not our nuptial
guests?

And did not this very moon witness our vows—and the forest sanction our
love?

Yours—wholly
yours,

Marged

October 28, 1898—Montreal

My Own
Marged,

Again I am writing in haste—forgive my brevity. This has been as a nightmare to
me!

By now you know through McTavish that I am still legally married. But the doctors expect Lydia to live only a few months. It is for this reason alone that I am reluctant to bring a storm of shame and destruction into the lives of her husband and
sons.

The solicitor who is now acting as my counsel has advised me to remain in Montreal, and so I shall be here at least for several
weeks.

Marged—I know that I ask much of you—but can you come to
me?

Reid has told me of his plans to join McTavish at his lodge until your family departs for the winter. He has been above board regarding his intentions toward you and has conveyed to me that, should you encourage him, he will renew his
proposal.

I am not a man given to jealousy, but surely you can understand how much this has aggravated me, and yet I am powerless to stop him, as he has McTavish's consent to stay with
him.

For this reason, I feel that you must come to me here, since I cannot come to
you.

Marged, it is the only way! I am confident that all will end well—that I will be free to marry you in a matter of weeks and that Lydia's husband and boys will remain innocent of her
deception.

Again—will you come to me? Will you trust in the
future?

Marged, you must come to
me!

I love you with all my
heart.

George