Perdita (36 page)

Cape Prius—1898

November 3

Andrew Reid is
here.

How he came, I do not know, but he arrived at Dr. McTavish's lodge late last
evening.

I have been terribly distraught; the news of George having a wife still living has left me numb, almost to the point of making me feel horribly ill if I think of it. And now this—I did not expect it! I am truly shocked by Dr. Reid's sudden appearance here at the
Cape.

This afternoon, he stayed with Mother for almost two hours, but I remained in my room for the duration of his visit. As he was departing, I heard him ask Tad to tell me that he requests an interview. But I have refused to see him. Auntie A. was just here, chastising me vigorously, but I began to cry and so Tad took her
away.

I am sure that George would be furious to know that Dr. Reid has come here—but Tad must stay until the Bay freezes, and even now, as I look out my window, I can see another ship on the
horizon.

Why has the Bay remained so warm this year, as if to confound our plans to depart with Dr. McTavish?

And Dr. McT.—why does he remain for so long this year? The Stewarts left last week, and yet he refused their kind offer of passage with
them.

How I miss Allan! Surely he would be able to distract me from all this brooding and
worry.

November 4

Shall I hate Andrew
Reid?

Oh, how he has made me
suffer!

Shall I unleash my fury upon him just as the Bay does in one of its wild
storms?

Yet I cannot hate him! I cannot! He has not done this to wound
me.

Even now, my strange perversity is such that I wish that I could go to Dr. Reid and seek his counsel—that he might help me to know what to do. Such is the depth of my trust in
him.

Yet I should be reluctant to tell him about the little girl: she still comes to me at night, and for reasons I cannot explain, I take such comfort from the sensation of her warm body nestling next to
mine.

November 5

I have had a second letter from George. He asks that I go to
him.

But how could I go to him at
present?

I am sure that I could stay with Aunt Louise and Grandpere, but Tad is very, very angry that George has even suggested that I go to him. And Dr. McTavish is equally
disapproving.

“It does not do you honor, Marged,” he said to me, and then he took my hand and begged me not to consider it, not even for a
moment.

Tad is firm that I wait. He is very worried for me, but he is very stern on this point. He insists that I do not go to Montreal and that George must come back to me: married or no, he must return to
us.

What kind of life would I lead with George there? Tad asked me, and truly I did not know what to say to him. George wishes us to stay together—waiting until the disease takes its natural course—and then to marry
me.

But Dr. McTavish says that it might be months or even years before she dies, though undoubtedly the disease will claim
her.

Could I live there quietly, anticipating his wife's expiration and all the while carrying on a secret liaison with George? I am ashamed to think of it—and yet, I think I could do
it!

There is a part of me that does not care. If it were not for Tad and Mother, I think that I would fly to
him.

Yet how could our love bloom in such rancorous and ill-natured conditions? How could any love deepen? Would George not end up despising me? Dr. McTavish suggests as
much.

November 7

I have been crying in my sleep, and the little girl has tried to soothe me. I woke up and felt her stroking my
hair.

I have finally named her. I have called her
Perdita.

I have just written George, telling him of my choice. I wish to have his consent because in my heart of hearts I know that she belongs to both of us. Who she is or what she is, I do not know—except that she belongs to George and myself. Just as I am connected to the Bay and the sky and the trees, so Perdita links George's life to
mine.

I cannot explain any of this to anyone, just as I cannot make Tad or Uncle Gil, or even Auntie, see
Perdita.

Even if George chooses to forget her, even if he insists that she is just a dream…even though he may be angry that I cannot come to him, it is Perdita who will not forsake my connection to him—or his to
me.

November 10

A third letter from George, but this one so harsh and so cruel in its tone! George has made me weep. He is breaking my heart with his recriminations! He cannot have received my letter. Dr. Clowes warned me that it might take days to reach him but promised to do his
best.

Does George not understand this? He accuses me of a silence that he believes is a condemnation of
him.

I will burn this letter. I know that he could not mean what he says—only that he must have written it in great
distress!

November 12

Dr. Clowes has confirmed that my letter was indeed posted to George, and this has made me so happy! Surely once he receives it, he will rest assured of my love for
him.

I told Dr. Clowes that his news was like a gift for my birthday, for he was very curious as to what Auntie Alis was baking in the oven and I explained that it was a kind of cake with currants that I have loved since I was very little. I begged Auntie to give him a slice, and though she said
I
must wait until tomorrow, she did as I
requested.

I will be twenty this
year.

Dr. McTavish has tried to boost my spirits by teasing me about getting old and says I am to take “an old maid's luncheon” with him at his lodge, but I told him that he could not expect me to be very spritely, for my heart was still breaking over George. He embraced me so tenderly after
that.

“What I wouldn't give to see you happy, Marged,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “And what wouldn't I give for it to be
so?”

I returned his embrace warmly, and I am sure he knew what was in my heart, though I did not say it in words—that he is as a second father to
me.

November 14

I have just discovered that Aunt Louise has written to Tad, asking him if we might come to Montreal—just Mother and
myself.

I have urged Tad to consider it, but he has remained tight-lipped. I think he prefers that we go with Dr. McT. and would like that Mother's treatment resume. I heard him talking to Dr. Reid at length about her recovery, and though I could tell that Dr. Reid was cautious, he gave Father reason to hope for further
improvement.

There was no other letter from George. But surely our correspondence will become easier once I am in the city. Dr. Clowes came by again and said that there will likely be no more mail until after the spring if we stay much
longer.

I try not to let myself think about how much I miss George or worry for his peace of mind. Surely he has my letter by now; and surely he has written me retracting all the terrible things he wrote in his last
letter.

November 15

Tad thinks that Mother and I will leave in a week's time, for the weather has taken a turn, and he does not wish us to travel during the first of the winter storms. He says that Auntie A. and Uncle Gil will winter at the light station and that he will join us in Toronto in
December.

Mother and I are to go with Dr. McTavish, as Tad has arranged for a boat to pick us up and then take us to Owen Sound. Of course Andrew Reid will be returning with us, too. I am beginning to realize that I cannot possibly continue to avoid him in this
way.

This morning Tad gently urged me to at least give him a greeting and not to run away and lock myself in my room whenever he is
present.

And so, when Dr. Reid came to the door this afternoon, I stayed to open it for him. He seemed very startled to see me, and I hardly dared to look him in the face. Yet I could not ignore his outstretched hand, and so I gave him mine. His fingers were trembling, and I felt a strange shiver take possession of me as he held my hand, not releasing it but saying
nothing.

I could not help it. After a few moments of standing in such an uncomfortable silence, I looked up into his eyes. I do not understand myself—but it was as if my heart stopped for a few seconds at the sight of his
face.

“Marged,” he whispered, for we could both hear Auntie moving about behind me, “do you forgive me? You know that I did not do this to hurt
you.”

“Yes,” I whispered back, wiping my eyes. But that was all that I could say, though of course I felt that there was nothing to forgive him
for.

November 16

At last I saw Dr. Reid alone. It was early this evening, just after I left Dr. McT.'s lodge, and I was in a hurry to get back before
dark.

I must have been distracted—or too deeply buried in my wraps now that the cold has truly come upon us—because I did not see him until I looked up, and then there he was, just a few paces away from
me.

My face must have expressed my anxiety and confusion, for his own became very grave as he looked at
me.

Then he called out my name softly. His voice seemed strained, and I felt rather than saw him attempt to retain command over a wave of strong
emotions.

“Marged, you seemed so thin and pale yesterday…” he said softly, coming up to me and then taking my
arm.

Again I looked up into his eyes but remained speechless, yet this time I drew back a little, for he did not mask his thoughts but let his eyes peer openly into
mine.

I had never seen him so bold before, and then it slowly dawned on me that he wanted me to
know.

I gasped, suddenly feeling myself beginning to sink into his gaze, my knees and then my arms starting to become soft and pliant. He came closer and put his arms around me, and I could feel the roughness of his beard against my
cheek—

I stopped him, needing to draw a breath, and then I ran from
him.

But I do not think that it was out of anger that I
fled.

Was it fear that made me run from him? Fear of what my own heart holds for
him?

How can this be? Am I fickle and
wanton?

How it is that I am wretched without George, and yet my heart wavered as I looked up into Andrew Reid's dark eyes, burning deeply into my
own?

November 17

Dr. Clowes has brought what he says will be the very last of the mail until next April—and no letter from
George!

Why does he not write
me?

And I have not seen Perdita for two days. Now even I am beginning to wonder if I have imagined
her.

November 18

We were to leave today, but there was a bad storm last night that left the Bay quite rough, and both Dr. McTavish and Tad agreed that it was senseless to risk passage on
it.

I am so reluctant to leave my Bay; in some ways I would much prefer to stay over the winter, but not with Dr. Reid here. I am almost urgent that he should leave—and yet the thought of his absence makes my heart ache. I do not know what to make of
myself!

November 19

I think I must have fancied her. Perdita must have been a figment of my
imagination.

And yet—I am sure that she was
real!

Is there something wrong with
me?

Would Dr. Reid tell me that I am suffering from some disorder of the mind, some illness that has been born of my anxiety and distress for
George?

November 20

In one moment I am absolutely wretched and despairing of myself, and yet—in the next—I am lost to the memory of how his arms felt around
me.

I accuse myself of all manner of ill qualities, yet I know in my heart that none of it is true of
me!

Is it what Grandpere called my perversity? How he warned me against
it!

I know that I did not intend for any of it to happen. I had deliberately avoided Andrew Reid after our last encounter, not fully trusting myself to be alone with
him.

I had gone to the Point—not to seek out another interview with him, but to find
Perdita.

I had thought that I might ask the Bay—somehow I thought it might
know.

I strained my ears to hear the Bay, but I felt the wind push angrily against me. It did not want me to hear the Bay, but kept lashing at me with frigid gusts that stung my face and fingers until I could hardly bear
it.

“Why will you not let me speak with the Bay?” I cried out to it, but it only howled and shrieked as if to frighten me away. And then—it was so strange—but I felt its jealousy—a furious jealousy. But of what or whom I could not tell. Did it hate me for my affinity to the Bay? Or was it angry at the Bay for its inclination toward
me?

The wind grew even more incensed, as if it discerned my thoughts, and then it threw the trees into a fierce commotion until there was a riotous cacophony. I could not tell which was the voice of my Bay: even the trees seemed to protest against the wind's perverse willfulness, but they were forced to bend and humor its terrible
temper.

I watched the wind dance in all that tumult of sound, and then I grew very quiet, deciding to play a sullen audience to its wild mood. This only angered it, for then it began to pull at my cloak, as if to steal it from me and then run off. I bent over, clutching at my wrappings—and felt as if I were in some fierce contest of wills with the
wind.

Ever have I tried to befriend the wind. Ever has it evaded
me!

The sky grew dark with clouds, and I began to shiver, for the wind suddenly blew very, very cold, and my teeth began to chatter. I felt that it was punishing me for some transgression, but still I would not succumb to its
lashings.

Then I felt someone wrapping a heavy coat around me and pulling me back from the
shore.

It was Dr. Reid!

“No!” I cried, trying to draw away from him. “You must keep your coat. It is far too
cold!”

Truly I was afraid for him—for he did not know the wind and what it might do to
him!

He tightened his arms around me, and together we began to move toward the sheltered outcropping where George had rescued me from the storm and where Perdita first came to me. But the wind was so violent; it howled even louder and seemed determined to prevent my escape until its fury was
satiated.