The Lost History of Dreams

by Kris Waldherr

  “I’m in the stable house,” he said.

  Mrs. Chilvers nodded. “In Owen’s room. In case you’d broken any bones, they decided it best to bring you here—”

  “They?” he interjected.

  “Me.” Owen’s voice chirped from behind Robert. “I found you collapsed by Ada’s Folly.” He took a step toward Robert and smiled a trifle nervously. His eyes were ringed in purple shadows as he dragged on his ubiquitous cigarette despite the housekeeper’s presence. “Pure luck I happened on you. I’d taken the dog out for a walk—soiled himself, bad dog.”

  “But Grace was with the dog,” Robert said.

  Owen widened his eyes, warning him to silence. “That’s not what happened.”

  Mrs. Chilvers asked, “How would you know this, Mr. Highstead?”

  He lied, “I heard Grace outside my room.”

  Now Grace stepped forward, her bright hair dazzling. Her face was swollen from tears; she must have panicked when he fell.

  “Not possible.” She giggled desperately, fiddling with a curl. “I fear you’re not in your right mind.”

  “You’ve quite the bump on your head,” Mrs. Chilvers said.

  “I know what I heard,” Robert protested, feeling slow and confused. Did he crack the dome? Or had he imagined this?

  Grace’s voice rose. “I couldn’t have been with the dog. I was sound asleep when Owen fetched me. Miss Isabelle gathered you. She told me to stay here with you while she fetched Mrs. Chilvers.”

  “Miss Lowell did what?” Surely Robert misheard.

  “She helped me carry you here,” Owen said. “Said it was a miracle you were alive, and thought you’d broken bones.”

  “We haven’t found any thus far,” Mrs. Chilvers interjected. “The skin on your hands looks scraped up though.”

  His overwashed hands. He grimaced.

  Grace said, “Miss Isabelle was ever so strong and brave. I feared you were dead!”

  “She knew what to do, praise God.” Mrs. Chilvers nodded so vigorously that her night cap was set to wagging. “What happened, Mr. Highstead? Miss Isabelle said it looked like you’d fallen from up high.”

  “I don’t recall.” Robert’s gaze slid from Grace to Owen to Mrs. Chilvers and back. The air felt thick with lies. For whatever reason, Owen was protecting Grace, Grace was protecting herself. As for himself, he was just as dishonest. What excuse could he give for climbing Ada’s Folly? That Isabelle had provoked him by refusing to let him inter Hugh? That he yearned to view Ada’s grave after reading that letter? That he wanted to see what no one living had seen? As for the glass dome, perhaps he hadn’t damaged it after all. Surely someone would have said something by now.

  He finally said, “I recall falling asleep.”

  Mrs. Chilvers asked, “Are you a sleepwalker?”

  “Not previously . . . Ah, now I remember! I was very tired from my journey. I hadn’t eaten. I woke up feeling dizzy,” he lied. “I went outside to get air. I became disoriented.” He offered what he hoped was a sheepish, winning grin. “I don’t recall anything more. I suspect I tripped over tree roots.”

  “That must be it.”

  Grace’s voice sounded very far away as a new array of pain rose from Robert’s body, singing like a siren. He felt his mouth slacken. A thick fog circled, competing with the pain in a strange dance he couldn’t comprehend.

  Within this fog, he heard the door to the stable house scrape open. Isabelle Lowell’s sharp figure, dressed in a dark blue wrapper, advanced toward him. She was scowling. A thick black ribbon dangled from her neck. Hanging from the ribbon was an iron key—it had to be for the glass chapel. It was smaller than he’d expected, yet denser. At its thickest point, the key was the width of a pencil. Robert had never seen anything like it.

  As Isabelle leaned over Robert, the key swung between folds of her wrapper, revealing the curve of her breast; he was surprised by the first flush of arousal. Whether it was from the sight of her breast, or his body’s response to injury, it mattered not.

  He fell back into darkness, thankful for oblivion.

  * * *

  It was the pain that awakened him. It was unlike any he’d ever felt. It wept from his ankle, his knee, his ribs, his head. It reminded him of a night he yearned to forget from three years earlier.

  Robert opened his eyes. Grey light slanted from the window, revealing morning had arrived. How long had he slept? It seemed like a week had passed since he’d climbed Ada’s Folly. The room buzzed, pulsing with sound. Was it rain or injury?

  He sniffed the air. Decidedly rain. It must have started up again.

  The rain smelled lovely and clean, unlike a London rain, which was usually tainted with sulfur, at least in Clerkenwell. It overcame the trace of almonds from Hugh’s coffin in the stall beyond. The rain didn’t sound as heavy as the night before, one blessing amid the chaos. Another blessing: no broken bones. He suspected Mrs. Chilvers was right based on his boyhood experience of breaking his arm. No reason for him to delay leaving for London, though he didn’t look forward to traveling with Hugh anew.

  He raised the blanket to examine his body. He wore only his shirt and drawers. Someone had undressed him. Not Isabelle, he prayed; he remembered his shame at learning she and Owen had carried him from Ada’s Folly, his unexpected arousal. There was nothing he could do but dress and leave. He’d probably missed the morning coach, but there’d be another. Soon, he hoped.

  Across the room, his trousers were neatly folded, along with his jacket, on a long bench set beneath the stable window. They’d been brushed of dirt.

  He was about to force himself from the bed to dress when a soft cough came from behind his pillow.

  He craned his head, wincing.

  Isabelle Lowell was seated behind the bed on a stool. Her eyes were shut, her head on a pillow wedged against the wall. She must have spent the night there. She coughed again, cupping a hand over her lips. She was dressed in what Robert understood to be her customary garb: plum-hued half-mourning. Her collar was buttoned resolutely high on her neck. Robert grew warm, recalling the curve of her breasts beneath her wrapper, the key dangling in the crevice.

  Perhaps sensing his gaze, Isabelle blinked her grey eyes open like a goshawk. Her mouth shifted as though whatever she was thinking couldn’t be expressed in polite company.

  “Well,” she said at last. “Well.”

  “What time is it?” He drew the blanket high about his chest.

  “It’s just after seven in the morning. Four hours since Owen and I had to drag you here like a corpse in the middle of the night.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “You should be sorry. You with your rubbish about taking a walk to get some air! I know what you were doing. You were trying to break into Ada’s Folly—”

  The stable house door opened without warning, bringing Isabelle’s accusations to a close. Mrs. Chilvers bustled in, her cheeks red from the cold, her navy bonnet flecked with moisture. A flurry of wind rushed behind her, followed by rain.

  “Oh Mr. Highstead!” she called with her usual flourish of enthusiasm. “I came to see how you were. Miss Isabelle, you are an angel, sitting here all night with him. Are you all right, sir? Sleepwalking! I thought such things only occurred in novels.”

  Robert was grateful for her interruption. “I am very sorry to have been such a trouble to your household.”

  “Indeed.” Isabelle offered an incredulous shake of her head.

  Mrs. Chilvers said, “I’m very glad you weren’t killed. ’ Tis terrifying to think of such matters!” Her voice dropped with a tremulous air. “Now that I think of it, you remind me a bit of Mr. Hugh in some ways—I heard you were a writer too.” She brushed her hand against Robert’s cheek; the maternal gesture startled him, like happening upon a warm hearth after wandering in the snow. “Goodness, look at you! You’ve elflocks.”

  “Elflocks?” Robert repeated, confused.

  “They’re the tangles fairies put in your hair whi
le you sleep.” She smiled indulgently. “Now you know you’re no longer in London, sir. I’d wager a sovereign there are no fairies there.”

  “Even if such nonsense was possible, fairies didn’t tangle his hair,” Isabelle dismissed. “His hair is tangled because he fell after climbing Ada’s Folly.”

  Mrs. Chilvers took a steep inhale. “He tried to climb Ada’s Folly? He told me he’d fallen in the woods. Whatever for, sir?”

  Isabelle answered for Robert. “To break inside it. He’s fortunate Owen happened on him after he fell.”

  “I can explain,” Robert began. “I would have never done such a thing if you’d honored Hugh’s last request to be interred—”

  “Always Hugh,” Isabelle interrupted, “as if this excuses your behavior. Not to worry, Mr. Highstead. You’ll be interring my uncle soon enough. You’ll be leaving with him on the next coach.”

  “Mr. Highstead is injured. It’s raining like Noah,” Mrs. Chilvers protested. “He’s family, Miss Isabelle. He must stay with us until he has improved—a few days, a week. Then we can sort out the business with Mr. Hugh. If he can’t be buried with Miss Ada, there’s the churchyard at least.”

  “All the more reason for my concern.” Isabelle’s tone was heavy with sarcasm. “Mr. Highstead needs to recover at home, not here in a stable house in the middle of February with a corpse for company. Mr. Highstead needs his immediate family to look after him, not me.” She turned toward Robert, a brow arched. “Don’t you agree?”

  II.

  By the time Robert was dressed to leave, it was well past eight in the morning. He cringed as he slid trousers over his legs and tucked in shirttails. Lacing his boots was even worse—it hurt to bend, to move. His ankle barely supported his weight. He flexed his foot; a large bruise, yellowed like a fig leaf in autumn, crowned the whole of it. His ribs were no better. He examined his face in a hand mirror cracked in a corner; for a brief moment, he thought he spied the reflection of his wife’s face. Wishful thinking. A thin scab snaked across his left temple; someone must have washed the wound to prevent his hair crusting in it. He’d been lucky—from a fall of that distance, he could have been crippled or worse. His bristle was rough against his fingers. Shaving would wait until he reached London. He’d treat himself to a barbershop.

  Just as Robert slid his braces over his shoulders, Owen knocked.

  “Rain’s getting heavier,” he said, tucking a book from the mantel into his coat pocket. “Shame you have to leave so soon.” A pause. “Sorry I made you look a fool about Grace finding you and all. Didn’t want Miss Isabelle to be upset with her walking about at night.”

  “Does Grace do this often?” Should he ask about the roses? No, he decided.

  Owen colored. “I wouldn’t know, Mr. Highstead.”

  “What time is the coach?” This was one morsel of information Isabelle hadn’t deigned to share.

  “Not till eleven. Plenty time for breakfast. I’ll help you to the kitchen.”

  “Mr. de Bonne?” Robert had to ask.

  Owen gave a visible shudder. “Already attached the coffin—Grace helped me.”

  “Thank you.” Robert hoped for a sympathetic coachman who wouldn’t mind dragging the cart to Shrewsbury.

  In the kitchen, Robert found his daguerreotype traveling case set beside the door where he’d arrived less than a day earlier. The room was otherwise empty of servants. Owen procured a bowl of porridge, stiff from exposure, before pulling the book from his pocket. Ethel Churchill; or, The Two Brides, Robert read along the spine before tucking into the food. Every so often, Owen let out a wistful sigh. He only broke his reading to ask Robert, “Didn’t you write a book or something? I thought I heard Miss Isabelle speak of it.”

  “Or something,” Robert replied before turning back to the porridge. Despite a dollop of milk and treacle, the cold food was unappetizing. Even so, his stomach growled; he hadn’t eaten in nearly twenty-four hours. Virgil clipped over, resting his warm chin against his knee. Robert flashed with irritation toward the dog, though he had only himself to blame for his injuries.

  Mrs. Chilvers darted into the kitchen. “Are they here yet?” she asked Owen, her widow’s cap askew.

  “No,” he answered, setting his novel aside. “Do you think any will come? Weather’s so pernicious.”

  She threw her hands up. “Hasn’t stopped them before. Did Miss Isabelle go upstairs?”

  “Who are you expecting?” Robert asked, the porridge ignored.

  “Forgive me, Mr. Highstead. I forgot you were here.” Mrs. Chilvers offered a warm smile. “It’s Mr. Hugh’s study. It’s Thursday, the day Miss Isabelle lets the pilgrims visit.”

  “The Seekers of the Lost Dream,” Robert said, remembering their conversation on the stairwell the previous evening.

  “Yes, Mr. Highstead. Anyway, they come—”

  “To sob and gape over Ada and Hugh,” Owen interjected, his gaze turning distant. “It’s quite romantic really. They bring flowers, they quote poetry. They pay a pretty penny too—sixpence each.”

  “You’re surprised, Mr. Highstead, aren’t you? It’s because of them the estate isn’t run into the ground. ’ Twas clever of Miss Isabelle to think of such though they’re a bother.” Mrs. Chilvers shook her head darkly. “Now with Mr. Hugh dead, who knows what will happen?”

  A bell jangled, setting Virgil to barking.

  “That’s them,” Owen announced, shushing the dog. “Shall I let them in? Grace is ready.”

  “Yes, go!” Mrs. Chilvers cried over the bell. “How impatient they are! Mr. Highstead, you rest here in the kitchen until your coach. I’ll get a hassock for your ankle.” She glanced out the window. “Lord, I pray they haven’t learned about Mr. Hugh yet.” She shouted to Owen, “Whatever you do, keep them away from the coffin! Warn Grace too!”

  Robert’s curiosity overtook physical discomfort.

  “If you don’t mind,” he said, pushing his porridge away, “I’d like to view Hugh’s study before I leave. Can you help me walk there?”

  * * *

  When Owen opened the front door, there were only six Seekers of the Lost Dream pilgrims waiting on the threshold. Even if Mrs. Chilvers hadn’t said anything, Robert would have identified the pilgrims as such from their tremulous smiles and enraptured gazes. One of them, a plump woman a little older than Robert, clutched an armful of red roses. Her curls were an unnatural shade of copper beneath her bonnet, which was decorated in raven feathers. Robert wondered if this was the lady Mrs. Chilvers had mentioned: “One even dyes her hair red in honor of Mr. Hugh.”

  “Can it be?” she gasped, pointing to Robert’s wounded forehead as she stepped inside the corridor. “Is this him . . . ?”

  Robert felt a twinge of discomfort as he realized she’d mistaken him for Hugh. Before he could correct her, the red-haired lady swooned into the arms of the pilgrim closest to her, a brawny gentleman. Once she recovered, she stared at Robert, her soft mouth pouting. “You can’t be Hugh de Bonne, though you’re tall like him. For a moment when I saw your scar . . . ’ Tis same place as Hugh’s, on the left temple. But yours is fresh and you’re too young. How foolish I feel!”

  “If it’s any consolation, I’m Mr. de Bonne’s relation,” Robert explained, though it really explained nothing. “His cousin from London.”

  “Ah. That must be it.” She chanted: “ ‘As the Poet waited ’neath domed glass.’ ”

  A severe grey-haired lady clutching a nosegay answered: “ ‘Whilst the clocks chimed forlorn for noon.’ ”

  A third woman exclaimed, “I know that poem! ‘The Glass Chapel’ from The Lost History of Dreams. What a chimera of wonder it is! ‘His fists stopping those who might trespass.’ ”

  “ ‘With dreaded words he dared impugn,’ ” the gentleman who caught the fainter concluded. “Though I must admit I favor this one:

  ‘As the Poet passed through Death itself

  Pale-shadowed spirits escaped from darkest graves,
/>   Black-eyed dogs approached with fangs like knives,

  All led by cruel Chronos who devours all else . . .’

  “Now that’s a chimera of wonder!” he concluded, gazing rapturously about the hall. “Hugh’s abode smells just like it always does—of lemon oil and genius.”

  “Your first time visiting Maestro de Bonne’s home?” a young man addressed Robert; his embroidered silk waistcoat and long fawn-colored hair gave him away as an artistic type.

  “Yes,” Robert replied, astonished by the pilgrims despite being warned, though they seemed more respectful than ravenous. Isabelle’s words returned: “Hugh never even really lived here.” How different the entry hall was from the rest of the house! The plaster walls looked recently repaired and were painted in a welcoming sage color. They set off a handsome array of framed engravings presumably harvested from Hugh’s books. A small oak table held a glass vase containing red-berried hawthorn branches and black raven feathers. Robert recalled the kitchen with its shabby desperation, the barely habitable stable house. And upstairs in the library—well, that was a whole other tableau, with Isabelle probably sulking beside her piano to avoid the pilgrims.

  “When did you first discover Hugh’s poetry?” Artistic Gentleman asked Robert.

  Robert admitted, “Very recently.” It appeared none were aware of Hugh’s death thankfully. He grasped the back of a chair to keep weight from his ankle.

  “Are you improved, madam?” Owen asked the red-haired fainter. “Yes? Let us begin.”

  He cleared his throat and began.

  “Welcome to Weald House, the estate of Hugh and Ada de Bonne. We—the family and servants of Mr. de Bonne—are honored for your attendance on such a miserable day. If you would follow me, his study is yonder. The rest of the house is not part of the tour, for Mr. de Bonne still has family residing there.”