The Lost History of Dreams

by Kris Waldherr

  A letter by Hugh dated the year after Ada’s death tugged especially:

  I am still awaiting word from you regarding the blue glass I ordered five months ago. It is imperative it be sent immediately—until its arrival, I shall have no peace of mind. I do not comprehend your delay. Have not I paid you generously? Granted you extra time? Offered to smooth over any transportation difficulties that might arise, given that you are shipping the glass from Sèvres?

  With this, the glass chapel pulled anew at Robert’s imagination. That night with Grace and the dog, he’d been so close to looking inside it. To witnessing Ada’s grave. His regrets were cut short as his ankle began to moan its familiar song of pain. He considered the morphia bottle across the room. Not yet. Still, he’d be more comfortable if he readied for bed.

  Balancing on one foot, he folded Hugh’s clothes in a pile. He couldn’t resist smoothing the pricey wool, as if he could sense the poet within the fabric. He splashed his face. The icy water in the wash basin was bracing. Calming. He couldn’t bring himself to shave the new growth on his cheeks. Too weary.

  Now easier, Robert propped his leg on the sole bed pillow and returned to Hugh’s letters.

  Yes, I understand that cobalt necessary for the glass is the rarest shade to obtain, but you had given me your word as a gentleman it would arrive by the end of May. Until it arrives, I cannot commence work on the glass chapel I am building. The chapel must be the most beautiful place ever to be built. A poem of a building. A locus amoenus . . .

  The remainder of the letter disintegrated into ravings more appropriate to a lunatic than a poet.

  Hugh was mad from loss. Just like Isabelle.

  The thought arrived unbidden like a ghost. Isabelle was guilty of the very thing she’d accused Robert of. And then he realized: she hadn’t mentioned herself once after describing Ada’s first meeting with Hugh. Was this an oversight? Or intentional?

  All of a sudden Robert could read no more. Morphia and sleep would help.

  He drew out the miniature of Sida’s eye from beneath his pillow to give it a goodnight kiss before blowing out the candle. But then, as though invoked by his yearning, the air turned cool and wet as his wife’s shadowy form materialized beside him on the bed.

  He felt his chest release, his heart sing. She was all that he needed. All that he loved.

  Tonight, Sida reclined on her back, her toes pointed toward the ceiling. Her position reminded Robert uncomfortably of that woman he’d daguerreotyped in Kensington the day he’d received his brother’s letter. At least she’d finally let off that stained blue silk dress in favor of a grey merino gown.

  She stretched her arms his way. “I missed you today, my sweet.”

  “I missed you too.” Robert pressed his lips against her cold moist brow. “Lay with me.”

  She curled against him on the bed. Hugh’s books jutted against their bodies, but he didn’t complain. How insubstantial she felt, as elusive as morning mist. She rested her cheek against his shoulder, her body against his; he was careful not to shift lest she dissolve into him. A soft murmur rushed from her lips. It smelled faintly of almonds. He ran his finger along her neck, wishing for things to be as they were before her death. How painful it was to love someone so much at times! Still, she was there—that was all that mattered.

  Silence fell upon the stable room save for the soft whinnying of horses, the shuffle of jackdaws in the eaves. The solitary beat of Robert’s heart.

  And then he heard it. Piano music. The notes drifted into the stable on the air, as tangible as if he was standing outside the library door. This time, it sounded like Isabelle was performing Liszt or someone similarly furious. A waltz.

  She was still awake.

  In this, Robert found a strange consolation. He’d disturbed Isabelle as much as her story had disturbed him.

  V.

  The Second Night’s Story

  That evening, Isabelle swept into the library nearly an hour after Robert had been sent for. Once she arrived, she settled on her dais; tonight she’d returned to wearing purple mourning. The portrait of Ada with her sparrow stared down at them, remote in its warmth. Robert picked up his pencil and journal. Though his nerves had lessened from the previous evening, he’d brought the eye miniature of Sida again.

  Isabelle began without preamble.

  * * *

  From where I ended our story last night, I suspect you think this was when Ada learned death would claim her as his bride. But you’d be wrong, Mr. Highstead—remember, all ghost stories are love stories in disguise. So tonight I shall speak of love.

  The following morning, Hugh returned to Weald House, arriving at a time when Missus Dido had stepped out to go to the village. He brought with him a white dove in a gold cage. Ada felt improved enough to receive him in the drawing room, ignoring the impropriety of it. Her heart pounded when he met her eyes after his bow. Had she imagined loving him? Was it a reaction to her poor sparrow’s death?

  No, she decided, considering him anew. No.

  Once Hugh settled on a chair, he placed the cage on the card table near her.

  “An offering,” he said. “I must apologize for what transpired yesterday.”

  To hide the moisture threatening her eyes, Ada hid her face against the chaise. She loved him. And she was doomed. Overhearing Hugh state the truth of her consumption had the air of inevitability. No longer could she deny the evidence surrounding her since she was a baby: her weak lungs, her night sweats, and irregular fevers, even her thinness, which she’d considered a disinterest in food rather than the product of disease. Suddenly the stubborn pursuit of her suitors turned sinister—they’d understood she’d die young and leave them wealthy.

  The poor bloodied body of her sparrow flashed before her. Vulnerable. Alone. Like her.

  Ada said, her face still buried against the chaise, “You needn’t do this, Mr. de Bonne.”

  “I know some things cannot be replaced. Still one tries.”

  Ada heard the metallic click of the cage being opened. A flurry of wings. She squeezed her eyelids tight until her skin puckered like muslin. Still the tears threatened. To discourage them, she pressed her fingernails hard into the fleshy mounds of her palms.

  “Will you not even look at the dove?” Hugh asked. “You must admit she’s so beautiful.”

  For a moment she wished he’d said, “you’re so beautiful,” instead of “she’s so beautiful.” Her suitors would have used the opportunity to flatter her.

  The ruffle of more feathers fluttering.

  “Should I leave, Miss Lowell?”

  “No, no,” was her muffled response from against the cushions. Never leave me, she thought. She didn’t voice this, for what did she have to offer but sorrow? While she didn’t know Hugh de Bonne well, she felt this deeply—her inheritance was not his aim.

  “I’m glad to hear this, Miss Lowell. It would be hard to depart Shropshire, thinking of you so sad and alone.”

  “I’m accustomed to being alone, Mr. de Bonne.”

  “Being accustomed doesn’t make it any more welcome. I’ve been alone most of my life. It can be a burden.”

  Ada raised her head from the cushions. “Alone? A gentleman such as yourself?” She shook her head as she took in Hugh’s immaculate dress, his debonair air. Though his clothes were of good cut and quality, the brushed wool was faded in places. “You appear acclimated to the crowds of London or Paris, not the moors of Shropshire.”

  He set the dove on his shoulder and stroked her pure white feathers. “One can be in a crowd and still be solitary.”

  “True.” Ada watched the half-moons indented in her palms fade to white. “Thank you for the dove, Mr. de Bonne.” She forced herself to add, “I bid you good day.”

  Please stay, she wanted to say.

  “Very well then . . .” Hugh set the dove back inside the cage. “Before I go, I should explain how to care for her. It’s best to have someone build a cote, so she’ll have room to fly.”<
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  “I know how to take care of birds, Mr. de Bonne.” Her tone was unexpectedly short, but that was better than sad.

  “I’ve insulted you. Forgive me, Miss Lowell.”

  She forced a smile. “There is nothing to forgive.”

  He picked up a book she’d abandoned on the settee, examined the spine. “You read German?”

  “A little. Fairy tales. A gift from one of my guardians.”

  “Now gone?”

  A resigned nod. “They’re all gone—well, except for my current one obviously. I’m bad luck for them. I’ve had nine guardians since my parents passed. My first guardian drowned. Another had dysentery in Asia. To be fair, not all meet untimely deaths. Some abandon me. My favorite was quite old when he passed—he’s the one who gave me the book and taught me German. So it’s not all misfortune.”

  “No wonder you’re alone.” His lips quirked as he traced a finger along the keys of the spinet. “You play?”

  In lieu of a response—she’d grown weary of language—Ada rose from her chaise. Once she’d settled herself before the piano, she launched into the sonata she’d been practicing, pouring the whole of her self into it. Her actions surprised her, but there was little about this day that had not been surprising.

  As she played, she recalled all Madame Clarice had taught before she’d departed for France; they’d worked together on this sonata, the second one of the Beethoven Third Opus. “Just because it’s in C major, don’t be misled by the charming first movement, mademoiselle,” she’d said. “The andante in the second is where you’ll find your soul. Your sorrow.” What a thing to say to a young girl! But at last, Ada understood. It had taken the loss of her sparrow, the appearance of Hugh to teach her this.

  Once the final chord faded into air, Ada’s hands fell to her lap. The ticking of the clock had never sounded so loud. Now the playing of her piano seemed as forward an act as sitting unchaperoned with a gentleman, or admitting she read fairy tales in German. Or falling in love with a stranger met on the moors.

  Unable to bear the silence, she glanced at Hugh.

  His eyes were wet.

  “How did you know?” he said at last.

  “Know what, Mr. de Bonne?”

  “About my past. Your music spoke of it.” He shifted next to her piano bench. “Forgive my forwardness, but this is extraordinary.”

  And then Hugh launched into his life history, one he’d never shared before with a living soul.

  He told Ada of the Revolution and its aftermath that had plagued his native land during the early part of this century. He told her that, though he’d left France for England as a child of seven, he remained guilt-ridden by the knowledge that he was most likely the only one of his immediate family to elude death. He told of how his father had succumbed to fever in prison, his two sisters of malnourishment, and his mother at the guillotine—she’d had the forethought to hand him off to a distant relation en route to the scaffold, saving his life. The woman into whose arms he’d been thrust was a spinster English cousin, Henrietta Highstead, who’d been foolhardy enough to visit Paris during the worst of it; she’d been inspired by the ideals but oblivious to the price. Henrietta had to wait three long years before she could return to England with Hugh, during which period they’d survived by migrating from farm to farm like birds. Once in England, it became clear Henrietta had taken him out of the desire for attention rather than any maternal instinct; she treated him akin to a lapdog, granting him a life of luxury without substance. Henrietta died of influenza soon after he turned eighteen, leaving him set but not settled. He’d traveled for years, unable to find a place of rest. His memories were scant of his mother. He bore less of his father. As for his two sisters, he recalled long warm summer nights playing children’s games in their garden, which seemed a veritable Eden.

  He concluded, “I am a man without a home. I belong nowhere, have no immediate family. But for a moment while I was listening to you . . .”

  He fell into a weighed silence.

  “I’m sorry,” Ada said.

  Before she could stop herself, she placed her hand on his cheek. It was a forward gesture, but one she couldn’t resist. He’d lost those he’d loved, just as she had. He was alone, just as she was. The thought of Watkinson returned, bent over his books in Birmingham as he wrangled proposals from Ada’s suitors.

  “How good you are,” Hugh murmured, his breath warm against her hand. “So kind.”

  Their eyes met.

  The moment was interrupted by the arrival of Missus Dido, who bustled into the drawing room still wearing her best silk bonnet before putting on her spectacles. Ada drew away, her cheeks hot.

  “Whom have we here?” Missus Dido said, smoothing the curls at her temples. “Mr. de Bonne! I apologize for not being at home to you.”

  Hugh rose from the chair and bowed. “I should not have been so presumptuous to call, but my concern for Miss Lowell outweighed my desire for propriety.”

  “Where did the dove come from?”

  Ada spoke up. “Mr. de Bonne brought it.”

  Missus Dido flailed her hands but did not look displeased. “It’s rather large to remain indoors. And dirty too—doves are unsanitary creatures.”

  “I suggested to Miss Lowell that a cote be built. Perhaps in your rose garden?” Hugh bowed again. “I’ve taken too much of your time.”

  “What a handsome gentleman,” Missus Dido said once Hugh had left. “I swear he quite made me feel like a girl—I do think he was flirting with me! He’s ever so modest, but I’m sure his family must have been royal before the troubles. Yet he’s so peculiar with his talk of birds and such.” Her manner turned thoughtful. “I should send a dinner invitation. Did he say how long he’d remain here? Is he staying in Wellington? Perhaps the Bell Inn or the Bull’s Head?”

  No, he did not say how long. Nor did he say where. How fretful Ada felt! She wished she hadn’t played her piano for Hugh, or caressed his cheek. Had she imagined his love for her? As for the dove, it only reminded her of the loss of her sparrow.

  “No matter,” Missus Dido said, patting her curls. “Mark my words, he’ll return.”

  Hugh did not return.

  However, that wasn’t the end of it. Three weeks after the wood pigeons’ migration, a letter arrived for Ada. Instead of a seal, the correspondent had fastened the letter with pin pricks, as though he’d run out of wax. The handwriting was insistent. The ink was a rich sepia, the paper fine.

  To Miss Ada of the Doves, Hugh had written:

  I pray your indulgence for this letter. I am hoping you could relay the following message to your guardian regarding your cote in the rose garden. (I trust the cote was built as recommended, and that the dove still abides.)

  I have located a companion for your dove. (Hence, I address you with ‘doves’ plural rather than singular.) Perhaps the cote is large enough to accommodate two? More pertinently, I pray you ask Missus Dido whether I may be so forward as to send it—I would hate to overstep propriety. I think often of that sonata you played that day, and how very moving it was.

  You may address her response to me care of the Royal Pier Hotel, Herne Bay, Kent. I plan to remain in my present location through April before heading to Town.

  I remain your most humble and hopeful servant—

  H. de Bonne

  VI.

  Approached from the west, the seaside resort of Herne Bay resembled little more than the hamlet it originally was. Set on a gentle elevation overlooking the coast, Herne Bay remained undeveloped until the building of a pier, a hotel, and a promenade several years earlier. These new structures encouraged paddle steamers to bring ladies and gentlemen by the boatful along the Thames from London, thus turning the hamlet into a desirable destination for those who wished to holiday without going abroad. All agreed Herne Bay’s vistas were picturesque, its accommodations hospitable. Best of all, the air was fresh and clear and good for invalids. Ada had used the sea air as an excuse to convince Missus D
ido to holiday in Herne Bay immediately after Hugh’s letter had arrived. “Perhaps I shall improve there,” Ada had told her guardian, unwilling to confess her yearning for Hugh. “We can remain through April. I’ll bring my dove.”

  A week into their month-long stay, Ada was sitting in the tearoom of the Royal Pier Hotel, stealing sugar cubes without Missus Dido’s notice—Missus Dido had become shockingly oblivious to her charge once they’d left Shropshire. It was the first time either had ever traveled beyond Birmingham. London seasons or no, Missus Dido had never experienced anything more exciting than the sheep shearing festival held every spring in Wellington, for she’d sent her daughters to stay with cousins. The smell of the water, the sound of the tide, even the shore birds peeping along the sea—these were all new to her. Ada, however, was disconsolate. Hugh had departed the Royal Pier Hotel two days before their arrival. She felt foolish, but she couldn’t convince Missus Dido to return so soon. After all, the journey from Shropshire had taken several days and much expense.

  “Oh, isn’t it so lovely here!” Missus Dido cried that April morning. “We should view the Clock Tower today. We can hire a donkey to take us.”

  “I’d rather rest in my room,” Ada replied. The truth was her lungs had worsened in Herne Bay—her night sweats had returned, turning sleep into a distant hope. (Or was it heartbreak that made her sleepless?) Besides stealing sugar cubes, this was another of her games with Missus Dido: she’d pretend that all was as it should be. Instead of saying, “I feel ill,” Ada would claim, “I’d rather rest”; instead of “I am sick with love,” she’d say, “The sun feels hot.” To pass the time, the two had spent endless hours putting together jigsaw puzzles. Their latest had revealed the dome of St. Paul’s, which they’d visited in London on the way to Herne Bay.