The Lost History of Dreams

by Kris Waldherr

  “You were wakeful all last night again, weren’t you? I told you to take laudanum—”

  Missus Dido’s words halted into a jittery silence followed by a giggle. Much to Ada’s chagrin, Missus Dido had proven to be an irredeemable flirt away from Weald House; she’d had no one to pay her mind there save the elderly groom. Turned out the widow didn’t care for being widowed, and had hoped her brilliantly wed daughters in London would have settled her with a new husband by now.

  “What is it?” Ada forgot about the sugar cubes hidden in her napkin.

  “There’s a gentleman staring at us. He’s quite dashing too. Older, I think. Distinguished. Oh, how nearsighted I am! ’ Tis hard to make out much.”

  Ada turned away, her cheeks coloring. “Put your spectacles on then.”

  “Too late! He’s walking toward us!”

  Missus Dido checked her reflection in the back of a spoon, patting her drooping ringlets. She offered Ada a sideways glance before smoothing her charge’s thick ebony hair for good measure. Ill or no, Ada was still as striking of appearance as she had been in that infamous oil portrait. If anything, her unstable health had accentuated her otherworldly beauty, causing men and women to turn to gape whenever she passed.

  Overcome by shyness, all Ada saw was the gentleman’s hands, which were gloved in dove-grey kid. They were curled around a walking stick. When she raised her eyes, the gentleman dashed off his top hat, which was in a matching grey silk.

  By the time the hat was returned to his head, Ada’s fate was set.

  “Mr. de Bonne,” she breathed. “I was unaware you were here.”

  “We are so pleased to see you! We’d heard you left Herne Bay.” Missus Dido’s voice was flecked with invitation like frosting on an overly sweet cake. “Miss Ada, curtsey!”

  Ada could only stare into Hugh’s eyes. He was exactly as she recalled: the sorrow weighing him, the warmth of his accent, the softly curled auburn hair. She recalled playing her piano for him, the dove, her sparrow. Loss and gain entwined as one. She’d come to Herne Bay in hopes Hugh might court her. Now that he stood before her, had she imagined loving him?

  No, her heart answered. No.

  “I suspected it was you, Miss Lowell,” Hugh said pleasantly. “How very unexpected! Did you receive my letter regarding the companion to your dove?”

  “We did indeed. The dove traveled with us, Mr. de Bonne. What a coincidence we should all be here at the very same time!” Missus Dido said, bending the truth.

  “It is! And to think I might have missed you—I was in London for several days.” He pulled out a white wicker chair. “Life can be so peculiar in a good way. If it’s not too forward, may I join you?”

  Ada nodded shakily before attempting to rise to her feet, thinking the act would clear her head. It was no use: her last memory was the rattle of sugar cubes dropping from her napkin onto the tiled floor.

  Yet again she fainted before Hugh de Bonne.

  * * *

  Ada’s next memory was of Missus Dido’s lilting giggle. The sound pursued her, snaking about her head like the loop of a noose. After two weeks isolated with her guardian in a hotel, even the most tolerant of charges would have grown snappish.

  To bring the giggling to a close, Ada willed her eyes open.

  She was lying on the white wicker daybed in her hotel room. Hugh was there, his face close to hers. He was holding smelling salts.

  “You’re still here,” Ada whispered to herself.

  “She’s awake!” Missus Dido cried tremulously. “Thank heavens!”

  Even after her guardian rushed to Ada’s side (“Oh Miss, we were ever so worried about you!”), Ada did not shift her gaze from Hugh’s face.

  “I hope this isn’t too scandalous,” he said, “but I carried you here. You didn’t stir the entire time, if that makes the experience less troubling.”

  “It’s true!” Missus Dido swore, a rise of pink splotching her cheeks as she bent over to offer Hugh a view of her overfull bosom. “I was here too, if that soothes your mind.”

  “Oh,” Ada said. But the word was so much more than the sound it made. In that syllable, Ada signaled to Hugh her approval of his presence even if she had not offered a single smile.

  Encouraged by that low sole syllable, Hugh took the seat beside her daybed. Missus Dido’s eyes darted from one to the other, her mouth tight.

  When Hugh finally spoke, his voice was so soft that only Ada could hear. “What have you done to yourself since we last met?”

  The question was simple but contained multitudes of meanings. Was he commenting she appeared older, though less than two months had passed since they’d last met? Or that the hold of illness was more overt? Though Hugh’s tone was as light as she recalled, Ada decided the latter—his concern was revealed in his tight brow.

  “I’m just tired, Mr. de Bonne,” Ada answered, wishing she knew how to flirt.

  “Regardless, shouldn’t your guardian send for a physician?”

  “Oh, I’m used to such things,” Missus Dido simpered. “Miss Ada is a sweet child.”

  Ada resisted the urge to slap her.

  Hugh laughed. “So twenty-year-old ladies are now considered children, Missus Dido. Or twenty-year-old consumptives are.”

  Missus Dido’s eyes widened. “We don’t say that, sir.” But Ada was relieved by his honesty—she’d had so little of it in her life. Now that she understood her consumption for what it was, it astonished her how long she’d been deceived. Her disease had always been referred to by various euphemisms such as “her delicate lungs” or “fragile health” or “sensitive nature.” Knowing the worst had set her oddly free.

  Ada felt a smile travel along her lips. She pulled herself up, conscious of Missus Dido’s sharp gaze. For once, her guardian wasn’t giggling.

  “I thank you for your concern, Mr. de Bonne. I feel much better now.” And she did.

  “That’s good, Miss Lowell, for I have an invitation for you.”

  What Hugh said next neither Missus Dido nor Ada could have anticipated.

  * * *

  Hugh explained that the journey to Canterbury Cathedral would take not more than an hour from Herne Bay. “I’m not a pilgrim, like in Chaucer’s day. I yearn to view the stained glass—I’ve read it’s wondrous,” Hugh explained to Missus Dido. “If Miss Ada could join me, that would give me pleasure. Alas, I’d planned to be unaccompanied tomorrow, so I only hired a phaeton unable to seat more than two.”

  “But she’d be unchaperoned!” Missus Dido protested, her dark eyes bulging. Ada hid her grin.

  Hugh offered Missus Dido a bouquet of daffodils he’d somehow procured. “There’d be a driver—if anyone ever gossips, inform them I took Miss Lowell to church to pray. One can’t get more proper than that.” He winked at Ada before playing his final card. “Someone as attuned as you to your charge’s well-being surely understands her health can only improve with an outing. Sea air can be so moist, Miss Dodo—”

  “Dido,” Dido protested, an edge to her tone. “Like the ancient queen. Royalty.”

  “Oh, I’d thought like the bird,” Hugh smoothly said. “I must say you do look peaked from responsibility. A lady of your quality has certain . . . sensitivities. I suspect you wouldn’t mind a day to yourself. We’ll return before tea.”

  The following morning, once they were in the carriage, Ada felt her chest release, her head lighten. She hadn’t realized how much the constant presence of Missus Dido constrained her. Even before her guardian had relented (“as long as you dress warmly and wear a veil”), it had surprised Ada she hadn’t hesitated in agreeing to Hugh’s plan. She’d never been alone with any man in all her life, not even those relentless suitors. But she’d never loved before. How comfortable she felt in Hugh’s presence! How calm! Even her lungs didn’t worry her as they usually did.

  “Thank you,” she said simply.

  “I vow to take the best care of you,” he said.

  As soon as they turned inl
and from Herne Bay, the salt tang in the air turned sweet, tinged with hyacinths and bluebells. Ada sensed something green and fecund. Something she refused to entertain. Though she’d told Missus Dido she’d rest all the way, she couldn’t resist opening the window to poke her head at the world passing by. The air was soft as velvet, as warm as a caress. The sun winked through the green canopy of trees. But then the wind caught at the brim of her best silk bonnet.

  “Oh! It’s gone!” she cried, as the bonnet tumbled down the road out of sight; it was one Madame Clarice had left behind. However, this was a minor inconvenience: Hugh ordered the carriage to a stop, and located the errant bonnet in a patch of cow parsley.

  He tucked a blossom of the creamy weed inside the blue ribbon crowning the brim, and tucked the veil away. “A flower for a flower.”

  As he passed her the bonnet, Ada yearned for his gloved hand to brush against hers. She didn’t replace the veil. Nor would she later, to Missus Dido’s annoyance.

  Too soon for her liking, they arrived in Canterbury. Perhaps because it was one of the first fine spring days, the city was more crowded than anything she’d ever experienced, even when they’d arrived in London for the Thames paddle steamer. Canterbury’s winding cobblestone streets were dense with dark-timbered shops—Ada had never seen so many gowns, hats, books, and ribbons for sale. Nor had she ever heard such a calamity of cries. The stench of butchered meat threaded up her nostrils. The cathedral loomed above this fleshly cacophony, poking the clouds with towers that seemed to absorb all light.

  “This way,” Hugh said, ordering the driver to settle the phaeton once they’d reached Christ Church Gate. “We shan’t be long.”

  As soon as they entered the cathedral, Ada’s mood soured. Was it the noise of Canterbury? The crowds? No, she knew what it was. She was too young for him. Missus Dido was right: she was little more than a child. She set her jaw, recalling how Hugh had avoided touching her hand when he returned her bonnet.

  “Isn’t the stained glass celestial?” Hugh said, raising his arms toward the light. “There’s no longer anything like this in France. Most of the stained glass was smashed during the Revolution. If this isn’t sad enough, the remaining windows at Notre-Dame and the Sainte-Chapelle have since been removed and placed in storage. Heaven knows if they’ll ever be replaced.”

  “I’ve never traveled to France. Nor do I expect to.”

  “Forgive me. I’m foolish to speak of such things.” Hugh offered Ada a shy glance. Now that they were away from Missus Dido, his mask of bravado slipped; she sensed the young man he’d been a decade earlier. “I’m thankful you were able to accompany me. It’s the least I can offer, considering our shared history.”

  “So that’s why you invited me, Mr. de Bonne.” What had she expected? He felt guilt because of her sparrow. His promise of the second dove had yet to materialize. His interest in her music was politeness. His attention was nothing more than pity.

  “I invited you for your company, Miss Lowell. Beauty is better shared.” He pointed down the aisle. “Let’s step beyond the nave. There’s something I want to show you.”

  They passed silently through aisles of flickering votives, the stained glass casting long bands of color across everything. The cathedral was filled with supplicants murmuring and shuffling along the stone floors. In a corner nave, a raven had somehow found its way in, and perched atop a column. Every so often, it would fluff its wings and fly wildly across the nave, cawing as though to protest the presence of humanity amid the divine.

  Ada looked up toward the windows. Hugh was right: the glass was celestial. Brilliant blues, reds, and greens. Majestic saints and earthly sinners. Once her eyes had drunk their fill, she shifted her gaze toward a row of tall ironwork cages. They enclosed private chapels and reliquaries from a distant past. From what little religion she’d had, Ada knew she should distrust them as the papist icons they were. But her unhappiness was more than this. It was how she’d sensed Hugh’s interest shift away from her once they’d entered the cathedral. She yearned to rush outside, toward the sunlight and blue sky, away from the raven, the colored glass, even Hugh himself. She even missed Missus Dido—good blunt Dido with her overbearing care and flirty manner. Nothing was hidden in her, not even her irritation when Hugh changed her name from Dido to Dodo to amuse Ada. (In the carriage, he’d teased, “You must take good care of her, Miss Lowell. If your guardian follows the paths of your previous ones, I fear she’ll grow extinct.”)

  Ada pouted beneath the cathedral’s stone vaults. “I’m cold. I’d like to leave.”

  “Almost there.” Hugh pointed to another dark cage of ironwork. The raven promptly settled inside it. “Here it is!”

  The ironwork cage surrounded two long sleeping figures carved of marble. They lay beside each other on a raised pallet, adorned in crowns and mantels shimmering with gold leaf and red enamel.

  “The tomb of Henry IV and Joan of Navarre,” Hugh announced. “I’d read it was here.”

  Ada’s fingers curled around the ironwork bars, ignoring the raven so close. The cage was a prison for the dead. She blinked, eyes stinging, thinking of the fate looming before her once her disease had its way. While some consumptives survived to live full lives and even have families, Ada understood this wasn’t to be for her. The pursuit of her suitors had made this too clear.

  She said, “I wonder if someone will build me a stained glass tomb after I die.”

  “Is that really what you want, Miss Lowell?”

  Though Hugh’s tone was gentle, the tears threatening Ada since they’d entered the cathedral began in earnest. “Perhaps it’ll be set in a cathedral like this. After all, there’s nothing sadder than a dead girl, or more sacred, especially when she has an estate.”

  He tutted. “I’d wager you’ve some years left, Miss Lowell—your color has improved now that you’ve some air. You’re not the first to experience struggles. Four hundred years ago Joan of Navarre lived to be nearly seventy despite hers.”

  Ada forced a laugh. “Was she a consumptive too?”

  “Worse.” Hugh paused for effect. “She married two kings. Some might consider that worse than death.” He pointed toward the male marble figure. “Henry here was her second husband. If I remember my history correctly, Queen Joan even survived an accusation of witchcraft.”

  “Did they try to burn her at the stake?”

  “I’m shocked, Miss Lowell—you appear too angelic to know of such things. I shall have to tell your guardian so you may repent.”

  “Repent . . .” Ada laughed oddly despite her wet eyes. “I have nothing to repent for, for I’ve done nothing with my life. I will leave nothing behind with my death, nothing that matters—not even my piano matters. I have no faith, Mr. de Bonne. The only thing I know is I am going to die.”

  And that I love you, she thought.

  “Strong words from one so young, Miss Lowell.”

  She met Hugh’s level gaze. “I’ve shocked you.”

  “No, no . . .” His voice softened. “I’d like to believe death contains a logic the living cannot comprehend. That the dead surround us. That those who truly love us never truly leave. They care for us in their way.”

  “That’s easy for you to proclaim, given you have years before you.”

  He turned away, his shoulders tight. When he spoke, his tone was cool. “Health is no guarantee of a long life.”

  She gasped, recalling how he’d lost his family while a boy. “I’m a fool. A self-pitying fool. You should pay me no mind.” She pointed at the tomb of Joan of Navarre. “Is there anything else you wish to tell me about your Queen Joan?”

  After a long moment’s silence, he said, “I wrote a poem about her. A sonnet.”

  “Poetry?”

  He nodded. For the first time since Ada had made his acquaintance, he seemed as vulnerable as when she’d played her piano for him. “It’s my true passion. My vocation, if you will. My first book was published just over a year ago. The sonnet is fr
om it. Would you care to hear? It begins with a pilgrim seeking solace.”

  He recited softly:

  “ ‘We are so afraid of living

  That we live as though dead,’

  Fret the young Pilgrim whilst he tread

  On step toward the Path unending . . .”

  By the time Hugh reached the poem’s final line, Ada had forgotten she’d ever lived in a house on the moors populated by ghosts. Perhaps it was because she was dazzled by being in a setting far grander than any she’d ever been. Or perhaps it was the sonorous rhythm of Hugh’s voice. No matter—she’d remember this moment for what it was: the moment she began to dream of something beyond the death she was ordained to meet.

  * * *

  Outside the cathedral, there was an artist offering watercolors for sale on the lawn. Crude as the art was, Ada recognized a portrait of King George and another of Liszt, whom she’d seen engraved on her sheet music. The artist was aged of years and desperate of mien. When he smiled, his teeth were rotted beneath his grizzled beard.

  Ada was about to offer the artist a tuppence when he addressed Hugh. “Portrait of your beautiful lady, sir? Something to mark your visit to Canterbury so you’ll never forget?”

  “How much?” Hugh asked.

  They shook hands after a short haggle that Ada couldn’t quite comprehend. Before she could demur, she was set on a stool. The legs were uneven.

  Hugh said, “Tilt your head away from the cathedral, Miss Lowell. Like you’re returning home after a pilgrimage.” He addressed the artist. “Does this work for you, sir?”

  “Well enough,” was the artist’s judgment; he appeared eager to please Hugh.

  “How long must I sit here?” The stool wobbled beneath her weight.

  “Not long.” As Hugh adjusted the blossom of cow parsley back into her bonnet, his fingertips brushed her flesh. Ada thought she’d swoon. “Don’t move. Don’t blink.”

  She sat there long enough for the sun to move behind a cloud. Once the old man laid down his brushes—by then the cathedral bells had tolled eleven—he gave Hugh the watercolor. Her eyes could make little of it save a brushstroke here and there.