The Lost History of Dreams

by Kris Waldherr

  “Is this what you want?” the artist asked. Hugh nodded, exclaiming with glee before handing over the promised shilling and then another with a degree of ceremony that delighted Ada as much as it unsettled. This was Hugh’s way, she realized, to treat everyone the same whether they were beggar or king. Even her.

  Hugh brought the watercolor to Ada. “There! How lovely it is!”

  Ada examined Hugh’s face to see if he was jesting. “He only painted my right eye, Mr. de Bonne.”

  “Yes. A perfect likeness!”

  “But you paid for a portrait, not part of a face.” Ada shook her head, though she felt unexpectedly pleased. “You were far too generous, Mr. de Bonne. He looks like the sort who’ll spend it on drink anyway.”

  “Not so. He painted only what I requested.”

  “An eye?”

  “And only your right eye. Nothing more. It’s not as grand as that oil portrait at your house, but an eye miniature is a tradition I like very much.” And then he quoted his poem, delighting Ada. “After all, the eyes are the window to the soul.”

  VII.

  The eyes are the window to the soul.

  Robert’s pencil stilled against the paper, his engrossment in his task gone. “Could you please repeat what you said, Miss Lowell?” He resisted the urge to touch the miniature in his waistcoat pocket.

  Isabelle raised a brow. “Am I speaking too quickly for you, Mr. Highstead?”

  “It . . . it’s not that.”

  He drew a shaky breath. Had Isabelle really just claimed that Hugh had a miniature of Ada’s eye painted? Surely he’d misheard her.

  “Very well.” Her tone was laced with impatience. “I’d said that Hugh told Ada, ‘After all, the eyes are the window to the soul.’ ”

  Robert’s stomach tensed. “I know all about you . . . I know your wife, Cressida, died soon after your marriage. I know you haven’t been the same since . . . I know you blamed yourself for her death . . .” It all returned to him in a rush; he’d set it aside in the pleasure of his writing, her words.

  Isabelle continued on, oblivious. “When they returned from Canterbury, Missus Dido was in a state when Ada spoke of the eye portrait—”

  Robert’s heart pounded. “Stop.”

  “Why?” Isabelle arched her spine and yawned, the gesture unexpectedly sinuous. He recalled the curve of her breast beneath her wrapper; again, he felt that unwelcome pull toward her. “I’d think you’d be eager to hear Ada’s story, given our bargain. Have you grown weary?”

  “Not weary, Miss Lowell. Confused . . .”

  “The eyes are the window to the soul.” With that single sentence, Isabelle had turned his only physical representation of his wife’s existence into a weapon to be deployed.

  There was no way she could know about the portrait of Sida. It was a small thing. A private thing. He’d been careful to keep it either in his pocket or beneath his pillow while at Weald House . . .

  Unless she’d gone through his possessions when he was unconscious after his fall.

  “Ada had an eye miniature?” he said at last.

  She nodded. “I know it’s strange Hugh only chose to have her eye painted, but he was fond of puzzles and such. I’ll speak more of this later in my story.”

  “If this is true, then I don’t know what to think, Miss Lowell.” A coincidence was more troubling than if she had spied on him.

  “Think? You’re not to think, Mr. Highstead. You’re to write.” Isabelle frowned in a manner that, to Robert’s eye, appeared genuine. “Don’t you want to hear how tonight’s story ends? I haven’t even gotten to the best part.” She glanced up at the clock, which only showed eight. “It’s run down again—Grace must have forgotten again. I have no idea how much time’s passed.”

  “It hardly matters.” Robert recalled Sida’s joy in painting her eye. His joy when he’d received it that day in the woods. “After all, the eyes are the window to the soul.”

  “An hour? Four? No wonder you’re restless. Hmm, poor Virgil has left, probably in search of someplace to relieve his bladder.”

  “It’s not that, Miss Lowell . . .”

  Robert forced himself to rise from the chaise, clutching the fireplace mantel for support. His ankle was stiff with pain, though better than the previous evening. He wished it was recovered enough to let him pace just as he’d seen her pace that first evening, as though this action would enable him to understand how such a coincidence could be.

  “What is it then, Mr. Highstead?”

  He drew a deep breath. “I’m having a hard time comprehending your story given certain . . . discrepancies.”

  There. That word, discrepancies, as ineffectual as it was, would have to do, despite how strongly he ached to understand the overlaps between his marriage and Ada’s story. To reassure himself Isabelle hadn’t spied on him.

  “I trust you’re not accusing me of falsehood. Remember the terms of our contract.”

  “I haven’t forgotten.”

  He fell back into the chaise. How to proceed? His chin pressed against his hands, which didn’t feel as raw as they usually did. He’d again forgotten about his unshaven face; the unfamiliar sensation disoriented him as much as Ada’s story.

  He let out a long breath. “It’s this, Miss Lowell. I’m questioning . . .”

  “You are not to question, Mr. Highstead!”

  “But I must question . . .” He’d have to appeal to her pride. “If I’m to publish this book for you, you must consider my position as a scholar. You want me to assist you in writing a book that will honor your aunt’s life. As your history now stands, Ada’s story has no proof. No provenance. No one will believe it.”

  Her head cocked. “Wouldn’t my word be enough?”

  “No. A history requires more than one person’s testimony—people make up stories all the time. It’s only by comparing differing accounts we can arrive at the truth.” Robert continued without thinking. “Here, I’ll give you an example of what could happen if your history has no provenance. When I was in Oxford, there was a historian who was writing a biography of the poet Ovid—”

  “A poet like Hugh.” Her tone was dismissive.

  He gritted his teeth. “Yes, a poet like Hugh. But I’m speaking of Ovid’s history, not his poetry.” His voice dropped. “Anyway, in this historian’s case, his biography of Ovid was problematic because it lacked correlation. Though Ovid had written about his life in his poetry, very little was recorded after he went into exile on the Black Sea.” A deep breath. “It mattered not: the historian became so enthralled with what he believed had happened—with needing to know what happened—that he shaped what he conjectured about Ovid into a narrative so compelling, so seductive, that the historian forgot he had no proof. No provenance.” Robert’s throat tightened. “It didn’t help that the historian had suffered a most grievous loss at that time.”

  Isabelle met Robert’s eyes, all rancor gone. “What happened?”

  “What you would think.” The memory was still exquisitely painful. “The historian ended up ridiculed by his peers, his previous successes forgotten. He abandoned his book—a manuscript that had occupied several years of his life. Never wrote again . . .”

  Robert shifted on the chaise, aware he’d revealed more than he’d intended. To avoid Isabelle’s eyes, he stared at the portrait of Ada—how lovely she’d been!—before stretching his hand to pet Virgil, who’d returned from wherever he’d gone. For once he didn’t mind the dog’s presence.

  “Very well,” Isabelle said slowly. “I accept your point, Mr. Highstead. What constitutes proof?”

  “Primary sources. Letters. Artifacts. Birth certificates. Death certificates. For example, I’ve noticed you’re not referenced in your uncle’s collected letters. Nor is Ada’s consumption. Some could claim this contradicts your account.”

  For once, Isabelle looked shaken. “You shouldn’t believe what you read in books, Mr. Highstead.”

  “I don’t. Hence, I question. H
ere’s another question others might ask: You lived with your aunt, did you not? Yet you’ve rarely mentioned yourself since you began your story.”

  Color rose on her cheeks. “I’ve spoken only of my aunt’s experiences to save time—after all, I’m telling of her life, not mine. Remember I was sent to school when I turned seven.”

  Robert flipped through the journal. “By which guardian?”

  She nodded tightly, avoiding his eyes. “Reverend Smallsworth. He wanted me to have a proper Christian education, and didn’t have time to mind both myself and Ada. Ada was his priority. Not me.”

  “That was the guardian who’d died of dysentery in India?”

  Another tight nod. “Until Ada’s marriage, I returned to Weald House for holidays. Summers. Ada told me secrets she confided to no one else.”

  Robert leaned in. “And after her marriage?”

  Isabelle’s voice rose. “She wrote me letters. Piles and piles of them.”

  “You possess these documents?”

  “I burned them upon her death to protect her privacy.”

  “And now you want to betray her confidences with your book.”

  She flinched. “Only because of the pilgrims.”

  “Then you’ve destroyed proof of Ada’s story.”

  Isabelle’s chin jutted. “The truth is what it is.”

  “It’s not that simple, Miss Lowell.” Robert warmed to his subject. “In addition, there’s the matter of your story. You haven’t revealed anything I couldn’t have surmised from your uncle’s letters and the pilgrims save for Ada’s consumption. It’s an oft-told story: a man loved a woman, they courted, they wed. Though the story ends sadly, thus far there’s nothing to warrant special attention.”

  “You haven’t heard the rest of Ada’s story yet! There’s much no one knows of her life. I do!” Isabelle wrung her hands, reminding Robert of the first time he’d seen her in the library: the bony wrists, the twisting fingers. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter whether I can prove my story, or what you think of it. I know all about Ada. I know! There’s always a third person who serves as witness, a third who sees all. I was this for Ada—her third. The eye that sees into the soul.”

  With this, something in Robert snapped. She’d made up Ada’s eye miniature. She was spying on him. Taunting him.

  “One last question . . .” Robert had to ask, though he could barely force the words out. “I’m curious about that miniature of your aunt’s eye. I assume you still possess it, given your devotion to her memory. May I see it?”

  “I’m insulted by your distrust.” She stood from her dais, her skirts swaying. “Good night, Mr. Highstead. We shan’t meet tomorrow.”

  Robert could feel the heat rising to his face. “We had an agreement! Five nights for your story—this is only the second night. I need to bury my cousin!”

  “I didn’t promise the nights would be sequential. Tomorrow is Sunday. We’ll reconvene Monday at our usual time.”

  “Miss Lowell, I cannot wait an extra day—”

  She raised her handkerchief to silence him. “As I stated, we will speak again Monday night. I will spend Sunday in rest and contemplation. As should you. And remember, I have your camera.” She met his eyes meaningfully. “If I were you, I’d be more respectful of our agreement in the future.”

  * * *

  Robert hardly noticed his injuries as he made his way back to the stable room. The first thing he did was to reach for the miniature of Sida in his waistcoat pocket to find a better place to hide it. His hand came back empty.

  Isabelle couldn’t have stolen it. Could she?

  “No,” he said in an attempt to calm himself. “You dropped it. That’s all.”

  He lit a second candle for more light—he couldn’t see anything beyond the length of his arm in this damn dark place. He pulled the stool out from beside the bed to look beneath it.

  Not there either. He resisted the urge to yell, to shout. His stomach curled. Now his ankle was burning from overuse. He knew he should sit. Rest. He couldn’t.

  “What happened, my sweet?”

  Sida materialized before him, but Robert could take no pleasure in her presence. “I lost something,” was all he could say.

  He ignored his wife, too distressed to rest. He could hardly return to the library to search for the miniature at this hour—it must have fallen out of his pocket. Then he remembered Isabelle had claimed Ada possessed a similar miniature of her eye. If he found it, that would confirm her story. Perhaps he’d feel less vulnerable.

  Robert pivoted toward the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  He forced a reassuring smile. “I’ll be back soon.”

  Before Sida could protest, Robert stumbled out of the stable room into the main house. He groped his way toward Hugh’s study.

  The door to the study was unlocked as he’d hoped. Inside, a slant of moon illuminated the room from the rose garden, where Ada had sat so long ago with her sparrow. Robert went from display to display, his fingers trailing along the surfaces. He felt the signed first editions, the manuscripts, the glass bell with the raven’s feather from Mathilde’s cheek, the fur coat Hugh had given Ada.

  Just as he found his way to Hugh’s desk, a rush of cold wind fluttered the hem of his jacket. The French doors were ajar.

  Isabelle stood outside in the rose garden, her back turned to him as she paced back and forth, as he’d often witnessed in the library. Her posture was as straight as ever, her shawl clutched as tight. Yet he sensed a hesitation in her aspect he’d never viewed before. There was something about her. Something he couldn’t turn from. In that moment, she looked as haunted as he was.

  Unable to leave, Robert pulled himself behind the door. Just beyond the rosebush, he made out another figure, a slight pale form. Grace. She winked, raised a finger to her lips. No matter. His eyes were all for Isabelle.

  He watched Isabelle approach the bench overlooking the yew tree. Watched her bury her face in her hands as she sank onto the bench. The gesture surprised him. He hadn’t considered her capable of gentleness. And it was gentleness she displayed—the slow dip of her hands against her face, the release of her breath. For once, instead of a goshawk, she reminded him of a dove, with her soft white hair gleaming beneath the moonlight, her swooning movements.

  She was kissing something small in her hand. The oval-shaped object was no larger than her palm. It glinted metallic in the night.

  The miniature of Ada’s eye. The one she’d spoken of—it had to be.

  * * *

  When Robert finally returned to bed, Sida was nowhere to be found. “I’m sorry,” he whispered into the air. “I shouldn’t have left you. Should have been more attentive. You know I love only you.” It took him some time to settle himself to sleep. Once he lay down, he located the miniature of her eye. It had been tucked on the nightstand beneath the journal bearing Ada’s story—he must have overlooked it.

  “A coincidence,” he told himself yet again. “Only that.”

  Still, he felt more troubled than he cared to admit, as if Ada and Hugh had been conjured by a cruel god to remind Robert of all he’d lost.

  Tea and Acrimony

  Excerpted from Cantos for Grown Children by Hugh de Bonne, published 1834 by Chapman & Hall, London.

  The house was bricked with sugar’d blight

  And hid ’mid oak and tall pine. The scents

  Of sweets needled their hunger. ‘Come in! I invite,’

  Cloyed a voice from inside. ‘Where are your parents?

  Children, come! Have you yet taken teas?’

  ‘Ah, you tease,’ Sister swooned. ‘My stomach seizes

  At such smells! ’ Tis too long since I’ve ate my fill.’

  Sister smiled and grabbed Brother’s hand. ‘Shall we then?’

  ‘No!’ Brother hissed to Sister. ‘You shan’t accept!

  That woman is one to fear—

  A Seductress of children ;

  An Enchantress o
f souls ;

  A Circe seeking swine ;

  A Witch without morals.’

  *

  I.

  The following morning, Owen and Mrs. Chilvers arrived while Robert was still in bed. Since he was to remain in the stable house, he couldn’t be bothered to rise, though he’d dressed in another set of Hugh’s clothes. It was one thing to be lazy, another undressed.

  “Breakfast,” Mrs. Chilvers announced, revealing a plate of fatty bacon, a bowl of porridge, and a soft-boiled egg in a cup accompanied by tea and honey instead of sugar. The food at Weald House was generous but bland at best. The housekeeper seemed a dazzle of warmth compared to Owen, who leaned against the smoldering fireplace flicking matches against the grate, glaring at Robert. Robert couldn’t blame him—he’d displaced Owen from his bed, sorry as that bed might be. After their exchange on the stairwell, he suspected Owen had been using the stable for assignations with Grace.

  “Come, let me help you to the table,” Mrs. Chilvers invited. “I’d thought by now Miss Isabelle would let you sup with us in the kitchen.”

  “I’ll manage. Thank you for breakfast,” Robert said.

  He staggered into the chair before the table. Flatware and china jangled as Mrs. Chilvers set the tray on the table. Once this was done, she perched on the edge of the bed, her broad palms resting on her thighs. She was wearing her nice black silk gown, the same one with the Belgian lace fichu she’d donned Thursday for the pilgrims’ visit. Her eyes darted to the coffin beyond—Robert supposed she’d set Hugh’s corpse out of mind until now—before she signaled to Owen to shut the door.

  Robert cracked the eggshell with a spoon. “More Seekers of the Lost Dream this morning?”

  She smoothed her skirts. “Oh no, I’m dressed for church, Mr. Highstead. We’re to leave in a half hour. We usually walk. Owen will take you in the cart because of your ankle—Miss Isabelle said you’re to go too. I’ll bring an overcoat for you. Yours is quite ruined.”