The Lost History of Dreams

by Kris Waldherr

  “What if I don’t want to go?” He’d thought Isabelle couldn’t bear to see him. Had she sighted him spying on her? Not that, he decided; she probably didn’t want to leave him alone in the house.

  “And why wouldn’t you?” Owen said, lighting another match; this one he blew out before dashing it to the floor. “Have you another plan for the morning?”

  “Calm yourself, Owen,” Mrs. Chilvers scolded. To Robert: “Ignore him. He’s just upset over . . . oh, never mind!” She rose from the bed. “I’ll see if the others are ready for church. I may join you in the carriage. ’ Tis chilly out. Oh, before I forget, a letter from your brother came late yesterday—only saw it this morning.”

  Once Owen turned his back, Robert tore the letter open. A thin piece of newsprint fluttered to the floor. Hugh’s obituary from the London Times. It was dated the day Robert left London.

  Scattered phrases grabbed Robert’s attention.

  Hugh de Bonne, our generation’s Orpheus, was discovered deceased in his bath late last month in Geneva . . . Mr. de Bonne had been the author of The Lost History of Dreams . . . never recovered from the tragic death of his wife, Ada, and their only child, Mathilde . . . Surviving family members include Miss Isabelle Lowell of Kynnersley, Shropshire, heir to his estate and sole blood cousin to Mr. de Bonne’s wife, and the Highsteads of Belvedere, Kent. A private burial will take place in Shropshire at the family’s discretion. It is presumed Mr. de Bonne will not be laid to rest inside the stained glass chapel built to hold his wife’s remains, which remains locked as it has been since her burial . . .

  Too anxious to continue reading, Robert set the obituary aside to scan John’s letter, which must have cross-posted his.

  Brother of mine,

  By the time you read this, I trust you will have arrived safely in Shropshire, and were able to speak to Miss Lowell regarding her inheritance. Have you yet laid to rest our Cousin Hugh inside the glass chapel? (I dare not ask of the daguerreotype and Miss Lowell’s participation.) If not, I must press you to return immediately so we may bury him in our family plot. Alas, that which I most feared has come to pass, as you will see from the enclosed obituary. From here on, we must aim for nothing more than to protect Hugh’s earthly remains from those unwilling to honor his Last Wishes. As to the estate, it shall remain my burden until I can persuade Hugh’s solicitor otherwise—I’ve no desire to cheat Miss Lowell of her inheritance.

  I urge you to hurry home with all haste—I regret involving you in this.

  Yours in haste,

  John

  PS: Another regret I must confess: I confided about Cressida’s passing to Miss Lowell. I’d hoped this would aid Hugh’s suit by gaining you sympathy. In retrospect, I pray nothing has been said that might cause you further pain.

  “Bad news?” Owen asked. Another match lit and flicked.

  “Something like that.”

  Robert shoved the letter and obituary into his pocket. The gesture did little to ease the weight on his chest despite learning of John’s indiscretion to Isabelle. Hugh would never be reunited in the glass chapel with his wife. Never go home.

  “When’s the next coach to Shrewsbury, Owen?”

  “Tomorrow morning at eleven.”

  “None at all today?” Robert’s head pounded anew.

  “None.” Owen smiled for the first time all morning. “Never any coaches on Sunday—”

  His gloating was interrupted by a sharp female voice shrieking outside the stable. “Help! I’ve been stung! Bees!”

  “Grace,” Owen said, running toward the door. “She must have bothered the hive.”

  By the time Robert limped to the door, the worst was over. Just beyond the stable gate, several bees buzzed in a manner more desultory than dangerous. Grace lay ashen beneath an oak tree clutching a long black shawl. To Robert’s astonishment, Isabelle was cradling the girl in her arms.

  Isabelle ordered Owen to fetch vinegar and tweezers from the kitchen. “You poor girl, why’d you disturb them? They were settled for the winter.”

  “I was telling ’em”—a shaky breath—“about Hugh’s death. No one told the bees . . .” Grace fingered the black shawl. “Someone told me I must tell them or—”

  “Who told you this?” Owen demanded, taking Grace’s hand from Isabelle; he’d returned with the vinegar at last. Grace pulled her hand away, but only after she’d thrown a sly look Owen’s way. “Highstead? Or another fool?”

  “ ’ Twas something I heard.” Grace’s eyes darted about the garden. “I thought . . . I feared . . .”

  “Hush child,” Isabelle said, dabbing the welts on Grace’s cheek. “Hush.”

  II.

  The church at Kynnersley was down the road just over a mile from Weald House. It was a humble church, red-stoned with a squat bell tower. It rested atop a gentle hill dotted with snowdrops, the first sign of spring. Robert knew he should find encouragement in this small sign of life. He couldn’t: upon closer examination the hill surrounding the church contained a cemetery. Grave stones, some dating from as early as the sixteenth century, laid pressed into the grass all the way to the ivy-draped stone walls.

  Owen deposited Robert at the church gate with a grunt, leaving Mrs. Chilvers to guide Robert up the path toward the side apse. Hugh’s mustard-colored overcoat, with its beaver collar and padded shoulders, draped heavily across his frame; Robert had immediately recognized it from that frontispiece to Hugh’s book of letters.

  “Ignore Owen,” Mrs. Chilvers said again, patting Robert’s arm. “He says he overheard you speaking to someone last night in the stable house. From the sounds of it, a woman. He insists she was Grace.”

  “Grace?” Robert retorted, staring at his feet. The path to the church was paved with cobblestones eager to catch the tip of Hugh’s walking stick. “That’s impossible.”

  “That’s what I said, Mr. Highstead. Or may I call you Mr. Robert? I do feel quite protective of you, with your injury and such. I told him it was impossible too.”

  Robert stumbled. Owen had overheard him with Sida.

  Mrs. Chilvers tightened her grasp on his arm. “Oh, do be careful!”

  “I should have been.” Whenever his landlady overhead him speaking to Sida, he’d excused himself with the claim of reciting poetry.

  “Anyway, he’s in a snit. Just thought you should be aware. If you would be so good as to assure him, but pray don’t tell him I said anything. Ah, here we are!”

  They approached the apse, a small alcove crowded with more people than Robert imagined the village held. The mass of humanity seemed to daunt even Mrs. Chilvers, who tutted and fluttered her hands against her heart. A swell of organ music escaped through the open doors, competing with jackdaws complaining from the eaves. From the corner of his eye Robert saw Grace dart across the graveyard with Owen in determined pursuit; a smile flickered across her face before she hissed, “Let me be! I told you I don’t want to speak with you.” She appeared well recovered from her bee stings.

  By the time he and Mrs. Chilvers shuffled into the church, all the pews were filled save the first one. “The family pew,” she explained. “Can you make it up the aisle, Mr. Robert? Heavens, there’s more people coming. I think they’ll have to stand soon.”

  She staggered, nearly bringing Robert down with her.

  “Oh sweet Jesus!”

  Robert grabbed her arm to save her from falling. “What is it?”

  Mrs. Chilvers pointed down the aisle.

  Robert followed her hand toward a sea of black-clad people. Each wore a cockade of raven feathers circling a single blood-red rose. They sat with their heads high in anticipation. They’d crammed the pews of the small church from front to back, leaving a few villagers dressed in their Sunday best squeezed between them. Whether you called these black-clad people pilgrims or Seekers of the Lost Dream, the effect was the same. They reminded Robert of a fox hunt held soon after his mother’s death. How the spectators had stood waiting in the icy dawn for the do
gs to drag out the cornered prey. Though Robert was only a boy, he’d hated every single moment of it, especially the applause at the end when his father lifted the bloodied fox above his head. At the display of carnage, a cluster of sparrow hawks had swept over the crowd. Afterward, Robert found the fox picked clean to the bone; he might not have recognized it save for its white-fluffed tail, which remained obscenely pristine.

  This memory remained with Robert as he made his way down the aisle with Mrs. Chilvers, especially when he saw that not all pilgrims were seated. A woman with bright auburn hair stood to the side of the aisle; Robert recalled her from the tour of Hugh’s study. She looked older than he remembered, closer to forty than his age. The tepid light pouring through the stained glass illuminated her stubborn chin and weary eyes. She’d been weeping. Her eyes widened as she took in Robert wearing Hugh’s overcoat. Suddenly self-conscious, he smoothed his hair beneath his hat, wishing he’d shaved. The sorrow he’d sensed in her during the study tour now seemed replaced by something darker. Desperate. He could see it in her posture, which was as rigid as a Christian martyr. Like she was waiting for something. Or, worse, someone.

  “Where’s Miss Isabelle?” Mrs. Chilvers asked as Robert led her toward the front pew “They must have learned of Mr. Hugh’s passing, God help us.”

  The obituary. His brother had been right.

  “Come,” Robert said in his most soothing tone. “We’re in a house of God. A sanctuary.”

  “Won’t matter.” The housekeeper craned her neck. “Miss Isabelle isn’t in the pew—we should warn her. Do you see her?”

  Robert glanced over his shoulder toward the doors. “She must be outside. I’ll go.”

  Mrs. Chilvers’s grasp tightened. “Too late.”

  Isabelle Lowell stood in the heart of the aisle like a bride betrothed to loss rather than love. She was clad as ever in mourning—a deep purple gown peeked out beneath a shabby black bombazine cloak—with her ivory hair pulled tight beneath her straw bonnet. If she took any notice of the pilgrims, she revealed no sign save her nose flaring as though she smelled something foul.

  The organ silenced. Conversation ceased. The only sound in the church became Isabelle’s heels on the cold tiled floor. It was a disquieting sound. A familiar sound, reminding Robert of the tap of Hugh’s walking stick as he’d dragged himself from the library the night of their bargain.

  “Perhaps it would help if we sit,” Mrs. Chilvers said, her gaze locked on Isabelle. “Where are Grace and Owen? Of all times for them to go missing!”

  The housekeeper slid into the pew, Robert beside her. By then Isabelle was nearly down the aisle.

  The red-haired woman strode from her post by the church wall, halting before Isabelle. Heads turned as one toward the pair.

  “Good day, madam,” Isabelle said, offering a smile. (Robert shuddered, recalling the few times he’d witnessed that smile.) “How good of you to worship at my aunt’s church. I hope it offers you succor.”

  And then, to Robert’s wonderment, Isabelle stepped around the red-haired woman, continuing down the aisle (tap, tap, tap!) as though the pilgrim was only a neighbor she’d happened upon at church.

  “Come back here!” the red-haired woman shouted. “Don’t you dare ignore me, Isabelle Lowell!”

  Isabelle looked over her shoulder. “I hardly ignored you.”

  The two women locked eyes.

  “When were you going to tell us of Hugh de Bonne’s death? Today? Tomorrow? A year from now?” The red-haired woman’s voice echoed all the way to the rafters.

  Isabelle’s smile faded. “It’s evident there was no need for me to inform you. As for my silence, I’d hoped for privacy to mourn.”

  “Mourn?” The red-haired woman took another step toward Isabelle, her petticoats ruffling. “Mourn! What about those who esteemed him most? Who drew comfort from his poems?”

  A jackdaw cawed. Robert’s heart thudded.

  “I expect you’ve already buried him, Isabelle Lowell. You probably laid him to rest without honor far from Ada, given that the chapel is still locked,” the red-haired woman cried. “Don’t deny it! We all know you care naught for Hugh or his art. Haven’t you proven as much these years with your refusing to open Ada’s Folly? And now you’ve inherited the whole lot—we’ll never see the glass or visit Ada’s grave!” She broke into sobs. “It’s a travesty, I tell you. A travesty! And you know why, Isabelle Lowell. You know why! Do you want me to tell this entire church?”

  “You’ve said enough. Go in peace.” Isabelle’s voice was unsteady.

  “Go in peace . . .”

  The red-haired woman drew so close that the hem of her gown touched Isabelle’s. She puckered her mouth and spat.

  Even the pilgrims gasped.

  The saliva landed on Isabelle’s cheek. As she pulled out her handkerchief to wipe her face, the red-haired woman collapsed sobbing to the church floor as the congregation erupted into shouts, screams, and shrieks. Mrs. Chilvers fell into a swoon beside Robert. Somehow Owen emerged from the side apse, gathered the housekeeper in his arms, and fanned her face with a hymnal, affording Robert the opportunity to spring to his feet (though stumble would be a more accurate description). Just as Mrs. Chilvers’s eyes fluttered open and Owen guided her to her feet, the organ began to play a panicked tune that sounded decidedly nonsecular and someone screamed. Then Robert was on his feet, ankle or no, staggering toward Isabelle Lowell just as the mass of black-clad pilgrims lunged her way.

  “Let me be!” Isabelle’s panicked voice rose above the pilgrims, entwining with the organ in a mad cacophony.

  Somehow Robert was running toward Isabelle, though God knew how, with his ankle throbbing amid the screaming and confusion. His blood surged in his veins; his head was light, just like it had been the night he’d tried to rescue Sida from her uncle. And then somehow Isabelle was in his arms and he was lifting her away, her bonnet falling from her head but held on by thick black ribbons. The bonnet dangled dangerously about Isabelle’s throat—Robert feared someone grabbing it, snapping her neck.

  “I have you,” he breathed into her ear. “You’re safe.”

  Isabelle was warm. Fragile. He’d protect her. How could he not? Yet part of him understood it wasn’t Isabelle he was addressing—it was Sida. In that moment, it was as though he’d been transported to three years earlier before they’d married. There he was, lifting Sida’s bloodied body away from her uncle, yelling at her aunt to get a constable. “You’ll never hurt her again,” Robert shouted before he’d punched him. “I’ll keep her safe.” His vow hadn’t mattered—her uncle had been too fast and too strong. But this time the outcome would be different. Must be different.

  He shouldered a pilgrim away. Isabelle’s head curled against his chin, beneath his nose (he would have never expected her hair to be perfumed, and a floral scent at that), and her arms looped around his neck. Her handkerchief somehow fell from her fingers into Robert’s hand. He struggled as he stuffed it into his pocket—he’d leave nothing behind for the pilgrims to scavenge.

  And then he was carrying Isabelle down the aisle and out the vestibule into the churchyard, though he’d later have no coherent memory of this. He’d only recall his hat falling off and the pilgrims gasping, taken aback by the revelation of Robert’s scar and Hugh’s bright mustard coat.

  As soon as he carried Isabelle outside into the cold sunlight, Robert saw Grace bearing an armful of roses. Isabelle saw her too—Robert felt her torso stiffen against his. Grace dropped the roses, and her hand crept to her mouth before she ran off down the path toward God knew where. Then Owen was beside him, taking Isabelle from his arms: “I’ve got her, Highstead.” Once Isabelle was on her feet, Owen hastened her toward the chaise carriage, which awaited at the church gate; Mrs. Chilvers was already seated in it.

  Isabelle grabbed the reins. Mrs. Chilvers clutched her shawl. Robert watched them drive off down the narrow lane faster than he’d imagined possible, the horses whinnying in protest aga
inst the crisp February air.

  And then it was over. All that remained was dust rising from the carriage.

  III.

  Robert looked around. He was alone. Where had the pilgrims gone? His ankle throbbed. The reality of his situation fell upon him: he was alone in a graveyard over a mile from Weald House with a sprained ankle.

  Robert staggered to a tomb, wishing he hadn’t lost Hugh’s walking stick.

  “Shit.”

  A thin female voice interjected, “Strong words outside a house of God.” Her accent sounded vaguely foreign.

  Robert turned.

  A stately black-clad woman draped in velvet and bombazine stood less than an arm’s length from him on the cusp of the graveyard. He made out a pair of sharp dark eyes behind her thick black veil. Mourning dress. Full at that. Steel-grey curls. Where had she come from?

  He inclined his head in lieu of a bow. “I beg your pardon, madam. If I’d known you were nearby—”

  “I wasn’t, sir. I was over there”—she pointed to a distant corner of the graveyard bedecked by ivy—“when I heard shouts. At my age, I avoid church services unless they’re necessary.”

  “I take it you witnessed what happened.”

  “Enough to understand you’re without transport. And from the unsteadiness of your gait, this”—she offered Hugh’s walking stick—“belongs to you.”

  “Where did you find it?”

  “On the tomb over here. I saw a pretty girl with blond curls set it there before she ran off. There’s also a hat. I presume that’s yours as well?”

  Robert accepted both with a thanks. “Perhaps you know of a carriage for hire?”

  “Better.” A somber smile behind her veil. “I’ve a carriage of my own. My cottage is just across the road. I’ll even give you tea before I send you on your way.”

  * * *

  “Marcus, we’ve company for tea!” the lady in black called as she led Robert to a chair in her sitting room. The room was dark and narrow but smelled of beeswax and lemon. It was a welcoming smell, orienting Robert in his body after the suddenness of all he’d experienced at the church. “I’ve the young gentleman from London. From Weald House.”