A Cluster of Lies
Excerpted from The Lost History of Dreams by Hugh de Bonne, published 1837 by Chapman & Hall, London.
‘Jewel or glass? Does it matter?’ quoth Charon.
‘For in the depths of Hades
All colors become barren
And only gold is bright. That world
You recall is wove of shades—
’ Tis but a cluster of lies.’
But Eurydice is brave. Eurydice recites :
‘Yellow brilliant as sun. Red as dark as blood—
Blue brighter than twilight.’ She won’t forget
The seed greening ’neath the mud.
*
I.
Sida was still gone when Robert woke in the morning. Nor was there any sign of her—no shift in the air, no reflection in the mirror. Nothing to be done, he told himself. He’d find her in London—he had to. They’d go back to as they were before he visited Weald House. All would be well.
What if all wasn’t well?
He rolled onto his side and stared at the window. Outside, the sky was grey. Inside, he felt the same. His foreboding only heightened when he recalled his dream of Ada and Hugh. Hugh curled over her body. Ada’s hair turning to white. Like Isabelle’s . . .
“She’s not Ada de Bonne,” he said aloud.
He’d hoped saying the words would help. Instead, Robert’s apprehension grew, as though he’d undermined his marriage by revealing that eye miniature to Isabelle. She’ll be in London. He wished there was an earlier coach. The sooner, the better. Yet there was something else that kept him lingering: he still hadn’t warned Isabelle of the threat to her inheritance. Well, there was one last thing he could do.
Robert made the bed, folded Hugh’s clothes—Mrs. Chilvers had finally returned everything but his coat cleaned—and dressed. Once he’d finished packing his belongings, he settled at the small table and tore a sheet of paper from the journal.
Dear Miss Lowell, he began. It would be remiss of me to depart Weald House without informing you of a particular danger to your well-being . . .
The sentences came quickly. Despite everything, his stay at Weald House had done his writing good. For a moment when he picked up his pencil, his stomach had churned with that old terror. To his surprise, his concern for Isabelle proved potent inspiration. He even found a way to elegantly parse Missus Dido’s questions about Isabelle’s identity.
As he signed the letter, he decided, It matters not if she’s Ada de Bonne. Let her go in peace.
An unexpected serenity fell on him. He’d done all he could. He could go in peace himself.
* * *
In the kitchen, Robert’s daguerreotype traveling case awaited along with Mrs. Chilvers, Owen, and Grace, who’d just finished with breakfast. He unbuckled the leather straps binding the wooden box. To his relief, the camera inside was intact, as was the fuming box; he’d entertained a fear Owen might have broken them out of spite. He was surprised to find Isabelle’s contract set inside. The word VOID was written across it in large letters. I doubt we shall meet again, she’d set along the margin, but if we do, may it be under more felicitous circumstances.
Robert tucked the note into his pocket. Though Isabelle was nowhere to be seen, she was heard: piano music drifted downstairs from the library, a Bach fugue played at double tempo.
“She’s in a fine state,” Grace said, shaking a fist toward the ceiling. “Been like that since dawn.”
“I shan’t interrupt her to say goodbye,” Robert said, relieved. It would be easier to leave if he didn’t see her.
“Just as well. Miss Isabelle specifically told me she wanted to be left alone,” Mrs. Chilvers said. “She dislikes farewells.”
Owen grunted from behind his novel. “She won’t be missing you, Highstead.”
“Hush,” Mrs. Chilvers scolded. The dog barked.
Robert handed his letter to Mrs. Chilvers. “Please give this to Miss Lowell. It’s urgent.”
“What is it?” Owen asked, suspicious as ever. Robert half expected him to hit him with his book.
“Nothing to do with you, boy,” Grace said in her usual flirty way. Yet there was an edge to her tone Robert hadn’t noticed before.
“You’re off then?” Mrs. Chilvers offered Robert a distracted smile. “Farewell, Mr. Highstead. Take the walking stick with you—I doubt Mr. Hugh would mind.”
She raised her cheek in an unexpected show of familiarity; Robert didn’t demur. The kiss he offered was a simple peck, the sort you’d give a dowager aunt after she’d offered a sweet.
Robert held out his hand to Owen. “I know I’ve inconvenienced you. You were kind to let me stay in your room.”
“Wasn’t given a choice.”
Owen ignored Robert’s outstretched hand. To cover the awkwardness, Robert reached down to give Virgil a pat. The dog wagged his tail and whimpered with glee, but Robert didn’t mind for once. Dogs were uncomplicated, unlike humans.
“He likes you, Mr. Robert,” Mrs. Chilvers said.
He looked up from Virgil. “You won’t forget about the letter?”
Grace said, “I’ll make sure she doesn’t, Mr. Highstead.”
And then she winked. Robert pretended not to notice, but the damage was done.
Owen grabbed Robert’s arm. “Time to go. I’ll drive you—”
“No,” Grace said forcefully. “I’m to take him to the coach stand.”
“You? Impossible,” Owen sputtered. (Again, Virgil barked.)
Grace set her hands on her hips. “Miss Isabelle said so.”
“What of the cart with Hugh?”
“Already taken care of—I’m stronger than you think.”
The stable boy’s face fell as though he’d weep. “I don’t believe Miss Isabelle asked you.”
Grace’s blue eyes narrowed. “Don’t believe me?” She pointed toward the ceiling at the fury of music pouring over their heads. “Ask her yourself. I dare you.”
* * *
Grace drove the chaise carriage the same way she did everything: with a determination that didn’t allow deviance from the task at hand. She rushed through the gates of Weald House and down the dirt road, whose bramble-laden hedgerows were budding green. He heard Hugh’s cart bump, setting his stomach to clutching. “Be careful! That’s my cousin in there!” Grace ignored his warning.
“I did like him once,” she said, the horse still racing. “Well, maybe more than that.”
“Who? Hugh?”
Grace skidded in the road. Robert clutched his traveling case tighter.
“Hugh? No, Owen,” she said, shaking her blond curls. “But that was a time ago. I didn’t think him true. Now it matters naught. Naught at all. Even if he loves me more than the earth or more than the sky—”
“Love is complicated. Watch the road!”
The horse reared at a hare. Robert resisted the urge to grab the reins. It would be a miracle if Hugh’s coffin made it to the coach stand without damage.
“Indeed, Mr. Highstead. Love is complicated.” Grace swiped at her eyes. “Look at Ada and Hugh, even you with your situation. As for Owen, after all this time, how was I to know he’d be jealous of you?” She inhaled, shaky. “Never mind. I fear it is what it is. I shouldn’t have lied about Miss Isabelle telling me to drive you, but what was I to do?”
“You lied to protect me from Owen? I assure you I can protect myself.”
“Not because of that. Anyway, even with your ankle, I know you’re strong. That trunk of yours is heavy—” She let out a sob. “Oh, but I did lie. It’s so complicated!”
“The pilgrims? Mrs. Douglas? The church? The roses? The bees?”
Grace’s silence was answer enough.
“ ’ Tis a mess I’ve made,” she said at last. “A ruin.”
Snowdrops gave way to bluebells.
“Why’d you do it? Was it for the money? To leave Weald House?”
Grace bit her lip. “No . . . not at first anyway.”
> “Was it because you disliked Miss Lowell?”
“Not that either. She’s always been kind though she’s a strange one.”
“Then, for the love of God, why’d you do it?”
Another hare and more trees. The air turned fragrant with pine.
When Grace spoke again, her voice was small. “Would you believe it started because I felt sorry for Mrs. Douglas and her poor dead baby?”
Robert laughed. “No.”
“Well, ’ tis true! Her situation made me think of Ada, if Ada had survived after all. Can’t you imagine how sorrowful she’d be over Mathilde?”
Robert stole a look at Grace, who was staring resolutely ahead. “You surprise me.”
At last Grace slowed the horse; he heard Hugh’s coffin settle into place in the cart—she’d taken the carriage off the dirt road onto a bridle path leading onto the moors. They approached a bank of willows beginning to bloom purple. He hadn’t recalled the path when he’d arrived, but it had been dusk.
“Are we nearly to the coach stand? I can’t be late.”
Grace let out an unexpected bubble of laughter. “Oh, we’ve plenty of time, Mr. Highstead. Owen just wanted you gone—well, you understand why.”
“I’m sorry to have been such a burden on your household.”
Grace shrugged. “Burden, trouble. Naught matters. Not anymore.”
At last she brought the carriage to a halt. Robert needed only a glance to know where they were.
“Ada’s Folly,” he breathed.
The glass chapel stood just as it had when he’d first arrived from London: a solitary enclave framed in ivy and marble, tucked beneath trees. The chapel was wider than he recalled. Taller too. He was lucky he hadn’t broken his neck. He strained his gaze toward the glass dome, searching for where he’d nearly fallen through. If the glass bore any cracks, they were hidden behind the marble ledge above the eaves.
It was a wonder. It was a miracle.
“We shouldn’t have come here,” Robert said when he was able to speak. For some reason, viewing Ada’s Folly felt different now than it had upon his arrival. Before he’d made his bargain with Isabelle and learned of Ada’s life. It seemed a betrayal, though he wasn’t sure why. Strange how emotions could shift because of a story.
“But you’re glad we did, aren’t you?” Grace asked, handing him his walking stick from the carriage. Her hands were icy.
Robert didn’t answer, for the glass chapel felt sacred. Inviolate. He kept his steps soft as he approached it. The grass was still sodden from the rain the night he’d arrived; Hugh’s walking stick sank into it. Such was Ada’s Folly’s effect that even Grace stopped chattering. Once Robert viewed the chapel’s doorway, he was glad for his silence, for a dozen doves cooed inside the eaves. The lock on the ivy-draped door remained stiffened with rust though the ice had melted.
A fresh bouquet of roses was nailed to the blue-painted door.
“Your work, I presume,” Robert said, bending over to sniff the fragrant blossoms. “How much did Mrs. Douglas pay you?”
“You can’t make me feel worse than I already do. I know I’ve betrayed Miss Isabelle. I know I’ve made a mess.” Grace’s face tightened like she was holding back tears. “I’ve a proposition for you, Mr. Highstead.”
“I’m uncertain I want to hear it.”
“I think you do. We’ve an hour until the coach. Enough time to daguerreotype outside Ada’s Folly, if that’s what you want. I’ll even help you—”
“I don’t want that.”
“What do you want then?”
Before Robert could answer, Grace stepped out of the carriage to approach him. The look on her face reminded him of when she’d tried to seduce him. Determined. Merciless. Fearful.
“Grace, no—”
She laughed wildly. Desperately. “Oh I know you’ve no interest in me. I know you’re in love with someone, though I’m uncertain whether it’s Miss Isabelle, or even Ada from her story—”
He stared at his boots, his face hot as though Grace had uncovered his dream of Ada with Hugh. “I love my wife. Only her.”
“Don’t deny it! I’ve seen your face after you come from the library.”
He met her eyes. “You’ve been spying.”
Grace’s voice rose. “There are no secrets in a house with servants. I know you talk to yourself when you’re alone. I know you’re writing a book for Miss Isabelle about Ada and Hugh. I know you think you’re a historian again, though it’s easy to write about the past. Why not write of the future?”
“What of the future?” Robert’s tone was terse.
“My future.” Grace wrung her hands. “I need to leave here. Now. Take me with you. I’ve the tin for it.”
“Does this have to do with Owen?”
“I told you, I don’t care for him. Not anymore.” Her eyes filled unexpectedly. “We’re running out of time—you need to decide. Look.”
She pressed a heavy sheet of paper into his hand. A hand-lettered invitation decorated with gold leaf.
~ Seekers of the Lost Dream ~
Mrs. George Douglas Invites You
NOON on the 26th of FEBRUARY
HUGH de BONNE MEMORIAL
to take place at
Ada’s Folly
~*~
Be Present as Hugh de Bonne’s
Blessed Chapel of Glass
Is Unlocked
for a Private Service to Honor his Legacy
~*~
* WEALD HOUSE *
Kynnersley on the Weald Moors
Robert looked up from the invitation. “This is what’s upsetting you? Miss Lowell will never allow it.”
“Maybe she doesn’t have a choice.” She bit her lip anew. “Not anymore.”
His stomach plummeted. “For God’s sake, you didn’t tell Mrs. Douglas about Hugh’s coffin?”
“Of course not!”
“What did you do then?”
She grabbed the invitation back and ferociously tore it into pieces. “Nothing at all. Nothing! Do you want your daguerreotype or—”
Something whizzed by Grace’s head, landing in a pile of leaves with a soft thunk. A rock.
Robert’s head snapped around.
Tamsin Douglas stepped from the willows flanking the stream, emerging from the shadows like a daguerreotype exposed to mercury. Her bright copper hair matched the rose in the raven-feather cockade pinned to her bosom. Her eyes were blotchy. Whether her tears were over Hugh, her lost son, or her husband, it mattered not, Robert decided. She suffered.
“You! Grace!” she huffed as she approached, her skirts swaying. “I’ve been looking for you all morning. I even considered whether you’d do something desperate like run away.” She held up another rock. “I couldn’t think of any other way to get your attention.”
“You could have just called her name,” Robert said, any sympathy doused. He grabbed the rock from Mrs. Douglas. “Give me that.”
And then he remembered. The coffin. There it was, in plain sight on top of the open cart, without a tarp this time.
Shit. Robert felt his forehead bead with sweat.
“You must go,” he said, approaching Mrs. Douglas to block her view. “Now.”
“You’re Hugh’s cousin, aren’t you? I’d fainted before you that day in the study.” Her full mouth thinned into an embarrassed smile. “Mr. Highstead, yes? I don’t think we’ve been introduced.”
“I’m aware who you are, Mrs. Douglas.” Robert pulled himself to his full height as he placed the rock in his pocket. It was sharp. Dense. The size of a chestnut. “You could have injured her, madam.”
Mrs. Douglas’s chest heaved beneath her black cape as she jabbed a finger at Grace. “Do you know what this wretched girl has done?”
“It doesn’t matter what she’s done,” Robert said. “You’ve no right of way here. If you don’t leave—”
“Don’t threaten me, or I’ll get the constable on her. She’s a liar and a thief! I gave her twent
y pounds because she claimed to have the key to Ada’s Folly—”
“I didn’t exactly say that, ma’am,” Grace wailed, flailing her arms into the air. “I never claimed I had the key, only I’d try my best to get it from Miss Isabelle now that Hugh was gone. And I did try! Couldn’t find it! ’ Tis a very different thing. Haven’t I done everything else you asked? The roses? The bees?” She shoved her hands into her cloak pocket and pulled out a small pouch. “Here! Take your money back.”
“I don’t want my money back! I want the key. There’s something inside the chapel. Something Hugh wants me and the other Seekers of the Lost Dream to have. I know it! My husband said as much before his death. It’s in the poem:
‘As the Poet waited ’neath domed glass
Whilst the clocks chimed forlorn for noon
His fists stopping those who might trespass
With dreaded words he dared—’
All of a sudden Mrs. Douglas’s eyes widened. “Oh sweet heaven . . .”
Shit, Robert thought again. The coffin. She’d seen it.
“It’s not what it appears,” Robert cried. He rushed toward the cart as quickly as his ankle allowed, but it was too late. Mrs. Douglas had managed to pull her body up against the black lacquer casket. She collapsed sobbing onto it. Even Grace’s mouth dropped open.
“Is this him? He’s in here?”
“No!” Grace and Robert cried as one, dragging Mrs. Douglas off the coffin by her ankles. She kicked in protest, even landing a blow against Robert’s shoulder, but was no match for the two of them.
Once Mrs. Douglas had fallen to the forest floor, Grace shrieked and began to run toward the stream as though to drown herself. Just as Robert reached to grab her arm, Grace snatched the horse whip, which had fallen inside a pile of leaves amid the tumult.
“Stay back!” she yelled at Mrs. Douglas, brandishing the whip until it cracked in the air. “Or I fear you’ll be sorry!”
Next thing Robert knew, Grace had jumped onto the chaise carriage and pulled him beside her on the seat—she was as strong as she’d claimed—and grabbed the reins. The cart bearing Hugh’s coffin strained; the poor horse protested. But then they heaved forth toward the bridle path, leaving Mrs. Douglas behind wailing in their wake with frustration.
The Lost History of Dreams Page 23