The Lost History of Dreams

by Kris Waldherr

  II.

  “There you are, Grace!” Mrs. Chilvers cried, her widow’s cap askew. “And with Mr. Robert too! I was beginning to think you’d run off with him.”

  The housekeeper had been pacing before the kitchen door when Robert returned to Weald House with Grace trailing behind him. If Grace had driven the governess cart like a madwoman to Ada’s Folly, her recklessness as they fled Mrs. Douglas left Robert grateful she hadn’t broken their necks. “You shouldn’t have pulled a whip on her,” he’d scolded while they locked Hugh’s coffin back inside the stable. “Why the hell didn’t you take me to the coach stand?”

  “Would you have taken me with you?”

  “No. Anyway, she’d send a constable after you.”

  Grace looked like she’d faint. “Even in London?”

  “There’s constables in London, you know.”

  “I couldn’t think how else to stop her. I imagine she’ll show any minute. I’ll alert Miss Isabelle. She’ll probably sack me, but she’ll know what to do.” She ran toward the library, the dog barking and following in close pursuit.

  “I’m glad you returned, Mr. Robert,” Mrs. Chilvers said, ignoring Grace’s noisy exit. “Another letter from your brother.”

  If you have not left Shropshire with our Cousin’s remains by the time you receive this, I must urge you to do so without delay. An unsettling experience has convinced me to the wisdom of laying Hugh to rest as soon as possible. This morning I received a letter from the widow of Hugh’s editor regarding his estate. Mrs. Douglas has made the fantastical claim that Miss Lowell is an imposter . . .

  Unlike John’s previous letter, which he’d set on letterhead, this one was scrawled on foolscap. A marker of his impatience and desperation.

  Robert threw the letter into the fire. Ada. Isabelle. He’d hoped to forget. Damn Grace. If she’d taken him to the coach stand as planned, he would be on his way bearing Hugh’s corpse to their family plot and then to Sida, instead of standing there with his mind circling from John to Isabelle, from Isabelle to Ada, Grace to Tamsin Douglas in a topsy-turvy roundabout.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” he muttered beneath his breath.

  “You need to sit, Mr. Highstead?” Mrs. Chilvers asked. “Forgive me, I forgot your ankle.”

  “No,” he said, panic rising in him like a fever. What to do? “I’d rather go outside. Fresh air.”

  Ankle or no, Robert found himself in the rose garden, not quite recollecting how he’d made his way there. The beehive looked unchanged, with its nest of briars about the base, but the sky bore a peculiar brightness because of the clouds swathing the sky; thankfully it didn’t look like rain. He breathed deeply, yearning to rid himself of his trepidation. A waft of smoke irritated his nostrils. Owen must have been sulking nearby. Not that Robert cared—he had bigger concerns. He felt as exhausted as Isabelle had looked the previous evening; he recalled her face as she recounted Ada and Hugh’s wedding night, how possessed she’d appeared. The story was destroying her. And he was facilitating this.

  The bench. He needed to sit. A moment later, he was joined by Virgil. He shifted to afford the dog room to nest beside his legs without pressing against his ankle.

  The smoke retreated. Owen had moved on.

  Suddenly cold, Robert thrust his hands into his pockets. His fingers wrapped around the miniature of Sida’s eye. He prayed she’d be in London, that she wasn’t lost to him forever. How beloved she was. How beautiful. His chest felt heavy. Even before he’d dreamt of Ada, he’d betrayed Sida by letting Isabelle view the miniature—he’d never shown it to anyone before. Had he really come all this way to Shropshire to daguerreotype a corpse for Sida, as he’d told Isabelle? He had. And it still wasn’t enough.

  When will it be enough?

  A rush of wind. The back of his neck prickled. A cool breeze. He shoved the miniature back into his pocket, fearful he’d lose it.

  “Robert.” His name wafted in a voice as delicate as lace. “Over here.”

  Beneath the yew tree where those wood pigeons had landed years earlier for Ada and Hugh, a shadowy figure stood. Robert’s eyes strained. He made out Sida’s dark hair, her full mouth. Her blue silk dress with those wide sleeves.

  “You’re here!” he cried, his face widening into a smile. He hadn’t lost her. She’d make everything right again. She had to. Things would be better in London. They’d return as they were. He’d forget about Isabelle and Ada and Hugh.

  Sida’s eyes appeared shrouded. Heavy. Or was it shadows cast from the tree?

  “Of course I’m here. I can’t leave you, my sweet.”

  Robert rose from the bench to approach his wife, squinting into the gloom to better see her. There she was! He reached to embrace her.

  “Come to me,” he urged. “Closer.”

  Sida’s body grew smaller, denser. Darker. And then she was gone—or so it seemed.

  Deep within the yew perched the most exquisite raven Robert had ever seen. Her ebony-tufted head was a curve of harmony. Eyes dark as coal. Feathers gleaming with a cobalt-tinged iridescence, like they’d been woven from nightfall.

  “I love you,” Robert said, opening his arms for her. “Only you.”

  “Come to me,” he thought he heard her caw. “Closer.”

  He opened his arms wider still.

  The raven rose, her wings wide and powerful. She evaded Robert’s grasp as she flapped around the roses, her wings fanning his cheeks before she settled anew on the yew tree. Again, she cawed. “Never leave me.” Robert stepped toward her, his hair rustling from wind. Offered a hand . . .

  The raven soared toward the sky and dissolved into brightness.

  Virgil started barking as though he’d become a hound of hell himself. “Calm down!” Robert scolded. The dog pulled at his overcoat, still barking.

  “Mr. Highstead? Is that you?” Grace’s anxious voice cut through the cool air. A drift of smoke followed her. “I’ve been searching for you.”

  Before Robert could respond, a fist slammed into his jaw.

  III.

  Stars burst before Robert’s eyes. Sharp. Bright. Loud. Once they dissolved, he saw Owen aiming for his jaw again.

  Robert grabbed his hands. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Leave her be, you usurper of love!” Owen shouted. And then Grace screamed and Virgil barked again before Owen pulled away and managed to land another punch, this one on Robert’s arm.

  “Stop it!” Grace shrieked. “He’s not usurping anything, whatever that means!” It was too late: Robert found his hands curling into fists. The fists pummeling Owen’s jaw; later he’d have no clear memory of this save the thunk as his right hand slammed into Owen’s head. The jolt down his arm to his shoulder as the punch landed. But Robert found he didn’t care. Again, like during the church melee, he wasn’t there—he was back with Sida’s uncle that last afternoon, pummeling him as he pulled Sida away. He wasn’t sorry at all.

  And then Owen was curled on the ground at Robert’s feet, spitting up blood. His eye swelling. His cigarette on the ground beside him, the smoke curling.

  Robert stepped back, shaking out his hands, hopping on his feet, ankle be damned. The skin at his knuckles hadn’t split, but his head felt light, as though every nerve in his body had been jolted awake.

  “Why’d you do that, Highstead?”

  “Why’d you attack me?”

  “Because . . . because—”

  Grace slammed a toe against Owen’s thigh. “Because what, boy?”

  Owen rolled onto his back, gasping for air. “I’ve been devoted to you since the first time I clapped eyes on you, Grace. You know that! I was wrong to kiss her, but I thought if I made you jealous—”

  “Idiot!” She kicked him again. “What’s your excuse now?”

  “I heard you with Highstead. You together out here the other night, and then now! You like him—I’m no fool. What about me?”

  “What about me?” Grace shook her head so hard that pins scattered fro
m her curls. “I don’t like him. Nor do I like you right now. The only thing I like is the possibility of getting away from this accursed place before all goes to ruin. You’re all mad!” And then she stomped Owen’s foot with the full of her boot. “Get up, boy!”

  “Ow! Why’d you have to do that?”

  “Because Miss Isabelle is asking for Mr. Highstead to come to the library—that’s why I was looking for him. And she’s . . . she’s”—Grace choked up—“oh, never mind, just come!”

  * * *

  As soon as Robert saw Isabelle he understood Grace’s distress.

  He found Isabelle lying on the settee she’d brought up after he’d injured his ankle. The library was dark though the sun was bright—she’d drawn the shutters tight, leaving her wrapped in shadows. Like Ada in his dream, Isabelle lay covered by fur; she’d pulled the possum-skin rug usually set before the fireplace all the way up to her shoulders. An assortment of sheet music littered the floor where the rug had been. She’d probably discarded them after playing them that morning during her frantic concert.

  Robert’s breath caught in his throat. Isabelle was beautiful. That was the only word for how he found her. No doubt it was because he’d equated her with Ada, God help him. (Yet again his gaze shifted between her and that oil portrait of Ada with the sparrow.) All rancor had left her features, granting an unexpected tenderness to her countenance. Her hair was unplaited and reached all the way to her waist. It curled in wild tendrils about her shoulders, like an enchantress from long ago. However, her complexion had grown even more pallid than when he’d last seen her. She resembled a wax figure from a museum, an otherworldly figure he feared to disturb. If she was Ada, she’d survived longer than could be expected for a consumptive, but now the telling of her story was destroying her. Even Grace had witnessed this. He should stop her, turn her back from her story. He should leave, find his wife.

  The room was bitter cold. A quick glance revealed the grate was unlit though a fire had been laid.

  He rushed over and set a match to the fire. It blazed immediately.

  “Is that you, Mr. Highstead?”

  Robert turned from the flames; Isabelle appeared cast in gold.

  “Yes.”

  Her chalky lips tipped into a half smile. “Grace informed me you missed your coach. You’ll be amused to learn I was distressed by your departure.”

  “You’re ill. I’ll send Owen for a doctor.”

  “No, no,” she said, fluttering her fingers in front of her face like she was clearing cobwebs. “I haven’t felt well since I started Ada’s story. Perhaps that’s it . . . once I finish it, I’ll feel better.”

  Robert wouldn’t press. “I presume Grace told you everything. Did Mrs. Chilvers give you my letter?”

  She shifted into a seated position, muffling a cough. “It’s quite a fanciful tale.”

  “You do understand what will happen if we can’t prove your identity?”

  A barely perceptible nod. “I knew about Tamsin Douglas, but had chosen to ignore her . . . but Missus Dido! It really was her? I didn’t believe it could be. What’s she calling herself again?”

  “The Vicomtesse de Fontaine. She claims not to recognize you either.” Robert paused. “If you have something to confess, I’ll do what I can to help.”

  She jutted her lip out, color returning to her face. “Confess? Like a sinner?”

  “That’s not what I meant. But we must be quick—I expect Mrs. Douglas to show any moment. Now that she knows about Hugh’s death, she’s not going to leave you alone until you open the glass chapel.”

  “I don’t care! I won’t have anyone disturb my aunt’s grave.” Now the old Isabelle was back, the one who’d rebuffed him upon his arrival. Still, she asked, “I assume the coffin is locked inside the stable?”

  “Miss Lowell, the pilgrims—”

  “I am Isabelle Lowell! Who else could I be?”

  She was lying. She had to be.

  “Perhaps we should finish your aunt’s story,” he said, glancing at the mantel clock. “I have no idea how long we have left.”

  IV.

  The Fourth Day’s Story

  You’ve asked me to finish Ada’s story, Mr. Highstead, in the hope it will settle the pilgrims’ questions about who I am. I am uncertain what proof it may grant—after all, as a historian you surely understand that a story is told with words as well as in silences. The dead may be silent, but they have much to tell—but I digress.

  You may have thought the ghosts found at Weald House had been banished once Ada left England. But you’d be wrong. Instead, Hugh used the excuse of their honeymoon to take his bride to Paris in search of his own ghosts. This Ada understood too well—was she not haunted herself?

  All was felicitous at first. Hugh found them rooms in a boarding house in the Marais not far from where his mother had been marched to the scaffold. Nearly four decades after the end of the Revolution, France had settled back into an uneasy monarchy that lured all casts of life to Paris: poets, novelists, musicians, courtesans, tricksters, Americans. Due to these uncertainties, the matron of the house examined Ada with suspicion. From the quality of Ada’s posture and her accent, she knew Ada wasn’t the usual dollymop who took rooms for afternoon liaisons with married benefactors. Ada still looked younger than her age and otherworldly of mien; by then her disease had given her skin a waxy hue that drew stares from all who clapped eyes on her.

  “Why are you here?” she asked Ada. “What of your parents? Do they not worry for you?”

  Ada spoke French like all good gentlewomen should, for Madame Clarice had taught her a smattering alongside her piano scales. She lied that her parents had perished from influenza, to avoid sharing their history. “I am quite alone in the world,” she said, “save for my beloved husband.”

  Her curiosity assuaged, the good madam accepted the explanation with a tut, even pinching Ada’s cheeks for measure. It helped that Ada overpaid generously, though she’d yet to come into her majority.

  How happy they were! How blessed! Like Lucian and Adelaide some twenty years earlier, Ada and Hugh spent their mornings lying together bathed in sunlight. During the day, Hugh took Ada to the places that brought him joy as a young man: the Place du Carrousel with Napoleon’s triumphant arch, the Tuileries with its serene pathways and graceful fountains. At night, they attended the opera when it was in season; other times, literary salons and plays. Afterward, ears and hearts sated, they ate ortolan on gold-rimmed plates and fruit ices from silver bowls. They drank too much; the alcohol made Hugh snore, keeping Ada awake. They frequented noisy restaurants populated by hollow-eyed aristocrats who’d escaped extinction, feeling a kinship with them no one could comprehend.

  While Ada slept, Hugh would write poetry. He obsessed about sestinas and quadrants and iambic pentameter, forcing his emotion onto the page, instead of into life where they belonged. Sheets of paper accumulated like snow upon his desk and along the floor, but Ada didn’t mind.

  Once they were married, Watkinson had no choice but to release Ada’s funds, though not without grumbling. Ada was generous with Hugh, which afforded him to be generous in turn; he’d yet to make much from his books despite good reviews. He bought her a peach silk taffeta dress frothy with lace (“the color of salmon,” he said, “like something served cold at midday”), four pairs of velvet gloves. Bonnets blurry with ostrich feathers, a cashmere shawl fringed in silk. An emerald locket she promptly lost in the Seine the night he’d given it. (“The chain must have been weak,” she said, laughing off the loss.) He surprised her with zoo visits, music boxes and sheet music. She bought him first editions of Byron and Shelley, a hand-colored copy of Audubon’s Birds of America, a glass nib holder. A clock which featured a dove instead of a cuckoo. (It rarely kept time.) A silk waistcoat the color of grass after the rain, with matching gloves and hat “to wear when we walk in the Jardin des Plantes.” A yellow fur-trimmed overcoat to match the one he’d given her at their wedding. Patent leather boots
custom-built to support his weak leg. If they grew bored of ideas for what to consume, they’d walk to the market square on the Île de la Cité and fill their arms with lilacs, roses, camellias, and whatever else was in season, ignoring the precarious wall of cages containing birds and other life forms. When the flowers rotted, they’d simply buy more.

  One rainy day Hugh even made a scavenger hunt, like he had in Herne Bay. At the end of it Ada found a love sonnet hidden beneath a church pew. “The sacred amid the profane,” Hugh quipped. They ignored the letters Watkinson sent warning of their proliferate spending. (Farming doesn’t bring in the income it once did, he wrote.) After all, they’d economize once they returned to England. If they ever did—the longer they remained in Paris, the less often they thought of Weald House.

  * * *

  Robert interrupted, “Do we need so much detail, Miss Lowell?” He pointed toward the library door, half expecting Tamsin to burst in. “Forgive my bluntness, but how will this prove your identity?”

  Isabelle shuddered as though waking from a dream. “You’re right, Mr. Highstead. Time’s wasting.” She took a sip of tea. “I’ll try to be more concise from here on.”

  Or you could simply tell me who you are.

  But Robert didn’t dare say this. What if she refused to continue?

  * * *

  And so Ada and Hugh’s honeymoon in Paris passed, with spring turning to summer, then to fall. October arrived, and Ada turned twenty-one, finally coming of age and into her fortune, which allowed her to ignore Watkinson for good.

  Ada and Hugh. Hugh and Ada. No one else existed in the world but each other. However, the ghosts that haunted Hugh would not be ignored.

  And then one day, the ghosts returned.

  That November morning was the first day they had snow that season. Without warning, fine ice crystals had appeared suspended in the air, a sharp dash of cold. They melted as soon as they touched earth, for it was a sunny day, incongruous in its promise of warmth. Later Ada would wonder if she’d imagined it, a foreshadowing for all that was to be.