The Lost History of Dreams

by Kris Waldherr

  Hugh was so foolish that he never recognized the evidence before him. Nor did Ada, who accepted the illness as a mark of unavoidable fate. Still, Hugh cared for Ada in his way. He slept on the floor so he wouldn’t wake her should he need to relieve himself in the night. He found homes for the cats, who spent more time yowling than hunting mice. He brought her birds from the forest: sparrows, swallows, a wren. They joined the raven and the doves in that sordid cottage. Their songs replaced the ones she no longer played on the piano.

  As Hugh set the birds inside their makeshift cages, Ada knew he was trying to capture her soul in the same way he’d planned the glass chapel for his family.

  “Remain with me,” he’d whisper when he thought her asleep. “Never leave.”

  Ada began to dream of being entrapped by glass.

  By the time Christmas arrived, the cottage was surrounded in snow up to Hugh’s knees and Ada hadn’t eaten in days. Though there was a blizzard underway, Hugh said, “I don’t care what you want. I’m going for a doctor.” He walked off on foot all the way to the village two miles away. He was so distracted he wore a wool frock coat instead of the fur one Ada had given him.

  Some time later the door opened. Ada heard Hugh exclaim as he stomped his feet of snow, “Forgive me for not introducing myself, Herr Doktor—you have been so kind, so good to come so far on a snowy night with a stranger. My name is Hugh de Bonne . . . my wife is here. Take this candle. I keep the light dim so she may rest.”

  Ada saw the doctor was barely past twenty, but she was too sick to care. She allowed him to take her hand. To place his cold instruments against her bare flesh. Had she ever taken pleasure in Hugh’s caresses? In love? Now everything felt a torment. She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing it was over already. No matter how she moved, her body brought anguish: the curdling stomach, the gasping lungs. The woozy head and aching limbs.

  She heard:

  “How long has she been in this state, Herr de Bonne?”

  “Six weeks, though her illness progressed gradually. At first we thought the food disagreed with her. She’s already delicate—cold weather does not agree with her—but she’s grown much worse.”

  “What are her symptoms?”

  “She vomits. She cannot eat. She barely sips tea. She cannot stand for dizziness. I fear . . . I fear . . .”

  Ada opened her eyes. She was to have a baby—and she’d die. She’d known it as soon as the doctor questioned her. Instead of the quiet acceptance she’d expected, an anguished fury rose. It wasn’t enough for Death to take her. He’d take her child as well. Two as one. And then none.

  What will it feel to be dead? Ada thought. Anything must be better than this: the torment of illness. The anticipation of loss. To know she’d never hear the laughter of her own child. Never feel the sun on her skin again. Never watch spring return.

  She stared out the window. Snow. It was still falling. Everything was white, as though nothing were there. Nothing.

  Perhaps that’s what death was like. Like nothing.

  And then none . . .

  * * *

  “And then none . . .”

  Isabelle’s words drifted into silence. Robert looked up from the journal, waiting.

  “What happened next, Miss Lowell?”

  “I-I find myself unable to continue.” She wiped her eyes against her sleeves. “I’m sorry, Mr. Highstead.”

  Robert resisted the urge to set his hands on her shoulders. To comfort her. “Let me finish your story,” he said, his heart breaking for her. “I’ll write it for you.”

  Just as he had with his Ovid biography, he’d use what he hypothesized. This time he wouldn’t be wrong.

  Robert wrote:

  But Ada didn’t die, to Hugh’s surprise and relief. Instead she strengthened as her pregnancy progressed. For the first time, Ada began to hope. By the time she’d reached full term in May, she was back to playing her piano. It was as well, for it was the rainiest spring they’d ever seen. They spent days inside, entwined in each other’s arms, feeling their baby kick. “A girl. I know it,” Hugh said. “I want to name her Mathilde, after my mother.”

  The baby came in the dead of night, just as a thunderstorm began. Ada woke with her nightdress soaked in water. It wasn’t from rain.

  Hugh ran for the doctor. By the time they’d made it safely back to the cottage in the woods, Ada’s hands were bloody. “What took you so long?” she wept. “Now all is lost.” Her poor body ached like she’d been torn apart by wolves.

  They buried the baby on the first dry day after her arrival. Ada wouldn’t meet Hugh’s gaze to witness his tear-swollen eyes. It was his fault. Hadn’t he brought them to this accursed place, where their only child had been born dead?

  Soon two months had passed. Inside the cottage in the heart of the Black Forest, Ada paced in front of the ash-covered fireplace on a day when Hugh had gone to the village. “I never want to see you again,” she wrote in Hugh’s journal on the same page where he’d sketched the glass chapel. She gathered the remainder of Adelaide’s jewels. She freed the raven and the doves.

  When Hugh returned to the cottage that night, Ada was gone.

  III.

  Once Robert finished writing, he’d stood from his chair and closed the journal. He offered it to Isabelle after he trusted himself to speak. “You can’t publish this. Nor does it prove your identity. But I suspect you already know this.”

  She hugged the journal against her chest. “You’ll take Hugh’s corpse when you leave?”

  Robert nodded. “I promise you’ll never hear of him again from me or my family. As for the pilgrims, I’ll swear to your identity. I’ll claim I’d forgotten meeting you as a child.”

  A teary smile. “That would be a lie, Mr. Highstead.”

  “Sometimes a lie is the most ethical course of action.”

  “True. If I’m not who I am, how could I know Ada’s secrets?”

  Robert was about to say, “You’d have to be Ada de Bonne herself.” But then a new shuffle of footsteps sounded in the corridor outside the library.

  An impatient rap on the door.

  “I don’t think it’s Mrs. Chilvers this time,” Robert said, his heart speeding. “Whoever it is, I’ll turn them away.”

  “Too late.” Isabelle shook her head. “I’ve no doubt it’s Tamsin. She’ll just come back.”

  Robert stared at the journal in Isabelle’s hands. What would Tamsin do if she read what he’d just written in it?

  Knock. Knock. Again. This time loud enough to make the library door shake.

  Isabelle smoothed her hair, blew her nose. “I’m surprised she took so long. I was beginning to think she’d stolen Hugh’s corpse from the stable.” How calm she sounded. Relieved even. “Give me a moment.”

  Once she’d hidden the journal in a desk drawer, Robert opened the door.

  Tamsin Douglas wasn’t alone. Missus Dido paced behind her, her black cloak swaying like a shadow in the darkened corridor. Mrs. Chilvers bustled from the stairs in her nightdress. “Don’t blame me, Miss Isabelle—I’ve naught to do with this!” the housekeeper said, flailing her arms as though to take flight. “I tried to stop them. They forced their way in!” Owen and Grace shoved each other. “This is all your fault,” Owen hissed at Grace. Grace hissed back, “You’re the one fighting—”

  “Please!” Robert said. “What’s happened?”

  “I’m glad to find you here, Mr. Highstead,” Tamsin said, “for this concerns your family.” She raised a piece of paper over her head. “Look! Can you believe it?” And she began to laugh, but it was a strange laughter, replete with exhaustion and relief. Robert’s flesh prickled.

  “What’s so funny?” Grace said. “Did you call the constable on me?”

  “Constable?” Mrs. Chilvers cried, looking as though she’d faint. “I can’t bear this—I’m too old.”

  “No police,” Missus Dido said, her face set in a manner Robert couldn’t decipher. “Surely we can settle this—�
�

  “I agree, no police!” Grace interrupted.

  “Hush!” Owen snapped. “Whatever it is, let Miss Isabelle see it.”

  Once they’d entered the library, Tamsin held the paper before Robert’s eyes. He recognized it as a document he’d witnessed too often these past three years. A death certificate.

  His stomach dropped at the name set upon it.

  Isabelle Ada Lowell.

  “It’s what it appears to be, Mr. Highstead,” Tamsin said, pointing. “It even bears a seal.”

  “So it seems,” Robert answered, his mouth dry. He glanced at Isabelle, whose back was pressed against the desk where she’d hidden the journal. He motioned her over.

  “You should see this.”

  They read the remainder of the document together:

  Date of Death: 7 November 1827—Telford, Shropshire

  Cause of Death: Smallpox

  “I can’t explain it,” Isabelle said, her fingers twining and twisting in their usual manner. “That’s my name. But the certificate isn’t for me. Another relation no doubt.” Her gaze darted his way. A forced smile. “Mr. Highstead! Perhaps you can help—you know of our family history.”

  “You should leave!” Grace scolded Tamsin. “I know you’re vexed with me, but let Miss Isabelle be!”

  Robert shushed her. He looked up from the death certificate, his mouth dry. “How did you obtain this document, Mrs. Douglas?”

  “I’m responsible,” Missus Dido said, her eyes enormous behind her spectacles. “My solicitor located it this afternoon in Shrewsbury after discovering Ada’s father’s family had lived there years ago. It was most unexpected.” She offered Isabelle a remorseful glance. “And unfortunate.”

  “Oh goodness,” Grace muttered, looking as though she’d faint. “Is Miss Isabelle dead then?”

  “No!” Isabelle cried. “That’s another Isabelle Lowell. Not me.”

  Robert leaned toward the candle to better view the document. “If I recall correctly, Hugh’s will is dated 1839. The death certificate is from 1829. Why would he leave an estate to a deceased relative?”

  “Perhaps he was unaware of the death. It matters not—she’s no proof of identity anyway.” Tamsin snatched the certificate from Robert, her hands shaking. “Careful!”

  Isabelle grasped Missus Dido by her shoulders. “Didn’t we meet when I was a child? When I came home for school holidays?”

  Missus Dido pulled away, grimacing. “It’s been so long. My sight . . .”

  “Look!” Isabelle drew out something small and metallic from her pocket; Robert immediately knew what it was. “If I wasn’t Isabelle Lowell, how could I possess this? Surely you recognize this, Missus Dido.”

  “What is it?” Owen whispered.

  Robert explained, “A painting of Ada’s eye.”

  “How do we know the portrait is genuine?” Tamsin demanded. Yet she didn’t hesitate grabbing the miniature to examine it, setting the death certificate on the table. “Hugh never wrote of this in his letters. My husband would have known.”

  “But Missus Dido should recognize it,” Robert insisted. “Let her look.” He called to Grace, “She needs more light. Get a lamp.”

  “I’ll light it,” Owen offered, drawing matches from his pocket.

  Viewed beneath gaslight, the eye miniature was as different from the painting of Sida as chalk from cheese. Robert envisioned Ada sitting for the portrait after viewing Canterbury Cathedral with Hugh, the sun hidden behind clouds. How tiny the miniature was, no larger than the circumference of a robin’s egg. He squinted to better view it. The iris of Ada’s eye was grey. Similar to Isabelle’s . . .

  She must be her.

  Before Robert could react, smoke twined up his nose. He was about to scold Owen for smoking in the library, but then Grace began to scream.

  Flames. They licked along the table. The death certificate curled inside them, a twist of gold and ash.

  “Fire!” Missus Dido shrieked, heading for the door. “We’re all going to die!”

  “We’re not going to die,” Robert said, smothering the flames with his jacket until all that remained was a charred tabletop.

  Tamsin shoved Owen. “You purposefully set it!”

  “ ’ Twas an accident.” He shrugged. “Suppose you’ve nothing now.”

  “Accident, my hat!” And then Tamsin punched Owen square in his jaw, just as Robert had earlier.

  Owen staggered but he didn’t fall, for Grace caught him. The look Owen gave her as she gathered him against her bosom to set her lips on his reminded Robert of angels singing. But there was scant chance for Owen to wallow in the kiss, for Isabelle swooned to the floor. Her blood-spotted handkerchief fell from her pocket.

  “She needs a doctor!” Robert shouted as he reached for her.

  IV.

  Once Owen and Grace ran to fetch the doctor, Robert found himself holding the journal—Isabelle must have extracted it from the drawer when no one was looking. “Take it,” she mouthed to Robert, her eyelids fluttering as she briefly met his gaze. “Keep it. Don’t leave me.” Immediately Tamsin and Missus Dido had crowded about them, shouting. Robert pushed them away and slipped the journal inside his jacket pocket.

  “Leave her be!” he shouted to the pilgrims. “Go! Now!”

  Once the room was cleared, Isabelle opened her eyes. She’d feigned her faint. Robert knew what else she was faking. Even so, her flesh was pallid, her breathing shallow. Was her deception real? Or reality a tool for deception?

  “That death certificate,” Robert prompted; surely she’d finally confess her identity. “It seems anyone who knows you is either dead or claims not to recall. You have no provenance. Only hearsay. And even with the death certificate burned—”

  She shuddered as though stirring awake. “I never want to speak of that certificate again.”

  “You can’t ignore it. I’ve sat here all these nights writing down your story. You must want me to know the truth.”

  “I am who I said, Mr. Highstead. There was another Isabelle Lowell. Another relation. I swear!”

  Robert wouldn’t challenge her. She seemed so fragile. So unwell. “Can you sit? I’ll get you something to drink.”

  Isabelle nodded, docile as a child. Robert reached for a crystal decanter and goblet that was always kept on the fireplace mantel; it was filled with a burgundy-hued fluid. Port, from the scent of it—he recalled it from the first night he’d arrived at Weald House. (How long ago this seemed!) The ornate crystal always seemed out of place at Weald House, a last relic of Hugh and his love of fine things.

  She drank heavily, the port dribbling down her chin. Once she finished, Robert asked, “Better?”

  She nodded. “Better.”

  “The doctor should be here soon.”

  “No doctor can help me,” she confessed. “You see, there’s something else weighing me. Something I need to speak of.”

  Robert’s heart began to pound. “Besides the death certificate?”

  “Yes . . .” She muffled a cough, her lashes wet. “It’s this. I know you’re going to leave here now that I’ve finished my story. I know most likely I’ll never see you again.”

  Her finger tapped the rim of the glass; Robert waited for her to continue.

  “But that’s not all that’s bothering me—and there’s so much! I-I was with Ada after she married. She never wrote me letters.”

  “I suspected as much,” Robert said, his pulse speeding.

  “It matters not, though. Not after that death certificate.” Now she was sobbing in earnest.

  Somehow he found himself stroking the slope of her shoulders to comfort her. Her bones felt as shallow as ice on a spring morning, and as fragile. She smelled of wine and soap.

  “I don’t know what you wrote in my journal, how you ended it,” she said. “But I want you to know the truth.”

  His hands fell from her shoulders as she rose to stand before the fire. The flames flickered wildly, whipped by the wind hiss
ing down the chimney, silhouetting her before his gaze. Perhaps it was exhaustion from the long day, or a trick of the light, but he had the sense that, while looking at Isabelle’s shadow, Ada was standing beside her. Was it his yearning? Or something else?

  Robert blinked several times to disperse the hallucination. The hallucination remained.

  Ada seemed as much a presence as Sida had been these past three years. She looked just as Isabelle had described all those nights: her dark hair, her hollowed cheeks and luminous eyes, her clothing of fifteen years earlier with its flounces and flowers. Robert’s sight blurred with light and color. Through this haze, he watched Ada playing the piano. Ada walking along the shore at Herne Bay. Ada examining an array of fossils. Finally, he saw Ada embrace Isabelle. But then something happened he could not have foreseen: Ada’s form merged into Isabelle’s body until only one woman remained. As the two became one, Robert had the sense he was watching a spirit enter a body instead of departing, unlike all those corpses he’d attended with his camera.

  And at last she appeared whole to him—no illness, no suffering. Filled with life. Not death.

  A looming joy rose in Robert, one he hadn’t felt since his wife’s return from the grave.

  “You’re her. Ada.” He’d been right all along.

  As soft as his voice was, Isabelle—or Ada, he reminded himself—flinched.

  “Allow me to explain, Robert—”

  He had no time to question her addressing him by his Christian name and all this might signify, for he drew as close as he could. Her mouth parted, her pupils dilated. He brushed her hair from her face, ignoring the vein pulsing at her temple, the air rushing from her parted lips. He stared at her, at the portrait of Ada across the room, then back again, envisioning the march of time spreading their toil across her features. It must be. And then he could no longer remain silent.