“I’ve a better idea, my sweet,” Sida answered, giggling with nerves. “Love, not hate. ‘Remember, happy are those who dare courageously to defend what they love.’ ”
Robert met her eyes. Robert understood.
As soon as they’d tumbled onto her uncle’s bed, Robert’s hands were on her breasts and her mouth was on his. “One last time before we marry,” he said, breaking from their kiss, excited by the danger; he’d already unbuttoned his trousers. “One last time,” she whispered, raising the hem of her blue silk dress. “We’ll be quick.” That had been the last he’d recalled before his head shattered with light and everything turned black . . .
Suddenly Robert found himself kicking his traveling case until he fell onto the floor beside it and he couldn’t catch his breath. “She’s gone. Truly gone!”
“Shush, brother of mine.” And then his brother slid to the ground beside him, embracing Robert as he had after their mother died when they were boys and their father had been lost to grief.
But Robert couldn’t take any comfort in his brother’s compassion. He needed to find Sida before she was lost forever.
III.
Upon his arrival in London, Robert found the city covered by the densest fog he’d ever seen. Regardless, he ran from Euston Station to Clerkenwell, covering the mile and a half distance more quickly than he ever had; his chest stung from the cold, his sides ached though he’d left his daguerreotype equipment in Kent. With every breath, a silent refrain reverberated throughout his body. I love you. Only you. In Clerkenwell, the streets were just as they ever were: Back Hill, Eyre Street, Grays Inn Lane. He rushed past them until he found himself outside his boarding house.
Let her be here. Please.
Robert swung open the door, his nerves tingling. His landlady started like she’d seen a ghost; she was in her usual spot behind the bar, poring over an array of bills with a pencil. “Well then,” she said once she recovered. “Mr. Robert Highstead, you’re late with your rent—”
He ignored her shrill complaints to dash the four stories to his room. The door was open. He stared out the window at the fog veiling the roofs. It obscured the crows on the chimneys, his reflection on the window glass.
No Sida.
Robert turned once, twice around the room, ignoring the display of prepared silver plates, Sida’s drawings, his books. His head felt light. His hands wrapped around Sida’s miniature in the overcoat pocket. The painting felt more insubstantial than ever compared to Hugh’s letters beside it. As insubstantial as his ghost wife.
She’s gone. God help me.
He heard his landlady’s heavy shuffle on the steps. “Aren’t you the one, flouncing in without a word of explanation! I’d thought you’d abandoned us for good. Where’s the tin you owe?” But there was no time to respond—already he was rushing down the stairs toward the pavement. He’d find her. He had to.
Outside the boarding house, the fog was heavier than before. In the short time he’d been indoors, it had turned from an ecru miasma some might consider picturesque to a threateningly tangible presence tinged with green. It stank of sulfur and was thick enough to obscure his hands. Sida! he felt like shouting into the dense void. But this wouldn’t do. Even in the unlikely event of her hearing him, she’d probably flee. He couldn’t blame her after what had happened with her. (Now he found he couldn’t say Ada’s true name. Nor could he refer to her as Isabelle. She was neither Ada nor Isabelle. Someone in between. Someone he must forget for the sake of his marriage.)
Robert whirled around Grays Inn Lane, his head pounding, his eyes straining. Where could she be? He felt unsteady. Disoriented. His memories of glimpsing St. Paul’s Cathedral to the south on clear days seemed an impossible occurrence.
Just as he despaired, a shimmer of blue flashed before him. A set of dark eyes.
He held his breath, oscillating between trepidation and joy.
The figure of a slight Eurasian woman materialized before him. Robert knew her face as he knew his own. Instead of wearing her usual blood-splattered blue silk dress, Sida had changed into a smart navy day dress with matching bolero jacket. They’d been intended as her travel outfit for their journey to Oxford after their honeymoon. She’d spent weeks sewing it, inspired by an illustration she’d seen in a Paris magazine. She’d never gotten to wear it. The presence of the outfit disconcerted Robert more than her witnessing him with Ada, or her transforming into a raven. She was changing. Evolving. Or was he?
Just as he took a cautious step in her direction, Sida pivoted on her heel. She walked down narrow lanes toward Victoria Street. Robert lurked as close as he could. Despite the fog, he did not lose her. A quarter of a mile later, she turned a corner onto an alleyway off Newgate Street. Now he knew where she was going. St. Paul’s Cathedral.
The fog had even managed to seep inside St. Paul’s where Robert found Sida. He watched her float beneath the dome down the gilded nave of the cathedral. He followed silently, fearful of startling her. She paused to light a candle near the choir before continuing down the nave and through the Great West Door to the world beyond.
Once she turned toward Fleet Street, he’d given up guessing her destination. He trailed after her for what felt like a half hour. In Trafalgar Square, the eerie chatter of feral pigeons, horse-drawn carriages, bird-seed sellers, and footsteps echoed around the scaffolding surrounding the unfinished business of Nelson’s Column. Unperturbed, Sida glided past the Mall. One turn later, she came to an abrupt stop in the middle of the pavement. The buildings looked familiar to Robert, but he couldn’t remember why.
His steps slowed as he approached. How close she was! He could sense her coolness, her radiance, though it appeared dimmed like a mirror beneath tulle. Even so, for the first time in days, his stomach unclenched. She’d understand it was she he loved, not Ada. All would be set right. They’d never be parted.
Robert stretched his hand toward the crisp wool of her jacket shoulder. Toward her dark hair . . .
Sida melted into the fog as suddenly as she’d shown.
From the shift of weight, Robert’s weak ankle gave way. He collapsed to a pavement splattered with bird droppings and let loose a string of expletives that would have made a fishmonger blush.
Once he recovered, he looked up. Through the misty air, he made out a cream-colored facade fronted by a curved portico. A discreet brass sign read: The Union Hotel.
Now he understood where she’d led him. The hotel where they’d spent the first and only night of their honeymoon.
His heart pounding, Robert pushed the heavy door open. He found himself inside an expansive lobby milling with humanity. His eyes stung with the sharp advent of light. The Union was just as he recalled from three years prior: the flocked red velvet wallpaper, the crystal-drenched chandeliers hissing with gas, the porters pushing brass carts towering with luggage, the upholstered chaises and chairs, the ringing of bells and clattering of teacups on saucers. At last he knew where to find his wife.
Robert smoothed his hair—he’d left his hat in Kent but at least he’d remembered his satchel—and approached the front desk. A pasty-faced woman of uncertain age stood behind a long marble counter before an array of keys. He didn’t recall her from his previous stay.
She glanced up from the register at his approach. Her smile seemed weighed by reluctance. “May I help you, sir?”
“I’d like a room, please.”
The woman glared over her lunettes, unimpressed by Robert’s bird-soiled overcoat, his bare head. “Rooms are let after three o’clock. It’s not even two—”
“I need the room now. If necessary, I’ll pay for the extra day. Please.”
There must have been desperation in Robert’s mien, for she made a show of rustling through the register book. “Very well. You’ll need to pay in advance.”
Once he’d signed and paid, he asked, “Is room seventeen available?”
IV.
Sida wasn’t in room seventeen. Nor was there any evide
nce of her. The hotel room was nicer than he recalled. He’d chosen well for their honeymoon—he’d wanted it to be special. It was also close to the National Gallery; he’d envisioned Sida taking pleasure in the art. Yet some things weren’t as he remembered. Perhaps they’d redecorated in the years since, for he’d forgotten the scarlet damask curtains about the bed, the windowed alcove with the obscured view of Trafalgar Square. Nor did he remember the porcelain basin, or the gilded mirror above it.
Robert stared into the mirror. His heart sinking, he locked the door behind him, his head throbbing between the fog and the brandy. Whether Sida was ghost or madness, he didn’t care. He loved her. Only her. She couldn’t leave him.
“Come to me!” he cried into the empty room. “I love you. Only you!”
No answer.
She’ll show. She has to.
He unpacked the eye miniature of Sida and set it on the nightstand, still unable to look at it. As for the letters John had given him, Robert couldn’t decide what to do. Send them to Weald House? Destroy them? The only thing certain was he wouldn’t read or write about Ada and Hugh de Bonne. Not after all he’d learned. For now, he pulled the packet from his pocket and placed it on the nightstand next to the eye miniature.
This done, he settled on the bed, the springs creaking, his chest heavy. At last, the exhaustion of the past week caught up with him. Though his stomach was rumbling, he didn’t dare leave to get tea. Sleep could help. Perhaps Sida would show in the meantime.
Robert closed his eyes. But he couldn’t sleep, for he was overcome by memories of that night over three years ago. The blow that had knocked him out. The shock when he’d regained consciousness and found Sida’s uncle slamming his fists against her body. “You’ll never hurt her again,” Robert had shouted, punching her uncle once he’d pulled Sida away. “I’ll keep her safe.” Instead of going for the police, Sida had insisted on their eloping as planned. They’d even set scuffed shoes outside their hotel room so no one would know they’d just wed. “I’m so happy,” she’d said. “Now I’m truly your wife. I’ll love you forever.” But she’d looked weak beyond the welts on her flesh, the bloody nose; her uncle had directed the whole of his fury on Sida, leaving Robert with nary a bruise save his head.
As soon as Robert settled her in bed, he’d rushed to get a doctor. It hadn’t mattered.
“How long did you leave your wife alone?” the constable had asked after her death.
“Just long enough to return with a physician. A half hour at most.”
“What happened upon your return?”
“She appeared to be sleeping. When she didn’t stir, I called her name. It was then I noticed the blood on her lips. On her gown. She was having difficulty breathing.” Out of delicacy, he’d omitted she’d dressed herself while he was gone; Robert suspected she’d felt so badly she’d decided to go for help before collapsing.
“Mr. Highstead?” This was the physician the hotel had recommended. “I’m truly sorry. Sometimes these injuries are more serious than they first appear . . .”
The memory faded. Robert drew a deep breath, his fingers brushing his beard. Suddenly he could no longer stand the hair on his face.
He forced himself from the bed, and found himself before the mirror. During his stay in Shropshire, mirrors had been a vehicle to seek his wife, not to address bodily requirements. He seemed a stranger to himself, with his rumpled hair that curled long about his forehead; his sensitive mouth; his fair skin that only burned in the sun; his exhausted eyes. Still, the allure of hope called: his gaze shifted to the void beyond the mirror.
No one there.
He shifted his eyes back: there he was again, a twenty-nine-year-old man with a beard, the scar at his left temple; his scab had finally fallen off, leaving a slender pale line in its wake. Just like Hugh. He examined the white in his beard and brow, which had increased during his time in Shropshire. Ada’s long ivory hair flashed before him. Perhaps he’d be completely white by the time he reached her age.
You’re tired You need sleep. Tomorrow you’ll decide what to do. Sida will return.
With a beard so grown in, it would be safer to go to a barber, but he was too impatient. He pulled out his shaving-tackle from his satchel—the soap, the brush, the strop and razor—and poured water into the basin. A subtle breeze caressed his neck in that old way.
Robert looked over his shoulder.
“Sida?”
His voice echoed in the room. His gaze lit on the letters, the miniature of her eye on the nightstand. The vacant space in the chair. The empty bed.
And yet if he closed his eyes, he could still feel her presence. Her soul.
Once he soaped his face he picked up the razor. His beard was so thick he’d need to be careful not to cut himself. Then, for reasons he didn’t quite understand, he stared down at his hands still holding the razor. His over-washed skin was nearly healed, just chaffed where he’d punched Owen. In another week they’d be like new.
He turned his hands over. The veins on his wrists were bluish. His skin translucent . . .
The bed curtains rustled.
“Robert . . .”
Robert turned back to the mirror—and there at last his ghost wife stood.
Sida’s face shimmered as though reflected in water instead of glass. She was still dressed in that outfit she’d never been able to wear while alive, looking as she ever did with her dark hair, her wide pragmatic mouth, her square jaw. Her kindness, her decency.
Robert set his razor down. For a moment he considered rushing to clasp Sida in his arms as he would have if she still lived. “You’re here!” he’d cry, kissing her over and over. “You didn’t leave. You’re here. You’re here! Oh, how I searched for you—I went to Clerkenwell, St. Paul’s, and so many other places we’ve been. I didn’t dare call to you, so I followed you all over London. But the fog—it was so hard to see you, like a terrible dream. But you’re here now, my sweet. You’re here!” And he’d take her hands and whirl her about the room as though they were children playing a circle game until everything would blur in a frenzy of red drapes, blue wool, and gold light. But he knew this wouldn’t do with his ghost wife. Not after what happened with Ada.
He turned and approached her carefully after wiping the soap off his beard.
“I’m so glad I found you,” he exhaled. “How you frightened me!”
“Of course I’m here.” She pointed down at her travel outfit, her tone hollow. “I’ve no choice but to remain with you. I’m your wife.”
The weight of her words drew the oxygen from Robert’s lungs. Ada. She hadn’t forgotten. “But it’s you I love. Forever.”
Sida shut her eyes so tightly that the delicate flesh at the corners crinkled. “Forever . . . What about her?”
How could he explain he’d been affected by Ada’s return from the dead? That he hadn’t intended betrayal? “You’re the only one I love. You. Cressida Maya Highstead. My wife. Stay with me. I’ll take care of you. Protect you. We’ll be together always.”
“It’s not that, my sweet . . .”
“I understand. I betrayed you. I didn’t defend you. Not enough.”
Sida opened her eyes. They’d turned clear as glass. “Happy are those who dare courageously to defend what they love,” she replied, quoting his Ovid. “You did defend me. But I didn’t marry you for that—I married you because I love you. Because I wanted a life with you.”
“But it’s my fault you’re dead!”
Sida’s face grew so ashen that she appeared to fade into the air. “Robert, it’s easy to look back and regret the past. What’s hard is the future.” A sob interrupted her words. “God help me, I wish I knew how to change things. To make them as they were.”
She began to weep so hard that she fell to the floor. Robert couldn’t think what to say. He heard the omnibuses outside on Piccadilly Circus, the caw of birds beyond. The cries of street vendors. The shuffle of footsteps on the corridor beyond.
The soun
d of his heart.
And then, in a rush that felt like a blow, he saw Sida as she was, not as he wished her to be. His mourning had kept her suspended between life and death, like a raven he’d trapped in a cage—a raven that resembled the living in form only. But it wasn’t just that. In a sense, he was in this cage too.
A troubling thought arose—one he couldn’t bear to voice.
“There, my sweet,” he said at last, his eyes wet too. “Don’t weep.”
He pulled Sida beside him on the bed—that same bed where she’d breathed her last—and gently spooned what remained of her. He smoothed the wool of her travel outfit, which was as ephemeral as her body. “How tender you are,” she murmured once she calmed. And then he knew what he must do.
“I’ve loved you from the moment I first beheld you,” Robert said, his voice stronger than he felt. “I still remember the first time we met six years ago. You looked up at me from your sewing. That drawing of the dove beside you . . .”
“I loved you as soon as I saw you too.”
Her voice lilted, like it once had. For a moment, he was back with her at that tailor shop, bathed in sunshine and possibilities. They hadn’t wanted to leave each other, even when the time arrived for the shop to close. He’d said, “How hard it is to say goodbye. Let us bid farewell instead.” All these years later, this hadn’t changed.
He reached for her hand, grasping only wet air. He fought the urge to turn her toward him for a glimpse of her face. Yet he felt her body relax against him. Her hand loosen. And then he found her mouth searching for his, and his for hers for what he knew would be the last time.
As their lips met tentatively, and then hungrily, he sensed the years turn back yet leap forward. Robert imagined this same kiss as an old man, if Sida had lived long enough for their hair to turn grey and their skin wrinkle and grandchildren play at their feet. The kiss became the one they’d shared in the woods after she’d painted her eye, and the kiss exchanged after they’d wed. It became the kiss of sorrow Robert had set on her unresponsive brow before the coroner took her body away; he recalled her cooling flesh, her unseeing gaze. Finally, the kiss returned to the present, and Robert understood the kiss for what it was, though this knowledge made his hands clutch for hers and his eyes sting.
The Lost History of Dreams Page 29