“Farewell, my sweet,” he said.
And then he was alone with outstretched hands and empty arms.
V.
Robert lay there for some time on that richly appointed hotel bed just as he had the night of Sida’s death. She’s gone. This time, he had no doubt. Had he imagined her presence all these months? An unexpected answer came: It doesn’t matter. As for what was next for him, his stomach ached from lack of food. It reminded him that while Sida might be spirit, he was decidedly human. Well, there was no longer any reason to remain there.
Robert buttoned his overcoat, raising the beaver collar against his neck though he didn’t need it. The air already felt warmer, the air sweet with the start of spring, as if the world had entered the room to pull him back into it.
He turned to the nightstand to gather his belongings. He recalled there was a decent public house nearby. After he ate, he’d go to Clerkenwell. For now. He’d change into fresh clothes, leave Hugh’s overcoat behind. Yet he found himself unable to quit the hotel. Not yet.
If it had been a month earlier, Robert would have daguerreotyped the room to record his last moments with Sida, just as he once daguerreotyped corpses to grant permanence to the past. But now, even if he had his camera with him, he couldn’t do this. Not anymore. He looked around the room, taking in the overlarge bed with its gaudy curtains, the gilded mirror, the view of Trafalgar Square teeming with life. If she still lived, Sida would have drawn the room to give form to memory. And then he knew: he’d draw it too, as she once might have. Though he wasn’t much of an artist, it would offer satisfaction.
Robert found hotel stationery and a pencil in the nightstand. He’d start by sketching the mirror in which he’d last viewed his wife. The mirror was the key to capturing her soul in the same way a daguerreotype captured memory. Yet once he picked up his pencil, his hands yearned for language instead of art. The urge felt similar to the one that had possessed him as he’d written his thwarted biography of Ovid, and while he’d transcribed Ada’s words. But what to write?
Grace’s words returned: “It’s easy to write about the past. Why not write of the future?” In a way, she’d been right, flighty as she’d been. But for now, he’d start with the present.
He began, My name is Robert Highstead.
He bit the end of the pencil, the fog clearing from his head for what felt like the first time in three years.
I am twenty-nine years old. I was employed as a daguerreotypist, but no longer.
The paper felt welcoming beneath his hand, the pencil alive with a purpose he’d forgotten. He continued, propelled by a keening excitement. I was a scholar. A historian. I loved—love, he corrected on the otherwise pristine paper, my wife, Cressida. She’s now dead these past three years, rest her soul.
His throat tightened, but he continued.
I am the cousin of Hugh de Bonne. The poet. He passed earlier this year. He was married to Ada de Bonne, who still lives.
And then: I love Ada de Bonne.
The words blinked up at him, unexpected.
Robert let the stationery sheet flutter to the carpet. His excitement soured into a strange angst. He dropped the pencil to the desk. Pushing aside the packet of letters, he grabbed the miniature of Sida, finally allowing himself to look at it for the first time since he’d left Weald House.
Ada’s painted eye stared back at him.
He sank onto the bed, the springs of the mattress protesting. Cradled the miniature in his palms. His sight strained as he took in the eye with the finely arched brow, the dull flecks of gold in the iris.
It was impossible. He was hungry. Exhausted.
The miniature was small and cold and bright in his hand. Real.
Robert stared at the miniature. Ada’s gaze confronted him. Somehow the miniatures must have become switched in the library. The near kiss they’d shared at Weald House was of that moment. Nothing more. A result of their nights together, those stories to untangle her past. Even he, a bereft husband, a failed historian, a daguerreotypist of the dead, understood this. If he closed his eyes, he could still see Ada during the last moments of her confession, when he’d at last teased the truth from her. Even with Hugh’s corpse gone and the death certificate destroyed, he wondered how long until she’d be forced out from Weald House—a month, maybe two. Given her troubles with the pilgrims, he suspected she’d be more willing to lose Weald House than to confess she was Ada de Bonne. They’d destroy her.
He set the eye miniature down, breathing deeply to collect his emotions. He’d mail it to her, along with Hugh’s last letters, as soon as he could. Perhaps she’d feel differently once she read them. They’d offer her the peace that had eluded all those years.
Go to her.
The words rose within him like they’d grown out of his very breath.
Go to her.
Yet when he imagined presenting himself to Ada, his anxiety flared. Would he encounter the Ada bright and sparkling with sparrows and light—his Ada, as he’d grown to think of her? Or the Ada who’d taunted him over the death of his wife and haggled with him over a story?
A bubble of laughter rose. The answer was obvious. Instead of mailing the eye miniature with the letters, he’d bring them to her. That would be his excuse to see her again.
He glanced at his pocket watch. Four o’clock. If he left now, he could be at Weald House by morning if he hired a coach from Shrewsbury.
He tucked the miniature of Ada’s eye into his pocket. He grabbed his portmanteau, his shaving-tackle, his scarf, and finally, the packet of letters. The black ribbon securing them slipped from his fingers, scattering the letters onto the floor.
As soon as Robert saw Hugh’s forceful handwriting he couldn’t turn away.
VI.
16 December 1831
Dear Cousin Bertram—
It has been so long since we last corresponded*—I trust this page of scribble finds its way to you without incident. Here is a small book of poems I’ve authored, which I hope will offer your family cheer this holiday season. I have been heartened by its reception, especially for the poem entitled “The Window of the Soul.”
My very Best to your Wife and Sons—
Yours in Contrition
I remain very truly
H. de Bonne
*Since the Chalk Farm “affair,” I thought it prudent to remain from your family, as you suggested. I am deeply grateful my Life was not snuffed that day, and remain in debt to you and Felicity for your care after my duel. Be assured every step I take reminds me how I’d nearly lost my life—twelve years on, I still bear a limp and a scar. However, this is a scant price for Wisdom gained and Incarceration avoided.
* * *
6 January 1832
My dear Bertram—
While I am grateful for your response to my unexpected letter, your words struck my corporal and etheric coil harshly—not because of any cruelty in your words, mind, but because of the dolorous news they relayed. Never did I imagine Death casting his cold gaze on your household—especially not on an angel as your Felicity. Her kindness and discretion during the Chalk Farm affair will never be forgotten as long as I draw breath. (To think that one to whom I owe my life no longer lives—for once I am without words.)
I possess admiration that you’ve embraced the consolation of philosophy—such Faith in our Maker bears you credit. (I wish I possessed such!) Though it is true, as you write, that many were taken during the Asiatic cholera sickness, this Truth does not lessen your Loss. My deepest sympathies to Robert and John. I am grateful they were spared, and am affected by their motherless state. ’ Tis a wound not to be wished on another.
May bright memory bring you warm comfort—
If ever you require my attendance, I remain yours
Most Faithfully
Your Cousin
Hugh
PS: No need to read my book—I know your mind slants toward Apollo rather than Dionysus. I simply hoped it would offer reassurance regar
ding my particulars. You were very kind to acknowledge my poems during such a time.
* * *
25 April 1834
Best and Kindest Cousin—
I’ve news that I know will surprise you—no, shock you—given my silence since our last correspondence. (Truth be told, I’m shocked myself.) I’ll grant you a moment to prepare yourself:
I’m engaged to be married.
I know. I know—ever since the Chalk Farm affair, you’d thought such a thing impossible. Hadn’t I declared myself espoused to Art rather than Love? Orpheus without his Eurydice? A Body without a Heart? How did such a miracle occur?
Once I explain my situation, you will understand—and, I hope, find yourself sympathetic to our wishes.
The woman I’ve chosen as my Eurydice is one Miss Ada Lowell of Kynnersley on the Weald Moors in Shropshire. (Perhaps you have heard talk of her in Town? She had a brilliant Season two years ago replete with a portrait at the Royal Academy that caused quite the stir.) She has suffered losses, as I have—both her parents passed when she was a child. Hence, she possesses a soft compassion tempered by a sharp mind. She is also a musician of great talent, though of a delicate constitution that requires protection. She currently resides with a guardian who serves as a nurse of sorts. It is an unusual situation.
I know I am babbling like a schoolboy instead of a man in the full of life, but I must tell you of how I first met my Eurydice. Let me cast the scene for you, my Cousin, so you may comprehend the serendipitous collusion of Fate—
Imagine a moor crowned by a giant yew tree like something Odin would have hanged Himself from. Now imagine it teaming with Columba palumbus—wood pigeons—mid-migration. Dozens. Hundreds. A thousand even. Finally imagine an angelic presence seated near this yew in a rose garden fallow with frost. Pale visaged like Isolde the Fair, with luminous eyes. A lithe figure gowned without the fraud of petticoats, attended by a sparrow she’d tamed by her own hand.
Bertram, I loved her at first sight.
Now that Ada has promised me her hand, I am reborn. A new man. Cleansed of my past. Made pristine for an unexpected future.
There is one small issue. Alas, my Ada will not reach her majority until October this year, at which time she will be well settled. Hence, we need to wed in France—we have no desire to wait any longer than need be to join our Fates. In the meantime, may I trouble you for assistance? Fifty pounds should be sufficient—we also need to pay for her guardian to accompany us. (I have no desire for my bride to bear the stain of impropriety in our eagerness to be joined before Man and God.)
Do let me know as soon as you can. I hope your sons remain well. I think often of your Felicity—
Yours in a rush
Of gratitude and anticipation
Hugh
PS: I nearly forgot—you may address me at the Royal Pier Hotel, Herne Bay, Kent. Better yet, attend us here. We remain for ten more days whilst we arrange passports and visas and ferry bookings. It would be good to see you for the first time since the Chalk Farm affair (which now seems of another Age entirely. Indeed, I truly am a new man!).
* * *
9 May 1834
Dear Bertram—
I appreciate the funds, which I will repay soonest—you are Best Among Family. My new book will be published next month, which shall add to our resources, if I am to believe my Publisher. We are at present in Paris, but anticipate returning to England in the New Year.
Yours with all gratitude—
H. de Bonne (now blissful husband of Ada)
* * *
10 January 1836
Dear Bertram—
I can imagine your alarum at receiving such an unexpected and confusing missive from a stranger. (I assure you I have never met this Mrs. Serena Smith-Fingle of Chelsea.) Allow me to confirm what she wrote you: Yes, my wife is with child. Yes, she was unwell—hence, we’d consulted Dr. Engelsohn, whom I take to be Mrs. Smith-Fingle’s brother—but Ada has improved since then. Yes, we have now taken residence in the Black Forest—hence, your letter arrived as intended. Yes, it is not the most hospitable of winter environments. Regardless, wherever Ada abides shall be my home. I shall never leave her, nor she me.
Wishing you a prosperous start to 1836—
I remain yours most sincerely—
Hugh
* * *
14 August 1836
Dear Bertram—
I’ve resisted answering your last letter as long as I could. I write with dolorous news: Ada is gone.
I can write nothing more of her Passing without the most exquisite Pain. How does one continue after such a Loss? How can it be that I still breathe, my Heart still beats? Forgive me—I know this is more than you expect from such a letter—but all one can do is to set our losses on paper in the feeble hope of excising them from Memory. I still dream every night of what happened. I cannot rid my mind of her—of my Responsibility. All I can do is write of the scene as I best recall. It will be a Grave Torment, but one I deserve.
The snow was still falling when the baby came, though it was early April. Despite the snow, yellow and purple crocuses flecked the muddy grounds surrounding the cottage, their petals pummeled by footsteps—such had been the doctor’s rush to get to my beloved in time. If I close my eyes, I can still see Ada lying on a bed splattered with blood, her limbs splayed like a doll. Me weeping beside her. After a labor lasting four long days, our baby had arrived at last.
The baby’s cry rang out, clear and strong and angry despite the cord that had been wrapped about her neck. I held the squalling, mewling bundle in my arms. “See?” I said to Ada. “Look how beautiful she is!”
Ada said nothing.
“Don’t you want to take her?” I pressed.
“She’s exhausted,” Herr Doktor whispered. “Let her be.”
“Where’s Hugh?” Ada asked, her lovely singing voice gone from screaming. (How I weep to relay this!)
“Here, my love,” I said, drawing closer, kissing her brow. “Look, our baby has your hands—her little finger is crooked, like yours. Shall we call her Mathilde after my mother? Or Adelaide, after yours?”
“A girl,” Ada repeated dully. Blood spotted the edge of the coverlet closest to her mouth. Was it from her lungs or from the birth? (At this my heart truly sank.)
“Let her sleep,” Herr Doktor said. “I’ll return tomorrow. Your wife’s body is weak but her spirit is strong.”
The remainder of my story is even harder to set on this page. A day passed. Ada thrashed with fever; I dosed her with laudanum. Her fever broke two days later: I permitted myself Hope, fool that I was, especially when she slept at last.
When Ada next awakened, I rushed to her side kissing her face, her hands.
“You’re still here,” she said. “I’d thought you’d gone.”
“No,” I said. “I’ll never leave you.”
“Nor I you.” And then my beloved Ada closed her eyes. She never opened them again.
Bertram, I can write no more—I shall never forgive myself for more than I can write here. But, as you know too well, to wed for Love is to wed Sorrow—
Until we meet in the Vale without Sorrow—
H. de B.
* * *
17 April 1838
Dear Bertram,
I must beg pardon for the brutal revelation of my last letter—I was wrong to write of Ada as I had. It was also wrong of me to take so long to answer you, setting you into worry. My excuse: this past year I have been hither and yon. Hence, your most recent correspondence only caught up to my Physical Being here in Paris (though I shan’t remain here any longer). You see, I’ve arranged to have a glass chapel built in the woods near Weald House to house my wife’s remains. A folly, if you will. It is my intention to join her there when my Sorrows have come to their inevitable End.
If you wish to help as you offered, Cousin, this I ask of you:
There is a young woman bearing the name of Isabelle Lowell who’d been traveling with us a
s my wife’s companion. She and I have been estranged since Ada’s passing for reasons too ugly to share. I do not anticipate any peace to be reached between us in this life. Therefore upon my death, I have arranged for a letter to be sent you from my solicitor regarding the details of my burial in the glass chapel. I ask that you, or a representative you trust, inform Isabelle of my final wishes, for a final bequest awaits her there.
If ever she bore any love for Ada, I pray she fulfill this.
In Eternal Gratitude—
Most Faithfully
Your Cousin
Hugh
PS: I apologize for my last letter’s lack of clarity: yes, my daughter survived and thrives. That is all I shall write of the matter.
The Furies
Excerpted from the last poem by Hugh de Bonne, burned February 1850.
As he fled life for death, death for blame,
Fair Orpheus declaim’d as he wept :
‘Hear me, illustrious Furies! O mighty nam’d
In Terror and Beauty that hath swept
My regret into a love so famed
That I shan’t forget those who rent
Raiment to mourn Eurydice’s descent.
Hear me O Alekto, Tisiphone,
But highest of all Megaera—
Too late I see my Responsibility.’
With Furies appeased, thus he sang :
‘Now let Sparrows return; the Ravens too—
Let Oak envelope in its embrace—
Let Her be received back to Earth—
A locus amoenus for my Beloved’s Soul.’
And lo! for first time, it is claim’d,
A never-known wonderment :
The Furies’ eyes grew true wet
And sweet milk of Mercy lent.
*
I.
The last letter fell from Robert’s hand to join the pile beside him. His thoughts of Sida were far away, along with his hunger and exhaustion and headache.
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