The Lost History of Dreams

by Kris Waldherr

  “We should leave,” she said, releasing his hand once he was upright. “It must be well after nine. Once word gets out the chapel has been unlocked, Tamsin will be here—I can’t bear to see her gloat.” Her gaze swept over the moss, the reeds breaking through the floor, the forest carved of marble. The sun was now high enough to set the chapel windows ablaze: the bounding glass birds, the ivy, the twisting roses, the sparrows, the raven. As beautiful as the chapel was, now that he knew her story, it seemed a necropolis forged from regret and memory. Just as his life had been these three years. “I should have sold it when I had the chance . . .”

  Isabelle’s words trailed into silence once her gaze reached the stained glass window bearing Ada’s portrait. Then, to Robert’s wonder, she recited:

  “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 impugn . . .

  Then he cried : ‘Break the glass, but not to plunder!

  Let Eurydice rest protected from her foe

  On a bed of diamonds—a chimera of wonder—

  A home for—’ ”

  She broke off as a second dove landed beside her feet.

  “A home for her soul,” Robert finished; he’d memorized the poem after hearing Tamsin recite it outside Ada’s Folly that day.

  A home about to be invaded. Lost.

  Isabelle swiped at her eyes. “God help me, despite everything I can’t bear to think of the pilgrims here. At least I’ll be gone for good.”

  Robert couldn’t respond, for his mind was racing like a horse toward a broken fence. He stared at the glass, trying to capture it to memory as he’d once captured light and shadow with his camera.

  A riot of blues, reds, and greens spilled across the white marble tracery, across the floor and along the carved trees. The glass portrait of Ada seemed intensified too, as though it was imbued with a soul, like Hugh had written. Robert imagined the chapel overtaken by time and nature, just as it seemed destined when he first viewed it. The white marble walls crumbling beneath ivy. The arms of the forest jutting past the clear glass dome. The windows choked by vines and nests. Birds clustered amid fissures. Foxes hiding in crevices. Moss crawling up arches. The earth reclaiming Ada’s Folly for its own . . .

  “Now let Sparrows return; the Ravens too—

  Let Oak envelope in its embrace—

  Let Her be received back to Earth—”

  The words emerged from within Robert like a prayer, though he had no idea where they came from. Now this could never be. Instead, hordes of pilgrims would arrive to weep at the stained glass of Ada. Faint before it. Deposit offerings of raven feathers and blood-red roses, which would rot on Ada’s bench. Couples would request to be wed there. Mourning widows would weep. The pilgrims would give way to curiosity seekers arriving from as far as London and Paris, each queuing to pay sixpence a tour. Who’d lead the tours, now that Grace and Owen were gone? Perhaps it would be Tamsin Douglas once she recovered from the fire, or even Mrs. Chilvers; Robert couldn’t envision Missus Dido’s involvement, given her disdain for the pilgrims. Though that hadn’t stopped her joining forces with Tamsin when it came to that death certificate.

  Robert pressed his eyes shut, unable to stop the thoughts pummeling him. This time, instead of his wistful march of nature’s dominance, he viewed a darker fate unfold for Ada’s Folly:

  Caravans of carriages arriving at the coach stand.

  A wider road built to accommodate them.

  The willows near the chapel chopped for a footpath.

  Ivy trampled around the doorway.

  Muddy footprints on the marble floor.

  The torrent of newspaper articles.

  Books. Scholarly articles.

  Hawkers along the path.

  Watercolors for sale.

  Daguerreotypes.

  Hysteria.

  Noise.

  Chaos.

  Loss . . .

  “No,” Robert said, opening his eyes. “No.”

  Isabelle frowned at his outburst. “No?”

  “No.”

  His hand jabbed in his pocket. The rock inside it was small. Dense. Jagged. Just the shape to break glass. To banish ghosts.

  “Here,” he said, pressing the rock into Isabelle’s reluctant hand. “If you’re not going to do it, I will.”

  “Do what?” Her hand was shaking. Was it fear? Excitement? Her forehead furrowed. But then, like Adelaide and Lucian decades before he’d planted those rosebushes, Isabelle met Robert’s gaze. Isabelle understood.

  “We must hurry,” she said, squeezing Robert’s hand. She even smiled. “Now.”

  The rock made a small hole in the window closest to them but didn’t penetrate through to the milky glass protecting it from the outside world. “What else can we throw?” she asked. Robert pointed to rubble on the floor, where a thick tree root had forced its way through marble tiles. Isabelle laughed as she gathered the shards in her arms, piling them atop Ada’s bench, her movement swift and strong. What other surprises did she hold?

  Her voice rang out:

  “As the Poet waited ’neath domed glass

  Whilst the clocks chimed forlorn for noon . . .”

  Robert threw the second stone, which shattered the whole of a window showcasing a large glass raven. The third cracked a gathering of sparrows.

  He shouted in reply:

  “His fists stopping those who might trespass

  With dreaded words he dared impugn . . .”

  They ran back and forth, gleeful as children, fearful they’d miss a window. Their boots scraped on shards of glass, which crumbled beneath their weight. Isabelle’s laughter resounded, loud and hearty. As the windows shattered, colored glass rained above their heads. Robert clutched her against his chest, covering her head beneath his overcoat. She didn’t pull away, not even when a flush of doves materialized before their faces.

  A cold breeze, the scent of pine, wafted through the chapel as their voices traveled into the forest:

  “Then he cried : ‘Break the glass, but not to plunder!

  Let Eurydice rest protected from her foe

  On a bed of diamonds—a chimera of wonder . . .”

  Soon only one stained glass window remained, the central panel bearing Ada’s portrait with her sparrow. Isabelle wrapped her cloak around her forearm and smashed its base with a triumphant yell. As the portrait collapsed and fell, a giant wind hissed and Robert envisioned Ada’s soul released into the ethers of memory—perhaps Hugh was there too, at last at peace.

  But there was no time to mull this, for there was one last threat: the clear glass dome Robert had climbed that first night. The dome arched like a soap bubble over the skeletal remains of Ada’s Folly, its otherwise pristine surface marred by a spiderweb of cracks near the ledge.

  Isabelle pointed up. “What to do?”

  Before Robert could answer, a giant tremble shook the ground as the chapel walls shifted beneath the dome’s weight.

  His heart pounded like a drum. They needed to find cover. Now.

  But the dome did not collapse. Instead, something far more unexpected occurred. An unearthly cry spread across the moors as dozens—no hundreds—of doves emerged from the eaves beneath the dome. The wind roared through what remained of the chapel walls, scattering more doves in its wake. He raised his arms to protect Isabelle. The doves grew thicker still. They appeared a blinding mass of life. An elemental force. In that moment, they felt more threatening than anything he’d ever imagined. Worse than a glass dome shattering above his head. More terrible than the renewed loss of his soul to sorrow.

  “Come! Against me!”

  Robert had to shout to be heard—the air was filled with the rush of air, the blur of feathers.

  He threw the overcoat onto the floor just as the glass dome cracked. A single fracture was enough to do a dozen’s work. It joined with the fissures
already present to spread across the dome. Isabelle tensed, and Robert screamed for cover, but the dome did not shatter; Hugh had reinforced the dome with thin ribs of steel. The metal glittered like diamonds beneath the sun. No matter—there were other threats to consider.

  The doves continued to come. Thick. Relentless. By the time the first dove landed on Robert’s shoulder, he’d grabbed Isabelle’s arm. He pulled her against him. Down onto his coat. He awaited her protest, but she only drew her cloak over them. Shards of glass pricked their flesh through the wool.

  The din of wings grew louder. Brighter. Stronger. A shower of lavender-hued petals rained from the blossoming willows, dappling their faces, their hair. Robert shut his eyes. Held his breath. He imagined what the doves might see: a man and a woman beneath a cloak covered in flowers, curled on a bed of glass.

  He felt Isabelle’s hand creep toward his. Her touch was surprisingly warm. He held his breath further still.

  “Open your eyes,” she said, twining her fingers into his. “Look up.”

  Robert looked up just as her thumb pressed against the heart of his palm. Three times.

  The doves rose toward the sky like souls returning to heaven.

  Acknowledgments

  The Lost History of Dreams was born from an actual dream I had several years ago. In it, I witnessed a young woman arguing with a gentleman over an inheritance in a shabby room lit only by a fireplace. Both were dressed in mid-Victorian clothing. When I woke, I had no idea what the dream was about, or who the couple might have been. Regardless, I found myself turning the dream over in my mind, unable to forget it.

  The novel you have just finished reading is the result of that fragment of a dream, and the support of many people and institutions. Though it feels an impossible task to express the depth of my gratitude to everyone involved in the writing and publishing of The Lost History of Dreams, I shall try my best.

  First off, I owe my biggest debt to my literary agent, Michelle Brower, who took on The Lost History of Dreams when it was little more than a one-page synopsis. Michelle saw the potential in this novel long before I did and has been there all along, bolstering me with her enthusiasm, dedication, and willingness to spend hours brainstorming the tangle of Robert and Isabelle’s story via emails and “summits” involving strong coffee and French pastries. I’m especially elated that Michelle found the perfect editor for The Lost History of Dreams in Tara Parsons, whose sharp-eyed brilliance and love of my manuscript transformed it into the book you now hold in your hands. I am also grateful to the entire Atria team, especially Trish Todd, who took over the reins from Tara with enthusiasm and aplomb; her assistant, Kaitlin Olson, marketing whiz Isabel DaSilva, and publicist Megan Rudloff. In addition, Isabella Betita kept production running smoothly, and art director Cherlynne Li commissioned Jarrod Taylor’s stunning cover design depicting Sida’s first appearance in my novel.

  Though Michelle, Tara, and Trish served as fairy goddess-mothers to The Lost History of Dreams, I received invaluable assistance from the following institutions. The Virginia Center for the Creative Arts provided me with a residency fellowship during the crucial period when I was finishing my first draft. I’m grateful to Karen Dionne, Christopher Graham, and Robert Goolrick at the Salt Cay Writers Retreat, where I presented the first scene from The Lost History of Dreams for the first time ever. The Highlights Foundation offered a quiet cabin and delectable meals when I was chin-deep in revisions. On the craft end, National Novel Writing Month, better known as NaNoWriMo, turned me from an author who makes illustrated books into an author who writes novels. I’m also indebted to the Sackett Street Writers’ Workshop, where I workshopped my fiction with Heather Aimee Fisher-O’Neill, whose life-changing advice transformed my career. Another debt of appreciation goes to Emily Kramer and Kate Piggot of LitWrap, who facilitated a Poets & Writers works-in-progress reading grant for The Lost History of Dreams. My colleagues at the Historical Novel Society, especially Nancy Bilyeau, Christopher Gortner, and Mary Sharratt, provided encouragement and friendship over many conferences and confabs.

  The research for The Lost History of Dreams included two trips to England, where I walked the paths trod by Robert and Isabelle, and a trip to Herne Bay, Paris, and nearby Sèvres, where I followed in Ada and Hugh’s wake. Another research trip took me to Rochester, New York, where Eric Wilder of Spine Magazine escorted me to the George Eastman Museum and listened patiently while I enthused over daguerreotype plate formats and antique cameras. In addition, the George Eastman Museum’s photographic processes video series granted me a deeper understanding of the mechanics of Robert’s work as a daguerreotypist.

  Closer to home, Courtney Walsh of the Stevens Institute of Technology in Hoboken was the librarian friend every author yearns to have. Courtney assisted with researching the details of post-mortem photography, consumptives, and nineteenth-century pre- and post-natal medical care. From a twenty-first century first-world standpoint, where sterile medical practices and readily available antibiotics are taken for granted, it’s shocking to consider how often premature death befell our nineteenth-century counterparts, especially in regards to infants and children; in England, the average life expectancy at birth in 1851 was 41.9 years for females and 39.9 for males (source: UK Office for National Statistics). Victorian mourning rituals helped the bereaved grieve, process the unimaginable, and take comfort in the promise of a celestial reunion on the other side of the veil; I’ve detailed some of these fascinating customs in The Lost History of Dreams, such as hiring a mute person to accompany a funeral procession and hanging fabric over mirrors to prevent trapping souls on the earthly plain. Louis Daguerre’s 1839 invention of the daguerreotype, the first widely available method of photography, offered Victorians a new way to memorialize their dearly departed. According to Dr. Stanley B. Burns and Elizabeth A. Burns, authors of Sleeping Beauty II: Grief, Bereavement in Memorial Photography American and European Traditions, post-mortem photographs “were an unquestioned aspect of everyday life . . . They were taken with the same lack of self-consciousness with which today’s photographer might document a party or prom.”

  The following books offered additional invaluable information about the art of post-mortem photography and daguerreotype creation: Sleeping Beauty: Memorial Photography in America by Stanley B. Burns; Beyond the Dark Veil: Post Mortem and Mourning Photography from the Thanatos Archive by Jack Mord; A Full Description of the Daguerreotype Process: As Published by M. Daguerre by Louis Daguerre; and The Daguerreotype: Nineteenth-Century Technology and Modern Science by M. Susan Barger and William B. White. Finally, Sheila M. Rothman’s Living in the Shadow of Death: Tuberculosis and the Social Experience of Illness in American History helped me understand the lives of nineteenth-century consumptives beyond Gothic tropes, and The Sèvres Porcelain Manufactory: Alexandre Brongniart and the Triumph of Art and Industry, 1800–1847 by the Bard Graduate Center for Studies in the Decorative Arts detailed the production of stained glass in Sèvres after the French Revolution.

  On the writing end, I’m deeply thankful to the small army of beta readers who commented on my manuscript drafts with generous insight. They include Anne Clermont, Ellen Dreyer, Juli Craig Hilliard, Kristin Lambert, Stephanie Lehmann, Teralyn Pilgrim, Vicky Alvear Shecter, Erika Swyler, Anca Szilágyi, Kirsty Stonell Walker, and Karen Zuegner. Most of all, I send love and gratitude to my critique partners Julianne Douglas and Heather Webb, who were always there with excellent advice, word sprints, and the willingness to read yet another draft before yet another deadline.

  My family remains a wellspring of love and support, especially my wonderful husband, Thomas Ross Miller, and wonderful daughter, Thea Miller, who endured several years of my coexisting in Robert and Isabelle’s world with humor and fortitude, and my sister, Jennifer Johnson, who is ever-loyal and ever-wise. Finally, this book is dedicated to my father- and mother-in-law, Edward and Joyce Miller, who have blessed my life since I first met them nearly three decades ago. Though Joyce un
expectedly passed away in 2009, the memory of her loving kindness remains an intangible presence to all who knew and adored her.

  About the Author

  Kris Waldherr is an award-winning author, illustrator, and designer whose many books include Bad Princess, Doomed Queens, and The Book of Goddesses. She is a member of the Historical Novel Society, and her fiction has been awarded with fellowships by the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts and a reading grant by Poets & Writers. Kris Waldherr works and lives in Brooklyn in a Victorian-era house with her family. The Lost History of Dreams is her first novel.

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  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.