“Yes. But—lots of people do.”
“How many?” she challenged. “And besides, isn’t it a genetic trait that skips generations or something like that?”
“Let’s look at the second picture,” I suggested.
The other photograph was dated June 22, 2006—again taken in front of Sylvan Chapel at the National Gallery. This time the caption underneath identified Gregory Stewart at the center. He was leaning on a cane and presenting an envelope to a very pleased-looking director. The event announced a thirty-million-dollar endowment for a new “Stewart Wing” at the gallery.
“Gregory is Allan Stewart’s son,” I explained. “Apparently he’s the relative who took care of Miss Brice before she came to the Clarkson Home—” Then I stopped. Miss Brice had referred to Gregory as her nephew—wouldn’t that make Allan Stewart her brother-in-law?
“There she is!” Clare whispered, her voice betraying her excitement. “It’s the same woman. I’m positive!”
This time the white-haired woman was in a wheelchair.
“She looks much thinner,” observed Clare, “but I think I can still see her widow’s peak.”
I slumped back, frowning. It just wasn’t possible!
Clare was leaning closely against me as she studied the photograph. “Are you absolutely sure she couldn’t be the writer of that diary you just read?”
I did a quick calculation. “This is silly,” I muttered. “She’d be one hundred and twenty-seven years old in this picture if that were the case.”
Clare drew back, looking at me guardedly.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.” I gently took her hand. “I didn’t mean that you’re silly. It’s just that it’s not possible for her to be the same woman.”
“You’re sure? Positively sure?” This time her voice was hesitant.
I didn’t answer.
It was raining torrentially as we stepped out into the parking lot. I took off my jacket and turned it into a makeshift umbrella, Clare huddling close to me as we sprinted toward the car.
We retrieved a very clean and glossy Mars from the vet and then headed back up the Peninsula. Mars kept sticking his head over my shoulder and licking my face while I drove.
“What in God’s name did they do to him?” I asked, almost choking.
“Don’t you like the smell of eucalyptus?”
“For a dog?”
“Eucalyptus is supposed to be a natural flea repellent.” She said it pertly, but looked at me sideways. “Besides, I’m sure Farley would love it.”
“You’ve got me there. Farley loves anything involving a good ‘rub,’” I conceded.
I peered through the large water droplets coursing down my windshield, my eyes watching for the cutoff to Cape Prius. I was just able to see the road bend before me when suddenly I hit the brakes and came to a complete stop.
“Is anything wrong?” Clare asked nervously.
I swallowed. “It just hit me—the initials DEJ.”
“What about them?”
“They’re the same as Allan Stewart’s playful bird name for Marged Brice.”
“Yes?”
“Allan called her a dark-eyed junco.”
Clare’s eyes lit up. “Oh my! And now you’re the only other person in the whole wide world—besides your Miss Brice at the Clarkson—who knows who DEJ is!”
I was silent for a few seconds.
“Of course, now I know, too,” she added softly.
MARGED BRICE
Cape Prius—1897
June 19
Allan has been making great progress with his studies. We have borrowed a few books on botany from Dr. McTavish, and he has been coming here to our cottage to spare me walking out to the Basin, though my ankle is much stronger and I have assured him that it is almost completely healed. But I suspect another reason for this; Allan has taken a great interest in our light station. Uncle Gil has shown him how the weights are wound, and Allan has become quite an expert already. He has set up an ingenious method by which Tad and Uncle G. can watch the Light without leaving our kitchen. It is through a mirror fastened to the window on the inside, and most wonderful of all, when the weather is bad, Tad will be able watch the reflection of the light in the warmth of our back kitchen. Really Allan is such a clever fellow!
I have not seen George these few days. Allan brings reports of the household. He tells me that the portrait was not ruined and that George was able to salvage it. Apparently Miss Ferguson is quite pleased with it. Allan implies Effie is tired of her sister-in-law and wishes that she would go away, but he says that George and Miss Ferguson spend a great deal of time together. He seems very pleased with this, and has already predicted a brilliant career for George as an artist. I did not know it, but Caroline Ferguson is an heiress of sorts—Allan says the Fergusons are even richer than his stepfather and that they have “oodles of money.”
June 23
I saw him today. It was quite by accident.
Allan and I were out for a walk—not a very long one because my ankle is still a little tender. But we went out, down by the north gate because Dr. McTavish had told us that there were two sandhill cranes (Grus canadensis) near the marsh. It was a breezy afternoon, and as the road is shaded by trees on either side, we both felt, I think, a lovely sort of idleness.
We rather foolishly came back by the woods, and Allan ran ahead laughing that I was too slow. Indeed I was picking my way rather carefully. But I came to a point in the path where a large tree had fallen, and its rotting trunk barred my advance. I realized that I would have to mount it and walk its length to reach the clearing. I was so vexed with Allan for going on ahead, for I was not sure of my footing and very mindful of what a false step would bring to my ankle. But I had no choice, and so I began to traverse it gingerly, taking very small steps.
I was about halfway across when I heard a ripping sound and I stopped because my skirt had caught on a branch. I was annoyed at first, but then I became aware of the stillness of the forest, and I felt a lovely warm solitude envelop me, without feeling any loneliness. I heard a chickadee let out a fee-bee, fee-bee—warning me that I was in its territory. Then of a sudden George was there, stepping out of a thicket. He does seem to emerge like an animal out of the woods sometimes! He had his sketchbook again and his satchel, and he looked at me with what seemed to me to be good humor. He put his hand to his chin, cocked his head, and pretended to eye me dubiously, as if he were studying a rather strange and unexpected sight.
“You look like a bird that has been caught in a shaft of sunlight and it will not release her,” he remarked. “But I dare not make a sudden movement, else I frighten you, and then you will fly away and deprive me of your presence.”
His voice was kind, and he looked very manly standing there, the sun giving golden lights to his dark hair, and his hands, strong and tanned, resting on his walking stick. He looked like a lord of the forest, and I—oh, ever perverse to him!—I bristled just a little under his easy self-possession.
I would not meet his good humor directly, nor would I be his bird! I put my hands on my hips and said a little crossly, “Is Allan with you?”
I regretted the question as soon as it flew from my lips.
George paused, and his expression changed almost imperceptibly. “No,” he said rather quietly. “I have sent Allan on ahead.”
I did not move from my somewhat perilous position on the log but began to press my palms together, betraying, no doubt, my agitation; now the tears were ready, almost brimming over as I remembered his question at Clootie’s and the portrait lying in ruins about me. I despised myself for being so weak, but I was at such a loss as to how to compose my features. I surely wished in that moment that I had a mask, a veil, to hide my face so that he would not see its emotions.
He studied me closely and looked bew
ildered—a frown appeared, but it did not seem to me to express displeasure. He gazed at me intently, and it was as if he were trying to read something that moved too swiftly for him, as if the rapidity of thoughts that moved across my face puzzled him.
“Miss Brice—” he began. I drew my breath in sharply and he stopped. “I have ever called you Marged. Would you permit me to do so now?”
I nodded, as if to say that he could do as he pleased. He had the upper hand with me: I was disgraced before him.
“A few days ago, I intruded into the privacy of your life with a question and manners that were—shall we say—ill-suited to a gentleman. I have regretted them ever since I uttered them. I do not excuse myself, but I do ask your forgiveness.”
While he spoke, I studied his features with a scrutiny I had not yet permitted myself. It is a strong face, I thought, and I remarked the square line of his jaw and the shadow of where a beard was beginning to show. His voice was deep but clear, and the forest seemed to hush around it. His words lingered in the air momentarily before falling to the forest floor and joining the other leaves that had gathered there.
“But—it is I,” I stammered. “I who have— imperiled—one of your beautiful paintings. It is I who must ask for your forgiveness.”
He smiled gently. Was he mocking me?
“Did you really think it was a beautiful painting?” he asked.
I was confused. I could not tell if he were teasing me or not.
“Well…” I faltered. “It was not finished when I saw it—”
He interrupted me. “Did you like the one over the mantel? The one you were looking at when I came in?”
I stood silent for a minute, my heart pounding so.
Then, hesitating a little, I clasped my hands together, just as I had done in his studio, and I nodded—it was the only way that I could tell him how truly beautiful it was.
He coughed and seemed a little embarrassed by my gesture. He shuffled slightly, as if the ground beneath his feet had shifted unexpectedly. But I do think it pleased him.
Then he looked at me again and said earnestly, “Do you forgive me?”
I nodded again, for still I could not speak. And I did forgive him. I forgave him fully and completely. I held nothing back—nothing for a future time when I might find fault against him. Again he seemed to recognize all this, and his face showed a not entirely reluctant appreciation. I saw him grateful to me—a foolish young girl, standing on a fallen log with her skirt caught in its branches! But I felt like a queen in that moment, surrounded by my court of faithful trees.
He came to get me, and I could not look at him as he lifted me off the fallen trunk, my face was burning so! My skirt tore; there was an unmistakable sound of ripping fabric, but I pretended not to notice it.
Is he amused by me, by all my silly antics? I don’t care! I think his apology was sincere.
I am afraid I will betray what is in my heart. I do not think that I have owned even to myself what is there.
June 28
The fox is back—he showed himself to Allan and me as we rounded the cottage, and he stared at us for a few seconds before bolting into the hedge. Dewi has been barking furiously all night, and Auntie Alis says that we must keep the cat in. Agnes will stay with Mother, though Tad doesn’t like an animal to be on the bed and will object, I am sure.
Allan has some strange ideas about this fox. He says it has come to warn us, but he won’t say of what. He says that the last time we saw the fox, Mr. Burton fell off his boat and drowned. It is true: it was a terrible accident, and I remember hearing Uncle Gil tell Auntie A. that Mr. Burton was a drinker, and that the government inspector suspected that he fell because he was intoxicated. That was why no one heard him, for perhaps he made no effort to save himself. Allan is sure it was murder, and I have to plug my ears to make him stop!
We are getting along very well these days. Allan is interested in his studies and seems to enjoy the work we do together. But I think he likes to be around Uncle Gil and Tad the most. They do not seem to mind his company and he is somehow more—serious—when he is with them. Older, I suppose. Oh, he is still playful! I don’t think he will ever be otherwise. He is always very polite to Mother and teases Auntie A. interminably, and even tricks her into giving him all kinds of treats. At first I was astonished to see it, but then I remembered that Luke might be close to Allan’s age if he had lived, and of course Auntie would fancy her son and spoil him just a little as long as it brought no harm. Indeed, she scolds Allan all the time as if to make up for her moments of weak indulgence.
We have had some truly astonishing news today. Mrs. McTavish is coming! She has never joined Dr. McTavish on his excursions to the Basin before, and why she has decided to come this season is a great mystery to us. Mr. Thompson says that Dr. McTavish is in an awful state about it and is quite put out by the thought of his Emmeline visiting him while he is on the verge of completing his book. Allan informed me that Mr. Thompson has met her, and he says that she is quite beautiful but a terror. For my part, I am rather curious now. She is coming on the Mary Jane on Tuesday with the holiday boaters; first they will take an excursion to Adam’s Rock and the Hotel, and then Dr. McTavish will send a boat to fetch her. No doubt the holidayers will carve their names on the stones again. How I hate to think of it! I wish the water would erase it all!
July 1
It has been quite an extraordinary day. Poor Dr. McTavish! To be truthful, I cannot tell if he is vexed or relieved at the strange turn the day has taken.
We heard in the early afternoon from one of the Indian fishermen that a large steamer had gone aground on a shoal. Further reports confirmed that it was the Mary Jane, and we all grew quite concerned, for Mrs. McTavish is said to be on board. But strangest of all, the fishermen say that the passengers do not wish to be rescued—that they are all strolling about on deck and taking their tea, and some have even gone off the boat and are walking about on the rocks.
I could tell by the manner in which he frowned that Tad was not pleased with this news, and Uncle Gil positively scowled with displeasure. I think I must share their disapproval, for though the day is clear and there is not a cloud in the sky—still—it seems as if these holidayers will provoke the Bay. They seem to goad it with their carefree airs. They have not seen it as we have. To be sure, it is one thing to be on the shore in a storm, but to be out there in the water…I shudder to think of it.
They do not understand: one can never see the Bay completely. One never knows its full face. Those passengers have not seen, as we have, how a day may suddenly change.
I do feel sometimes as if I live next to some great, slumbering beast that lulls me into thinking of it as just rocks and water. And then, every once in a while, it awakens and I realize that it is alive and powerful and that I am a tiny, helpless creature next to it! It could swallow me up—and Tad and Uncle Gil and Auntie Alis. And Mother, too! Without remorse. Just as an animal might, sating its prodigious hunger.
Where is its heart? I wonder. Whence do its passions arise? I cannot tell if it is right in the center, deep, deep down, deeper even than where the fish can go. Or is it in the north, where the great jagged cliffs jut out and direct the bitter winds that sting us and whip the rain against our faces? Or in the south, like an animal withdrawn in its lair, back in the shadows and dozing until awakened by hunger or a sense of intruders…
I think we will all be greatly relieved when these passengers safely reach their destinations.
***
Mrs. McTavish refuses to come! Indeed, I am thinking that perhaps she is a bit of a “terror.” Apparently she has asserted in no uncertain terms that she will wait until the other steamer comes to collect her and the other passengers, and that she is determined to visit the Hotel first. George and Mr. Stewart and two of the fishermen took a small boat out to fetch her, but she insists that it is not safe. Mr. Ste
wart is quite a skilled boater, and he is furious at this insult. He says that Dr. McTavish can go get his wife the next time. George was laughing and shaking his head. Allan asked him if she were really a terror, and I nudged him to be quiet because Dr. McTavish might hear him. George said nothing, but his eyes twinkled as if to say that is only the start of it.
Now I am not sure whether I wish to meet her or no!
July 3
I have only a little time before the dawn, but I cannot sleep. Auntie Alis has insisted that I rest, but I cannot! I must write the day’s events out, even if just to stop my thoughts from swirling so in my head.
It is all very terrible—as if Allan’s forebodings about the fox have come true.
It was yesterday…the morning started out quietly, but it was overcast and the wind would gust so strangely, bursting as if out of nowhere and then disappearing as suddenly. I think I could tell that the day had not decided how it would proceed, but there was also something else. I was restless, and so I arose early and took a walk out to the Point. It was the water in the Basin that made me anxious. It is usually very still there, but I could see the boats drifting about, their masts bobbing up and down, and I could hear the men moving restively in their camps. The fishermen and some of the boaters knew, I am certain—that was why they had not yet gone out. From my side of the Basin, I could see, down at one of the fires, the same Indian man who went out yesterday with Mr. Stewart and George. He was standing with a small circle of fishermen around him, and as he talked, he kept gesturing out toward the Bay.
I hugged my body, watching them—it seemed terribly ominous! And though I was not cold, I began to shiver. I went to the Lodge, why I am not sure, but I felt very apprehensive. George and Dr. McTavish and two of the boaters were on the front porch looking out at the water and talking in serious tones.
“Marged,” George said when he saw me. “Can you get your father—and Gilbert, too? There is going to be a storm, and we will have to go out and get the passengers from the Mary Jane.”
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