“Cutting it a little close,” I said under my breath.
As I rounded the bend, I saw a second car parked in the driveway. “Doug’s arrived!” I quickened my step. It had been ages since I’d seen him up at the cottage.
I knocked on the back door, but there was no answer, so I followed the side path around to the front. I could hear their voices coming out through the screened windows as I approached.
“Okay. Just one more question.” Doug’s tone was playful, but I detected a note of seriousness in it.
“All right.” Clare laughed. “But this has to be it! After this, my personal life is off-limits for the rest of the weekend. Agreed?”
I stopped and turned around, annoyed to see that Farley had disappeared. Then I heard Doug say, “What about Garth?” He said it so quietly, emphasizing my name in such an unusual way that I stopped dead in my tracks.
“You’ve been talking to Mum!” Clare exclaimed.
“Yes, I had a long talk with Mum before coming up. She’s worried about you.”
“Oh.” Clare sounded edgy. “She’s probably told you some nonsense about me being in love with Garth—ever since I was sixteen or something like that. She did, didn’t she?”
I felt I should cough or signal my presence somehow.
“Well?” Doug asked softly.
“I plead the Fifth—or whichever one it is,” she tossed back.
“You know that only works in the States.” Doug had moved closer to the window, very near to where I was standing, and paused with his back to me. I became very still, helpless to slip away without his hearing me.
“Come on, Clare. I’m not completely blind. Didn’t you once—?”
“That was all a long time ago,” she interrupted. “Once Evienne got her hooks into him, I didn’t stand a chance.”
“You weren’t exactly without your own charms, you know,” Doug said mildly.
“You know I’m not like that! Women who get men that way—it’s hard to explain—but they never get the full man. There must be parts of Garth that Evienne never knew, maybe even didn’t want to know.”
“Did you sense that Garth wasn’t entirely happy, then?” Doug asked tentatively.
I took a cautious step backward, but froze at the sound of a stick cracking under my foot.
“How could I possibly know?” Now Clare’s voice sounded defensive. “I wasn’t really around them, not after I left for Cambridge. But why all these questions about Garth? I know Mum’s not keen on Stuart, but you’ve no idea how wonderful he was through all that awful hullabaloo at the Museum. Besides, it really isn’t anyone else’s business. Even Dad is looking at me so…pensively!”
“Mum doesn’t think you’re really—well—really in love with Stuart—or Lord Becksmith.”
“It’s Baron Bretford! Baron Bretford of Blackheath!”
Doug guffawed. “I beg your pardon, milady. I grant you his lordship might be a great guy. Even so, Mum might be right. She has a nose for these things, and she thinks you’ve got the let’s-get-married-because-we’re-good-friends syndrome. That and the fact you’ve put off the Baron for so long.”
“Ellen took three years to marry you!”
“Fair enough. But that was different. Ellen and I were very much in love with each other. She just wanted to wait until I’d finished medical school.” I could tell that Doug was being careful to keep his tone neutral.
“Douglas, you know perfectly well how old-fashioned Mum is! We shouldn’t, either of us, listen to her about any of this stuff.”
There was a long silence. A cool wind was coming in off the Bay, and I could hear the tops of the trees beginning to stir above me. If I timed my retreat carefully, I might be able to sneak away…
Then Doug started up again. “Did Garth ever—”
“No! Of course not! Don’t be an idiot.”
Now, I thought—now is the time to retrace my steps, but Doug had moved closer to the screen.
“Never?” he persisted.
“Garth doesn’t—” She inhaled quickly. “Listen, he doesn’t even see me.”
“Doesn’t see you? What do you mean?”
“I’m not sure if I can explain! After more than four years, I literally bump into him down on the beach. It almost took my breath away to see him like that again. Mum hinted that he might come up, but I thought it would be later in the summer.”
“It must have been a surprise for him, too.”
“I suppose it was. But he didn’t even recognize me, not at first anyway. Douglas, I think I’ve just got to accept that he doesn’t see me.”
“I still don’t understand—”
“I can tell: any woman could. Garth thinks of me as your kid sister. Period.” She paused and swallowed. “Douglas, I’m going to be thirty-four in a few weeks! But he’s always seen me simply as your kid sister—and always will.”
“Well, you are my kid sister,” Doug said softly. They were both in shadow, and I saw Doug move forward and put his arm around her. It seemed to me—I wasn’t sure—that Clare had started to cry.
“Clare,” Doug murmured, hugging her shoulders. “Don’t…”
“I’m just being stupid.” I could hear her voice choking a little. “Sometimes I don’t even know what I’m saying.”
Doug said something that I couldn’t catch, but I heard Clare say, “Please don’t pay any attention to any of this! I’m actually a bit raw from all that stuff at the Museum. Still overtired and emotionally bruised, I think.”
I took a careful step back, but had to lean against the side of the house, feeling angry with myself for listening for so long. She’d never forgive me, if she knew…
“I’ll be fine. Really I will.” Clare had calmed her voice. “Mum’s right. At one time I absolutely adored Garth. But that was long ago, and I’ve grown older and wiser since those days. And frankly, I can tell—any woman could. He just doesn’t—see me that way.”
I straightened up, absolutely determined to leave them.
“Then why have you come back up here, practically every summer?” Doug asked quietly.
She didn’t answer, and I hardly dared to breathe—then I heard a chair creak as Doug sat down and muttered, “Oh, Clare!”
I stole another glance through the screen: Doug was leaning forward, his chin in his hands. “Garth didn’t swear me to secrecy. But I wonder if I should have told you.”
“Told me what? What are you talking about?” Clare dropped into the chair next to him.
Now I had to stay.
“I’ve not even told Ellen about what really happened,” Doug began, “because—listen—Evienne was not—she was not the easiest person to get along with.”
“I know that it wasn’t all perfect between them. It never is,” Clare said quietly. “But what do you mean, ‘what really happened’?” This time her tone was startled. “Everyone knows what a tragedy the accident was. It was awful—only a few months before their wedding. Garth’s mother always went on about how heartbroken he was.”
“Evienne almost killed Garth in that accident. It’s a miracle he survived.” Doug’s voice was shaking slightly as he said it.
“What?” Clare gasped. “But wasn’t Garth the driver?”
“No. Evienne was driving—and she was loaded. Drunk, stoned—you name it. Why Garth ever got into the car with her, I’ll never know. But he promised Evienne’s father to take the blame as long as there were no criminal charges. Supposedly it would have killed her mother to know Evienne was an addict. Thankfully no one else was hurt, but I never liked the whole thing. Garth claimed it was easier that way.”
“Easier! How terrible! How did Garth ever—? And everyone thinking it was his fault, and those awful journalists bringing it up again when he got his award!”
“He’s pretty thick-skinned, but that’s not a
ll of it. Very few people know this, but he’d called off the wedding. You’ve no idea just how bad things had become. I could tell you some things that would—”
“Stop!” she cried, jumping up. “You’ve told me enough. I don’t want you to break your word to Garth!” She moved away from him abruptly, and I saw her in profile, staring out at the Bay and hugging her arms around her body.
“I think you should talk to him about Evienne,” Doug insisted quietly. “It might really help him.”
“Talk to him about Evienne?” Clare echoed. “How could I possibly do that?”
I looked down; Mars was licking my hand and Farley was sitting on the ground at my feet, staring up at me inquisitively. Before I could grab him, he ran around to the front and whimpered to be let in.
I heard Doug rise and slide the door open.
“That’s Garth’s dog,” Clare said quickly. “He must be coming up from the beach. I’m going to go splash some cold water on my face.” I heard her hurry back inside the cottage.
I waited for a few seconds—then I took a deep breath and walked around to the front.
“Garth!” Doug exclaimed warmly, looking up as I tapped on the screen. He opened the door, and I smiled, taking his outstretched hand and grasping it firmly.
We both looked full into each other’s eyes for a split second, and then, stepping back, he offered me a glass of scotch.
MARGED BRICE
Cape Prius—1897
July 20
I have so wanted to stay near the cottage—to be near Auntie Alis and Mother, and Tad and Uncle Gil. I am anxious if away from them, and I do not know why. Perhaps it was the terrible storm and its devastation.
Allan is here almost every day, and Mr. Thompson visits us, too. But he stays and stays and won’t leave. Finally, Auntie became quite exasperated and tied an apron around his waist and had him kneading dough. I don’t think he minded at all, although I certainly did not care to see him thus employed. So I had him come upstairs and read to Mother; he has a fine sensibility for poetry, and she seemed quite pleased to have his company. Poor Mother. She must be lonely at times, though I do try to be with her as much as I possibly can.
Mr. Thompson seems a little dazed and says that Dr. McTavish is in a very bad way indeed. Allan confirms this and informs us that George is with him frequently and that they have had long talks and that George is urging him to continue with his book. But Dr. McTavish won’t go near his library, and the nets have been neglected.
Allan says that he saw Dr. McTavish weeping, and I told him to hush and never to tell anyone of it. I told him that sometimes one sees things—a moment of weakness in another person perhaps—but that these must be kept a secret and not used against him. That such a secret is a sacred trust and that it would be unmanly to betray these confidences.
He asked me if I thought Miss Ferguson would agree, and I looked at him in surprise, wondering at his question.
“She is very clever,” Allan continued, and he looked at me a little slyly, as if trying to read my features for some reaction.
“She talks to George all the time about art—oh, for hours,” he added, noting no doubt my involuntary frown. “She is very knowledgeable about it.”
“She says her father can help George,” he added. “He is a patron or some such thing and takes her to Europe with him and buys all kinds of expensive things—all the new art, she says. She wants her father to arrange for a show of George’s work. She says that he is a great artist.”
“What does George say to this?” I asked, in spite of myself.
“Oh, he listens,” said Allan. “George is really quite ambitious. He’s had a rough go of it with some of the critics. They go after him because he doesn’t—you know—paint pictures like they’re supposed to be. The realish sort. His colors are always so muddled in a way. Hey, do you like his pictures?” he asked me suddenly, looking up from where he was sprawled on the grass.
I flushed. I thought of all George’s canvases floating in the Basin and the portrait that I had jeopardized through my clumsiness.
“Yes,” I said, hesitating a little, and then thinking of the grove of trees. “Some of them are quite beautiful.”
“Have you seen his picture of Miss Ferguson?” he asked. “She adores it and says he could be a famous portrait painter if he really wanted to. She said he could meet other famous artists—if he wanted—if he went to New York—”
“I suppose they get along rather well?” I interrupted him in what I intended to be an unconcerned tone, though I was burning with curiosity.
“Oh, smashingly!” said Allan, and got up, brushing off his trousers.
And now I am cross and cannot sleep. I should not let Allan speak to me so and encourage such gossip! It is not my affair, and I should exert myself to pay more attention to our studies.
Which we have sorely neglected, I might add, since the storm.
July 25
Captain Howarth has been back several times to talk with Tad, and it seems that there is discussion of a foghorn being installed. Father and Uncle Gilbert would have to man it. For my part, I do not like to have Captain Howarth around us, though of course I am polite and would not wish him to think me discourteous.
It seems there has been quite a fuss in the papers about the Mary Jane, and indeed we have read some of these reports. There are strong opinions expressed against the government for its inattention to the light stations, and Mr. Ferguson—Effie’s husband—has been quoted at length about how there must be support for shipping on the Great Lakes.
Effie’s baby has taken ill, and Dr. Clowes was out to the Lodge, though it is nothing serious. But none of us are to visit until the coast is clear: Effie has such ideas about contagion!
July 28
Today I went to see Dr. McTavish, and I am very glad that I did. He seems to have aged so and is thin and terribly wretched. I had tea with him, and he seemed glad of my company, and I promised to come back if it would suit him. He nodded so vigorously that I felt ashamed that I had not gone before. Mr. Thompson looked quite pleased and hovered near us as we sipped our tea, and Dr. McTavish even growled at him a bit in his old way, and this seemed to give Mr. Thompson great pleasure.
Perhaps it was perverse of me, but I saw Dr. McTavish so lonely and desolate—and indeed my heart gave all its sympathy to him—that I could not but feel grateful that we were, just there, in that moment, together and alive. That I could look out at the Bay—so glorious and sparkling, though but three weeks ago it had been a fiend—and that I would go home to Tad and Auntie and Uncle Gilbert, and we would sit down to dinner. And then I would take Mother her tray and help her to eat her supper and then read to her while Dewi rested at her feet and Agnes purred in her lap. I felt so grateful, and I wanted to walk under the trees and see the stars come out. I felt such a quiet joy that the storm had passed, and I think my mood must have communicated itself to Dr. McTavish somehow, for he brightened and he took my hand and said that my visit had done him a world of good.
I met George coming in as I was leaving, and I think I must have smiled my gratitude at him, and he could not but help return it.
We talked a little, and he said something about Effie’s sterilizing spoons and I laughed—it was the first time since the Mary Jane went down that I think I have laughed, and it came out of me as a song might, its notes filling the room and spilling out through the windows.
“You at least are full of sunshine today,” George remarked.
And then somehow I had to explain, lest he think me heartless and uncaring.
“Oh, George,” I said. “It is so very terrible. My heart breaks for the families who have lost their dear ones. But I am glad somehow that we were spared. It seems a miracle that none of the men from Cape Prius were drowned. Don’t you think we should be glad to be alive. Is it wrong to feel so? Would the dead really begru
dge me my thankfulness for the lives of my father and Uncle Gil and Dr. McTavish?” I might have added George’s name, but I dared not.
I don’t know what possessed me. Tonight as I sit here, it strikes me as such a strange thing for me to say to him.
And then Dr. McTavish came in, and he looked at me in the most penetrating fashion, peering at me over the top of his glasses. I felt that he had heard my words, and I blushed.
“Yes, you are quite right,” he said. And then he walked over to his library and Mr. Thompson was there looking at me strangely, too!
George watched the doctor go, and he tapped his finger against my cheek lightly. “You’re a strange girl,” he said. “What looks to be stumbles are, in fact, the steps of an impenetrable design!”
“Like your brushstrokes?” I shot back at him, but there was no rancor in it. It was true. The magic of his brushstrokes appears to be in the accident of his placing them on the canvas—seemingly careless—and yet I know that it takes great skill.
He looked at me thoughtfully and then walked to the front porch, beckoning me to join him. I could feel Mr. Thompson’s eyes following us out of the room.
George has asked me if I would come each day and help Dr. McTavish order his papers and encourage him (without seeming to) to return to his work. I am delighted by this suggestion! Allan and I can hardly resume our studies after such unsettling events, and it will do us both good to assist him. We will go back to our old custom of setting out the nets, and Dr. McTavish can discourse to us on his beloved birds.
I have not seen Miss Ferguson for days and did not detect her presence anywhere about the Lodge.
August 1
Captain Howarth has been here again. Indeed my misgivings about his visits have proved to have some foundation.
There is no mistake that he is a handsome man, in a dark, brooding sort of way. I suppose there are some who would find him comely, but I have never been at my ease with him; his eyes burn into one so! He is tall and so straight in his uniform that I must tilt my head back to look up at him, and then his eyes seem to blaze right through me. I have made it a point of honor not to look away, but it has been a sore test at times.
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