Perdita

by Hilary Scharper

  I am undoubtedly a little wary of him, for I cannot forget that it was he who insisted that Tad depart before he would come to see his daughter. But truly, I do not know how to conduct myself toward him. He spent some time with Dr. McTavish while I went to dress, and then when I appeared with my cloak, he announced that he would be going with Aunt Louise to visit Mother; it was clear that I was not to accompany them for this first meeting.

  ***

  All day Dr. McTavish has been so kind and has tried to distract me. He has read to me from Mr. Thompson’s letter and of his adventures in Italy, where he is sojourning for the winter. Mr. Thompson is quite an engaging writer, and usually I would have been an eager listener, but today I am too distracted. I shall just have to trust to Dr. Reid. Oh, I am anxious for their return!

  ***

  It was as if he knew of my distress!

  Dr. Reid came back to the house with Aunt Louise and Grandpere and held a private discussion with me while the others dressed for dinner. I am sure that he deliberately sought me out to assuage my fears, for he came to find me and I could tell from his concerned expression that I had ill-disguised my anxiety. But he told me all about the meeting between Grandpere and Mother and assured me that Mother took the presence of her father calmly and that he, Grandpere, was very tender with her and even grew misty-eyed as he held her hand and spoke to her.

  I think I must have been under a terrible strain, for I found myself sobbing in Dr. Reid’s presence, and though it was great relief to me, I felt a bit of a fool. But he took it all in stride and handed me a linen (though I had my own) and patted my arm. I don’t know quite how it happened, and I am sure that he must be quite used to it as a doctor, but I found myself crying against his shoulder while he held me gently. Then Dr. McTavish came in, and I flew to him and had a good cry against his shoulder, too—and now I am not a little ashamed of my behavior!

  But I do feel so much better—and I am resolved to give my grandfather a fair reception. I am equally determined that he will find no deficit of kindness or respect in me and that I shall do my utmost—for Mother’s sake—to esteem him.

  February 11

  It was most surprising, but George came unexpectedly for luncheon today, and afterward, as we began our preparations to depart, he offered to walk with me to the hospital. Dr. McTavish said he thought this a capital idea, as I sorely needed some exercise. Truly I do miss my walking, for Grandpere always takes the carriage—the equipage, as he calls it—and I have been accompanying him. I cannot fault him, for he is at the hospital morning and afternoon. Yesterday I left him for a few moments while he read Hugo to Mother, and when I stole back, he had placed the book facedown on the coverlet and was holding Mother’s hand so tenderly and speaking softly to her. I thought that my walking to the hospital might afford Grandpere a little solitude, for Aunt Louise is always with him in the mornings.

  Though I felt a little awkward, I thanked George and accepted his offer. My grandfather looked at him with great attention and seemed about to interfere, but hesitated and then prepared to depart by himself without further words.

  George gave me his arm as we left the house, and I think that this is the first time that we have walked thus. I rather liked that I could be so near him, and that I could turn my face either toward or away from him, and yet not appear unnatural. Still, I was not entirely at my ease, and I sensed that he knew this. He is so very handsome in my eyes—not devilishly handsome, of course—but I do so like his features. And there is not a drop of vanity about him.

  There has been an unusual thaw for this time of year, and the air grew thick with fog as we walked toward Davenport, and George was most solicitous that I should not slip, though there was little to fear, as the path was quite soft and even soggy in parts.

  I let him set the pace, and he kept our gait quite slow—so slow that I began to suspect that Dr. McTavish had spoken to George about my nervousness and that George was overly anxious for my tranquillity.

  Finally, I could stand it no longer and I exclaimed, “George! You are treating me as if I were a frail old lady!”

  I am glad I said it, for it broke the ice between us. He smiled a little sheepishly and replied that he was under strict orders from Dr. McTavish to be careful with me, for Dr. McT. felt I needed fresh air but intimated that my spirits were a little raw. I admitted as much and recounted how I had burst out crying—though I did not tell him about my crying on Dr. Reid’s shoulder.

  He was sympathetic and assured me that the strain of meeting my relatives for the first time was bound to take a toll on my emotions. Then he asked about Tad and then Auntie A. and Uncle Gilbert, and before many minutes had passed, I felt more at my ease with him. I told him that I thought his mother and mine knew each other in Montreal, and he nodded in assent though he offered no further information. Then I asked him about Allan, and he smiled ruefully, calling him a rapscallion, but I could see his great affection for Allan in the curve of his lips.

  Then I told George some of the things that Aunt Louise had told me about my family, and he listened with great interest. Before I knew it, I was telling him about my grandfather’s antipathy for Tad and how difficult it was to know how to conduct myself toward him. George, I think, knew intimately of what I spoke, and it wasn’t until later that I realized that I might have been describing aspects of his own relations with his stepfather.

  George asked me if I might like to go to Paris and see for myself some of the places that my aunt had described—and perhaps visit the homes of my ancestors. I told him of Mr. Thompson’s amusing letter and of the colony of wild cats that he had discovered at the Colosseum, musing that perhaps I might choose Rome over Paris if I had but one choice in the matter. And then he related some of his own impressions of Italy and of his time in Paris as a student of art.

  I was almost saddened to come to the hospital entrance, as it put an end to our discussion. George deposited me in the vestibule, understanding that Mother could have no visitors other than her family. Dr. Reid met us there and seemed to be in quite an ill temper. I feared that something terrible had happened, and he quickly had to reassure me that it was not so. He was quite curt to George, and it struck me that perhaps the two men do not take to one another; they are indeed quite different in some respects.

  But now—it is most aggravating! Grandpere eyes me strangely, as if he suspects something afoot between myself and George, and on our ride back from the hospital he positively interrogated me about the Stewarts.

  Surely he must see that I am nothing to George—only a mere acquaintance—and that I would never see him if it were not for his deep friendship with Dr. McTavish.

  February 15

  My heart is still racing from this evening’s events; it is impossible to think of sleeping, and yet I do not know if I can bring myself to write about what has taken place. I long for Tad, and my own dear room—and Claude would bring calm, I know, to my throbbing temples.

  Oh, why did I agree to join them? I see now that I should have left as soon as they began! Did I remain to protect Allan or to sate my own curiosity? There is a knock at my door—it is Aunt Louise. Oh, I shall welcome her presence this night!

  February 16

  I am more composed now; the daylight has produced a calmness in me, and I am able to think more clearly. I almost dare not recount the evening’s experience, for I still feel so unsettled.

  Perhaps if I had been prepared for it—I believe I would have refused to join them. Yesterday I had felt unusually fatigued and so had gone to my room before dinner to lie down. Indeed I fell asleep and so was absent for some hours; perhaps Dr. McTavish learned of their intended visit during this interval.

  At any rate, when I came downstairs refreshed, well after the hour at which we usually dine, the hallway was crowded with guests: Caroline Ferguson and her father, George and Allan, Dr. Reid, two other gentlemen I did not recognize
as well as their wives, and a very plump, dark-haired lady who was emerging from a swirl of abundant and luxurious fur. Beside her was a slight and somewhat sickly looking young boy. At first I thought he must have been ten years old or younger, but later learned that he and Allan are the same age. The boy, I almost immediately divined, was blind, for he stretched out his hands for his mother, the dark-haired lady, and, once finding her sleeve, hung on to her with a ferocious grip. For her part, she did not seem to mind this and swept him along with her as if he were but part of her frock trailing behind her.

  I gave my greetings to all, and Caroline, though distant, was cordial. She was very beautiful in a gown of deep red, and there was a trimming of Spanish lace at her wrists and throat. I was rather dismayed that I was wearing only a simple dress of navy silk, though I thought it became me. Mr. Ferguson’s salutation was warm, and he introduced me to a Mr. and Mrs. Claremont, as well as the other couple, Mr. and Mrs. Poole. Madame Gzowski (for that was the dark-haired lady’s name) I did not meet until we were all assembled in the drawing room, where her son, Ivan, did the most peculiar thing. He transferred his grip from his mama to me, begged that I give him a tour of the room, and insisted I describe its most interesting objects. I caught George looking toward me, his eyebrows raised in some surprise and amusement, but at my quizzical expression, he gave a slight nod as if to say, go ahead, the fellow is quite harmless.

  I was happy to comply, for Caroline was next to George, talking in an animated way, and she frequently pulled on his sleeve, giving me the impression that there was an intimacy between them. Perhaps I was still a little sleepy, but it made me very cross to see them thus, and I was glad of some task that would draw my attention elsewhere. Dr. Reid had struck me as somewhat subdued when he greeted me, but he kindly moved some chairs away and created a path for Ivan and me to circle the room. While all of this was happening, Ivan’s mother never ceased speaking and she was deep in conference with Dr. McTavish, who, I surmised, was already well acquainted with the lady. I looked about for Allan, but he was standing with George and Caroline, and I was reluctant to appear to notice their colloquy by drawing away Allan’s attention.

  Ivan was a very queer boy with a high squeaky voice and restless hands. He soon stopped our perambulations and insisted upon running his fingers all over my face and hair. I gave him license to do so, as he was thoroughly blind, but his slender fingers felt like mice running across my features, and I held very still, almost in an agony until he might stop. Again Dr. Reid was so kind; he stayed quite close by me, and I flashed a grateful smile at him. It was not that I was uncomfortable around children—just that Ivan was so unusual a boy!

  “Are you pretty?” Ivan piped at me. I was surprised at his boldness and did not know what to say, and my eyebrows lifted of their own accord.

  His fingers caught the movement, and he quipped, “Ah, I have surprised you. You must be pretty, and I think that you are not haughty; your eyebrows are too quick and light-footed.” Then, feeling beneath my chin, “And your skin does not sag like my mama’s.” Dr. Reid coughed and said quite sternly that Miss Brice was very pretty: fair of both face and form. I blushed a little at his compliment—but there were Ivan’s fingers on my cheeks again, feeling them go warm, and a devilish smile on his lips! And then his fingers were tapping and tugging at my hair. “Your hair is very soft, and your ears are pointed like a fairy’s.” I smiled at that and queried how he could be so sure that a fairy’s ears were pointed.

  “You are treating me like a child!” He pouted and withdrew his hands immediately.

  “Are you not a child?” I exclaimed.

  “No,” Ivan answered. “I am fourteen, though Mama says that I am small for my age and sickly.”

  I was silenced by his comment, and perhaps he felt my mood, for he said, “Do not pity me! I have special gifts, and even Mama is sometimes disconcerted by my powers.”

  I led him toward the bookcases and then guided his fingers to the sora and barn owl that we had recently placed upon one of the shelves and cautioned him to be gentle. He took a greedy interest in both objects, and I was amazed at how quickly his fingers moved across them in exploration. From behind us I could hear an animated conversation, and then I distinguished Caroline’s voice urging George to agree to some proposal. There was the sudden sound of clapping and laughter, and then I saw Allan beginning to push away the sofa and pull back the chairs to clear a space in front of the fire.

  I looked over my shoulder at Dr. Reid inquisitively and stepped away from Ivan. He explained in a low voice that Caroline had brought Madame Gzowski—a celebrated medium—with the express purpose of inducing Dr. McTavish to hold a séance. My expression must have betrayed my misgivings, for he looked rather gravely at me.

  “But surely,” I said, “not with Allan and Ivan present?”

  “I am perhaps of the same opinion as you, Miss Brice,” Dr. Reid replied. “For I have no enthusiasm for the Fergusons’ experimentation with spiritualism. You remember my opinions regarding melancholia. I am convinced that this comes of a morbid sentimentality toward Caroline’s mother and a refusal to accept the fact of her death.”

  I murmured my agreement with his reservations, but it was Allan’s impressionability that troubled me, and I felt my old fears from the previous summer returning.

  By this time they had decided that the dining room would serve their purposes best, and Dr. McTavish gave instructions to have the fire stoked. We all moved toward the round room, and Mr. Claremont began to draw the heavy curtains while his wife extinguished all the lights, except a heavy candelabrum, which she placed upon the mantel.

  “Ivan,” I said, turning to the boy, “perhaps you and I and Allan might find amusement elsewhere.”

  “Oh, no,” he retorted. “Mama will never communicate with the spirits without me!”

  I turned to Dr. Reid, aghast. Could it be that this woman used her own son in her…theatrics? I could think of no other word, for I had no confidence in any of these proceedings.

  “Perhaps, Miss Brice, you might wish to forgo the séance. It has absolutely no effect upon me, but you…” he muttered.

  I did not know what to say, for Ivan was already drawing me toward their voices and hence to the table, where all were taking their places, including Allan. Dr. McTavish was wearing an expression I could not fathom. I was relieved that Aunt Louise and Grandpere had retired early, for Aunt Louise in particular—a most pious Catholic—would have vehemently opposed such an activity, and perhaps even abandoned the household if her admonitions went ignored. Almost instinctively my hand went to my throat and the small silver cross that she had given me. Though I was certain I was not superstitious, still I felt disturbed.

  Dr. Reid, I think, was amused by it all—at least at first.

  Two chairs at one end of the table were reserved for Madame Gzowski and Ivan. The rest of us took our places, and I found myself between Allan and Dr. Reid. I looked closely at Madame Gzowski as she arranged the folds of her dress and drew a dark scarf over her hair, heightening my impression of her as a Gypsy. She instructed us to close our eyes and join our hands together. I was reassured by Dr. Reid’s firm grip to my right and the gentle pressure with which he held my hand. Yet I could almost feel Allan’s uncontainable excitement on my left, and through my lashes, I kept my vision surreptitiously trained upon the medium.

  She remained in a deep silence for several minutes—so much so that some of the company started to become restless and Mrs. Poole began to whisper to her husband.

  “Silence, if you please,” Madame Gzowski intoned, and then after several more seconds, “We are not arranged in an optimal sequence, and I request that some of you change your places.” She then proceeded to separate the Pooles, and she instructed Caroline and me to exchange our chairs. I left Allan reluctantly and found myself with George on my left and Ivan on my right. The boy’s hand was moist and cold, and I shran
k from his touch. In George’s hand my fingers trembled against my will, and I desperately tried to calm my agitation. I resolved to keep my eyes shut no matter what occurred and determined to think of other things no matter how Madame Gzowski might direct our thoughts.

  By and by the silence deepened, and I could hear Ivan breathing loudly beside me as if he were falling asleep. Then he began to murmur—strange disconnected words. I felt this to be extremely uncomfortable, and so I decided to do my best to ignore him and to train my thoughts elsewhere. I imagined the Bay, thinking of its snow-covered shoreline and of its silence at this time of year. Before long I felt myself drifting there, and in my mind’s eye, I was standing below the lighthouse watching the moon light up great drifts of snow and shimmer across frozen sheets of ice. Ivan’s breaths grew faint and insignificant.

  At first I felt an idle pleasure in thinking of my home—but then, all of a sudden, it seemed as if I were really there! My body drifted up toward the cottage, and then, gazing through the window, I saw Tad and Auntie Alis and Uncle Gil at the kitchen table, a solitary candle lit and Tad reading to both of them as Auntie bent over her darning, ever working. I wanted to go to them and draw my chair to the table and listen to Tad’s deep voice as he read to us. And then before long I was out behind the kitchen door and there was snow everywhere—deep and lustrous in the moonlight. But I felt none of the cold, and the stinging wind swept past without molesting me. My body drifted down the familiar pathway, through the deep woods, and then—oh, it was so real—I stood at the edge of the Basin where it lay frozen and blanketed in snow.