“Fifty-five years,” she answered proudly. “My husband’s mother was housekeeper first and then me. Between the two of us, we took care of the doctor’s home for fifty-five years.” She went on to explain that it had been such a shock. “I mean, Doc Reid leaving me his house in his will.”
“The doctor practiced medicine till he was about ninety-five,” Mrs. Phelps continued.
“Then it was on and off for him till he died. He never really declined,” she said, smiling fondly. “He was walkin’ around—a little slower, mind you—but still an independent man right up till the end. It took us all by surprise—his passin’ away, I mean. There was no sign of it coming. Why, I think we all sort of believed that he might live forever.”
“Was he ever married?” Clare asked nonchalantly.
“No, but he had a—” Mrs. Phelps lowered her voice and turned to Clare confidentially. “He had a passion—you know, for a woman. I think Emily was her name. I never seen her or met her, but me and Tom—that was my husband, he’s deceased—we knew about her. For a while there, once a month the doctor would go to Owen Sound, like he was goin’ to visit patients, you know. And then he’d slip away and take the train down to Toronto. Tom told me about it—his gettin’ on the train. He saw him do it a couple of times, but he kept quiet about it. We never tried to find out about her. We figured the doctor had a right to his privacy.”
Clare wondered out loud if Dr. Reid might have married this mystery woman in Toronto. I just sat back, admiring her technique.
“Well,” Mrs. Phelps continued, not missing a beat, “not to our knowledge, certainly. But then, who’s to say? He was a very good-looking man.” She gave me a quick glance and then turned back to Clare. “I’m sure you’d find him good-looking, too, dearie. All the women liked him; they liked to come to him with their troubles. The men liked him, too; they knew he was a good doctor and an honorable man, even if their wives were a bit sweet on him. There was no harm in it.”
Mrs. Phelps got up and left us for a few minutes. Clare smiled brightly at me. “Aren’t you glad you brought me along?” she asked, nodding toward the other room. “I thought it would help to have a woman present.”
Mrs. Phelps returned carrying a heavy photo album, and Clare sat down beside me. I began to flip through page after page of photographs, Clare making me stop at a formal portrait of the doctor.
“He must have been fortyish here,” I thought, “around my age.” Andrew Reid looked to be slightly shorter than George Stewart, but he had powerful-looking shoulders and arms…dark-haired, with a close-cropped beard and an intense, intelligent gaze.
“Doesn’t he have lovely eyes,” Clare cooed, and then she looked over at me. “You know, Garth, you look a little like him.”
“That’s what I thought the minute I saw you.” Mrs. Phelps beamed. “You’re almost the spittin’ image of him.”
We looked through what seemed to be endless pictures of Dr. Reid at professional meetings, then photos of him at town functions, and then a handful of shots showing him in his garden as a very elderly man. As I turned the last page, Clare looked at me quizzically. I shook my head; I hadn’t seen anyone who I thought might be Marged Brice. Disappointed, I gave the album back to Mrs. Phelps, when a piece of paper slipped out and fell onto the floor. Clare swiftly bent down to pick it up.
It was one of those photograph postcards that were popular in the last decades of the nineteenth century, all yellowed at the edges.
“Oh dear,” said Mrs. Phelps, “I guess the glue is gettin’ old. I’ll have to fix that.”
Clare handed me the postcard, and I felt a chill run down my spine.
A young woman was standing in front of the Cape Prius lighthouse, her figure slightly willowy and her face strikingly pretty. She was gazing out at the Bay, her long white skirts sweeping out as the wind caught at them. Standing next to her was Andrew Reid. She had her arm entwined in his, and a bouquet of white roses rested limply in the crook of her other arm. Her expression was hard to fathom, but it struck me as—wistful?
“Who’s this?” I asked, careful to keep my voice casual.
Mrs. Phelps took the photograph. “Oh, that’s an old picture of his cousin. I never met her, but the doctor was very fond of her. She suffered from some terrible ailment—of the mind, I mean. He often visited her over on Dyer Bay. I always said she should come and live with us, but the doctor said it wouldn’t suit her. She always had to be near the water. It was a bit hard on him. Poor man, but we all loved him so.”
“She has a widow’s peak, doesn’t she?” Clare murmured, picking up the postcard gently. “You know, if you ask me, this looks a little like a wedding photograph.”
This time Mrs. Phelps put her glasses on and peered closely at it. “Well,” she said slowly, “I suppose so. But back in those days, all the women liked to have flowers when they got their pictures taken. And I’m sure that’s the doctor’s cousin—Deborah Jane.”
“Oh,” Clare said, still not looking at me. “Are you sure that was her name?” Mrs. Phelps turned over the photograph and showed us the inscription on the back. There in tiny letters, bottom left, were AR to DEJ.
“That’s Andrew Reid to Deborah Jane,” Mrs. Phelps explained.
“You mean Andrew Reid to dark-eyed junco,” I muttered under my breath: so it was Marged Brice in the photograph.
“Poor George Stewart,” I heard Clare murmur softly behind me.
“What was that, dearie?” Mrs. Phelps asked as she took up the album and headed toward the other room.
“Oh, nothing,” Clare called out and then placed her hand lightly on my shoulder.
Seventeen
“I wonder if Marged Brice really did choose Dr. Reid over George Stewart?”
I opened my eyes a crack. Clare’s cheeks were flushed from our brisk hike over to the lighthouse, and she was busily spreading out the contents of her knapsack. She looked up as I shifted and caught me admiring her.
“It seems that Dr. Reid was very smitten with her,” she continued. “I mean, he moved up here, didn’t he, to be near her?”
“There’s no record of him marrying her—”
“But didn’t you discover there was a fire? And that some records were destroyed?”
“Yes, in 1910, the county courthouse caught fire and some documents were lost. But I’d put my money on George Stewart coming back for Marged Brice. Either that or Marged went to him. You—we might be reading too much into that photograph with the white roses.”
Clare reached over and removed a piece of grass from my hair. “Hmm. I’m not so sure, Garth.”
I rolled over onto my side; a light breeze was rippling across Georgian Bay, and from our position high up on the escarpment, we could see a massive shadow spreading westward as the sun sank toward the horizon.
“You’ll have to tell me if you discover anything new as soon as you’ve read those extra pages. Remember, you promised!”
“I remember,” I said, laughing.
Clare smiled back at me and then turned her gaze toward the Bay. “Look,” she exclaimed, pointing. “Isn’t that a boat way out there? I certainly hope it makes it in before dark!”
I nodded absently, but it wasn’t the sky or the water that I was watching.
“Garth,” she said after a few moments, still looking out toward the horizon. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to say to you. I keep thinking I’ll find the right moment, but—”
“You don’t have to worry about ‘right moments’ with me, Clare,” I said, sitting up.
“It’s about Douglas. I don’t think he broke his promise, but he told me what happened. He told me about the accident.”
“Oh.” I sank back, strangely relieved. “Yes, I know. Right before he left, he let me know he’d told you.”
“It was a very honorable thing to do,” she continued quickly.
“What you did. Especially in light of the…the circumstances.”
“Was it? Sometimes I’ve asked myself whether it was.”
“It’s a miracle you weren’t seriously injured or even killed!”
“Believe me, I know. I’ve a scar on my back that won’t let me forget how lucky I was.”
“Yes. That night I saw you on the beach—I thought it must be from the accident.”
We were both silent for a few seconds.
“Garth, there’s something else. I don’t quite know how to put this, but it was a bit of a shock, what Douglas told me. You see, I got such a different picture from your mother.”
“What did she say to you?” Even to my own ears, my voice sounded a little sharp.
Clare looked away. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be bringing all this up.”
“No,” I said, reaching for her hand. “I’m glad you are. Please go on.”
“Of course I couldn’t really talk to you at the funeral, but I did talk to your father.”
“Yes?”
“He—and Douglas—they were like a pair of clams! Neither of them would discuss the accident. Now I think I understand why: that whole business about Evienne being the driver and not you. But that left me only your mother to talk to and, well, she told me a very different story.”
“What did she say?”
“She told me Evienne was the love of your life.” Clare took a deep breath before continuing. “And that you’d never get over her death. I kept asking how you were doing, but she made it very clear that she didn’t want me to get in touch with you. In fact, she became extremely angry with me and accused me of interfering—”
She stopped, and I knew she was waiting for me to say something.
“That’s not entirely surprising,” I said slowly. “I can’t say I fully understand my mother’s motives, but I do know that she took Evi’s death very hard. Even before the accident, she was furious with me for calling off the wedding.”
“Why? Didn’t she know about—what had been going on?”
“She knew. But that wasn’t it.”
“Surely she didn’t want you to be unhappy.”
“It wasn’t about me or what was good or bad for me.”
“Then—why?” Clare whispered, her eyes searching my face anxiously.
There was no reason not to tell her. “Evi was my mother’s drinking buddy. It was as simple as that.”
Clare shuddered slightly and looked away. “Was Evienne an alcoholic, too, Garth?”
“Sadly, yes. Of course I had no idea—not at first. I was just happy that my mother liked the girl I brought home. You know how awful she could be to my friends.”
“You always protected us from all that. Your father did, too.”
“My father also tried to protect me from a lot of stuff. He even tried to warn me about Evi, but I was very determined to lead my own life.”
“That must have been very hard for him, to see you—” She hesitated.
“Make the same mistake he did?” I finished for her.
She started to shake her head.
“It’s hard to explain, Clare, but I was…sort of caught in a net with Evi. I’d started to make my way out of it, and then the accident happened, and it really threw me for a loop.”
“Of course it would! But it makes a world of difference that you weren’t the driver.”
I looked at her, waiting for her to explain.
“Garth, you weren’t any more responsible for Evienne’s drinking than you were for your mother’s! And that includes the consequences of their drinking.”
I smiled wryly. “Yes, but it’s taken me almost four years to reach the same conclusion.”
“I’m so glad you have. So glad for you. That makes it all worthwhile—”
“Maybe so.” I let go of her hand. “But do you mind me asking why you believed my mother? You knew about her drinking.”
“I guess I didn’t believe her, not fully anyway. I knew—I sensed—something. But Douglas never said anything. He never contradicted her. And, well, Douglas has always been my ambassador when it comes to you.”
“Maybe he should stop being your ambassador,” I said quietly. “When it comes to me.”
“All right.” This time she reached for my hand, her eyes glittering. “I’ll say it myself. I’m so sorry—so sorry about the accident—about everything. I’m so mad at myself for not just calling you up. Truly I am.”
“Thanks, Clare.” I returned the pressure of her fingers. “You don’t have to—”
“I didn’t know, you see.” She was growing a little weepy. “I feel terrible, but I just didn’t know. It’s no excuse, but I would have at least tried to call you. How awful it’s been for you!”
“Clare, really, I’m fine—just fine.”
She smiled faintly and began wiping her cheeks with the palm of her hand. “This is silly, isn’t it? I mean, your comforting me like this.”
“No, it’s not silly at all,” I said, and moved a little closer. She was being careful to keep her face averted.
I put my arm around her, and then, after a few seconds, I felt her rest her head gently against my shoulder.
A cool wind was blowing off the Bay, but neither of us moved.
Clare was the first to speak. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to ruin our picnic, but I’m glad to get that off my—” She stood up and then took a step backward.
“Watch out!” I leapt up, quickly pulling her back. “That edge is closer than you think!”
“You should take better care of that pretty wife of yours, mister,” a man’s voice said behind us.
We both looked around, startled.
An elderly volunteer lightkeeper was eyeing us inquisitively. “It’s almost a sheer drop.”
“Yes, I know.” I kept my arms around Clare and made her take a few steps forward.
“I came over to see if you’d like a candlelight tour of the lighthouse,” the man said, leaning heavily on his cane. “We like to do the tour just after sunset so you visitors can get a feel for what it was like up here a hundred years ago.”
We both hesitated.
“It’ll be my last tour until next year,” he added mournfully. “I’m headed back to the city tomorrow.”
“I’ll go,” Clare whispered. “Farley and Mars could do with a bit of exercise, don’t you think?”
Mars was ecstatic at the prospect of a walk, and Farley looked on patiently as I snapped on his leash. The three of us ambled down toward the Point and then over to the dock at Drake’s Basin. The sky was rapidly becoming dark, and I saw a beam of white light streak out from the light tower and sweep out across the Bay.
Mars pulled me along to the far end of the pier, and then we paused in front of a weather-beaten plaque nailed to the railing. My thoughts were on Clare as I absently read off the list of shipwrecks:
The Dorset—wrecked November 11, 1880.
The Fairweather—lost November 1, 1881.
Douce Mer—wrecked October 14, 1882.
The Mary Jane—wrecked July 3, 1897.
The light was rapidly fading, but suddenly I peered closer.
The Mystic—wrecked September 30, 1898.
It was the date in the diary: the date when Marged Brice had recorded a woman rising from Georgian Bay’s stormy depths and handing her a small child, a little girl she later named Perdita.
I watched the shadows as they lengthened on the water, Farley and Mars resting quietly at my feet. Twilight was thickening, and in the distance a cormorant stood sentinel on a large stone outcropping. I stared moodily toward the ruins of the Stewart Lodge, the remains of its front porch protruding from the forest and facing the Bay.
George Stewart couldn’t have been such a fool, such a stupid fool to lose her!
Sudde
nly I thought of Clare coming back all those summers and her words to Doug about me not seeing her—not really seeing her.
The cormorant shifted its position and took off in soundless flight, and I watched its graceful form disappear from sight, half wondering if Marged Brice had ever stood there, perhaps in the very same spot.
She might have wrapped her shawl tightly around her as she watched the boats in the Basin—Marged—waiting for the Stewarts’ boat to arrive. I could almost see her slim form and sweeping skirts silhouetted against the deepening hues of the night sky.
Then Marged Brice would have become a dusky shadow as the nighttime enveloped the Basin.
Marged—becoming indistinguishable from the darkening forms of trees blending into darker rock, and then black rock melting into the still blacker water.
MARGED BRICE
Cape Prius—1898
November 3
Andrew Reid is here.
How he came, I do not know, but he arrived at Dr. McTavish’s lodge late last evening.
I have been terribly distraught; the news of George having a wife still living has left me numb, almost to the point of making me feel horribly ill if I think of it. And now this—I did not expect it! I am truly shocked by Dr. Reid’s sudden appearance here at the Cape.
This afternoon, he stayed with Mother for almost two hours, but I remained in my room for the duration of his visit. As he was departing, I heard him ask Tad to tell me that he requests an interview. But I have refused to see him. Auntie A. was just here, chastising me vigorously, but I began to cry and so Tad took her away.
I am sure that George would be furious to know that Dr. Reid has come here—but Tad must stay until the Bay freezes, and even now, as I look out my window, I can see another ship on the horizon.
Why has the Bay remained so warm this year, as if to confound our plans to depart with Dr. McTavish?
And Dr. McT.—why does he remain for so long this year? The Stewarts left last week, and yet he refused their kind offer of passage with them.
How I miss Allan! Surely he would be able to distract me from all this brooding and worry.
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