There was a little girl between one and two years old standing beside me. She was completely naked and smiling shyly, sucking on her thumb.
As soon as I saw her, the pain stopped.
The girl searched my face, clapped her hands together once, and then clambered up onto my knees, using my shirt collar to steady herself. Then she turned and settled herself on my lap, so that we were both facing Marged.
I remained completely immobile, dumbstruck, and yet profoundly relieved that the awful pain was gone. Then she took each of my arms and brought them down across her tiny body so that she could nestle her back against my chest.
“Isn’t she lovely?” I could see Marged’s eyes tearing from where I was sitting. “You’re the first person she has ever come to—since George. Andrew so wanted to meet her, but he just couldn’t bring himself to it.”
I swallowed once or twice, trying to collect my wits. “This—this could be a little girl—a little girl visiting the home.” As soon as I said it, I felt the edge of the pain returning.
Marged leaned forward quickly. “No, Perdita! Patience—remember? You’ve promised me. You will have to do a trick. It’s the only way. Remember—with George, we had to do a trick, too.”
The little girl squirmed and then laughed; her voice was like a bird’s. “Show him your doll,” Marged instructed.
The child turned around in my lap and stood up on my knees, this time steadying herself by holding on to my shoulders. She placed her fingers on my cheeks, tweaking my nose and pulling on my lower lip, as if my face were a toy.
It was then that I got a better look at her.
At first she seemed to be a mass of soft, dark hair, hair that fell down her back in a long wave, turning a deep red at the ends. Her skin was flawlessly smooth, but it seemed to have a strange, almost greenish tinge to it. Then she looked up into my face. Her eyes—like Marged’s—were of a blue so intense that I almost had to look away.
“Marged,” I whispered. “Who—what is this?”
She ignored my question.
“Show him your doll,” Marged urged again.
The child reached behind her, sticking out her belly to balance herself, and then she drew out a little bundle. She rocked it in her arms as if it were a baby and then beckoned for me to look closer.
At first it seemed to be made of rags, but as I looked, the bundle grew luminous. I could see strands of a viscous material that seemed to be quivering. The girl took one of my hands and placed her doll in it, and I could feel it moving, alive with the motion of a thousand tiny parts.
“Piders,” she announced dramatically, dropping the s, and then she shook her head back and forth in a cocky fashion, as if thoroughly pleased with herself and her “trick.”
The bundle began to vibrate, and I could hear a faint humming sound that began to grow louder and louder. At first it was like the buzzing of bees…
Marged was watching me, her face suffused with happiness. “Now listen—listen carefully.”
I strained my ears.
“Don’t you hear it?” Marged whispered. “Don’t you hear the waves moving and now the pines bending in the wind?”
“That Marged.” The little girl laughed. “Now Garth.”
All of a sudden I heard Farley barking—then there was Clare’s laugh. The sounds seemed to surface and then fade as others replaced them. I heard a blue jay’s jeer announcing dawn at my cottage—then my father striking a match against one of the hearthstones. I heard my mother sobbing as she turned in her sleep—then a tremendous crack of lightning and rain beating against the roof.
The girl pressed the doll against my chest, and I seemed to hear my own heartbeat.
The cacophony swelled until I couldn’t stand it. “You may have it back,” I gasped, hastily thrusting the bundle into the little girl’s hands and feeling a sticky substance remain on my own.
She looked at me sternly and said, “Welcome,” before jumping down from my knees and running back to Marged.
Then she climbed up on her lap and turned to face me.
“You see, Garth; she is real. This is Perdita.”
I sat there, unable to utter a sound, and then the little girl disappeared before my very eyes. It was not that she vanished—no. She disappeared gradually, taking a minute or so. She just…faded, and then was gone from Marged’s lap.
I stood up abruptly.
From behind me, I heard a laugh and I swung around. She was at the door and darted quickly away, running off down the hallway.
“Now do you believe me?” Marged asked.
But for the life of me, I could not answer her.
Twenty
I remembered nothing of the drive back.
As soon as I arrived, I got out of the car and immediately headed down to the beach, stripping down by the boathouse and plunging into the Bay.
I must have had thoughts. I must have made rational conjectures about what I had just seen, but all that remained with me was the sensation of the little girl sitting in my lap, the warmth of her body pressing against my chest.
She had seemed so real…
I stayed in the Bay for over an hour, holding my ground against the waves and sinking down beneath them. I made myself focus on a single, simple task—diving down and keeping myself underwater for as long as I could, and then coming up to feel the cold spray burst over me.
At first I just let the waves wash over me, but at last my head began to clear.
Maybe Doug was right. I grasped at the thought as soon as it surfaced.
“Not so much your body,” he had said. “That’s in great shape. It’s your head—that brilliant mind of yours—it needs a real rest.”
Was that it? Was some part of myself playing along with Marged Brice’s fantasy?
Who was that little girl?
Now the phone was ringing.
I found myself back inside the cottage, and I answered it automatically.
“Garth, are you there?”
I took a deep breath, trying to concentrate. “Yes! Yes, Clare, I’m sorry. What were you saying?”
“I’ve got to go back to the city. It looks like for a few days. I don’t want to go, but I have to.”
She sounded upset, and I asked her if there was anything that I could do.
“Could you take Mars? It would be best if he didn’t come with me.”
I told her I’d be happy to take Mars.
“Could I come over now? Have you—have you finished your swim?”
“Yes—yes, I’m finished.”
I managed to have a shirt and shorts on when she arrived.
She froze when she saw me. “What on earth has happened?”
Clare came up close to me and put her hands on my arms, her eyes searching my face worriedly. Without warning, I grasped her shoulders and then hugged her to me very tightly, closing my eyes.
I immediately felt calmer.
After a few moments, Clare gently lifted up my arms and made me sit down. She brought me a glass of water, and I could see that she was growing alarmed at my silence.
“Garth, I think you should see a doctor.”
I looked up at her, my face still ashen. “No. I’m okay. Something happened at the home today, but I can’t talk about it right now.” My voice became unsteady.
She bit her lip. “Of course, but I’m worried about you. Won’t you please let me take you to a doctor?”
“No!” I said it much more forcefully than I intended, and she drew back in surprise.
“I’m sorry. But really, Clare, I’m beginning to feel much better.”
“Well, I’m going to stay. Can I at least stay until your…normal color comes back?”
***
Clare made me promise that I would immediately call a neighbor if I felt any worse.
&nbs
p; “Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to stay?” she asked again, lowering the window and looking at me anxiously.
I took her hand. “Will you call me when you get in?”
“I’ll call you as soon as I’ve arrived.”
“You didn’t say…” I began. “Why are you leaving so suddenly?”
She looked away.
“Oh—it’s Stuart Bretford. I think I told you about him. He’s flown in from London, and I’ve got to meet him.”
I dropped her hand. “Will you be coming back up?”
“Yes, I’m sure I’ll be back in a few days.”
I watched her car as it disappeared down the driveway.
I went back inside and put two bowls of food out for Farley and Mars and then went straight to bed.
Clare’s call woke me just after midnight. I told her that I was feeling much better, and she brightened, telling me that I had given her quite a scare.
***
The next afternoon I called Edna to let her know that I wouldn’t be coming down to the home for a few days.
She was sorry to hear that I was under the weather. “Marged keeps asking about you.”
“Please let her know I’m fine. And, Edna—it’s very important that she not be concerned about me. You can tell her I’m planning to be back after the weekend.”
“Yes, yes. You just get some rest,” she said soothingly. “And don’t worry about Marged. I’ll let her know you’re on the mend.”
I hung up, relieved that at least I wouldn’t have to worry about Marged. Now I could—
What was I going to do about Clare?
Twenty-One
“Are you feeling better?”
It was Clare on the phone.
I told her that I was fine—fully recovered.
“You’re sure? Absolutely sure?”
“Yes, I’m perfectly fine. I just needed a day’s rest.”
“I’m so glad!” She sounded very relieved. “I didn’t like leaving you like that! But listen, I haven’t got much time. Do you feel well enough to drive to Toronto for tonight?”
“Why tonight?” I asked, not telling her that I had already resolved to drive down and put in an appearance while Stuart was in town.
“I’m going to a party tonight, and my host is an art collector. Apparently he’s just acquired two of George Stewart’s paintings, and he said he’d be happy to show them to me.”
“That would be interesting but—”
“He told me one of the paintings is titled Perdita.”
There was the sound of voices growing louder in the background, and I lost her for a few seconds.
“Garth, can you hear me?”
“Barely, but yes—I’ll drive down this afternoon.”
“You’ll have to go black tie. The limo will be at your house at nine fifteen on the dot.”
“A limo?” I repeated, surprised.
“Yes, that’s not my choice. Mr. Sparke insists on it, and I’ve already told him that I’ll be bringing a guest.”
“Sparke!” I exclaimed. “Clare, did you say Sparke?”
“Yes, but I’ve got to run! See you tonight.”
***
Clare was punctual. I opened the door at 9:15 p.m. and stood, taken aback for a few seconds. My expression must have shown how beautiful she looked.
She paused in the hallway, evidently very pleased with my reaction, and did a full turn for me. “Do you like my dress?” She smiled at me playfully. “It’s sort of modeled after a piece from our Elizabethan collection. I adore these long draping sleeves.”
“What color is that?” I asked, looking down at her while she adjusted my tie, secretly charmed by her evident delight in seeing me.
“Aubergine.” She gently smoothed my collar and let her hands drift down over my jacket, straightening the sleeves. “It’s an aubergine silk.”
“Aubergine? That sounds like a color an incorrigible romantic would choose.”
“I wore this color for that Queen Hermione role I told you about,” she replied, smiling broadly. “And I’ve been addicted to it ever since.”
Now we were in the limo, and she continued to scrutinize me. “I quite like you in black tie, Professor Hellyer. I suppose I don’t have to warn you that there will be lots of actresses and models at this event. And lots of unfulfilled wives of very rich men. You know, absolute barracudas.”
I laughed, telling her that I thought I could take care of myself.
“Just don’t tell them you’re single. You’ll be eaten alive if you do.”
She was obviously in very high spirits. Wisps of hair kept falling into her face, and she brushed them back, her eyes shining. I smiled, thinking how pretty it made her.
“Actually, I don’t think it will matter, you’ll be eaten alive anyway.” She was still inspecting me.
“What about you?” I asked. “Should I assume that you can take care of yourself?”
“I’ve long learned that there are few principled men in my line of work. Art collectors are all about possession.”
“Does that include your trustee—your baron?” I made an effort to keep my tone light.
Clare looked at me. “Oh, I shouldn’t have said that so glibly. But how—how did you know he’s a baron?”
“When did he arrive?”
“Stuart just flew in from the UK. Didn’t I tell you? It was all unexpected.”
I wanted to ask her more, but the limo had pulled up at an enormous iron gate. We passed through without stopping, our chauffeur nodding breezily to the armed security guard.
“I haven’t told Stuart anything about Marged Brice or—all that,” Clare whispered as I opened the door. “I’ve just told him you’re an old friend.”
Baron Bretford was there at the entranceway: an athletic, good-looking man, slightly gray around the temples and a good fifteen years older than Clare, I guessed. I met his outstretched hand firmly and found myself fighting a strong desire to dislike him, realizing only half a second later that the feeling was mutual.
Stuart stepped hurriedly in front of me to take Clare by the arm and usher her into the house—she turning to give me an encouraging smile over her shoulder. Once we were inside, Clare deftly slipped her arm out of his and stepped back. Stuart was instantly seized by a throng of people and vanished from sight.
She smiled at me brightly. “I’ll start off with you, but it’s a foregone conclusion that we’ll be separated, probably in seconds. I’ll try to find you…”
A tall man in white tails grabbed Clare around the waist and gave her a lingering kiss on the neck. She pushed him back. “Gary,” she said smoothly, “whatever are you doing here?”
Gary disappeared without a word, and she looked over at me.
“My, what friendly friends you have,” I said mildly.
Clare laughed mischievously. “Ciao, bello,” she whispered, her eyes sparkling, and then an extremely thin woman in a silver cocktail dress took her arm, and she disappeared into the crowd.
At around midnight, I found a corner and stood watching the room, a bit exhausted from all the small talk and wondering how and when I might get a glimpse of the Stewart paintings.
“Garth!” It was Clare at my side. “Where have you been?”
“What do you mean? I’ve been right here in this room. Chatting with all these…people!”
“I couldn’t find you. It’s packed, isn’t it? Have you been eaten alive yet?”
I smiled. “I’d say several times.”
“Do you want to be rescued?” she asked archly.
“Only by you.”
“The perfect answer, Professor Hellyer,” she teased, “so here’s your reward. I’ve asked Mr. Sparke if we can see the paintings, and he said to go get you. He’s waiting for us in his gallery.”
“Was his grandfather’s name Michael?”
“Why yes! But how did you know?”
Before I could answer, we were taken into a small vestibule, and without a word, another security guard appeared. He did a quick pat down of me, merely nodding to Clare. Then he opened a door, and we walked into a long, windowless room, a thick, dark carpet covering its floor and paintings hung across every inch of its walls.
“Over here,” a deep, pleasant voice called out.
Clare took my arm, and we walked toward an elderly, hale-looking man who was playing with the ends of a well-groomed mustache. She introduced me to Mr. Clement Sparke.
“I’ve just procured two of Stewart’s works,” Mr. Sparke announced and proudly led us toward a far corner of the room. “They’re very rare and wonderful pieces. Very unlike his other work because these have human subjects.”
He stopped and pointed to an oil painting hung in an ornate golden frame. “This one is titled Eidos.”
I inhaled sharply. “Marged’s portrait,” I murmured involuntarily.
Mr. Sparke turned to look at me curiously. “I beg your pardon. Do you know this painting?”
“No,” I replied hastily. “It just reminded me of something—something I’d read somewhere.”
“It’s gorgeous,” Clare purred. “Absolutely gorgeous.”
Mr. Sparke smiled at her warmly.
“I can see the outline of a woman,” she continued. “Doesn’t it look like she’s walking on a shoreline? Or at least somewhere there’s water and sky behind her?”
“Take a good look at her, Clare,” I said quietly. “Can you see—can you see a widow’s peak?”
Clare swallowed, looking once at me, and then peered closer. “Yes, I think you’re right. She might have a widow’s peak.”
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