Perdita

by Hilary Scharper

  Mr. Sparke bent closer to his painting. “How remarkable. I’ve not noticed that.”

  Clare smiled demurely. “This is a real treat for Professor Hellyer and me. We’re so grateful! Didn’t you say that you had another painting by George Stewart?”

  “Yes, but not a painting; it’s a sketch. This one is most unusual.”

  He flicked on a switch, and a soft light went on over a smaller picture.

  I stepped toward it and began to inspect a charcoal drawing.

  “This one is titled Perdita,” Mr. Sparke was saying. “My agent told me that it’s a sketch of a woman who’s been rescued from a shipwreck. There were quite a few of those near the old Stewart property on Georgian Bay.”

  “Do you know why it’s called Perdita?” Clare let go of my arm and drew Mr. Sparke’s attention away from the picture.

  “All I know is that Stewart named this one himself,” I heard him say. “That’s his writing at the bottom, on the left. I was very lucky to get these, my dear. In fact, it’s a small miracle that I have them. The bulk of Stewart’s work has gone to the National Gallery, and virtually nothing ever goes for private sale.”

  “Really?” Clare murmured. “And why is that?”

  “The Stewart family is very protective of his collection. But for some reason, they were willing to let go of these two pieces.”

  Their voices seemed to fade away as I stared at the sketch.

  The picture was a mass of dark grays: everything blended and fused in George Stewart’s signature style. He had done the sketch in quick, rough strokes, skillfully obscuring the boundaries between objects and forms. After a few seconds of intense staring, I was able to make out the body of a woman, lying on her side and covered in a blanket—a quilt of some sort—her hair strewn across a pillow.

  I stepped closer.

  It was almost impossible to see it—but it seemed to me that there was a shadow next to the woman. It looked like the dark shape of a child curled up against her back, a child with one arm outstretched, her fingers touching the woman’s face as she slept. The child appeared to be uncovered and naked, and Stewart had made her long, tousled hair a deeper shade at the ends.

  Was it just my imagination? I bent closer, searching for Stewart’s writing.

  “Mr. Sparke?”

  Both Clare and the collector looked over at me.

  “This sketch isn’t titled Perdita,” I announced quietly.

  “Oh, but it is,” Mr. Sparke countered politely. “Don’t you see Stewart’s handwriting there at the bottom? That’s where he titled it.”

  “Yes, I see it. But George Stewart has written Marged and Perdita.”

  He came closer to take a look and then stepped back.

  “I believe you’re right,” he muttered. “I must have missed that. It looks to me as if someone or something has smudged the writing. I must say, you’ve got good eyes!”

  I could feel Clare’s hand on my arm.

  “Now, I wonder who Marged might be?” Mr. Sparke mused out loud. “I should have my agent ask the family.”

  ***

  “Garth—what time is it?” We paused on the steps. The party was still in full swing, and someone had started playing the piano. Soon the rest of the hired band joined in.

  I looked at my watch. “Just before one.” I must have seemed strangely quiet to her. Clare yawned and leaned against me. I put my arm round her and looked out across the dance floor, drawing her close. I would tell her everything, I thought. Tomorrow I would tell her about Perdita.

  Or would it be better to tell Doug first?

  I stared at the dancers moodily. “I should never have listened to Edna,” I muttered.

  “What?” Clare asked sleepily. She looked up at me, pushing her hair back from her face, and suddenly my heart gave a sharp twist.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Stuart Bretford making his way toward us, and the sight of him deeply irritated me.

  “Clare, I’m going to head back to the cottage,” I announced abruptly. “Don’t worry about that limo getting me home; I can make my way alone.”

  “What?” She peered up at me, her expression bewildered. “I thought we’d leave together. I’m planning to head back up, too.”

  I dropped my arm, and she drew away, her expression puzzled.

  “I think Bretford’s looking for you,” I said tersely.

  She flushed. “What are you trying to say?”

  “Well, he is your fiancé, isn’t he?” I was still strangely agitated by Stewart’s sketch—and I knew I wasn’t behaving very well.

  “No, he isn’t, Garth,” she said quietly, stepping away. “I told him this morning that I couldn’t ever marry him.”

  “Clare,” I began, instantly penitent, “I’m—”

  But she was gone, swallowed up by the party.

  I stood at the top of the steps for a few seconds, grimly watching the baron continue his stoic search for her. Then I stepped down, determined to go after her—when I felt my phone ringing.

  Twenty-Two

  I made the drive back up to the Clarkson in just under four hours.

  Edna met me in the foyer.

  “I’m sorry to call you in the middle of the night, Garth. But I’m so glad you made it. This afternoon she took a turn for the worse and has been asking for you ever since.”

  Marged was in bed, her head slightly raised. A nurse was there, dozing in a chair beside her, and an oxygen tank sat ready at her bedside. She opened her eyes as I approached.

  “Edna,” she said, her voice weak. “May I have a few minutes alone with Professor Hellyer—with Garth.”

  They left us, the nurse emptying a container in the bathroom on her way out.

  Marged smiled at me. “Garth…” she began.

  I pulled my chair up close.

  “You mustn’t look so glum,” she said gently. “I know it sounds odd, but you can’t imagine how—how happy I am to be dying. Finally dying.”

  I tried to smile, telling her that she was indeed the first person I had ever met who was so…enthusiastic about dying.

  “You’re familiar with this, then, this dying?”

  “Oh yes. Remember, I’m a war historian. I’ve heard a great deal about dying.”

  “Then this can be one of your happy dying stories,” Marged whispered, her voice growing faint. “Don’t think I’m morbid, but truly, I am happy that this is finally coming to me.”

  I felt my eyes growing moist.

  “They were worried I might die before you got here, but I knew that I wouldn’t. You see—there’s still Perdita. She’s there, at the end of the bed. Do you see her?”

  I started and then looked. I saw the little girl, squatting on Marged’s bed and cooing to her white bundle, her doll.

  “Do you feel any pain?”

  I paused—then shook my head.

  Marged sighed. “That’s good. That’s what I wanted to tell you. Perdita is going to go with you.”

  “What?” I was suddenly alarmed.

  Marged grinned. “I was right, you see. I told the trees; I asked them to send me someone. I just couldn’t go on like this, Garth! But now I want to be with him. Truly be with him!”

  “Yes—but—” I stammered. “Why is she coming to me?”

  “I’ve wanted to tell you, but I’m afraid I might not have the time to tell you. You see, I’m very close.”

  “But surely you can’t expect me to believe that she’s—one of the immortals or…”

  “You’ll have to sort that all out for yourself, Garth. But I must tell you something, while I can.”

  “Yes?”

  “The missing fragment from Hesiod. It’s much longer, just as your friend suspected. She knows only the first part, but there is more.” Marged took a few quick breaths. “Pandora
doesn’t go back to Hephaestus and become immortal. She falls in love with a man.”

  “Marged, please don’t exert yourself.” I could hardly believe that she had postponed her death in order to give me a lesson in Greek mythology.

  She shook her head. “Listen carefully. Tell your friend: Pandora takes the three loves from Perdita and shares them with her lover. But Pandora doesn’t know about the fourth one. You remember—Hephaestus secretly added it to Perdita’s bundle.”

  “I remember,” I said, deciding that it would be best to humor her. “You mean biophilia?”

  “Yes.” She pressed my fingers firmly. “Perdita tries to give biophilia to Pandora, but she is unsuccessful. It is Lumenius who puts it so beautifully. Perdita’s fate is to always seek a mortal who will draw out this fourth thread from her bundle.”

  I felt the little girl touching my arm and then her fingers stroking my cheek.

  “There must some other explanation,” I insisted. “You must—”

  But Marged was no longer looking at me. She had closed her eyes.

  “Humankind,” she continued almost breathlessly. “Over and over again, Perdita comes to mankind but he abandons her. So she returns to the water nymphs. But she is destined to come back, always seeking a protector. That’s the fragment, Garth. That’s basically the rest of it. You must tell your friend.”

  I held her hand silently, watching her face, anxiously listening for the return of each breath as the intervals between them lengthened.

  “Garth?” Marged said after a few moments, opening her eyes.

  “Yes, I’m still here.”

  “I wouldn’t be abandoning Perdita—not if there’s another thread, would I? Not if there’s someone else who will take the fourth love from her, someone who will risk a great love.”

  I didn’t say anything. The little girl was pushing up against my legs as if she wanted to come up into my lap, and I was focusing my efforts on staying very still.

  “There must be another thread. That must be why Perdita will go with you. She’s coming to you so that I can go. So you must have a thread…”

  I remained silent, but I lifted up the little girl and let her crawl into my lap.

  “Ah, so you won’t tell me,” Marged murmured. “Well, I’ve had my secrets, too, haven’t I? You’ve wanted to know about George and Andrew. Isn’t that so?” She turned and looked straight into my eyes. “Whom do you think I chose? No—wait. If you were me, whom would you have chosen?”

  “George,” I said without hesitation.

  She looked at me with one of her piercing stares and then laughed; it was such a soft, haunting laugh. “That’s because you’re from the Georgian Bay side. Andrew was Lake Huron.”

  She was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “I’m from the Bay side, too. For a long time, I loved them both. Indeed, I still do. But only a peninsula can hold two bodies of water in perfect balance, and I made the mistake of thinking that I might be a peninsula. But I came to know…”

  I waited, practically holding my breath.

  She raised herself off the pillows a little. “I came to know that the people one loves—it’s all mixed up. Like Perdita’s bundle. She saves them, you see, all those connections. We always want to get rid of them, but she saves them.” She took another deep breath and then turned her head toward the window. “But it was this beautiful Peninsula that helped me to my choice. You remember your Latin, don’t you? Paene—for almost. Insula—for island. Peninsula. Almost an island.” She pronounced the words carefully, again as if she were giving me a lesson, and then began to cough.

  “Garth,” she whispered after a long pause. “I’m sorry, but…”

  I bent closer.

  “I want you to take my diaries. They’re over there in that box on the night table. You must take them. I don’t want anyone else to have them.”

  She looked up at me anxiously. “And I’ve made you the executor for my painting—George’s Sylvan Chapel. You are to do something for the Clarkson Home with it. Please make sure that it is safe. I know you will, won’t you?”

  I nodded, pressing her hand.

  “Now,” she said, “you’ve wanted to know—about George and Andrew.”

  “Yes, Marged. I very much want to know.”

  She closed her eyes, her face becoming extraordinarily beautiful as she approached her death—like limestone under water, I thought.

  “What would you have done, Garth, if you were George?” she asked.

  I hesitated. I could feel Marged gently stroking my fingers. “I loved George with all my heart—with all that I was and all that I am,” she said softly. “I loved him with all the loves that are given us. Even the fourth love, because Perdita brought it to us. But he wanted me to come to him, and so he could not see it. Not at first—”

  “What couldn’t he see?”

  “The thread!” she exclaimed, the blue of her eyes now blazing into my own. “He was blind to the nature of his own connection to me. As if our love could be…anything other than what it was. He had made mistakes, but there was a part of him that was afraid. You see, he wanted me to be there for him—but a thread—well, that is not the nature of a thread.”

  “But, Marged, what did George do? Did he come back to you?”

  “Oh, Garth.” She sighed. “That’s not your question! I’ve just given you your question!” She grew very calm and then after a few seconds, she closed her eyes. “I have so wished for this. Would you stay with me until…?” She could barely utter the words as she grasped my fingers.

  And then—it was terrible.

  Suddenly I was in the emergency room and it was Evienne before me. Evi—dying. I was dazed and bruised, but I had her hand in mine, and my eyes were filled with tears. I felt that I should hate her, but my heart was broken—breaking for what we could never be to each other. Evi was conscious, but they couldn’t stop the bleeding, and I knew that there were only seconds left.

  She was grasping my hand and looking at me—in the midst of all those tubes and that awful smell, she was looking at me as her life’s blood left her. She was swearing horribly and then—“Garth,” she moaned, “what happened?”

  I remembered that I bent over and kissed her as she died.

  I was back at Marged’s bedside, bending over her, holding her hand in mine and gripping it hard, as if to fasten her life onto mine. Perdita was standing beside me, patting my face just below my ear.

  There was a scratching sound at the window and a flicker of light, and I turned my head to see the sweep of an owl’s wings—and then I heard it hooting.

  Perdita moved away from me and went over to the window. She stood on tiptoe looking out, struggling to lift up the heavy sash. Then she turned to me, beckoning for me to come and open it.

  I slowly rose and went over to the window and then opened it a few inches.

  There was a rush of air, and I knew that Marged Brice was gone.

  Twenty-Three

  I woke up to the sound of Perdita’s whimpering.

  It was pitch-black outside. I stumbled out of bed, bleary-eyed and disoriented, at first thinking that it was my mother calling out in her sleep and wondering why my father wasn’t quieting her.

  The little girl was in the chair by the fireplace, fast asleep and cuddled up with Farley, Mars stretched out on the floor below them. She had her doll nestled in her arms, and I stared at her, desperately trying to disbelieve what I was seeing.

  Farley looked up at me, and our eyes met for a few seconds. Then he yawned, gave one of her knees a lick, and tucked his head back down under her arm.

  I stood there for several minutes watching the three of them sleeping—deeply troubled. Then I staggered back to bed.

  Perdita woke me up at dawn by patting my cheek just below my ear.

  “Where Marged? Where Marged?” she moaned fr
etfully, and then she disappeared and I saw nothing of her until nightfall, when I heard her crawling into my father’s chair and calling out for Farley and Mars.

  ***

  The next morning, I heard Perdita singing to herself. There was a soft thud, Farley gave a few quick barks…then silence.

  I lay in bed, watching the room slowly grow brighter.

  Where was Clare?

  I had called the number she’d given me several times, but no one answered. The phone rang and rang and then cut me off abruptly. Worse still, there seemed to be no way of leaving a message.

  Doug wasn’t around to help me out either. His receptionist had told me that he was off on holiday in the north of Scotland, wandering around the moors.

  “Is it an emergency?” she’d asked. I had paused and then said I’d call back in a few days.

  ***

  I sat out on the deck late into the evening, moodily watching a thick fog roll in. I kept listening for the sound of Clare’s car on the road.

  Surely her mother—surely Donna would help me get a message through to her?

  Suddenly I felt a little hand tug at my fingers.

  “Garth. Come with you.”

  Perdita led me down to the dock, and we both waited quietly for a few minutes, watching a massive wall of fog engulf everything around us.

  “Come with you,” she repeated, and nimbly climbed into the rowboat, motioning for me to follow her. I hesitated, watching her as she took a life jacket and made a cushion for herself on one of the seats.

  “I show you.”

  I cast off reluctantly and took the oars. I couldn’t see more than three feet in front of me. Perdita crept up close and planted herself between my legs as I started rowing, and then she began to hang on to my arms as I bent forward and pulled back.

  “Row, row, row,” she crowed gleefully.

  After several minutes I stopped and lifted the oars. The fog above us had parted momentarily, and I looked up and saw stars.

  “Big dippa? Marged show me.” Perdita started to pull on my ears.

  “Perdita.” For the first time, I addressed her directly.