Perdita (35 page)

“Are you sure this
is the right address?” Clare whispered. “I saw a ‘T. Phelps' on the
mailbox.”

I gave the door another loud
knock.

“Yes, I'm sure,” I whispered back. “This was Andrew Reid's home. Edna told me that his housekeeper, Angela, lives here now. Tom was her
husband.”

“Andrew Reid is the one who tried to prevent Marged Brice from marrying
George?”

“Yes, I'll fill you in on the details later, but that's what I've gathered from the letters Miss Brice gave
me.”

“Oh, I see. But why are we whispering?” Clare slipped her arm conspiratorially in
mine.

The door inched open, and we both straightened up. The pungent smell of something burning in Mrs. Phelps's oven wafted toward
us.

“I think it might be lasagna,” Clare warned, keeping her voice low as we followed Mrs. Phelps back to a spare and spotless
kitchen.

Eight minutes later, a thick and very crispy wedge of the stuff was sitting on a plate before me, and Mrs. Phelps was eyeing me anxiously. “It's very good,” I told her, avoiding Clare's doubtful glances and taking up another forkful. “Really, it's very
tasty.”

Mrs. Phelps smiled broadly and turned to Clare. “Now, what was it you wanted, dearie?”

Clare explained our errand while I did battle with the lasagna. Angela Phelps didn't remember any family by the name of Brice, but she seemed very interested in the Longevity Project. “I'm only in my eighties,” she confessed. “Still a youngster, I guess, for your group. But Dr. Reid—why, he lived to one hundred and
ten.”

“And you were Andrew Reid's housekeeper for how many years?” I asked, wiping my mouth and politely refusing another
helping.

“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.

“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!

Suddenly 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.