Perdita (38 page)

“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.”

A man in a dark suit appeared and silently led us up a short stairway, sweeping us past a cordon of security guards as we moved deeper into the house. “Mr. Sparke comes from a long line of distinguished art collectors,” Clare explained as we followed the man. “His grandfather was a famous art critic and knew George Stewart quite well. Apparently the current dauphin is much friendlier than his predecessor, but perhaps a tad less
brilliant.”

“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.”

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.

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.