Perdita (8 page)

Allan has a good ear for languages. If he puts his mind to it, he can recall and repeat almost everything he has heard, often after only one lesson. After two hours or so, we walked leisurely back to the Lodge, and I told him about my correspondence with Mr. Muir. He seemed quite interested, and he told me of a former tutor of his and of his interest in natural history. I have never seen Allan so animated about any subject, and indeed I am now wondering if he is not more suited to scientific pursuits. I should be delighted if this were the case, though I have so little to offer him by way of instruction on this topic. But he was very eager to explain the classifications of all sorts of animals (becoming my instructor for once!), and I took the opportunity to echo Mr. Thompson's point about the importance of Latin for such
studies.

I am amazed at his easy memory of such voluminous detail. I think we must perhaps set aside my beloved Horace—and even Hesiod and Aeschylus for a time. I shall ask Dr. Clowes to see if he might obtain the works of Mr. Darwin by post, since Allan is interested in these things. I think it wise to follow in the steps of his interests and to nurture a sense of scholarly discipline based on his natural inclinations. The Stewarts are planning to stay through to October, so it will be well for Allan to have these occupations. Old Mr. Stewart has taken charge of his other lessons, and they are going rather dreadfully, or so Allan says. Mr. Stewart has not forbidden his lessons with me, but Allan tells me that they have advertised for a tutor. Perhaps no one will care to come such a distance. But I am not offended—I have deserved
it!

June 13

It is quite late, but I must chronicle yet another of my follies! Will they ever
cease?

Today, after our walk, Allan and I returned to the Lodge, and he went off in search of Susan to see if he could persuade her to “release from bondage” some of her biscuits. I paused in the hallway when I saw that the door to George's studio was open. There was no one in the room, and the house was quiet and still. I could see his easel set up near the window, and a space had been cleared by the fireplace for a chair. I observed that he had been working on a large canvas; it seemed to be a portrait of a woman, but I could not tell of whom. My curiosity got the better of me and I slipped silently into the room, planning only to take a peek and then step back
out.

Upon closer inspection, I recognized the outlines of Miss Ferguson on the canvas. He had painted in the background with rough, bold strokes and had blocked in the red fabric of the chair. Her dress, too, was painted in strong lines, and George had sketched in the outlines of a pearl necklace at her throat. He had started to detail her hair, and though the contours of her face were still unfinished, they were strangely precise—he had caught the cold, glittering gray of her eyes and the thin lines of her mouth. I wondered if she were pleased with
it.

I should have left immediately, but I thought I might have a closer look at the canvas over the fireplace and determine whether or not it was my grove of trees that he had painted. I had begun to suspect that George and I had frequented some of the same nooks and crannies of Cape Prius, but without the other knowing. I had always thought of the cedar chapel as my secret, but looking at the painting, I realized that it was not. George had gone there and painted their smooth, twisting trunks and the dusky, damp shadows cast by their branches upon the forest floor. Somehow he had also painted the light in its sudden stillness. Even more remarkable, I knew the trees to be moving—gently trying to tease the light into laughter, and the light playfully refusing to move even a
muscle…

I was entranced by the painting. I am quite sure that I pressed my hands together, and, holding my breath, I stood before it just as if I were in the copse and saying my prayers among the cedars. I thought it a most beautiful
painting!

He must have come in without me knowing it, for I am sure that the room was empty when I entered. I do not know how long George stood there before saying in a low voice, “What are
you
doing here, Miss
Brice?”

It was an echo of my address to him at Clootie's Point—I recognized it immediately. It sounded so unfriendly! Yet I suppose that I did deserve it. His voice was so unexpected that it made me jump, and I looked at him, horrified—as if I had been caught in a terrible act. His eyes were so dark and burning that they seemed to accuse me of trespassing into his private studio and—I don't know what
else!

I stepped back unthinkingly, and without intending it—truly it was an accident!—I backed up against his easel, tripping over his box of paints and brushes. Before I knew it, I had fallen, taking the easel and the painting with me onto the floor. I lay sprawled in a disastrous heap, the smell of oils and turpentine filling the air with a terrible pungency. I don't think that I have ever been so horrified at my own clumsiness! I was sure that I had ruined Miss Ferguson's portrait and that George would hate me for it—and be justified. In my mind, I saw the other canvases that Allan had destroyed—and myself by association. I could only think that George would believe me to be deliberately careless around his work—and the thought left me
paralyzed.

It was George who lifted me off the floor, for I was not capable of any movement, so appalled was I at what I had
done.

My face must have twisted as a sharp pain shot through my
ankle.

“I've ruined it, haven't I?” I cried. “I've ruined her picture! I didn't mean to—please believe that I didn't mean to!” My eyes were blinded with tears, so I could not read his
expression.

“Damn the picture!” he growled. “Have you hurt
yourself?”

There was a sound of footsteps in the hallway, and Allan and Effie came rushing into the room. Effie let out a little scream, and Allan nearly dropped his biscuits when he saw the heap behind me. He gave out a long, low
whistle.

“Oh, Margie,” he said. “Now you've done
it.”

George told him to shut up—and to run and get Dr. McTavish.

Effie took me to her room. She helped to bathe my ankle in cold water. I am to do this three times a day until the swelling has gone down. I've really twisted it, and it is quite painful if I place any weight on it. Uncle Gil came and carried me home, and Auntie Alis says that I am not to go outside until I am properly
healed.

I told Tad and Mother how it all happened. I knew Mother was sympathetic and that she understood my distress—though of course she cannot speak. Tad didn't say a word about it, but just patted my head and then told me to go to
bed.

But I don't think I shall be able to. I keep seeing the canvas on the floor—and that awful smell! To be sure, I have ruined Miss Ferguson's
picture!

“Did you get some
sleep?” Clare was handing me a bottle of wine and smiling up into my
face.

“I slept almost all afternoon,” I said as I led her out to the deck. “My apologies if I seemed a bit groggy this
morning.”

“You did look pretty beat. Am I allowed to ask you about the diaries, now that you're properly
awake?”

“Allowed?”

“Didn't Miss Brice swear you to
secrecy?”

I smiled. “No, Clare—this isn't exactly top-secret
stuff.”

“Good! Because I've been dying to ask you. Is your Perdita mystery
solved?”

“I only got through the first diary.” I paused, enjoying her suspense while I extended the
awning.

She eyed me wryly. “You know, these days you've only about five seconds before you lose your
audience.”

I laughed. “The less-than-five-second answer is no. There's not even mention of a Perdita in the first
diary.”

She looked disappointed but then grew very interested as I told her about the Brices and Marged's relationship with Allan and George Stewart. “Not the painter!” she
exclaimed.

“The same. As you may know, his family once owned all the land around here. We've the Stewart family to thank for those beautiful, very old white pines in our
backyards.”

“Hmm. I seem to remember something about the Stewarts having lots of run-ins with the logging companies. But I knew about George Stewart being up here through my grandfather. He saw him, you know, after he was supposed to be
dead.”

“You mean after Stewart
disappeared?”

“Yes, it happened before I was born, but I vividly remember my grandfather talking about it. It was sort of eerie—it was just before the war. He and two of his hunting buddies saw an elderly man sketching on a rock outcropping. The man scurried off as soon as he saw their canoe, but they found the embers of a fire and some food and a bottle of brandy that he left behind. My grandfather always claimed that George Stewart's disappearance was staged. They never found his body, you
know.”

I wondered why Stewart would disappear like that, but Clare shrugged. “Even before that, he'd become reclusive, not even attending his own shows. But the Group of Seven always acknowledged him. Did you know that Tom Thomson went on camping trips with him and sort of studied under
him?”

I shook my head. I knew next to nothing about George Stewart—except that he was probably Canada's most famous painter, and his canvases were worth small
fortunes.

“You'll keep me posted about what comes next, won't you?” she said eagerly. I couldn't help grinning. “It would be cruel not to,” she urged, smiling back, “especially if there's a romance
involved…”

Romance? But I hadn't said
anything—

“Have you ever seen a photograph of George Stewart?” she asked, guessing my thoughts. “He's incredibly good-looking, and there's a rumor he was secretly married. Wouldn't it be something if your Miss Brice turned out to be a clandestine bride or his mistress or something like
that?”

I reminded her that the Miss Brice of the Clarkson Home was almost certainly not the author of the
diaries.

“But you'll at least keep me
posted?”

I promised—and then told her that I was planning to go to the county archives in the morning, possibly to clear up the whole
mystery.

“What do you hope to find
there?”

“A record of death for Marged Brice,” I said
quietly.

Clare picked up Farley, her expression thoughtful. “But a record of death would only explain who she
isn't
. It wouldn't explain who she
is.”

“You've a point there, but it would get me off the hook as far as Edna and the Longevity Project is
concerned.”

“Don't you want to read her
diaries?”

Clare's comments about George Stewart had certainly sharpened my interest, but I told her that I planned to follow a pretty tight writing schedule for my
book.

“And if you don't find a record of death at the archives?” she
asked.

“Then I'll be back at square one, I guess, and I'll have to read the next
diary.”

Just then we both heard a deep roll of thunder in the
distance.

“Garth, I'm afraid I'll have to cut out. I've left all the windows
open.”

“You'd better go the back way, then.”

She followed me through the cottage to the back door, and I invited her to hitch a ride into town with me if she liked. “We can take my car, and you could do those errands you mentioned,” I suggested. “Then we could meet for
lunch.”

“That would work perfectly! I've got to get Mars to the vet ASAP. I think he's got fleas or something. He's been biting and scratching himself
constantly.”

I handed her a rain poncho, and Farley let out one of his piercing howls as she disappeared beneath the cape of plastic. Before I could grab him, he darted between her legs and she lost her balance, knocking a framed photograph off the
wall.

“Sorry about that,” I said, helping her up. “Farley's terrified of storms. Don't worry about the picture. I've been meaning to tidy up back
here.”

“It
is
a bit of a booby trap.” Clare bent down to retrieve the picture. Then—“Oh no! It looks like I've broken the
frame.”

I was surprised by her concerned expression and gently took the photograph from her. It was an old shot taken in front of the boathouse. I had my arm around Evienne's waist as she smiled coyly into the camera. Doug was there, too—and Davey Sullivan, the third musketeer of our summer gang. We all had cans of beer outstretched in our hands and Evi was holding up an extremely large
whitefish.

I grimaced involuntarily—that had been a happier time—and then I placed the photograph facedown on the side
table.

“I'm sorry.” Clare was looking at me apprehensively. “I hope I haven't ruined
it.”

“No,” I assured her. “It's not ruined at all. Please don't
worry.”

Before I could stop her, she was crouching down, trying to pick up the broken
glass.

“Clare!” I exclaimed—but it was too late, she had cut
herself.

I insisted that she bandage her
hand.

“It's strange about that picture,” she mused as we taped up her
finger.

“What do you
mean?”

“I've always hated it. I'm actually in it, you know. You probably never noticed, but the picture frame covers me up. I'm actually standing at the end of the row. If you look, you'll see part of my
leg.”

I went back to the side table and lifted the photograph out of the frame. There she was—standing off to the left, next to Davey Sullivan. Her towel lay in a heap on the ground at her feet and her long hair fell almost to her
waist.

“I must have been about eighteen then—almost nineteen, because wasn't that your twenty-fifth birthday, Garth?”

“Yes, I believe it was. But why do you hate this picture? I think it's very—well, it's certainly flattering of
you.”

“Oh, no, it's not that. It was your mother; she was always framing me out of your family photos. Douglas sometimes got in them, but not me! It used to really annoy me, but I never said anything about
it.”

I was a little taken aback, but I knew that my mother had been rough on Clare—on everyone really—especially when she'd been
drinking.

“And I bet you've forgotten it was me who caught that fish,” she said, opening the
door.

“I always thought Doug caught
it.”

“I guess you award-winning historians sometimes forget the little details, don't you?” She gave me a funny smile as she stepped out into the rain. “I'll see you in the
morning!”

I watched her walk swiftly down the driveway and then disappear beyond the cedar hedge. Then I went back to the table to take a closer look at the
photograph.

Had it really been a happier
time?

Evienne was bending forward, her head thrown back—only a miracle of gravity keeping the top of her bathing suit up. We had been together for about a month at that point and I'd been unsure of the whole thing. I recalled that she had gotten somewhat drunk that weekend and flirted with Doug, later insisting she'd only done it to make me jealous. Why did I buy it? I could see it all in retrospect; all the signs of a disaster
brewing.

I looked at Clare. Her expression was hard to read, but she certainly seemed withdrawn—standing at the edge of our group, her face guarded. She had a fishing pole in one hand and her other arm was raised, as if the camera had caught her in the act of pushing her hair back and away from her
face.

Suddenly I peered
closer.

I had always wondered what Davey Sullivan was staring off at in that picture, but now I
knew.

It was Clare, standing next to him. He was giving her a very penetrating gaze—almost wolfish—and it looked as if he was just about to place one of his hands on her bare
shoulder.