Jakob Hertzlich had loved me for years. It felt strange, realizing I was loved. So strange I had not recognized it. For the briefest moment tenderness welled inside me. The skin around my eyes went tight.
In the darkness Jakob Hertzlich saw nothing of this. He picked up his satchel and before I could say a word marched down the icy walk to the street.
VII
THE CROSSING
Starting a long way off the true point,
and proceeding by loops and zigzags, we now and then
arrive just where we ought to be.
— GEORGE ELIOT, MIDDLEMARCH
27
DECEMBER 1918
It was the seventh day of the trip, a fact I’d learned in the mess hall that morning from one of the other passengers. Seven days of squall and storm, the ship tossed like a leaf on the swells. I felt like I had died. Seven days or weeks or months — I could no longer say how long I’d been at sea. The hours melted into each other, endlessly protracted and so cold that I couldn’t stay outside for more than a few minutes. It was late December, the worst time of the year for an Atlantic crossing. I had taken a ship to England once before in winter, but the weather had co-operated and I’d been able to spend a good part of it on deck. This was a completely different experience. I’d been sick from the instant I stepped on board.
When I had told people about my plan to cross in December they tried to warn me. Miss Skerry thought winter crossings unsafe. Samuel Clarke’s widow spent an entire morning attempting to dissuade me. The crossing would be hard, she said, but Europe would be worse. My former students, many of whom had only just returned from overseas, were more categorical. Winter crossings were to be avoided at any cost. I would be confined to my cabin by a cold more intense than any I had experienced in Canada. Europe was still reeling from the war. Even the ship’s agent from whom I had purchased my ticket had said it would be wise to postpone my travels until the spring.
I could not wait. As soon as the armistice was signed on November 11, in a railway carriage in the forests of northern France, I began to mobilize. Passenger ships had started crossing again even before the ink was dry on the peace agreement and I was able to book a berth for the Christmas period. I was not scared off by the warnings of my students and friends. I thought I knew what winter crossings were like, and after four years of war-time confinement in Montreal I was itching to brave the open seas.
Open Arms was shuttered, its gate closed to visitors even though this was the Christmas season. The walk from the curb to the front door was icy, and I proceeded with care. I had taken the train from Portsmouth and found an inn not far from the Howletts’ house, but even today, a full twenty-four hours after stepping onto dry land, I was still feeling the effect of the ship. I kept tilting to the left as though the world had skewed slightly and I was the only one to notice. The nausea had stopped. I must have lost a full stone in weight; my clothes hung off me. I was weak and exhausted, but I was here, safe and more or less sound.
I knocked on the Howletts’ door and waited for a minute or so, peering through a little strip of frosted glass. I couldn’t see anything inside the house except that it was dark. It was only ten o’clock in the morning, too early for Sir William to be out visiting. I got worried then. There had been so many deaths back in Montreal I suppose that worry was a natural response. I rapped again, more insistently, and kept rapping until a shadow filled the pane.
Lady Kitty poked her beautiful patrician head through the crack between the door and the door jamb. When she saw me she drew herself up like a long-necked bird and shook her elegant head. She still towered above me, but posture alone couldn’t hide her alteration. Her mouth was pulled down almost clownishly and her eyes, once so bold and unblinking, would not meet mine. Although she was attempting to stand tall her shoulders appeared hunched; she was carrying a load so heavy it was about to break her back. She shook my hand, saying what a pleasant surprise it was to see me so soon after the armistice.
Now it was my turn to be surprised. “You didn’t receive my letters?”
Lady Kitty was no master at dissembling. Her eyebrows lifted convincingly enough, but her eyes gave her instantly away. “Letters?” She didn’t move or offer me any gesture of encouragement.
“I sent you several. The last one announced that I would arrive today.” My toes had begun to burn with the cold. The walk from the inn had been too much, I realized, looking over Lady Kitty’s shoulder into her heated hall.
“Perhaps you’ve not heard,” said Lady Kitty, “but Sir William is gravely ill.”
The porch lurched slightly underneath me. “I’m afraid I have to sit.”
Lady Kitty looked at me in alarm, likely remembering my last two visits and the fainting fits she and her husband had been forced to nurse me through.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, steadying myself on her wall. “The trip has been difficult. I haven’t been especially well.”
Lady Kitty’s hands dropped to her sides. She glared at me but did allow me inside the door. “Come, Dr. White,” she said, motioning to a bench strategically placed in the vestibule. “You may sit for a moment and warm yourself, but then I’m afraid I must ask you to leave. William is in no state to receive anyone. As a physician I’m sure you will understand.”
Somewhere on the second floor of Open Arms the old man was lying on his deathbed. Jakob Hertzlich had been right. Kitty Howlett’s face was etched with grief. A few months ago she had lost her only child to the war and now she would lose her husband. There was no common ground for us in terms of interest or outlook; but for the first time I felt what it must be like to be this woman. The immensity of her pain suddenly became real. Without even pausing to think I reached out and took her long, cool fingers in my own. A radiator banged beside us, making us both jump. Lady Kitty recovered first, laughing, and shyly retrieved her hand.
“Wait,” I said, rooting in my bag, for I had brought along Jakob’s sketches. It was he who had suggested I pack them. I would need some tasty bone, he said, to throw to Lady Kitty if I wanted to get past her to her husband. He had been right I now saw. But I also felt quite sincerely that she should have them. They were wonderful pieces and might bring her a little joy in a very bleak time. “There’s something you must see, Lady Kitty. They’ve come from France to Montreal and now back across the ocean to you.”
We sat on Lady Kitty’s hall bench with the sketch pad between us. For some time Lady Kitty flipped the pages in silence, but the moment she came to the portraits by Jakob Hertzlich her hands became still. When she looked up her eyes were full of tears. “Thank you, Agnes. I believe it will do William a great deal of good to see these.”
The house seemed deserted. She and Sir William were on their own for one more week until the new year, Lady Kitty explained, with the servants gone for the holidays. Friends came by regularly to check on them. In fact every single day someone or other rang, but Sir William was too weak to receive them. Lady Kitty had sent word out that the doors of Open Arms were closed. There was no trace of Christmas anywhere, I noticed. No tree or sprig of holly. The main hall was dark, as was the dining room where a reception had once been held in my honour. A faint odour of disinfectant was the only smell.
The dolls sat placidly on the second-floor landing in exactly the same spot they’d occupied over a decade ago when I’d last been here. I surprised myself by feeling grateful for this one particularly female touch as I climbed the stairs behind Lady Kitty. She was not such a bad woman. Like my sister Laure she had probably dreamed of mothering a houseful of children. And also like my sister she had been unlucky enough to see that dream shattered.
I had thought that the last few months in Montreal and St. Andrews East would have steeled me for anything, but when we finally arrived at the bedroom door and I saw Sir William I realized I was not steeled at all. His skin was the colour of old parchment. Lying there on his back he looked diminished, already a corpse.
Lady Kitty entered fir
st, calling out cheerfully and stepping forward to plump his pillows. He stayed her hands. “Who have you brought to me?” He nodded at the door where I was standing, rooted in shock.
I took a step forward out of the shadows and said my name.
“A pleasure.” It was difficult for him to speak. By the time he reached the last syllable he was gasping.
“I heard you were ill,” I told him.
His mouth formed an alarming smile, making me think of my skull samples back at the museum. “So many people have come to pay their respects,” he said. “You’d think I was dying.”
It was supposed to be a joke, a sardonic wink at the truth, but it made me want to weep. Sir William’s vigour had leaked away. He gave an old man’s cough to clear his throat. “You don’t need to play-act, Dr. White,” he said finally. “I’ve been following this case for months. I know there is no hope.”
Lady Kitty fluttered beside him like a bird. “You mustn’t speak like that, William. You’ll frighten poor Dr. White.” Then she told me how awful her husband was as a patient. She did this theatrically, trying to inject levity into the conversation. “He’s constantly defying the doctors’ orders and overexerting himself. The physicians are optimistic, though, aren’t they, dear? Dr. Doyle thinks you’re on the mend. Just yesterday he said you’ll soon be fit as a fiddle.”
“Fit to play a funeral dirge.”
“William,” Lady Kitty pleaded. “This isn’t what Dr. White came for.”
Sir William shut his eyes. He sighed; the exchange had completely exhausted him. “She should enlighten me then,” he sighed, “as to why she did come.”
I took a couple of steps forward and held out the sketch pad. “To bring you this.”
Sir William took it. He was all right until he came to Jakob Hertzlich’s portrait of Revere standing in military dress. At that point he rolled over. Kitty sprang from her chair and ran to him. I did not move. I watched this man whom I had once held so dear mourn his only son. At that moment my feelings for the man were mixed. I loved him more than I think I had loved any man except my father. He was my link to childhood, to Honoré Bourret. There was even a physical resemblance between the two men; and like my father Sir William had cut me from his life suddenly and without explanation.
When Sir William had recovered sufficiently I spoke again. “There is one other matter I wished to discuss with you, if I may.”
Lady Kitty stepped forward, ready to fend me off, but her husband held up his hand.
“In private, if possible,” I said quietly.
Strangely enough the tension in the room eased then, as if all three of us had been waiting for this moment. Sir William made another movement with his hand, indicating that his wife should leave, which she did without comment. It was clear to me now that my letters had been received and read. My visit had been anticipated by the Howletts. I had obviously been discussed.
“I learned about the trip you took,” I said, “with Revere, early in the war.” I mentioned Montreuil and Calais to prompt him, for he was looking away from me.
Eventually he turned to face me. “I thought that might be it.” He paused to let us both collect ourselves. “Jakob Hertzlich told you?”
When I nodded he nodded too and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I thought you two were no longer in communication.”
“We are in touch,” I said a little sharply. I had not come all this way to discuss my relations with Jakob Hertzlich.
Sir William’s breathing was clearer now and his words seemed to come more easily. “Your father and I were close once, Agnes. Very close. He was a man I revered at an early point in my life.”
I knew this much already. We had spoken about it at length years ago in Baltimore. To be honest I was no longer interested in their shared past. “What I need to know,” I said, “is your current relationship, Sir William. You told me you had no idea of his whereabouts. You told me he’d disappeared.” My voice began to shake.
Sir William continued to look out the window. When he turned back to me his eyes were clear and kind. “It’s complicated, Agnes.” He stopped again, searching for his words. “I have tried to act properly here, both to you and to him. And I would defend my actions even though they have hurt you.”
“So you admit you know him. And you admit that you concealed it from me.” The words came out in a sort of throttled whisper. I could not have spoken normally to save my life. Sir William had misled me. He would mislead me still, given the chance.
“Agnes, dear,” he said, reaching for me with his wasted hand. There was a hint of the old Howlett in this gesture, the charming, wooing figure of the past, but I was no longer under his spell. “I’ve wronged you,” he said. “I am sorry.”
I had not expected this. The apology was frank and simple; it stopped my anger. A slew of questions came rushing in its stead. “Have you two talked about me?” I asked. “Does he know of our connection?”
Sir William shook his head. “He knows nothing, Agnes.”
I sat back, stunned. “But you have seen him. You have talked to him.”
Sir William’s voice remained kind. “I don’t see him anymore. The visit to Calais was exceptional.” He paused and then began again. “Listen, my dear Agnes. I know this must be painful. I did not wish you to find out.”
I was cut to the quick. I could not believe he did not grasp my situation even now. “You mean you would still be lying to me if Jakob Hertzlich had not told me about that visit to Calais?”
“It’s not a lie.”
“Oh no?” I had found my voice again. I was practically shouting. “What is it then?” Never had I spoken to him with such boldness.
He looked up then narrowed his eyes. “An omission,” he said finally. “You never asked. Neither, for that matter, did he. The wrong done here, Agnes White, was for your own good.”
“But I’ve searched for him my entire life. Finding my father is all I have ever wanted.” I started to cry. “I thought you knew that. You did know it. I told you.”
“Dear Agnes,” Sir William said, stroking my hand. “My poor, poor dear. I couldn’t tell you about your father. I know it seems harsh, but understand. Honoré Bourret is not a simple man. He wanted all ties cut.” He paused here to watch me. “Every last one.”
“He didn’t cut the tie with you.”
Sir William shook his tired head. “I’m different, Agnes. And even with me there were conditions.”
It felt as if a giant hand were crushing my chest, breaking my ribs like match sticks. What was he saying? Somehow he was more deserving than I, more than my poor mother and sister?
“I did something for him once that he cannot forget,” said Sir William in explanation. “In his mind there is a debt.”
The story came out at last. It was a particular version of events told from a very particular point of view, but at last I had the pieces. Sir William’s account began with a question that took me by surprise. “Do you remember my visit to your museum right before the fire? I was in Montreal to sit for a portrait organized by McGill’s chancellor.” When I nodded he continued. “During that visit you asked about my journals.”
“The autopsy journals,” I said, remembering the way Jakob had hounded him. “Jakob Hertzlich challenged you, as I recall.”
“Over the Howlett Heart,” said Sir William.
“Your journal said you’d presided over the autopsy, but you’d told me previously that the presiding doctor was my father.”
“Yes,” he said. He looked to the window, “You weren’t the only one I told.”
In 1873 he had perjured himself in a Montreal court of law to provide an alibi for his mentor Honoré Bourret. The heart had been excised in October of 1872, the exact month and year that Marie Bourret went missing. I had been aware of these dates but somehow had held them separate in my mind, managing to block out the connection. “So my father was not at the Dead House with you that night when you extracted the heart? It was you after all w
ho did the work?”
Sir William inclined his chin upon his chest.
“Where was my father?” I asked, starting to panic.
Sir William shrugged. “Your father was a good man, Agnes. He was my teacher and he was my friend. That was all I was concerned with. I had enormous respect for him, but he was by no means universally loved. He was a French-Canadian and Catholic, don’t forget, and he had strong views about a whole range of topics that he was not shy to express. When the murder charges were laid he had few allies.”
“Except for you.”
Sir William Howlett nodded.
“I see,” I said after a pause. Sir William seemed utterly convinced he had done the right thing, and I was not about to argue. He had saved my father at some risk to himself. He had upheld values of loyalty and friendship.
“I need his address,” I said in a voice now back to normal.
Sir William tore a corner off a page of his son’s sketch pad and scribbled something on it. It was as easy as that. As I took the scrap from him our fingers touched and we both looked away, embarrassed. But that touch made me wonder. I felt nothing this time, unlike every other time our bodies had made contact. There was no current, not even simple heat. My break with him that day was so complete I had to ask myself what kind of bond we once had shared.
28
DECEMBER 31, 1918
I stepped off the ferry in Calais in a downpour. This dismal town on the northwest coast of France was in many ways an obvious choice for a man like Honoré Bourret. It is a port city and also known as the most English of all the towns in France. During the Middle Ages Calais was under British rule. The British Army captured it in the fourteenth century, forcing the French out and implanting British settlers. But on New Year’s Eve in 1588 the French Army launched a surprise attack and won it back. The occupiers had been revelling, and could not defend it.
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