of boxes I’d been leaning against toppled over, leaving us sputtering in the cloud of dust.
Then I noticed a likely possibility. “Don’t you think that if Aunt Aggie had squirrelled anything away, it would be in those trunks over there?”
There were five of them shoved against the wall, looking as if they were waiting to be loaded onto a steamship. Even the Cunard stickers plastered on the wooden sides and tops seemed to support this. But the thick layer of grime suggested it was more likely they’d missed the boat a very long time ago.
I was surprised at the discovery. I’d always assumed my great-aunt had never gone beyond the edge of the great Canadian Shield. She had a phobia about leaving Three Deer Point. The only time she left it was to make her annual trip to the village of Somerset, about twenty miles away.
“Marie, did your mother ever mention anything about Aunt Aggie taking a sea voyage?” I asked.
She shrugged her shoulders in response. Maybe the contents would provide the answer.
We pulled and shoved the smallest into the centre of the floor, away from the sloped ceiling. Although the brass lock was rusted shut, Marie soon had it open after a few sharp whacks with a broken chair leg.
Inside we found the answer, at least partially. On top lay some old menus from the HMS Lusitania, with a variety of dates ranging from July 8 to 16, 1913. While they did confirm the sea voyage, there was nothing to indicate Aunt Aggie was the traveller. The dates, though, did suggest the possibility. She would have been seventeen, old enough for a grand tour of Europe.
A faint whiff of lavender and cedar stirred the air when I removed the next item in the trunk, a richly embroidered Kashmir shawl. Underneath lay more magic.
We lifted out layer after layer of delicate fabrics; laces, silks and sheer muslin, which transformed into a mélange of elegant dresses, flowing ball gowns and other wonderful outfits. They looked Edwardian in style, which would place them in the same time period as the menus. I thought of sumptuous garden parties, glittering balls and romantic moonlight strolls.
“Aren’t these wonderful, Marie?” I pulled another feather-soft Kashmir shawl from the trunk and draped it over my shoulders.
“I never seen nothing like this, that’s for sure.” She held a cloud of pale yellow silk to her short sturdy body while she sashayed in front of a tarnished mirror propped against the wall. The simple Edwardian elegance of the dress seemed to complement rather than clash with her red scarf and long braids.
“Hard to believe, but do you think these could have belonged to Aunt Aggie?”
“I don’ know, Missie. They real pretty. I never seen Miz Agatta in this kind of dress.”
I hadn’t either. I’d only seen her wear plain, tired-looking dresses. However, I had to assume they belonged to her. My great-grandmother had died when Victorian overindulgence was still in style. She’d left only one daughter, Agatha. My grandfather was the other child, but he didn’t marry until after the war. Still, it was very difficult to imagine my great-aunt wearing such beautiful gowns. They spoke of another Agatha Harris, one I never knew.
The remaining four trunks were filled with the same luxurious ladies’ clothes. In none of them did we find anything that hinted at Whispers Island or even Aunt Aggie’s life at Three Deer Point. But we did confirm the trunks and the clothing belonged to Aunt Aggie, with the discovery of a passenger list for HMS Lusitania for the same 1913 dates as the menus. Agatha Harris, together with her brother, my grandfather, John Harris, and their father, my Great-grandpa Joe, were listed among the first class passengers.
When we moved aside a stack of hatboxes, we found another much smaller trunk. However, unlike the other trunks, this one was locked. After we jiggled and whacked the latch several times with no success, Marie came up with the idea of using a skewer from the kitchen. She quickly had it open after a few well placed prods.
At first, I thought it was empty, but moving the light closer revealed that the contents had shrunk to the bottom. When I removed the top layer of tissue, out fell the dried remains of a flower with one paper-thin petal still intact. It looked like a rose petal.
I reached in and pulled out what turned out to be the most exciting discovery thus far, an exquisite lace gown. Once it had been white; now it was a dull, slightly stained ivory. Beneath the lace was the satin under-dress, so soft it slid through my fingers like a breath of summer air. But this was no ordinary gown, for attached was a long lace train which would spread out into a magnificent fan on the floor.
“Wow, isn’t this fabulous, Marie?” I carefully held it up to my front. Like the other ones, it would never fit me. It belonged to a much smaller woman, one Aunt Aggie’s size. “What do you think? Is this a wedding dress or what? Sure looks like one to me.”
“Looks like a dress I seen in a picture.” Marie spread the long train on the floor.
“Surely, this couldn’t have belonged to Aunt Aggie? She never got married.”
“I don’ know, Miz Agatta Ojimisan.”
But the surprise didn’t stop with the dress. Under the gown, separated by another layer of tissue, lay what looked to be a man’s suit, the only male attire we’d uncovered in this entire collection of clothes.
Amazed, I looked at Marie. Responding to my raised eyebrows, she shrugged her shoulders. She didn’t know either.
I pulled the man’s clothing from the trunk, item by item, and laid it upon the floor; a black morning coat with matching vest, a pair of trousers, and a white cotton shirt with a wing collar attached. A man’s gold pocket watch complete with fob and chain lay in a small box I found in the pocket of the vest. Wrapped in fine linen was a sash of red silk, the sort of sash dignitaries wore on formal occasions.
I sat back on my heels and tried to fathom what this was telling me. It seemed there was more to Aunt Aggie’s life than she had cared to tell. At no time had she ever hinted that her life had been anything other than that of a spinster living alone in the Quebec woods.
However, we weren’t completely finished with the surprises. There was one more at the bottom of the trunk, and while it answered one question, it brought with it many more.
Wrapped in the folds of a beautiful piece of finely crafted lace was a framed photograph of a man and a woman. They were clad in the clothes of the trunk: he standing, the sash draped across his chest; she seated with the delicate lace veil pushed away from her face. The gown’s lace train filled the bottom of the picture. And pinned to the young woman’s dress was a diamond brooch in the shape of a butterfly, the one now lying in my jewel box, the one I had inherited from Aunt Aggie.
This woman could only be my great-aunt at a very young age. Although thinner than when I knew her, her frizzy hair darker, and her stance more upright, the eyes were the same, a pale clear gaze that looked directly at the camera with no apologies. My father always said I looked like her, and with this picture, I could see some resemblance. But from what little I could see of the man, for part of his face was disfigured by a spot of dirt, he was a stranger.
It was a wedding picture. What else could it be?
“Marie, do you know anything about this?” I asked, holding the photo towards her.
“What you mean, Miz Agatta Ojimisan?” She ignored the picture and continued concentrating on refolding the wedding gown back into its
