The Memory of Lost Senses Page 3

  Perhaps because of these matters, matters yet to be disclosed to Sylvia, they had made no progress on the memoirs. None whatsoever. Each time Sylvia mentioned it Cora shook her head. “Not now,” she’d say, “now is not the right time.” But when, Sylvia wondered, would it be the right time?

  On board the train, Cora sat for some time with her eyes closed. She was not sleeping, Sylvia could tell. She watched Cora’s breathing, watched her lips part and move, saw the flicker of a smile. And Sylvia knew she was remembering, knew she was back there with him. She was always back there with him: George Lawson . . . Lord George Lawson.

  Sylvia had been there when they very first met, when they were introduced to each other at Mrs. Hillier’s palazzo apartment on the Pincio hill in Rome, so many years ago. They exchanged few words that night, Sylvia remembered, though it had been enough for Cora; enough for Cora to change who she was or had been, enough for her to forget what came before and look forward. She had been beautiful, then, young and beautiful, Sylvia thought, studying the lined face opposite her. And he? Yes, he was handsome, and exceptionally talented, that was undeniable, but he was also conceited, and selfish. He did not deserve her love. Had never deserved her love. That had been proven by his actions. He had been put to the test—and failed. And yet, when Cora finally took her revenge, and it was revenge, Sylvia was in no doubt about that, she had actually felt sorry for him. “Him!” she said out loud, and then quickly raised a finger to her lips. But Cora did not look to her, did not hear her.

  And to think she had allowed Cora to take him back—after everything, after everything he had done to her; to think she had allowed Cora to nurse him through his final days . . . and to think what he knew about Cora . . . But she tried to push that thought away. After all, he had spoken to Sylvia in Paris about that matter. And he had been the one to bring it up, not she. She would never have done that. Would never have mentioned it. And it was not the right occasion, a wedding: Cora’s wedding. Oh yes, he had quizzed her, and just as though she were guilty, as though she had committed the crime! None of it was how it should have been, not in her mind; not the way she had envisioned or written it.

  When Sylvia lifted her satchel, slamming it down upon the table between them, Cora opened her eyes. Sylvia smiled at her. Then, pulling out her notebook and pen, she said, “You know, I’ve been thinking . . . we could change certain names if you wish . . .”

  “Hmm. It’s an idea. But then it’s not the truth, is it?” Cora replied. She opened a small mother-of-pearl case with two intertwined silver Cs upon its lid, slipped a cigarette into an ebonized holder. Sylvia looked on as a liveried guard swiftly appeared with a match. She watched Cora tilt her head, release a plume of smoke toward the lacquered ceiling of the drawing room carriage. “Grazie.” She looked back at Sylvia. “Well, we can think on it, can’t we? It’s not as though we’re in any rush.”

  “No, but I rather thought now might be a good time to make some notes.”

  Cora frowned, raised her hand to her brow. “But I’m still not altogether sure where to begin,” she said.

  “At the beginning, of course. We must begin at the beginning. It’s what I came down here to do . . . the beginning.”

  “But I’m not sure, not sure it’s relevant.”

  “Not relevant?” Sylvia repeated, attempting a smile.

  “Yes. I think we should simply begin at Rome.”

  Sylvia tried to laugh. “But if we are to write the truth—”

  “Sylvia!” she snapped. “If you had any real notion of how life can be . . . if you had had children, for instance, a husband, or husbands,” she went on, in a terse, hushed voice, and leaning forward now, “homes to run, others to think of, you would understand how exhausting it can also be. Exhausting.” She turned her head away, and Sylvia watched her as she gazed at her reflection in the carriage window, puckering and pursing her lips.

  Morning coffee was served.

  The sight of starched linen and polished silver appeared to assuage Cora’s nerves, and she smiled benignly to the young waiter as he bowed and disappeared off down the carriage. Earlier, the stationmaster himself had helped her to board the train, and Sylvia had seen him whispering to the guard as though he knew a secret. Oh, it was plain enough to see that Cora was someone, or had been, once. And though men had always been dazzled, as much by the enigma as by any reality, there had only ever been one who had dazzled Cora.

  Sylvia knew that in Cora’s mind it had been a Great Love Affair. She knew that in Cora’s mind it still was, for she had not been able to let him go. But what niggled Sylvia more than anything else was, why? Why did she hold on to him? And, more importantly, why did she hold on to her secrets? After all, the beginning, that part of her story she would not speak of, happened long, long ago. Everyone involved would surely be gone by now. And she owed him nothing. Nothing. He had broken promises: promises of marriage, children and that bohemian gypsy life Cora had described to her all those years ago: “We will move around, he says; live like gypsies. Spend winters here in Rome, spring in Paris, and summers . . . oh, I’m not sure now where he said we would spend the summer . . . but I’ll be back each year, so I’ll still see you.” Then he abandoned her. Left her high and dry in Rome. And all because of circumstances, circumstances so appalling and shocking as to be unbelievable, circumstances Sylvia had waited over fifty years for Cora to confirm. But patience seemed to count for nothing, and now Sylvia was determined.

  Before coming down to the country, in anticipation of the weeks ahead, Sylvia had gone through some of their early correspondence, archived, and filed in chronological order in various numbered shoeboxes at her flat. It had been a time-consuming process due to the sheer volume. And confusing, because of the crossings out: corrections made at earlier dates in Sylvia’s own hand. She had half-wondered whether to bring the letters with her to the country. But no, there were too many of them, and Cora would have reacted badly, for she had long ago asked Sylvia to burn them. Why? Because Cora’s tales from overseas (commentaries spanning half a century) had been illuminated by observations others would have had neither the courage nor inclination to put down on paper, and because of the names involved.

  Sylvia wanted Cora to elucidate, she wanted to hear her final version, and from her own lips, face-to-face and in person. Not the stories around the Story. That was what Cora was good at, had always been good at, deflecting, detracting. Even now, so many of her sentences began, “You know, I had a dear friend in Paris who once told me . . .” or, “My friend, so and so, in Rome used to say . . .” and continued by way of a circuitous route of name-dropping and digressions to a startling revelation. From a peccadillo to a double life, her tales of scandal had always been littered with abandoned wives, illegitimate children, lunatic asylums, mistresses, lovers, murders and duels. Sylvia had heard them all before and, even when they were fresh, even when they were new(s), nothing, no matter how scintillating, had ever been able to compare to Cora’s own and yet-to-be concluded story.

  “I do hope Jack enjoys his cricket,” Sylvia said at last.

  Cora said nothing. She appeared to be deep in thought, and continued to stare at the pane of glass, transfixed by her own image.

  “It’s so nice that he’s able to join in with the other young people,” Sylvia persevered. “Lovely that he’s made a few friends . . .”

  Silence.

  Sylvia lifted her cup, looked down into it. “I believe he’s rather taken by a certain girl in the village.”

  Cora turned to her.

  Sylvia took a sip. “I must say, this coffee’s really very good.” She placed the white china carefully back upon the saucer, lifted the napkin to her mouth. “Yes, awfully good,” she said again. She looked up at her friend, smiling. “You haven’t tasted yours.”

  Cora sighed. “Well . . .”

  “Well?”

  “Are you going to tell me?
And don’t, for heaven’s sake, ask what. You know perfectly well what.”

  “He mentioned two names . . . but the hesitation before the second gave him away.”

  “And the name?” Cora asked.

  Chapter Two

  Cecily remained indoors. Spread out on the long, blue-cushioned window seat in the square bay of the parlor, she was immersed in her new novel, Zuleika Dobson, which had arrived in the post the previous day. The summer curtains were drawn halfway across the open window, shading the room, Cecily and the book from the glare of the afternoon sun. And but for the distant sound of Rosetta’s singing, all was quiet.

  When the doorbell rang Cecily jumped, dropping the book to the floor. It seemed unnecessarily loud and whoever it was, they were of determined character, she thought, pushing the book beneath the cushioned seat.

  “I’ll get it, Rosetta,” she said to the maid in the hallway.

  She turned the brass handle, pulled opened the door. “Annie—”

  “There’s a cricket match on the green this afternoon and he’s in it, he’s bowling, Walter just told me,” Annie said rapidly, clutching the handlebar of her bicycle. “I thought I should come . . . come and tell you.”

  “I’ll get my hat.”

  The girls cycled slowly down the track, through the shallow ford and up the hill on the other side, moving in and out of the shadows of overhanging hedgerow and trees. At the newly gated entrance to Mount View, where the road widened and the sky suddenly seemed bigger than ever, they passed the rector, Mr. Fox, wobbling back toward the village on his bicycle, and Stephen Burrows, emerging from a field with a reap hook in his hand. They parked their bicycles under the trees by the steps down to the village hall and walked up the pathway toward the green. The match was already under way. Languorous halfhearted shouts and desultory clapping drifted through the air. Barefooted children zigzagged about with hoops and people stood in huddles. A group of young men raised their boaters, smiled and nodded to the girls as they passed. “Too hot for cricket, eh?” one of them said, wiping his brow with his handkerchief. “Hottest day so far, I reckon.”

  In the middle of the green the yellowing grass turned to molten silver, the players blurring into the pool of liquefied metal: like a mirage, Cecily thought. Only a few wore white flannels; the majority were in their usual working clothes, with shirtsleeves rolled back and braces exposed. And beyond them, at the other side of the field, clear and solid, and dazzlingly white, stood Bramley’s new pavilion.

  “Oh cripes,” said Annie, “look who’s here . . .”

  Sonia Brownlow stood out that day, but for none of the reasons she would perhaps have wished to. In a broad-brimmed, top-heavy hat, tight-fitting frilled blouse, and skirt, tightened further by a broad belt, she resembled a great white galleon about to set sail. Sonia lived with her parents, brothers and sister at Mount View, the biggest and newest house in the village, situated opposite the village green. Mr. Brownlow had made his money in shipping, enough for his family to live in deep-piled comfort, with every modern convenience and luxury and a dazzling array of new, gilt-edged furnishings. Sonia had been born in Rangoon and, as she liked to remind people, had traveled the world. And to Cecily and Annie she had made some bold claims: she had swum with giant turtles in the Pacific, shot wild boar in Africa, and learned to ski at St Moritz. And she could, she had told them, if she wanted—though not to them—speak half a dozen languages.

  When Sonia saw the girls, she flapped a hand about under her fringed parasol, beckoning them over to where she and a few others stood. Cecily glanced at the figures in the center of the field. She could see Walter, Annie’s brother, standing in front of the wickets, bat in hand, and she recognized a number of other familiar figures, but she could not see him. And the possibility of his absence, of his not being there, gave her a sudden pang, a quick and sharp sensation of loss.

  Sonia was laughing, wobbling her head about in that affected way Cecily loathed. As the girls drew nearer she turned to them, wide-eyed, and asked, “Here to watch the match, are we?” And then quietly added; “Don’t worry, none of us gives a monkey’s about cricket, but perhaps we rather like certain cricketers . . . hmm?”

  Cecily whispered, “I think I’m going home.”

  “Now? But we’ve only just arrived.”

  Cecily turned, about to walk away.

  “But, Cecily . . . Cecily,” Annie hissed.

  She glanced over her shoulder, saw Annie’s nodding gesture and, beyond, a white-clad figure striding out across the pitch, rubbing a ball against his thigh. For a while all conversation stopped as the girls focused their collective attention on cricket, without any commentary. Then, with her eyes fixed ahead, Sonia said, “I don’t suppose you know Jack.”

  “Jack?”

  “Jack Staunton.”

  “Yes, I’ve met him,” Cecily said. “I met him last week, very briefly, though I didn’t catch his name.”

  It was true. She had crossed paths with him, literally crossed paths with him. He had been heading up the track when she stepped out through the garden gate and almost collided with him. And she had known, known immediately, who he was, even before he mentioned the word “neighbor.” But so unprepared had she been that she missed the name and then stumbled over her own, reducing it to Silly Chadwick. “Cecily,” she had said again, shaking his hand and looking downwards, too embarrassed to ask him to repeat his own, too embarrassed to say anything else at all. She had swiftly turned and walked on, cringing at the clumsy introduction. But at the bottom of the track, on the bend before the ford, she had glanced back, and caught him doing the same.

  Sonia moved closer. “I was introduced to him the day he arrived. She invited us over . . . wanted him to meet some young people he’d have things in common with, I suppose.”

  Annie said, “Is he her grandson then?”

  “Well, yes,” Sonia replied, sounding vaguely amused. “But he’s only just finished at school. Because of all of his travels he’s a year or two behind—which must be rather odd,” she added, crinkling her nose. “He’s going up to univarsity in October. Better late than never, I suppose.”

  “And is he really an orphan?” Annie whispered.

  “Indeed he is,” she replied. “His father died yars and yars ago, when he was no more than a baby, and his mother”—she paused, looked around her—“committed sewicide . . . only earlier this year,” she whispered.

  “Suicide?”

  “Sshh! Yes. Awful business, one imagines.”

  “But how do you know all of this?” Annie asked, moving closer, narrowing her eyes. “Did he tell you?”

  “No! My mother told me. She read about it in the newspaper. There was an inquest and it mentioned the name, said the old lady had returned to this country after a lifetime abroad. His father’s death was in the newspapers too, apparently. He died in a hunting accident, you know. He had just returned from South America.”

  “South America,” Cecily repeated.

  “Mm, thrown from his horse. Tragic really. Mama says the poor woman must be cursed for everyone around her to die in such tragic circumstances.”

  Cecily was about to ask the name, the full name, for no one ever seemed inclined to refer to it, but Sonia continued, “To lose all of her children, and five husbands . . .”

  “Five!” Annie repeated.

  “I believe so.”

  “And is she English?” Annie asked.

  “Oh, I should say so. Old aristocracy . . . titled family scattered the length and breadth of Europe. You know how they all intermarry. She has a palazzo in Rome, and a château somewhere in France, I believe. And of course one can see from her manner and style that she’s from a very old family. Temple Hill is quite something, I can tell you. Wall-to-wall antiques and art . . . Though Papa says old families like hers always like to have their heirlooms on display, no matter how chipped or t
atty, just to remind them of who they once were.” She laughed.

  “And Jack, Jack Staunton, he has no brothers or sisters?” Cecily broke in.

  “No, he’s the only one left.”

  “So what happened? To the others, I mean,” Annie asked, leaning in once again, her eyes fixed on Sonia.

  Sonia shrugged her shoulders. “I have no idea but I believe they all died in quite tragic circumstances.”

  “Golly, a curse . . .” said Annie, sounding excited.

  “And what of the companion?” Cecily asked.

  “The novelist?”

  “She’s a novelist?”

  “Oh yes. And one imagines she could tell you the whole story.” She threw back her head, and affected another, this time silent, laugh, then continued, “They’ve known each other forever, since they were girls in Rome.”

  “Rome?”

  “Yes, she grew up there with—”

  “But I heard it was Paris,” Cecily interrupted.

  “Paris and Rome.”

  “Paris and Rome,” Cecily repeated quietly, trying to take it all in.

  “Crikey, she gets about,” Annie said, not entirely untruthfully, Cecily conceded.

  “She’s a peculiar sort though, awfully timid . . . scribbles away all the time.”

  “Which one?” Annie asked.

  “The novelist! Miss Dorland.”

  “Dorland?” Cecily repeated. The name was vaguely familiar. Wasn’t there a Dorland in the village? Hadn’t she seen or heard that name somewhere recently?

  “And is he Italian?” Annie went on.

  “Jack? No! He’s more English than you or I, dear. Oh, but yes, I see . . . he does rather look Latino,” she added dreamily, staring across the field.

  Then Annie said, “And so, what’s he like, Sonia? Do tell.” And Cecily wished she hadn’t; wished she hadn’t sounded quite so eager.