The Memory of Lost Senses (26 page)

Cora stared ahead and said nothing.

“Passion, lust, romantic notions, he knows these things are fleeting, that they will rob him of what he so desperately needs in order to fulfill his life’s purpose. Oh yes, he knows this, he knows this now.”

Later, that evening, after the others retired one by one to their beds, Cora and George were left alone on the terrace. As the candles around them flickered and burned out, they sat in silence watching fireflies in the blackness. Then Cora said, “Do you believe in reincarnation, George?”

He turned to her. “What a question to spring on me! Why do you ask that?”

“Because Mrs. Hillier told me today that she believes we have all lived more than one lifetime.”

“Ah, well, Amy has such notions.” He looked away and smiled, obviously familiar with Mrs. Hillier’s view of the universe. “I’m not sure,” he said, hesitantly. “Based on what I’ve read recently, no, I do not. Science has taken over our theories and seems to be challenging all of our beliefs. And yet it cannot answer all of our questions. But reincarnation? Well, it’s a fanciful and rather egotistical notion, is it not? That we are given another chance? That we go on and on. No, I’m not sure I can subscribe to that. But what do you think? You’ve obviously been pondering this.”

Cora shrugged. “Of course I would rather like to think I had at least a few more lifetimes ahead of me—one is definitely not enough. But then I am greedy by nature and wish for too much.” She paused. “It’s just that Mrs. Hillier, well, she believes you and she have known each other before . . . in other lifetimes.”

He laughed, shook his head. “She’s testing you, sounding you out.”

“But why? Why do that?”

He shrugged his shoulders: “Perhaps because she’s intrigued,” he said, a smile in his voice.

“Intrigued? By me? How ridiculous!”

He turned to her. “But why does it astound you?”

“Because I am nothing by comparison.”

“You have youth. You have physical beauty. And you know yourself, I think.”

Cora turned to him, her face clearly visible in the moonlight. “But I am hardly youthful, and as for knowing myself . . .”

“Does your husband know you?” he asked, staring ahead, into the night.

“Marriage is no guarantee of knowledge, George.”

“I always thought marriage, commitment, meant
truth
, opening up one’s heart.”

“Opening up one’s heart . . . Is that why you’ve not married yet? Are you afraid to open up
your
heart?”

“Perhaps. But I tell my dear father it’s because I’ve not yet met the right woman, lest I appear a coward . . . which of course is the truth of the matter. The one unalterable truth.” He turned to her. “I fear I am destined to be on my own now. And that is my sadness. I have everything I ever wished for and nothing at all; no one to share with; no one waiting for me at home; no sons or daughters to climb up onto my lap and tease me and love me; no wife who knew me before my success, who loves me for me, for who I am. And why? Because I chose for it to be so. I chose, didn’t I? So, now tell me, how brave am I?”

She rose to her feet. “I think we should go inside. It’s getting cold,” she said.

He reached out, grabbed hold of her hand. “Tell me you love me . . . tell me you still love me. Tell me you forgive me.”

“George, please.” She pulled her hand free. “I can’t tell you that. I can’t, it’s too late.” And then she turned and walked quickly toward the house, and as she moved through the open doors she heard someone call out her name: an unfamiliar, broken voice.

Upstairs, in her room, she slammed the door shut and stood perfectly still for a moment. I must leave here, she thought; I should never have come. I must leave here . . . go home. She moved across the room to the wardrobe, began pulling out her gowns, letting them fall in a heap at her feet, then sat down amongst them. “I must go home,” she repeated through tears.

She did not notice the door swing open, or hear it close. And as he fell onto his knees by her side, she whispered, “I must go, I must go home.”

“My darling, my own dearest . . .”

He took hold of her hands, lowered his head and kissed her palms. “Forgive me,” he said, and she felt the wetness of his tears slip between her fingers.

“We cannot do this. I cannot . . .” she began, but then his mouth was over hers, his hands cradling her head. And as he ran his fingers through her hair, pulling it loose between breathless sobs, kissing her lips, her face, her neck, repeating her name over and over, she felt his hands move down her body, his fingers untying the lace of her gown, against her skin, exploring, tracing. And with his tears in her mouth, she pulled him closer.

“Who’s sad to see you in England, dear?” Sylvia was saying, leaning over her, over the bed. Daylight had faded. It was late in the afternoon, or perhaps early evening, Cora thought. And then she heard herself say the name “Edward.” She had not meant to say it; she had heard Sylvia’s question and thought it, merely thought it.

“Edward? I don’t think Edward was ever sad to see you back here. Was he?” Sylvia asked.

“No, no, sad about George . . . about George and me,” she replied.

“But did he know? I thought he’d never known . . . hadn’t realized.”

She raised her hand. “Sylvia, you must stop. You don’t understand.”

“Oh, but I do. You see, I never listened to anyone else, only you. And so I . . . I believe you, and I know it was
not
revenge . . .”

She turned to Sylvia. “I’m sorry, but I must ask you to leave, Sylvia,” she said, clearly and calmly, with complete clarity. “I want you to leave now.”

Chapter Thirteen

The lanes were bathed in a soft dappled light, and the air, gliding over Cecily’s arms and face and through her hair, blissfully cool. The hedgerows, arching branches and trees and fields flashed by in a blur of color, and the engine throbbed and roared. And sometimes, as they slowed, as they tilted, rounded a corner and changed gear, the machine made a strange and unnerving putt-putt sound. From time to time they came to a junction and stopped, briefly, then moved on, accelerating down the straight and into the sunshine. And once or twice, when the engine cut out and he had to restart it, he turned to her, smiling, his face half covered by goggles. “Hold on! Hold on tight!”

Speed: it was, quite simply, intoxicating. Too thrilling for words. He was right. It made her heart thump and made her feel alive. She closed her eyes, savoring the new sensations: the light and shadow swiftly moving over her, over them, light shadow light shadow light shadow; the feel of the air, warm summer air, brushing her skin, moving her hair, her clothes; the sound of the engine, the thrust of its power; and even the spine-tingling, heart-wrenching, nerve-racking threat of danger.

Speed. It was modern and daring and brave. It was the Future.

Or that’s how it felt to Cecily that day.

When they reached the Bracken Pond, he pulled over, onto a gritted pathway under the trees. He turned off the engine and pulled off his goggles as he climbed from the bike. He stared at her, smiling broadly, and then laughed. She said, “Please, don’t laugh, don’t say anything. I can well imagine what I look like.”

He stepped forward, took her hand. “But you look wonderful. You look . . . wild and exciting.”

She had received his first note, in a sealed envelope, on the Sunday morning, the day after dinner at Temple Hill. It had been delivered by hand; her reply and the others were posted.

Cecily,

Did we part as friends yesterday evening? I am not sure and this bothers me more than perhaps it should. I sincerely hope that I have not offended you . . . & that we are still friends.

JS

Dear Jack,

Of course we are friends! I was, I admit, a little tired, and rather hot. Perhaps it was that . . .

In haste, CMC

Dear Cecily,

I think you are perhaps being disingenuous . . . but that may be your prerogative. Either way, I hope that we ARE still friends, and that you are well.

Jack

P.S. What is the M in your name?

Dear Jack,

I am very well, thank you, & assure you that I was most definitely not being “disingenuous.” This misunderstanding has arisen, I believe, simply from an absence of knowledge of each other & of our respective characters.

As ever, Cecily

P.S. The M is for Madeline, after my mother.

P.P.S. Do you have a middle name/names?

Dear Cecily,

I think you are right with regard to the not knowing, & so, though I am unable to furnish you with any detailed (objective) observations on my own character (and though I could perhaps provide you with names for “character references”), I can, in the absence of said knowledge, offer the following:

Middle name: George (after my father, of course)

Birthday: December 2nd

Favorite place: the top of a hill near the Bracken Pond

Hobbies: hate the word. Makes me think of a children’s toy horse . . . & suggests solitary model-making et cetera.

Ambitions: to learn to fly, and to have an outrageously long & blissfully happy life.

Likes: skiing, cricket, the English countryside (about here); Sherlock Holmes & anything else by Conan Doyle; the theater, the pictures, Lily Elsie; music, my gramophone, Bach, Beethoven, ragtime; meringues, and very cold beer.

Dislikes: Shakespeare, Chaucer, jelly (a pointless food), pomposity & lies.

Enough for now, I think. But I would be grateful for similar from you . . .

Yours, Jack

PS. I wonder what you are doing at this very minute. I am in the garden, lying under the horse chestnut—writing to you!

Dear Jack,

Yes, I too was in the garden, reading (
Far from the Madding Crowd
, if you really wish to know).

So, here goes:

Likes: reading (Austen, Hardy, Dickens, George Eliot and almost every English poet), writing, daydreaming (& quite extraordinarily good at the latter); jelly (definitely NOT a pointless food), blackberries (picked fresh from the hedgerow & popped straight into one’s mouth), wild strawberries and CREAM; sunsets, long twilights, & storms, wild skies and moonlit starry nights; music . . . Beethoven and Debussy. Honeysuckle, snowdrops, four-leaf clover and forget-me-nots. My bicycle. The smell of hay, the greenness of the beeches, and breezes. (Yes, breezes!) Breathing in the world. Here & now . . . and everything this very minute. And the future—what is to come!

Dislikes: people who pretend to be something other than what they are; cruelty, inequality, and spitefulness; Mr. Fox’s long sermons, Rosetta’s (our maid) stew and dumplings, Ethne’s incessant piano practice, and Sonia B’s silent, head-throwing laugh. Gossip, supposition and small-mindedness.

Ambitions: to LEAVE Bramley and travel, to write, live in a city, & to attend the opera at least once in my life. And of course to be “blissfully” happy (surely that goes without saying?).

Favorite color: violet.

Favorite place: . . . not yet discovered!

Favorite sound: possibly the wood pigeon that I am listening to now . . .