The Memory of Lost Senses (28 page)

The earth is hard. Dampness has permeated the rug beneath them. Jemima is asleep, cocooned within the quilt they share. High above are infinitesimal stars: glistening, eternal. Her father has promised her some shoes when they get to Colchester. There’s work there, he says, moneyed folk there, he says. Suffolk’s no good, no good now the farmers are all poor. They’ll be able to get a room there, have a bed and perhaps a fire, too. And she pictures the room, the bed and that fire . . . and she tries to imagine the warmth. But the soles of her feet are blistered and torn, and her back aches from carrying little Johnny.

Sylvia waited in the garden for Jack. Her bags were packed. She would go, if that were Cora’s wish. It had been the mention of
that
marriage, of course, and the word revenge, she knew that. And yet, hadn’t she said that she knew it
wasn’t
revenge? That she did not care what others had said, that she had only ever listened to Cora? And she had, almost.

Truth was, it had been impossible to ignore the gossip, impossible to ignore the facts. Oh, she could understand it, understand why Cora did it, but there was bound to be talk. George was renowned, famous by then. But he had treated her badly, very badly. That was undeniable. And he had had his chance, and often enough. He had used her. He had slipped in and out of Cora’s life as and when it suited him, and never, not once, offered to marry her. In Sylvia’s mind he was nothing more than a selfish—albeit talented—bounder. And Cora deserved better, much better.

As soon as Sylvia heard the sound of the motorcycle coming up the hillside she made her way through the bushes onto the driveway, and flagged down Jack. Her words spilled out before he had time to pull off his goggles, and, turning off the motor, he asked her to repeat them. He was shocked, she could see. And she was tearful. He took hold of her hand, told her not to worry; his grandmother quite obviously did not know what she was saying. He would go and speak with her, go and speak with her immediately, he said.

So Sylvia sat in the arbor by the sundial, as agreed; for she would not set foot inside the house until Cora had taken back her words. Her bags were packed, she had told Jack. Cotton could easily be sent for. There was a train at 6:46 p.m.

It took Jack almost half an hour to return to the garden, to Sylvia. But he was full of assurances and told Sylvia that of course Cora did not
really
wish her to leave, particularly not on such bad terms. It was all a misunderstanding, he said, more than once. But he was noticeably perplexed by the escalated quarrel, and, once Sylvia had agreed that she would stay on, at least for another day, he asked how the whole thing started.

“I am in a most difficult situation, Jack,” Sylvia began, “because your grandmother does not wish me to speak to you . . . about anything at all.”

He shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“There are matters to be resolved, things I am not at liberty to tell you, things that she herself is unable to speak about, even now after so many years, even to me. Unfortunately,
others
are forcing the situation.”

“Others?” he repeated. None of it made any sense.

She nodded. “It may surprise you, but I have been quietly noting Mr. Fox’s, and your friend Cecily Chadwick’s, keen interest in your grandmother’s life. I believe their questions, their scrutiny, at a time when Cora is struggling, grappling with deeply personal dilemmas, have simply been too much for her. This, I fear, is why she turned on me. There is no other explanation for her . . . her paranoia.”

Jack, who had smiled as Sylvia said Cecily’s name, now looked away, frowning.

“Oh, but there is one other matter that I should perhaps mention.”

Jack turned to her and, after a moment’s hesitation, Sylvia made him promise with his hand upon his heart that he would never breathe a word to Cora; would never disclose to anyone her suspicions about the nature of Cora’s recent correspondence.

A letter had in fact arrived late that very afternoon. Sylvia had found it lying on the silver salver in the hallway shortly after she had packed her bags. It was in a strange childish hand, not typewritten, and bore a London postmark. It was plain to see that the sender did not know Cora, for the name was not quite right. Had she not been quite so upset, she might have been tempted to take it, tear it up or burn it, Sylvia told Jack. For these letters, she believed, were at the root of Cora’s agitated state of mind. She did not tell Jack that this particular letter was different to the others. It was not her place, she decided. But when he rose up from the bench, saying he would fetch and open the damned thing himself, she did not stop him. Minutes later, he returned, empty-handed. The letter had gone. It had been taken up to Cora.

The following morning, heeding Jack’s advice to carry on as normal, as though nothing had happened, Sylvia simply smiled and said, “Good morning,” when Cora appeared and sat down to breakfast. She and Jack had agreed, in view of the circumstances, that Cora needed their patience and protection more than anything else. So Sylvia had tried to make conversation. She said, “You know, you really should have stayed in your bed. After all, there’s nothing happening today.”

Cora stared straight ahead. “I spent yesterday in bed. I’ve never been a malingerer and I don’t intend to become one now,” she replied.

“Can I get Cook to do you some eggs?” Sylvia asked.

She shook her head. “No, thank you. I’m not hungry. I think I might take a walk.”

“A walk?” Sylvia repeated. “To where?”

“About the garden. I need a change of air . . . fresh air.”

“I’ll get my hat.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d rather like to take a walk on my own.” She rose awkwardly from the table, and Sylvia quickly disappeared from the room into the hallway and returned with her cane.

“Thank you,” Cora said, taking the cane, without looking at Sylvia.

Cora knew that Sylvia had spoken to Jack, despite her plea. She knew an allegiance had been formed. She knew that Sylvia would say she was going mad, losing her senses. And perhaps she was. Beneath her clothing she could feel the heat of a fever, still there upon her skin. She felt weak, unsteady on her feet, and in her heart. And her sense of loneliness was more acute than ever.

As she stood on the terrace, looking south, directly into the sun, she closed her eyes: I have outlived them all, and outlived any purpose, she thought. Am I to spend the remainder of my days in hiding, in fear? Will I ever know freedom, be able to breathe?

She moved on, carefully descending the steps to the lawn, nodding to one of Mr. Cordery’s men as he raised his cap to her. The garden was quiet and a cloudless sky promised another languorous hot day. She walked slowly across the grass, pausing every few steps to look about or upward, preoccupied. If only there was someone she could talk to. If only she could tell someone the truth. But what was the truth? What were the facts?

“Really, what does it matter?” she said out loud.

“Beg your pardon, ma’am?”

“Another glorious day!” she called out, without turning.

She descended more stone steps, standing still for a moment on the last to look out across the garden. Put things in order . . . I must put things in order for him, for Jack. Perhaps write it down . . . yes, that would be sensible. She stepped onto a gritted pathway. I can only be as honest as I recall . . . what more can I do? She walked under the shade of the pergola, already vaguely aware of a presence—a shadow on the periphery of her vision—flickering amidst the tangle of jasmine and clematis. She emerged from beneath the pergola, sat down on the bench inside the arbor, and looked back across the lawn.

She had seen him there before, conspicuous, incongruous, entirely out of place. This morning he was standing by the sundial, with one hand flat upon the lichen-covered stone surface. He looked so very out-of-date, overdressed and old-fashioned, she thought, watching him watching her.

They did not speak. Not in audible words. Their conversations—the few they had had—had been conducted almost entirely in silence. He seemed to prefer that.

She took him in: his hair, a single curl hanging down upon his forehead, his beard, graying, his crumpled trousers, well-worn burgundy velvet jacket and usual necktie. He was, she supposed, about forty. Forever forty.

“You should never have left me,” she said, in barely a whisper.

“I never wished to leave you,” he replied, without moving his lips.

“But you did. You always went back to her.”

“No. There was only ever you.”

“You say that now, but it’s too late. It’s all gone. Over.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

She looked away for a moment, irritated. “No, I am here. I’m here without you, and I don’t know what to do, how to be. And I’m no good at being old.”

She saw him throw his head back in a noisy silent laugh. Then he fixed his gaze back upon her. “You’ll never be old. Not to me. Look at you now. How old are you? Twenty? Twenty-one?”

“I was when you first met me. But you’ve been gone these past twenty years . . . and gone from me long before that.”

She saw him look away, shake his head.

“But I have Jack,” she added. “You never saw him, never knew him.”

He glanced back at her, frowning, perplexed.

“Not that Jack. That Jack passed away years ago, in Rome, remember? I have another Jack . . . our grandson.”

“Our grandson,” he repeated, silently, smiling. He lifted his hand from the sundial and held it out to her.

“No. No, not yet.”

And she watched him dissolve into the sunshine.

She had had numerous conversations with him like this, and could never be sure when or where he would turn up. Once or twice he had appeared at the most inconvenient times, and she had been forced to ignore him, shushing him off in a glance, lest anyone else should see. Later, she had inevitably felt guilty, had had to apologize to him, explain that she couldn’t always be at his beck and call. Life goes on, she had told him. I am back in England now, and the English do not like unannounced callers. She could always make him laugh.

It bothered her, somewhat, that he never quite seemed to know who Jack was and always appeared confused. But it was understandable, she supposed. The only Jack he would recall would be her first husband. And neither one of them ever mentioned him, or the others. They had an understanding, and had never needed names, or indeed words. They shared a telepathy that went beyond the grave and was integral to the force that bound them to each other; she had never needed to confirm or deny anything to him. He knew, had always known . . . surely?

But now she reminded herself, he had lived in ignorance about so much—and for so long.

After Lucca, and weeks after Jack’s death, Cora had given birth to another George: Georg
ie
. Despite letters, one “in sympathy,” the next promising a visit, and another proclaiming delight at being asked to be godfather and stating that he was “honored” she had chosen his name, George did not visit Rome after Jack’s untimely death, or for the christening of his godson.

As etiquette decreed, Cora spent two years in mourning. Dressed in black parramatta silk and bombazine gowns, she lived her life quietly and rarely ventured out. She was still young, people told her; she would, perhaps one day, have another husband, more children. But she had had her children by the man she loved and the man she loved had gone. Her two boys, she decided, would be her life; she would be a mother first and foremost.

When Freddie became ill, Cora and her aunt took it in turns to nurse the five-year-old. It was a fever, nothing more. For two days and nights they sat by his bed, watching him doze, bathing his body with cold compresses. But on the morning of the third day, as dawn broke across the city, and as her aunt finally gave in to sleep, Cora noticed her boy’s breathing become more labored. She climbed up on to the bed, folding his small body into her arms, holding him close; willing his heart on. She ran her fingers over the curves of his face—his cheeks, his nose, his mouth—memorizing the softness, each rise and fall, each undulation; those pale purple-veined eyelids fringed with long lashes; that high brow and dark chestnut hair. And in that final hour, she prayed to every saint whose name she could recall, and to every god of every creed; she bargained with them, made promises to them all.

The sun had set by the time Dr. Small convinced her to release the dead boy from her arms—still rocking. “He cannot hear your lullaby now. He is gone, my dear. You must let him go . . .”

Two days later, Cora watched her son’s tiny coffin as it was lowered into the ground outside the city walls. And that night, after she had been found, and after Dr. Small had been called once again, she lay on her bed and quietly told her aunt that she knew with certainty that there was no God. “Look at me, what has he done for me? Everything I love he takes away, everything I beg him for he snatches from me . . .”

From that day onwards Cora rarely, if ever, spoke of Freddie. And thus, over time, people forgot; forgot that she had in fact had two sons, not one. But in the locket round her neck she kept a curl of dark chestnut, five-year-old hair.