The Memory of Lost Senses (30 page)

Edward . . .

But she did not wish to think about him, not now. “It was a mistake . . . a mistake,” she said, rising up from the bench.

She walked toward the wrought-iron gate. A jackdaw flew up from the trees overhead, squawking as it rose into the blue. She could hear Mr. Cordery’s voice in the distance, the hum of a mowing machine. She stood by the gate for a moment, then turned and looked back across the garden, tapping at the earth with her cane. Had I done things differently, if I could have done things differently . . .

Then she heard them, the voices, all talking at once, still desperate to be heard.

“He was always so
ambitious
.”

“A snob!”

“A social climber!”

“And so fond of a title.”

“You simply weren’t good enough for him—in his eyes.”

“Enough! Enough!” she called out, moving on along the path.

It wasn’t like that. He had no choice . . . he had an opportunity, here in England, he had to return. He had no idea, he did not know . . .

“Yes he did. He had a responsibility to you and to—”

And she called out, “No! I will not have it. Do you hear me? I will not have it . . .”

Then no one spoke. And the only thing she heard was the beating of her heart, the rushing of her blood through her narrowing veins, and his name, always his name.

Chapter Fifteen

Her father has gone. She knows not where. But two whole days and nights have passed since he left. He told her to be good and look after the others. That was all. And it seems queer to her now that he didn’t say more, and so she wonders if he has gone to look for her mother. But she has run out of stories, and the penny he gave her is gone. If he has not returned by morning she will take the others and walk back to the big house.

The sun continued to burn down, bleaching color from the landscape. By the end of July the pastures around Bramley had turned brown; local farmers had been forced to raise the price of milk, and wells were running dry. The dockworkers’ dispute, which had begun in Southampton in June, had gathered momentum and spread to the north, and the threat of strikes erupted again. But now women were joining the fight for better pay, better working conditions, with jam makers, pickle makers, biscuit makers and tea packers all threatening to take action. And whilst the countryside lay in deep torpor, the cities in turmoil, an oppressive haze hung over Temple Hill.

Cora wondered if she, and perhaps the whole country with her, was going mad in the heat, and if it would ever abate. Sleep had never been easy and now it seemed impossible, apart from those daytime exhaustion-induced nightmares, and journeys into the past. Each one seemed so real. It was as though in returning to England she was having her life, that journey, forced back on her—to review, to reckon with, to atone. And she could not tell anyone. Could not say, “I am afraid, afraid to close my eyes, afraid to remember.”

But Sylvia knew.

When Cora said, “I need to talk to you,” Sylvia’s heart leapt with joy. It did not matter to Sylvia what her friend was about to tell her, whether a confession, an anecdote, an apology, or nonsense. The fact was, Cora wished to speak to her again. Cora had barely uttered a word to her, had barely looked at her or spent any time with her since their fracas. Instead, she had chosen to spend an inordinate amount of time sitting about the garden, in her temple, alone, contemplating goodness knows what. And though Sylvia had tried to reach out to her, to offer the proverbial olive branch and words of comfort, Cora’s isolation was such that she might as well have been in another country, Sylvia thought.

“You know I’m here for you, always,” Sylvia said, shuffling forward in her chair.

Cora nodded, glanced away momentarily, and then took a deep breath. “The thing is, I appear to be the victim of some sort of blackmail attempt, again.”

“No!”

“It’s a queer affair, and I’m not altogether sure what to do.”

Though the two women spoke at some length about the letters, Cora was careful not to divulge to Sylvia the exact nature of the contents of these missives. She told Sylvia that she suspected she had more than one blackmailer. For she had thought about the letters long and hard, she said, and there were obvious differences and discrepancies: in the hand, the spelling of her name, and the demands. Whilst one demanded money, and a paltry amount at that, the other seemed to want nothing more than confirmation of her identity.

“You must not give in to any of their demands,” said Sylvia.

Cora turned to her. “But your advice, as I recall, was to cooperate.”

Sylvia looked blank, shook her head. “No. You’ve never spoken to me about any of this, dear. I never said that. When did I say that?”

“The other day, in my room. I was sure I heard you tell me to
cooperate
with whoever is sending me the letters. I thought you knew about them.”

Sylvia almost laughed. “My dear, you were delirious, imagining all sorts of things.”

“Hmm. Well, I’m thinking of dealing with it differently this time. I’m contemplating bringing in the police.”

“Really? I thought you said you’d never do that. And what about the publicity? What about Jack? You have to think of him now. I’m quite sure if you ignore them, they will eventually realize the futility of their actions.”

“You may be right,” Cora replied, nodding, pensive. “I shall deliberate.”

“I really think you should,” Sylvia said quickly. “I think any haste on your part—in any sort of response—could be counter-productive and have damaging consequences. You said so yourself, the last time.”

“That was almost thirty years ago and, if you remember, the circumstances were very different. I was not residing here . . . was here only very briefly. This time”—she paused, staring at Sylvia—“this time, I can’t escape to another country.”

Sylvia shook her head. “Astonishing that they’ve managed to keep track—of you, I mean, after all these years.”

“It’s all because of that wretched business with Cassandra, I suppose, my name being in the newspapers again.”

“But which name?” Sylvia asked.

Cora smiled. “De Chevalier de Saint Léger, but people have long memories, particularly those with . . . tawdry motivations.”

Sylvia reached out, placed her hand upon Cora’s, and said again, “I’m sure if you ignore them, offer no response at all, they will stop. They have to stop. What else can they do?”

Cora lowered her eyes. “They can carry out their threats, go to those publications who appear to take such delight in printing cheap gossip. And I can’t allow that. I can’t take that risk. Not now.”

“You know, and I’ve told you so before, if we finish your memoirs, tell the truth, the whole story, it will once and for all silence your critics. You need to be open and honest about that time before you went to Rome. You need to record the facts.”

“Yes. I have been thinking this too. We must get to it, Sylvia. After all, it’s what you came down here to do,” she added, looking up at her friend and attempting a smile.

And Sylvia suddenly felt quite emotional. It had been a trying few days but now, despite the gravity of the situation, despite that painful exchange, it seemed reason and friendship were restored. At last they could get to work on the book that would, in Sylvia’s mind, once and for all quell any festering rumors and innuendo about Cora’s past and her marriage to Edward. There was not a moment to lose, Sylvia said, and now was as good a time as any to make a start.

For the next few days the two women worked in harmony. They sat together each afternoon, sometimes in the house, sometimes outside in the garden, and as Cora reminisced, Sylvia took it all down. They were, once again, covering ground already recorded, but Sylvia decided to keep quiet and allow Cora to lead the way. At the end of each session Sylvia read back to Cora what she had written, and Cora would nod, say yes or no, offer amendments and sometimes check Sylvia’s spelling. Occasionally, Cora had second thoughts and asked Sylvia to omit a name or event for unspecified reasons. But Sylvia was happy enough to strike a line through a page or a name.

They were sitting on the bench by the pergola when Sylvia said, “Oh, I must make a note of Antonin’s medals and honors.”

Cora shook her head. “There’s no need.”

The war that claimed Antonin de Chevalier’s life was a short war, over in a matter of weeks. After his death, Cora and her son left France and returned to Rome, where they remained as those that had been part of the Commune were rounded up and executed in the thousands. Paris was no place to be, France was no place to be, and Cora, not yet forty, was a widow once more.

She had no desire to return to the Château de Chazelles, she said. There, weeks passed by without any visitors, and she knew the slow passing of time and sense of isolation would compound her melancholia and sense of loss. With Antonin so often away, she had lived there alone but for the servants and her young son for almost two years. There was little to do other than walk and read, or ride out across the empty fields and rolling hillsides. Her time had been punctuated by regular trips to Paris, to visit her dressmaker and select new gowns, and catch up with friends, including George, once.

He had written to her to tell her he would be passing through Paris, en route to Vichy with Mrs. Hillier. But when Cora and her son went to meet them for tea at their hotel, Mrs. Hillier was indisposed; “understandably exhausted by our long journey,” George said.

At first he seemed distracted, twitchy, and after only five minutes excused himself to go upstairs and check on his companion. Like a devoted pet, Cora thought. It was late summer and they sat outside in the hotel’s private garden, watching Georgie chase pigeons. He told Cora he was astounded by how much his godson had grown, and when Georgie ran up to him and jumped onto his lap, Cora had had to look away, so shocking was the likeness. “He’s adorable,” George said minutes later, watching the child gallop across the parterre in front of them, “quite adorable.”

They made polite, if somewhat stilted, conversation, mainly about his work and his recent exhibition in London. And from time to time one of them asked the other, “And do you ever hear anything of . . .” But when, eventually, Cora picked up her purse and said, “It’s getting late and I must not keep you,” he reached over and grabbed hold of her hand. “I hear things, you know, even in London. I hear you have a new lover . . . a
young
lover.”

Cora smiled. So, word
had
got back to him. Sylvia could always be relied on. “And what if I do?” she asked, pulling her hand free.

He looked away and said nothing for a moment. But as she rose to her feet, he said, “Don’t go yet. Stay a little while longer.”

“A little while longer?” she repeated, staring at him. “That’s what you used to say to me . . . stay a little while longer, Cora, and I did. But you did not stay a little while longer for me. I think you should go and check on Amy,” she added, pulling on her gloves. “You haven’t been up to look in on her for over an hour.”