The Memory of Lost Senses (34 page)

She laughed.

“Mother always said you were . . . a little difficult, impossibly grand and rather . . . too beautiful. She said that she’d always suspected you had a few dark secrets. I think she thought you held things back, weren’t completely honest with Father.” He paused, looked away. “I think she almost resented you for the love you had for him.”

“Well, of course I loved him—I loved him very much. He was my baby, and the most loving and affectionate son. He always seemed to sense how I was feeling, whether I was sad or happy, or lonely. And he never had Ge— ack in his life. He was born in the midst of tragedy. Rather like you.”

He lowered his head. “Yes, it would seem we were both jinxed.”

“Don’t say that. You had a father who, had he been here now, would have loved you, oh so much. And a grandfather who would have adored you.”

He looked up at her. “And what about
your
father?”

“I’m afraid I never really knew him,” she replied.

“But what was his name?”

“His name was Samuel . . . Samuel Stopher.”

“So you were born Cora Stopher?”

It was the first time anyone had put those two names together, but she simply smiled and nodded.

“And what did he do? Did he have an occupation?”

“He was a gentleman . . . a rentier.”

“A rentier?”

“He owned land . . . property.”

“In Suffolk?”

She nodded. “Woodbridge, or thereabouts.”

“We should go and visit, you and I. I’d be interested to see it, where you grew up, where you hail from.” Then he laughed. “I can’t very easily visit South America, but Suffolk is within reach.”

After a little while, he put the notebook to one side, sat back in his chair and said, “So, tell me about the great Antonin.”

And she was relieved, for she could speak about Antonin, her time at Chazelles, without any sense of trepidation. She could tell him how a dashing French officer had wooed her in Rome, married her and taken her to live in his castle. She could speak about a distinguished military career, a noble death and medals and honors. She could tell him of that short-lived but fortuitous union, and just as it had moved her on, so it moved them on.

Eventually, he said, “And you never wished to marry again?”

She shook her head, glanced away. “No, twice was enough. Quite enough.”

Chapter Eighteen

What she needs is a weapon, something weighty, something to knock him out with. He would be slow, would be drunk; was always drunk at night. And her aunt was frightened; she could see that, had seen and heard enough to know that husbands are not always tender and loving.

Yes, a weapon.

For three days Cora barely uttered a word to Sylvia. She was angry, angry at Sylvia’s snooping, and at her ridiculous claims and insinuations. The only person she could rely on was Cecily, who had reported everything back to her, confirming her suspicions once and for all that Sylvia could not be trusted. The final straw—though there had by that time been enough to line a stable floor, she thought—had been her discovery of Sylvia’s visit to Meadow Farm. And it had been Mr. Fox who had reported that particular excursion back to Cora, having passed by on his bicycle.

She had hoped that Sylvia would take the hint, would voluntarily depart and return to London. She had hoped that she would not have to ask her to leave. The former would perhaps allow them to salvage some scrap of friendship, in time; the latter would most definitely end it forever.

When she finally summoned Sylvia to the drawing room and said, “I wish to speak to you, Sylvia, please sit down,” Sylvia had not smiled, and Cora suspected she knew what was coming. She produced her own notebook and quietly read out from it. Then she looked up at Sylvia and said, “Well, do you have anything to say?”

Sylvia said, “A litany of charges, it would seem, and no doubt all Cecily Chadwick’s doing. But I have to tell you that I think you’re being foolish, very foolish to listen to and trust that girl. In fact, I’ve been holding back my suspicions about her and her mother for some time.” She paused. “I fear your blackmailers are closer to home than you realize.”

Cora laughed. “The Chadwicks! Oh, Cecily and Madeline are not my blackmailers, Sylvia. I know exactly who—”

“You’ve always been naive,” Sylvia interrupted, “always trusted the wrong people. It’s why you’re in the situation you’re in today. Had you thought more, been more discerning in your judgment,” she continued, her voice now trembling, “your life might have been different . . . and perhaps you would not have lost
him
!”

“How dare you. How dare you say that to me, after
everything
. You know nothing, nothing at all about real life. You’ve spent half a century lost in your own imaginings, making up stories that have no bearing whatsoever on real life, real love. You don’t know what real love is.”

“I know what it’s not—it’s not what you did to him. That was unforgivable, and it will make you go mad—mad like her before you. It was revenge, pure and simple, and you know it.”

Cora stared at her. “I think you’ve said enough, more than enough. I’ve already sent for Cotton, he’ll be here any minute. There will be a train back to London sometime soon, I’m sure,” she added, pulling on the bell by her side.

Sylvia rose to her feet. “You can banish me and you can hide away here, but you can’t escape, not now. Jack wants to know the truth, he wants to know who he is, and he’s going to find out, he’s going to discover
everything
about you . . . and about that awful aunt of yours,” she said. And then she turned and left the room.

The overcast sky and silent drizzle seemed appropriate weather for a departure. She sat down in the wagonette and glanced back at the house. No one had anticipated her arrival and no one had come out to wave her off. The door was already closed.

Goodbye.

It was her lack of status, lack of husband, she thought, that allowed people to treat her thus. And it had always been so. Had she been married, been a widow, the world would have viewed her differently. She would have been elevated to
belonging
, worthy of respect, protected by the love and esteem of a man, living or deceased. Without it, without that status, the world had been dismissive—of her, of her feelings. At best, it smiled at her politely. At worst, it simply ignored her. And, perhaps born from that invisibility, and from her immersion in fiction and a focus on other people, she too had often forgotten her own existence, had had to remind herself.

Mr. Cotton slammed his door. “All aboard!” he shouted and laughed. The vehicle turned, headed up the driveway, and Sylvia did not look back. As the motor bumped down the track, past the Chadwicks’ privet hedge and white gate, through the trickling ford and up the hill on the other side, she kept her eyes fixed ahead. Passing through the village she saw Mrs. Gamben standing in the doorway of the post office, a shawl wrapped about her head; the butcher—all waxed mustache and boater—standing next to his bang-tailed cob; and coming up by the village green she saw Jack and Cecily on the road ahead, his jacket spread over their heads. They stopped and stood aside as the motor passed by. Sylvia looked straight ahead.

She would not cry, could not cry. She would be back in London soon, home, to her meager life, her tiny flat, and her safe habits for one. No one would say “How dare you,” no one would say “That will be all.” She would catch a taxicab from Waterloo, and stop at the shop on the corner for milk and bread, and something for supper. They’d say, “You’ve been away a while, Miss Dorland. Been anywhere special . . . had a nice time?” And she would smile, and tell them, yes, wonderful.

She would climb the five flights to her landing, pull out the key and open the coffee-brown door to her own small world. And everything would be just as she had left it. She would carry her bag to the bedroom, place it down upon a neatly made single bed, and then—only then—would she allow herself to cry.

A fire had been lit. They were drenched through, and Jack’s jacket in a sorry state. But when Mrs. Davey brought in the tea tray, she said she would see to it and took it away.

Jack said, “We saw Sylvia, with Cotton . . .”

Cora smiled. “Yes, she’s had to get back to London . . . had a telegram earlier. Something to do with her publishers, I believe.”

“Has she gone for long?” he asked.

“I’m not entirely sure,” Cora replied. “But I don’t expect her back this summer.”

He glanced over to Cecily, raising his eyebrows. He said, “Well, that is a shame . . . she never got to have a look at your story.”

“I shall take a look . . . if you’d like me to. I have an eye for a good story,” said Cora.

Cecily looked from Cora to Jack and then back to Cora. “Yes, thank you, perhaps when it’s finished,” she said, and Cora smiled and nodded.

It was not until later, when Jack walked Cecily home, that Cora had a chance to ponder the contretemps of earlier, Sylvia’s parting words. She had managed, she thought, to mask any shock in front of her grandson and Cecily at tea, but she was still aghast, had hardly thought her friend capable. And really, none of it made sense. For what was there for Sylvia to be angry about? After all, she had been the one in the wrong, the one snooping and spying, tiptoeing about the place,
investigating
, determined to have her answers, desperate for a story.

. . . that awful aunt of yours . . .

Cora winced, shook her head. It was all her own fault, she thought. She had been naive, had trusted Sylvia and told her far too much too early on. And what had been said could never be unsaid, that was the problem. If she had never in the first place mentioned that wretched man, John Abel, all those years ago in Rome, Sylvia’s appetite would never have been whetted.

She closed her eyes, shook her head. “Such a foolish thing to do, and all for added drama, as if there wasn’t enough!”

But one thing was patently clear: Sylvia had been jealous, and jealous for a lifetime. But jealous of whom, what, and why? Jealous of the drama, perhaps, envious of the action. Then another thought came to her: was it George? Had Sylvia, too, been in love with George? Had she, for all these years—and as she watched and read and listened to Cora—been in love with the very same man? But no, it was more complex than this, Cora mused. For there seemed to be another dynamic at play, lingering on the outermost periphery, confounding her, confusing her, whispering too quietly for her to hear.