The Memory of Lost Senses (38 page)

She knew her way to the Eternal City the way anyone knows the path that leads them home. From a train carriage window she checked off the sequence of familiar vistas, counting down landmarks, towns and cities. And later, traveling back over that same landscape, they were checked off again, in reverse order.

On her final journey, returning to England for good, she had been unusually reticent, had had no interest in making any new friends. Standing upon the deck of a steamer, taking in England’s ragged hemline—quiet, contemplative, inconspicuous, she hoped—she offered little conversation and made no mention of any connections. On that last journey she simply played the part of an elderly lady returning from an indefinite period abroad. And when those standing alongside her turned to her and said, “Ah, so good to be home,” she simply smiled. “Yes indeed, so good to be home.”

“
. . . We’ll live like gypsies . . . divide our time between Rome and Florence, head to Paris in the spring . . . and the south of France perhaps in autumn.”

“But not England?”

“No, not England. Who needs England?”

“And you’ll stay with me?”

“Of course, I shall . . . I’ll never leave you.”

“Not even if I had done something . . . wicked?”

“Hmm, something wicked . . . If you had done something wicked, well, I rather think I’d love you all the more for it.”

And so she gives in, moves her mouth to his, and seals her fate.

BOOK TWO

England 1923

Chapter Twenty-one

Sylvia had said it out loud, and silently, too:
Cora is gone . . . Cora is gone . . .
She had to; had to remind herself. It would take time, she told herself, to grow used to the idea. And it was why she had sought out the photograph, why she sat with it in her hands. But it was still queer to think of
her
dead, a person no more. Difficult to accept that she had been mortal, just like everyone else; impossible and too painful to think of her beneath the sandy soil of an English churchyard.

Perhaps it would be easier if she had seen the grave, witnessed the burial and been a part of that ceremonial goodbye. She would, she thought, have been able to say adieu. She would have been able to let her know.

For years Sylvia had pondered a hello and not a goodbye. She had anticipated a reunion, reconciliation, imagined them embracing, forgiving, smiling at each other, herself saying, “I shall hear none of it; it is all in the past now.” She had imagined returning once more down that sweeping driveway in Mr. Cotton’s wagonette, and Cora, standing there upon the doorstep—waiting for her, just as she had that sultry summer’s day twelve years ago. How pleased Cora had been to see her . . . She had said, “Here at last!” and then playfully chastised Sylvia for her tardiness, telling her that she had been waiting patiently all morning. And Jack had been there too: eager to finally meet his grandmother’s oldest friend. He had said, “I’ve been longing to meet you . . . have heard so much about you.” That was how it had been, hadn’t it?

Yes, it had been a perfect day. One etched on her memory.

But there could be no reunion, not now, not ever. That indomitable spirit, that indefatigable soul had departed this life and moved on—as she always had.

Sylvia stared at the photograph. She ran a finger over the tear: a scar on her memory, and on her heart. But it was too late, too late to offer Cora her happy ending, too late to assuage her loss or make amends: too late to tell her. And there was an added torment bound up in those few hushed words to a painter, so long ago in Rome.

“But had I known . . . had I known . . .” she whispered, shaking her head.

And then she closed her eyes once more as she relived that bittersweet moment, when Cora had clung to her weeping, saying, “He says we have no future, no future together . . . he says it cannot be . . . that he cannot marry me . . . will never marry me . . .”

But how wonderful it had felt to hold her, to have Cora in her arms, so weak and fragile, and lost. “You have me,” she had said. “You have me, and I shall never ever walk away from you.” And yet she had. For hadn’t she walked away that summer, twelve years before? Hadn’t she left Cora then, weak and fragile and lost once again, afraid, alone and old?

“I let her down! I walked away . . . just as he did . . . I was no different.”

Sylvia had not been able to attend the funeral, though Cecily had been kind enough to telephone a second time to inform her of the arrangements. The first call, the one to tell her Cora had died, had come out of the blue. And Cecily had been quite cold, Sylvia thought: perfunctory in her approach. But Sylvia was not used to receiving telephone calls. The only telephone at the Windsor was in the arched alcove of the lobby, where, on the rare occasion it was in use, people liked to loiter about, listening. It had a sign above it which read, “FOR RESIDENTS’ USE & EMERGENCIES ONLY,” in red letters upon white. It was a queer, perplexing contraption and Sylvia had no use for it. And that day, when Mrs. Halliday came into the dining room and said, “Do excuse me, Miss Dorland, but you’re wanted on the telephone,” Sylvia had been mystified. For who would call her? She had no kin.

Mrs. Halliday had handed her the parts, whispering instructions, “To the ear, dear . . . that’s it . . . now say hello . . .” Sylvia thought she heard a voice: “Sylvia . . . Miss Dorland, is that you?” But the line had been bad and, not sure what the call was about or to whom the voice belonged, Sylvia had been circumspect, reticent.

“Yes,” she had said, elongating those three letters, phrasing the word as a question.

“It’s Cecily.”

“Cecily . . .”

“I hope you remember me . . .”

Cecily Chadwick
. “Yes, yes. I remember you. Of course I remember you. How lovely to hear from you.”

“I’m calling with some . . .”

But Sylvia did not catch the words and had to ask her to speak up.

“
Sad
news,” Cecily said, louder, and with emphasis. “It’s Cora, I’m afraid she passed away on Friday. I thought I should call . . . call and let you know.”

And that was it. Cecily may have said more, Sylvia could not remember. She had been too stunned, too upset to take in anything else. She had said goodbye and then stood for some time clutching the receiver, unsure what to do with it
or
the news. When Mrs. Halliday reappeared, she asked, “Bad news, dear?” She took the receiver from Sylvia’s hand, hung it up, and led her back toward the dining room. But Sylvia had said no, she could not face anyone, could not eat now. “My friend, my dearest friend has passed away.”

She did not cry, not that day. She simply returned upstairs to her room and sat quietly until it was time for bed.

Perhaps Cecily said something about the funeral during that first call. Perhaps she had told Sylvia she would call again to let her know the arrangements. Either way, Cecily had called again a few days later, and that was when she had also said that she had something for Sylvia from Cora.

“Actually, I’ve had it in my possession for quite some time,” she said. “She asked me to make sure that it was passed on to you in the event of her death.”

Cora: ever the planner.

But there was no way Cecily could get up to London, not at that time. Not with the funeral and everything else she had to deal with, she said, but perhaps in a few weeks, when things were calmer.

An obituary in one of the London newspapers was simply titled, “Death of the Countess de Chevalier de Saint Léger Lawson,” and read:

We deeply regret to record the death which occurred at her home in Bramley on Friday of last week of the Countess de Chevalier de Saint Léger Lawson, who had been in failing health for some time past . . . The Countess was in her eightieth year and had a very wide circle of friends both here and on the Continent, to whom her passing is a matter of sincere regret. The Countess was thrice married and by her first union, to Mr. John Staunton, there was a son, Captain George Staunton RHA, who met with his death in a hunting accident many years ago. Her second marriage was to the Count de Chevalier de Saint Léger who was killed in the Franco-German War; while she was wedded on a third occasion to Mr. Edward Lawson, late President of the Royal Institute of British Architects, and father of Lord George Lawson, late President of the Academy.

The Countess was born at Standen Hall in Norfolk, and was the niece of the late Contessa Cansacchi di Amelia, who passed away some time ago in Rome. A renowned and fashionable figure within Continental society, the Countess resided a great deal abroad, in particular in Rome and Paris, and was noted for her cosmopolitan tastes and for her fine collection of art and antiques . . . The funeral took place at Saint Luke’s Churchyard, Bramley, on Wednesday afternoon, where the remains of the deceased lady were laid to rest . . .

The piece went on to list the chief mourners, and to say that “the grave had been prettily lined with moss and bunches of violets by Mr. Cordery, the head gardener at Temple Hill.” It then listed the floral tributes, and Sylvia was pleased to see her own name.

Of course there were mistakes, inaccuracies. How could there not be? Cora had spent a lifetime confusing and confounding everyone with her story. And she had always lied about her age, was ten years older than the age they quoted. But she would have been satisfied, Sylvia thought, to be a decade younger—even in death. And the obituary recorded most of the official version: almost all of the important names were there. And yet, Sylvia could not help but wonder where the information had come from, for someone had tidied it all up. That someone had to be Cecily.

Sylvia cut out the obituary and pasted it into the scrapbook, the one she kept that charted Cora’s life, and now death. It included every announcement—the birth of each of her sons, their deaths, and the deaths of each of her husbands; her marriages; court circulars, drawing room appearances, and clippings about George. But there had been so many about George, particularly after his death, that she gave up cutting and pasting
him
. Also in the scrapbook were two pencil sketches of Cora by John Clifford, and another by George (all three from Rome, when Cora had been no more than twenty); a ribbon Cora had given her at around that same time, and various notes confirming appointments and rendezvous. Sylvia liked to look at those notes, the handwriting, the young signature long before the loops and swirls of the double C flourish that became her customary abbreviation. There was a lock of pale golden hair, various pressed flowers, and postcards and telegrams, and a small swatch of blue silk Cora had sent her shortly before her marriage to Edward. The photograph, the one taken in the garden that day at Temple Hill, would go in there also, Sylvia decided: at the very end. It was the only one she had of them together.