The Memory of Lost Senses (47 page)

When I told you in Rome all those years ago that I had killed a man, I was not lying, for it was how it seemed to me at that time. I yearned to tell the truth, to confide in someone, you, and for you to understand that possibility & be able to make a choice, to be my friend or not, & to see me as more than that which I had come from. And you did . . . and yet you used my confession & my trust in you to betray me, electing to repeat it, without context or furnishing of background from me. However, it is a long time ago, & we are older and wiser, and the world has changed.

Please do not be sad about this last chapter—ironically, the start of my story—or about our “upset” or by my passing. My life has been rich and full, & friendships do not last forever. In many ways you have achieved much more in your life than I. You leave a legacy in your words, your books, & I leave nothing other than my memories, which I am doubtful anyone will be interested in now, but perhaps.

Here the pen changed. And the hand, too, appeared altered.

I have spent a great deal of time cogitating & pondering this letter, and if I am to be honest, completely honest—and that is my intention—there is another matter to set straight, and this may come as something of a shock to you.

As regards my “Comte de Chevalier de Saint Léger,” he never existed.

Sylvia looked up. “Never existed? But of course he did! I met him, I met him in Rome . . .”

There was no wedding at Le Havre or anywhere else, & there was no fine
chateau
in the Loire. There is not and never was any Comte de Chevalier de Saint Léger. There was however an Antonin de Chevalier, my rather gallant French army officer & lover of three years. When I met Antonin, after Freddie passed away, I longed to escape from Rome, longed for change. I had been living on hope for so long, the hope that G would return there & to me, and, like any insubstantial diet, my near empty life had left me famished & weak. When I took little G off to France—to stay, or so I told everyone, with Antonin’s family—it was not with the intention of staying away for two years, & of course I had had to tell my aunt that I was engaged to be married, otherwise she would never have allowed me to go. When I wrote to her, and to you too, about the place “Chazelles,” it was not altogether a lie, the house was indeed called Chazelles, but perhaps more dilapidated farmhouse than castle, & buried in obscurity in rural Nièvre.

It was in fact my aunt who decided that I was residing in a castle & that Antonin’s family must have a title lurking somewhere, all good French families did, and she embraced this notion long before I. That is not to say it was forced upon me, but rather that I chose not to enlighten her on the truth of my circumstances. I chose not to disillusion her. She had been through so much & had such hopes and dreams for me. I think I realized then that I could return to Rome as someone else, someone quite different, & so caught up with my new & improved self & the possibilities ahead that it was impossible for me to relinquish the idea of that new identity. Everyone who mattered in Rome had a title—genuine, defunct or bogus—so why should not I also?

After Antonin was killed I had no choice but to return to Rome—as his widow. My aunt believed I had married Antonin at Le Havre, and we had indeed been living as man & wife, I was long used to referring to myself as such & had been “Madame de Chevalier” for over a year. I am not altogether sure now where the “Saint Léger” came from, or why I added it to the name. I rather think I must have felt the name needed something more, and that it had a nice ring to it. The only time I can recall any problem was when I married Edward—with all the various paperwork, or lack of. But of course he saw to all of that.

One thing I wish to make clear is that there was no plan or premeditation on my part. It was an evolutionary process, a small detail, which began as a misunderstanding & developed into something more. In the end, of course, the name secured not George but his father, a man who would have done anything to stop G & me from marrying when we were young. I suppose one could say then that my revenge—if indeed it was revenge—was not simply on George but on his father, too. And yet, like my first marriage, that union was an arrangement that suited both parties. Edward offered me much-needed security—a home (my first & only home) & an income. In return, I gave him the Countess de Chevalier de Saint Léger Lawson. Je pense, quid pro quo.

But enough. It is late & I am weary . . . and yet it is impossible for me to end this without mentioning George. I think you & you alone know that my life has been shaped and defined by him, his presence, that he was and remains my only one true love. That love began over seventy years ago in Rome, is with me now & shall go with me after death. If I am to be remembered for anything, I hope it will be for my love of him, & as the mother of his sons.

And so, I leave it with you, dear Sylvia, to decide how & what to record, if anything at all. I have always felt alone in this world, an exile even before I became one. But we are, I think, all in transit . . . hopefully, to something better.

The letter was signed:
Yours, Cora Lawson.

Sylvia stared at the signature. Then, as though emerging from the depths, she gulped and swallowed, and began to weep.

By the time Sylvia first met her, Cora had already dropped the last letter of her given name and assumed the name Staunton, the name that would become hers through marriage. At that time, the focus of attention had been on Cora’s aunt, the new Mrs. James Staunton. There were rumors then that Mr. Staunton had advertised for a new wife. And there was gossip and intrigue then about who she was or had been, and where she hailed from. Everyone knew there was a secret, but no one guessed that the secret was murder—attempted or otherwise, or desertion, or bigamy. No one had had the imagination for that: no one apart from Sylvia.

It had at first been all the little things, the tiny incidental details, which allowed Sylvia to build a picture. And then the mistakes: the mention of an “Uncle John,” and Cora’s knowledge of things she should not have had knowledge about; and sometimes the fear, as well. Long before Aunt Fanny’s tutelage paid off, before the reinvention was complete, Cora had been a mass of contradictions, both in character and in what she said. And Sylvia, the budding novelist, had not only been captivated and inspired, she had taken note. Cora was older than her years and Cora still cried for her mother; Cora was streetwise and savvy, and Cora was afraid of strangers; Cora was reticent and studied, and Cora was verbose and impetuous; Cora was from Suffolk, and Cora was from London; Cora had been an only child, and Cora had siblings—all dead. And so it went on.

It was easy enough to see that Cora lied, but what Sylvia wanted to know was
why
she lied; what inspired the lies and contradictions. When she had asked Cora, “Did you run away?” Cora had not appeared shocked. They had been sitting on the bench by the fountain in the Piazza d’Ara Coeli, and Cora had simply stared at her and said once more, “I am not allowed to tell anyone . . . but I’ll tell you one day, I promise.” And then she lifted Sylvia’s hand and kissed it. No one had kissed Sylvia’s hand before, no one had ever promised her anything. No one was like Cora.

Then, George Lawson arrived in Rome. Cora fell in love and had no time for sitting by fountains with Sylvia. Cora changed. And stories were practiced and put in order. Sylvia heard them, each one slightly more polished than the last, until there was a final, definitive version. And it was impressive; Sylvia could not have done better herself. But George Lawson was not the man for Cora. Sylvia knew this. He was self-centerd and ambitious, determined to prove himself. He would not stay in Rome; he would not marry Cora. He was using her.

When Sylvia penned her note to George, telling him she had information she thought he ought to know, her only thought had been Cora: protecting her from an inevitable heartbreak. And when she met him that day and he said, “If this is another rumor about Cora or her aunt, I rather think I’ve heard them all,” Sylvia knew he had not heard what she was about to tell him. No one had. Not even Cora.

She explained that this was
not
idle gossip but had come from Cora herself, and though she had been sworn to secrecy, she felt duty bound to tell him. Yes, he wanted to know what it was Cora had told her. And so Sylvia told him the truth. Or what she thought might be the truth.

She had no idea then that her actions—motivated by nothing other than love, the desire to protect the person she loved—would carve the future path of Cora’s life; or that as a result of those actions Cora would spend all of her days estranged from love, would make it her mission to prove something and become someone, or that that someone would be George Lawson’s stepmother. Sylvia never imagined that.

And yet it was she, Sylvia, who had comforted Cora after George broke off with her and left Rome. It was she who had held Cora in her arms and smiled down at her when she said, “You’re the best friend anyone could ever have, Sylvia.”

Chapter Twenty-eight

The doorman saw them into the taxicab. It wasn’t far to walk, but it was easier for them, easier for Jack. Piccadilly
was busy and progress was slow. Through the window Cecily watched the drifting crowds, those milling about the statue of Eros, amidst pigeons and fruit barrows, under the rain-laden sky; she could hear the echo of music drifting out from an arcade, and newspaper boys shouting about curses and Pharaohs, and “Lord Carnarvon struck dead!” And there was perhaps some queer synchronicity at work that day, she thought, when the taxicab finally pulled up opposite the Academy, outside the
Egyptian
Hall.

They were on time. West End church bells were chiming seven o’clock as they walked through the entrance of the Academy. Mr. Davidson was waiting. He stepped forward to introduce himself. “Please, do come this way,” he said. He led them through the vast lobby, past vaguely familiar sculptures—Cecily knew she had seen before—then down a corridor and into a paneled room. There, another man stepped forward to shake their hands. “Stephen Fowler, a pleasure to meet you both.”

Mr. Davidson asked them to take a seat. They sat side by side upon a long leather chesterfield sofa. He laid out some paperwork on the table in front of them—which Cecily was expecting, which their solicitor had already looked over—for her to sign. After signing her name—Cecily Staunton—a few times over, Mr. Davidson offered them a glass of sherry. Still on his feet, he made a toast: “To
Aphrodite
!” And the three raised their glasses and repeated it. Then he sat down in the armchair opposite Mr. Fowler, and said, “As you know, Mr. Fowler has spent these last few years researching Lord Lawson’s life and work, and he has a few questions he’d very much like to ask you.”

Cecily reached over and took hold of Jack’s hand. She said, “I’m happy to answer anything I can. Unfortunately, my husband’s memory is not what it was.”

The men nodded at Jack.

Mr. Fowler began. “The painting,
Aphrodite
, was, I believe, executed at Lucca some sixty years ago. Would that be correct?”

Cecily heard Jack sigh. “I’m really not sure when, exactly, it was executed,” she answered. “Cor— My husband’s grandmother had it hanging in her hallway for a number of years, certainly since nineteen eleven, but I’m afraid I have no idea where it was before that, or any dates.”

Mr. Fowler smiled and waved a hand, as though it was of little importance. “She was, we believe, his regular sitter during his time at Rome. And we are, I think it is safe to say”—he paused and turned to the other gentleman—“almost certain that she was his
Madonna
. The faces are identical, the treatment the same. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Davidson?”

“Oh, without doubt.”

Mr. Fowler cleared his throat and went on. “For my own part, there’s . . . a niggling. Yes, a niggling. Call it a dilemma, if you will.” He paused, lowered his head and glanced over his spectacles at Jack. “Your grandmama gave birth to a child some nine months after she had returned from her stay at Lucca with Lord Lawson and Mrs. Hillier. That child—your father, sir,” he said, nodding to Jack, “was given the name George, and George Lawson was duly conferred godfather.” He said this last word rather more loudly, and then paused, again, as though giving Cecily and Jack time to absorb these facts, an unfolding theory. “Lord Lawson wrote often of this child—your father, his godson—George, or Georg
ie
, as he seemed to prefer to call him. And sums of money—considerable amounts and over many years—were sent to banks in Paris and Rome . . .”

It was obvious to Cecily where the conversation was headed, what was being implied, and so she continued to hold on to Jack’s hand, gripping it tighter from time to time.