The Memory of Lost Senses (12 page)

He smiled. “Perhaps we need to remember that,” he suggested. “That she has had so little.”

“You’re right, of course you’re right. I was sharp with her. I shall apologize in the morning.”

“I know we’ve had very little time together,” he began, staring down at the floor. “Growing up . . . well, you were overseas, I couldn’t see you, but now we have the opportunity . . . I’d like to know more about everyone: Father, Grandfather, Fanny, and you, your family, your parents. You see, it strikes me I know nothing about my own family. Mother”—and he paused after he said the word—“Mother was unable, or perhaps not inclined, to tell me anything about the Staunton side of my family. She always claimed she knew little about you.”

Cora smiled, looked at the clock on the mantelshelf. “Good gracious, half past ten. I’ve been asleep for two whole hours. I rather think it’s time that I, too, went to my bed.” She struggled forward in her chair. He rose up, took hold of her hand and helped her to her feet. He looks so like him, she thought, observing his features in the lamplight; so like him.

“Will you tell me sometime? Will you tell me about the family,
your
family? I’d like to hear about them all,” he said, holding her hand in his.

“Yes, yes, of course I shall, but not tonight, my darling,” she said, trying to smile, placing her hand upon his cheek.

As she moved away from him, toward the door, he said, “Oh, and I was thinking of inviting Cecily Chadwick to tea on Tuesday . . . You said you’d like to meet her.”

She turned to him. “Yes, I would, and that’s a splendid idea. Good night, dear.”

As she closed the door and moved across the hallway, she felt a constriction about her chest. She grasped the handrail, began to climb the stairs, and the rustle of her petticoats momentarily distracted her: that swish-swish-swishing sound that had accompanied her every movement, all of her life. A fleeting image of her younger self dashing up steps two at a time flashed through her mind’s eye, and she caught that sensation once more: the weightlessness of youth. Whalebone, she thought, can’t really be good for one’s breathing. But lodged deep in her breast was an ever-tightening dilemma, and one name playing on a loop inside her head: John Abel . . . John Abel . . . John Abel.

After Cora retired to her bed, Jack sat alone for a while, cogitating. He reflected on the conversation he had had with Sylvia, earlier, in the garden, and it concerned and perplexed him in equal measure.

“Of course, it could be the heat,” Sylvia had said. And he knew she was being polite, as any good friend would be.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I can only apologize.”

She had recounted Cora’s harsh words, had been tearful, and understandably so.

“That she thinks I’m
possessed
 . . . with an obsession about her . . . her life, and after she invited me here, asked me to record her memories . . .” She shook her head, removed her spectacles and dabbed at her eyes. “I don’t know what I’ve done, Jack, to make her turn on me like that.” She raised her head, staring straight ahead. “I fear for her,” she continued, “that she can turn on
me
, her oldest, most devoted friend, and with such . . . such venom, such passion. Hatred, that’s what it was. Pure hatred.”

“No, no, she doesn’t hate you. You mustn’t for one moment think that. She’s very fond of you, I know.”

But he was at a loss. Why had Cora turned on Sylvia? Sylvia, who wouldn’t say boo to a goose. Sylvia, whom Cora herself had claimed was such a dear friend. After a while he said, “You may be right. It may be the heat. I know she was used to it once, but we must bear in mind she’s a good deal older now.”

Sylvia sniffed, tucked her handkerchief inside her sleeve, and for a while they sat in silence, side by side, looking out over the garden.

“I only hope she comes back to us soon,” she said. “That we haven’t lost her.”

“Lost her?”

“It happened in Rome . . . in the summer. July and August. The heat brought it on, the delusions, the fever . . . paranoia . . . madness,” she said, so quietly that he had had to lean forward to catch the last two words.

Now, he thought Sylvia had overreacted. His grandmother was right: she had had so little in her life, was as unused to drama as Cora was used to it. Poor Sylvia. But as he rose to his feet and moved toward the lamp, something surfaced. At first, a mere sensation, a glimpse and flash of yellow. Then, slowly, more: his mother, another lady, unrecognizable, faceless; a yellow-walled room, long forgotten, unidentifiable; and a small dog—sweet little thing, gray—rolling about on the rug in front of him. His mother and the other lady are behind him, talking. They don’t say the name but he knows that the “she” they speak of refers to his grandmother.

His mother says, “She’ll never come back here to live, not permanently. She’s too afraid.”

“But afraid of what?” the faceless woman asks.

“Being discovered . . . being found out. Oh, she’ll come back for a drawing room at the palace . . . spend a week or so gadding about. But she’s terrified of any of
them
finding her. She thinks I don’t know, but I do.”

The faceless woman says, “Did
he
know?”

“No,” his mother replies, and she almost laughs as she says, “My husband adored her.”

Upstairs, Sylvia lay awake in her bed. Too hot to sleep, too distressed to write.

It had all started with the blessed letter, another letter. It had arrived in the afternoon post, and it had been she, Sylvia, who had taken it in to Cora. Sylvia had noted the pale yellow paper, the name and address typed in red ink . . . but perhaps only because of the somewhat clashing colors. Never could she have foreseen that she would later be attacked as the messenger.

Cora took the envelope from her, and as Sylvia spoke of something else—she couldn’t now recall what—Cora glanced at it and then simply placed it to one side, upon her desk. She was dealing with bills, settling accounts. There was no reason for Sylvia to suppose the yellow envelope contained anything more than another invoice. But even then, Cora had been dismissive, sharp with her.

“Is there anything else?” she had asked, interrupting Sylvia, and just as though she was a wittering servant.

“No, nothing else,” Sylvia had replied, and far too meekly she thought now.

Cora had stayed in that room, at her desk, for the remainder of the afternoon, which was odd, because she had told Sylvia at luncheon that she would take no more than an hour over her correspondence and accounts, and then, she said, they would take a walk. So Sylvia had sat on the veranda, waiting. She had used the time productively enough, making a new list of questions to ask Cora, and pondering an idea for a short story. But by four o’clock, and with no sight or sound of Cora, Sylvia had crept along the terrace and peered in through the south window. She could clearly see Cora, in profile, doing absolutely nothing at all but gazing out through another window—the one immediately in front of her desk. She could also see that there were no papers, invoices or even pens out upon the desk.

She had been pressed up against the climbing hydrangea for some minutes, watching her friend daydream, for that was how it appeared, when she noticed Cora’s lips moving and realized that she was in fact speaking. And so she tiptoed quietly along the wall of the house to the open window, on the other side of which sat Cora. At first, it was impossible to make out what, exactly, Cora was saying. She spoke in a strange, low, monotone voice but, after a little while, Sylvia recognized the words, and listened to her as she continued: “The dew of the morning, sunk chill on my brow . . . it felt like the warning, of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken, and light is thy fame: I hear thy name spoken, and share . . . in its shame.”

Byron. Sylvia almost said the name out loud. She had been there the very first time Cora recited it—“When We Two Parted”—at her aunt’s soiree, in Rome. And he had been there, too: George. Had he known the lines were for him? Had she ever told him? But yes, he must have known. For it had all been for him; even then, everything was for him. The two of them had crossed paths a number of times by then, and Cora had already visited his studio—in secret and alone—once, or was it twice? Sylvia could not recall.

But Cora had told her, certainly, of that first visit. He had been nervous, fumbling and awkward. They had spent time looking at the sketches and studies from which he was working, and he had talked her through his vision, his
Madonna
. He had explained to her how he would use only one or two models for the multitude of minor characters, but would add detail to their dress so that they would appear different. The painting would tell a story, he said, but each section of the vast canvas was as important as the whole, with a separate story to it. Cora said he talked with such conviction and passion, such intensity in his eyes that it made her feel as feeble as a child and yet more alive than ever before. And then he had said to her, “And I want you, Cora, to be my Madonna.”

Sylvia closed her eyes. Cora continued to murmur.

Even then, after that first visit to George’s studio, Cora claimed they had confided in each other. She said she had told him things she had never told anyone, which Sylvia found hard to believe. And yet, wasn’t that when Cora had begun to drift away from
her
? Wasn’t that when Cora had begun to change, altering her story, telling Sylvia she had made mistakes in her recollection of events? But Sylvia had already written things down. And he knew nothing. How could he love her if he knew nothing about her?

Silence. Sylvia stood perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe. Then Cora began again. She seemed to be in some sort of trance-like state, reciting the poem over and over. What on earth was she doing? Trying to summon him from the grave?

It was after Sylvia returned to the veranda and had pondered on this bizarre occurrence that she began to think the worst, began to wonder if Cora was in fact losing her senses.

Later, at dinner, Cora had been unusually quiet. And afterward, as the two women sat alone together, Sylvia had tentatively mentioned the memoirs; had suggested that perhaps they could make a fresh start on it the next day. Cora appeared to be in agreement. She had smiled and nodded, with a degree of magnanimity. But then, when Sylvia very gently said, “I heard you reciting your poem earlier today, dear,” she had flown off the handle, accused Sylvia of spying on her. That was when she had also said Sylvia was obsessed, obsessed with her life. And it was a ridiculous accusation in view of the circumstances.

“Ridiculous,” she said out loud, wiping her nose. I have simply loved her, loved her and been a loyal and true friend . . . for all of these years, all of these years . . . and she’s never appreciated me, all I have done for her . . . never appreciated.

Sylvia had made no mention of the letter to Jack, or the queer poetry recital. She had no wish to burden the poor boy further. He had already been through enough. Quite enough. But, if Cora would not tell him the truth, it would, in time, surely fall upon her to do so.

Chapter Six