The Memory of Lost Senses (16 page)

There was something childlike about the novelist’s voice, something innocent and tremulous and sweet. And just as one could see that the countess had been a great beauty, one could also see that Miss Dorland had not. Her looks accommodated themselves well to age, and Cecily imagined she possibly hadn’t altered very much in appearance since her youth. Her face was unexceptional, unremarkable, like so many others—forgettable. And yet there was an innate softness to her, in her manner, and genuine warmth in her unforced smile. She deferred to the countess in all things, it seemed, and watched her closely, her eyes constantly moving back to her. And the countess for her part appeared to treat Miss Dorland like a younger sister, or perhaps a daughter. She looked down at the grass and up at the sky as she listened to her friend speak, occasionally correcting her on a detail, or on her pronunciation. “No, dear, it wasn’t actually then . . . the D is silent, dear . . . no, Sylvia, she was his aunt, not his mother,” and so on. But it was clear, to Cecily at least, that the two women knew each other very well, and had known each other for many years. Like an old married couple (rather like Mr. and Mrs. Fox, Cecily thought), they finished each other’s sentences and corroborated each other’s anecdotes with nods and murmurings; and when one could not remember—a detail, name, time or place—the other swiftly stepped in.

Cecily noted the elderly novelist’s hands, fidgeting and busy all the while, playing tunes between fingertips, tapping a beat on an invisible machine. She spoke in short precise sentences, and, every so often, lifted a hand and touched the small gold-framed spectacles perched upon the bridge of her nose.

To look at, the two women were the antithesis of each other: one still voluptuous, with a shape Cecily imagined to have been envied in youth and that extravagant cloud of white-white hair; the other angular and flat, with dull gray hair scraped back into an impoverished bun. Unlikely friends. And yet, Miss Dorland was—and must always have been—a calm presence in the countess’s turbulent life, Cecily supposed.

Cecily could have listened to the countess all day, particularly when she became caught up in a reminiscence, for there was something, then, in her style, the mellifluous sound of her voice, her enunciation and consideration of each and every syllable, as though she was reciting poetry. She paused, pursed her mouth, and sometimes pouted; she sighed midsentence, looked heavenward, closed her eyes, opened them, leaned forward, raised her hands, breathed in deeply, then stared into the distance, ponderously, as everyone waited for her next word, next sentence, next exhalation.

There was one queer moment though, when Miss Combe mentioned a story that had appeared in the newspaper about a local woman who had been sent to prison for bigamy. A name was mentioned, and Mr. Fox nodded solemnly; yes, he knew the woman in question. Had he married her? Cecily wondered. But Miss Combe went on to say that the woman had had no fewer than three bigamous marriages, and that the variety of children from each totaled thirteen. The countess listened to all of this, and to Mr. Fox’s murmurings; then, with a great intake of breath, she said that bigamy was a very complex issue and, in many cases, an understandable course of action. It had been common enough, she said, in times gone by; indeed, she herself had known bigamists, both male and female, who were quite respectable people as well. She cited a number of hypothetical cases, reasons why it could not, perhaps should not, be viewed as a crime, and she spoke—seemingly with some authority—about the archaic divorce laws. Mr. Fox then leaned forward, wide-eyed, and spluttered, “But you sound as though you’re advocating it, ma’am.”

She smiled at him, closed her eyes and shook her head. “No, not advocating it, Mr. Fox. Rather, trying to
understand
. This woman has been locked away, her family broken up, her children farmed out to strangers. The law refuses to look at the reasons for the action; it simply sees the crime and punishes the perpetrator. But, like self-defense, a crime is not a crime if it can be justified, understood . . . and then, perhaps, forgiven.”

Mr. Fox sat back in his chair. No one spoke.

When the photographer, Mr. Trigg, appeared, Cecily at first thought that he, too, was there as a guest. Then the countess raised her hand to him and said, “Dear Mr. Trigg, do please say if you require anything. I’m afraid my grandson is not yet back from his motor excursion and we can’t possibly go ahead until he is here.”

Sonia said, “Ooh, are we to have our photograph taken, ma’am?”

“Mr. Trigg is here to photograph some of my paintings, but I thought it rather a nice idea for him to capture us as well,” she replied, as the photographer quietly busied himself, arranging his equipment on the lawn.

By the time Jack finally appeared—leaping over a small box hedge and striding across the lawn toward them—Miss Combe was on her feet saying she felt rather queer about having her photograph taken; she had not expected it. He wore no jacket, no necktie, and the waistcoat of his suit was unbuttoned. He apologized for his tardiness, explaining to them that his motorcycle had had a puncture somewhere south of Linford, and his soiled white shirt—as the countess pointed out—seemed to verify this. Miss Combe sat back down; Sonia sat up; and Cecily stared down at the grass. Mr. Fox laughed. “Motorcycles indeed!”

“Well, my darling, I’m afraid you’ve missed tea but I’m sure Mrs. Davey will bring out a fresh pot soon enough.”

“I’m fine,” he said, catching Cecily’s eye.

He moved forward, hovering over the plates on the linen-covered table, picked up a handful of sandwiches, and then sat down on the grass. The rector spoke to him about his new motorcycle, and Cecily heard him say, yes, he was running it in, but had taken it up to almost forty on the Linford straight. And she pictured him, flying along that road she knew so well, with the wind in his hair, looking out at the world through goggles. Speed, she thought, he likes speed.

Mr. Trigg announced that he was set up and ready, if it was convenient to her ladyship. Chairs were moved about. Sonia put on her gloves, Miss Combe dispensed with her parasol, and Jack and Mr. Fox took their places, standing behind the ladies. Then Mr. Trigg told them all to remain perfectly still until he gave the word . . .

And it was all over in a flash.

The countess clapped her hands. “Bravo! Well done, Mr. Trigg!”

Shuffling and smiling done, conversation resumed. Sonia asked Miss Dorland about her next novel. It was to be titled
Lord of Nivernais
and set in France, the lady novelist replied. Then the countess explained that Nivernais was a region of France where she had once lived. She laughed. “I don’t believe I’m being too immodest when I say I suspect the book owes something to me.” Miss Dorland replied, “Well of course, they all owe something to you, dear.” Sonia said she would love someone to write a book about her one day, Miss Combe said she could think of nothing worse, and Marjorie quietly helped herself to another queen cake. Mr. Fox and Jack continued to talk about motorbikes, and motorcars, and airplanes. And Cecily heard Jack telling him, too, that one day soon enough people would be traveling all over the world by air.

“How about that, Mr. Fox?” the countess interrupted. “You and Mrs. Fox could fly to Rome!” she said.

He shook his head. “Mrs. Fox would never entertain such a notion. And I certainly shan’t be volunteering. The modern world is unsettled, in a state of flux, I fear, and this need for continual change, invention, reinvention!” he shouted—to make his point, Cecily presumed—“is too much for me. But I must admit, I do rather like the idea of a motorcar,” he went on, turning his attention back to Jack, seated at his feet. “Yes, Mrs. Fox and I were discussing the possibilities only this morning and—”

“I think you’ve been rather neglectful of your guest, Jack,” the countess broke in, waving a hand in Cecily’s direction. “Perhaps you’d like to show Cecily around the place . . . the gardens?”

“Of course,” he replied, rising to his feet. “Would you like to to see around the gardens?”

Sonia stood up. “I’d love to see the gardens,” she said, oblivious of any faux pas. “You know, we never did get to see them last time,” she added, turning to the countess.

“Ah, your enthusiasm is to be commended. But I was looking forward to having a little conversation with you, Sonia. I’ve barely spoken to you, my dear.”

Sonia looked from the countess to Jack and then back at the countess, and then sat down.

The countess turned to Cecily. “Allow Jack to take you on a little tour. It’s hardly Versailles, but I think we’re making progress,” she said, smiling beguilingly at Cecily.

They walked across the lawn to steps leading down to another, fringed by wide herbaceous borders and swaths of overgrown wilting rosebushes. A gritted pathway crossed the second at right angles in the center, where an ancient-looking sundial stood, and, beyond it, a long pergola, festooned in creepers and trailers, and dangling tentacles like cobweb-covered hands. At the end of the pergola, next to an arbor, a tall black wrought-iron gate stood open on to the wooded hillside, where centuries of fallen leaves had made a thick carpet of the earth. Here, under towering beeches and pines, the brightness was diffused, the air cooler.

He said, “I’m sorry I was so late. I hope it wasn’t too much of an ordeal for you.”

“No, it wasn’t an ordeal,” she replied, walking on.

The sound of a motorcar’s engine drifted over from the other side of the valley, its horn honking loudly as it approached the last hairpin bend before the village. And when its noise finally abated the voices on the lawn were no longer audible. But the sound of the fair on the village green—a brass band and children shrieking—drifted up through the wooded dell.

“You know, when the house was first built there were very few trees here, on this part of the hill. Apparently one could see Linford and beyond, almost as far as the coast on a fine day.”

“This place was built for her, for your grandmother?” Cecily asked, glancing toward him.

“I believe so. I suppose she wanted to have somewhere to come back to, eventually. And all these pine trees,” he added, looking upward, “are a nod to Rome. She’d have no doubt moved the Roman Forum here if she could’ve done.”

“But she never lived here, until now.”

“No. She preferred to live in Rome, and Paris. It’s where all her friends are . . . or were. And”—he looked at her and smiled—“she’s not overly fond of England.”

“Why is that?”

He shrugged his shoulders, ran a hand through his hair. “She considers herself European, and having been an expatriate for so long, I think she feels somewhat estranged from English ways and customs. She finds people here”—he paused, pondering, searching for the words—“perhaps a tad judgmental, narrow-minded. She abhors snobbery, says England invented it,” he added, amusement in his voice.

He stepped from the pathway, pulling back overgrown laurel and waist-high ferns to reveal stone steps leading down to another path. And as he held back the branches and Cecily moved down the steps, she caught the pungent musky scent of fox.

“She’s had a such an interesting life,” she said, ducking cobwebs, stepping from the hard stone onto a deep brown carpet of pine needles and leaves.

He leapt down the last few steps, landing in front of her. “Yes,” he said, breathlessly, looking back at her. “Though bizarrely I don’t know a great deal about it. You see, we’ve not seen an awful lot of each other. She was always overseas and, well, I was here with my mother. I’m only just getting to know her . . . and about her life.”

“Must be queer,” Cecily said, glancing away, “to only now be getting to know each other.”

“I suppose it is,” he replied, turning and walking on. “She loves to speak about Rome, as I’m sure you’ve gathered this afternoon. And she loves to talk about Paris, and the old château, but she’s not too fond—seems almost reluctant—to speak of her childhood and early life. I imagine it was a sad time for her. She lost both of her parents so young, was left with no one apart from her aunt, who was more like a mother to her. Watch out for the holly,” he added, over his shoulder.

“Did you ever visit her in Rome?”

“No, sadly not. I saw her on the rare occasions she came to London, but she and my mother never saw eye to eye, and there was always . . . always a strained atmosphere. I used to think she blamed my mother for my father’s death.” He reached down, picked up a stone and, just as though it were a cricket ball, ran forward, described an arc and hurled it out across the valley.

“But that was an accident, surely?”

“Yes, of course it was. But I’m not sure my mother was my grandmother’s ideal choice of wife for my father. Her background was so different. Her father—my maternal grandfather—was South American, Argentinian.”

“I thought you said she hated snobbery?”

He laughed. “She’s contradictory, if nothing else,” he said, shaking his head. “No, my mother, or perhaps more specifically her father, were not the match my grandmother had in mind. He was an opera singer, or wanted to be. He had no money when he arrived here in this country—sang for pennies, by all accounts. His name was Virdeon Cazabon. Rather a good name for an opera singer, don’t you agree?” he said.

“That’s where you get your dark looks from.”

“Both of my parents were dark. I’ll show you a photograph later, if you’d like.”

She nodded. “Yes, I’d like to see.”

“I was born there, in Argentina . . . Buenos Aires. My mother for some reason decided that I should be born there and not in England.” He paused. “It was shortly after we returned here that my father died.”

“He fell from his horse?”

He stopped. “Yes, and not very far from here, as it happens. He was out hunting . . . it was January, the earth was hard . . . and his horse took a tumble. A rabbit hole, I believe. He was thrown . . . landed on his head . . . died hours later.” He turned to her. “Fate, eh?”

Cecily shook her head. “Fate . . .”

They continued on in silence down the steep path, deep into the valley and taller woods, zigzagging briars, thickets of holly, bracken and ferns. When they reached the dried-up mud of a stream, he said, “This was flowing quite magnificently at Whitsun.” And he kicked at the hard earth with the toe of his shoe. All around them, high above them, the great beeches loomed, cathedral-like, majestic and timeless, effulgent in the sunshine. Magical, Cecily thought.