The Memory of Lost Senses (19 page)

“And behind every doorway, no matter how humble, were masterpieces, friezes depicting ancient stories, magnificent frescoes, statues, intricate mosaics and richly marbled floors. Every window and balcony overlooked the antiquities, like one’s own museum, one’s very own art gallery. It felt to me like the center of the world. And of course it had been, once. Everywhere one looked were relics, history and art, stupendous art. How could one fail to be inspired in such a place? All of it shaped me, who I am, and like those I have loved, it remains here,” she said, placing her palm flat upon her chest. “It lives within me . . . that place.”

And how could it not? Cecily thought. To have spent one’s formative years in such a place was indeed an extraordinary privilege.

The countess gazed out of the window. “I would like to go back there,” she said, “just once more.” And she began to describe a vista in such extraordinary detail that Cecily too could see it: a view across jumbled terra-cotta rooftops, across a sea of steeples and domes, across scattered ruins and pillars to crumbling walls, and beyond those walls to wide empty pastures and distant hills.

This was what had awakened the countess to beauty, Cecily thought, what fed her senses and continued to nourish her soul.

“And your first husband, Jack . . . he died there?” Cecily ventured at last.

“Yes, that is where he rests, where they all rest.”

“But not George?”

She flinched. “George? Why, George is in Rome . . .”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I was sure Jack said his father had fallen from his horse somewhere near here.”

“Ah yes,” the countess said, closing her eyes, nodding. “Forgive me. I sometimes get a little confused with names. You are correct. Georgie,” she said, with emphasis on the “ie” sound, “did fall from his horse, and not far from this place. He was so dashingly handsome,” she said, smiling, remembering, “invincible to his fellow officers and to everyone else . . . and much too brave to suffer the ignominy of an accidental death. He always thought he’d die a heroic death on the battlefield—if any at all. And he made me think that too. But”—she paused, shook her head—“he was mortal. Mortal like his father.”

“So sad.”

“Yes, it was a difficult, painful time, for me—for all of us. He left a young wife, Cassandra, and of course little Jack, only weeks old. I was in Rome . . . I returned here, of course. As soon as I received the telegram I left Rome and returned here as fast as I could. But I was too late.” She lowered her head. “We buried him in the snow . . .” she said quietly, “we buried him in the snow as his father passed away.”

“His father?”

She looked up at Cecily. “Godfather,” she said. And then she glanced once more across the room, toward the bronze head in the alcove. “They stay with us, of course. Departure from this life, death of the physical body, is not an end. We merely cast off the trappings of this realm for another. The soul is immortal. I know this now.”

Cecily nodded.

“And yet, ’tis the queerest thing,” she began again, quietly, “to find myself here, at this age, in this place. Peculiar to find oneself anywhere, to still be here, when those one has known are all gone.” She turned to Cecily. “But of course I have Jack to think of,” she said, in a louder, firmer voice, and picked up her glass. “He is the future and all that matters to me now. And he’s a darling, darling boy, so very like his grandfather in looks and thought and deed. And that is my comfort. It’s what we leave behind us that defines who we have been, not our birth date, or death date, nor whom we married or where we were born. Those are the facts, of course, the details, but they’re minor details, they mean nothing on their own, tell nothing of the story of a person’s life. What made one’s heart quicken, what one saw, how one felt; the decisions made, the regrets: all of this is lost, forgotten. And when one reaches my age, ’tis hard to recall one’s early life and first impressions.”

Without thinking, Cecily said, “And what
are
your earliest memories?”

The countess tilted her head to one side. “My earliest memories . . .” she said, turning away with eyes half-closed, “my earliest memories are of a place called Standen Hall, a place in Suffolk. It is where I lived before I went to Paris, before my mother”—she paused—“before my mother departed.”

“What was it like?” Cecily asked, leaning forward in her chair.

“It lies a few miles to the west of Woodbridge, off the old London road. And you know, I can picture it now, the view from a carriage window. One passed through an immense gated entrance with a towered gatehouse to the right and headed down a long, long winding driveway, through breathtaking woodland and gardens, and then the vast red-brick Tudor sprawl came into view—the tallest chimneys you ever saw. There was an enormous front door, easily as large as any of the grand doorways in Rome, which opened directly into the oak-paneled medieval great hall. I recall suits of armor, stag’s heads mounted high up upon the walls, and a vast wooden staircase rising up to galleried landings lined with portraits. It was truly a splendid place.”

Cecily smiled. “Home.”

The countess nodded and smiled.

“And you never went back?”

“No. Never. Once my parents were gone . . . well, there was nothing left for me there, no one left. And my life had moved on. I was in Paris, and then Rome, and then married with children. It was impossible to go back, and there was no reason to go back. Life moves on and we must move with it,” she added, smiling, weary.

“Sad. Sad for you, ma’am, to have had to leave everything behind.”

“Please, no more ‘ma’am.’ Cora. My name is Cora.”

Later, as Cecily strolled back down the track, she felt quite different to the person who had marched up the hill only hours earlier. The fortified wine had undoubtedly mellowed her senses, but it was more than this: there was something new and altered in everything around her, and within her. As though the world—and herself with it—had passed through a spectrum. She knew that nothing would ever be the same; nothing could ever be or seem as it had earlier that day, or before that day. And though the ground felt softer, like a cushion beneath her feet, and the sun, now exposed and still high in the sky, spilled out upon that dark umber carpet in soft slanting rays, something inexplicably sad had attached itself to her, and she felt its burden.

The atmosphere within the room she had just left had been peculiarly insulated, and not just from the heat and light of the day, but from everything, almost from time itself. Three whole hours had passed by in a flash, and in those three hours she had had a glimpse of a life, a different life. A door had opened—an inch, no more—and she had been allowed to step forward and look through it—for a moment, no more. But in that moment, in that glimpse, how much she had seen. Time had slipped away, and she and the countess had been equals, had spoken as friends.

And before Cecily left they had made a pact.

“I’m a very private person, Cecily. I would prefer you to keep these things we’ve discussed to yourself. I’d like to think I could trust you.”

“Of course, I wouldn’t dream of betraying your trust, Cora.”

“I knew . . . knew we were going to be good friends, you and I. And there’s something else, something I’d like you to do for me, Cecily, a small favor.”

Cecily nodded.

“You must mention this to no one, no one at all,” she said, “not even to Jack. In fact, most especially not to Jack. It’s to do with the man at Meadow Farm,” she began.

Chapter Nine

It was late Saturday morning. The village was busier than usual, and noisy. And temperatures were running high. The horse-drawn van of the baker, the butcher’s bang-tailed cob and the omnibus to Linford—already running ten minutes late—were locked in dispute and remained stationary, surrounded by bleating sheep being moved from one parched field to another by way of the main street. As the bus driver—coerced, Sylvia presumed, by his hot and impatient passengers—honked on his horn and shouted, she and others had spilled out from the post office to watch tempers fly.

Sylvia had already been to the Sale of Work at the village hall, but when she spotted Cecily emerge from the festooned doorway of the hall into the maelstrom she had waved her hand. But Cecily appeared to see nothing, least of all Sylvia. She marched off at some speed, weaving her way through the livestock, which was running this way and that and up the wrong lane. As Cecily disappeared, Sylvia too had moved on, through the stupid animals, holding her bag aloft. Once clear, on the decline to the ford and with Cecily in sight once more, Sylvia quickened her pace. She called out, twice, and both times Cecily stopped, just as though she had heard her name. But she failed to turn and simply marched on. And when, eventually, Sylvia caught up with her, Cecily had been unusually abrupt.

“Oh, hello, Miss Dorland,” she said flatly, and sounding quite put out, Sylvia thought.

They had stood for a while in one spot, while Sylvia caught her breath.

“I hear . . . I hear you’re to dine with us . . . later,” Sylvia said, fanning her face with her hand.

“We’re supposed to be, yes,” Cecily replied, in the same cold voice.

She had not reckoned on Cecily Chadwick being a moody sort, not at all. Something must have happened, Sylvia thought, for her to be so . . . so rude.

“Is anything the matter, dear? You seem a little out of sorts, if I may say.”

Cecily shook her head. “It’s nothing,” she said, without meeting Sylvia’s eyes.

As they began to walk, Sylvia told her that she, too, had been to the sale earlier, and they stopped again as Sylvia produced the woven bookmark and bag of potpourri she had bought for her friend.

“Oh yes, I’m sure Cora will like them,” Cecily said, barely looking at the things.

At first, Sylvia thought she had imagined Cecily saying the name.

“Cora?” she repeated.

“Mm. I’m sure she’ll like them.”

Cecily moved on, but Sylvia remained fixed, the bookmark and muslin bag in her outstretched hands, and a strange giddy feeling, which tilted the pathway ahead. For a moment she thought she might faint. And when Cecily turned, looking back down the hill at her with a queer smile, she appeared to Sylvia rather smug, even triumphant.

She put away her gifts and continued up the hill toward Cecily. “So, you’ve been up to the house . . . been to call on her?” she asked.

But Cecily appeared not to hear her. She stared straight ahead, a look of concentration furrowing her brow. And so Sylvia rephrased the question: “I take it you’ve seen the countess recently?”

“Oh yes,” Cecily said, and then added—a little defensively, Sylvia thought—“
You
were in London.”

“Ah, when Mr. Fox was also there?”

“No. There was only me,” Cecily replied.

But Cora had made no mention to Sylvia of Cecily’s visit. She had mentioned only that the rector had called on her. And Sylvia had become increasingly suspicious of that man. To Sylvia’s mind, he seemed uncommonly interested in Cora’s life. She was worried that her friend, troubled as she was and, perhaps, in need of succor, might feel inclined to unburden herself to him. He had taken to calling at the house almost daily, and had arrived, quite out of the blue, earlier that very morning, before Sylvia set off for the village. It was most irregular. People did not make calls in the morning, and Cora usually refused any callers at all before 3 p.m. But then, when Cora informed her that she wished to speak to the rector alone, in private, Sylvia suspected that they had had a prearranged appointment, that Cora had in fact been expecting him. Sylvia loitered in the hallway, tidying papers and adjusting an arrangement of flowers, but not a sound had permeated the closed door.

Now she heard Cecily say, “I spent quite a while with her. She told me about her boys . . . Jack’s father, George, or Georgie as I think she calls him. And also about her childhood, where she grew up.”

“Her childhood, where she grew up?” Sylvia repeated.

“Don’t worry,” Cecily said, turning to her, “I promised I’d not breathe a word to anyone, and I shan’t.”