The Memory of Lost Senses (29 page)

Freddie’s death swept away the last remnants of girlish fantasies, certainly any girlish fantasy of a romantic hero. No one, it seemed to Cora, was going to rescue
her
. Happy-ever-after endings belonged to novels and, perhaps, to those her aunt referred to as “people of quality.” For their journey had not started as hers had, they had not had to flee from anything. Sometimes, in quiet moments, she would unravel the thread of her life and work backward, revisiting that season when she and George had first met. If he had married me, she thought, how different my life would be, how different I would be. And if I had been
someone
 . . . he would have married me.

But there was so much George did not know, had never known. How could he love her? He did not know her. And how could she love a man who had turned his back on her in order to pursue ambition, success?

As Cora’s life continued quietly in Rome, George’s soared noisily in England, and echoed across the Continent. His name appeared more often than ever in the newspaper. It was by then a name everyone knew. And though a few continued to speculate on the nature of his relationship with his patron and constant companion, Mrs. Hillier, most in Rome and back in England assumed the bachelor artist and the married lady—sixteen years his senior—to be dear friends.

It was the year after Freddie’s death, at a ball at the Palazzo Ruspoli, that Cora was introduced to an officer in the French army named Antonin de Chevalier. Dashingly handsome, stationed in Rome, he was younger than Cora by five years. And later that same winter, three years after he had bid adieu to Cora at Lucca, George Lawson returned to Rome—with Amy Hillier.

In the carriage en route to Mrs. Hillier’s soiree, Cora tried to explain to Antonin the nature of the relationship between George and the older married lady. But he laughed and simply said, “Darling, I am not a baby. I know about these things.” Minutes later, after Mrs. Hillier had greeted them both in the lobby, he whispered, “No, I think I am a baby. I do not understand.”

“Not all love is bound by physical attraction, Antonin. I used to think it was, and I used to think it was simply Mrs. Hillier’s patronage that drew him to her, but now I’m not so sure. Yes, George was always ambitious, but their relationship is . . . is more complex than that. She has a hold upon him I’ve never been able to fathom. She’s not beautiful, not in the traditional sense, but perhaps her soul radiates a beauty for him. I think George became bored by physical beauty long ago; there had to be something more enduring than mere physical beauty.”

“Perhaps, but I hear he is, as you English like to say, a
snub
, and she has good connections, no?”

“The word is
snob
, Antonin. But no, I don’t think so. George is not a calculating man. He would not use someone in such a way, and has no need to. He’s a creative soul, an artist.”

“Aha! They are the worst. And Rome is full of them, aristocratic creative English souls, rich and idle and sitting in the Greco putting France, Italy and the whole entire world to rights.”

She moved away from him with obvious irritation.

“Why are you so defensive about the painter and the aged singer?” he asked in a whisper, following her through the room.

She stopped. “I’m not defensive, Antonin. But when you refer to my friend as a snob, I am
slightly
offended. It is no compliment. You’re implying that he assumes some sort of superiority, and I happen to know he’s not like that. People misunderstand him, that’s all.”

“And you, my darling, do you understand him?”

“Yes, I think I do.”

“He is an old love of yours, yes?” he asked, smiling.

“No, he is not an old love in the way that you mean, but he is an old and dear friend of mine.” She looked up at him and smiled in a conciliatory way.

“
Il est bien beau?”
he said after a moment, looking across the room at George.

“He used to be compared to a Greek god—Jupiter Olympus, I think . . .”

That evening, Amy Hillier’s apartment looked as grand and opulent as ever, like the backdrop to a painting or the stage set of an opera. Everything in her home appeared to be an
objet de beauté
; each and every item carefully and thoughtfully placed to afford harmony and symmetry. Paneled walls, painted dark pink and gold, were adorned with the work of her many painter friends. And a portrait by George now hung above the fireplace, though it often took guests a moment or two to realize that the attractive woman in the painting was in fact their hostess.

Finally out of mourning, Cora wore a gown of deepest burgundy silk, made for her by the latest French dressmaker to arrive in Rome. It showed off her figure to perfection and complemented the rubies adorning her throat: a gift from Antonin.

George stood with his back to Cora, talking to other guests, but as she walked toward him, something of her presence must have stirred him, for he turned as she approached. He took her hands in his, stepped back to look at her, and for a moment, neither one of them spoke—or seemed sure how to navigate their conversation. But the moment passed, and it was Cora who charted their territory. It had been a long time since she had attended such a party or been dressed as she was that evening; a long time since she had sipped fine champagne, and a long time since she had stood in front of George, his full attention upon her. She felt exhilarated and bold, and something in her wanted to toy with him and his safely guarded emotions.

“You know, George, I’m so pleased that we’ve caught up with each other at last.”

“As am I.”

She smiled. “It’s been a while.”

“Too long.”

“Yes, too long . . . feels like a lifetime . . .”

“You’ve been through a great deal. And I want you to know that I’m sorry, so sorry that I’ve not been able to visit until now. But I’ve thought of you, often, and I must say you look remarkably well.”

“Older, wiser,” she replied, glancing about the room.

“I’m sure.” He nodded. “He was a good man, Jack. I . . . I,” he stumbled, “I wish I’d had the chance to know him better, and little Freddie, too. I never met him.”

She stared at him. “No, you never met him.”

“I can’t imagine—”

“No, you can’t,” she said quickly. “There’s so much you don’t understand, George. You’re like a child, a cosseted little boy, protected from the truth.”

He looked away and made no reply.

“And there’s something I’ve been pondering for quite some time. It’s a secret, but one I may need to explain to you at some stage,” she continued, turning her head, looking about her and sipping her champagne. And as she ran the tip of her tongue along her unpainted lip, she felt his eyes upon her.

“You’re angry with me, again . . . and as intriguing as ever,” he said. “But tell me this secret.”

“I did not say that I would tell you, George dear,” she said, turning to him. “You see, I wonder
if
and how I should tell you. It might capsize you,” she added, wide-eyed. “God forbid, it might quell your creativity . . .” She gasped. “Or even tarnish your reputation!”

“You’re mocking me, teasing me, Mrs. Staunton.”

“Certainly not, Mr. Lawson,” she replied, already giddy from the mix of champagne and sensation of power. “I know how much you cherish secrets. Didn’t you once say to me that a secretive nature is the most alluring, most intoxicating thing in a woman?”

“Did I really?” he answered, playing nervously with his beard. “Perhaps I did.” He shrugged. “It was a foolish thing to say and I’m not altogether sure what I meant by it. The foundation of friendship, true friendship, should always be honesty. I’d like to think that I’ve been a true friend to you and in turn I hope that you can be candid with me.”

For some minutes they stood in silence. She was aware of George’s eyes upon her, and she was determined not to look at him.

“You’re playing games with me. Why mention your secret if you have no intention of telling me?” he said, moving closer, beginning to enjoy the clandestine nature of their conversation.

“Perhaps because it’s about you.”

“About me?” he repeated. “Well, it could be so many things, and I would be a fool to venture—”

“Then I don’t suppose you shall ever know,” she said, altering tempo and turning to him. “But I want you to know this, when I stood up and spoke those lines from Byron, all those years ago, they were for you, George, only for you . . . it was all for you, everything.”

For a moment he seemed unable to speak. He stared down at the floor, frowning. Then he whispered, “I don’t know what you want from me . . . I don’t understand. I can’t—”

“I want nothing from you, not now, other than your friendship.”

“But of course, you have that, and more, much more.”

At that moment the piano stopped and they looked away from each other to clap for a performance neither one of them had heard.

As Amy advanced toward them, Cora said, “Don’t worry. I would never do anything to compromise or embarrass you,” and she placed her hand upon his arm.

“You two are always to be found in a corner together. So what are the secrets you share? Please, do tell,” Amy asked, standing in front of them.

“No secrets, simply catching up on idle gossip,” Cora replied. “Do please excuse me, I must find Antonin,” she added. And as she walked away she heard Amy say, “Are you quite all right, my dear? You look as though you’re in pain.”

Amy Hillier had watched Cora closely that night. But what had she seen? Amy advocated beauty, like youth, too transient to admire on its own merit. Real beauty, she said, radiated from the soul and found its expression in music, art, literature and poetry; it did not wither or age. Later, many years later, Cora realized that Amy Hillier had seen what she herself could not possibly have seen then: that she, Cora, had altered and matured; that the blandness of youth and inexperience had given way to something else. And that life—pain and heartache—had not taken away but had added. And perhaps Amy Hillier had realized then, that night, that there was only one woman able to wield power over George’s tightly guarded emotions and upset his equilibrium.

“I was cruel . . . I wanted him to suffer . . . I wanted him to feel my pain, my loss. I wanted him to feel regret,” Cora said now. She stared down at the lawn in front of her, parched and dry; thirsty, she thought, like Chazelles. The grass had always been thirsty there, too, would never grow like English grass . . .

No, she had never told him, she thought, returning to that memory. But she supposed he knew, had always supposed he knew. And then, at the end, hadn’t she told him? Hadn’t she raced to him to tell him that
their son
had died, and hadn’t he placed his hands over his head and wept like a baby? “But how could he not have known? I tried to tell him, tried so many times. And they looked so alike . . .”

It was then, at that time, she thought, that she had finally told George about Freddie, too. Freddie, who had died so long ago; Freddie, whom he had never met. Yes, she had told him on his deathbed that he had fathered not one but two sons. But it was not to hurt him, not then. She told him because she wanted him to know that she had loved him enough to raise his sons alone, without him. Because she wanted him to know how much she had loved him. She wanted him to know and understand.

She looked up, saw her younger self running barefoot across French grass chasing a small boy, and he, standing under the shade of trees, watching them, laughing. He had flitted in and out of their lives, Uncle George, famous Uncle George. She had not been his wife, had not been his mistress—not the acknowledged one, at any rate. She had been the mother of his children, kept in the shadows, overseas.

For years Cora had hoped—indeed, longed—for George to return to her, to declare his love to her. But his life, always a complex, compartmentalized world, became even more so. His talent, his fame and, more importantly it seemed, his reputation had trapped him. He inhabited another world, was part of an establishment foreign to Cora in every way, and the respectable public image of the English aristocratic painter, the image on which his commercial success had been built, served only to force his deeply private nature further into hiding. He carefully nurtured his public persona and vehemently guarded his private life. And as a close friend of the Prince of Wales, he lived at the very epicenter of fashionable London society. But there had always been gossip about him. He had once been rumored to be having an affair with a notable duchess and, before that, embroiled with a former mistress of the Prince of Wales. He had moved on, and then on again.

There had still been Mrs. Hillier, of course, and Cora had had no doubt that there were others, younger and prettier, and hidden away from public view. Once, over dinner in Paris, George had confided to her that he was neither inspired by nor attracted to the respectable eligible women of his class. And she had wondered if the rumors were true about the “sitters” with whom he was reputed to have affairs.

But Cora made no demands. How could she? Clifford had been right all those years ago when he told her that George could never be owned; that he was owned only by his art, his vocation. So, instead, she had valued their friendship, and took comfort in
it
and her knowledge of him, the years that they had known each other. And she had her son; she had Georgie.

She raised her head to the sky. Hard to believe it was an English sky. Hard to believe it was the twentieth century. “Nineteen eleven,” she said out loud, and she shook her head. It sounded absurdly futuristic. For she wasn’t yet used to the twentieth century, the sound of it, its dates and strange fashions and new-fangled gadgets, and the year nineteen hundred seemed but a moment ago, or still in the future. But it had come and gone, and then, another decade. And I am here, she thought, in nineteen eleven, in England.

He had always said, “You’re too vibrant and colorful for England, too much of a free spirit, they won’t be able to let themselves trust you . . .” And hadn’t Edward warned her, too, all those years ago, that the dream would end, that it had to? That she would, eventually, leave Rome and return to England?