The Memory of Lost Senses (32 page)

When she said, “I may as well write the blessed thing myself,” she had meant it. But Sylvia had looked crestfallen, quite tearful, and so she had apologized, again. Then she said, “I must take a walk. I need to think about things.”

“My dear, you need to settle yourself.”

“No . . . no. I have to sort . . . my head, my heart.”

Sylvia rose to her feet, laid the back of her hand across Cora’s brow. “Oh, but you feel feverish again, dear. Perhaps I should send for Dr. Parsons.”

“I do not need a doctor.”

“Then stay where you are and allow me to read to you.”

“He’s here, Sylvia. He’s with us.”

“Who is here, dear? Who do you think is here?”

“He is. I’ve seen him, more than once, here in the garden, and in the house. He wishes to speak to me, I think, he wishes to tell me.”

“Tell you?”

“Yes. There must be a reason why he’s come to me, here, now. You see, I think he knows . . . knows what is happening.” She looked at Sylvia. “Oh, I know, I know what you’re thinking, you’re thinking I’m going mad with the heat, that I’m suffering delusions. But I’m not. I saw him as clearly as I see you now. He’s here, Sylvia, he’s waiting for me,” she added, and smiled. “He still loves me.”

“Well, of course. Of course he’s here with you, and of course he still loves you. He always did, always.”

Sylvia had seen Cora mouthing words to herself in the garden days before. She had followed her outside and, from behind the pergola, had watched her as she sat muttering and mumbling—presumably to George. She saw and made out enough to know that Cora believed she was speaking directly to him. It was beyond sad. For there was no one there—how could there be? He had been gone two decades. And yet, watching her, straining to hear her, Sylvia found herself turning time and again toward the sundial, looking for him, almost longing to see him.

Many of Cora’s words had been silent, others mere sounds, melting into the air. But Sylvia distinctly heard her say George’s name, and mention “our grandson.” A few minutes after that, when Cora had yelled out, “No,” and appeared to look toward the pergola, Sylvia had swiftly moved off up a pathway through the woodland, toward the driveway back to the house.

It was late in the evening when the storm arrived, rattling windows and doors and glass panes, whistling down every chimney. It had been anticipated for days, but came with a force so great that rather than quell any delusions it took them a stage further.

Cora had been at sea. Somewhere between Southampton and Le Havre, or Marseilles and Civitavecchia. She had woken to pitch-blackness, a small cabin rocking, the great roar of a swell outside. She felt hot and sick, feverish once again. She had clung to her bed, wondering what year it was, to which port she was headed, and whether or not she was married, and to whom. Everything was muddled, tossed about by the roll and sway and hidden in the darkness. And thus she drifted in and out of slumber, and in and out of that first journey to Rome, glancing through carriage windows and tiny portholes, across a sea vast and deep and dark. Sailing away from England, away from them . . . and away from
him
, the man she had called “Uncle John.”

When she heard the footsteps, felt someone climb upon the bed, arms reach around her, she could not be sure if it was not part of another dream. But when she heard herself speak, say his name, it seemed to her to be real . . .

“George?”

“I’m here.”

“I’m frightened.”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of, my love.”

“But we might drown . . .”

“No, we shan’t drown.”

“Don’t leave me.”

“I shan’t leave you.”

“I don’t know what to do. What shall I do?”

He did not reply. And so she asked him again, without words, in silence:
what shall I do?

You must do nothing.

You knew, didn’t you?

Yes, I knew.

But how did you know? Who told you?

Someone. Someone told me . . .

I wasn’t allowed to say anything, wasn’t allowed to speak about any of it. Fanny said I must never speak about it, no one could ever know.

Hush now, you must sleep, must rest.

Then she felt his hand upon her hair, heard herself breathing, in and out, in and out.

Chapter Seventeen

If it happened again she would kill him. She had heard her say it. And if she didn’t kill him, then someone else would have to. Someone else would have to do it. If only her mother would come back and take her away from this place. Come back and gather them all up.

Summer wilted. Frogs and minnows shriveled and dried and died in the sun-baked mud of ditches and ponds and streams. Lawns long yellow turned brown, and birds stopped singing. No sigh of nature could be heard, no breath of wind moved the trees and no petal stirred. But the out-of-towners and motor enthusiasts continued to flee to the country, honking horns on silent lanes, searching for a picture-postcard church, an open tea shop, and cooler air.

At Temple Hill, Cora waited for Cecily.

When she heard Sylvia mutter, “That girl can’t seem to stay away,” she said, “Jack invited her, and
I
happen to like her calling in.”

Sylvia said, “Are you aware she’s planning to write a book about you?”

Cora laughed. “Well, it’s not the first, is it?”

“So long as you know what she’s up to. It’s none of my business, of course, my only concern is protecting you.”

“I hardly think I need protecting from Cecily.”

Sylvia’s antipathy toward Cecily Chadwick was, Cora thought, like some queer jealousy. Every time her name cropped up, Sylvia’s back straightened, face crumpled. She was suspicious of Cecily, Cora understood that, but it was surely unfounded. The previous day Sylvia had gone so far as to say she thought Cecily might be a gold digger. She told Cora that she had seen Cecily more than once examining her possessions, looking beneath bits of china, scrutinizing artwork for a signature, “just as though she were placing a monetary value on them.”

But Sylvia had always suffered from jealousy. Not of Cora, but of anyone close to Cora. She had been jealous of George from the start. Had wasted no time in telling Cora of rumors, many of which Cora later discovered to have been incubated and hatched by Sylvia herself. And she had been the first, the very first to explain George’s relationship with Mrs. Hillier, and then later, for years, agree with Cora that he would never in a month of Sundays give up the older woman, that it was hopeless, that he simply did not love Cora
enough
.

“They visited the Academy yesterday,” Sylvia said. “Have you told Jack? Does he know?”

She stared at Sylvia. “Know what?”

“Well . . . that you are there, dear.”

Cora flinched, shook her head. “No. And I don’t intend to.”

John Clifford’s sculpture
Tinted Venus
was now at the Academy. She was there, on display and naked for all to see. It was easy enough to pass off the painting in the hallway; “It was a gift,” she liked to say, “from a dear old friend.” It had been Mr. Fox who had used the word “erotic.” She had been shocked by his choice of adjective and had laughed at the time, saying, “Gracious, I shall have to have it burned, else the people of Bramley will burn me!” He had laughed, but hadn’t he given her a queer look?

Sometime later Jack had asked, “It’s not you, is it, in that painting in the hallway? It’s just that it rather looks like you, or how I imagine you once looked.”

She had laughed again. “I
am
flattered! I have no idea who the sitter was but I can assure you that it was not me, my dear.”

And Sylvia, too, did not know. Oh, she knew about Clifford’s
Venus
, and about George’s
Madonna
, but she did not know what had happened at Lucca. Though she liked to think she did. She did not know that George had painted her there, and years later presented her with the painting. Cora had given Sylvia a synopsis, an edited synopsis of those weeks at Lucca, and she, Sylvia, had added to it, as she always did. And yet it amused Cora. For so many clues were there, hanging in the hallway of her home. But even Edward had failed to realize that it was in fact herself as Aphrodite.

It had been some years after her marriage to Edward, during that first summer’s visit to England, when George arrived by cab carrying a large canvas covered in brown paper. It was, he insisted, a gift, and he looked at Cora as he said, “Consider it my belated wedding present to you both. I should have given it to you when you were married but I could not bring myself to part with it.” And she had been embarrassed, as much by his attachment to the canvas as by the image upon it.

Edward had later commented to her that it was not, in his opinion, “entirely suitable” as a wedding gift. But had he not realized then that it was she? For he had stared at it for some time, perplexed, before having it removed to the attic of his home.

Now she wished she were able to tell Cecily about the painting, the story that went with it, the child conceived during its execution. Cecily, she thought, understood art and would not be shocked. But no, it was too complicated, would mean explaining so much, which would only lead on to more. “And then she would judge me . . . she would not understand,” she concluded.

And yet Cora could not help but smile whenever she thought of Cecily, because she inevitably thought of her grandson as well. She had watched them together, seen Jack’s fumbling attempts to be indifferent, seen that look in his eyes, even when he glanced at Cecily for a second or two. And it had catapulted her back. So familiar was his look, his aura. Oh yes, he was smitten, in love. But they were both so young, and he was ambitious, had already told her that he had no wish to settle down until he was at least thirty. And Cecily? Cecily had informed her that she wanted to travel, see the world, and not be encumbered by family, and expectations and obligations. She was a modern woman in a modern world. It was all so very different now.

Sylvia was saying, “I wonder what they’d make of it if they knew about you being there, in the Academy.”

“I’d rather not think about it, if you don’t mind.”

There were no two ways about it: Sylvia would have to go, and soon. She was becoming a liability and knew far too much, Cora decided. She had not properly considered, had not properly thought through the implications of having Sylvia there, with Jack.

“John Clifford,” Sylvia said, wistfully. “He was such a kind, dear little man.”

“Yes, he was,” Cora replied. She could still picture the elderly sculptor, standing in his dusty smock, surrounded by his tinted marble goddesses and nymphs. And hadn’t he been the one to first warn her? Hadn’t he been the one to tell her that “dear George” was not the marrying sort; that he was married to his art, his vocation? But she had dismissed Clifford’s words, had continued her fantasy, for so many years—a lifetime.

When Sylvia announced that she was going out for a walk, Cora said, “But you’ll miss Cecily.”

“She has no wish to see me . . . and I’m quite sure you’d prefer me not to be here,” she added—newly cryptic, Cora thought.