The Memory of Lost Senses

by Judith Kinghorn

  Cora’s aunt had, initially, been concerned at the amount of time Cora spent in the company of artists. She had been agitated about the morality of a mal entourée whose sole occupation seemed to be the pursuit of pleasure. But Clifford had reassured her, told her not to worry, that he would keep an eye on young Cora.

  In his self-deprecating way Clifford liked to allude to a vague and unrequited love in his life but it was commonly accepted that he had no great desire for requited love; he appeared ambivalent in matters of the heart, indifferent to the opposite sex. But for Cora, his position as unattached observer gave him an advantage others could not possibly have.

  “My dear, George is not the man for you,” he said. “He is simply not a man for marrying, or for belonging to anyone. He is married to his art.”

  “And what of Mrs. Hillier?” she asked.

  “Mrs. Hillier? Mrs. Hillier is a married woman, and almost old enough to be his mother.”

  “But George spends so much of his time with her.”

  Even then, she was aware that she sounded like a lovestruck jealous child, but she did not care. Clifford was a dear and trusted friend, and she knew he would not repeat their conversation. She also knew that what he so enjoyed was the knowledge that he was trusted with such tender secrets.

  “Yes, but she is his advocate and patron now. Thanks to Mrs. Hillier, dear George has made some fine connections, and will have some worthwhile commissions, of that I’m sure.” He looked from Cora to his easel. “He knows it’s perfectly safe to spend time with her. She is married, unavailable, but more importantly, perhaps, he knows there is no danger of falling in love with her.”

  Cora stepped down from the upturned crate and, wrapping a sheet around her body, moved toward Clifford, looking over his shoulder at the sketches for his Tinted Venus.

  He went on. “Mrs. Hillier’s a delightful lady, a sophisticate, and undoubtedly accomplished, but the relationship she and George share is platonic, I’m quite certain of that. They share passions but not for each other, and their . . . their friendship is mutually advantageous. George needs Mrs. Hillier to be his champion, and she needs him for . . . reflected glory. She has the contacts and the influence, not only in London but here in Rome and in Paris, too. Think about it. George is a very clever fellow. By Jupiter, he is!”

  “But you’re inplying that George is using Mrs. Hillier to promote himself, to further his career.”

  “He’s ambitious, Cora, very ambitious, and determined to prove himself, particularly to his father. And that means being successful and selling pictures! Dear George, perhaps more than any of us, feels a need—nay, a pressure—to be accepted and successful, to make money. And, sadly for you, my dear, his compass directs him to Mrs. Hillier.”

  George had already spoken to her about his father, and at some length. Mr. Lawson Senior had wanted George to follow in his footsteps and study architecture. He had told his son that only a very tiny proportion of painters, only the most God-given talented ones, ever made any money at it. “All he cares about or seems to care about, is that I have a profession, a noble profession—oh, and that I marry well,” George told her.

  “Marry well?”

  “Yes, marry someone of standing, someone known, someone he approves of.” He glanced at Cora and added, “But if I really cared what he thought, would I be here in Rome, would I be painting?”

  “He does not care what his father thinks,” Cora said to Clifford. “I know, he’s told me.”

  Clifford smiled at her. “But what he says and what he does may differ. Particularly where you’re concerned.”

  Despite her misgivings, despite Clifford’s words—was it a warning?—Cora held on to her fantasy. John Clifford was an old man and love had passed him by. She and George shared something—something different, something private, something no one else would understand. They were going to travel together, live like gypsies, and while he produced art, she would produce his sons and daughters. They might never be rich, but they would have enough, he said, and that enough was more than enough for Cora.

  Cora winced. She did not wish to recall that time, nor what came immediately after. She preferred to remember those last few months together. How perfect it had been, despite the ticking of the clock. “How it could have been, how it should have been.”

  He had said, “Tell me you love me, and kiss me . . . kiss me goodbye.”

  Yes, that was what he said.

  “I love you but I shall never ever say goodbye to you, George.”

  “Not even after I am gone?”

  “No, not even then . . . not ever.”

  She had held on to his hand, listening to his breathing, watching his eyes flicker and close, and open and close.

  “I shall bring you violets,” she had said, “every day. I shall sit with you, talk to you . . . tell you all the things I never told you. And then, at the end, I’ll be there. I shall be there with you for all eternity.”

  “For all eternity,” she heard him say now, and repeated it with him.

  But in the distance she could hear another voice, and through a pathway in the rhododendrons she spotted Sylvia on the driveway, talking—it seemed—to herself. She smiled. Always busy on a new plot, she thought. She called out and Sylvia stopped, and then looked about her with an expression of panic. She appeared rather flushed, quite wrung out, Cora thought. But when Sylvia finally located Cora, her expression altered, and she smiled as though in relief and waved back. She then made her way through the bushes, lowering her head as she passed under a tangled archway. And as she stepped down onto the grass, Cora thought she heard her mutter something about a ditch.

  “There is no ditch, dear, not there.”

  In her room, Cecily was still seething.

  She lay upon her bed staring up at the sloping ceiling, unable to stop the sequence of images of them, together, larking about in boats, motoring down wide city streets, posing for the camera. Like picture postcards, they laughed and smiled back at her from each one, with Sonia in the foreground, smiling broadly and calling out to her, “Hell-o-o, Cecily, look who I am with!”

  Oh God, the agony! How could he? How could he have been with her?

  It had been at the Sale of Work in the village hall that Sonia had told her about London. She had only just returned, she said, had been there for a few days, helping her mother select furnishings for their new Knightsbridge apartment.

  “And so we came back on the train with him,” she said, glancing at Cecily. “Well, we bumped into him traveling up there, you see, so I saw quite a bit of him, and his friend Noel . . . so charming. And the coincidence is, Noel’s parents keep an apartment in the same building as mine! Can you imagine? I’m sure you’ll meet him at some stage. I rather think he said he might drive down here sometime. He has his own motorcar . . . Oh, it was a hoot! We motored all over London, up the Mall, through Trafalgar Square, with Noel and Jack pretending we were tourists and calling out to people in French . . .”

  She went on and on. Then she said, “And yesterday evening, Millie Compton—my oldest, bestest friend from school—Noel, Jack and I took a boat out on the Serpentine. Oh, it was heavenly! We had a picnic, and naughty Noel brought along two bottles of champagne! Can you imagine? I was almost blotto!”

  “Real champagne?” Annie asked, and Cecily could have kicked her.

  “Oh my dear, the best, the very best real champagne. And rather potent stuff too, I can tell you.” She threw her head back and affected a laugh. Then she leaned over the table in front of them and whispered, “Poor Jack was quite fuddled by the end of the evening, he had something of a sore head this morning.” And then she did another of her silent laughs.

  Cecily had picked up her basket, turned to Annie and said she hadn’t realized the time, and before either girl could speak, she marched off out of the hall.

  She could barely remem
ber the walk home, so angry had she been. Then Sylvia Dorland had appeared out of nowhere, wittering on about the sale and some silly bookmark she had bought for Cora. At first, she had not listened to a word Sylvia said. She had been picturing the London foursome, lounging on rugs and sipping champagne, and Sonia tossing her head about in that way she did. She had been wondering who was paired with whom: Jack and Sonia, or Jack and Miss Millie Compton? Wondering if Jack Staunton had wrapped his fuddled arms around Sonia, for she had freely admitted that she had been blotto.

  But then Sylvia said something about Cora being muddled, and had given her such a queer look; and she realized almost immediately Sylvia’s concern. So she had quietly reassured Sylvia, and given her word. Now she wondered if Sylvia had actually come looking for her on Cora’s instruction. For it seemed odd to her that Sylvia would say such things about her friend, almost disloyal. More likely, she mused, that Cora regretted their conversation of earlier that week, and had asked Sylvia, devoted as she undoubtedly was, to ensure that she, Cecily, kept to her promise. But what about the people at Meadow Farm? Was she still to pursue her line of inquiry and find out who they were and where they hailed from? Why on earth did she want to know about them anyway?

  “What does it matter?” she said out loud. “We’re simply the poor neighbors, briefly dazzled—like everyone else.”

  She sat up on her bed. She would not let Jack Staunton know. No, she must not give away so much as an inkling that she knew or cared about his sojourn in London. It would be so obvious, so cheap. And jealousy was a low emotion, possibly the lowest, along with envy and greed. And pride? Hmm. She was not sure about pride. But now was not the time to ponder upon pride, she decided. The facts of the matter were simple enough: if Sonia Brownlow was his cup of tea, she had misjudged him, overestimated him.

  No, she would not give away anything to anyone from now on.

  She rose to her feet feeling resolute and strong. Tonight was definitely the night to wear the turquoise silk chiffon.

  Chapter Ten

  Cecily stood with her mother and Sylvia in Cora’s drawing room.

  “Oh yes, a remarkable life,” Sylvia was saying, addressing Madeline Chadwick but with her gaze fixed on Cecily, “and we’ve known each other almost our entire lives.”

  She had been explaining to Madeline that she was to write the final part of the countess’s memoirs, and, in case Madeline was in any doubt, that this was indeed a great honor.

  Minutes earlier, the maid had led Cecily and her mother through the hallway, past the painting, which Cecily saw Madeline raise her eyebrows at, telling them that the countess would be “down shortly.” She had shown them into the room, moved to a table and, without asking, poured each of them a small glass of sherry from a decanter. Madeline, who rarely drank alcohol, took the glass and said thank you. Cecily could tell that her mother was nervous, apprehensive. For Madeline glanced about the room like a hungry animal, keen to take it all in before the countess or anyone else appeared, and sipping perhaps too frequently from her glass. Cecily had watched her mother’s eyes move from the polished curves of one sculpture to another, and across the walls from one naked breast to another.

  “And these are the countess’s sons,” Cecily said, pointing out the cameos to her mother. “And that is the Comte de Chevalier de Saint Léger,” she added, gesturing to a portrait. “And that one is Cora when she was young.”

  “Cora?” Madeline blinked, taking another sip.

  “Oh yes, she asked me to call her by her given name.”

  Sylvia appeared, wearing the same dark gray dress they had seen her in earlier, and just as though she had heard Cecily’s last words, she requested that they dispense with formalities, abandon the Miss Dorland, and simply address her as Sylvia.

  Looking at Cecily, who had pinned up her hair and wore a gown of pale turquoise silk chiffon, Sylvia went on, “We have no secrets, of course, dearest Cora and I. When two people have known each other as long as we have, well . . .” She shrugged.

  Seconds later, Jack entered the room. He wore a tuxedo, with a wing-collared shirt and white bow tie, and was more dashing than any man Cecily could recall ever having seen. Still busy fastening a cuff link at his wrist, he smiled at Cecily. “Good evening, ladies,” he said, moving into the room. His hair was damp and slicked back, and his face more tanned than it had been earlier that week when Cecily had last seen him, when they had loitered at the garden gate in silence, exchanging smiles.

  Cecily introduced her mother. He shook her hand, said he was honored to meet her, and Madeline flushed. “Please, do sit down,” he said.

  “I’m sure Sylvia’s already explained, my grandmother sometimes takes quite a while to dress for dinner. It’s a ritual, a lifelong ritual,” he said, looking from Cecily to her mother and then back to Cecily. Madeline drained her glass, and he sprang to his feet, took the glass and refilled it.

  “I heard you weren’t feeling awfully well earlier,” Cecily said, looking toward a sculpture upon a plinth in an alcove.

  He frowned, shook his head. “No, I’m feeling tip-top, actually.”

  She turned to him. “Not too much champagne then?”

  “Cecily!” Madeline gasped.

  “Sonia seems to think you were quite fuddled by it.”

  “Cecily!”

  “You and naughty Noel and silly Millie . . .”

  “Really, dear, whatever’s come over you?”

  “I’m just ragging Jack, Mother. Aren’t I, Jack?”

  He smiled. “It would seem so.”

  Cecily turned to her mother: “Jack and a few others, including dear Sonia, were partying up in London yesterday. I saw Sonia earlier and she was telling me all about it,” she added, forcing a smile and glancing at Jack. Then she put down her glass and stood up. “Do please excuse me a moment.”

  She walked out into the hallway, her head spinning, angry with herself, and then continued on down the passage to the veranda. The sherry made her feel hotter than ever and she stood in the open doorway fanning herself with her hand. Nothing ever went as she planned; she had certainly not planned that. The plan had simply been to look as lovely as possible whilst appearing as indifferent as possible. “Stupid, stupid girl,” she whispered. She moved out onto the veranda and glanced about in the vain hope that Cora might have been there earlier and left her packet of Best Venetians lying out. Then, like a miracle from above, she saw a plume of smoke rise up from behind a hedge.

  “Yoo-hoo! Hello, excuse me,” she said, moving across the terrace.

  A man’s head appeared.

  “You’re Mr. Cordery, aren’t you?”

  “That I am, miss.”

  “You don’t happen to have a spare cigarette, do you?”

  “Yer not really a smoker, are you?” he said, holding the match to her, watching her.

  “No, I’m a beginner,” she said flatly, finally getting the thing alight.

  She walked back to the veranda and stood on the steps, picking bits of tobacco from her lips. The cigarette made her head spin more, made her feel more out of control.

  “Bloody stupid!”

  “What’s that?”

  It was Jack.

  “I hadn’t realized you smoked,” he said, moving alongside her.

  “I don’t.”

  “I see.”

  She caught his smile.

  “It’s gone out,” he said. “Would you like me to fetch you another?”

  “No. No, thank you,” she replied, tossing the thing into a nearby shrub. And as she turned to him, she saw him quickly look away. “Is it funny?” she asked.

  “Are you angry about something?”

  “You don’t answer a question with a question, Jack. Anyhow, we’d better go back inside, we’ve left my mother on her own with Sylvia.”

  “My grandmother’s with them, and th
ey’ll be fine. Probably best for them to have a moment without us.”

  She looked away, across the terrace, across the tops of the trees.

  He said, “You’re looking very nice tonight.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But you seem different . . . different to how you were on Tuesday.”

  “Hmm, well, a lot can happen in four days.”

  She felt his hand on her arm, her bare arm, his skin touching hers. “What’s happened? Tell me?”

  She pulled her arm away, moved along the step.

  “It’s not . . . it’s not about me and Sonia . . . or silly Noel or whatever it was you were referring to just now, is it?”

  There was nothing for it; she had crossed a point, a point of no return, and she would have to ask. She turned to face him, took a deep breath . . .

  “Please, tell me what it is?” he said, now frowning, looking into her eyes.

  Oh dear, it was tempting, so tempting. He was tempting. And right at that moment she wished she could tell him everything—all of it, everything about her—from beginning to end; for him to know and understand her . . .

  “And this is the veranda . . . ah, hello, children.”

  It was Cora, leading Madeline, obviously giving her a guided tour of the place.

  Cecily exhaled, loudly; and Jack swiftly stepped down from the step, onto the terrace.

  “Dear Cecily!” said Cora, reaching out to her, taking hold of her hands, and then kissing her upon each cheek. “And my word, what a vision!” she gasped, stepping back. She turned to Cecily’s mother. “Madeline, you must be very proud to have a daughter like Cecily . . .”

  Madeline, Cecily thought: that hadn’t taken long. No one called her mother by her first name. How had that happened so fast? She glanced toward her mother, who looked a little pink in the face and was shrugging her shoulders like a bashful schoolgirl. And then she turned to Jack, who smiled back at her knowingly.