The Memory of Lost Senses

by Judith Kinghorn

  Cora’s head throbbed. The heat was stifling. A storm was forecast. Sylvia had read it out to her. And the whalebone, holding her in, holding everything in, made it almost impossible for her to breathe. Sylvia meant well, she knew that, but her constant fussing and need to please had become irksome, and almost as intolerable as the heat. She felt no sense of peace, or space, and that feeling of claustrophobia only added to her discomfiture. And the questions: always asking, wanting to know something about something—a date, person, place, who was who, who had said what to whom. She hadn’t meant to snap, and had no wish to be discourteous or unkind, but really, surely Sylvia could see it was too much. And after all, it was her wretched story.

  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.

  When Cecily arrived she brought apples and raspberries, and some eggs. And, for a while, Jack loitered about in the doorway, looking nonchalant, or trying to, and saying things like, “I’m just popping out to the courtyard,” or, “I need to have a quick word with Mr. Cordery . . .” and then disappeared for five minutes and came back, twitchy, nervous, hands in pockets. But Cora was keen to catch up with Cecily alone. And so, eventually, she asked Jack if he’d be so kind as to run an errand for her, delivering a remittance to the shop in the village.

  Cora did not particularly wish to hear about the Academy. It had once been George’s domain, the world he had presided over without her. But she had to ask. It would have been impolite not to.

  “And so, what did you see at the Academy, dear?”

  “Golly, we saw so much, I hardly know where to begin.”

  And then she did, she began a roll call of familiar names and old friends, and Cora stared at her, impassive, occasionally raising an eyebrow in recognition or nodding.

  “Oh, and we saw quite a few of Lord Lawson’s paintings as well.”

  Cora smiled. And as Cecily reeled off famous titles, each one—still vivid—flashed through Cora’s mind’s eye. “And Sylvia happened to mention that you were once his sitter,” Cecily added.

  Cora closed her eyes. “Dear Sylvia, she does get a little confused about certain things, and this is one of them!” she said and tried to laugh.

  “But you knew him?”

  Cora glanced away. “Yes, yes, I knew him. I met him in Rome, when I was very young—when we were all very young.”

  “He was President of the Academy,” Cecily said, as though Cora needed to be reminded.

  “That is correct, he was. And a supremely gifted and talented painter.”

  Happily, the conversation moved on.

  “. . . and then we took an omnibus and sat up on the top, and went the whole way round Hyde Park, and Jack pointed out where he lived with his mother . . . You never lived in London?” she asked.

  Cora shook her head. “No, though I know it well, and have stayed there often enough.”

  “I’d like to live in London one day, I’d like to experience life in a city.”

  “Paris is the best city to experience life when one is young.”

  “Do you ever wish you were still there?”

  “Oh, sometimes, but only if I could be young again also,” Cora said, smiling.

  “Hmm. I can imagine you there, in Paris. It suits you more than Bramley!”

  It suits you more . . .

  The words threw her back: they were the very words Edward had used in Paris, when George brought them together again, after so many years.

  “It suits you more, more than Rome or London. Yes, Paris suits you!” Edward had exclaimed, and all three of them laughed.

  They were dining at the Café Anglais on the Boulevard des Italiens. She and George had recently traveled together from Rome via the Riviera to Paris. And back in the French capital, they had attended the opera and theater, and dined out together each evening. At that time George made frequent visits to the city and they had seen more of each other. To many in Paris they were a fixture, a couple like any other. So much so, that many there—none the wiser—simply assumed them to be Monsieur et Madame. And Cora, now styled the Countess de Chevalier de Saint Léger, had begun to think this was the way it would be. And she could live with it, she thought. She could live with George coming back to her once a month, perhaps, telling her there was no one but her, that he loved her, adored her. Such passion, she told herself, would only be diluted by a contract, a contract of marriage.

  But that evening at the Café Anglais, Edward had overshadowed George. For his presence was commanding, his seniority unquestionable. And he had been charming, effusive, telling Cora he simply could not believe how little she had aged, or that the young English girl he remembered so well from Rome was no
w such a renowned society figure, a feted hostess. Like a fine wine, he said, she had only improved with age. But Edward’s broad smiles and attentiveness had had a debilitating effect upon George’s spirit; he had grown quieter and more sullen as the evening progressed. He sent back his steak, complained about the service, and made such a fuss about a draft from the door that they moved tables, twice.

  Only years later did Cora learn of George’s anguish that night. That after escorting her home and returning to his hotel with Edward, he had been unable to sleep and had come to her.

  At two o’clock in the morning he had walked out from his hotel on the Rue de Rivoli into a seedy mix of nocturnal human debris littering the street corners and alleyways of the French capital. He told her that his body seemed decided upon a route without any consultation with his mind. Eventually, he had found himself in front of the stone steps leading up to the doorway of her apartment building. And through the closed shutters he thought he could make out a light within her room. He had stood there for some time, wondering what he should do. With his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his overcoat, he had shuffled and paced, up and down and up and down in front of the building, berating himself out loud and muttering expletives in any number of languages. At one point, he ran up the steps and held his hand over the cord of the bell, only to pull it away and run back down the steps. Then a light had gone on inside the ground-floor apartment. A window opened. “Who is there? What do you want?” a female voice called out. And George quickly marched off back up the street, into the night.

  Now Cora thought, if only he had pulled on that damned cord. Why hadn’t he? What stopped him? She felt the dull ache of regret and longing, and years gone by. And she thought of her marriage, her final marriage, there in Paris the very next year. But it was not revenge. It had never been about revenge. Or had it?

  There had always been gossip about George’s affairs, and there had been so many by then. He had grown more handsome with age, his silvering hair and beard lending him a distinguished look that seemed only to emphasize his success. And what had once been his “perfect vision” had aged, aged beautifully, as he repeatedly told her, but aged nonetheless. The waist had thickened, the pert chin had softened, and the hair, like his, had silvered and lost its sheen. Oh, Cora still had her admirers, George included, but she could not compete with youth. She was by then the mother of a young man, and had, everyone knew, been widowed twice, and the map of her life showed on her face.