The Many Lives of John Stone

by Linda Buckley-Archer

  “Pigs! Ah! Now I understand.”

  “You mean you didn’t know?”

  “No!”

  “Then what reason had you to attack the Prince de Montclair?”

  “Because you asked me to, and because she is your friend.”

  “I did not ask you to!”

  “Forgive me, Mademoiselle, but you said that I should teach that vile wretch a lesson—”

  “I didn’t mean it! Do you always believe what people say?”

  “Yes. No . . .”

  Her dogs had begun to take an interest in me. They clustered around, pink tongues lolling, standing on their hind legs and leaving dirty prints on my stockings. I thought it best not to throw them off. I even patted their tiny heads.

  “You had been fighting the first time I saw you—”

  “You helped me when I was in need—I shall never forget it—”

  Isabelle laughed. “I stopped you from falling—anyone would have done the same. I suppose that you enjoy provoking arguments—”

  “I assure you that I do not.”

  “I cannot quite believe you. . . . You realize that Mademoiselle de Cluny is now convinced she has an admirer?”

  My jaw dropped, provoking a broad smile that lit up Isabelle’s face. “I see,” she said.

  “But it was not for her!” I exclaimed.

  “Then you made the Prince de Montclair look ridiculous on my account?”

  I nodded. We stared into each other’s eyes trying to fathom what lay beneath. I couldn’t breathe.

  “Come!” she called to the dogs, and turned—I think to conceal her blushes. Isabelle could never hide what she was feeling. I wanted to shout!

  I followed her. She moved so quickly, her skirts trailing over dry leaves, that I had to scurry behind her, jostling for position with her brown-and-white spaniels. When she stopped, I stopped too. We looked about us at the peaceful glade. We listened to a blackbird singing overhead, to the buzzing of invisible insects, to the strong pulse of blood in our temples. When she walked, I walked too, and then I would catch the scent of rosewater in her wake. Weak sunshine broke through the clouds, filtered through birch trees, and traced a constantly moving pattern on Isabelle’s back. I caught up with her, and we continued side by side. We did not speak. Presently I reached out to stroke the back of her hand with mine. It took courage to bridge the distance between us. The slightest, most thrilling, of touches. When she did not pull away my heart soared.

  “You must understand,” she said, “that the King himself has suggested to my father that the Prince de Montclair would make an appropriate suitor for me. The d’Alemberts are wealthier by far, but the Montclairs come from a most noble and ancient line—and the Prince’s father holds great sway at court.”

  I took her hand and held it in mine. She turned to me and smiled. “But you would rather die,” I said.

  “I would rather die,” she repeated. “Though it is unfortunate that the entire court is now privy to my feelings. Come!” she called to her dogs and, squeezing my fingers, slipped her hand from mine.

  “Please may I see you again?” I asked her.

  “Perhaps—”

  “I promise not to believe everything you say.”

  “Well,” she said, “in that case, I can assure you that I never, ever want to see you again.” And with that she hurried away from me, past the lonely Swiss Guard, and back toward the palace and the company of those of whom her father approved.

  VII

  Returning through the gardens of the Sun King after my tryst with Isabelle, the world seemed to throb with the dazzle and promise of life. My elation was not shared by the Spaniard: When I entered my teacher’s apartment, his disappointment in my behavior was tangible.

  The previous evening, after leaving the Colonnade, the Spaniard had not trusted himself to talk about the incident. My father, too, had accompanied me back to our town house in near silence, and I had left the house before he had risen. It was the first time, I think, that his youngest child had truly displeased him. I would have preferred an angry reprimand to his silence. As for me, my feelings for Isabelle, as well as my satisfaction at seeing that bully Montclair with his face in the dirt, had made it easy for me to push to one side those difficult emotions. Now they came flooding back. When the Spaniard demanded that I explain myself, I displayed little remorse. It was hardly, I said, as if I had injured the Prince.

  “Do not play the fool! That is not the point—”

  “I pushed him into a puddle,” I protested. “He deserved it—he had insulted Mademoiselle de Cluny—”

  “However he behaved, Jean-Pierre, you showed disrespect to someone belonging to a higher rank than yourself. Considerably higher.”

  “The young lady was in tears, Signor.”

  “And do you intend to defend the honor of every victim of an unkind word at Versailles?”

  “I hope that I would try—”

  The Spaniard raised an eyebrow. “Would you have lifted a finger to help her had a certain young lady not been her friend?”

  The Spaniard expected no answer and I looked at the floor.

  “Jean-Pierre, listen to me. Sooner or later the Prince de Montclair—or more likely his father—will make you pay for your behavior.”

  “Let him try,” I said.

  The Spaniard threw down his napkin and scraped back his chair. He started to pace up and down in front of a tapestry depicting Saint Sebastian pierced with arrows.

  “Did I not expressly warn you against cultivating false hopes with regard to Isabelle d’Alembert?”

  “I believe she likes me, Signor,” I said quietly. “Whereas she does not care for the Prince de Montclair at all—”

  “No!” exclaimed the Spaniard. “Apparently she would rather die than have him as her suitor! Those were her words, were they not?”

  “Yes—”

  “Let me share with you a conversation I overheard this morning as I waited in the antechamber of Monsieur. The Princess Palatine asked one of her ladies-in-waiting if she intended to go hunting this afternoon. “Oh,” came the reply, amid much laughter—not to mention grunting—“I should rather die, like the fragrant Mademoiselle d’Alembert. . . .”

  I put my face in my hands.

  “You have made a grave error of judgement, Jean-Pierre,” said the Spaniard, rolling all his rs for emphasis. “I shall do my best to placate the young man’s father but I doubt that I shall succeed.”

  For the first time I realized what consequences my behavior might have for Isabelle and I felt sick with guilt. “How can I make amends, Signor?”

  “Your brothers are shortly to arrive in Versailles. I suggest that you take their place and return home to your estate until the incident is forgotten.”

  “Leave Versailles? Now?”

  The Spaniard coolly returned my stare and nodded.

  “I can’t!”

  How could I leave? I had to meet with Isabelle and lend her my support after the trouble I had caused her.

  “You must. I shall accompany you.”

  “No!” I shouted, running to the door. “It is not possible—”

  “It is possible, and I must insist that you do it for the sake of your reputation.”

  “No!” I cried. “I shall not. By what authority do you order me to leave?”

  I did not wait for the Spaniard’s reply but ran through the door. All of that morning’s happiness had already leached away. My memory, then, is of running: running away from the palace with its courtiers, its rules and restrictions, and notions of rank, and out into the streets of the town, past wagons, and street hawkers, and men on horseback; never stopping until I reached a part of the town where the streets were emptier, and where I came across a gaggle of child beggars who sat listlessly in the gutter sheltering from the sun, which was already high in the sky. They sprang up when they saw me, and I threw a handful of coins high in the air for them to catch. I ran on, pursued for a while by a line of ragged ch
ildren with nothing better to do. They fell away when I reached the Church of Saint Symphorien, and there I caught my breath, head hanging over my knees, listening to the wagons rumbling past and the sorrowful beating of my heart. I had defied the Spaniard. Now what was I going to do? What could I do?

  Clumps of dry grasses and poppies grew through cracks in the paving so that my vision was filled with glossy, scarlet petals poised on wiry stems, a whorl of golden anthers at the center of each flower. No sixth sense told me I was in danger. Nothing had alerted me to the presence of another. But all at once a movement caught my eye. A shadow—it was the shadow of a figure with a raised arm—fell across the dusty flagstones above my own crouching silhouette. For the merest instant I observed the arm hang, poised to strike, then it came slicing down, the pitiless blow of an executioner. It felled me. The pain was beyond imagining. I heard my skull crack; I heard, as if it were not my own, an unearthly scream. All the light was swallowed up by an oily darkness. The last image that I saw was the glowing scarlet of the poppies splattered with the darker, viscous red of my own blood.

  Anything Red

  June, Suffolk.

  The car John Stone sent to collect Spark from the nearest station speeds across a flat, watery landscape. The roads are poor and Spark, tired after the long journey, starts to feel nauseated. She scans the horizon for signs of habitation but sees none. It’s gone seven by the time they swing into a single-track road that is rutted and edged with deep, reed-filled ditches. Some way ahead, Spark sees what appears to be a small wood or, at any rate, a mass of trees; as they draw closer a ribbon of water comes into view, and then, marking the end of the track, a small bridge spanning a stream. A heron, frozen in its one-legged pose, eyes them as they pass over the bridge and into a tunnel of trees. Now the tires crunch down a gravel drive. At first, branches smack against the windows of the car, but gradually the tunnel grows wider and lighter. Spark leans forward in her seat. This must be it. The prospect of meeting John Stone again, only this time without Dan, unsettles her. Presently, green shade gives way to sunlit lawns, brightly colored flower beds, and high, dark hedges. The gardens, which are sheltered from the marsh and invisible from the road, shield, in their turn, a stone-and-brick-built house—actually more of a mansion than a house—which Spark can only assume is John Stone’s home. He works for a charity—surely he can’t live here.

  They come to a halt in the broad courtyard and the driver opens Spark’s door for her. As she clambers out she catches a fleeting glimpse of a man with a wheelbarrow: He is retreating rapidly to the far side of the lawn. At the same time, a slim, dark figure is hurrying out of a side door to greet her.

  “Little Stella!” the woman exclaims. The biggest smile lights up her face. “By all the saints, just look at you!” Spark holds out her hand but the woman is transfixed by her.

  “I’m pleased to meet you,” says Spark, her hand hovering uncertainly now in midair.

  Martha reaches for it and clasps it in both of hers. “You don’t remember me, do you? I can see that you don’t. I’m Martha.”

  “Sorry, I don’t—I was quite young when we left Suffolk—”

  “Well, of course you wouldn’t! You were a baby!” Martha continues to search Spark’s face. Her dark eyes are bright and her tanned cheeks smooth and a little flushed. Spark had expected her to look older. In fact, she seems younger than Mum. “But just look at you!” Martha repeats, shaking her head.

  “Do you recognize me?”

  “Oh, yes. Indeed I do.”

  “Really?” says Spark, not sure how to react. “I thought I might have changed quite a lot!”

  “Let’s say there’s no mistaking who you are. But where are my manners? You’ll be awful tired after your journey. Give me your case and I’ll show you to your room.”

  * * *

  Martha leads the way over the lawn; she carries Spark’s suitcase and walks with a smart, brisk step. They pass a fountain of classical design, which features a stern and powerful figure with a flowing beard. Spark stares over her shoulder as she keeps pace with Martha, and is struck by the statue’s haunting gaze. His tragic, staring eyes speak of having witnessed extraordinary things, no doubt terrible things.

  “What an amazing fountain. Is it Neptune?”

  “It’s not Neptune, no. It’s a river god or some such thing. Does it appeal to you? I can’t say I’ve ever taken to it, myself, although John is very attached to his fountain.”

  They enter the breakfast room through a pair of French doors. It is flooded with light: the paneled walls are parchment white and three immense golden mirrors reflect the garden, making what is a large room seem even larger. There is a marble fireplace and a bed made from polished wood; there is a mass of velvety roses in shades of shell pink and crimson, which arch from the neck of an oriental vase; there are paintings of landscapes glazed with yellowing, cracked varnish. Above Spark’s head, suspended by a long brass chain, hangs a crystal chandelier.

  “I hope this’ll do for you. You’ve got a fine view of the garden and the fountain, at least—”

  Spark turns full circle in the center of the room. “It’s beautiful!”

  Martha’s face flushes with pleasure and Spark observes her lowering her eyes, a little coyly, as if she is unsure, momentarily, what to say to her guest. When Martha proposes unpacking the suitcase, Spark—picturing with embarrassment its crumpled contents—hurriedly refuses the offer. “I’ve brought so little,” she says. “But thanks anyway.”

  “Well then, I’ll let you settle in. I’ll return with some supper for you in a little while.”

  “Should I say hello to Mr. Stone?”

  “John will see you tomorrow. He’s given me instructions to let you into the archive room myself in the morning.”

  Once Martha has gone, Spark unpacks her things then prowls around her new territory like a cat. At home she doesn’t have the floor space to do push-ups; here, she could do a cartwheel if she felt so inclined. When she tries out the mattress, the scent of lavender water rises up from thick linen sheets. Yet she can’t settle: The room is so much bigger than she’s used to. Finally, she takes a pillow and one of the cushions from a green brocade armchair and places them in the corner of the room. Here she makes herself comfortable, resting her head on the side of a chest of drawers, and surveying her new domain in wonder. She wishes she could share this with someone.

  * * *

  Late the next morning, emerging from the house, Spark spots the gardener. He stands at the other side of the lawn in front of the dark yew hedge, which, as Martha has explained to her, separates the formal garden from the kitchen garden. Spark feels she should make an effort to be friendly so waves energetically. He doesn’t turn. “Hello!” The gaunt figure, whose straight back is angled over a wooden barrow, ignores her and keeps on pushing. This is the second time the gardener has done this to her. Spark stops waving and lets her arm drop to her side. She supposes that he could be deaf.

  Crouching down next to the fountain’s wide basin, she plunges her arms into the cooling water up to her elbows. She rinses away the dust from her hands then wipes them on the grass. The old book smell—mold, must, whatever you call it—that permeates the archive room has made her headachy. There are no windows in there, and no electricity. She’s been dusting and reshelving the books, as instructed in John Stone’s note, working by the glaring light of an old-fashioned bulb clipped onto a stepladder. Each time she accidentally looked at the glowing filaments, which was impossible not to do, fluorescent shapes, migraine green, spread over her vision like an oil slick, making it difficult to decipher the dates on the manuscripts. The touch of the ancient paper reminded her of the powdery underside of moths’ wings. Happy to be outside, Spark stretches her aching arms above her head, interlocking her fingers and rolling her shoulder blades. When she tips back her face, the sunlight is dazzling.

  Martha, like Mum (who can’t even be trusted with a remote control), must be a technophobe. Only Ma
rtha is probably even worse. This morning, while she was trying to set up the lightbulb in the archive room, Spark stood in the doorway holding the long, orange extension lead, hoping that Martha would plug it in for her.

  “Would you not be better off with candles?” Martha asked in her lilting accent.

  “Better not—I don’t want to set fire to Mr. Stone’s manuscripts on my first day! Could you maybe show me a socket it would be okay to use?”

  Martha looked troubled, and instead of taking the plug that Spark offered to her, she gestured vaguely at a spot on the wall beneath a narrow console table. “There,” she said. “You can do the business there, if you want to—”

  “The business? Plug it in, you mean?” Spark couldn’t help smiling.

  “What else?” Martha replied stiffly before walking off.

  Spark isn’t yet sure what to make of Martha, but one thing is clear: She has gone to a lot of trouble to make her feel welcome. Spark wants Martha to know that she’s noticed, and that she is properly grateful for the effort she’s made. When Mum was at her worst, she rarely noticed what Spark did for her. Spark understood that taking her daughter for granted was a symptom of Mum’s depression, but feeling unappreciated was still hard. So, after breakfast (which she’d found laid out for her on the kitchen table—the others, apparently, rose with the sun), Spark had set off in search of Martha. She found her walking back from the orchard, barefoot in the grass, an empty wicker basket swinging from one hand. Her calves, beneath her plain black skirt, were tanned and strong.

  “Martha! Hi!” Spark called out, running toward her.

  “Spark! Did you sleep well? Was your room comfortable?”

  “It’s the most comfortable bed I’ve ever slept in! I love my room. Thank you so much!”

  Spark watched an array of emotions fan over Martha’s expressive face.

  “Well, that’s grand . . . grand—”

  Abruptly Martha announced that she had better get back to the kitchen before her pastry burned. “It was feeding Bontemps that put it out of my mind—it’s not like me to be absentminded—”