The Many Lives of John Stone

by Linda Buckley-Archer

  “I must see Mademoiselle d’Alembert,” I declared.

  “She is not home, Monsieur.”

  “Then her aunt—”

  “Madame is not at home, Monsieur.”

  I did not believe him for an instant. I gave the door a push, causing the lad to take a large step backward.

  “It is vital that I see her. Be so good as to fetch her at once!”

  “I am sorry, Monsieur, I cannot—”

  I grabbed the wretched footman by the collar and shook him: “Tell me where I can find Mademoiselle d’Alembert!”

  A valet, an older man whom I recognized from my previous visit, appeared. He informed me, courteously, that he was under strict orders to refuse me admittance. The valet and the footman then each took an arm and forced me back down the front steps.

  “The Comte d’Alembert is about to be arrested for murder,” I cried. This shocking news had a dramatic effect on the valet, who immediately let go of me. The agitated footman, however, continued to pull me toward my horse until the older man barked at him to stop.

  “I apologize, Monsieur, the boy has let his nerves get the better of him. Is the Comte d’Alembert truly to be arrested?”

  “Alas, I believe he will be,” I replied.

  “That is ill news, Monsieur, although I still cannot allow you to enter. Madame has forbidden it. However, I will say this: Had you entered, you would not, in any case, have found what you seek.”

  “Don’t speak in riddles!” I said. “What do you mean?”

  “My mistress and Mademoiselle d’Alembert left for Versailles early this morning in the carriage of the King’s valet de chambre—”

  “Monsieur Bontemps!”

  “Yes, Monsieur. The King has summoned them to court.”

  I stared at the valet, whose confusion reflected my own. Each time I intended to take hold of the reins of my life, it seemed that they were torn from my grasp, leaving me struggling to retain my balance and bewildered by the turn of events. The valet asked me what all this might mean for the d’Alembert family. I did not know how to answer him.

  An Interesting Footnote

  Once, in playful mood at a dull party, John Stone happened to find himself sitting next to an eminent historian who was more interested in writing in his small notebook than talking to him.

  “If I were to tell you,” he said to the generously bearded American, “that I am three hundred and fifty years old and was intimately acquainted with some of the people you’ve spent your life studying, would you be keener to strike up a conversation with me?”

  The professor pushed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose and smiled a lopsided smile, eyeing John Stone in that dry way perfected by certain academics. Nevertheless, a glint of interest registered behind his thick lenses.

  “So,” he replied in a measured tone, “you present me with an interesting proposition. How might you, a freak of nature, so to speak, be of use to me, a scholar of history?”

  A freak of nature! The term amused John Stone very much: It wasn’t so very far from the truth.

  “Let us assume that you have proved to me that you are the genuine article—which would be difficult to do—what could you tell me that I could not discover in other ways? And, more importantly, how reliable would your testimony be?”

  The historian went on to say that firsthand accounts of history—memoirs, letters, and the like—were interesting but unreliable. An individual, he explained, would rarely be in the right place at the right time, or, if he were, he would be unlikely to be skilled in reading situations or reporting them accurately. Most importantly, his memories would be selective, incomplete, and certainly not to be trusted.

  “So,” said John Stone in reply, “I wouldn’t be much use to you at all?”

  “In truth, no. You would make an interesting footnote.”

  John Stone commented that there are probably worse epitaphs.

  The historian was beginning to enjoy the game. “But if it were me, I shouldn’t go around talking about myself to untrustworthy fellows at parties,” he said. “Longevity is a holy grail. If the truth got out, you’d be dissected metaphorically by the press, and, likely as not, literally by medical researchers and every last billionaire who wanted to prolong his miserable existence.”

  “But the historians would leave me alone.”

  “Oh, yes. You wouldn’t have to worry about us.”

  * * *

  John Stone is determined to give Edward de Souza an agreeable evening before he tells him what he plans to do. Accordingly, they have seen a revival of a Noël Coward play (not to John Stone’s taste, but this is for Edward), and they have feasted on oysters, a gigot of lamb, and champagne sorbet in his favorite French restaurant in Monmouth Street. John Stone has even agreed—just for once—to reminisce about Louis XIV over a shot of eau de vie de mirabelle.

  “How I envy you, John: to have witnessed the Sun King progressing down the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles,” says Edward. “What a spectacle it must have been—”

  “Pure theatre,” agrees John Stone. “Actually, it’s the sounds that I remember best of all. That slow beat of his cane, then the hushed whispers and the rustle of silk as everyone bowed and curtseyed. It was like the tide coming in.”

  “Extraordinary—”

  “I know that I am a fortunate fellow. My life has been extraordinary, even though I am not an extraordinary man.”

  Edward is indignant. “You are extraordinary, John. Your Spaniard was right: Versailles trained you too well to be reserved and modest.”

  “Why, thank you, Edward.”

  “So. Are you going to tell me what’s going on? Thank you for the play, and for this delicious dinner, but if it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer not to be kept in suspense any longer. You never told me the outcome of Thérèse’s last communication.”

  “You lawyers are too clever for your own good.”

  * * *

  John Stone would have liked to walk and talk while strolling through the city streets but, anxious in case he suffers another attack, he instructs his driver to take them to Edward’s offices. Bright moonlight streams through the open window. He asks Edward not to switch on the lights. They breathe in the night air. John Stone sits on the big office desk, legs slowly swinging, while Edward perches on the windowsill. A smell of lemons rises up from the recently washed floor. How he wishes this evening were over. Below, in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, a couple of drunks sing in unison, their slurred words echoing across the square. Long ago, when this was still his London house, he would look out at Saint Paul’s from here; he recalls seeing forks of summer lightning strike the great dome. Everything passes. John Stone sighs deeply, reaches into his jacket pocket, and places two envelopes in Edward’s hands.

  “What are these? Should I switch on the light?”

  “No. One is a sealed letter that should be delivered to Stella Park on her twenty-first birthday. You will understand why momentarily. The other is for you: It contains the ciphers for my journals and those written by my father. As you seem so taken by the Sun King, they’ll allow you to become intimately acquainted with him. I suggest that you move them out of Stowney House before the damp from the marshes slowly destroys them.”

  “Why are you giving them to me now?”

  Recent events, John Stone explains, have driven him to make a difficult decision. He tells Edward that it transpires, after all this time, that he is, in fact, Spark’s father. He explains how, as the child of two sempervivens parents, Spark will almost certainly be sempervivens herself.

  “That is astonishing news! Wonderful news! Another sempervivens! But why did you not tell me straightaway?”

  “Because I wanted Spark to be the first to hear. Alas, this cannot now be. Henceforth, I want you to look after Spark’s interests as well as my own. Will you do that for me?”

  John Stone has to wait for a response. Edward has few character faults and being impulsive isn’t one of them. “Given t
he potential for conflict of interests, I would normally advise against such a thing—but these are unique circumstances. Yes, you can count on me: I am happy to act for both father and daughter—”

  “Thank you, Edward. There are complications, however.”

  “There are always complications, John.”

  John Stone tells him about the fight in the marshes and his disastrous visit to Mrs. Park. “I doubt that either Spark or her adoptive mother will be willing to see me again. The adoptive mother is a difficult woman, but she holds my respect. Her love for Spark and her son is fierce, and I do not know when—or if—she intends to tell Spark the truth about her parentage. I will not force the issue. As for Spark, I dread to think what her opinion now is of the inhabitants of Stowney House. She left with the attitude of one determined never to return.”

  When he describes his conversation with Mrs. Park, Edward puts his head in his heads. “John, you should have asked for my help sooner.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. . . . Spark can read the notebooks I’ve written for her when she is twenty-one. I’ve described that period of my life that I believe will be most useful to her, although I have avoided acknowledging our relationship. If my daughter is still ignorant of her adoption at that stage, I would ask you to break the truth to her as gently as you can. In the fullness of time you can also give her the ciphers for the journals—both mine and Juan Pedro’s.”

  “Surely it should be you who tells Spark that she is your daughter, face-to-face? You can afford to wait a little. Can’t you?”

  John Stone does not answer, but looks up at the familiar figure of his lawyer, silhouetted against the sky, head bent attentively toward him. John Stone wishes he could be spared this task, wishes that someone could intercede on his behalf, but there is no one, and this is no time for procrastination. “There is another matter, Edward. This nervous disease—the same, apparently, that afflicted Thérèse and my own father—has tightened its grip on me. I no longer feel in control of myself: It seems that I have a new master. The attacks are no longer infrequent but happen several times a day, and fatigue and distress aggravate them.”

  Edward nods his head sadly. “I thought that was why you left your seat in the middle of the play. . . . Might you not now reconsider—”

  “No, Edward. I will not see a doctor.”

  “But, John, now more than ever! You have a child!”

  “Precisely! How could I take that risk?” There is anger in John Stone’s voice. “Besides, I am past repair. Doctors could do nothing for me now.”

  “I apologize. It is only that—”

  John Stone raises his hand. “I understand.”

  It is important to be concise for both their sakes. As every field nurse knows, better to rip off a wound dressing in one go than peel it off in agonizing stages. John Stone explains that, as the time has now come when he can no longer conceal his illness, he has made the decision to retreat from Stowney House. He is too fond of Martha and Jacob to allow them to witness a slow and distressing death. Nor does he wish Spark to get to know this diminished version of the man he was, for very soon he will be of no use to her. His journals will paint the best portrait of her father. Tomorrow he will return to Stowney House in order to make his final preparations to leave. It is best if Martha and Jacob believe that he is departing on a long trip—to America, perhaps. That way, by the time they learn the truth, they will at least have started to learn to do without him.

  “You underestimate them.”

  “I did not come here to ask for advice, Edward.”

  “No.”

  When he gives him the word, Edward will need to put into place the contingency plans they discussed when drawing up his will. Martha and Jacob must be able to continue their lives at Stowney House in full security and for as long as they wish it. He hears Edward’s deep-drawn breath and watches the line of his shoulders rise toward his neck.

  “Where will you go, John?”

  “I will stay in a safe house. My client has arranged it. The location will remain a secret. I can assure you that I will be well cared for until the end. I shall not be returning to London.”

  Edward turns his head away and looks out toward the rooftops of Lincoln’s Inn Fields. “Are you saying that this is the last time I shall see you?”

  “I’d prefer your last memory of me to be of a man who had mastery of himself. Until I leave, you can still reach me by phone.”

  How calm he is as he says these words; John Stone knows that his emotions will catch up with him later, in the long wakefulness of the night. As his lawyer does not reply, John Stone bows his head and sits patiently, listening to the ancient building creak and, presently, the hall clock strike the hour. There is a pale flutter, like ghostly wings, as Edward brings a white handkerchief to his face.

  “The one thing I always thought I could be certain of was that you would outlive me—”

  “I know.”

  “Will you tell me before you go? It would be very hard to be kept in the dark.”

  “Given the nature of the arrangements, I cannot promise. But I will try.”

  They walk to John Stone’s car. Edward, finding no words, stands, forlorn, on the curb. John Stone embraces him and finds that his cheek is wet with Edward’s tears. “You have been the best of Friends,” John Stone tells him. “Prepare the way for Spark. I have told my client about her but I need you to help keep her safe. She has the perspective of youth. She will make mistakes. Can I rely on you?”

  “Always.”

  As the car moves off, John Stone opens his window and sees that Edward has started to run. The soles of his polished brogues clatter over the paving stones, as the lawyer runs fast enough to keep pace with the car. “Wherever you are going, John Stone,” he shouts, “your friends will remember—” Alas, John Stone does not catch the rest of his words for the car accelerates, leaving Edward still powering along the pavement. They turn a corner and his Friend vanishes from sight. It is done. “Adieu,” says John Stone into the night.

  Such Round, Blue Eyes

  Spark cranes her head and shoulders away from Mum and fixes her gaze on the stain on the wall left by a piece of Blu-Tack. It’s a hard thing to find out you’re not who you thought you were. Mum sits jammed up against her on the narrow bed, the wind whistling through the open window and the curtains swaying. She refuses to let go of Spark’s hand. Outside tires hiss over wet tarmac and sparrows chirp in next door’s hedge, familiar sounds in a world that is no longer the same.

  Mum has kept repeating the same phrase: “Nothing’s changed. You were my daughter before you were even born and you still are.”

  Spark doesn’t trust herself to respond when what Mum says is plainly untrue. Something has changed. From this day forward, Mum is not her mum, Dad was not her dad. Only now, when she’s almost eighteen, is she told she’s the daughter of a dead mother and a mystery father. How dare they keep such a thing from her? Doesn’t a child have a right to know the truth? Spark feels empty, disconnected.

  Mum breaks a long silence. “This mattress is on its last legs. We should get you a new one—”

  “Why didn’t you tell me from the start?”

  “I wasn’t going to tell you at all—”

  “So you were happy about me living a lie!”

  “It wasn’t like that! We were your parents—that wasn’t a lie. If you didn’t need to know, what was the point of upsetting you? That’s how I looked at it. And it’s what your dad thought too. . . . We always said that if we were going to tell you we’d wait until you could understand.”

  “Dad didn’t want to tell me either?”

  “He didn’t see the sense in it. He said you were his and that was enough.” Spark closes her eyes tight shut. She refuses to cry. “But what with the hospital wanting to do DNA tests on you, and one thing and another . . . I couldn’t risk someone telling you before I did.”

  “Who was she—my real mother?” Spark sees the hurt in Mum’s eye
s and at that instant she’s glad.

  “Your birth mother was your dad’s landlady: He rented his restaurant from her in Suffolk. She wasn’t young, but she turned heads. We never knew the details, but she’d got herself into trouble: She wasn’t the first and she won’t be the last to have picked the wrong man. Her name was Thérèse—”

  “Thérèse . . . like my middle name?”

  “Yes. We thought Stella Theresa Park had a good ring to it.”

  “What was she like?”

  “I didn’t know her to talk to—your dad knew her better than I did.”

  “And did she say who my father was?”

  “No. Perhaps she never told him, or perhaps he didn’t stand by her when it came to it. It’s not easy being a woman.”

  Mum announces she is going to mash a pot of tea, and soon Spark can smell cigarette smoke drifting up from the back doorstep. Spark joins her, and they both sit on the hard concrete, nursing mugs of tea. In dribs and drabs, Mum answers Spark’s questions until she can piece together how she came to be Stella Theresa Park: Mum’s inability to have any more children after Dan’s difficult birth; Dad arriving back from the restaurant one night with a strange proposal from the woman who owned the property; Mum’s initial reluctance; Dad persuading her it would do everyone a good turn; the offer of a rent-free cottage in the marshes; the private legal arrangement. Mum tentatively puts her arm around Spark’s shoulders and Spark doesn’t push her away.

  “You weren’t born in a hospital—she didn’t trust doctors. I remember that—she had a real mania about not letting a doctor touch her. She gave birth in the flat that she owned above the restaurant. No pain relief—imagine that! Well, I can. . . . Thankfully there weren’t any complications. She kept you for five days, then you were swaddled in blankets and your dad brought you downstairs. The restaurant was full of holidaymakers downing roast dinners, and there I was, sitting at a corner table, our Dan wailing for ice cream, my nerves in shreds in case she changed her mind at the last minute. And then your dad appeared through the swing doors, a little bundle in his arms, a tiny face peeping out of the shawl. Such round, blue eyes you had! I would have gone upstairs to say something to her, to thank her, to say I’d take care of you like you was my own, but your dad said it was best not to. I don’t know where she got the strength to give you up. I couldn’t have done it. You were a beautiful baby. Anyway, the next day she was gone. She died a couple of years later. Your dad reckoned she knew she was on the way out even while she was expecting you. He said that her hands used to shake.”