“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that,” she said.
“It wasn’t revenge . . . my marriage, it was never about revenge . . .”
“Of course,” she replied. “Good night, dear.”
Minutes later, when Sylvia eventually located Jack, sitting on the candlelit veranda, doing nothing but staring out into the dusk, she stopped in her tracks and stood perfectly still for a moment, struck once again by the likeness. The profile could be him, she thought: George, before he grew his beard. And she could not help but wonder if it was in fact Jack’s presence that was tipping Cora. For how must it feel to have him there? The only one left, all she had left: a constant reminder.
She sat down beside him, explained to him that Cora had retired for the evening and that she was not at all well. She was concerned, she said, for her well-being and for her state of mind. But like all young people, it seemed to her, he was distracted, and spoke only in short sentences containing those ubiquitous words—age and heat.
“She has a fever, Jack. She was quite delirious. I wasn’t going to mention it to you, I don’t want to worry you, but . . . she accused me of spying, snooping on her.”
He turned to her. “Do you think we should send for the doctor first thing in the morning?”
“I’m not sure. She hates doctors, has never had any time for them. I told her that she should remain in her bed tomorrow. Her room is cool . . . I think she needs to rest.”
“You’re a very good friend to her, Sylvia,” he said.
She could have told him things then, could have told him how betrayed and hurt she felt, how very odd Cecily Chadwick had been with her the other day, her suspicions about that girl, and about Mr. Fox. And she could have told him about the letters, and about George Lawson, and Edward. But when he yawned, stretched out his legs, then turned to her and said, “You know, Cecily writes. She’s working on a novel,” Sylvia simply smiled.
He sat up in his chair. “She wants to write a book based on Cora’s life.”
She stared ahead. “Oh, really? I rather thought that was my role.”
“Ah, no, nothing like a memoir. A sort of mix of fact and fiction, I suppose, something loosely based on her life. I think she’s made quite a few notes, has begun working on it.”
“Well, well.”
“I thought you might take a look. I told her I’d ask you . . .”
Sylvia rose to her feet.
She was not a violent person, had never struck or been struck by anyone, but right at that moment, had Cecily Chadwick been there, she thought she might very well have slapped her. She said, “Oh, I shall have to see, Jack. I’m rather busy, as you know, with your grandmother’s memoirs, and finishing off my own novel.”
Jack nodded.
He was not to know, she thought. He was innocent in all of this. But as she moved toward the doorway back into the house, another thought came to her, and she stopped and turned to him. “As a special favor to you, I shall take a look at Cecily’s book, the one she’s writing about Cora’s life. It makes sense for me to see it. After all, I was there.”
“Thank you, Sylvia,” he said, smiling.
Upstairs, Cora had returned to Italy.
She dreamed of that time so long ago, when George announced, “I have to go. It’s a tremendous opportunity for me.” And she was young and she was desperate, and she was begging him to stay in Rome with her. He said, “I’ll be back, I promise. I’ll be back in the autumn.”
It was shortly after George’s departure that Cora married Jack Staunton, her aunt’s stepson. She gave birth to Freddie five months later. George did not return to Rome; already, by then, he was famous and much in demand. The Queen had bought his Madonna, Cora read in the English newspapers. And it was via those newspapers she caught up on the events in his life, often weeks after they had happened. From time to time she received firsthand reports: he had attended some party, been present at someone’s wedding, been in Paris, or Florence, or Munich, but not Rome, never Rome. She heard that he moved within the highest echelons of English society, was a regular dinner guest at Buckingham Palace, counted dukes and duchesses amongst his closest friends, was courted and feted, and hailed as “England’s greatest living painter.” Royal patronage, it seemed, had catapulted him into the stratosphere.
And she had heard the gossip, the rumors about the women in his life. But those whom he chose to escort and appear in public with, and those he allegedly entertained in private were quite different.
She pictured him, then, in glittering company, and wondered if he ever thought of her, ever wished her by his side. And sometimes, lost in a daydream, she allowed herself to indulge in fantasy once more. She imagined herself with him, standing under a bright chandelier. “Your Grace,” he would say, holding on to her hand, “I don’t believe you’ve met my wife . . .”
She had not been angry, could never be angry with him. He had not known. And he could not know, not then, not ever, that she had given birth to his son. Aunt Fanny had said so, and had dealt with the crisis swiftly. She had spoken to her husband, and the marriage had been arranged within weeks. Freddie came early, Fanny told everyone, though Cora knew there was gossip.
And the gossip continued about George, also.
His relationship with his patron, Mrs. Hillier, the woman who had introduced him to society in Rome and was his most devoted advocate and champion, had come under scrutiny. It was reported that the two were inseparable, that the married lady, some years George’s senior, was always at his side, and that her husband turned a blind eye. It was reported that the two traveled together frequently to Paris, and that Mrs. Hillier, a former opera singer, acted as hostess at the many dinners and musical soirees at George’s home in London. Some suggested that George Lawson was using the well-connected older lady, that his ambition knew no bounds, and that his success was in no small way due to Mrs. H’s introductions.
But Amy Hillier had long dazzled everyone in Rome, particularly Cora’s aunt. An invitation to one of her musical soirees had become a highly sought-after ticket of entry to the exclusive expatriate set. It had been at Mrs. Hillier’s sumptuous home on the Pincio Hill, with its long windows and sunset-colored walls, that Cora had first met George, though she had heard his name before that day, heard that George Lawson, the most promising English painter in a lifetime, had come to Rome.
She and George had spoken together only briefly that night, although they had exchanged many glances. Mrs. Hillier barely left his side. It was just as Cora’s aunt had predicted when she said, “Mrs. Hillier has a new raison d’être: his name is George Lawson.” That evening Cora had been introduced to any number of people: various English aristocrats wintering in Rome, politicians, Austrian and Italian counts and countesses, and a coterie of English and American artists and writers. And she was introduced to George’s father as well, who had been passing through Rome on his way to Greece. It was also the first time Cora had heard the famous diva, Mrs. Hillier, sing, though she had heard tell of the exquisiteness of her voice, and would later say that it was Mrs. Hillier’s bel canto that finally stirred her from an adolescent slumber.
Some years later, when Mrs. Hillier returned to Rome with her husband, Cora found herself once more on the Pincio Hill, when she and her aunt were invited to tea. She learned that George was working in Florence. Mrs. Hillier had visited him en route to Rome and spoke of him at some length, saying that she was worried about his health; that he worked much too hard and had had such problems with his eyes. Cora’s aunt nodded sympathetically throughout, then asked, “And will we see him here in Rome?” But Mrs. Hillier said not. He would be returning to London from Florence, she said, glancing at Cora.
It was in fact Cora’s aunt who insisted she take up Mrs. Hillier’s invitation to join her house party at Lucca. And the doctor had already suggested that a change of environment would be good for her. He told Cora th
at her melancholia was due to nothing more than a sensitive disposition. And he suggested to her that another baby would set things right.
But how could there be another baby? Jack never touched her, had no desire to touch her. He was sometimes kind and affectionate, and he undoubtedly loved little Freddie, but he was not and never had been her lover. Their marriage had been arranged, hastily arranged. It was not what a marriage should be. And she told him so, in their increasingly frequent whispered arguments. He said, “But what more do you want? I’ve given you my name.”
She was—she had known from the start—simply the wrong sex for Jack’s tastes. And yet she was grateful to him, for though the marriage was a sham, a respectable sham, he had married her and given her son his name. Whilst Jack’s father remained in denial, oblivious to his daughter-in-law’s predicament, Cora’s aunt knew. “One can’t have everything,” she told Cora, alluding vaguely to her niece’s circumstances. “And you should consider yourself fortunate, very fortunate. You have a husband and a child you love.” A passionless life was, it seemed, the price to be paid for a youthful intoxication, the penalty for having loved outside convention.
When Cora spoke of the excursion to Lucca to her husband, he had been his usual distracted and dismissive self. “Yes, why not? You should go,” he said, without looking up from the Giornale di Roma.
There had been no mention of George when Mrs. Hillier first suggested the trip, though Cora had privately wondered if he would be there, if he would join the party. Two days before she was due to leave Rome, she discovered that George was to meet up with them at Florence and come on with them to Lucca.
It would be their first meeting in almost four years.
Chapter Twelve
She wishes he were dead, hopes he’ll catch the consumption or the cholera, or step out in front of a carriage and be trampled to death by horses. He calls her “my pretty” and she turns away. He says, “Don’t be like that now . . . come here.” And because she’s alone with him, she has to go to him and sit on his lap. “My pretty,” he says, stroking her hair . . .
The sun rose early over Temple Hill, breaking through a narrow gap of pale chintz, throwing a searchlight over Cora’s bed, her pillow, her face. She had had another difficult night of interrupted sleep and broken dreams and was exhausted. Now, the effort of another day—and within it another lifetime—seemed almost too much. For what would she remember this day? How many times would she be confronted and challenged by her own memory?
She lay still for some time, cogitating, deliberating, pushing away, reordering people and events, sequences and words. She was used to the heat, used to the light, but she was not, and never would be, used to the weight of years, or that unyielding inflexibility that had become so much a part of her body. Resistance, she thought, had made her like this, for she knew that the mind and body were inextricably linked, and that much—perhaps all—of the weight of her burden was due to her fight against it. And hadn’t it started when she was still young? Hadn’t it started with George? With that need to be someone unstained, without blemish, or past or future? But no, it was not right to blame him. Too easy, too easy, she thought.
The situation she found herself in was her fault and no one else’s. She had returned there knowing that she would perhaps be found. “A place where no one will find me . . .” she said out loud, and then closed her eyes. She had wanted to speak to Cecily about the letters, had wanted to tell her—and she had had the opportunity, after dinner, when Cecily freely admitted she had been changed by what she knew. But what did Cecily know? And how could she, Cora, tell her anything without knowing what, exactly, she knew? It had been a perplexing conversation. He was desperate, Cecily had said. Yes, of course he would be. But was it him? Was it really the farmer, John Abel, sending the letters, reminding her?
“It could be any one of them . . .”
She turned her face to the window. The light was quite different, not of the same quality as Italy. She could hear someone outside beneath her window, the sound of sweeping, whistling, and then song. And the light and the song, and the sudden and fleeting sensation of another time momentarily lifted her spirits. If she closed her eyes she could be back there in a split second. One of the benefits, the very few benefits, of old age was having that menu of moments: moments to return to and relive, over and over. This was control. And one had to control one’s memories, otherwise . . . otherwise they could run rampant, leading one to places and times best forgotten. But oh how they seemed to be running amok on her now. The way to do it, she thought, the way to stop all of this is to train the mind, restore one’s history. I must take control and focus my mind . . . I must remember, I must forget.
She had never been an early riser and there seemed little to rise for now. Ten o’clock was quite early enough to greet the day, take breakfast—always coffee and rolls—and plan, yes, plan what was to happen. But what was there to plan? What was there to happen? Lunch, and tea, and dinner, a walk about the garden, perhaps. Nothing more arduous. Accounts to be settled, bills to be paid, correspondence to be dealt with—and what would the post bring today?
She wondered what time it was, but the numbers on the clock were blurred. Was that one o’clock? No, Sylvia would have come in by now, come to check on her. Someone would, surely. They would not leave her there, sleeping, dozing, drifting. Perhaps she had been asleep for days, sailing through time. But it was rather nice, to be left alone, to not know the time, not know the day . . . not know.
Sylvia had said not to get up, said that she would see to things. She could remember that. Yes, she could remember that. Sylvia had helped her upstairs to her bedroom . . . But they had had words, harsh words, and it pained her now to think of them. Had she overreacted? Sylvia had been snooping, there was no doubt at all about that. She had seen her, holding the little envelope from Mrs. Chadwick up to the lamp. And later, when Sylvia had loitered at the end of her bed, guiltily, awkwardly, what was it she had said? Something about Edward?
“Edward,” she said, and sighed.
For a moment she could hear music, a distant serenade, swept over countries and rooftops and into her room. And she closed her eyes once more, drifting back to a wedding in Paris . . .
She can see George standing in a huddle at the other side of the room. He has not spoken to her and he does not look at her. She moves about the palatial room holding on to the arm of her new husband. She smiles, says hello, kisses people and takes hold of their hands. She turns to her husband and listens to him as he speaks. From time to time he places his hand over hers resting on his arm, and he says her name. But it’s not the same. Can never be the same. And yet, what was she expected to do?
“You’ve been dreaming,” Sylvia said, smiling at her.
The windows in Cora’s room were open wide, but the air was thick and hot, and when she tried to speak her words were syrupy and stuck in her mouth. She tried to move, tried to sit up. Sylvia quickly rose to her feet, leaned over her, adjusting the pillows behind her head. She said, “I’ve told Jack you’re not feeling quite yourself. He’s gone off out, said to give you his love, and tell you that he’ll see you later.”
She nodded, tried to smile and closed her eyes. She saw Jack and Cecily, and herself and George; he was there, he was not there; and Jack and he were one and the same. She felt a touch, a hand upon her forehead, and in her dream it was him pushing back her hair, stroking her brow. She heard herself say his name and then a female voice, “No, it’s me, dear.” But when she opened her eyes and glanced down, she fleetingly but clearly saw his hand resting upon her own. She saw the lines of his knuckles, his fingernails—the smudges of paint beneath; his gold rings glinting yellow and white, bright white, in the sunshine.
The female voice said, “But you do look a little better . . . more like yourself. And I’ve asked Mrs. Davey to bring up a tray. Just a scone and some tea, I said.”
She turned t
o Sylvia. “What time is it?”
“Half past three . . . and I know you abhor tea being served before four, but you must have something. You’ve missed breakfast and luncheon.”
She raised herself up, and as Sylvia pushed and pulled at the pillows behind her she wanted to say, “Please don’t . . . please let me be . . . I’d like to be on my own.” She watched Sylvia sit back down, saw her pick up her notebook, then make that kissing noise with her mouth and tap her pencil on the page. Here they come, she thought, more questions. She can’t leave it alone, can’t let me be.
Questions, once eagerly anticipated and enjoyed, now seemed relentless, intrusive. And she was certainly in no mood for them today. It felt too close, too raw. As though the intervening years had been peeled back and the past was there, in that room with her. As though everyone was in that room with her, standing about the bed, waiting . . . but what were they waiting for? She was not about to die. Not yet.
Then Sylvia spoke again. She asked if she could go over the details of a landscape, said it would help her describe the setting for a particular chapter in her novel Lord of Nivernais.
“I’ve gone back to it,” Sylvia said. “Seeing as we’re not making much headway on your book.”
“Aren’t they all my books?” Cora asked. “And anyway, you visited France enough times yourself.”
“No, no, not France, Lucca.”
Cora narrowed her eyes. “Lucca? You’ve gone to Lucca?”
“Yes,” Sylvia replied. “I hope you don’t mind. It’s where Harriett, my protagonist, and Armand—”
“I can’t believe you’ve gone to Lucca. Why Lucca? You could have gone anywhere, taken them anywhere. Why there?”
“Oh Cora, really,” Sylvia stammered, “it’s just a place . . . the place I’ve put them for their reconciliation. You see, Harriett is returning to Rome, and Armand is now back from the war. I wanted to—”
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