The Many Lives of John Stone
“And you think that’s funny?”
“I owe it to myself to keep myself amused.”
“He’s our guest, Andy—”
“Oh! I thought I detected a gleam in young Spark’s eye. . . .”
Spark walks off to the sound of Andy chuckling. “Idiot,” she says, under her breath.
* * *
In the pub at the top of Monsal Head, Spark watches Ludo negotiate the uneven stone floor as he carries four full glasses to the table. She shuffles over to make room for him. Their arms touch briefly and her nerve endings register the contact minutes later. There is a lot of masculine banter about real ale and American football to which Spark does not contribute. Andy stays in character throughout. Ludo asks him about his children, and Andy makes up names and far-fetched family anecdotes; Spark has to look away and bite her lip, while Dan, a master of the straight face, kicks her foot under the table.
When Andy asks about Suffolk, Spark tries to describe life at Stowney House. Her audience is particularly impressed when she gives the age of the resident giant tortoise. It’s good to have something interesting to talk about. But she doesn’t mention John Stone collapsing over dinner, nor Jacob being so protective of Martha that he drove her away. Nor does she mention the growing sadness she feels for upsetting Martha and for letting down John Stone, both of whom tried to make her feel welcome. Ludo asks how old the manuscripts are that she’s been cleaning.
“Some of them are ancient. Centuries old. Though I haven’t got the hang of John Stone’s dating system yet—”
“Yet?” says Dan. “You’re going back, then?”
Spark realizes that she hasn’t totally made up her mind. “I do like the work . . . but . . . Oh, I don’t know—”
“Do you want me to get in touch with John Stone?” asks Dan.
“No! . . . Thanks for offering, but I can handle it.”
Dan holds up the palms of his hands. Spark looks away. An awkward silence is broken by Andy insisting that Ludo try a specialty Blue Stilton crisp. He corrects his American English: chip. Ludo takes one, sniffs it suspiciously, and crushes it between his back teeth. He nods his approval. “Yeah, I could eat a ton of these.” He offers one to Spark, who shakes her head.
“Working in a private archive is pretty cool,” Ludo says.
“If only the gardener and the housekeeper weren’t so difficult to get on with . . .”
Spark becomes conscious of how pathetic this must sound and, embarrassed, can’t bring herself to say anything more about Stowney House. But when Andy and Dan go to the bar to get another round of drinks, Ludo returns to the subject.
“Why don’t you try hanging on in there for a while longer? Even if it doesn’t work out, at least you’ll know you gave it your best shot—”
Spark turns to face him, and Ludo surprises her with a look that is so open, and so warm, that she loses herself in his hazel-flecked eyes. Such a small thing to hold another person’s gaze, and yet so intimate. When Andy returns, and sets down her bottle of Coke and a brimming glass of ale, Spark has to wrench her eyes away. Did something just happen between them? As she surveys her surroundings to calm herself, it is as if someone has turned up the volume, and the laughter, and the conversations, and the clinking of glasses, are all far too loud. The smell of ale nauseates her and it’s too hot.
“You okay?” asks Andy.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
A conversation starts up about life in New York and when Spark remains silent Andy tells her to cheer up—it’s only a holiday job, after all.
“Honestly, I’m okay,” she replies. “Just a bit tired after the train journey.” She picks up the bottle of Coke, wet with condensation, and presses it to her hot cheek.
Dan starts to yawn loudly. “You’re not the only one. My body is telling me that my brain is lying about what time it is.”
“Where’s yer stamina, lad? We’ve barely got started,” says Andy.
Spark, too, doesn’t want the evening to end. “It’s only jet lag, Dan. You’ve got to tough it out.”
Ludo, however, says, “You should listen to your body, man. If you’re tired we should go.”
“I’m okay,” says Dan.
“No, we should go,” says Ludo firmly.
Spark looks from one to another, trying to decode the subtext of this exchange, perplexed that Ludo seems to want to cut their evening short. When he slides out from the table, her side feels cool where the warmth of his body had been. Her heart sinks. Why does she have to be so foolish? They troop out of the pub in a line, stooping a little to avoid the low beams, catching the loose threads of strangers’ conversations, passing through the threshold into the hushed splendor of a starry night.
They crunch over rough ground on the way back to Andy’s car. It’s chilly now, and there’s a smell of damp grass. Spark walks between Dan and Ludo. At one point she trips over a stone. Ludo catches hold of her arm and pulls her up, and when he doesn’t let go of her arm immediately, she feels a stab of hope. She was so distressed only a few hours ago, but already this morning’s events at Stowney House seem to have lost their sting.
There is no moon, so although they are parked at the top of Monsal Head, the valley below is invisible. A deep darkness presses in on them. Suddenly Ludo starts to holler: “Wo-wo-wo-wo-woh!” Spark listens to the sound travel across the dale and ricochet back again. Andy joins in, then Dan. “Come on, Spark,” says Ludo. “Make some noise!” She whoops in unison, and for a minute the four of them fill Monsal Dale with their cries. Spark’s spine tingles as the void throws back their voices. When they stop the silence is monumental.
Back in the car, Andy turns the engine on and comments cheerfully: “Eeh, it’s like life, in’t it? A bit of a racket followed by a long silence.” Spark, sitting in the passenger seat, flicks his ear with her finger and thumb. “Oi!” he says. “And pain hurts.” She glances back at Dan and Ludo. Neither notices her. Her brother has closed his eyes and Ludo is straining sideways, peering at Dan’s face.
Mortmain
At half past nine London is still heaving with commuters, but John Stone’s work is already done. In the coolness of his hotel bedroom, he tosses his jacket over a chair, kicks off his shoes without untying the laces, and falls backward onto the sprung mattress, flexing his back and flinging his arms over his head. He listens to the muffled sound of London traffic that penetrates the room and contemplates sending a text to Spark, telling her that he has been called away on business. He retrieves his phone from his jacket, pausing to look out over Hyde Park through billowing gauze curtains, and remembers that he never thought to ask her for her cell number. In any case, he can trust Martha to explain—she’s coped better than he had hoped so far, and Spark seems to have taken to her. Perhaps he has been wrong to worry. He switches his phone off—he must sleep—and lets it drop through his fingers onto the bed.
John Stone doesn’t feel as tired as, by rights, he should. The driver reached London at dawn, and delivered him to an eerily deserted Whitehall Street. After the requisite security clearance and a certain amount of hanging around in ministerial corridors—only to be expected—the meeting took place on a hastily chartered boat between Westminster and Putney Bridge. He had found his client frozen with indecision, mistrustful of those around him, and unable to embrace the changes he knew were coming—a predicament with which John Stone felt some sympathy. The two of them leaned over the side of the boat, side by side, and watched the sun burn off the mist that clung, in mysterious patches, to the banks of the Thames. John Stone has played the role that, he supposes, defines him: a constant in a changing world, a living reminder of the long arc of history. In me the past lives. By the time he left him, his client was calm and resolved as to what had to be done.
It is only after taking a shower that tiredness hits him. He watches the television news distractedly, just in time to catch sight of his client climbing into a car in Westminster. It is hard to believe that this man is the ang
uished soul who, only hours before, was pouring out his doubts to John Stone. He watches him call out comments to the assembled press pack in the same way that he, long ago, used to throw coins to beggars.
As soon as he lies down, a profound sleep overcomes him. Midafternoon he is woken by the discreet buzzing of the hotel telephone. He is vaguely aware that this is not the first time it has rung. Disorientated, he swings his legs over the side of the bed and realizes that he is not in his bedroom at Stowney House. The ringing stops. He has been dreaming of his own death; his skin feels clammy and cold. Given his state of health, John Stone reassures himself that it is not a premonition, but merely evidence that his unconscious mind is attempting to come to terms with its own end. Indeed, now he comes to think of it, the Sun King often dreamed of dying—and Louis died bravely and well. A few images of his dream linger, guttering like a candle. Sunset in Paris. His three surviving clients walking across the Pont Neuf, bearing an urn. He seems to see his ashes raining down softly onto the Seine as it journeys toward a cold sea. There are swifts—of course. They swoop low, skimming the water, filling the air with their cries. He notes that there is no one present in his dream who truly loves him. There are no grieving relatives. No wife. No children. A sempervivens: as anonymous in death as in life. No doubt his clients will dine well afterward and exchange reminiscences about the “fabulous cuckoo of Versailles.” Enough, he counsels himself. It is a dream.
* * *
When the telephone rings again, he pulls his bathrobe about him and, frowning, picks up the receiver. “Yes?”
“John, my apologies for disturbing you, but I’ve been calling since midday and I was becoming concerned—”
“Edward! Our appointment! It should be me apologizing. What time is it?”
“Two forty-five.”
“I’m afraid I was catching up on my sleep—it’s been a rather eventful twenty-four hours. Is Thérèse’s lawyer with you?”
“Yes, she’s been here for some time. Look, why don’t we come over to you?”
* * *
When John Stone opens the door, half an hour later, he is tempted to put up his hands in mock surrender. Four people stare back at him. As well as Edward, he sees a well-dressed woman in her forties, with a shining bob of chestnut hair; a stocky man in blue overalls, who carries what looks like a toolbox; and, finally, a gray-ponytailed biker in leathers, who clutches a small wooden crate to his chest. John Stone thanks them all, very much, for accommodating him by coming here, to his hotel.
“Is that for me?” he asks the biker.
“If you’re John Stone, Esquire, it is. Where do you want it, Sir?”
John Stone stands to one side and gestures to his room. The biker places it inside the door and fishes out an electronic pad from his fluorescent waistcoat. John Stone scribbles his signature on it, and the messenger departs down the long, plush-carpeted corridor that seems to absorb all sound. John Stone ushers his remaining three guests into his room while thanking them again for being so accommodating.
“Allow me introduce your late wife’s solicitor, Ms. Foster,” says Edward.
The woman offers her hand and explains that Thérèse had left detailed instructions in her will regarding a letter and certain personal items. “The will specifies that on this precise date these items are to be delivered to you in the presence of her legal representative. It also requires you to examine them without witnesses.”
“Ms. Foster, I should warn you that I feel under no obligation to do anything my late wife’s will requires me to do. Especially since Thérèse died fifteen years ago.”
“I do realize that this is an unusual situation, Mr. Stone, although not without legal precedent—”
“Mortmain,” adds Edward quietly. “Posthumous control over one’s estate.”
John Stone nods, recalling their conversation in Lincoln’s Inn Fields.
“Should you prefer not to take delivery of the letter and the gift, that is, of course, your prerogative. In such a case, I am under instructions to destroy them both by fire at the earliest opportunity, and preferably in your presence.”
John Stone raises an eyebrow and exchanges glances with Edward. “I can see why you thought it wise to wake me,” he says.
“I am, of course, legally bound to follow my instructions to the letter,” says Ms. Foster.
“Then,” says John Stone, “let’s get on with it.”
“The crate was nailed down and sealed in your late wife’s presence,” says the solicitor. “I thought it might be useful to bring along Jim, our firm’s handyman, so that he can open it for you.”
John Stone acknowledges him with a nod of the head. The handyman, who has composed his face into as disinterested an expression as he can manage, roots about in his toolbox. He makes short work of levering open the crate and, kneeling down next to it, removes quantities of crumpled paper onto the carpet. John Stone and Edward exchange bemused glances; when they look back, the handyman has plunged his arms deep into the crate and is lifting out a small wooden chest. Jim places the chest on a glass coffee table as carefully as if it were a bomb. He then stirs around the paper in the crate with his screwdriver. “Looks like that’s it,” he says. An aromatic smell pervades the air.
“Cedarwood,” remarks John Stone. “Insects don’t like it. It keeps away moths.” As Jim busies himself breaking up the packaging and putting it into the heavy plastic sack he has brought here for the purpose, John Stone steps toward the glass table and makes as if to lift the lid of the box.
“Please, don’t,” says Ms. Foster. “The will specifies no witnesses. I should also say that you are requested to read a letter from you wife prior to examining the contents of the box.”
John Stone shakes his head and laughs. “Oh, Thérèse!”
Ms. Foster opens the clasp of her handbag and draws out a long vellum envelope that has been secured with Thérèse’s own seal. She holds it out to him. The glossy wax is black. John Stone hesitates before taking it. For an instant, his imagination plays tricks with him, and the lawyer’s hand is transformed into the hand of his late wife. Her almond-shaped nails, her creamy, freckled skin and prominent knuckles. Mortmain. He pulls Thérèse’s letter from her lawyer’s grasp and feels his stomach lurch.
“My thanks for your forbearance,” says Ms. Foster. “We wanted to be scrupulous in carrying out the wishes of our late client. She was a remarkable woman.”
The solicitor’s comment unsettles John Stone. At Stowney House, where Thérèse did so much to antagonize Martha and Jacob, he never hears a good word said about his estranged wife. He feels a pinprick of guilt.
“You met her, then?”
“Oh, yes. On several occasions. We were grateful to her—we had only recently set up our firm. All the lawyers in our firm are women—and she was very supportive of our venture. In fact, she put a lot of business our way. If I might say so, she was quite a character.”
John Stone has a sudden vision of a whole life about which he knew little and rarely enquired. He feels his face drop. “Yes, Thérèse was . . . quite a character.”
Edward de Souza, ever attentive, steers everyone out of the room as soon as he can then returns to ask his client how he is bearing up—physically and emotionally. “I’m sorry I couldn’t spare you this pantomime, John—I hope it hasn’t been too upsetting for you.”
“Thérèse always had a flair for drama.”
Edward looks at the letter pincered between his client’s thumb and index finger. “Well, I suggest that you burn it or read it as quickly as possible and then get on with your life. You know where I am if you need me.”
“Thank you,” says John Stone and, as lies are sometimes more expedient than the truth, he adds: “Don’t worry, my friend, Thérèse can’t hurt me now.”
Thérèse’s Gift
My dear Jean-Pierre,
Of necessity this must be an exercise in prediction, for I have the arrogance (as you will doubtless judge it to be) to attemp
t to direct my affairs when I am no longer a part of this world. Of course, no one knows where lightning will next strike, and I can only pray that you, and another person of whom I must speak, are safe and well on the date that my lawyers will attempt to deliver this, my final letter, to you.
You see, I have a gift for you—a late gift—and one that I hope, from the bottom of my heart, that you will cherish. But first you must allow me to unburden myself of certain matters. We have each long been a constant in the other’s life and for that I am grateful. Nevertheless, I am not prone to sentimentality and do not fool myself that ours was a love match. It was in the spirit of revenge for my mother’s incarceration that I first sought you out, and in the hope of children who would survive you that you married me. Fate arranged our union—after all, what other choice was open to us? No one, Jean-Pierre, has a higher opinion of you than I, but even you have the propensity to be blind when it concerns your own situation. You have said at one time and another that you have found me to be difficult, cruel, unpredictable, and proud. I willingly admit to the sin of pride—how else, as a woman born at the time that I was, could I have held my own in a world run by men? But as for the rest, I say to you that the heart, like everything else, is subject to the laws of cause and effect.
Did you truly not notice your young wife falling in love with her own husband? It is better that I believe that you did not. Your recent discovery of Martha in the workhouse, and your efforts to bring her back from the edge of insanity, preoccupied you. I understood this and tried to be patient, which is not (as I do not need to tell you) in my nature. Unrequited love weakens and diminishes, turns sweet to sour. It was around that time that I discovered the cipher for your journals. As you kept them hidden from me, naturally I read them all. I learned about the woman with whom I could never compete, and of whom you never spoke—except in a thousand oblique ways to which I now held the key. It was a veiled allusion to Isabelle d’Alembert, following a lapse in temper on my part, that caused me to leave you in the first year of our marriage. And it was while I was nursing my wounds that I discovered I was carrying your child. How overjoyed I was! I told myself that even if you might find me wanting in comparison to your first love—who lived but a few paltry decades—at least I could bear you a sempervivens child. Soon afterward I miscarried. I stayed away until I was myself again. My pride would not permit me to admit to you my failure. Over the course of our union there were other reconciliations and other miscarriages. Suffice it to say that I was driven to a secret despair. It was easier for me to deceive you. The last thing I wanted was your pity, nor did I wish to see your heart break. I saw how you yearned for a child you would not have to bury. Doubtless it is your longing for family that leads you to tolerate the company that you keep at Stowney House. Let us both acknowledge that it was better for me to live apart. In truth, dependence made me weak. Alone, I refused to be afraid.