The Many Lives of John Stone
* * *
The King permitted me to stay with my father every year, which was a source of much happiness. While I was at court, increasingly buried in the affairs of state, my father took to sending me a weekly letter. He painted a picture of daily life in his own small kingdom: of cabbage fields decimated by pigeons, of pregnant milkmaids and a terrier that caught more than fifty rats in one night. Those letters were an antidote to the rarefied life of Versailles, and I continued to read them regularly, for comfort, even after his death.
As for the Spaniard, the Swedish court informed the King that he had been lost at sea. His supposed drowning did not stop me from subsequently meeting with him, on several occasions, at my father’s house and also in his house in the Cévennes. Unlike the King, the Spaniard accepted that, in the end, no one can dictate the course of another man’s life.
I possess portraits of all my Friends. They are infinitely precious to me. When the Spaniard was an old man I commissioned a painting of him sitting in his gardens overlooking the River Tarn. The artist captured something of his spirit. When I look at that broad, lined forehead with its thick black brows, I picture him dancing a volta, or popping strawberries into his mouth one after another, far too quickly, or I see him coming after me, threatening me with his copy of Gracián when I refused to listen.
The Spaniard lived for many years in Suffolk, where he rebuilt his home in the marshes, on land that was almost an island. Always the scholar, when naming his sanctuary he put together the Saxon words for “holy place” and “island,” “stowe” and “ney.” Stowney House passed to me after his death, along with his house in the Cévennes and a considerable amount of gold.
* * *
Of Isabelle, what can I say when there is too much to tell? She was my life’s anchor: She tied me to the world, even after she had gone. When I doubted myself, Isabelle gave my life worth. With few interruptions, Bontemps, and later his son who succeeded him, ensured that she and I were able to meet, though never as often as I would have liked. Isabelle made it a rule never to talk of her life with Montclair, and I refused to torture myself by dwelling on her arranged marriage.
My suspiciously youthful looks obliged me to change my identity during Isabelle’s lifetime. I left the court and reappeared after a suitable period of time in a different wig and attire, presenting myself as a close relative of the version of myself I had left behind. Isabelle understood how much I hated living a lie. With her alone I could be myself: She knew my faults and my secrets. In spirit, she remained youthful, even though, by the end, to see us together you would have supposed us mother and son. Isabelle was, as she had promised to be, my first and my best Friend. She was tender, wise, cheerful, and true. When I took myself too seriously, she would tease me, and when the wheels of Versailles threatened to crush us, we would laugh rather than cry. Because of my Friend, I did not always feel alone.
Isabelle died at the age of forty-six, at the end of August, within a year of the Sun King, leaving behind a grieving family I saw only from afar. When Isabelle became convinced that she was going to die, she asked to meet with me, partly because she wanted to prepare me, and also because there was something she had long wanted to say.
“Jean-Pierre, I have watched you turn yourself into one of the cleverest men at court, but you are a servant, and you are not happy. Now is the time to dare leave Versailles and all its absurdities. You have given more than enough of yourself to the King. Leave. Discover what only you can be. Seek out other sempervivens for I cannot believe that there are not others like you in the world.”
Isabelle’s words troubled and convinced me in equal measure, although I recall that this was as nothing compared to the shock of hearing that she was dying. It did not seem possible that she could leave me: I needed her too much. Her illness was a long one. While she lived I would not consider leaving Versailles, and I never gave up hope that she would recover. But she did not. After her death, try as I might, I could not find the strength, alone, to do as she suggested and leave behind everything and everyone I knew. I had needed the strength of her friendship to do it, but she was no longer there to give it. Ultimately it took a revolution to convince me to leave.
I recall that it was Monsieur Bontemps’s son who broke the news to me that Isabelle had died. Unable to stay away, I rode through summer rain to the château where she had lived, and whose interior I had never seen. And so I entered her home, undisguised, for the first and last time. In the hall I met Montclair, who was, by then, heavy and purple-cheeked. If he recognized me he did not show it. I was shown to her bedchamber, where she still lay.
On entering, I saw an old woman dressed in black watching over her at the end of the bed; it was Isabelle’s aunt. Her grief was raw; her eyes were sunken and red. A look of bewilderment passed over her face when she saw me, but then faded. I must have looked like someone she used to know.
My eyes refused to rest on the form that lay beneath the sheets. Perhaps I did not want to make a memory of something that would henceforth haunt me: the last sight of my Friend. When I forced myself to look on that waxen face, I found that my Isabelle was no longer there. Her body was a carapace that I did not want to touch. As soon as I was able, I hurried from the room and ran out of the château—where I felt I had no right to be—and I rode away as fast as I could. The rain still fell, and thunder growled in the distance. I galloped through fields without once turning back until I reached a stream. There I dismounted, and waded into the water and howled. All around me swifts dived and swooped, filling the air with their sibilant calls. All I knew was that I did not want to go on without her, and I questioned the purpose of life if it only ends in death.
* * *
When the Sun King died, he was succeeded by his great-grandson, Louis XV, who was only five years old. A regent was appointed: Philippe II of Orléans—the son of Monsieur and Liselotte. The Sun King had entrusted the knowledge of my existence to the regent, who swore to tell it to the new monarch, and him alone, when he came of age. In the fullness of time, the regent passed on my secret to Louis XV, who passed it on to his grandson, Louis XVI. When the Revolution came, and the guillotine put an end to the monarchy, Louis XVI took it with him to the grave.
* * *
And so I passed from one master to another, a valued and increasingly trusted servant, until the Revolution finally shook me out of my dependency like a mother bird pushing a fledgling from its nest. When the blade struck Louis XVI’s head from his body, I effectively became a free man. What I would do with that freedom was another matter. I floundered then, dazed and confused, for it seemed to me that there was nothing to which I felt connected, as if I had been divorced from the human race and anything that I could call my own. For the first time, I properly considered Isabelle’s advice to me, and I determined to find more of my own kind.
During my wilderness years, I traveled the length and breadth of Europe, mostly as a mercenary, always drawn to stories of those who had lived long lives. I would fight for anyone who would pay me, and found that I enjoyed danger, telling myself that I did not care if I lived or I died. With the luck of the reckless, I had a knack for narrow escapes and grew popular among the ranks.
A few years after the battle of Waterloo, an English officer befriended me and persuaded me to follow him to Dover. I determined to visit the house in Suffolk that I had inherited from the Spaniard. The captain of the frigate that took me across the Channel asked for my name. He was not fond of the French, and decided to anglicize my name for the ship’s log. “I shall call you John,” he said. “But you need an English surname, too.” I told him that “pierre” meant “stone.” “That will do,” the captain said. “You shall be John Stone.” And so I have been, ever since.
Later, fate led me to a couple, a man of the cloth and his wife who devoted themselves to campaigning for social change: for the abolition of the slave trade and for the rights and freedoms of every man, woman, and child. After Versailles, their selfless, mode
st lives were an inspiration. They founded a charity that aimed to educate those deprived of schooling. It was through inviting me to help in a workhouse with which they had connections that they inadvertently changed my life. I discovered a woman who, as I came to realize over the course of many months, must also be a sempervivens. It is a compelling story though one I shall not tell here. That woman was Martha. I took her to Stowney House and nursed her back to health—at least as far as I was able—for life had dealt her so many cruel blows, I doubt she could have withstood another. In turn, Martha led me to Jacob. He was being pursued by the authorities, which had become a pattern in his life, and had been on the run for some time. Martha had been feeding him what scraps she could until she was taken to the workhouse against her will. Her road back to health and well-being was uneven and very long. When I was able to reunite her with her last child, a girl of fifteen years of age, she was transformed. Martha’s daughter lived nearby for almost seventy years; she never married, and lived and died in a cottage close to Stowney House where you also once resided. And so we have been a family in all but name: a curious one, but a family nonetheless. Stowney House continues to be our sanctuary, although for how much longer remains to be seen.
From time to time there was a fourth inhabitant who lived with us, a woman named Thérèse: She died some little while ago. If our paths cross again, perhaps we could talk further, face-to-face. Spark, please know that you are always welcome at Stowney House. However, after recent events, I shall understand if you prefer to stay away. If that is the case, let me take this opportunity of wishing you a long, happy, and useful life. I would also ask that, as someone who could have been a Friend to us, you respect our privacy and the sanctity of our home.
The Eternal Legacy
The idea of speaking to a lawyer worries her. Spark rehearses what she is going to say before keying in the number. Curiously, when the secretary puts her call through to Mr. de Souza—which she does immediately on hearing John Stone’s name—it is the lawyer, rather than Spark, who seems briefly tongue-tied. Of course, it’s easy to misinterpret people’s reactions over the phone. The lawyer sounds posh: His voice is deep and mellow, and he has what Mum would call a fruity laugh. In her mind’s eye Spark sees cuff links and shiny black shoes. The lawyer explains that as Mr. Stone’s letter remained unacknowledged for so long, his client had concluded that Miss Park did not wish to view the documents. In the circumstances, he says, he would prefer to contact Mr. Stone directly before arranging an appointment.
“He generally checks for my texts every day, though reception at Stowney House is appalling.”
“I know,” says Spark. “You have to walk right up the lane to get any kind of a signal—”
“Yes, of course—you’d know. What did Mr. Stone get you to do at Stowney House while you were there?”
“I worked in the archive room. I wasn’t there long in the end—”
“No, indeed. Why don’t I telephone you tomorrow morning? Hopefully I shall have been able to get in touch with Mr. Stone by then.”
“Thanks, but the thing is I’ve already reserved a seat on a train tomorrow morning. I’m meeting up with a friend in the National Gallery in the afternoon. If it’s not convenient—”
“No, no,” says Mr. de Souza. “You mustn’t change your plans.”
“How long do you think it would take me to read the notebooks?” she asks. “Presuming it’s still okay with Mr. Stone.”
“Oh, two or three hours, I should think. Depending on how fast a reader you are.”
* * *
Spark’s excitement builds as the early commuter train speeds south. She twists in her seat and presses her forehead against the glass, trying to blot out the meetings and constant phone calls, and other people’s lives going on all around her. After today—with any luck—she might have a few more hooks to hang her identity on. Unwanted love child of her dad’s landlady isn’t a lot to go on. If John Stone knew she was adopted all along, there must be a chance, at least, that the notebooks are connected in some way to her birth mother. All the same, she is preparing herself for disappointment. Just in case. Spark screws up her eyes against the sun’s glare. She’s probably done the right thing not telling Mum anything about it until she’s found out more.
* * *
Lincoln’s Inn Fields. The name sounds a little unlikely given its location. As instructed, she gets the tube to Holborn. She’s caught up in a flood tide of people and the enforced intimacy of the London rush hour. Swaying in the crush next to the carriage doors, her nose jammed into one guy’s T-shirt, treading on someone else’s toes when the driver applies the brakes, Spark soon learns the rules of the game in the London underground. Like everyone else around her, she behaves as if she’s inside her own invisible force field. It is a relief when she steps off the long escalator. She heads down Kingsway, her neck cricked, taking in every detail. At the corner of Africa House she spots the entrance to an alleyway that Mr. de Souza said she should look out for. A fruit seller has set out his colorful stall there. Over the rumble of the traffic he shouts out the price of strawberries. The alley leads Spark past an ancient tavern that puts her in mind of highwaymen, a café, and a gift shop; soon it opens up and she steps out of shade and into sunshine. In front of her is a great expanse of green, full of giant trees and surrounded by tall brick houses: Lincoln’s Inn Fields. It is tranquil and rather grand.
The fluttering sensation in her stomach reminds her of why she is here and what she might learn. The moment comes back to her when Mum pushed the envelope toward her across the blue kitchen table. The moment when it felt like the floor had turned into quicksand and Mum had stood by while the earth sucked her down. Whatever happens today, whatever she learns about herself, it’s not going to be that momentous—or that difficult. Spark takes a deep breath, glances down at John Stone’s note to remind herself of the address, and sets off to find his lawyer’s offices.
* * *
“Is this really necessary?” Spark asks Mr. de Souza as she studies the wording of the confidentiality agreement. Her shoulders start to tense. She must declare that she will not divulge the content of the text she is about to read to anyone. It’s having the same effect on her as seeing a policeman—she feels guilty without having done anything. Spark can keep a secret but this is serious stuff.
“As Mr. Stone’s lawyer, I have advised him that it is. It is my function to be cautious where my client is not.” Mr. de Souza looks clean, pink, and wholesome. He has beautiful hands. Although he has been unable to contact Mr. Stone, he says he has taken it upon himself to allow Spark to view the notebooks. It is what he believes his client would wish.
“Have you read them?” Spark asks.
“Let us say that I have an idea of their subject matter.”
The lawyer unscrews the top of his own black-and-gold fountain pen and passes it to her. Spark signs, wishing her signature was not so neat and childish. She slides the signed document back across the desk. Its edges flutter in a current of air and he places a paperweight onto it. Spark reaches out to touch it: It is made of heavy crystal and trapped within it is the seed head of a dandelion. She looks up to see Edward de Souza smiling at her.
“How fast a reader are you, Miss Park?”
“I’m fast.”
“Good. There are eight notebooks in all. As I have explained, they may not be removed from these offices. I have made a room available for you, and my secretary will provide refreshments as required.”
Mr. de Souza leads Spark down a corridor and introduces her to his secretary, a neat woman around Mum’s age, who greets her politely and returns to her work. He unlocks the door of a tiny storage room, lined with shelves. It smells of dust and has the vaguely caramel odor of old cardboard; it is only just big enough for a table and chair. There is a high window glazed with frosted glass that lets in a little air and the muffled sounds from the street. There is a carafe of water and a glass and, in the middle of the small table, a nea
t pile of green, soft-backed exercise books.
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” says Mr. de Souza. “Good luck.”
“Thank you,” says Spark, feeling as though she is about to start an exam.
“It’s a great pleasure to meet you, Miss Park,” he adds, closing the door behind him and pocketing the key. “Oh, and I’d be grateful if you would return them to me in person.”
Convinced that he has locked her in, Spark dives back to the door. To her relief, when she turns the tarnished brass knob, it opens. Spark returns to the table and sits, chin in her hands, staring at the ink-splattered green cover of Notebook 1. It’s too quiet. Anxiety washes over her in waves. If these books are a journey, she’s not sure she wants to set off right now. If she has to sign a document not to talk about them, does she want to risk going where these notebooks will take her? There’s a knock on the door, making Spark jump. The secretary asks her if she’d like a cup of coffee. “No, thank you,” Spark says automatically. Spark watches the secretary’s eyes slide over to the pile of unopened exercise books and, guiltily, she flips open the first cover.
“I won’t disturb you,” says the secretary. “You know where I am if you need anything.”
“Thanks very much,” says Spark.
The lines of sloping letters in blue-black ink draw her in. She reads the first line: 1685, Versailles, France. Then: They say that the grandeur of Versailles in the age of the Sun King has never been surpassed, although, human nature being what it is, one soon gets used to anything.
It’s a story, thinks Spark, and reads on. She turns the page, and then another.