by Deryn Lake
“And what are you thinking about, Sarah? You look mighty serious.” And with that Henry Fox broke the train of thought of his young sister-in-law.
He was leaning forward on the table, a glass of claret in his hand, his large eyes smiling lazily. “Will you be happy here, do you believe?” he added, almost as an afterthought.
“I am sure I will, Sir. And to be honest I was contemplating your marriage to Caroline and remembering how extremely romantic it all was.”
Fox burst out laughing. “It was indeed. Well, there’s time for you yet, though I wouldn’t recommend a runaway wedding. Which reminds me, an old admirer of yours has been asking after you, in fact was delighted to hear you are taking up residence as one of his neighbours.”
Sarah shook her head, puzzled. “An old admirer? But I have none. To whom do you refer, Mr Fox?”
He chuckled again, a deep inviting sound. “Why, your old flame, goose. The one whose heart you stole when you were only five years old.”
His sister-in-law stared incredulously. “You don’t mean the King?”
“Of course I do. His Majesty was overjoyed to hear you are returning to us and has asked me to take you to Kensington Palace when he is next in situ.”
“What’s this?” put in Susan.
Sarah grimaced. “A childhood tale and a horribly precocious one. I was taken to the Broad Walk one day by my French governess in company with my sister Louisa, and when the King passed by I broke away and rushed up to him.”
“You did what?”
“I was only five but such a little prig. Would you believe your ears that I spoke to him in French?”
“What did you say?”
“‘Comment vous portez vous, Monsieur le Roi? Vous avez une grande et belle maison ici, n’est ce pas?’ Oh, I blush for shame to think of it now.”
“His Majesty considered it sweet,” Caroline interrupted. “He insisted that Sarah be taken to Kensington Palace when he was next there.”
“And did she go?”
“Many, many times. He liked her, you see. He said that Lady Sarah was always cheerful, and to test it, on one visit he snatched her up and put her in a large oriental jar, shutting down the lid.”
“How cruel!”
“Ah,” said Henry Fox, “but Sarah won. Instead of crying she sat down inside and began to sing ‘Malbruk s’en va t’en guerre’.”
Lady Susan’s eyes grew large and round and her mouth opened in surprise, like that of a nesting bird. “How brave of you! I should have panicked.”
“Nonsense,” answered Fox benignly.
Caroline’s angular face glowed at the memory. “The King could not do enough for Sarah after that. No wonder His Majesty hasn’t forgotten you from that day to this.”
“Well, I can scarce remember him. Except to know that he’s a little red-faced cock bantam of a man, all struts and stares.”
“That, my dear sister,” Fox put in drily, “will be enough of that kind of comment if you want to get on in Society.”
“Don’t worry, Sir, I’ll watch my manners I assure you. Unless King George tries to put me in a jar again; in which case, look out!”
The Paymaster laughed and after a while, the meal being done, the family left table together, not standing on ceremony, and retired to the Crimson Drawing Room for a while before going to bed. Outside the night was raw but Holland House stood solid and warm, ablaze with candles, fires glowing in all the principal rooms and bedrooms. The feet of the night watchman crunched on the gravel of Night Walk as he did his rounds, reassuring those within that all was well.
Squeezing close to Caroline on the giltwood sofa, sinking into the long comfortable cushion covered with crimson velvet, Sarah took her sister’s hand in hers.
“Thank you for offering to look after me. It’s going to be wonderful here.”
The bony Dutch features made their usual transformation as Caroline smiled in the firelight.
“I know it, dearest.”
Unsuccessfully fighting off a yawn, Sarah said, “And now if you will forgive me I would rather like to go to bed.”
Caroline stood up. “I’ll take you to your room. Lucy is already there with the warming pan and there’s a good fire, so you won’t be cold.”
“This house could never be that,” Sarah answered gallantly.
But indeed there was a chill as the sisters left the Crimson Drawing Room by a far door and traversed the next room, a comfortably large den which Caroline had given over entirely to the use of her three sons, Stephen, Charles James and Harry, only the youngest of whom was at home, though by now comfortably asleep in his nursery in the west wing. This Boys’ Room opened onto the passageway which connected with the east wing and the bedrooms, and Caroline and Sarah now made their way along this to Sarah’s room at the north end.
“It has such beautiful views,” said the younger woman as they went in. “I saw them just as the sun went down.”
“I hope you’ll find the room comfortable as well.”
Sarah gazed round at the elegantly draped bed, at the shining mirror lit by two large candles in silver sticks, at the cheerful fire, the dancing light of the flames reflected in the rosewood furniture.
“I could not ask for more.” She threw her arms round her sister’s neck as exuberantly as her sudden state of fatigue would allow. “Goodnight, Caroline dear.” And Sarah gave her a kiss that was both grateful and affectionate.
“Good night, my love, sleep well and long. I will see you at breakfast which is served in the Oak Room.”
And with that Lady Caroline Fox left the room. Sarah turned to look round her appreciatively once more and then called to Lucy who stood by the bed vigorously applying the warming pan.
“You can help me undress now.”
“Yes, my Lady.”
The long process began. First the open robe, lavishly embroidered and with a border of braids, frills and flowers, was removed, then the many petticoats beneath, followed by the bodice cut with a downward point and trimmed with pleated lace, then the great hoops made of rods of osier came off, until finally Sarah stood in her stays, longing for the moment when they would be undone and she could breathe freely once more.
“Shall I unlace you now, Lady Sarah?”
“Yes please, Lucy. I feel as if I’m about to expire.”
And then the daily torture was over and, slipping into her night-rail, a comfortable loose gown worn over her shift, Sarah sat down before the dressing-table mirror while Lucy unpinned her hair and brushed it through with long, infinitely soothing, strokes.
She was a fine country girl, born in Kensington and brought up away from the stale air of London. Yet despite her peasant stock she had a bucolic grace, there being a lithe, natural, almost sensuous movement about everything she did.
“How old are you, Lucy?” asked Sarah idly.
“Sixteen, my Lady.”
“I shall be fifteen next February, on the 25th to be precise.”
“Then we’re much of an age,” Lucy ventured, shooting a quick look at her new mistress to see if she had gone too far. But Lady Sarah was smiling through her yawns.
“Yes, indeed,” she said. “And now you can go. I am quite capable of getting into bed on my own.”
“Do you have everything you need, my Lady?”
“I shall ring if I require anything further.”
“Very good, Ma’am.”
And then, for the first time since she had caught the packet boat for England, Sarah was at long last alone with her thoughts, experiencing all the anguish of one who has been uprooted from her childhood home and thrown into a strange world. Yet what was there to fear? She was in the safe and capable hands of her sister and her husband, one of the wiliest politicians of his day. A dazzling future seemed assured.
The room grew quieter, the only noise the ticking of a small clock that stood on the mantelpiece and the crackle and spit of logs burning low in the grate. The silence of Holland House suddenly seemed both en
ormous and ominous and Sarah found herself straining her ears for any sounds of life. With a sense almost of fear the girl half rose from the dressing table to go towards the bed. And it was then that she saw as a reflection in the mirror that the door to her room was slowly opening behind her. Too nervous to turn round, she gazed into the glass and into the eyes of the woman who stood in the opening.
It was an elegant face that stared at Sarah over her shoulder, quite pointed at the chin and with wide high cheekbones beneath a pair of tilting golden eyes. The mouth was full, almost large, and looked as if normally it would be curving into a smile. But now it was open in an attitude of fright while those usually laughing eyes were dilated and full of fear, tempered by a certain curiosity. The woman wore no cap or pinner on her head and as she moved slightly, Sarah saw the sheen and bounce of hair the colour of a red setter’s, of the dark long-headed poppy that waves in the cornfields and waste places of Ireland.
Just for a second the eyes of the two women met and held, and then as quickly as she came the intruder was gone and Sarah was left wondering who on earth it could have been who had wandered into her bedroom without knocking at this hour on a winter’s night. But then, she considered, it wasn’t really so late, it was only that she had retired early. Obviously her sister’s or Lady Susan’s maid had mistaken her door for theirs. Yet, if that were the case, why was she breathing quite so hard and why was her heart thumping as if she were afraid?
“Tiredness,” said Sarah sensibly, and putting her night cap firmly on her head, blew out the candles and climbed into the large and comfortable bed.
Chapter Two
The first Christmas at Holland House, the Christmas of 1759, proved to be by far the most exciting Sarah had ever enjoyed. Certainly the festive season in Ireland, always celebrated by Lord Kildare at his country seat Carton, situated in County Kildare, Leinster, had been uninhibited and joyful, but this particular occasion, perhaps because of the fact that she was growing up and made aware of it by one memorable event, was far more special than any other that had gone before.
In the second week of December, Caroline’s two elder boys returned from Eton. They were, of course, Sarah’s nephews but their ages made a nonsense of this relationship and the great house was at once alive with the laughter and shrieks of the young people as they danced and played cards and organised amateur theatricals, preparing for a Christmas performance. The eldest of the group was Susan Fox-Strangeways, who had celebrated her seventeenth birthday. Then came Stephen Fox, born on 20th February, 1745, followed by Sarah, born exactly five days later in the same year and Charles James, who had come into the world on 24th January, 1749. The youngest was Harry, born several years afterwards.
Stephen, known to the young set as Ste — much to the annoyance of his mother — was already showing signs of the portliness which had early engulfed his father. His face was plump, his lips heavy, his brows dark, and Sarah considered him the ugliest boy in Christendom. But for all that he had his parents’ charm and Henry Fox’s trick of endearing himself by means of his mercurial personality.
Charles James was a very different creature. At ten he had the dark Dutch appearance of his mother and, unbelievably, in that closed and clever young face there was a definite resemblance to Charles II, most strikingly so about the eyes. His father, who adored and spoilt him, as he did all his sons, called him Mr Thumb.
And now Mr Thumb was in high fig, leaping about the room wearing one of Susan’s petticoats, a small transvestite piping, “Comment vous portez vous, Monsieur le Roi? How are you, my dear fellow? Is that what you’re going to say to him, Sarah? Is it? Is it?”
“Oh shush, Thumb, do,” his young aunt answered, rushing at him in mock attack. “You know very well that I shall comport myself nobly and as befits my station. I shall make a deep curtsey, so —”, she demonstrated “— and afterwards engage His Majesty in polite conversation.”
“Do you think he’ll stick you in a pot again?” Ste wondered aloud.
Like many fattish boys he had rather a plummy voice and this remark, made so seriously, sent both Sarah and Susan into fits of laughter.
“I do hope so,” his aunt answered. “I’ll be the talk of London for weeks if he does.”
“You will be that anyway,” observed Charles acutely, “with those handsome black looks of yours.”
“I suppose I shall just pale into insignificance by comparison,” said Susan, with just the slightest touch of petulance.
“You,” answered Charles smoothly, “are the beautiful rose to Sarah’s tiger lily. How could you pass unnoticed?”
“Now there’s a silver-tongued brat if ever one sought one,” commented Ste fruitily. “Shall we dance?”
And with that the quartet formed up for a minuet, laughing even more as Mr Thumb fell over in his improvised gown.
Spirits were high that day and small wonder at it. That morning, that very morning, had come an invitation from George II himself for both Lady Sarah and Lady Susan, in company with the older Foxes of course, to attend him at a Drawing Room to be held at Kensington Palace, where the King had taken up residence in order to celebrate the Twelve Days.
Drawing Rooms were a weekly gathering given by His Majesty to which were invited only select guests. Sometimes such occasions could be crowded and uncomfortable but in general consisted of a well-regulated and elegant assembly of the best company. And now the two young ladies of Holland House were to go and make their curtseys, and as this was deemed the moment when they finally stepped forth into Polite Society the occasion could not be paralleled for excitement and anticipation.
“Do you think the King will recognise me?” Sarah whispered to Susan.
“Of course he will, goose.”
“But I’ve changed.”
“Only to grow beautiful and no man, even an old one like the King, could complain about that.”
The distant striking of a grandfather clock in the Saloon on the floor below broke through the strains of the minuet which all four young people were humming loudly in order to dance.
“’S’blood,” said Ste morosely. “Three o’clock. We’ll have to change for dinner soon.”
“One more measure,” pleaded Charles, but was promptly outvoted and the four reluctantly went their separate ways to be dressed for the main meal of the day, due to be served in an hour’s time. Once in the privacy of her own bedroom, however, Sarah hugged herself with pleasure. After all the years that had passed since the funny little man had played with her so childishly, tickling and squeezing and crawling on all fours, he had not forgotten her. Instead His Majesty had paid Sarah the great compliment of insisting that she be brought to meet him as soon as he returned to his Palace at Kensington.
“Good old King George,” she said, and jumped when Lucy stepped out from beside the great bed, wagging her finger in playful reproof.
“That’s no way to speak of the King, my Lady.”
“It’s every way. He’s a kind soul to think of me so.”
“And what excitement, eh Ma’am? The dressmaker’s taken on two assistants to get the gowns ready in time.”
“Mine is to be of gold brocade with fine lace and silk for trimming.”
“I know. I’ve taken a peep at the material.”
Mistress and servant laughed together, then Lucy said, “Oh dear, I must start on your toilette if you are to be ready in time. Now, sit at the dressing table, do.”
Still smiling, Sarah did so, staring into the mirror at her reflection, remembering the night when the strange woman had stood in the doorway behind her, a woman whom she had not subsequently been able to identify as a member of Caroline’s household.
“Is Holland House haunted?” she asked idly now, wondering about it.
Lucy stopped her tortuous twisting of Sarah’s hair and stared at her.
“They do say an old man in Jacobean dress walks through the library at night. It used to be the Long Gallery once on a day.”
Sarah shook
her head impatiently and some of Lucy’s handiwork fell back into its natural dark waves.
“No, not an old man. I meant does a woman haunt the place?”
“Not as I’ve heard of, my Lady. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, for no reason really. It’s just that one night, the very first night I was ever here to be precise, I was sitting where I am now and I thought the door opened behind me and a woman stood there and looked in.”
“It must have been one of the maids.”
“That’s what I thought at the time but when I asked there was nobody answering her description, and I most certainly haven’t seen her since.”
“What did she look like?”
“She had wonderful hair, very rich in shade and texture. A colour like autumn leaves. Not brassy or coppery but subtle, if you understand me?”
“I understand all right,” answered Lucy. “And I understand that if you don’t sit still I’ll never get your hair done and then what trouble will I be in?” She added, “My Lady,” to show that cheeky though she might be she had not forgotten her place and would never seriously overstep the boundary that lay between her and the daughter of a peer of the realm. Particularly one who had been remembered by that most kindly of monarchs, George II.
“Well, if you don’t do it properly I might set the ghost on you, Lucy Bell.”
The girl shrieked. “That’ll be enough of that, Lady Sarah. I’ll never sleep at nights.”
“Of course you will. It was only a dream I had. There wasn’t anything there in reality.”
“I expect that’s the truth of it. Now hold still. I do hope Lady Caroline isn’t expecting me to put up your hair for the Drawing Room.”