by Deryn Lake
“I mustn’t be late. I’ve got a lot of work to do before the concert.”
“Are you nervous?”
“Finnan,” said Sidonie, turning to look at him, “I am absolutely petrified.”
“I’ll be there to cheer you on,” he answered.
And though, normally, she would have made some trivial reply about not being able to manage without him, Sidonie unexpectedly found herself saying seriously, “I’m counting on it.”
*
The engagement at the Wigmore Hall had been booked some eighteen months earlier by Sidonie’s agent, Rod Rees, the unlikely product of an Italian prisoner-of-war and a Welsh girl from the valleys who had “got into trouble”, as Rod liked to tell it, rolling his big Italianate eyes and passing a hand over the strangely ginger hair which had been inherited from his mother’s side.
“Pwy sy’n fel ni?” he would say whenever Sidonie, or any other of his clients for that matter, was waiting anxiously in the wings.
“Who’s like us?”
“That’s what I said, Sid bach. That’s what I said.”
Rod was not only a fluent Welsh speaker but also had an excellent command of Italian, German and French. Furthermore, he was the only person in the world that Sidonie allowed to call her Sid. He was also a famous lover, but though his amorous pursuits were spoken of with bated breath in musical circles, Rod made it a rule never to have an affair with a client nor to marry any of the many women who chased after him.
“Love ’em and leave ’em, that’s my motto,” he would say cheerfully.
“You’ll be lonely when you’re old.”
“I don’t intend to get old. I shall content myself with being a grand seigneur.”
“You’re incorrigible,” Sidonie would reply.
“If that means I don’t need any encouragement, you’re quite right.”
But for all Rod’s amorous intrigues — his affectionate nickname amongst the musicians for whom he acted was Randy Roddy — he was a fine agent, tough and capable, and a man who became a personal friend of everyone he represented.
Now he stood in the Green Room of the Wigmore Hall with Sidonie, who felt that her face was probably the same colour as her long emerald dress, as she stared miserably at the photographs of all the eminent people who had performed there in the past.
“Now, now, Sid bach. Pwy sy’n fel ni? There’s no need to be afraid, you know, you were a smash hit last time you played here, remember?”
“But I was barely out of nappies. Now I’ve a reputation of sorts!”
“Oh give over! You caused a sensation and you’ve been building steadily ever since. Anyway, your new harpsichord will bring you luck.”
It already stood on the stage. Delivered to the Wigmore Hall that very afternoon, then freshly tuned.
“If only I could have it,” Sidonie wailed. “I’ve had to warm up on a piano.”
But it was just at that second the two-minute-call came and Rod said his famous last words of encouragement, always the same, almost a talisman, before he joined the audience.
“Give the buggers hell, bach.”
“Oh God,” answered Sidonie, knowing that she was about to die, probably in public.
And then she was on, standing in the spotlight, bowing, her beautiful hair falling forward as she did so. In the audience Jannie gave an audible sniff and Finnan O’Neill felt tears in his eyes as Sidonie’s gallant heart and his met in his imagination and all her tension conveyed itself to him. Then the moment passed. She took her seat at the harpsichord and allowed herself to become the medium through whose fingers poured the sound of a sparkling piece by the Spanish composer, Soler. There was utter silence in the hall and Finnan’s tears dried on his cheeks as he saw his neighbour and new friend pick up the audience and take them with her into another world. He had never witnessed anything quite like it nor had he ever felt such a surge of pride. Then, when wave upon wave of applause came and he saw the bright flame of a girl bend her head in acknowledgment, he clapped till his hands grew hot.
“Exquisite,” said Jannie, clutching his arm. “Isn’t she superb!”
“I didn’t know,” answered Finnan truthfully, “I honestly didn’t know. I’d expected she would be good, but nothing like this.”
“She almost seems possessed.”
“I suppose every great musician must be.”
“That she most certainly is. A great musician. I must tell the others.”
But Finnan was no longer listening, ready for the next piece as Sidonie put her hands to the keyboard once more. Very vaguely, the doctor was aware that the man behind him gave a deep sigh as she started to play again, but paid no attention to it.
Sidonie though, looking into the audience for the first time as her programme drew towards its end, was horrified to see that her ex-husband Nigel Beltram was not only amongst the crowd but sitting directly behind Finnan and Jannie. Just for a second she felt herself lose concentration as she registered the fact but then, like the true professional she was, gave even more to her playing and ended the evening triumphantly with a fiendish piece of fireworks by Scarlatti.
The applause was truly rapturous. To hear a brilliant soloist was really all the audience wanted but to have one so good to look upon was a bonus. At least half those present rose to their feet, Jannie and Finnan amongst them. Amidst the sound of cheers, Sidonie gave them an encore and then left the stage, suddenly drained of energy, dreading the inevitable meeting with the man to whom she had once been married.
“Nigel’s here,” said Rod, meeting her in the dressing room, picking his way amongst the bouquets of flowers. “Do you want me to keep him out?”
“You can’t,” Sidonie answered wearily. “I don’t think he’ll make a scene. Remember he’s got a junior ministerial post now.”
“That wouldn’t stop the bugger. You know my opinion of MPs. All a load of crooks and creeps.”
“Which is he?”
“Both, bach, both.”
And as if that were a signal the door opened at precisely that moment and the man whose wife Sidonie had been for three extremely wretched years appeared wearing his stars-in-the-eyes expression. Without saying a word Nigel put his hands on her shoulders, held Sidonie at arm’s length, and stared deeply into her face as if the secret of her talent lay there and he might somehow unlock it. It was a pose, as everything he did was a pose, and his ex-wife wriggled out of his grasp. But not before he had said, “I had forgotten how lovely you are,” and kissed her swiftly on the brow. Over Nigel’s shoulder Sidonie could see Rod miming the act of vomiting and was forced to stifle an hysterical giggle.
“I was in raptures,” Nigel went on. “What a wonderful performance, my love.”
“Thank you for coming,” she answered coldly.
“Nothing but a three-line whip would have kept me away. I am your most ardent supporter and admirer — still,” he added in a heavy undertone.
Sidonie turned away, not wanting to look at him any more, loathing the way his early Greek-youth appearance was running rapidly to fat, how his breath smelt faintly of whisky.
“I still care,” Nigel continued, right beside her ear.
In the dressing-room mirror Sidonie saw both their reflections, hers alight with the triumph she had scored, though somehow made gaunt by Nigel’s presence; his, large and pale, over the hill at thirty-five, yet the fact that he was still sexually aroused by her made obvious by the shaking of his plump white hands.
“Well I don’t,” she answered firmly, and turned to face him.
The door opened again and several people erupted in simultaneously, two of whom, Sidonie was delighted to see, were the Irish doctor and Jannie, who wore a vintage purple evening dress which did not become her.
“I think you had the fairy’s kiss in your cradle,” said Finnan, coming over and giving her a peck on the cheek. “For sure I’ve never heard anything like it. You’re a genius, so you are.”
“You enjoyed it?”
/> “Enormously. I felt so proud.”
“Beltram,” said Nigel, interrupting and offering his hand. “Nigel Beltram. I’m the ex-Mr Brooks, if you see what I mean.”
He laughed boyishly and Sidonie noticed that his expression had changed again, this time to his all-lads-together look, a stance adopted a great deal at election times.
“Finnan O’Neill,” the doctor answered, shook the extended hand and turned back to Sidonie. “You haven’t forgotten that we’re going to dinner?”
“Of course not.”
“Then I’ll leave you to your fans. Shall I bring the car round in fifteen minutes?”
“Make it twenty and I’ll be ready.”
“Fine. Goodbye, Mr Beltram. No doubt we shall meet again.”
“No doubt,” said Nigel, and nodded curtly, his bonhomie abruptly vanished. “Who the hell was that?” he asked of Finnan’s departing back.
“It’s really none of your business but actually he’s one of my new neighbours. There’s another one over there.” And Sidonie waved to Jannie, who waved back enthusiastically.
“You’ve moved?”
“Yes, to Kensington. And now, Nigel, you really must excuse me. There’re some people I’d like to talk to.”
And with that she walked rapidly away, leaving her ex-husband to the mercies of Rod Rees, who descended on him like an avenging Welsh angel, his dislike of parliamentarians in general second only to his dislike of Nigel himself.
It took nearly an hour for the dressing room to clear by which time Finnan had returned, his car parked somewhere illegal. But eventually he and Sidonie managed to retrieve it and make for Brünnhilde’s, a restaurant owned by an ex-opera singer who specialised in after-theatre suppers. By the time the meal was finished and that most exciting of evenings eventually over, the elated musician at last ready to go home, it was past two o’clock in the morning.
“Thanks for everything,” she said as the Irishman saw her to the door of the Garden Flat.
“Thanks for being so talented,” he said, then kissed her rapidly on the lips and vanished up the stairs to his own apartment.
Sidonie stared after him, part of her slightly disappointed that he had made no attempt to seduce her, another part glad that this most pleasant of relationships was not about to become complicated. And yet her vanity was piqued despite the fact that even if Finnan had suggested he spend the rest of the night with her she wouldn’t have had the energy to do much about it.
With her thoughts re-enacting the concert, her meeting with Nigel, her meal with Finnan, Sidonie went out into the garden for a last breath of air before she went to bed. And then a need to stroll came over her and she went through the door in the wall and out into Holland Walk. Drawn as always by some inexplicable compulsion she found her footsteps turning in the direction of Holland House, and in the inconstant moonlight went up the avenue towards the house.
As with all London parks, Holland Park was closed at night but Sidonie had discovered on her many trips of exploration that there was a secret way in. The path leading to the youth hostel which was situated both in the east wing and in some new buildings just beyond it, was never closed and by going up this and into the courtyard that lay beside the wing, an ornamental pool at its centre, it was possible to get through to Nightwalk. This she now did without knowing why she felt drawn to do so.
And then she stared in amazement. From where she was, directly opposite the house, she could see that it was ablaze with light, that somewhere musicians, playing on what sounded like original instruments, were rendering a lively air.
‘A concert,’ thought Sidonie, ‘a late night concert.’
But who would be making such a noise at three o’clock in the morning? And where was the audience if this was a theatrical event?
The moon had just gone behind a cloud yet it seemed in the half-light that the steps leading to the courtyard were not in their usual place, that the Inigo Jones gateway had vanished. Instead, it appeared she stood at an iron railing fence which came up to her chest in height, so that she was able to see above it without difficulty.
To her amazement Sidonie realised that Holland House was brightly illuminated by torches which lit the upper balconies above the arcades, while every window was alight with candles. She could distinctly see the shapes of people passing to and fro, their shadows thrown up in silhouette. It was almost as if she were having the dream again, the dream in which she had seen the house restored, but this time Sidonie knew she was awake. There was no question of it. She had not even sat down since the concert but instead gone straight out for a walk. There was no conceivable way in which she could have fallen asleep. And yet she was seeing the past as clearly as if it were actually happening.
And then, without warning, the Joshua Reynolds girl became visible on the steps leading to the front door, looking over in her direction. Sidonie stood stock-still and stared in a kind of terrified delight, aware that this was a psychic phenomenon yet too enraptured to be afraid. She saw the texture of jet hair in the torchlight, the sway of a hooped dress made of some heavy silver material, the toss of green feathers as the girl moved her head. Then came the sound of feet crunching on gravel and out of the darkness the musician saw a man in a tricorne hat and cloth topcoat running towards her.
Her trance-like state came to an end and Sidonie shot off in the direction of the path through to the east wing, praying that she would find it, that the entire topography had not changed, that she could get back to the Garden Flat and away from this house in which the ghosts of the past were holding a Ball in a ballroom that had long, long ago ceased to exist.
Chapter Five
“I do vow and declare,” said Lady Sarah Lennox roundly, “that I shall never wear black again, so I won’t. It don’t suit me.”
“Nor I,” answered Susan, “I look a regular pale little milksop in dark clothes.”
“Well goodbye and good riddance to it say I. Tonight I shall wear crimson.”
“Won’t that be considered a little extreme?”
“I don’t give a fig,” Sarah replied carelessly. “It’s Twelfth Night after all.”
“Whatever you wear he will only have eyes for you.”
“He can look where he pleases.”
“You’re a liar, Sarah Lennox,” said Susan knowingly. “Were His Majesty to gaze at anyone but you you’d go into mighty high stirrup.”
Sarah grinned. “You read me too well, that’s your trouble.”
And with that the two young ladies of Holland House burst out laughing, then grew serious again as the extremely important matter of what shoes, fans, headdresses and jewellery should be worn at the Twelfth Night Ball came under earnest discussion.
Nine months had passed since Sarah’s fifteenth birthday, a nine months during which the fate of the entire nation had changed. On 25th October, 1760, King George II had risen at six, looked to see if all his money was in his purse — according to the waspish Horace Walpole at least — and called for his chocolate. An hour later he had gone into the water closet and there he had dropped down dead, hitting his head on the wooden seat as he fell.
“What a place to end it all!” Fox had commented wryly to Caroline.
“A little undignified indeed.”
“Ah well, the old man had had a good run. Had he lived another sixteen days he would have been seventy-seven.”
“And now we have a boy of twenty-two in his stead.”
“Plus that boy’s mother and her lover,” Fox had answered darkly, and drawn his black brows into two straight lines as he scowled.
For no one knew, as yet, just how influenced by Princess Augusta the new King would be, and this unknown factor was of great importance to the Foxes.
While still Prince of Wales, George III, as he had now become, had not tried to hide the fact that he was attracted to Sarah. Indeed on the half dozen or so occasions he had seen the girl since their first meeting, the young man had paid her as much attention as was all
owable within the confines of royal etiquette. And now to this, his very first private Twelfth Night Ball, with the period of mourning just over and everyone allowed to dress in bright colours once more, but still with only a limited company of guests, Sarah and her family had received their invitations.
“Significant, what?” Fox had said speculatively.
“As long as His Majesty’s mother doesn’t think so,” Caroline had answered with asperity, putting all their concern into words.
“That meddlesome woman!”
“The King will have to watch he’s not petticoat ruled.”
“Unless it be by a petticoat that dwells beneath this roof.”
“Mr Fox, you’re scheming!” Caroline had said accusingly.
“I’ve told you before, you are to let things take their natural course.”
“I’m all for nature, my dear, as you should know.” He winked a large and brilliant eye. “But I am also for giving it a helping hand from time to time.”
“What do you intend?”
“Wait and see,” replied her husband. “Wait and see.”
So it was with certain trepidation that Caroline handed her black gown and coat — her open robe and petticoat — to her maid for storage in her clothes chest and, after bathing in her bedroom, put on a rich and elegant lilac satin outfit. Just as glad as the younger people to be out of mourning for the late King, Caroline surveyed herself solemnly in the mirror as purple ostrich feathers were placed on her head and fastened into place with two silver combs. But her serious Dutch features still stared back despite the finery and Caroline sighed.
“La, I vow I’m getting old. What a dullard I appear.”
She picked up a little brush, dusted some coloured powder onto her cheeks, then rouged her lips as well. After this, feeling a little daring, Caroline stuck a patch in the shape of a heart high on her cheekbone.
“You’re very in looks tonight,” said Fox, appearing from his dressing room.
“I had thought just the opposite.”
“Nonsense.” He came over and kissed her, his white wig so close that it tickled her nose. “You’re as lovely as the day I married you.”