by Deryn Lake
Sidonie stared at him. “What happened to him then?”
“Well, this is only an opinion, but I think he suffered from a metabolic disorder called porphyria. I became absolutely fascinated by that particular king when I was a medical student and made a study of his symptoms.”
“But wasn’t he treated for lunacy?”
“Of course he was, and I believe it was that that sent him over the edge and gave him a nervous breakdown. Two evil bastards got their hands on him, a pair of quack doctors, father and son. They invented what they called the strait-waistcoat and put the poor bugger in it. Do you realise that even the Prince Regent, not exactly his father’s champion to put it mildly, didn’t approve of them or their methods?”
Sidonie shook her head. “I knew none of this. Too busy sticking my nose into music books.”
“Horses for courses, my love. It’s the way of the world.” Finnan put his hand over hers. “Are we terribly different?”
“Terribly,” answered Sidonie, then laughed to show she didn’t really mean it, though by that time the Irishman had frowned.
“I think my ghost was probably his girlfriend,” she rattled on to cover the awkwardness.
Finnan looked sad. “The one he wanted to marry?”
“Yes, that’s her. Sarah Lennox by name.”
“If only things could have been different regarding that situation I think we might have been able to rewrite English history.”
“Why?”
“She’d have thrown those wretched quacks out even if she’d had to do it physically. There were no flies on that little baggage. Why do you think it’s Sarah? Did she live at Holland House?”
“That I haven’t yet found out. Her brother was the Duke of Richmond and his seat was at Goodwood. But where she lived I don’t know.”
“If my recollections serve me correctly I think she may have been brought up in Ireland. There’s some Irish connection about Sarah Lennox, I know.”
“Then she must have been nice,” said Sidonie, “because you are, Finnan.”
He smiled at her. “Even though I ramble on about medicine?”
“But it fascinates me.”
The doctor smiled again, this time a little quizzically. “Let’s forget it. Come here and kiss me.”
“Gladly,” said Sidonie, getting up from her place and going to sit on his knee.
“I please you in bed, don’t I?”
“You please me as a person too,” she answered, but Finnan was no longer listening, intent on making love to her, and the musician was left with the unmistakable feeling that though they were drawing closer their worlds remained still very much apart.
Chapter Nine
Still clad only in his embroidered night-rail, a crimson turban on his closely shaven head where usually sat his full-bottomed white wig, Henry Fox picked up his pen with relish and made an entry in his journal.
The Commerce of Vanity is at an end, the Puppy has been finally leashed. Lady Sarah is in an Hysteric but so be it. Yesterday, being Saturday, Lord George Lennox and his Lady, forgetting or despising all honour or regard to their sisters, take Lady Sarah out of Lady Car. Fox’s house (without telling her or Lady Kildare, then with her) into the Park by appointment to meet Lord Newbattle. It was here settled he should ask his father’s consent. This morning (Sunday), Lord Newbattle by his father’s and mother’s direction writes a letter to Lady Sarah, lamenting that this must be at an end etc. etc. etc. This hurt the lady’s pride and surprised her!
“And serve the silly creature right,” said Fox with satisfaction, and going to the window surveyed the day with a merry eye.
It was pouring with rain, sheets of water obscuring the park and the outbuildings, even the iron fence and Inigo Jones’s portals scarcely visible through the drenching flood. But to the Paymaster the vista looked fresh and clean, there not being one thing that could possibly dampen his spirits on this most triumphant of mornings.
Almost as soon as it had been light and while the family had been sipping their chocolate, a messenger had come, wearing the Earl of Ancram’s livery, and had handed in a letter addressed to Lady Sarah Lennox. Fox, alerted by his valet, had lurked nearby to glean what information he could. A cry of triumph or the sound of a sob would reveal all, and his politician’s heart had rejoiced when from behind his sister-in-law’s closed door had come the noise of tears.
“Odds my life, Caro!” he had crowed triumphantly. “The little cock bantam has turned her down. I’ll wager m’Lord Ancram has thickened his son’s ear for him. What a glorious ending to such an inglorious coil.” And he had danced his wife round by the waist.
Caroline had looked grim. “It’s as well it’s finished. But not for want of others trying to assist the wretched liaison.”
“What others? Who do you mean?”
“George and his wife were seen escorting Sarah into the park yesterday where an assignation with Newbattle had obviously been arranged. Oh, Mr Fox, such villainy! My own brother has betrayed me.”
“He probably doesn’t think so,” her husband rejoined drily. “No doubt Lady George filled his head with romantic nonsense. What a trull that woman is. I’ve a mind to ban her from the house.”
“Oh, please not,” Caroline answered hastily. “Family rifts are so exhausting and I swear I haven’t the strength to cope with one at present. I have drained all my reserves trying to deal with Sarah’s follies.”
Fox had grinned. “You’re a shrew, Caro. Always getting your way. But don’t expect me to be polite to ’em. Why, I’d like to freeze off George’s —”
“Henry, really! You grow coarser by the day.”
“You’re right, I do,” he had answered, and kissed her nose.
But now, with the Newbattle affair safely at an end, Fox felt ready for action. Closing his journal and putting it in a drawer which he locked securely, Henry left his study and went upstairs to dress. As he thoughtfully put on his hose, knee breeches and shirt he considered the situation, thinking it had reached a delicate and difficult stage which might yet be brought round to the family’s advantage. It was Fox’s view as a man of the world that the King would undoubtedly have heard something about Sarah’s flirtation with Newbattle. The Earl of Bute could be relied upon for that.
“But how will he react, that is the question?”
“Sir?” said his valet, brushing a minute speck of dust from Fox’s mulberry coloured waistcoat.
“Nothing, I merely muttered, wondering to myself whether a fellow would be spurred on by having a rival in love or whether he would give up all hope.”
“That depends on the man, Sir.”
“Yes, so it does,” answered Fox, “so it does. But what manner of creature is he beneath it all?”
“Who, Sir?”
“The King of England, that’s who,” Fox answered succinctly, and went downstairs to break his fast.
*
Sunday or no, there was to be a Drawing Room at St James’s Palace and as the morning passed and the time to leave drew nearer, Fox found himself growing nervous as a cat. In the manner of all females, in his view at least, Sarah was behaving as awkwardly as possible. She had locked herself in her bedroom ever since the letter arrived, ministered to at various intervals by Caroline and Emily Kildare, but seeing no one else. George and his wife had earlier on left Holland House in a huge huff, Fox having openly challenged them with interfering, calling Lady George a senseless jade to her face. There was an atmosphere fraught with hazard hanging over the place and the servants were noticeably talking in whispers.
“You’ve got to get her up,” Fox had said grimly to Caroline as the clock struck midday. “She’s going to Court this afternoon if I have to carry her there.”
“And that you may yet have to do. She is refusing to eat or drink and is in a high lather, weeping and wailing like a banshee.”
“Tell her I’ll lather her arse if she don’t come downstairs. I won’t put up with this arrant stupidity a moment longer.” And he meant
it. Beneath his white wig, Mr Fox’s face had gone ruby red and Caroline recognised the danger signs.
“She will be downstairs in an hour, I promise you.”
“Good. And I want no long face nor puffed eyes, mind. She is to look as sweet and demure as once she used before that rapscallion jackanapes came upon the scene.”
“I’ll see to it,” said his wife, and hurried away.
*
Caroline estimated, after staring moodily at the gilt clock in her bedroom, that Sarah had now been crying for four hours, and that something drastic must be done if the girl was indeed to accompany herself and Fox to Court. Composing her bony face into the sternest expression possible she sailed into her sister’s bedroom like a small but serious man-of-war.
“Enough!” she said forcibly. “Sarah, enough. You are to wash and dress and prepare yourself for the Drawing Room.”
“But I don’t want to go. My heart is broken.”
“There’ll be more than that broke if you don’t obey your sister’s orders,” bellowed Fox, suddenly looming in the doorway, the colour of his clothes and cheeks making him resemble a fruit. “Go to, Lady Sarah, before you try my patience any further.”
His sister-in-law shot him the most evil glance but slowly rose from the bed on which she had flung herself face down and made for her dressing room where her maid awaited, all eyes.
“One word more,” said Fox, beckoning her back. “You disobeyed me, Sarah, by continuing to consort with Newbattle when I had warned you I would not tolerate such behaviour. Let me make it quite clear that if there are any further transgressions on your behalf I shall do what I have threatened. You will be removed from London and sent to your brother, the Duke, at Goodwood.”
“And quite right too,” put in Caroline. “I am sick and tired of your goings on.”
But though she had really meant what she said she regretted having spoken as Fox’s coach began its rumbling progress towards St James’s Palace. For with every passing mile Sarah’s face grew longer and longer while she sat in a corner glowering and refusing to utter a word.
‘One false move,’ thought Henry desperately, ‘one action out of place and the family’s fortunes are done for! Oh God, don’t let the little wretch spoil everything.’
But the sulky expression worn by his sister-in-law as she made her curtsey to the King did nothing to reassure him. His Majesty, however, obviously noticed nothing amiss for he smiled very charmingly and said, “How nice to see you, Lady Sarah. Will you walk with me?”
The young couple immediately moved out of earshot and nothing was left for Henry Fox but to stare after them, wondering whether George knew about Newbattle and what effect it had had upon him if rumours had indeed reached him.
But across the sparkling surface of the King’s Gemini mind, full of currents and eddies and strange little patches of cold, had come a childlike certainty that the object of his affections must be fought for and won. He had been dreadfully hurt by his glimpse of a rival secretly meeting Sarah Lennox, but by the same token had grown more determined to have her. Quite unbeknownst to Princess Augusta and the Earl of Bute, their little stratagem had failed. His Majesty was about to make a proposal of marriage.
“Tell me,” he said, drawing Sarah into the privacy of a large window recess, “has your friend Lady Susan left for Somersetshire?”
“Yes, Sir. About two weeks ago.”
“And before she went did she say anything to you?”
‘Here it comes,’ thought Sarah. ‘He’s harking back to that extraordinary conversation he had with Susan and I’ve no patience with all this hedging. Why the devil can’t he come out with what he means?’
Out loud she said, “Say, Sir?”
“What I mean is did your friend tell you of my conversation with her?”
“Yes, Sir,” answered Sarah, staring at the ground.
“Yes.”
“And do you approve? Tell me, for my happiness depends on it!”
She looked him in the eye, cut to the quick that he to whom only recently she had felt so drawn, had not the courage to come out into the open like any other man.
“I thought nothing, Sir,” Sarah said evenly.
George drew himself up, pale with rage that he should have been treated so badly.
“Nothing will come of nothing,” he answered, quoting King Lear and feeling similarly betrayed, “Good day, Madam,” and with that he strode away, not only from Sarah but out of the room.
“God’s wounds,” groaned Fox, observing all. “This is the end. She must go tomorrow. I’ll strike that smug face of hers if she is not removed from my sight forthwith.”
“But tomorrow is only two days from her birthday,” answered Caroline.
“I care not a whit. Your sister has overstayed her welcome.”
And with that Mr Fox went gloomily to the refreshment room in order to consume a great deal of liquor.
It was not that his wife didn’t agree with him; she did. But the next morning, despite all Sarah’s foolish and contrary ways, she could not help but feel sorry for her sister as she and her belongings were packed into a post chaise bound for Goodwood in Sussex. Particularly as a letter had arrived but an hour before saying that Susan was unexpectedly returning to Holland House with her parents, Lord and Lady Ilchester, Fox’s brother and his wife.
“I shall miss all the fun,” whispered Sarah as Caroline handed her into the carriage.
“Nonsense. Charles’s house is always gay. Anyway I should think you’ve had enough excitement to last you the rest of the season,” the older woman added coldly.
“Are you very cross with me?”
“Very. Now go away and behave yourself. It really is not clever to antagonise Mr Fox, you know.”
Sarah sighed. “Shall I see you again soon, dear Caro?”
“No doubt. Give my love to our brother.”
“I will.”
And with that the chaise was off, trundling down the elm drive until it vanished from sight. An hour later Caroline, who was busy organising the rooms for her brother-in-law’s visit, thought she heard it return and went to the sweep of steps that led to the main entrance of Holland House to see what was afoot. But the vehicle approaching was not a carriage but a smart wagon of the type used to convey furniture from one house to another. Tied on to the wagon, draped by a protective sheet, was what looked like a harpsichord. Caroline stared in surprise at the crest denoting that the conveyance belonged to the royal household, and also at the equerry riding beside it, smart as paint in the morning sunshine, obviously carrying a letter.
“Is Lady Sarah Lennox within?” the horseman asked, giving a small bow and blushing slightly, for he was young and pompous and trying hard to act with enormous unsmiling dignity.
“She left town this morning. But I am her sister, Lady Caroline Fox. Can I be of assistance?”
“His Majesty asked me to give this letter and birthday gift directly to Lady Sarah.”
“Well as that is not possible, will you entrust them to me? I shall see that she gets them as soon as she returns.”
The equerry frowned and went redder. “His Majesty was very insistent …”
“But surely it would damage the harpsichord — that is a harpsichord is it not? — if it were sent on to Goodwood. It would be far safer to leave it here.”
The young man looked relieved. “Very true, my Lady. May I ask the carters to bring the gift in?”
“Certainly.”
It was set down in the music room and the protective drape reverently removed. Caroline gazed in wonder at one of the most beautiful instruments she had ever seen. Made of mahogany and walnut it was a two manual harpsichord, the name board bearing the words, Thomas Blasser, London, 1745.
‘The year of her birth,’ realised Caroline. ‘How very thoughtful.’
There were two notes accompanying the gift, one sealed with His Majesty’s personal seal, which Caroline locked away in her desk. The other was attached to the
harpsichord itself and quite open for anyone to read. It simply said, “Look beneath the name board.”
Thoroughly intrigued, Caroline unscrewed the board, a simple task even for her, and there underneath, inlaid in that glorious wood, were the initials S.L.
If King George had made an open declaration of his feelings he could not have said more; a great deal of care and kindness had been expended on this particular gift.
“Oh dear,” Caroline murmured, “I do hope Newbattle really has finished with her. He is so utterly worthless and, no doubt, because of that, all the more attractive.”
And then Sarah’s elder sister knew with horrid certainty that the Fox family had not heard the last of that particular rakish fellow, that he was just of the type to rebel against his father’s wishes and cause further trouble.
“Rot him!” said the normally reserved and decorous Caroline, then, having gazed once more at the harpsichord, its warm wood glowing in the midday sunshine, went to take a stroll in the gardens and think her gloomy thoughts.
*
The chaise made good time over the rough roads lying between the village of Kensington and that of Goodwood, tucked away in the gentle hills of the Sussex Downs. Bowling through the sunshine, Sarah stared pensively out of the window, wondering when she would see London again, yet in a way relieved that two of her immediate problems had been alleviated by going out of town. For the thought of running into John Newbattle at one of the season’s many routs or balls was too terrible to contemplate after his hideous snub. And as for coming face to face with the King … Sarah cringed at the very idea.
‘Everything is in total disarray,’ she thought disconsolately and, closing her eyes, tried to blot out the visions of John Newbattle and His Majesty which constantly plagued her waking hours.
It was the sudden sound of hooves that made her open them again abruptly. Not the beat of the pulling team ahead but another four pounding down the track behind the chaise as if all the devils of hell were in full pursuit. Sarah tensed, aware that this was no ordinary Traveller overtaking them on the highway, and cautiously peered out of the window, only to fling back against the padded wall gasping for breath, her heart leaping as if she had just run a mile. John, Lord Newbattle, astride a great black horse, looking incredibly romantic, was about to draw level with the equipage. With great presence of mind, Sarah rapidly composed her features into an expression of icy disdain. And only just in time, for a second or two later the dashing young nobleman drew alongside.