by Deryn Lake
Tonight His Majesty, who normally did not care for ostentation, sparkled not only with the diamond star. For he was wearing some of his grandfather’s jewelled rings and had even pinned on a glittering ruby brooch which had once belonged to Frederick, Prince of Wales, poor Prince Fritz who had died before his time.
“You are truly magnificent, Sir,” commented his servant. “Every eligible lady, if I dare venture such a remark, will be smiling in your direction.”
In usual circumstances the valet would never have dreamed of saying such a thing, but the Palace was alive with rumours that Lady Sarah Lennox would be present at the ball and that His Majesty might well declare himself.
“You think so?” said George, just as if he were an ordinary and highly nervous young man.
“Tonight, Sir, you are Prince Charming come to life,” the servant replied, and with those comforting words the King set forth to receive his guests.
Over the last few weeks every effort had been made that this, the first Birthday Ball since His Majesty ascended the throne, should surpass everything that had gone before, the arrangements for the festivities being, in the view of the Palace staff, sublime. Two orchestras had been placed in the gallery, both hidden behind a decoration of painted clouds, while the floor had been so highly polished it resembled glass. The banquet, to be served later, beggared all description — in fact the entire scene, as Horace Walpole delightedly commented, resembled the splendour of Hārūn-ar-Rashīd and the Arabian Nights.
For this most romantic of occasions, Sarah had chosen red and white for her theme, the only splash of contrasting colour the waves of her nightshade hair, woven with fresh rosebuds, the smell of which pervaded the air. Her ballgown was of rich white satin, the petticoat beneath embroidered with red flowers, at the heart of each flower a tiny scintillating brilliant. On the elaborate sleeves and also on the edges of the gown itself were stitched tiny silken scarlet leaves. The tout ensemble was stunning and Walpole, watching the lady’s entrance along with everyone else in the room, wrote afterwards, “Lady Sarah is the ninth statue; and you will allow, has better white and red than if she were made of pearls and rubies.”
On this occasion the demure Lady Susan, who had travelled from Somerset particularly to attend, was put completely in the shade and didn’t care a jot. Already she felt like a Prime Minister, a King’s confidante, the person to whom he had first spoken of his passion for Sarah. Fox’s niece walked into the ballroom revelling in the stares and gasps, and basking in the sunshine of her best friend’s glory.
Fox and Lady Caroline had entered the room first as befitted their status but had in no way attempted to vie with the star attraction. Fox wore sober black, laced and faced with silver, while Caroline had chosen a dark dull claret which toned beautifully with her sister’s outfit but in no way detracted from it. Even the most jealous onlooker, and there were several present who fell into that category, had to admit that the Fox family outshone everyone present and that Lady Sarah was undeniably the most beautiful girl in London if not, indeed, the realm.
The arrangements for the evening were such as to give the greatest comfort to everyone there. Gilt chairs for the older guests were placed about the room and for the benefit of the dancers, when resting from their exertions, an elegant bench had been put to the left of the King’s fauteuil. It was noted at once that the place at the head of the dancers’ bench and nearest to the royal chair had been reserved for Lady Sarah Lennox.
It was obvious from the start, just as soon as the formalities of the receiving line were at an end, that tonight His Majesty was going to make no pretence, that he was going to devote himself to the delights of flirting and did not give a damn who saw it. Consequently, at the very moment the music began he was at Sarah’s side.
“You promised me this dance if your leg was strong enough, my Lady? Tell me, is it sufficiently recovered?”
“My leg and I are at royal command,” answered Sarah cheekily, and whirled away with him in a gigue.
Eyebrows shot up, someone muttered, “Beware the Earl of Bute,” Mr Fox rubbed his hands in glee, while a hundred quizzing glasses flashed as they were simultaneously raised.
The King, oblivious to all that was going on, guided his partner to the middle of the flow and said without preamble, “I have never seen you look more beautiful. You are the Queen of Hearts, Lady Sarah.”
“Then, Sir, you must be the King of that suit,” she answered softly.
“As long as I am that in your eyes then nothing else matters,” George said recklessly, not caring who heard.
Whether as a result of her recent illness or the speed of the dance or the feelings that were passing between her and the tall young man holding her so tightly, Sarah’s head started to spin.
“I speak the truth,” she answered breathlessly, then decided to risk all and hang the consequences, “and always will — to you,” she added.
His Majesty did not reply but merely tightened his grip on Sarah’s hand, which he continued to clasp until he had seen her back to her place at the head of the bench.
“Madam, may I claim every dance?” he whispered as she sat down.
“Sir, I have been told by the surgeon to be careful. I think I should rest for some of the time.”
“Then if you rest, so shall I,” George answered and took his place in his fauteuil.
Out of breath, fanning herself, aware that she was the centre of attention, Sarah could scarcely believe what happened next. Quite deliberately and with scant regard for how heavy it was or who was looking at him, George eased the royal chair a few degrees to the left, leant over and stared straight at her without saying a word. Catching his eye, the subject of his attention blushed then lowered her gaze.
“You are most becoming,” whispered the King.
Sarah strained forward to hear him and the chair moved another few degrees. There was a scarcely audible ripple of amusement which His Majesty completely ignored.
“May I fetch you some wine?” he went on. “I long to serve you.”
She looked at him boldly and saw that now it was his turn to go a little pink. “I would rather accompany you, Sir. I feel somewhat observed, if you know what I mean.”
“Only too well,” he answered, and smiled broadly, his beautiful even teeth gleaming.
But if the couple had hoped to be alone in the refreshment room they were to be disappointed. Suddenly it seemed that every guest other than those actively engaged in dancing needed a drink, and a positive concourse set forth so that the women serving tea, negus and wine were inundated with custom. Out of the corner of her eye, Sarah could see Mr Fox and Caroline determinedly following in her wake.
The King actually laughed out aloud. “I had not realised this room would be so popular or I would have arranged for two.”
“I think it is you who are the attraction, Sir.”
“There is only one person with whom I desire to be so and I am looking at her at this moment.”
Almost too overcome to reply, Sarah simply gazed at him and there passed a beautiful few minutes while the langage des yeux sufficed.
“Two guineas on a royal betrothal before the end of the month,” whispered the Duke of Newcastle to Lady Diana Spencer.
“To a German princess you mean?”
Newcastle frowned. “No, I meant the delectable creature from whom H M cannot take his eyes.”
Lady Diana shook her head. “I hear on the best authority that the Princess of Wales has already made her choice.”
“Then heaven help the King for it would appear that he, too, has made his.”
“He will never overrule his mother and Bute, that much is certain.”
“I hope you are wrong,” answered the Duke sadly, shaking his head. “But very much fear you are not.”
Yet no one who saw the loving glances currently being exchanged between the King and Lady Sarah, and that included everybody in the room, could doubt the strength of his feelings. And as he helped her
to her feet again, ever solicitous of her injury, it was noticed that his arm went round her waist and remained there.
“I truly believe the most private place for conversation is in the ballroom,” George murmured as they left the refreshment room.
“I feel that perhaps we should dance again, Sir. My leg is rested.”
The King beamed delightedly. “That is good news. If you will excuse me a moment, Lady Sarah, I will fetch my sister.”
Somewhat bewildered the girl took her seat as the King threaded his way through the ballroom to fetch Princess Augusta who returned with him some moments later looking thoroughly put out.
As Sarah stood up and curtsied it occurred to her strongly that these days the Princess more closely resembled a frog than a she-mouse, as she had once been so unkindly described. The family tendency to protuberant eyes was in Augusta’s case particularly pronounced and to add to the amphibian effect, the Princess’s skin was so pale as to look positively greenish. She regarded the beautiful Sarah malevolently but gave a half-hearted smile as her brother’s favourite rose from her mark of respect.
“I have been telling the Princess,” said the King jovially, “about the dance called Betty Blue. I would very much like her to learn it. It is a dance, Madam,” he went on, looking directly at Sarah, “that you are acquainted with. I am very fond of it because it was taught me by a lady.”
So this was to be the game, was it? Sarah lowered her eyes. “A lady, Sir? Now who might that have been?”
“A very pretty lady,” George answered, ignoring the glowering Augusta, “that came from Ireland a twelvemonth ago last November.”
Sarah frowned, looking perplexed. “You say I know this person, Sir?”
“I am talking to her now. She taught it to me at the ball on Twelfth Night.”
“Indeed, Sir, you’re right. I fear I did not remember it.”
“That may be,” the King went on, ignoring Augusta, who puffed with rage, “but I have a very good memory for whatever relates to that lady. I had got a pretty new country dance of my own for the late King’s birthday if he had lived to it, and I named it, The Twenty-fifth of February.”
Her birthday! Sarah blushed with pleasure and as the hidden orchestras struck up the air Betty Blue, obviously having received some royal signal, she had the honour to be led out by the King to teach his sister the steps. As soon as the Princess had mastered the basic movements the other guests who knew the dance joined in and so, once again, Sarah found herself in George’s arms.
“I want you to promise me something,” he whispered, leaning close to her ear.
“What is that, Sir?”
“That you keep this secret. It is vitally important.” He suddenly looked so serious that Sarah felt fractionally alarmed.
“I promise, Sir. I can be close if needs be.”
“Then tell no one, not your sister nor even Lady Susan, that I am only happy in your company.”
“Oh surely that cannot be true. So many exciting and pleasurable things must happen to a King daily.”
“None of them mean anything to me if I cannot share them with you.”
“Oh hush, Sir, please. You might be overheard.”
“Then I shall remain silent when I have said one more thing to you.”
“Which is?”
“That I am in love with you, Lady Sarah, and have been since first I saw your lovely face.”
Everything spun again; the world, the ballroom, the chandeliers, and it was only the arms of the man who loved her which kept Sarah upright.
“Have you no reply?” he whispered urgently.
She could have simpered and talked about being honoured, alarmed, surprised, anything. Instead Sarah Lennox’s honest Irish upbringing stood her in good stead and she murmured, “Those were fine words spoken by a fine man to whom I pledge my heart.”
The King whooped with delight and lifted Sarah off her feet, then somehow contrived to make it seem as if it were all part of the dance. How many were deceived it was difficult to say, but all the younger people copied him and there were shouts of joy from all sides as the ladies were raised, laughing and blushing, high into the air.
*
“She coloured, and in this pretty way did these two lovers entertain one another and the eyes of the whole ball room for an hour,” read Sidonie, who suddenly found that for no reason at all she was crying. “He stopped very remarkably as he was going, and turned and spoke again and again, as if he could not force himself from her.”
Sidonie flitted back a page and read Henry Fox’s personal conclusion.
… the next morning all tongues observing on the particularity of his behaviour, if it can be thought particular that a young King should not be able to avoid shewing the strongest symptoms of love and of desire for the prettyest creature in the world; for if possible, she looked prettyer that night than ever. Her Ladyship, with modesty very natural to her, and yet with looks as unaffected, returned the fondness of his eyes and gallantry of his discourse as much as ever he could wish. He is in love with her, and it is no less certain she loves him; and if she now ever thinks of Newbattle it is to vex and hate herself for the foolish transaction I before related.
Sidonie Brooks closed the book and looked at the clock. It was past midnight and already Sunday morning, and Finnan O’Neill could just be heard going up the stairs to his own flat, delayed at the hospital by a Saturday night emergency and obviously tired out. How wonderful, she thought, to have lived in an age when declarations of love came before people went to bed, when elegantly phrased words gave women all the reassurance they needed, when people knew exactly where they were going and were not prey to the doubts and fears that set in when a relationship, however good, became static.
“I wonder what will happen next,” she said, and spoke just then not only for herself but also for Sarah Lennox.
Chapter Eleven
There was, thought Sidonie, waking from a long and delicious sleep, something utterly different about Sunday sounds and smells. Normally by this hour, nearly ten o’clock, the other flats would have been silent but today she could faintly hear Finnan’s CD rendering Tosca while, even more faintly, in fact little more than an occasional chirrup noise, Jannie playing Nigel Kennedy’s version of The Four Seasons, attacked far too fast, at least in Sidonie’s opinion.
The smells were sensual; bacon, eggs, Jannie’s home-made bread, terribly health-giving and wholemeal. In fact it was lovely just to lie there, listening and sniffing, thinking about the book she had read late into the night, the book which had brought the story of Sarah Lennox and George III so vividly to life because it was told in the actual words of Fox, of Lady Susan and of Sarah herself.
Sidonie had seen nothing of that other age since the day she had gone running and had in some mysterious way passed out of her own time and into another. What had perturbed her about that particular experience had been the ease with which she had done it. There had been no black spiral, no feeling of faintness, not one thing to indicate that anything unusual had happened at all. It seemed to her that it was getting easier for these psychic occurrences to take place, almost as if there was some catalyst that drew them to her.
The telephone rang and Sidonie got out of bed to answer it, half expecting it to be her mother who usually phoned on Sundays when her daughter was not on tour.
“Top of the morning,” said Finnan’s voice in stage Irish. “Would the Lady from the big house be partaking of a little refreshment?”
She laughed. “Unfortunately Madam has not yet had her bath, having sat up half the night reading. However, she asks me to tell you that she will see you in about an hour’s time if that is convenient.”
“The Master says that will be quite in order.”
“I will pass that message on, sir,” Sidonie answered and hung up.
Were Irish accents the most lyrical in the world or was it just this one in particular that she found so tremendously attractive? And it was not only the acce
nt that fascinated her. Its owner had stolen into her affections and adamantly refused to go away. All alone on that Sunday morning Sidonie took herself to task for the hundredth time for having become too involved, for having allowed herself to feel more for the Irishman than he obviously did for her.
The telephone rang again and this time it was her mother. “You sound a bit sad,” said Jane Brooks perceptively. “Is anything wrong?”
“I’m just tired, that’s all. Japan was rather exhausting.”
“It looks as if it might be. All those people packing into the tube.”
Sidonie smiled. “I didn’t get involved with them, thank goodness. Anyway, the tour was very successful. One can’t imagine the Japanese liking the harpsichord, but they do.”
Sidonie’s mother changed the subject. “When are you coming to see us? Why don’t you come down next weekend and bring that nice Irish doctor of yours?”
“He may not be free. He sometimes works.”
“Isn’t he rather high up for all that?”
“He goes to see his patients because he cares about them. He doesn’t have to but he does.”
There was a slight pause, then Sidonie’s mother said, “Why are you being so defensive? You could simply have said you’d rather not ask him.”
At her end of the telephone, Sidonie sighed. “It’s just that I don’t want him to think I’m pushy. You know what I mean, Mummy. Strange interpretations can be put on invitations to meet parents.”
Jane, in Avebury, nodded her head. “You’re right. Let him be. But you come, darling. We’re missing you.”
“I’ll be down on Saturday, about ten o’clock. That’s a promise.”
When they had finished speaking Sidonie walked slowly into the bathroom, wishing she could have said otherwise, that she could have told her mother she would have been happy to invite Finnan to join them for the weekend. It would have been easy if she hadn’t cared about his answer, if he had just been a casual friend. But the truth was she did care, terribly.