by Deryn Lake
*
“Good for you,” said Sidonie, and read on a little further.
*
This said, Sarah jumped to her feet, stormed down the stairs and into the music room. The beautiful wood of the harpsichord gleamed in that light and lovely place, but she, failing to be calmed by the harmonious atmosphere in which she had spent so many happy hours playing on the love gift of her royal sweetheart, banged on the manuals producing a series of discordant sounds.
“I shall never, never, never touch you again,” she shouted at it ferociously and then ran outside, deep into the parkland, to scream out her fury where she could not be overheard.
*
Sidonie, absorbed in the story of Sarah’s life, read on to the end of the letter, knowing nothing of the pitiful outburst that had taken place during its composition.
“Now as to what I think about it to myself, excepting this little revenge, I have almost forgiven him;” Sarah had continued. “Luckily for me I did not love him, and only liked him, nor did the title weigh anything with me —”
“I believe that though not the first part,” Sidonie said aloud, remembering the scene in the haystack.
“— so little at least that my disappointment did not affect my spirits above one hour or two I believe. I did not cry I assure you, which I believe you will, as I know you were more set upon it than I was. The thing I am most angry at, is looking so like a fool, as I shall for having gone so often for nothing, but I don’t much care; if he were to change his mind again (which can’t be tho’), and not give me a very good reason for his conduct, I would not have him, for if he is so weak as to be govern’d by everybody I shall have but a bad time of it.”
Smiling to herself at the simplicity, the duplicity, and the general charm of this original letter, Sidonie put The Life and Letters of Lady Sarah Lennox into her suitcase. She closed the lid, thinking that since the strange night when Rod Rees had taken fright at something he saw in her music room, everything seemed to have gone wrong.
Originally, Sidonie had planned a farewell party for Finnan O’Neill, had counted on inviting her parents so that they could finally meet him, and had nurtured a vague notion of saying something about their relationship and whether he wanted her to wait for him, whatever that might mean. And then one phone call had put paid to all her schemes. Rod, who was now telling everyone that he had achieved his life’s ambition by seeing a ghost in Sidonie Brooks’s flat and was dining out on the tale, had offered her a tour of Russia.
“It’s really exciting, Sid bach. Jeremy Nicholas has broken his arm and has had to cancel but the Ruskies want you instead. You’re to play in the Kremlin on Catherine the Great’s harpsichord —”
Sidonie had shrieked with joy.
“And in St Petersburg in the Winter Palace. It’s the opportunity of a lifetime.”
“When do I leave?”
“In ten days’ time. Come to lunch tomorrow and we’ll discuss the programme.”
Filled with apprehension, Sidonie had asked, “How long am I to be out there?”
“Three weeks in all, Sid bach. You’ll love it.”
Normally she would have been thrilled at such an exciting chance but this particular timing was disastrous. Finnan was due to go on his research trip in a fortnight and that would be while she was still away.
With the assistance of Jannie and Max a party had been hastily arranged but it was to be very different from the one Sidonie had envisaged. Many people were unable to come at such short notice and that included Jane and George Brooks. Nothing was going as planned. She could feel her last chances with Finnan slipping away and she gloomily wondered if this was an omen, an indication of the end of everything she had hoped for.
Carefully stowing away her music with her luggage, Sidonie went to change, angry with herself for being so nervous, wishing that on this last evening of all in Finnan’s company she could feel genuinely light-hearted. But just as she got out of the bath the telephone rang and when she heard the doctor’s voice on the other end she knew something was wrong.
“May I give your telephone number to the hospital?”
Those words certainly did not augur well and Sidonie felt a plunge of the heart as she answered, “Of course. Are you on duty then?”
“No, it’s not that. Actually one of my patients is critically ill and I want to keep in touch.”
‘Why tonight of all nights?’ thought Sidonie, and then felt mean-spirited.
“Anyway, I’ll be with you in half an hour,” Finnan went on. “I’m really looking forward to it.”
“So am I,” she replied, and didn’t mean a word.
Sidonie dressed carefully in black chiffon evening trousers and a matching top. It was a dashing outfit, more seductive than beautiful, and at the very last second she wondered if she had put on the right thing. But the front doorbell was ringing and it was too late to do anything about it. Feeling unsure, dejected and in a most unsociable mood, Sidonie went to answer it.
Finnan was amongst the first to arrive and it struck her at once that he seemed under some sort of strain.
“Are you very worried about your patient?” she asked immediately.
“I’m afraid so. But I don’t want it to spoil our last evening together. Just let’s hope the telephone doesn’t go.”
And with those not very reassuring words he kissed her on the cheek and went to get himself a drink. There was such an atmosphere, such a feeling in the air, that Sidonie was convinced something would go wrong and, sure enough, at about eleven o’clock the phone did ring. Rod Rees, who was standing nearest to it, telling everyone how Sidonie was going to be featured on Russian television playing Catherine the Great’s harpsichord and how he was hoping to buy the footage and interest the BBC in making a documentary, picked up the receiver.
“Dr O’Neill? Yes, he’s here. Hold the line a moment.”
“Take it in my bedroom,” said Sidonie, then followed Finnan, hovering in the doorway.
She heard him say, “O’Neill speaking. I see. Right, I’ll come straight over,” and knew that the worst had happened.
He put the receiver down and turned to where Sidonie was standing. “Darling girl, I can’t bear this but I must go. This patient is eighteen and looks like a little doll, or did once. I’ve got to see if I can help her.”
“Is she dying?”
“Yes. She’s just come back to us from the hospice. She’s asking for me.”
Sidonie threw herself into his arms on the breath of a sob. “Oh Finnan, try to come back. I did want to say goodbye to you properly.”
“It’s not goodbye,” he answered. “I won’t let it be.”
“No, please don’t.”
“Listen,” said Finnan, “I don’t think you realise how much I’m going to miss you.”
And with that he kissed her, holding her so close to him that she felt he would never let her go.
But yet again fate seemed to be against them as Jannie walked into the room, exclaimed, “Whoops! Oh dear, I’m sorry,” and the lovely moment of intimacy was over.
“I’m off,” Finnan said. “If the party’s still going when I get back I’ll rejoin it. If it isn’t, may I use the key?”
“Of course you can. But I’ve got to be up at five. The Heathrow check-in is at seven.”
“I’ll drive you there as promised. Tonight won’t make any difference.”
“Then I’ll see you in the morning,” Sidonie answered.
“See you in the morning,” he repeated, and was gone. Sidonie stood in the little hallway, looking to where the front door had just closed behind him, wondering how long it would be before he walked back through it again.
“Don’t worry, bach, he loves you,” said Rod, coming up the stairs from the music room and throwing his arm round Sidonie’s shoulders.
“I wonder,” she answered.
“Of course he does. It’s just that he’s scared stiff of you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh bloody hell,” she exclaimed. “Why should it? Why do men have to be such wimps?”
“He isn’t, now be fair. It’s just that he probably thinks you’re not marriage material. He probably doesn’t want to stand in the way of your career,” Rod added hastily as Sidonie turned a mutinous face in his direction.
“But that’s ridiculous. Why can’t one have both?”
“You did and it failed and he knows. Think about it.”
“Should I propose to him?”
“Yes, why don’t you. Go on, be a devil.”
“But I thought you told me to love ’em and leave ’em.”
“Finnan’s different,” answered Rod, and his Italian face suddenly looked very slightly cunning. “He could be good for you. If you’ve got to get involved I would rather it was with him than any other bugger.”
But even as they talked about it, half-jokingly, Sidonie knew that she would never do any such thing, that Finnan would have to make the running, as her mother would have phrased it.
Fortunately nobody asked her to play the harpsichord that evening and in view of the fact that the hostess had to get up early to catch a plane, people started to drift off shortly after midnight. With a sigh of relief Sidonie got into bed, hoping to snatch a few hours’ sleep, hoping above all that Finnan would come back before she had to leave the house. But when she woke she was alone, the flat silent. Dejectedly, she rose and got dressed, then rang the hospital.
“Dr O’Neill has just left,” said an austere female voice.
Thirty minutes later, though, Sidonie was panicking and hurriedly booked a minicab to take her to the airport. And then came the irony to end them all. As the cab pulled out of Phillimore Gardens, loaded with her luggage, she saw Finnan’s car turning in.
“Stop!” she shrieked to the driver. “I must at least wave.”
But it was too late. The doctor had vanished from sight and Sidonie knew that she must go on, that she could not risk missing the plane for which she was by now already behind schedule.
“Oh, God!” she said aloud. “Can’t anything ever go right?”
“Not in my experience, dear,” answered the driver lugubriously. “You’re lucky to be getting out of it. Where you off to then?”
“Russia,” she answered, “and not with love either!”
“That was a good film,” he answered. “I always liked Sean Connery best. How about you?”
“I prefer Timothy Thing,” she answered. “The new one.”
“Timothy Thing, Timothy Thing,” the cab driver repeated reflectively. “Can’t say that I’ve heard of him.”
And it was in this state, not knowing whether to laugh or cry, that Sidonie headed through the dawn towards life without Finnan O’Neill.
*
It had been very difficult for Sarah to accept that from now on life would never be the same again. Three weeks ago, albeit secretly, she had been betrothed to the King of England — his affianced bride. Now he was to marry a German princess and she was that figure of pathos, the jilted sweetheart. Yet as far as the rest of the world was concerned she must put on a brave face, pretend that she had only regarded George as a friend, that the plight of her pet animals meant more to her than that of the King. With only her twelve-year-old nephew to confide in, Sarah faced the future with trepidation.
Henry Fox, to show the beau monde that the residents of Holland House were in fine fettle come what may, arranged that the young people should act a play and that Caroline would give a little ball. But his sister-in-law knew that these diversions were only delaying the evil hour. Sooner or later she would have to go to Court and face not only her ex-lover but Society, intent on seeing some sign of weakness in her and relishing the smallest piece of tittle-tattle.
His Majesty had, as rumoured, made a declaration to the Council that he intended to marry Charlotte of Mecklenburg but had seemed confused when he did so, a fact noted by many. As luck would have it the King had also passed right by Henry Fox on his way out and had blushed with embarrassment, a fact which had delighted the Paymaster but done little good for Sarah. So, with the royal betrothal now public knowledge, the girl had finally gone to a Drawing Room, determined to cut George to the quick.
The Princess had not yet arrived in England, her mother having died in the interim, of the surprise, Fox declared, so it was still a single man who greeted his courtiers that July morning. Giving the King one quick glance as she went in, Sarah saw to her immense satisfaction that he seemed frightened to death. None the less, His Majesty still advanced towards her as if he could not keep away. Defiantly putting her chin high, Sarah gazed into the middle distance, determined to conceal her pain from all the curious eyes that observed her.
Beside her, the King coughed nervously. She still did not look at him. “I see riding is begun again; it’s glorious weather for it now,” he said.
Sarah stared into space but contorted her face as furiously as she could. “Yes, it is very fine,” she replied.
Just for a second His Majesty gazed at her beautiful, angrily averted profile, and then he turned abruptly away. In the hearts of both of them all that had passed would never, indeed could never, be forgotten. But now the pressures that had been upon him since childhood had culminated in this most cruel of denials and the King knew that his one chance to see the raw sweetness of true love mature into the comfortable harmony of happy married life was lost for ever.
“How brutal is fortune,” whispered George to himself when he was finally in his bed alone and, grown man that he was, cried himself to sleep.
In the silence of her room, Sarah Lennox also wept on that hot July night. If she had pushed harder, played the little bitch, nagged and bullied her weak young lover, she might have lived a fulfilled, passionate and fascinating life, ascending the British throne as George’s consort. As it was, another woman, the King’s own mother, had had the final word, and Sarah’s life from that day on was destined to take a very different course.
Chapter Fifteen
To say that Russia was a revelation was to understate the truth. Even in the plane, flying low over dark forests and the first white gleam of autumn snow, Sidonie felt caught up in its brooding atmosphere. The very sights and smells of the place had a strange and splendid air, and as the coach ferried her from the airport to the centre of Moscow, Sidonie stared out of the window through the darkness of sudden night.
The contradictions of the city were instantly apparent, ancient gilded domes and Imperial architecture nestling beside ugly modern buildings, self-consciously aggressive in their stark unattractiveness. Sidonie was still peering out, trying to absorb it all, when the coach finally pulled up in Gorky Street and she and her luggage were deposited at the Hotel Intourist.
Her room was comfortable, modern, and could have been anywhere in the world. And then Sidonie drew the curtains back and saw Red Square by night and knew that she could only be in Russia. For there was St Basil’s Cathedral, all different coloured domes, its quaint and whimsical nine churches in one, each with a tower of varying height, looking utterly ravishing in sensational and theatrical floodlighting.
“An artistic and romantic nation,” Rod had said to her before she left. “They will welcome you.”
“Isn’t it strange. One would have thought they had turned their national back on the past.”
“Don’t you believe it. They guard it jealously. You wait till you see the Kremlin, Sid bach. It’s a knockout. All the old things loved and cherished and revered.”
Until that moment Sidonie hadn’t quite believed her agent but seeing that fairy-tale cathedral so stunningly lit, sensing the atmosphere of that huge exciting square, she knew that it was going to be a most enthralling three weeks. And then her thoughts turned to Finnan and Sidonie wondered what he was doing, reckoning that it was three o’clock in the afternoon in England and he
was probably at the hospital.
‘I’ll phone him the night before he leaves,’ she thought, and hoped it wouldn’t be too difficult.
Basil Kuzma, Rod Rees’s Moscow contact, was waiting for her in the bar wearing a very Russian-looking blue suit. He was not as old as his white hair might suggest, Sidonie thought, regarding him closely, in fact probably about fifty at the most. He had nice blue eyes, quite pale but bright, and raising a glass of vodka to clink his, she found herself warming to him.
“Your room is comfortable? You have everything you need?”
“Oh yes, thank you.”
“That is good. This hotel is one of the best. The Cosmos is big, built for the Olympic Games. The Rossiya is enormous, very dark and Stalinist. It can house five thousand guests. I once lost an entire chamber orchestra in there. They were not seen for a whole day.”
Not sure whether he was serious or not, Sidonie gazed at him in astonishment.
“This one is good, though. A little modern, a little brash, but good. There are English MPs staying here at the moment. They are fact-finding.” Basil sighed. “They often are.”
Deciding she liked him, Sidonie nodded sympathetically. “I know what you mean. Now what about the concerts, how many have been planned? Rod wasn’t absolutely sure.”
“Several. But let us concentrate first on those in Moscow. You are to perform in the Kremlin itself in one of the great reception rooms in the palace. This will be mainly for VIPs, government ministers, that kind of thing. Then you will play at the Tchaikovsky Concert Hall, here in Gorky Street, and again at the Conservatoire Grand Hall. Ordinary people, students and tourists will come to these.”
“They do know it’s me? They aren’t expecting Jeremy Nicholas?”
“Indeed not, the posters have been changed.” Basil smiled, displaying a gold tooth, and drained another glass of vodka. “Besides Sidonie — I may call you this? — you are much more beautiful than he is which the Russian people will appreciate.”
“I’m worried about the programme. It’s mainly Georgian music. Will it really be suitable, do you think?”