by Deryn Lake
Housed in a building that had once occupied the place of the Palace Armoury was an exhibition like none she had ever seen. Here, in huge glass cases, were lovingly preserved the personal possessions of the Tsars. She saw the enormous riding boots hand-made by Peter the Great and the dual throne he had occupied with his idiot brother, a small opening behind it through which their sister used to whisper instructions. She saw Ivan the Terrible’s throne of ivory, his fur-trimmed crown, the glistening jewels and regalia, a robe worn by the last Tsar of all, the murdered Nicholas II.
“And now the dresses,” said Alexei. “You will like these.”
And there they were, the Coronation and wedding gowns of the Empresses and Tsarinas, all so small Sidonie wondered what size they could possibly have been, made from sumptuous fabrics and mounted on dummies so that they looked incredibly lifelike.
“Here,” called Alexei, beckoning. “Catherine the Great’s things. What a woman, no?”
“Did she really have hundreds of lovers?”
“Thousands. I would like to have lived then.”
Sidonie laughed. “Why? Do you think you would have been one of them?”
“I would have done my best. It’s a family tradition.”
“What do you mean?”
“My great something uncles, Gregory and Alexei, both enjoyed her favours. I am named for one of them.”
“Well, well,” said Sidonie, most amused by this extraordinary young man.
“In the end, when she was sixty, Catherine fell in love with a twenty-two-year-old, Plato Zubov, a lieutenant in the Horse Guards. He was made for life!”
“My God, that was going some. A toyboy if ever there was one.”
“Toyboy?” enquired Alexei, looking puzzled.
“The young lover, usually kept, of a much older woman.”
“Oh, I see.” The violinist looked her up and down thoughtfully. “How old are you, Miss Brooks?”
“Thirty-four and don’t be naughty. How old are you?”
“Eleven years less.” He shrugged his beautiful shoulders. “Who cares? Now, concentrate.”
A silver tissue gown of great delicacy was the most splendid piece in the Empress’s collection but it was the smaller things belonging to the lovely lecherous Catherine which impressed Sidonie more. She stared at earrings and bracelets, brushes and combs, but best of all liked the Empress’s snuff and make-up boxes. There was something intensely human about them, as there was about a pair of spectacles lying on a desk which also housed Catherine’s quill pens and inkwell.
“Now we see the carriages,” said Alexei. “Come!”
They left the wondrous glass cases and walked into an enormous room containing the conveyances of the Russian royal family. Coaches decorated by Francois Boucher and which had carried Peter the Great, Catherine, and Elizabeth Petrovna vied with one another as to which was the most beautiful. But it was two rather off-beat items which particularly appealed to Sidonie; a huge sleigh, mounted on runners, the compartment on top the size of a garden shed, and a child’s dogcart.
“What are these?” she asked Alexei, tilting her head back to see the full extent of the sleigh.
“It belonged to Elizabeth Petrovna, Peter the Great’s bastard girl. He married her mother later on. Anyway, she travelled from St Petersburg to Moscow in three days in that to seize the crown.”
“She must have gone like the wind.”
“Sixteen horses pulled it and they did not stop day or night. Can you see the stove inside to keep her warm?”
“Yes.”
“Well she slept, ate, did everything in there. Let’s hope she emptied the chamber pot when she wasn’t in a village.”
“That’s rude! Tell me about the dogcart.”
“That was Peter the Great’s when he was a little boy. I like it. It makes him real.”
“So do his boots. But where’s the harpsichord?”
“In the Palace. Come on.”
Wondering whether Alexei’s bossiness was partly an affectation, Sidonie followed him through a white tunnel which brought them out in the Palace.
“It’s been taken into the ballroom for the concert. That’s up on the first floor.”
And the violinist hurried up an ornate staircase and down a chandeliered corridor to a pair of magnificent doors, the Russian eagle carved over the top of them.
“Are we allowed in?”
“Of course. This is where you are to rehearse.”
The room was immense, its balcony overlooking the river, Carrara marble pillars decorating the white and gold-leafed, crimson-draped walls. At the far end of the ballroom, opposite the balcony, was a raised dais on which the orchestra had once sat. On this, right in the middle, stood a splendid harpsichord which, as Sidonie drew nearer, she recognised as a Jacob Kirkman of about 1750.
“It’s wonderful,” she called to Alexei. “A Kirkman in what looks like good condition.”
“It was tuned again this morning.”
Taking off her coat, Sidonie sat down, feeling the keys quiver beneath her touch, then suddenly elated by all the amazing sights she had looked at that day, launched into a fiendish Scarlatti sonata unaware that Alexei was gazing at her as if until that moment, despite all his brash behaviour towards her, he had not really seen Sidonie properly at all.
*
The triumph was complete. It was Sarah Lennox and not the Queen who was the toast of London and any doubts that had lingered about her acting as bridesmaid had now been laid finally to rest.
On the morning after His Majesty’s marriage a grand Drawing Room had been held following the King’s Levée. Dressed in her bridesmaid’s gown it had been Sarah’s duty to stand beside the Queen with the other bridal attendants, all of them, including Her Majesty, in a line, while her loyal subjects were presented to the bride. The Duchess of Hamilton was to introduce the women, while the Duke of Manchester performed the same task for the men.
In the midst of this ceremony Lord Westmorland, a very old Jacobite, a loyal supporter of the Bonny Prince himself, had come somewhat grudgingly to pay his respects. Moving down the line of ladies the old man, whose sight was sadly failing, had fallen on his knees before the most beautiful of them and raised her pretty hand to his lips, exclaiming, “Now there’s a bonny lass!”
The colour of a rose but laughing for all that, Sarah had said, “But I am not the Queen, Sir,” and passed him on in the right direction. The entire court had noticed that, for all his short sight, the old man had been thoroughly disappointed by the real thing.
The story had swept London and George Selwyn, famed wit and conversationalist, when he heard of it had given his seal of approval by raising his glass to Sarah and Lord Westmorland, saying, “Oh he always loved Pretenders, you know!” The nickname Beautiful Pretender had been born and Sarah had been cheered in the theatre and toasted at balls and parties, while the handsome Earl of Erroll, whom Horace Walpole had considered the most conspicuous figure at the Coronation, where Erroll had acted as High Constable of Scotland, had asked, nay begged, for Sarah’s hand in marriage. The season which had begun so disastrously, so horribly, had ended in glory, only marred by the fact that Ste was departing once more and Charles James was in the sullens because his cousin Susan Fox-Strangeways, with whom he fancied himself in love despite the fact he was only twelve years old, had returned to the country.
Ste’s advice on saying farewell to Sarah had been, “Don’t refuse a good match when you can get it, and don’t go to plays and operas too often.”
Yet it was at the playhouse, which she had no intention of giving up, that Sarah’s life had changed completely. Remembering the time when the King had sat in the box opposite and stared across at her throughout the performance, Sarah had glanced over to see who was there this night and been intrigued to note it was a stranger to her. A truly elegant figure sat in the place once occupied by George, a slim handsome languid creature with all the style and beauty of a French marquis.
“Wh
o’s the dandy?” she whispered to Lady Harriet Bentinck who sat beside her.
“I’ve no idea. What a very pretty fellow!”
“La, but he is. I shall make it my business to discover his name.”
Lady Harriet had laughed. “Smitten, Lady Sarah? I would have thought you were being more careful about men these days. Once bitten, twice shy, and all that.”
“You refer to His Majesty? A mere divertissement on my part.”
“Really?” Harriet was obviously not convinced.
Sarah thought it wiser to remain silent and took to studying the gentleman opposite with rather more interest than she actually felt. It was at that moment, however, that he looked up, saw her staring at him, and gave a bow.
“I really feel I should like to make his acquaintance,” Sarah murmured to her companion.
“Then let us hope you can do so before Christmas is upon us.”
“It certainly would make a good ending to the season to be seen on the arm of a charming fellow such as that. In fact it would be a triumph,” answered Sarah, graciously inclining her head to the stranger as into her mind’s eye came a vision of the King’s face if such a desirable outcome were indeed to take place.
*
The recital was, in Sidonie’s opinion, the most exhilarating experience she had ever had. The Russian hierarchy, including one of the old Romanovs, by a miracle welcomed in Russia these days, stood to applaud. And the greatest applause of all had come for an item that she had added at the very last minute, an adaptation by Sidonie of a Handel piece in which the violin and harpsichord played together. The combined sound had been overwhelming. Alexei was without any doubt at all a genius of a very special kind. In his hands the violin sobbed and sighed and sang, and he had the great gift of empathy for music from any period, seeming as much at home with Renaissance, Baroque, Classical or Jazz.
The only blight on the evening had been the presence of the British MPs among the audience, though Sidonie realised that by now Nigel must be aware she was in Moscow as posters with her photograph were spread about quite prominently. But as soon as she started to play she forgot him and the moment when Alexei, in rather ill-fitting evening clothes, got up, his violin in his hand, was one which she would never forget. The magnificent ballroom thundered with applause as a Muscovite and an Englishwoman made magnificent music together.
The reception afterwards was held in the Tsar’s state dining room, an honour indeed, and Alexei whispered, “They love you, Miss Sidonie. Not all foreign guest artists get this.”
“But it isn’t just for me. There are lots of other dignitaries here.”
“Yes, ambassadors and MPs, that sort of thing. But you and I are the only people from the arts.”
“Isn’t that the director of the Bolshoi Ballet over there?”
“Well, other than him.” Alexei squeezed her waist. “You play real good. It was a great honour when you accompanied me.”
“I think that’s the bit they’ll show on television.”
“They’ll show as much as they can. It was a triumphant concert, little darling.”
“Do you really need English lessons?” asked Sidonie, smiling but narrowing her eyes at him.
“If you will be my teacher. But now I must ask you a question.”
“What?”
“Why does that fat dark English guy keep staring at you?”
“Guy is an American word so doesn’t really apply to him. And he does it because he and I used to be married.”
Alexei’s jaw dropped most satisfyingly and he said something in his own language which Sidonie took to be enormously rude.
“You are his wife?”
“I was, in the past tense. We were divorced several years ago.”
“But he loves you still. I, Alexei Orlov, can tell this. But we will defy him. Come.” And tucking her arm through his the young man, who in Sidonie’s eyes was growing more talented and more eccentric by the minute, whisked her away to greet some of his compatriots.
It was inevitable that Nigel would speak, though, and shortly before the buffet was served her ex-husband, a glass of champagne in hand, came purposefully towards her.
“We escape?” asked Alexei.
“No. I’ll have to say hello.”
“Brilliant, darling,” said Nigel coming up to Sidonie, and had kissed her on the cheek before she could move away.
“I’m glad you thought so,” she answered coolly. “This is Alexei Orlov, the violinist.”
“Well played,” said Nigel heartily, and Sidonie saw that he was doing his all-boys-together act.
“I’m glad you liked it. Do you play an instrument, Mr Brooks?”
“Beltram actually. Nigel Beltram. No, I don’t have much time for that sort of thing. Too busy in the House.”
Alexei looked bemused. “But housework is so dull. You should try to play piano at least. It lifts the soul.”
He bowed and walked away, leaving Sidonie and Nigel to stare at one another.
“Thank God that little jerk’s gone. Now how about dinner? The food here is bound to be ghastly. I’ve found a super restaurant in the Swedish hotel. Do say you’ll come. It’s high time we resumed diplomatic relations.”
Sidonie hesitated. “Look, Nigel, it would be extremely rude to leave when I’m one of the guests of honour. But I have this fated feeling you’re going to go on and on if I don’t. So I’ll make a bargain. If I have dinner with you tomorrow night will you promise to leave me alone after that?”
Some awful mental process took place behind Nigel’s eyes, she could see, and whatever he concluded obviously satisfied him for he smiled broadly and said, “Meet you in the roof bar at the hotel tomorrow at seven sharp. Don’t be late now,” then he blew her a kiss and walked away.
“Has he gone?” said Alexei, rejoining her apparently from nowhere.
“Yes, but not for long.”
“No, not for long. He wants you back.”
“Well, he ain’t getting me and that’s that,” Sidonie replied firmly. “Now let’s go and circulate. You can be my translator.”
“OK. It’s a deal.”
And with that she and the Russian prodigy plunged into the crowd.
Chapter Sixteen
Midnight, thought Lady Sarah Lennox, is a damnably lonely time when one is awake and the rest of the house sleeps. Yet the important, the vital, letter to Susan must be finished to catch the morning’s post. For now a pretty coil had come about. In endeavouring to find out the identity of the French Marquis, as Sarah had nicknamed the elegant stranger, she had not only caught his eye but his attention and Mr Thomas Charles Bunbury, dandy of Barton Hall in the parish of Barton and Mildenhall in Suffolk, had been in hot pursuit of her ever since.
“He has (what is call’d) followed me constantly whenever I have been in town, I have not put myself in his way (do ye take me), for at Leicester House (en presence de ma soeur) we changed places 3 times and, he followed us; at night I went with my sister to the Play, there he was in the front boxes and came in a minute to my house and corner; this you will allow is particular. My sister, who is quick at those sort of things, has settled it that he will make his declaration immediately, but I think not; and why? Because that, talking of people that married for money and rank and so forth, he said he had the comfort to think, that if he married a fine lady, she would love him vastly, for that he was so poor that she must live upon love and bread and butter with him. This I took as a hint he did not intend to marry, and so told him, ‘I thought he had much better not marry in a hurry, as he would not find it easy to meet with such a person,’ and I believe I looked a little angry, for he ask’d me what was the matter, but I did not tell him, as you may imagine, but said it was nothing; he looked either angry or blank, I don’t know which, but said very little and handed me out. I have not seen him since. You will say I might find out what he thought by his conversation, but it’s generally loud and of indifferent subjects, only broad hints now and then that he
likes me, asking me constantly where I am to go, and when I shall be in town, and that he only comes to see me and so forth … He has got a free access into this house, by coming to see Ste and talking politicks to Mr Fox. He is worse than Lord Shelburne I think. I have not seen him since the Play. I have worried you with a tiresome letter about myself, but as it is a case (and that they generally are long) which you are to decide upon, I shall make no excuse but go on.”
But Sarah did not in fact, laying down her pen and putting her arms above her head as she stretched and yawned. It was late and she was tired and yet it had been essential that she write to Susan telling her all she felt about Charles Bunbury, as the Marquis styled himself.
The two girls had decided some while ago that Susan should help Sarah when it came to the choice of husband. Stunned as both of them had been by His Majesty’s behaviour, they had regarded the Earl of Erroll’s proposal as something of a joke, but the beautiful Bunbury was different. Terrified of losing yet another suitor and, even worse, her dignity in the eyes of the ever-watchful beau monde, Sarah had decided to accept Susan’s advice in the matter. So far, not a single person in London had been able to detect the smallest sign of the inner conflict and torment which Sarah had endured secretly ever since the King had passed her by for another. No longer caring what happened to her so long as she maintained her apparently carefree character, she had now reached the stage where marriage to anyone, provided he was both pretty and eligible, seemed the most desirable thing in the world. Delighting herself with the thought of George’s face on the morning her betrothal would be publicly announced, Sarah held her letter up to the light.
Because so much of what she truly thought had to be written down, she and Susan used code names for the three men who so far had or seemed likely to seek Sarah’s hand. George was Prince Prettyman, the Earl was Ajax, and Charles the Marquis. It was as good a cover as any and having reread her letter to make certain she had used pseudonyms throughout, Sarah finally got into bed. Yet sleep would not come and in the darkness she saw a mental picture of the Marquis’s stony face when he had handed her out of her carriage.