by Deryn Lake
Both Lady Caroline and Mr Fox insisted that his remarks about marrying a fine lady were a kind of proposal and that she ought to think seriously about it, but Sarah was not sure. There was something about Charles Bunbury, some intangible thing, that puzzled her. Deep in her mind was the suspicion that he suffered from innate vanity, that he loved everything about himself, his clothes, his exquisite hair, worn to below his ears, his handsome features, and that she, once so hotly pursued by the King himself, represented an ideal person to be seen with round the town. Yet Charles had not liked it when she told him not to marry in a hurry. Did he perhaps think that was her way of refusing him and had he taken offence?
Sighing deeply, Sarah turned over and tried hard to sleep but again unwanted images came into her mind. Why was it that she still thought of the man who had robbed her of her virginity, to this day torn between love and hate by her tumultuous memories of him? If Court gossip could be relied upon, His Majesty was very contented with Charlotte and it was rumoured that the mousy Queen was already pregnant. It would seem that the couple had settled down completely to married life, dull though it was. Sarah supposed, without bitterness, that a boring routine must suit the man she had once held so dear.
“It wouldn’t have been like that with me,” she murmured into her pillow. “I would have kept Prince Prettyman on his toes.”
And then Sarah wondered if that was what was wrong with her, if men found her too challenging, other than Ajax of course, who was all brawn and no brain and simply couldn’t be taken seriously. With these none too comforting ideas she finally fell asleep, only to dream that everything was nightmare and in truth she had married the King, that St James’s Palace had become a great court, a centre for men of wit and learning where scholarship and gaiety walked hand in hand, all overseen by a beautiful Queen whose ease and graciousness were the envy of everyone who knew her.
*
By the time she got back from Heathrow it was midnight and the Garden Flat seemed the most desolate and lonely place on earth. Standing in her bedroom, her suitcases dumped on the floor around her, Sidonie could have wept. Never since she moved in had the flat felt quite so empty nor so devoid of the happiness she had come to associate with it.
Lack of sleep wasn’t helping, Sidonie knew that. She had left Pulkovo, St Petersburg’s airport, at seven o’clock in the evening, seen off by a waving Basil and an Alexei who had brushed his eyes with his sleeve and called her “a great and true artist”, before kissing her on both cheeks. Then, nonsensically, she had arrived at Heathrow at ten, having lost two hours on the flight. Though it was midnight in London her body was telling her that it was two o’clock in the morning and all Sidonie wanted to do was go to bed. But her mind was still in overdrive and she knew she would have to stay up at least another hour, a trick she had long ago learned after giving a concert, in order to get any rest at all. Sitting in the kitchen, sipping tea, Sidonie thought back over her Russian tour.
For a great many reasons it had been one of the most successful she had ever undertaken. The powerful combination of the vast empire of the Tsars, its warm-hearted people, ever willing to show her by their applause in what high esteem they held her and, of course, the exuberant personality of the multitalented Alexei, had created a never-to-be-forgotten impression.
The one bad memory had come from Nigel, as was probably to be expected. After the evening she had spent with him, at which he had eaten little while consuming a great deal too much vodka, he had wanted to go to bed with her. Forcing his way into her room in the hotel he had pinioned her against the wall and smothered her mouth with foul-breathed kisses. Releasing her hands as he undid his trousers, he had given Sidonie the opportunity to struggle free, push him hard, drunkenly swaying as he was, and bolt out. Looking back over her shoulder, her final view of Nigel had been one of him lying flat on his back on the floor his trousers round his ankles, a terrible pair of white Y-fronts well in evidence.
The only address Sidonie had had on her was Alexei’s and she had made her way to his flat by taxi and there spent the night giggling with relief, drinking domestic champagne and eating black market caviar. As soon as dawn had come up and Russia had risen to go to work, they had started an impromptu concert, she on the piano and he on the violin. Eventually he had seen her back to the hotel, accompanying her to her room where Nigel still snored in his horrible knickers. Going back down to reception, Alexei had telephoned in-house while she just laughed helplessly.
“Hello. Mr Beltram MP? This is the KGB. We have been watching you. You are in a woman’s room wearing large loose pants. For this crime you are banished to Siberia for eighty-two years. Now move your arse, you fat old fairy.”
High on champagne, on giggling, on their shared talent, they had breakfasted together then Sidonie had gone on to do a four-hour rehearsal. It had been marvellous, vividly reminding her of her student days in Paris where life had been hard work combined with great and glorious fun.
When the time to go to St Petersburg had eventually come, Sidonie had felt sad to leave the delights of Moscow, though the breathtaking sight of the Winter Palace, fabulous as a dream, and the Hermitage, built by Catherine the Great of the funny little spectacles and snuff box, to house her art collection, had in some measure compensated. But then Sidonie’s phone had rung on the very night of her concert in the legendary Malachite Drawing Room of the Empresses, where the last Tsarina of Russia, she who was doomed to be shot in a squalid cellar, had been dressed for her wedding.
“This is the KGB,” a voice had said. “Are you wearing knickers? If not you are sentenced to forty-nine years in Siberia without any.”
“Such rudery can only be Alexei,” she had answered. “Where are you?”
“Downstairs in reception. I’m hoping to do an encore with you.”
Such lovely silliness, such frivolity, had put Finnan to the back of her mind and it had been almost with a sense of guilt that Sidonie had gone to ring him on the night before he was due to fly to Canada. But there she had reckoned without the Russian telephone system. Lines out from the hotel were limited and there were large queues at the phone boxes and notices warning of six-hour delays. If she had been in Moscow Sidonie could have gone to Basil’s office and asked him to get her through but in St Petersburg she knew no one and had been forced to wait. By the time she got a line it was eleven o’clock at night in London and only the answerphone spoke at the other end.
“If you hear this I want you to know I’m missing you very much indeed. The tour is a great success and I will write as soon as I get back. I love you, Finnan. I really do,” Sidonie had said breathlessly, wondering which was giving her the courage — being in a country still relatively savage, so used to hardship and drama that pretence seemed ridiculous, or Alexei’s refreshing influence. But whatever the reason she had done it and the message was there on Finnan’s machine.
During the last ten days of the tour, Sidonie had been certain that the violinist was developing a youthful passion for her. She had looked up sometimes, even when playing, to see those Slavonic eyes staring at her with such brilliance she had been left in little doubt as to what he was thinking. Despite her feelings for Finnan, Sidonie had been immensely flattered, drawn to Alexei’s youth and vitality, which affected everyone with whom he came in contact.
He had taken her out to dinner on her last night, joined by Basil who had travelled from Moscow on the Trans-Siberian Express.
“How romantic that sounds. I’d love to go on it,” she had said to the two Russians.
“Next time you come — and there will be a next time,” Basil had answered. “I mean it, Sidonie. I am writing to Rod tomorrow to invite you back.”
“Next time,” Alexei had added softly, “we will perhaps be on our honeymoon, and we will take that train of snows and vanish for a whole month.”
She had laughed but something about the way the violinist had said the words sounded as if they were not meant to be funny. And now he was gone and
Finnan was gone and even the cat was still in the cattery.
“Alone again,” said Sidonie aloud, and unpacking her sponge bag made her way to the bathroom and prepared to forget everything in sleep.
*
The engagement notice had gone out in early February. “The Duke and Duchess of Richmond have pleasure in announcing that a marriage has been arranged and will shortly take place between their sister, Lady Sarah Lennox of Holland House, Kensington, and Thomas Charles Bunbury Esq., MP, of Barton Hall, Barton and Mildenhall, Suffolk.”
It had caused a stir because the young couple were both so beautiful and rich, or rather would be one day. For though Charles Bunbury had little money at present, he was in fact heir to a baronetcy which included very large estates and a substantial fortune. It was a marriage made in heaven, some thought, though others speculated that Sarah had gone for the prettiest beau she could find just to spite the King, while Horace Walpole cruelly declared that Bunbury was taking a wife to “show himself more a man”. However nobody dared ask him to explain the implications of that remark.
A constituency had been found for Mr Bunbury that he might fit in more easily with the highly political family into which he was marrying, and Charles also joined Johnson’s famous Literary Club. But neither politics nor learning were his true loves, for the French Marquis had a passion for the turf, and was never happier than when surrounded by the racing fraternity. Horses were his entire life and it was as well for Sarah that she could be enthusiastic about them. Indeed it struck her as admirable that such a pretty fop as her future husband was so clever, indeed downright inspired, when it came to buying and matching horseflesh. Charles might be described as a chicken orator, an infant Hercules, by his political detractors, but when it came to racing matters he was considered by many to be a considerable authority.
“Do you love him?” whispered Charles James to his aunt.
“Of course, I do,” she answered a shade too vehemently.
“So, he’s going to make you happy?”
“Why shouldn’t he, he’s the most elegant fellow in town.”
“Elegance ain’t all,” the boy answered succinctly, then he paused and added, “Charles ain’t too elegant, is he Sal?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing,” answered her nephew airily, and refused to be drawn further.
The weather changed and grew warm, the Queen grew swollen as a grape, Sarah was fitted for her wedding gown, and the King suddenly and coincidentally fell ill. Out of the blue he was attacked by a feverish cold which failed to clear up normally. This caused him to cough violently, the coughing accompanied by an “oppression on his breast”, which His Majesty described as being like a stitch. He was blooded seven times and three blisters were applied to try and cure him.
There was something about this cold that worried everyone. Yet nobody, not even the royal physicians, could say exactly why. It seemed to have a mysterious severity to it and one or two of the older and more superstitious wondered if, coming when it did, it was a judgement on the King for having trifled so shockingly with Lady Sarah’s affections. Thus May passed and the bride, gazing fondly on her fashionable fop, stopped counting the days and prepared to go to the altar, not in a grand royal ceremony but at a simple affair in the chapel of Holland House.
*
She woke with a pricking of her thumbs, with a certain hollowness in the pit of her stomach which convinced Sidonie strange forces were at work again, that the day would not pass without some sight of Sarah. Yet, fascinated as she was by this other life, this other time that ran parallel with her own, today the musician felt frightened and uneasy. She realised now how much Finnan’s acceptance of the paranormal had meant to her, how reassuring his Irish ease of manner had been. Suddenly she was nervous at the idea of six months during which odd or alarming experiences could occur without having anyone to confide in. Finnan would not only be missed for his kindness and companionship, his lovemaking and passion, but for his sound common sense as well.
It was Sunday, though without the comfortable things Sidonie connected with that day. There was no music coming from any of the other flats and Jannie was either away or not baking, for there was no smell of bread either. Suddenly the first chill of winter was in the air and, getting out of bed with a slow reluctance, Sidonie went to put on the central heating and tidy her neglected home.
There was a pile of correspondence waiting for her, but one letter with a Canadian stamp she tore open immediately. It was what she had hoped it would be, a letter from Finnan albeit a brief one.
“Darling girl, as you will see from the address I have arrived safely and am now starting to settle in. The hospital is marvellous, very modern and with all the up-to-date equipment one could ever wish to see. The natives are friendly and the house which is being rented for me is charming and spacious though nothing like the old flat and my beautiful crazy neighbours. (I mean you are the former and Jannie the latter, of course!)
Heading the research team is Professor Joe Teck (quite a character I can assure you, he looks like an American footballer!) assisted by a cracking lady called Dr Jeannie O’Rourke. This would appear to denote both Scots and Irish ancestry but so far I haven’t found out about this. She is an extraordinary combination of things, having thick blonde hair which appears to be natural and enormous blue eyes, yet is formidably clever and well-qualified for all that. I am terrified of her.
It broke my heart that I missed you on that last morning. Binkie, my poor little patient, left her troubles behind her at about five a.m. and that is why I was so late. I know I needn’t have stayed with her but somehow I wanted to, knowing that you would understand.
I miss you already, miss the music you made in every aspect of my life, but I am sure time will fly and it will soon be spring. Take care, Sidonie. Regards to Jamie and Max. Also do give my best wishes to Sarah Lennox and company!! Please write to me soon. Fondest love, Finnan.”
Sidonie took the letter into the bathroom and sat reading it, several times in fact, while she relaxed in the foam. There was a PS which pleased her. “I will try and ring on the Sunday you return, in the evening. It will be about six o’clock your time (about two p.m. here). I hope to catch you in.”
Several things struck her about the letter, one being that Dr Jeannie O’Rourke sounded far too glamorous for comfort, though Sidonie consoled herself with the fact that the woman was probably married, the other that Finnan had not mentioned her breathless message on his answerphone, given under the influence of Mother Russia and the impish genius Alexei. It occurred to her that perhaps the Irishman might not have heard it, and this idea appealed to her more than the thought that he might be deliberately ignoring it. Very cheered by the news that she would actually speak to him today, Sidonie, having telephoned her parents to say she was safe and well, set out to collect the cat ignoring a great compulsion to go to Holland House.
*
The wedding day was very bright and fair, golden sun illuminating the park, while the private chapel, situated in the west wing beneath the library, once a long gallery, was packed with flowers. Elegant people crowded the pews, several Macaronis amongst them. The Duchess of Richmond, the Lovely, lit the front stall with her dazzling looks, though not managing to put Emily Kildare, her sister-in-law in the shade. The Duke, dressed superbly, was to give the bride away, while Mr Fox, not chosen to do so, contented himself with thinking it was a fine turn-out and everyone who was politically important to him was present in the chapel.
Dr Francis, a former chaplain at Holland House, had been asked to conduct the ceremony, and this was considered very suitable as he had in the past taught all the young people, including lessons on how to act in amateur plays. And now he stood waiting, gowned and ready, Bible in hand, for the bride to make her appearance.
It had been arranged that Sarah should walk the short distance to the chapel, taking the outside path and only coming through the house if the weather were inclem
ent. Accordingly the servants, every one of them, had lined up in the entrance hall and as the bride came down the stairs in her silver gown, a white petticoat trimmed with silver beneath, they cheered and opened the front door for the wedding party to step through.
There were two attendants, Lady Susan Fox-Strangeways and Sarah’s younger sister, Lady Cecilia Lennox, now aged nearly twelve. Both of these were dressed in lavender blue which complemented the bride’s beauty, which this day Mr Fox thought transcendent. Yet it was with a strange sense of alarm that Sarah took her brother Richmond’s arm and stepped out onto the curving steps leading into the courtyard. It seemed to her that there was an odd feeling in the air, a feeling she associated with the ghostly woman. And as she walked towards the chapel, Sarah glanced back over her shoulder uneasily.
“The King’s not here, if that’s who you’re looking for,” drawled her brother. “He’s sick as a dog and like as not thinking about funerals not weddings.”
“That is a terrible thing to say.”
“But yet ’tis rumoured.”
The sound of the organ was drowning conversation and the bride thought it best not to answer. Raising her chin she walked proudly into the chapel and straight up the aisle to where her bridegroom, dressed in purple satin like the dandy he was, awaited her. Smiling, Sarah turned to hand her bouquet of summer flowers to Susan, and it was then that she saw her, the unmistakable hair catching her eye immediately.
The woman stood at the back of the chapel, behind the pews, wearing that usual half-frightened, half-entranced expression of hers. It occurred to Sarah to call out that there was a stranger in their midsts, that an uninvited guest had come who now stood watching the ceremony without permission. But it was too late; Dr Francis had begun to speak. Deliberately catching the stranger’s eye to show that she was aware of her presence, Sarah turned away and concentrated on the important task of getting married.