by Deryn Lake
Sevigne gave a little bow. “Très belle, Madame. Now, may I offer you a drink?”
“After the concert I’d love one. I simply daren’t beforehand.”
“I quite understand. But I have ordered a bottle of champagne to be put on ice for you. It is from my own vineyards and I am rather proud of it.”
“That sounds wonderful, Monsieur Sevigne. As is your house.”
Pierre smiled. “I love it, of course. It has been in our family for the last hundred years but before that it belonged to the Princes de Conti. One of their many residences.”
“Do you live here all the time?”
“During the week, yes. But at weekends I go out of town.”
Sidonie was dying to ask if he was married but thought it might be misconstrued if she did. Instead she said, “You must have a marvellous life.”
“Yes and no. It can be boring. I am really most happy when I am either travelling or entertaining. And tonight I entertain in style. My party is geared to the eighteenth century. It is to be entirely in costume.”
“You should have told me. I would have hired something.”
“Not at all. You look absolutely charming. You and I alone will remain in modern dress.”
“I’m afraid my guest, the one I telephoned you about, doesn’t know it’s costume either.”
“Ah yes, Alexei Orlov. I can’t wait to meet him. According to the newspapers he is a young man likely to take Paris by storm.”
Sidonie grinned. “He plays superbly and he’s also quite a character, it’s true.”
“Like Nigel Kennedy?”
“No, not like that at all.”
“Ah ha,” answered her host enigmatically. “Now, Madame Brooks, let me show you where you are to play. I am sure you would like to warm up.”
“Yes, please.”
“Follow me.”
He turned and led the way, throwing open two massive white doors, encrusted with gilt embellishments, which led into an enormous salon. It was one of the most elegant rooms that Sidonie had ever seen in a private residence. Completely decorated in white and gold, its chandeliers reflected in many mirrors, it had rich burgundy velvet curtains sweeping to the floor drawn across three huge pairs of French windows to keep out the night. In front of them a small platform had been erected on which stood the Blanchet harpsichord.
“Marvellous,” said Sidonie, playing a chord and admiring the classical scene painted inside the lid. “I’ll practise for a quarter of an hour before your guests arrive.”
“I’ll leave you in peace then,” answered Pierre and went out.
It was a very strange feeling, being left alone in that room which but for the subdued electric lighting looked just as it must have done two hundred years earlier. Suddenly consumed by the past, the atmosphere of this morning’s experience still clinging to her, Sidonie bent over the keyboard and started to play a Scarlatti sonata, the execution of which left no room in the performer’s mind for anything else at all.
Known as Sonata 264, it followed such a tortuous line that it was enough to throw the listener into a state of total bewilderment, let alone the player. Gasping almost, Sidonie came to the end only to hear the sound of applause. Startled, she looked up and saw that the audience had come in while she was playing, that she had spoilt all the evening’s arrangements by practising far too long. Nervous of her host’s reaction, Sidonie searched the crowd for him.
He wasn’t there, neither was Alexei. Only the guests, powdered and patched, terribly authentic looking with their air of dissolute revelry, sat and watched, their eyes fixed on her, every one. And it was then that Sidonie thought she was going to faint, for it was happening again. For the second time in twelve hours she was looking at Sarah Bunbury.
Thoughts flew like birds: that the ease with which she was slipping from present to past was now something to be dreaded, that Sarah was growing older, that time must be passing more quickly for her than it was for Sidonie. For it was a beautiful young woman in her twenties, her figure rounded and voluptuous, who sat surrounded by French gallants. Sarah had aged by several years even since that morning.
Bunbury, as elegant as ever, sat at a distance from his wife and it was another man, his head bent towards Sarah, who had the place beside her. But as Sidonie stared at them he looked up, straight into her eyes, and the musician shuddered deep within her soul.
Eyes dark as stone stared at her, eyes set beneath brows which were crooked, turning up in slants at the corners. His mouth was harsh, thin as the slash of a sword, yet with the curved lips of a sensualist. The man’s hair was black, even more so than Sarah’s, but while her skin was fresh, the colour of roses, his was sallow. His body, though small, was compact, suggesting that he might be well-endowed in matters pleasing to a lady, and the very way he sat seemed arrogantly to confirm this.
How she was aware of it, Sidonie did not know, but somehow she realised that he could not only see her but knew what she was, a ghost from the future, a creature of no substance or reality. With her gaze locked into his, Sidonie watched as he slowly smiled, then his eyes became molten in appreciation of her. Then she knew nothing more as the harpsichord came up to meet her and she slumped forward over it, a trickle of bright red blood tainting one of the exquisite keyboards.
Chapter Eighteen
An appreciation of style and beauty being an innate part of the French character, the arrival of any newcomer endowed with those qualities always caused a stir of interest, and nowhere more so than in the capital. The beau monde having signalled that a new and exciting personality had come into their midst, everyone desired to meet the stranger, and so it was that Lady Sarah Bunbury, on her second visit to Paris in the winter of 1766, eighteen months after her first, suddenly found herself the focus of attention and gossip.
Looking back, she assumed that the presence of her family during her first stay had precluded her from such giddy triumphs as she was experiencing now, though admittedly she had at the time been kissed on both cheeks by the King, old Louis XV, who had declared aloud that doing so gave him pleasure.
All the Foxes, including the two boys, had been invited during that visit to the Prince de Conti’s country seat, L’Isle d’Adam, a beautiful château built on an island in the middle of the River Oise. Sarah had been much flattered there by the musicians and scientists, artists and intellectuals, who thronged the place. Going home had not been easy and Sarah had returned to London to find life in turmoil.
Due to political skulduggery and a general shifting of sides, her brother-in-law Lord Holland, the erstwhile Henry Fox, had been dismissed from the post of Paymaster. To make matters worse Sarah’s husband, Charles, was amongst the group who had thrust Henry out, namely the faction headed by the Duke of Bedford. It had been embarrassing to say the least but Sarah, who did not discuss such matters with her husband, her first concern being to keep her marriage on an even keel, had not broached the topic with him. Matters had come to a head when Lord Kildare, Sarah’s brother-in-law, in whose house she had been brought up, told her that he did not approve at all of Charles Bunbury’s reward, an appointment as Secretary to the new Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, the thoroughly unpopular Lord Weymouth.
But Bedford’s plotters had fallen again and Sir Charles, who had succeeded to his father’s title and estates in June, 1764, had consequently lost the Secretaryship. It had been something of a relief even though it meant a drop in income of 24,000 a year. Yet Sarah had had little time to think about such matters when in the summer of 1765, Madame de Boufflers, the mistress of the Prince de Conti, arrived at Barton to go to the races. Together the two women had attended the midsummer meet and seen Gimcrack win at Newmarket.
“Is he not the sweetest little horse that ever was?” Sarah had asked the Frenchwoman.
“Almost as sweet as you, chérie. Everyone in Paris asks after you, especially the Prince. He wants to know when you will be returning to us.”
“Now that the Duke of Richmond, my broth
er, has been appointed Ambassador, I suppose I have every excuse.”
“You do not need an excuse. Come and see us. Even the King has enquired about you.”
“How is His Majesty?”
Madame de Boufflers had pulled a face. “He is a worried man. The Dauphin has recently been suffering high fevers and indisposition.”
“And the King has no other son?”
“No. But let us not speak of such sad things. When are you coming to Paris? I would like a firm date.”
“I shall ask my husband to settle it.”
“He intends to accompany you?”
“Of course.”
“Ah! That will be a blow to the gallantes.”
“Will it? Oh dear.”
Intrigued, Sarah determined to push Charles for an answer at the first opportunity.
Generally speaking she had had a horrid time ever since she left Paris in the spring of 1765. What with the sacking of Lord Holland, a fact which had thrown him into poor health and low spirits, and the death of her beloved nephew, child of Emily and Lord Kildare, at whose deathbed Sarah had faithfully remained for three terrible weeks, the long months had been an ordeal. Furthermore, her visit to the shrine at St Cyr had done no good. Sarah still had no baby to play with, no one to fill her many lonely hours.
‘But what saint could compete with my husband?’ she had thought to herself.
Not once with him, not even once, had she felt that magnificent explosion of fire which coupling with the King had brought about in her. On the infrequent occasions when Charles did make love to her, though she considered that a misnomer, she remained cold as a fish.
‘Perhaps it is my fault,’ Sarah wondered sadly. ‘Perhaps you can only conceive a baby when you are mad with passion.’
The one bright spot during these dismal eighteen months had been the marriage of Ste, still very fat and deafer than ever, to a dear sweet girl who loved him. In April, 1766, Lady Mary Fitzpatrick, daughter of the Earl of Upper Ossory, had become his bride and the young couple had set up home at Winterslow, near Salisbury. Here they lived happily but to a level of extravagance that knew no bounds. There was hunting, shooting and private theatricals for the unlimited numbers of house guests, Ste having built a little theatre especially for that purpose. He had also started gambling again and his debts were once more beginning to mount, though he kept very quiet about that fact.
The other joy to Sarah at this period of her life was the revival of her correspondence with Susan, now settled in New York where the handsome Mr O’Brien was trying his hand at various occupations and finding none to his liking. To make her friend’s life more bearable, Sarah had started to send gifts of clothes, together with a chaise and harness, and other smaller luxuries.
Yet nothing could compensate the girl who had been taught love by a king for the emptiness of her marriage. She, who had always been so fit, was taken ill twice during the six months leading up to the long-awaited second Paris trip, unaware that stress was at the root of all her problems. Eventually, however, her husband was ready to travel and it was arranged that she, Sir Charles and Frederick Howard, the fifth Earl of Carlisle, should set sail at the end of November, 1766.
Carlisle had come into the lives of the Bunburys in 1764 when he had been sixteen years old. A schoolfriend of Charles James Fox, Sarah had known him as a boy at Holland House. But now the youth had grown tall, slim and remarkably handsome. Three years his senior and heavily married, Sarah had flirted with Frederick and soon he had fallen hopelessly in love with her. It was an exquisite sensation for both of them, deliciously frustrating. He longed for her body, she constantly refused it, declaring she was a faithful wife and a true and loyal heart. But recently, though she would not have admitted it to anyone, not even to Susan, the meagre comforts of her marriage bed had sent her thoughts, though so far only her thoughts, down many a wayward path.
Strangely, her arrival in Paris at the centre of what appeared to be a ménage à trois had, contrary to Madame de Boufflers’s fears, seemed to attract the gallants rather than put them off. In the few days since Sarah had appeared in the capital, it was obvious that she was already a success. Fops and dandies bowed to her in the street, she was cheered at the Palais Royal where she, Charles and Carlisle had gone to gamble. To add to this triumph, Sarah had already acquired a coterie of followers. At least ten young men made it their business to be everywhere she was, following her from place to place. Nobody bothered in the least about her husband, who was generally considered a good fellow, obviously up to games of his own as he allowed his wife’s sweetheart to escort her to the balls and soirées that he, Bunbury, considered might well be boring. Of these possible lovers the Duc de Chartres had been the first openly to declare himself, formally asking Sarah to become his mistress.
“You may keep your young Lord as well,” he had added nonchalantly.
Sarah had reacted furiously. “My young Lord, as you call him, is not my lover. I am the wife of Sir Charles Bunbury and aware of my duty.”
“How boring for you,” de Chartres had replied with equanimity. “Let us hope that Paris will soon teach you the ways of the world. Remember, when it does, that I shall be waiting.”
But despite her frosty reply, Sarah loved the flattery and the flirting. She considered herself an English fortress under attack from the wily French, having absolutely no idea how long she could hold out under their barrage an utterly intriguing and delightful prospect. With a contented sigh, Lady Sarah applied paint to a face which, though thinner through illness, now had a special glow to it.
Tonight was particularly exciting for there was to be a ball and concert at the Temple, the Prince de Conti’s Parisian home. The Temple had once been the dwelling place of the Knights Templar and consisted of a gaunt medieval tower, originally built as a donjon, a beautiful palace which had belonged to the Grand Prior, and an extensive garden. The whole lay within a walled enclave and was reached by passing through an ancient gateway.
After the dissolution of the order of warrior monks, the King of France had appointed the place for the private usage of the royal family but it was the present Prince de Conti who had converted the palace to suit his tastes. It was now light, airy and elegantly appointed, and it was here that the nobleman did most of his entertaining. Full of excitement at being invited to such an historic place, Sarah and her husband, their doting companion one step behind them, entered their chaise and drove through the darkened streets.
Yet, even at first sight, there was something about the Temple which frightened Sarah. Though the ancient palace was exquisite, lit by a thousand candles, it seemed to her that the shadow of the donjon loomed over all and she was seized by a strange presentiment that it had been — and indeed would be — the scene of much agony and despair. But with the music playing, with people dancing, with a huge room laid out for supper while another was given over entirely to cards, how could she be sad? Determined to enjoy herself, Sarah allowed the Duc de Chartres to lead her out for a minuet as Charles left for the gaming tables and young Carlisle looked on miserably.
“Just witness that poor fellow,” said de Chartres laconically. “He watches every move you make. You are cruel, Milady.”
“If that is so why do you pursue me?” Sarah answered swiftly.
“Because you are beautiful and I desire you. I will not rest until I possess every inch of you.” Sarah opened her mouth but de Chartres cut in on her. “And if you are about to tell me yet again of your virtue I would answer you thus. Why is it that you and your husband live such separate lives if all is well with you?”
“We do not,” Sarah replied indignantly. “We are always together.”
“That is a patent falsehood. But enough of your husband, he bores me. Let me tell you instead about some of the fascinating people here tonight. You see that woman over there, so ravaged yet so beautiful, wearing purple.”
“Yes.”
“She is the Duchesse de Gramont who has for her lover her
own brother. They have been practising incest together for years. He is the Duc de Choiseul, that decadent bull mastiff in silver.”
Sarah could not answer, too horrified by what she was hearing, simply staring at the Duc sound-eyed.
“However, recently, the Duchesse has been falling in love with her nephew the Duc de Lauzun. But Lauzun’s attentions have wandered elsewhere and she is furious. Intriguing is it not?” de Chartres went on.
“I think it sounds sordid and revolting.”
The Duc shrugged. “It would not appeal to me certainly. By the way I had better warn you. Lauzun eats women for breakfast and has already pledged to be the first into your bedchamber.”
“But he doesn’t even know me.”
“That would not deter Lauzun. Seriously, chérie, you must watch yourself with that one. He believes it his right to try out all the new beauties that come to the Temple. They say no woman in Paris has truly arrived until Lauzun gives his approval and that the Prince encourages him in this.”
“The Prince de Conti? But he is such a nice man.”
The Duc shrieked with laughter. “A great man, yes. Nice, no. Lauzun is his favourite. Just you wait and see.”
With a certain trepidation Sarah curtsied as the music came to an end, then glanced round surreptitiously.
“He’s not here yet,” whispered de Chartres. “He will make a point of being presented, rest assured.”
And with that he left her, going off to speak to the incestuous Duchesse whose lovely face bore all the signs of depravity, like a perfect flower that secretly devours flies. Within seconds of the Duc’s departure, Carlisle was at Sarah’s side.
“I claim this dance, my Lady,” he said, with a terrible attempt at joviality.
Just for a split of a second Sarah looked at him closely and instantly despised herself for leading him on. He was so autumnally handsome, crisp and brown as fallen leaves, that she felt cruel for keeping him attached to her by such tenuous threads as unspoken promises. If all had been right and proper she would have released him to go courting, as did his schoolfriend Charles James, incessantly so. Yet her fear of being spurned kept her holding on to him. She had lost a lover and, as far as passion was concerned, she had lost a husband too, and Sarah’s nature, descendant of that lustiest of monarchs Charles II and his French mistress as she was, demanded love.