by Deryn Lake
“Have you heard of Madame de Montespan?” whispered Armand.
“Was she not a mistress of Louis XIV and accused of being a witch?” Sarah answered softly.
“Not so much of being one as resorting to spells to gain the King’s love. Well you, Milady, have something of her sorcery about you.”
“What do you mean, Monsieur?”
“That you only have to look at a man and he is completely captivated.”
“I was thinking the same about you,” answered Sarah, then wondered how she had dared to say it.
“Were you?” said Armand, and smiled with amusement. The little flames in the pupils of his eyes flickered, died and suddenly he looked quite normal again.
“I shall call on you and Sir Charles Bunbury tomorrow.” He stood up and kissed her hand. “Adieu till then.”
“Adieu,” Sarah replied, once more her usual self and wondering what had come over her.
Madame de Cambis stood up and linked her arm through her lover’s. “I think it is time I went home to bed,” she said, her lovely mouth only an inch from the Duc’s.
“Then I’ll see you to your carriage,” he said, and turned to give one last look at Lady Sarah Bunbury.
Chapter Nineteen
She was in a state of utter confusion, her thoughts and emotions hovering between a delicious sensation of excitement and a nasty feeling of guilt. She was on the brink of a love affair, she knew it, yet much as she wanted it, much as she longed simply to fall into bed with him and let the inevitable happen, the very idea of infidelity struck her to the heart.
He had not made love to her on New Year’s Eve nor the following morning either. Alexei had simply nestled in beside her, drowsy with sleeping pills as she was, and gone straight to sleep himself. And the next day he was up and in the shower, singing loudly in Russian, when Sidonie had woken up.
“Remind you of anything?” he had said, sticking his head round the bathroom door.
“What?”
“The night we spent together in Moscow when you were escaping from Nigel.”
“Oh yes.”
“Did you sleep well? Are you feeling better?”
Alexei had walked into the bedroom dressed in a towel and Sidonie had thought what a nice body he had, strong and compact, his arms muscular with so many years spent handling a violin.
“Much. I’ll get up in a minute.”
“No hurry. I’ll go and fetch you some breakfast.”
“I’d rather come with you. I’ll turn funny if I stay here much longer.”
They had gone out to a little restaurant together and had stayed there all morning, drinking coffee, sipping brandies. And then they had gone to Alexei’s rehearsal room and Sidonie, sitting comfortably in a chair and feeling very spoiled, had listened to him practise. Afterwards they had lunched with Monique Amboise, volubly worried about Sidonie’s accident, and by the time they had come out it had grown dusk and everything had changed. For there on the front page of the evening papers was a rather juvenile looking photograph of Alexei and a story headlined, “Russian sensation comes to the rescue.”
Sidonie thought quizzically as Alexei sat down to read that the saying about an ill wind was absolutely true. However wicked a charmer Sarah’s friend had been in his own time, however much his hypnotic eyes had affected Sidonie in this century, he had done Alexei Orlov an enormous favour.
The cream of Paris society had been at Pierre Sevigne’s party, including the director of a French television network, the editor of a large circulation popular daily newspaper, who obviously had contacts, to say nothing of two extremely influential music critics. Alexei had stormed into all their lives like a revelation. The fact that he was attractive, a gifted musician and came from a mysterious nation whose internal affairs were chaotic was enough. The Russian violinist was suddenly the man that all Paris wanted to know.
The next few days had been extremely odd, yet elating. The morning papers had carried news items about Alexei and as a result his concert on the 3rd January at the Palais de Chaillot was a complete sell-out, with students standing at the back. On the morning after that, alongside the reviews, all of which raved about him, appeared a photograph of Sidonie, complete with the full details of her fainting and subsequent head injury. After that, very much as if they were the flavour not only of the month but of the New Year as well, both of them were besieged by requests for interviews and, for the first time in their lives, paparazzi followed them in the street while an evening paper reproduced a photograph of them walking hand-in-hand. This last gave Sidonie a certain disquiet in case French newspapers were on sale in Canada.
By now she had begun to suspect that the sponsors of the charity concert at Chambord had something to do with all the sudden interest, because tickets for that were already on the black market. The popular papers had concluded that she and Alexei were on the point of becoming lovers and this, added to their much spoken of genius, had made anybody who was anybody want to hear them play.
Though Alexei was obviously their favourite, Sidonie had several attributes which the French adored. She had been educated in Paris by a Frenchwoman, she was a declared Francophile, was beautiful, talented and had fainted into the arms of a mercurial Russian prodigy, or at least that was the way the story was being told. In a way it was like a dream come true, a taste of true celebrity status.
“I think we should make it all real,” said Alexei as they drove out of Paris in their hired car on the way to the Loire Valley.
“What do you mean?”
“The papers say we are lovers — or about to be — so why don’t we prove them right?”
“I’m years older than you are and besides there is that man in Canada I told you about.”
“He is an idiot. A Russian would not muck about. He would say ‘Sidonie, I love you and that’s it.’”
“How unromantic.”
Alexei shrugged his beautiful shoulders. “Possibly, but it is direct. I do not do this pussfoot. I speak my mind.”
“Good for you. And the word’s pussyfoot.”
“Who cares? Sidonie, I adore you. I have done ever since you came to Russia. Please, just once, let me make love to you. The man in Canada will never know. Besides, he has probably got someone to keep him company, don’t you think?”
Sidonie heard again that husky Canadian voice at the other end of the telephone.
“I’ve no idea what I think. To be honest, he doesn’t seem quite the type to me,” she said thoughtfully.
“All men are the type.”
“But some more so than others. Oh, Alexei, the older I get the less I know. Experience counts for nothing. I just have an incredible knack of messing up my life completely.”
The Russian looked at her wryly. “Nigel was certainly a mistake. Does he still pester you?”
“Not really. He seems to have phases.”
“Like the moon.”
“Probably. He’s a Cancer after all and they’re lunar subjects.”
“Me, I am a Leo. A big pussy cat.”
“And a show-off.”
Sidonie smiled at Alexei indulgently, full of feelings for this extraordinary creature who appeared to alter the lives of everyone who knew him.
“Maybe I am, but so what? Sidonie, what is going to happen with us?”
“I don’t know,” she answered.
And she didn’t, too mixed up, too emotionally confused for any sensible thought.
Originally the two musicians had been booked into an hotel not far from the château but in view of their overnight celebrity they had been invited to stay with one of the sponsors. Judging by the distant glimpse of his magnificent home as the car turned into the acres of parkland which surrounded it, Monsieur de Chenerilles must be very wealthy indeed.
“All this expensive living is getting too much,” said Sidonie. “I don’t know how I’ll settle down to normal life. My flat’s a hovel in comparison with what I’m becoming used to.”
“What about mine?�
� exclaimed Alexei. “You try living in a Moscow tenement.”
Yet despite their joking mood both of them were silenced as the car made its way up the long and winding drive.
There had been a fall of snow in the night and as far as the eye could see there were glistenings and gleamings of white diamonds. Great trees that in their time had seen the cavalcade of all the nobility of France pass beneath their branches stood silent, aloof almost, the survivors of the babel, wearing their frosty crowns with dignity.
Beneath the white-laced cedars the lawns glittered shades of sugar plum while the château itself looked like something from legend, drenched in milk, fine and fabulous, a pearl in a shell of sea spray.
“How wonderful,” said Sidonie.
“I’ve never seen anything quite like it,” Alexei answered, and she knew he meant it literally, that never in his total experience had the Russian been to a more beautiful place still remaining in private ownership.
Their host turned out to be a woman, a chic intelligent creature of indefinable years and immense sophistication.
“Chantal de Chenerilles,” she said, holding out a long lean hand with surprisingly short fingernails, varnished red, her fingers covered with expensive rings. “I asked you both here most selfishly,” she went on in a voice that had a delicious crack in it. “I am an amateur pianist and adore musicians.”
Alexei kissed the extended hand. “And I adore you for inviting us to stay in your beautiful home.”
“Charmant,” said Chantal, “charmant.”
‘Born to be a toyboy,’ thought Sidonie uncharitably and then, remembering her own recent thoughts, felt ashamed.
“I will show you to your rooms,” their hostess was saying. “I do hope you’ll find them to your liking. By the way, I have taken the liberty of getting my music room ready for your practice sessions. It seemed to me to be more convenient for you.”
“That sounds terrific,” said Alexei enthusiastically.
“Do you have a harpsichord, Madame?” asked Sidonie more cautiously.
“But certainly. It goes with the château and I believe has been here for at least two hundred years. I recently had it restored in order to preserve it.”
“Is it a Blanchet?”
“No, it is English. A Blasser.”
“Good gracious, so is mine. At home I mean. It’s dated London, 1745.”
Chantal looked delighted. “Mine is London, 1753. Let me get you settled in and then you shall have a look.”
Sidonie had a sudden presentiment that fate was about to overwhelm her in every possible way and felt she knew the answer as she asked Madame de Chenerilles, “Has your family always lived here?”
“No, far from it. It was originally built in the fifteenth century for one of the King’s loyal men but, in the seventeenth, was given, to the Duc de Gontaut by the Marquise and Duchesse d’Étoiles, otherwise known as Madame de Pompadour, of course. He was a firm favourite of hers though I do not believe they were ever lovers, as sexually she was cold.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“It is a fact, odd though it seems for Louis XV’s favourite mistress. However, Gontaut, in his turn, gave it to his son Armand, the Duc de Lauzun.”
“De Lauzun, de Lauzun?” repeated Sidonie. “Why do I know that name?”
“You have probably read about him. He was a great womaniser and was said to have practised magic and hypnosis and God knows what else in order to make his conquests.” Chantal smiled, her lovely face quite lined but wonderfully lived in and lively. “Quite a man, eh? I expect these bedrooms could tell a tale or two.”
And with that she threw open the door of a vast room, a log fire burning in the grate, made rich by the warmth of its deep peony pink drapery, a similarly curtained four-poster bed opposite the long windows.
“It is as comfortable and cosy as I could make a fifteenth-century building,” remarked Chantal, almost carelessly. “There is a bathroom en suite where once there used to be a cupboard. And you, young man, are opposite — in the Prince de Conti’s bedroom.”
“I shall never recover from this,” said Alexei.
Chantal smiled enigmatically. “Perhaps not. Now, when you have made yourselves at home come downstairs to the salon. My maid will unpack for you. You can concentrate on having a drink and seeing the rest of the house.”
It was an extension of Paris, another flight into a dream world, for the château, though built in the fifteenth century, was on a much older site. Down in the cellars, now covered by a piece of sheer but toughened glass, were the remains of a mosaic floor.
“There was a Roman villa here?” said Sidonie in awe.
“Indeed, and in the grounds are the ruins of a temple from the same period.”
“So there has been a dwelling here almost since time began?”
“Not quite that long but a good while anyway.”
“Is the place haunted?” asked Sidonie as they made their way up the cellar stairs.
“Oh yes. There is a Roman soldier who walks in the grounds and I often hear noises coming from the music room.”
“Tell me,” said Alexei, agog, both with his hostess and the château, Sidonie thought.
Chantal turned to Sidonie. “Someone plays the harpsichord.”
“How very creepy. I wonder who it is?”
“I think perhaps the wicked Duc himself. I believe that he was quite a good musician, though how he found time to practise with all his womanising and other hobbies I shall never know.”
Going in, a glass of superb claret in her hand, Sidonie could well imagine that the great room contained memories of the past. Hung with paintings and portraits, all with a musical theme, joined together by exquisitely carved garlands of wood, it seemed almost as if it were full of people. And the instruments standing within were wonderful, beautiful and rare, the only comparatively modern piece a Steinway grand piano.
“I studied at the Conservatoire,” Chantal said simply, “but gave up my ambitions to be a concert pianist when I married. My husband was an industrialist, fifteen years older than I was. He was killed in a helicopter crash some time ago.”
“How terrible.”
Chantal moved her hands expressively. “He left me all this and more money than I know what to do with. But, alas, I never had a child to share it with.”
A tangible sadness hung in the air and Sidonie reflected that material possessions can never compensate for certain lacks. “Shall I play for you?” she said to lighten the atmosphere.
“I would be thrilled.”
“Do you like this?”
And Sidonie played “The Duchess of Richmond”, a jolly minuet composed by that talented aristocrat the Earl of Kelly.
“How odd!” said Chantal when she had finished.
“In what way?”
“A little while ago you asked about the ghost and now you’re playing its song!”
“This is what you hear?”
“I’m certain of it.”
“What a strange coincidence,” Sidonie replied automatically. But she no longer believed that, certain now that she had come to the Château des Cedres for a reason, that something of great importance was about to take place.
*
“Adultery,” mouthed Lady Sarah Bunbury to her own reflection, which frowned at her severely from the looking glass, “is not only a disgusting word but a disgusting act. I shrink from it, so I do.”
Her reflection raised its eyebrows and smiled somewhat cynically, for truth to tell the thought of infidelity was a constant but delicious tease. Never had she been so courted — for what price poor Carlisle’s efforts compared with that of the wordly Frenchman? — and never had Sarah felt herself to be so enmeshed in a web of such lustful intrigue.
Confusion was everywhere, pulling her in several directions at once. Excited by the Duc de Lauzun’s obvious admiration, drawn like a butterfly into his compelling eyes, Sarah was riven with shame at the thought of her beautiful Bunbury, as pret
ty and good-natured a husband as ever woman could wish, being betrayed. Yet, in honesty, their intimate life left much to be desired. After every coupling, Sarah was left with the depressing impression that Charles felt such things to be his marital duty rather than a pleasure. Furthermore, she still had not experienced with her husband, not even once, that thrilling explosion of ecstasy which the King’s lovemaking had aroused in her.
“La, it’s a terrible coil,” she sighed, and wished that guilt had never been invented.
Since that night in the Temple, Lauzun had pursued her with both relentlessness and skill. Ingratiating himself with her husband, the Duc had introduced the bored baronet to the jeu de paume and then, with Sir Charles safely out of the way, had whispered a declaration of undying love in Sarah’s ear. She had pretended not to hear what he said, but when a letter expressing the same sentiments had arrived she had had little choice but to read it. Of course, she had returned it, and shortly afterwards had told him she did not want a French lover, that lovers caused scandals, and if he spoke of love again she would have no choice but to bar the door to him. But for some terrible reason all these protestations had the opposite effect on the Duc, who continued to visit her with every sign of affection.
Meanwhile, the sluttish Madame de Cambis had demanded that Lauzun choose between herself and Sarah. Without hesitation, the Duc had bundled up his mistress’s letters and returned them to her in a bulging packet. That very night she had gone to bed with the Chevalier de Coigny, but the Duc had merely laughed and raised two fingers in the air. It was heady stuff, the essence of high seduction, and Sarah stood poised, almost ready to give in, waiting for some signal from fate which would tell her what her next move ought to be.
They had been in Paris a month now and had kept Christmas there, Sarah enjoying the experience enormously. But now it was the eve of New Year, the new year 1767, and Madame de Boufflers, the Prince de Conti’s amusing mistress, was giving a grand supper in her house in the Marais. There was to be dancing, a concert, and all kinds of jollification and Sarah, knowing that the Duc would be there and certain that he had fallen genuinely in love with her despite his vast reputation, dressed herself with care, her maid pulling her stays tighter than ever, the friseur weaving an entire flower garden — or so it seemed — into her hair.