by Deryn Lake
Afterwards, in the years that followed, when she was looking for explanations, Sidonie thought of her visit to the Château des Cedres as one of the major turning points in her life. For it was while she was there that, in her opinion, she finally learned to play the harpsichord, and it was during those same few days of her stay that she also learned the art of self-deception. But whether the good of one outweighed the evil of the other could never truthfully be judged. Though, as Sidonie supposed later, she would have sacrificed almost anything, including her peace of mind, to have improved her musical skill in the sudden and extraordinary way she did.
She had woken from the dream, her mind teeming with sound, the notes of the Earl of Kelly’s playing still echoing in her brain. Unable to sleep, yet unable to go to the harpsichord for fear of disturbing the rest of the household, Sidonie had dressed warmly and gone into the grounds for a walk. Trudging through the snow, still not certain what had happened to her during the night, whether it had been a dream or her own kind of reality, the feeling that destiny was about to lay its hand on her was inescapable. Sidonie experienced a sense of the inevitable as the sound of a violin broke the silence of that ice-sharp morning. Going towards it as if she were pulled, she made her way to one of the château’s outbuildings.
Alexei was standing inside, his back turned to her, zooming through a work by Paganini with such virtuosity that Sidonie could only watch in rapt admiration that at this early hour of the morning anyone could play so well. Totally unaware of her presence, the Russian finished with a triumphant sweep of his bow across the strings, and Sidonie burst into applause.
“Bravo, well done.”
He turned rapidly. “Sidonie? You scared me stiff! What are you doing here? I thought you were asleep.”
“I woke early and wanted some air.”
“What time is it?”
“About seven I think.”
“Good. I can get in another hour’s practice.”
She looked at him curiously. “I didn’t realise you were such an early riser. Didn’t you sleep well?”
Alexei grinned sheepishly. “No, I was awake most of the night. I kept thinking about the ghost in the music room. Do you know I could have sworn I heard it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I thought I heard the harpsichord play in the middle of the night. It was eerie. It’s amazing what imagination can do when everything’s dark.”
Sidonie said slowly, “I thought I heard it too but I wasn’t sure whether I’d dreamt it or not.”
Alexei put his violin down on a bale of hay and came towards her. “You looked pathetic when you said that.”
“In what way?”
“Young and vulnerable, like a little girl. Come on, let me cuddle you.”
He put his arms round her and drew her tight to his chest, folding her into the depths of his coat, pressing his body against hers. Somewhere, in a part of her brain untouched by emotion, she knew that the struggle with her conscience was over, that she was about to have sex with Alexei Orlov, that it would be ridiculous and uncomfortable but that here, in the place which had once stabled the château’s horses, she was going to become his lover.
Alexei bent his head and kissed her, not giving her one of the friendly jolly kisses they had exchanged in the past but a deep and passionate embrace. Her lips parted beneath his and a strange excitement was born between them. Putting his hands on either side of her hips, Alexei pulled her closer to him.
“I want you,” he said, his voice sounding strained.
“Here? Like this?”
“Why not? Are you cold?”
“No.”
And then frenzy broke over them like a wave and, not waiting to undress, Alexei lifted Sidonie backwards onto a bale of hay then, still standing, leaned forward over her. She gasped as her clothing was pushed to one side and he entered, brutally almost, as though he had been waiting all his life for this moment and now could hardly contain himself. But the rhythm he set up within her was wonderful, exotic and powerful, as if he were a Tsar and she some little concubine slave girl.
Shame and guilt were gone and Sidonie threw herself into the flood of this vigorous young man’s physical urgency. They thrust hard, like two healthy creatures in love with the sensations they aroused in one another, and then Alexei suddenly stopped.
“I don’t want it to end too soon.”
She smiled up at him. “You’ve still got your coat on.”
“I’ve got everything on but it doesn’t matter. It’s good like this.”
“I know.”
He began to move again, slowly at first, but then faster and faster. Deep within, Sidonie felt an intense sensual pleasure begin to build and head towards its inevitable climax.
“No going back,” she called, as an explosion of sheer erotic bliss filled her entire body. But Alexei was unable to answer as he flowed into her, every second one of immense sensation.
“My God,” he gasped as he dropped onto the straw beside her. “That was the best I’ve ever had. You’re terrific.”
“So are you,” she answered, snuggling against him, still in the relaxed stage before memories of Finnan came back to torment her.
“Can we do it again?”
“What now?”
“No, tonight in bed. Properly, like grown-ups.”
“Wasn’t this grown up?”
“It was heaven,” answered Alexei, and closed his eyes.
Half an hour later they walked back to the château hand-in-hand only to find Chantal was up and that breakfast was being served in one of the morning rooms.
“You have been for a walk?” said their hostess, her knowing glance taking in the expression on their faces.
“Neither of us slept very well,” Sidonie replied quickly. “Alexei thought he heard your musical ghost, and I did too, strangely enough.”
“Perhaps so,” answered Chantal, “though I must confess I slept soundly. Now, would you like some hot coffee?”
Having eaten a croissant, Sidonie went for a bath and then, dressed in trousers and a warm sweater, made her way to the music room. Walking in she half expected to see the harpsichord player, his young face with its white hair turned towards her, but the place was quite empty, not a sign of any psychic phenomena disturbing the calm. Opening the lid Sidonie sat down at the instrument and tried to remember the dream.
It came to her at once, like a revelation, and, putting her hands on the keys, she started to play as she had heard the Earl of Kelly do so. Down hurtled her left hand in that same unorthodox sweep while the right played a series of rapid repeated notes each with a different texture.
“Mon Dieu,” said Chantal from the door. “I have never heard Scarlatti interpreted like that. Oh, forgive me, I did not mean to interrupt.”
But Sidonie did not answer as the spirit of the dream possessed her totally and she began to reproduce all that she had heard. Yet, irritatingly, one thing eluded her. The tune of “Lady Sarah Bunbury” would not come back and the more she tried to recapture it the less Sidonie could find it. But it did not matter, nothing mattered, compared with the wealth, the tumult of music that was pouring out of her. The Earl of Kelly was in the room, she was aware of his presence, and almost felt him touch her wrist when she played a note incorrectly.
“Incroyable!” whispered Chantal to Alexei, both of them standing in the doorway, not daring to move. “This is surely how these pieces were played in the eighteenth century. What has happened to her?”
The young Russian smiled, full of age-old smugness, believing with masculine vanity that his lovemaking had opened the floodgates for his woman’s talent. And Chantal, being French and worldly, saw his look, interpreted it correctly and did not believe it. There was an almost spiritual depth to what was happening in her music room and she guessed at something beyond earthly explanation.
Sidonie started into the “Duchess of Richmond” with a look of pure delight on her face. “Listen,” she said, “the Earl
is using her nickname. Can’t you hear the music saying ‘The Lovely, The Lovely’?”
“I would never have thought of it,” answered Chantal. “How did you?”
“Perhaps it was the ghost,” Sidonie replied, and just for a second the two women exchanged a glance.
“Then it has done you a great service,” answered her hostess. “Lauzun is a better man than I thought him.”
“I think perhaps you are haunted not by the Duc but the composer himself, the Earl of Kelly.”
“If that is so then I am privileged,” answered Chantal seriously, and went downstairs looking thoughtful, leaving the two musicians on their own.
*
The January forest was bitter, a cold sheet over the ground, the trees harsh with glittering ice, a shower of quicksilver falling from the heavens to blot out the dark earth with its crunching cloak. Nothing moved in the stillness, even the sheep bells were silenced, the forest creatures quivering noiselessly, the proud deer merely breathing vapour as they huddled together for comfort. Only the two people sheltering in the stable made any sound but even that was only of low, urgent conversation.
“Oh please,” begged the Duc de Lauzun softly, “oh please, Sarah, let me have that which I desire most in life.”
“You know I can’t, Monsieur. I am a married woman. I took a vow to honour my husband and this I intend to do for the rest of my days on earth,” his companion answered him forcefully.
“But he’s a bum fiddler.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Never mind,” Armand answered wearily. “Sarah, I have fallen in love with you. I shall not rest until we have experienced together the sweet pleasure of the flesh.”
“Then you will have a weary life, Monsieur, for I do not intend to give in.”
“Just once, just once,” breathed Lauzun, and he pressed his body close to hers, certain that he would get a response, which after a moment he did, as Sarah relaxed slightly and the Duc felt the heave of her breasts against his chest. This was obviously the moment to force home his advantage and Armand did so, lowering his lips to hers and drawing out Sarah’s tongue with his own.
To say that he desired her would have been to express the matter in cool terms. Lauzun longed for Sarah with an intensity that frightened even himself. He truly felt that he would never be able to live quietly again unless he knew her carnally and yet, though he had ruthlessly laced her wine on numerous occasions with an aphrodisiac potion, she seemed impervious to it and Sarah Bunbury retained her honour.
And yet the mystery was, and it was a mystery to him, despite everything, she found him physically attractive, Lauzun knew it. But still she resisted and not with cloying coyness but apparent sincerity. It seemed that Sir Charles Bunbury whom Lauzun felt positive was a sodomite, though a subtle one indeed, held the keys to her heart and nobody else would ever get inside. But alone with her in the dimness of the stables with only the occasional stamp of a horse to disturb them, the Duc was overcome with the notion that it was now or never, that if he could only get her to agree to intercourse, their relationship would change for ever more.
“Oh Sarah, Sarah,” he whispered, and very gently eased her back onto a bale of hay that stood waist high behind them.
Pinioned like this she allowed him to kiss her and even sighed and groaned a little as his lips slid beneath her fur mantle and onto her breasts. With his tongue flying, Lauzun caressed her nipples and was satisfied with the response. Then, slowly and easily, staying in control as much as he could, Lauzun began to lift her long flowing skirts, their hems wet with snow, to the level of Sarah’s thighs.
Glimpsing them, seeing their white beauty above her dark stockings, the Duc became crazed and his hand flew to his own clothing to release the painful pressure building within. Now he was only seconds away from achieving the desire of his heart. Anticipating the sheer raw joy of entry, Lauzun thrust forward.
With an exclamation of horror, Sarah wriggled out from beneath his grasp and ran to the other end of the stable, pulling at her dishevelled apparel.
“How dare you!” she said in a low, menacing voice.
“Oh God,” said the Duc, almost in tears, “I thought you wanted it.”
“Well, I didn’t and I believed you to be above rape, Monsieur.”
Suddenly ashamed, Armand turned away from her, hiding his body from her furious gaze, angry that part of him still bore signs of wanting her so desperately.
“Forgive me, please. I made a genuine mistake.” He turned back to look at her, once more fully in control of himself. “But one thing I will not do is apologise for being in love with you. I have more genuine feelings for you than I have ever had for any woman.”
“In that case,” said Sarah coldly, “I think Sir Charles and I should leave for Paris immediately. We will depart early tomorrow morning.”
“Your youthful admirer as well?” asked the Duc spiritedly. “Small wonder I thought you game for a romp, Sarah, when that boy trails after you everywhere you go. Why, in the capital you are known as a shameless coquette thanks to your flagrant behaviour with him.”
“But my husband accompanies us everywhere.”
“Then more fool him.”
She swept out into the snow at that, her hem sending up a plume of white feathers, her hood obscuring all but her furious profile.
“Go then,” Lauzun shouted after her. “Good riddance to you; you’re nothing but a teasing bitch.”
Sarah did not answer, stalking off into the snowflakes with that quick lively step the Duc loved so well.
“One day I’ll have you,” he muttered under his breath. “One day you’ll be willing. One day, and I shall not scruple if I must summon up a dark power to achieve it, it is you who will ask me to love you. And then let us see what the answer will be.”
*
The concert at the Château de Chambord marked a turning point in the careers of both Sidonie Brooks and Alexei Orlov. She, already a celebrated musician, now passed into the ranks of the distinguished, and was described as such by a weighty French newspaper.
The playing of Madame Brooks has now grown in such stature that she must surely be ranked as one of the most distinguished harpsichordists in the world. Her interpretation of eighteenth-century music, particularly of the works of Scarlatti, is unique in its experimental nature. For here, surely, is the genuine sound of those times or as near to it as any twentieth-century musician can achieve. Sidonie Brooks has moved into the celebrated ranks of those rare beings, a performer of majesty, commanding respect with every note she plays.
The same newspaper wrote about Alexei.
Here is genius; young, raw and sweet. This unknown Russian violinist, still only twenty-four years of age, has erupted onto the musical scene with all the vivacity and temperament of his mother country. Youthful impetuosity still hallmarks his playing but yet with what skill does this enfant terrible tackle the great classical works. When maturity comes to this performer he will set the world alight, that fact is beyond dispute.
“There you are,” said Sidonie, “you’re a genius.”
“What do they mean will set the world alight? I thought I already had.”
“You’ve certainly sent mine up in flames,” Sidonie answered truthfully. “I don’t think anything will ever be quite the same again.”
“That’s because I make you feel good in bed.”
“Not only that. Just having known you has been enough.”
“You sound as if it’s all over. It isn’t, is it?”
“No, of course not. Why should it be?”
“I thought maybe that man in Canada had been in touch.”
“How could he have been?” asked Sidonie crossly. “He doesn’t even know where I am.”
Alexei stared into her face. “I upset you by saying that, didn’t I? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”
“It’s not you.”
“Then what?”
“I’m upset with myself.”
; “Whatever for?”
“For having betrayed him with you.”
“For Christ’s sake,” said Alexei, looking genuinely angry, “he’s got crumpet in Canada, you told me so yourself. You said a woman answered his phone.”
“Maybe it was just a friend, and why is it that foreigners always have to pick up the worst of our expressions?”
“Is saying crumpet rude then?”
“In a way. It means a woman regarded as an object of sexual pleasure.”
“Does it?” Alexei started to grin. “Then, Sidonie, you are crumpet. Gorgeous, glorious crumpet.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“No, I won’t. Here, come and kiss me.”
And he leant over her and drew her mouth under his.
They were back in Paris, both staying in the same hotel, and it was the morning of Sidonie’s departure for England which would have made them sad had it not been for the fact that Alexei was going with her, though only for the weekend, before he flew to his next engagement in Berlin.
Their relationship, or so Sidonie kept trying to tell herself, was one based on friendship. But knocking this theory on the head was the fierce power of their lovemaking. Perhaps it was because Alexei was younger than Finnan, perhaps it was because he hadn’t an inhibition in the world, that he raised her to heights of sensation she had not known existed. And yet how cheap she felt comparing the two men who had recently taken her to bed. Raddled old strumpets probably did that, she told herself, and felt the pang of betrayal that always accompanied thoughts of the Irish doctor she had believed she loved so much.
“Oy,” said Alexei, “you’re getting serious. Now stop it.”
“Sorry.”
“Is anything really the matter?”
“No. I’m just lamenting the fact that the party’s over — France I mean — and now I’ve got to go back and face reality.”
“But you’ll be inundated with engagements. You see.”
“I expect so.” Sidonie smiled at Alexei. “I’ll miss you.”
“I’m only touring for six months, then I’m going to have a holiday in Britain. I have decided this.”
“And I have decided I’ll go with you.”