As Shadows Haunting

by Deryn Lake

  Yet Sidonie had had to discipline her thoughts away from all that as a burst of interest in her playing, resulting from the French newspaper reviews, became apparent. Rod had left exactly sixteen messages on the answerphone while she had been abroad, all of which were volatile and enthusiastic.

  “Come to lunch, now,” he ordered on several of them.

  Sidonie had rung him on the Monday after Alexei had gone. “I’ve only just got back,” she lied. “When do you want to see me?”

  “Now, this minute. Congratulations, Sid bach. You’ve really done it this time. What came over you?”

  “I’ll tell you when we meet. How about tomorrow?”

  “Done. Come to the office at twelve o’clock. I’ll put some champagne on ice.”

  “Steady on, you’ll turn a girl’s head,” she had answered, and put the receiver down.

  There was a heap of mail waiting and, riffling through the pile, Sidonie saw two envelopes which bore a Canadian stamp. Her heart sank and she almost did not open them, then felt furious with herself. Not only had she had an affair with another man but she was actually being so unkind as to ignore letters written to her in friendship. Fighting off tears, Sidonie unsealed the letters and took them into the garden with her book, Memoirs of the Duc de Lauzun.

  Finnan’s correspondence was fairly general in tone, commenting on the hospital, discussing life in Canada, talking about his colleagues. Only in the last paragraph had he said he missed her and couldn’t wait to see her again. Sidonie read the words as if they were addressed to someone else, as though it had been another person who had loved the Irish doctor and gone to bed with him. Was this then, she thought, the secret of infidelity? Was a divine schizophrenia the answer to it all?

  Grey in mood, she shivered in the sudden cold wind and went inside, automatically taking her place at the harpsichord. And it was then that a small miracle happened. Out of nowhere the tune of the Earl of Kelly’s composition, “Lady Sarah Bunbury”, came back into Sidonie’s head. Her fingers leaping onto the keyboards, she started to play.

  When she looked up again it was dark and the lights of the youth hostel were on in Holland House. Going to the upstairs window, Sidonie looked across at the shell of the building which had known so much in the way of love and passion, drama and despair, and wondered when and how she would see it again as it had originally stood in the greatest of its days.

  *

  She had given in to him at last and was thoroughly enjoying every moment of it. After several nights when she had forced poor Lauzun to lie still beside her, Sarah had overcome the dictates of her conscience and, flinging her arms round him, had covered him with kisses. A second later they had both been stark naked, her breasts firmly cupped by Armand’s hands. But that had been only the beginning.

  Granted what he had for so long craved, the Duc de Lauzun had taken no chances that she might refuse him again. In one swift move he had taken possession of Sarah, filling her with a vast unrelenting part of himself, and waiting only one second for her to protest. But Sarah had merely gasped and Lauzun had proceeded to build on his advantage, gliding in and out with a steady thrust which in the past had made his conquests beg for more. And this latest one was no exception, pulling him closer so that he was able to penetrate her secrets even more deeply.

  “This is incredible,” she whispered.

  “New to you?”

  She murmured something that sounded like, “Once before”, but Armand ignored that and concentrated only on giving both of them pleasure, plunging and driving mercilessly, creating within himself and the girl he rode a great sea of intense sensation.

  And then, in the midst of this magnificent rhythm, the Duc paused and Sarah cried out, terrified that he might be about to stop completely. Hearing her, Lauzun knew she was finally his and the small restraint that had been holding him back from his usual ardour was gone.

  He dug fiercely and strongly, twice as fast and twice as hard as before. And now the magic began. In the dim distance, Sarah sensed the start of an incredible pulse, and recognised it as that wonderful explosion which she and the King had shared together. Building in strength and intensity it swept over her, suffusing her body with a superb sensual shock. Spasms of rapture engulfed her and she shivered and shook, calling out her pleasure.

  Lauzun, hearing Sarah’s cries thrust wildly, to the very hilt, then flowed into her, dropping down beside his new mistress in a final exhaustion before he closed his eyes and slept. But that night had been a revelation to them both. Twice more they tasted the forbidden bliss of lovemaking, each time unbelievably improving upon the last. And then, in the hour before dawn, Lauzun eventually tiptoed back to his own room.

  After he had gone, Sarah lay quietly, watching the sky lighten, aware that a new appetite had been born in her. The experienced Frenchman, his knowledge of love and lust obvious from his accomplished performance, had brought her into a state of awareness that might yet prove dangerous. For, having tasted the fruit, Sarah knew she could not live without it. Somehow, she thought, she must extricate herself from her cold unyielding marriage and spend the rest of her days joyously with the man she had come to adore.

  “All for love,” she murmured. “As long as everything is done for love then it must be good and true.”

  And there lay the panacea for Sarah’s conscience. Love excused her transgression, love was her guiding star.

  “Armand and I will be together for ever,” she murmured into her pillow before she fell asleep.

  The next few days crackled with passion. Like two starving beggars set before a feast, Sarah and Lauzun coupled at every opportunity. The weather suddenly improving, they rode out a good deal and were for ever tethering their horses and walking into the sheltering woods. Sarah had never experienced such intense physical delight and knew quite certainly that she and Armand must live together or even marry if Sir Charles Bunbury could be persuaded to embark on that most hazardous of paths leading to divorce.

  Yet even in the height of this glorious delirium the situation began, very subtly, to change. It occurred to Sarah that Armand had said nothing about the future, that he was perfectly content to wander in a sexual paradise without any kind of commitment. Awful warnings about women who gave their all eventually losing everything began to go through her mind. The seeds of uncertainty were sown.

  “The trouble with women,” her naughty nephew, Charles James Fox, had once said, “is that when you start with ’em they always want to know how you’ll finish.”

  Sarah thought of those words now and had to agree with her precocious young relative who had first gone a’raking, as he called it, at the tender age of fourteen. She had become obsessed with sharing Lauzun’s life completely, for only that could justify her fall from grace, her flagrant adultery. She, in common with all of her sex, wanted to know how the relationship would end.

  She broached the subject one bright March day with the hearty wind coming in off the sea, booming its cheerful voice round the flat lands of Suffolk, teasing the heads of the fine pale daffodils, ruffling the fur of the hares that danced in the fields till dusk.

  She and Lauzun had ridden out early, glorying in the morning, heading off in the direction of Thetford where they stopped, taking their picnic into a meadow beside the river.

  “How beautiful you are,” said Lauzun, propping his chin on his hand, as he lay on a rug and stared at Sarah’s cloud of hair, dark as pitch and flying out in the breeze.

  “Am I?” she answered, her profile turned to him, her clear green eyes gazing into the distance.

  “The most beautiful woman I ever served.”

  “And there have been many?”

  Lauzun smiled reminiscently. “A few, but all leading to you. Everything I learned at the hands of others was in preparation for the day you came to me.”

  “I see.” Still Sarah did not look at him. “Then I take it I give you greater pleasure than any woman previously.”

  “Indeed you do. A
million times.”

  Her eyes flicked in his direction. “Should I read into that statement that you love me more than anyone else in the world?”

  Armand spread his hands in a grand gesture. “But of course.”

  Now the great eyes were looking intently into his, their expression earnest and imploring. “And I love you, my darling. So much so I can no longer endure living this shabby lie.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That our love has made a future with Sir Charles impossible to contemplate. It would be a torment beyond belief. Therefore, Monsieur, I am asking you to prove your words. For the love of Sarah Bunbury I want you to forsake everything and everyone and elope with me to Jamaica.”

  Lauzun stared at her blankly. “Jamaica?” he repeated unbelievingly. “Why there?”

  “Because I have a wealthy kinsman who lives on the island. He has no children to consider and I know will give us refuge with delight. I can be sure of his friendship and indulgence even in the face of the greatest scandal.”

  The Duc shook his head very very slightly. “Jamaica,” he murmured again.

  Sarah stood up. “Don’t try to answer now, my heart’s sweet love. Think about it and give me your reply in a week’s time.”

  And with that she climbed onto her horse, gathered up the reins, and went off at full gallop before the Duc de Lauzun could utter another word.

  *

  The lunch with Rod was both hilarious and rewarding. They dined at Rules in Maiden Lane, which Sidonie’s agent adored because of the traditional English food.

  “Much better than all that Italian stuff,” he said, looking at the menu, rolling his olive eyes and raising his shoulders in a way that only someone whose forebears came from the land of grand opera could possibly do. “Now tell me, Sid bach, what’s all this I keep hearing about you playing as they did in the eighteenth century? A musician transformed is what the French papers said.”

  Sidonie looked at him shrewdly, wondering just how much her agent would believe.

  “I had a psychic experience if you really want to know. I stayed in a château near Chambord supposed to have a haunted music room and had a peculiar dream about it.”

  “Which was?”

  “That I actually heard the Earl of Kelly playing his own compositions.”

  “Blimey!”

  “His entire method was different, a completely new — or old — approach. It was quite extraordinary. Anyway, to cut a long story short, when I played at the charity concert I copied what I dreamt I’d heard. Then came those reviews.”

  “Well, there’s certainly been some interest since they appeared. Mind you, it’s cautious. You know what the English are like.”

  “Talking of that, how are the tickets going for the Purcell Room?”

  “Not bad, not bad at all.” Rod looked reflective. “A haunted music room, eh? Do you remember the Blue Lady in yours?”

  “Well, I didn’t see her, though Finnan said he did.”

  “There was definitely a woman standing there. I’ll never forget it as long as I live. Scared the pee right out of me.”

  “Don’t be vulgar.”

  Her agent flashed his eyes at her. “How is our Irish friend, now that you come to mention him? He must be due back soon.”

  “Yes, next month, I believe.”

  “You believe, you believe? Don’t you bloody well know?” Rod’s face took on a highly suspicious expression. “Here, there’s something going on, isn’t there? Sidonie, have you been having fun and games with Sexy Alexei?”

  She frowned at him reprovingly. “Not everyone’s like you, you know.”

  “Oh yes they are, given half a bloody chance. Come off it, Sid. I know that look.”

  “Oh, all right then. Yes, I am having a bit of a fling with him.”

  “Talk about while the cat’s away the mice go out to lunch!”

  “There’s no need to be like that. Anyway, Finnan’s got someone else in Canada.”

  “I doubt that, Sid, I doubt it very much indeed. Anyway, too late now, as the nun said to the sea cadet. So you’ll be going to see the Boy Wonder in Venice, I presume.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’ll be joining you. Thought it was time I met the little bleeder. I’m bringing Dalo by the way.”

  “Who’s Dalo?”

  “My new tart. She dances in Cats. She’s the one with the wiggly bottom.”

  “They’ve all got wiggly bottoms. Why do you call Alexei a little bleeder? You sound as if you’ve taken a dislike to him already.”

  “Because every time I hear the name Alexei Orlov I get a mental picture of Nigel Kennedy in a fur hat.”

  “Then get rid of it. He’s nothing like that at all.”

  “Then let God be praised for his infinite mercies,” said Rod, and tucked into his jugged hare with relish.

  *

  Venice in March, finely balanced between the sea mists and fog horns of winter and the first delicate appearance of window boxes, of outdoor canary cages and hungry pregnant cats. By these last signs it was possible to know that spring had arrived, though according to the Venetians themselves this particular season did not start until 15th May. Yet from the hotel-owned gondola taking the English visitors to their destination, Sidonie could see signs of activity denoting that the days of Canaletto skies, luminescent and indescribably blue, and waters glistening serenely in the sunshine, were near at hand.

  Decorators were out in force, hanging in precarious cradles outside the great palaces which lined the Grand Canal, giving their majestic façades a restorative coat of paint. These gothic mansions once the homes of merchant aristocrats and old nobles, stood each with its own gondola post, its boatyard and entrance hall beneath, a tribute to the Venetian builders who had conjured up the most beautiful city in the world out of the lagoon. Looking at them in awe and admiration, Sidonie wondered how many of them still survived in private hands and how many had become hotels and apartment houses.

  Everywhere the eye could see, landing stages were being swept and cleaned. In front of the hotels, the palaces, the restaurants and cafés, mooring posts reared out of the Canal, bright and cheerful, gleaming gold and indigo, while the great craft attached to them bobbed rhythmically like sleek black swans.

  “Super,” said Dalo, “really pretty.” And Sidonie nodded, thinking it was not the adjective she would have used, but she mustn’t be unkind.

  Dalo had a girl’s head on a boy’s body, like many females who danced for a living. She also had a mop of curly suspiciously blonde hair which she tossed about a good deal, simultaneously creasing her face into a million merry smiles. Her favourite expression was “let’s face it”, and Sidonie found her monumentally irritating, particularly when Dalo adopted what she considered to be a serious expression and rearranged her mouth before launching into a conversation about something fractionally intellectual. Dressed for Venice, she wore leggings which showed every curve of her tight behind and a clinging jacket. Sidonie wondered how the bottom would fare when let loose in the Piazza.

  “It’s a bit tatty though, isn’t it?”

  Sidonie looked at her in astonishment, then said, “Well, let’s face it, it’s very old.”

  They had booked to stay in the Gritti Palace, expensive but wonderful, and as the hotel gondola drew up alongside the landing stage, Dalo gave one of her many grins.

  “Oh goodness! I bet they used to get up to some things in there.”

  “They still do,” answered Rod, and fondled her buttocks.

  Escape was all and as soon as Sidonie had checked in and rapidly hung up her clothes she made her way by water taxi, this particular one so old and ornately decorated that it resembled a miniature floating Orient Express, to the rehearsal rooms near the Teatro Fenice where she had been reliably informed the violinist was practising.

  Climbing up some stairs in a rickety building which had seen better days, Sidonie quietly entered the studio at the top where Alexei was working w
ith a pianist and, aware that neither of them had noticed her, she sat down near the door to listen.

  To say that his playing had improved enormously would have been a gross exaggeration, but there was a change in it, albeit a subtle one. Somehow, Sidonie thought, the Russian’s technique had sharpened, while the emotion he put behind every movement of the bow seemed to have grown deeper. There was a darkening to the sound he made and it sent a frisson down the length of her spine.

  She must have made a little noise for he turned and looked at her, his face momentarily blank with surprise before it widened into a delighted smile. Observing him like that, just for a second while he was off his guard, Sidonie saw that Alexei, too, had undergone a sea change, though this one far more elusive.

  It could possibly have been the fact of his suddenly growing up, for the look in the eyes was more confident, the smile more certain, the general bearing somehow more assertive. Or was it that he had tasted success wherever he had gone and the old Slavonic Alexei had vanished under a veneer of Western sophistication?

  “You’ve changed,” said Sidonie.

  “And so have you.”

  “How?”

  “You are even more beautiful.”

  “Flatterer,” she answered, and put her arms round him.

  Alexei dropped a quick kiss onto her lips. “Listen, I’ll do twenty minutes more and then we’ll go for a drink. OK, Maestro?”

  “OK, Signor,” the pianist replied, and waved a hand at Sidonie.

  She felt good suddenly, conscious that she was in one of the most beautiful cities in the world with one of the most attractive men.

  “When did you arrive?” Alexei asked.

  “About an hour ago. Listen, Rod’s here too — with a bimbo.”

  “My God, I wasn’t expecting him as well.”

  “He’s come to hear you play, and to impress the girlfriend.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “Thinks she’s the bee’s bloody knees.”

  “Oh dear! Never mind, I will push her in a canal for you.”

  And with that the Russian picked up his bow and rushed through the last twenty minutes of his practice.