by Deryn Lake
It was high afternoon when they left, the spring sun at its warmest, enabling them to sit outside. They had drinks in a little café overlooking the Palazzo Vendramin where Wagner died. Neither Sidonie nor Alexei spoke, preferring to listen to the sounds of the great water-filled city; the slap of the gondolas as they rode at their moorings, a distant snatch of song, the shrill high cries of the market people. Over all these noises rose the shouts of the gondoliers as they warned fellow oarsmen that they were passing either to the left or right, their calls punctuated with whistles, oaths and the occasional, “Oy oy!”
“Have you been in a gondola yet?” asked Sidonie.
Alexei smiled fondly. “No, I was waiting for you. I want to go in one with a little dark cabin on top where I can make love to you like Casanova used to do.”
“You’ve been seeing too many films and, besides, modern gondolas don’t have those,” Sidonie answered reprovingly.
The Russian sighed. “Spoilsports! Not even the Italians have any romance left.”
Out of courtesy to Rod, and also because Alexei was anxious to meet him, they dined in the hotel, sitting beneath the chandeliers, looking out at tantalising glimpses of the Grand Canal. Dalo wore a tight black dress slit to the thighs, sending the waiters into a controlled frenzy, while the violinist, for reasons best known to himself, had put on a dinner jacket. Sidonie noticed with amusement that it was new and, though admittedly off the peg, came from Paris.
“Russia must be super,” Dalo was breathing. “I’d love to go there.”
“You should.”
“The trouble is I like warm climates. Just lazing on a beach suits me fine.”
“We do have a coastline,” Alexei answered, but the dancer was no longer listening, giggling at the waiter who was making much of pouring her wine.
“I’m looking forward to the concert,” said Rod, determinedly dragging the conversation back to music.
“I hope it will be good. I shall try hard,” Alexei answered, very much on his best behaviour in front of the great London agent. He turned to Dalo politely. “You will be there, of course?”
“Oh yes, I wouldn’t miss it for anything, though I must admit it’s not quite my scene, but then, let’s face it, it wouldn’t do for us all to be the same, now would it?”
“What kind of music do you like?” asked Sidonie, genuinely interested.
“Oh, Queen, Elton John, Lloyd Webber obviously. I’m hoping to transfer to the Broadway Cats. New York’s my kind of town.”
“But it’s very violent surely.”
“I can take care of myself. I’m totally streetwise,” answered Dalo and, looking at her, Sidonie decided that she probably was.
“Then after dinner I suggest we walk through the alleyways to a marvellous café where there’s a Venetian fiddle player. I came across it quite by accident,” said the Russian innocently.
“I didn’t mean that sort of streetwise,” Dalo answered, giggling. “But count me in anyway.”
And with that she wriggled in her seat and playfully smacked Alexei’s wrist before moving her chair fractionally nearer to his.
*
Nothing, thought Lady Sarah Bunbury wretchedly, was going according to plan. By now, if she had had her way, she would have been on the high seas, with a lusty wind for Jamaica taking her ever further from England and all the complications that lay there. Instead, she stood in the doorway of her London home in Privy Garden, unbelievably waving goodbye to both husband and lover who were off together to take the waters at Bath. If fate had a sense of humour it would most assuredly be roaring with laughter at her predicament.
Lauzun’s answer to her proposal of elopement had been far from satisfactory. He did not mind, or so he said, giving up everybody and everything to run off with her, but he feared, and with these words the Duc had put his hand on his heart and looked most solemn, that Milady would get bored stranded at the end of the world with no position and no social life. She would grow wretched, blame him for her troubles, and they would both end up in hell.
Deep, deep down, just below her level of consciousness, Sarah knew that he was absolutely right, but she, vainglorious little thing, would rather die than admit the truth. The refusal to elope took on the colour of an insult and resentment was born, a festering resentment that daily grew greater. The era of disillusionment had begun.
Cleverly, or so Sarah thought, she masked her true feelings behind a great show of affection. But in that she underestimated Lauzun who interpreted her gushing correctly. In telling the truth he knew he had committed a faux pas and smiled ironically at himself that he should ever have been fool enough to be honest with a woman.
It was at this point in the proceedings that Charles Bunbury returned from his mysterious travels in such a terrible state that he was put to bed immediately and the doctor sent for. The Duc, observing all, wondered what house of civil reception, catering for what needs, had recently had him as a guest.
“Poor fellow,” he murmured to Sarah, “perhaps Bumbury might have been a better name for him.” But Sir Charles’s wife only stared at him blankly and Lauzun instantly regretted his rudery.
It was decided that such a debilitated condition as the invalid exhibited could only be dealt with by London physicians and so it was that the three of them, husband, wife and lover, set off for the capital together. But in town, though Sir Charles’s condition had by now improved, it was perceived that the waters of Bath would bring about the final cure.
“I shall accompany you, Monsieur,” the Duc announced in a sudden fit of guilt.
“How very noble,” his host answered languidly.
“You do not mind?” Lauzun whispered to Sarah when they were alone.
“I consider it a kindness in you.” She had given him a radiant smile but the Frenchman had seen ice behind the sun.
“I will only stay two or three days and then I will return to you, and to all that we do together.” He had raised one of his slanting brows but his mistress had not appeared to notice. “I shall be back on Friday, just before noon. Will you be here?”
“I expect so,” Sarah answered.
“Will you close your door to the world so that we can …” He coughed delicately.
“Yes, indeed.”
But now, as she waved her lover off, Sarah’s spleen overflowed. She would teach him to refuse her proposal of marriage, for an elopement was only another form of it to be sure. And what better way to conduct her lesson than to disappear with the man Lauzun disliked most? Lord Carlisle was in London and kicking his heels; it would be only charitable of her to relieve his boredom. With a flurry of skirts, Sarah sat down at her desk and quickly wrote a letter.
*
“Of course my parents never understood me,” Dalo was saying. “They weren’t artistic at all. Mum only sent me to ballet because it was the thing to do.”
She was drinking sweet wine, giggling nonstop, and was sitting so close to Alexei that had she been one inch nearer she would have been inside his new dinner jacket with him.
Sidonie surveyed her glumly and downed another glass of Soave wondering whether she was going to get drunk and rather hoping that she might. It was impossible at this exact moment to work out whether she was angry or amused. Dalo’s intention to seduce Alexei was by now so glaringly obvious that Rod had gone into one of his introspective moods and could not be counted on for pithy comment.
“Tell me more about your family,” said the violinist, gazing into the would-be temptress’s eyes, and Sidonie’s hackles rose that men could be downright stupid enough to fall for such obvious full-frontal attacks.
Dalo’s serious mouth appeared. “I never felt part of them. Let’s face it, we can’t choose our relations, now can we? I say your friends are your friends, and your lovers are your lovers, if you know what I mean.”
“Yes,” answered Alexei huskily, “friends and lovers are very important indeed.”
“Fasten your seat belts,” quoted Sidonie, “I
think we’re in for a bumpy ride.”
“You’re lucky to have known your parents,” Rod put in, breathing steam into his wine glass. “I only ever knew my mother. My father, rot his Italian socks, had skipped home by the time I was born.”
“Perhaps he was Venetian,” Alexei suggested brightly. “Perhaps he’s here in this very café.”
The tuning-up of the fiddler who wandered from table to table serenading the ladies became distantly audible.
“Perhaps it’s him,” said Dalo, and giggled wildly.
“I should hardly think so,” Sidonie answered acidly as a young man of about twenty-five, dressed in the full zingaro gear, wandered in, violin tucked under chin.
“Well, whoever it is,” said Rod, standing up, “I’m going to sing along.”
‘Oh God, he’s pissed,’ thought Sidonie, and was glad. Glad that horrid little Dalo was going to have a somnolent and snoring sleeping partner, glad that Rod’s behaviour, outrageous or otherwise, was about to detract from anything his girlfriend might do.
The fiddler launched into “La donna è mobile” to which Rod gave voice, quite well and lyrically considering his state of inebriation. The other patrons laughed and applauded and a small dog barked.
“I think,” remarked Sidonie, “that it might be time to go home.”
Alexei caught her eye and for the only time in their relationship she saw that his expression was unreadable. “Not yet,” he said, and she knew that something had changed, that the first fine careless rapture was over. Not wanting to look put out, she glanced at her watch, holding it up so that she could see it more distinctly in the candlelight.
“Well, another quarter of an hour then,” she answered.
“I could go on all night,” said Dalo. “I mean this is the breath of life to me. I just love it; travelling, strange places, flying. It’s all magic.”
“Fuck off,” Rod replied, swaying in the breeze.
“Don’t you speak to me like that! Just because you’re an agent don’t you think you can come it with me all high and mighty.”
“Rod, my boy,” said Sidonie, linking her arm through his, “I’m tired and I want to go back to the hotel. Will you walk with me?”
“Of course, Sid bach. Let’s leave these two on their own. I’ve a funny feeling they’re well suited.”
And accompanied by the “Grand March” from Aida, to which the fiddler was giving his all, they precariously descended the steps leading down to the alleyway and headed towards the Grand Canal.
“She’s a bitch,” muttered Rod as they teetered their way through the darkness.
“It’s not the bitchiness I mind, it’s the stupidity.”
“So a clever bitch is acceptable?”
“Probably, yes.”
Rod squeezed her arm. “You should be more of a bitch, Sid bach.”
“In what way?”
“Use men as your playthings; don’t let them use you.”
“Meaning Alexei?”
“Not particularly, though you want to watch that one.”
“Don’t you like him?”
“I imagine he’s a genius, though I’ll give you a proper opinion on that when I’ve heard him play. And geniuses — it’s probably genii but bugger it — only stay that way by being bloody selfish.”
“One of the French papers referred to me as one.”
“You, sweet Sid, are the exception. You are the only person amongst my many and varied clients to whom I would apply the word nice.”
“How ghastly!”
“Is it? Oh, well. Don’t take any notice of me, I’m drunk.” And with that Sidonie Brooks and Rod Rees wove off into the velvet night, making their way over one of the arched bridges that spanned a small canal, laughing at the echoes their voices made as they leant over the parapet and simultaneously, and for no apparent reason at all, sang, “And to hell with Bur-gun-dee!”
Chapter Twenty-Two
It was over! The love affair that had contained so much heat and passion had turned to ashes. Armand de Gontaut, Duc de Lauzun, had by his own foolishness ended his liaison with Lady Sarah Bunbury. And yet, in retrospect, he could not see that he had done anything wrong, other than to say what was truly in his heart. Once more, the wretched man chided himself for the great mistake of having been honest and open with a member of the opposite sex.
‘Games,’ thought Lauzun, ‘all must be games with women. And in future I shall do nothing but play them.’
He gripped the ship’s rail with both hands and stared in a melancholy manner at the receding shoreline of England. Soon the white cliffs would be nothing more than a blob. And soon the memory of Lady Sarah, the woman who had utterly captivated his heart, would begin to fade.
“I shall never roger her again,” he sighed, for he was, when all was said and done, a basic creature. “Mon Dieu, if I only had the power to turn back the clock.”
But even his magic arts could not bring such a thing about and the Duc masochistically surveyed the events of the last few weeks, seeing at every step where he had made error upon error.
The first mistake had been to say he believed Milady would tire of life in Jamaica, the second, to accompany her husband to the spa town of Bath. Armand had returned to find his mistress gone, on a visit to her brother the Duke of Richmond, so the servants had said, her travelling companion none other than that silly boy, the Earl of Carlisle. In a fit of jealous pique, Lauzun had written her a furious letter.
“If you do not return to London immediately, you leave me no choice but to regard you as the most wicked, false and perfidious of women.”
He had sent it to Richmond’s seat at Goodwood and from thence had come the reply.
“The violence of your tone has poisoned all the charms of love. None the less, I cannot find it in my heart to hate you. I shall be returning to London within two days and will send word as soon as I arrive.”
He had been all impatience, of course, and on the second day had gone to her house to greet her. There had been no sign of Milady and though he had waited all the afternoon and evening, she still had not put in an appearance. When midnight came, Lauzun had returned to his lodging and paced the floor. Then, after a sleepless night, a messenger had arrived at six o’clock in the morning asking him to call on Lady Sarah immediately.
Lauzun had flown on the wings of love, only to find his mistress tucking into a hearty breakfast. For an hour he had waited in torment while the servants filed in and out with various dishes. Then he had been forced to sit through the reverse process as everything was carried out again in stately procession. By the time Lauzun was finally left alone with the woman he desired most in the world, almost two hours had elapsed.
And then Sarah had turned to him and, instead of whispering words of love, had delivered the death blow. Much, she said, as she cared for him, much as she wanted to remain his friend for the rest of her days, she felt that had he truly loved her he would have been prepared to risk all and escape to a foreign shore in order that they might be together.
“But I only stated what I believed, that you would eventually grow bored and miserable and blame it on me.”
Sarah had pouted, looking decidedly petulant, and just for a moment Lauzun had been overcome by a wild desire to wring her neck.
“Don’t spoil yourself, Madame, with posturing and poses. You know as well as I do that I spoke the truth. But I can see that you will not be content until you have twisted everything round as a sop to your overweening vanity. Have a care that you do not frighten away those who genuinely love you,” he had said bitterly.
“Oh boo!” Sarah had replied, and snapped her fingers in his face.
In the effort not to strike her, the Duc felt suddenly faint and just for a second, had reeled to the floor. It had been at that moment, of all the dire times to pick, that Sir Charles Bunbury’s married sister, Mrs Soame, had entered the room. From his sorry state on the ground, Lauzun had seen her eyebrows hit her cap in surprise.
Sarah had acted appallingly. “Come in and look after this poor wretch,” she had called out gaily. “He is my lover and I leave him to you.”
And with that she had stepped over the Duc’s inert frame and taken a post chaise to Bath.
He had followed her, more fool him, only to be rebuffed once more. And that had been the end of it. Hurt, his pride wounded, made to look a fool because of his momentary blackout, Lauzun had settled his bill at his lodging house, packed his things, and in a sorry state, feeling utterly depressed, had headed for Dover.
“Farewell, Sarah,” he said now, staring at the receding cliffs of England. “I hope you realise with what dangerous fire you have started to play.”
And that stated, the Duc went below to seek solace in a large measure of liquid refreshment.
*
She hadn’t known what game she truly played, that was the hell of it. It was fine to dismiss Lauzun out of hand, fine to adopt airs and graces, but now that he was gone there was such an emptiness in her life that Sarah scarce knew how to contain herself. The Frenchman, so charming and experienced, had introduced her to the delights of a physical liaison, indeed the Duc de Lauzun had taught her how to make love. And now he was gone for good.
In running to get away from the situation, Sarah had cherished the hope that even at this late stage she might be able to mend her marriage, that she could put her new knowledge into practice and at long last arouse the fires of passion that surely must somewhere be hidden in Sir Charles.
The post chaise carrying her to join her husband had made good speed and Sarah arrived in Bath during an afternoon, the entire journey having taken twenty-eight hours, including an overnight stop, during which Lauzun had caught her up and made a thorough nuisance of himself. The stagecoach from Bristol to London via Bath now completed the journey in seventeen hours, less than half the time taken by the Royal Mail, but Sarah considered this kind of travelling too uncomfortable to countenance and preferred a longer trip.
Having gone to the Plume of Feathers in Southgate Street and deposited her maid and luggage, Bunbury’s wife took a sedan chair to the Pump Room where, much as she expected, Charles was sitting amongst a bevy of beaux, listening to the harpsichord, passing time before dinner, which was served punctually at four. Looking at him critically, Sarah thought that he was still one of the most handsome creatures alive, his only fault being his slenderness which, on the other hand, set his clothes off to great advantage.