by Deryn Lake
Lulled by the day, the King stepped into her trap and asked, “Why do you say that?”
“The old man, Holland, creamed off all the profits of the Paymastership, the sons are inveterate gamblers and owe a fortune, and as for the sister-in-law, your precious Lady Sarah —”
“What about her?”
“She is pregnant by another man,” announced Augusta triumphantly. “She has betrayed Sir Charles Bunbury and is carrying a love child.”
George’s heart quickened its beat and he turned on his mother almost angrily. “And how is this known? Were there witnesses in the bedchamber for God’s sake?”
“Sir, you forget yourself. It is your mother to whom you speak.”
He jumped to his feet. “I don’t care who I say it to. What I want to know is how such a thing is common knowledge. Poor Lady Sarah! What has she done to deserve this?”
“She’s sinned, that’s what. It’s known on both sides of the Channel. She’s just a common harlot.”
It was upon him! In the middle of that lovely afternoon, with the sun lowering gently over the crystal river, a feeling of such emotional imbalance, such fierce frenzy, that the King could have cried out his anguish aloud.
“She is not,” he rejoindered. “She is a good woman and if aught is amiss with her then it is through no fault of her own. Cruel circumstances, Madam, can force people willynilly into acts that they would not otherwise countenance. It is the filthy minds of others, the thoughts of loathsome gossipmongers, that spread the poison, not the actions of the pure in heart.”
He had risen to his feet, his face flushed and florid, his hands in two tight fists. “I’ll have no more of this talk, d’you hear?”
“How dare you,” said Augusta furiously, but the look on her son’s face stopped her in her tracks.
“No more, no more, no more,” the King shouted in great agitation. “Oh God, that I were a private man and could defend Lady Sarah with my own strong arm.”
And with that the King of England plunged the length of the garden in a storm of tears that was pitiful to behold.
*
The axe had fallen. Sarah had been sent for to come from Barton Hall to Holland House for a family conference and knew, even as her carriage went briskly up the great elm drive, that terrible trouble now lay in store. It was July, she was four months pregnant and starting to swell, and somehow, cruelly, the news was out. Horace Walpole writing to Madame de Deffand in Paris had remarked on Lady Sarah’s being with child and she had replied, “Truly, truly, I knew the condition of Milady S.” But as to quite how everyone had found out, Sarah was at a loss.
Yet the answer was simple enough. Her flagrant affair with William Gordon, let alone her scandalous behaviour during the previous winter, had been enough to alert one and all. And this, coupled with the fact that so many years of marriage to Charles Bunbury had not produced a baby, was enough to confirm their worst suspicions. Sarah Bunbury was expecting a bastard and had clearly retired from London to hide her shame. And now the gossip had filtered through to Kensington and Sarah had been called upon by Lord and Lady Holland to account for herself. With a feeling of sheer dread, she alighted at the lower steps, crossed the courtyard preceded by a footman and entered her girlhood home.
Stepping through that vast front door and into the entrance hall, Bunbury’s wife believed she would almost prefer death to this ordeal, for the place seemed to be entirely populated by servants, the family obviously keeping well out of sight in order to avoid confrontation too soon.
Aware that the silence of the house was practically audible, Sarah slowly followed a sharp-faced maid to her old room in the east wing, taking one despairing look at the summer parkland before allowing the girl to help her change from her travelling clothes to pre-dinner undress, a flowing white gown prettily threaded with a scarlet ribbon. Knowing that garbed like this her shame was hidden, Sarah surveyed herself critically in the glass.
“Lady Holland awaits you in her sitting room, my Lady,” announced the girl slyly, her reflection grinning.
“Then I will attend her,” answered Sarah with dignity and made her way majestically down the Great Staircase.
She had never seen her sister so drained of colour nor so arresting. Against her pallor, Caroline’s dark hair fell like a mourning veil, while her eyes were sombre, as though they contained a veritable well of tears.
“So,” said Lady Holland, without preamble, “all London says that your child is not your husband’s. Are they right?”
“Yes,” answered her sister, chin trembling but raised, “it is the truth. I have endured a loveless marriage, Caro. Charles has given me all creature comforts with the exception of one, the warmth of his heart. You, who married for love in the face of your family’s wrath, must surely know what this means. I do not criticise my husband, believe me. All I say is that it is not in his nature to be a married man. He prefers a life of freedom, where he may be with his horses, his racing friends, then all’s well for him. Our physical bond grew less and less strong and I eventually sought love elsewhere. To my shame I have recently indulged in an adulterous affair, the result of which is growing within me. I carry the child of Lord William Gordon, and though I am deeply ashamed of any hurt I might have brought to you and Lord Holland, I am not ashamed of the fact that he and I love one another.”
There was a considerable silence, then Caroline turned to look out of the window. “We come of tainted stock,” she said eventually in a soft, bitter voice. “Even in my boys I see the family weaknesses. How can I blame you for something that is in our blood?”
“If it is in my blood to seek love, then I am guilty,” Sarah answered. “But I cannot see, in all humanity, wherein lies the crime.”
There was another long pause and when Sarah looked closely at Caroline’s averted back she saw that her sister was crying.
“Oh, please, sweetheart,” she said, hurrying towards her, “don’t upset yourself. I am a slut, when all’s said and done, but I so desperately needed a man to love me.”
Within a second the sisters were in each other’s arms and Lady Holland was holding Sarah tightly, just as she used to when she was a child.
“Everything will be all right,” Caroline soothed, “somehow we will make it so.”
“But what of Lord Holland?”
“Leave him to me,” answered his wife firmly.
And it was into this scene of sisterly affection that Henry Fox walked some ten minutes later, and was glad to see it. He was old now and felt even more so due to his poor health. Convinced that his sons’ enormous debts were the only problems he could further cope with, Henry said, “What’s to do, eh?”
“Sarah is carrying Lord William Gordon’s child,” Caroline replied forthrightly.
“And what of Bunbury?”
“He has not spoke to me since Christmas,” his sister-in-law answered, on the brink of tears.
“Has he thrown you out?”
“No, I stay at Barton; he lodges with friends in Newmarket.”
“Then will he let the child bear his name?”
“That I don’t know.”
“I believe I must see to it that he does,” said Lord Holland grimly.
“But how?”
“I will find a way, rest assured.”
And somehow this was comforting and the two women felt confident that Henry Fox would sort the situation out, and a calm came over what could have been a horribly ugly scene.
“The baby will be born here, in Holland House,” Caroline said firmly. “I want you to collect your things then move in straightaway.”
“But what if Sir Charles should not approve?”
Lady Holland shook her head. “Poor man, I hardly think he will care as long as he does not have to be involved.”
“You can leave Sir Charles,” Henry Fox repeated with certainty, “entirely to me.”
*
Summer was just on the turn, the great days of open windows and chairs in the garde
n absolutely at their peak, when the telephone rang, shattering the golden peace of an afternoon devoted to laziness. Yawning, thankful that she had practised for four hours that morning and therefore did not feel guilty that she had slept in the sun, Sidonie struggled off her lounger and went to answer it.
“This is you?” said a voice at the other end.
“Alexei! Where are you?”
“At Gatwick. I am getting into a taxi now. Goodbye.”
And with that he had put the receiver down before she could say another word and Sidonie had been left for one entirely blank moment staring at the clock, wondering if she had time to get organised. Cooking at home was out, she decided, which relieved the pressure somewhat. Humming a tune at the very thought of being in the Russian’s erratic presence again, she had a bath to remove the sun-tan oil and put on a pair of silk trousers with a beautifully draped matching top purchased in Paris.
“And all for Dalo’s lover,” she muttered as she applied make-up.
But she didn’t believe that, not really, and was glad the British part of Alexei’s tour had begun.
She was just getting the ice out of the freezer when the buzzer rang and a voice announced, “I am arrived.” Going to the front door she saw the Russian struggling in with a mountain of baggage, the precious violin case on top of the lot.
“You’ve bought clothes in every country,” she said accusingly, and he laughed and answered, “Nowadays I dress very sharp. It is my new image.”
He was as volatile as ever and twice as attractive now that the rough edges had been knocked off and he wore French suits, Italian shoes and a watch made in Switzerland. Yet with his new persona, the silk-shirted prodigy, the best dressed Russian of them all, the age gap between them seemed somehow to have widened. Or was it merely that she was seeing him in a different light? Or even, perhaps, that she herself had changed?
They dined in La Parapluie where Jannie and her Pack were having a meeting, the woman with the pink hair, Max and all. To a man they recognised Alexei from recent newspaper coverage, then spent the rest of the evening talking in falsely loud voices to cover the fact they were attempting to eavesdrop on the two musicians. Eventually, though, the strain became too great and Sidonie asked if they might join their table.
Any doubts she might have had about Alexei’s sexual chemistry were promptly put to an end for once and for all. The women gushed unceasingly and Sidonie heard the violinist being issued with so many invitations to drinks, meals and God alone knew what else, she could scarely credit it.
“Where are you staying?” asked the pink-haired woman.
“Tonight, with Sidonie —”
“Lucky her,” somebody interrupted.
“After that in an hotel.”
“How long will you be in London?”
“A week at first. I am playing at the Wigmore Hall on Tuesday. Then I go to Birmingham, Manchester and Leeds. Then I come back to London for another concert, on to Cardiff, ending up in Edinburgh.”
“I hope you’ll have an opportunity to see something of the countryside.”
“I intend to make time for a holiday,” Alexei answered, and gave Sidonie a very obvious wink which sent a frisson through every female present.
“I adore your toyboy,” said a loud voice.
“Hot stuff,” Sidonie replied with vigour, and there was another small shock wave.
It was all good clean fun and afterwards as they walked back down Kensington High Street, the others trailing round them in twos and threes, Sidonie and Alexei deliberately held hands. Jannie, more than somewhat tipsy, took the Russian’s other hand and insisted on skipping up Phillimore Gardens.
“Good thing Finnan’s still away,” she said tactlessly, as they took leave of one another in the communal hall.
“Finnan? Is that the guy in Canada?” asked Alexei, once they were inside the Garden Flat.
“It is.”
“Do you still hear from him?”
“Of course. We haven’t fallen out; it’s just that it’s been a long time and my affair with you didn’t help me to see things too clearly,” Sidonie admitted with just a slight tinge of bitterness.
“Do you regret sleeping with me?”
“No, of course not. It’s just that I’m not very good at the infidelity game.”
“You were looking for love,” Alexei answered acutely. “Most human beings do that.”
“Did you, with Dalo?”
“She looked, I watched,” Alexei answered. “Would it have made any difference if I had?”
“Yes, I suppose it would,” Sidonie said slowly.
“A matter of pride? Or because you’re in love with me?”
“Listen, Alexei, I haven’t got permanent designs on you, if that’s what you’re thinking. I adore your friendship, you’re one of the most fascinating people I have ever met or am likely to. But I’m not looking for anything long-term between us. I really could see a conflict of careers let alone anything else.”
Did he look very slightly relieved, she wondered, as he answered, “You spoila da fun,” in a phoney Italian accent.
But Sidonie was never to know, for a second later Alexei had taken her in his arms, passionately kissing her and she, yet again, succumbed to the strong physical bond that lay between them and let all thoughts of other things flow out of her mind.
*
She was never to see her lover again, that was final, so stipulated Sir Charles Bunbury when Lord Holland finally caught up with him at Newmarket. In return for this condition it was agreed that Sarah’s husband would resume the appearances of normal married life, allow the child to be born in his London home and give the infant his name.
“But what about Sarah?” Henry Fox had asked tentatively.
“What do you mean, my Lord?”
“Will you take her back as your wife, in every sense of the word?”
“No, that I can never do,” Bunbury had replied, and Henry had thought to himself that Sir Charles was deeply saddened by whatever it was that had caused the rift in the first place.
“Then why go through with such a farce? Either you forgive her or you don’t.”
“Then I don’t. Lord Holland, I realise that I leave a lot to be desired as a husband, that the antics of the marriage bed do not greatly interest me, but I gave Sarah a comfortable home and a good life. She rewarded me for this with a string of reckless affairs. I cannot find it in my heart to forgive.”
“Then what will become of the pair of you?”
“That I cannot say,” Bunbury had answered, slowly shaking his head, and it had seemed to Henry Fox that a reconciliation based on such flimsy foundations could bring no happiness to anyone concerned. But he had done his duty and secured a future for Sarah’s child, and there was an end to it. With a heavy heart, Lord Holland had returned to London.
A few days later, Sir Charles and Sarah had followed him, publicly reunited for the first time since New Year. They had returned to London ostensibly for the season, though it was only Bunbury who went out and about, Sarah preferring to remain in the house in Privy Garden, away from the eyes of the curious and the catty. At length, though, feeling she would die of boredom, she had gone to Holland House to while away the last few weeks of waiting.
It was an extremely cold winter, a bitter frost lying over the home park and farmlands. But, despite the freezing temperatures, Sarah made it a rule to take a daily walk, as brisk a one as she could manage, for the sake of her health. She would set off either down the elm drive, or along Green Walk, or towards The Wilderness, where she would sit on the stone seat and write her journal.
Yet, on the 18th day of December, 1768, heavy with child and peering out at the first few sporadic flakes that heralded a snowstorm, she did not feel inclined to go. But what else was there for her to do other than sit by the fire and make desultory conversation, or work on her embroidery? Wrapping herself up warmly, Sarah decided that it would be better to go out.
As she stepped
into the cold crisp air she was vividly reminded of that time long ago when she, Susan, and the two boys, had played in The Wilderness. She had chased the ghost that day, the ghost she had not seen since the carefree hours with Lauzun in the Château des Cedres. How odd, she thought now, that the Duc had also observed the apparition. But then he was one who practised black arts as did that monster Wilkes. Sarah felt quite certain that, if that man had his way, he would start a revolution in Britain which would end with the overthrow of the monarchy. Poor George, how sad it would be if he were ever to go down.
Just for a moment Sarah stood still in that bitter day, remembering the feel of his body so close to hers when they had both been young and headstrong, and found that she was weeping cold tears. A terrible premonition shook her from head to toe and she had a vision of the King, agonised and suffering, bound in a grim constraining chair.
“No, no,” she screamed aloud, “that must never be.”
“Sarah,” called a distant voice in answer to her cry, seeming to come from out of the desolate and icy landscape.
“Who’s there?” she shouted back, suddenly alarmed.
There was no reply but the snowflakes began to fall as thickly and swiftly as if they were being tipped down from out the sky. Deciding to abandon her walk, Sarah turned on her heel and headed towards Holland House — and it was then that she saw them! As though she had conjured her up just by remembering, Sarah beheld the phantom woman standing motionless in the snowflakes, an unidentifiable figure at her side, somehow an incredibly sinister sight.
“No,” Sarah shrieked again, suddenly too cold, too tired, too heavy with child to cope.
“Sarah, Sarah,” the answering voice came once more. But nothing could help her now. The white earth, the grey sky, tipped crazily and became one and Sarah was falling down and down into a whirlpool of pain which sucked her into its freezing heart as the colourless day faded and everything went black.
Chapter Twenty-Six
It was as well that one of the gardeners had seen her lying in the snow, as well for the sake of both herself and her child that he immediately called for help. They had carried her, half-conscious, into Holland House and there Caroline, seeing at a glance what was happening, had ordered that her sister be put in a coach and taken at once to her home in Privy Garden. In normal circumstances she would never have inflicted such an ordeal on a living soul, but with all the world waiting to see if the child was to be born beneath Bunbury’s roof, Lady Holland had had no choice. With Sarah slumped against the padded interior, every jolt an agony for her, Caroline had only prayed as they journeyed through the snow that they would get there in time.