As Shadows Haunting

by Deryn Lake

  “To take my child and live with Lord William Gordon,” she repeated bravely.

  “Then so be it,” and he handed her a document bearing Sir Charles’s writing.

  “Do you know its contents, my Lord?”

  “I most certainly do,” replied Henry Fox, and with that he rose to his feet, addressing the others in the room. “We are wasting our time, good people. This foolish intractable woman must now be left to plough her own furrow and face the consequences.”

  Caroline also got up. “You are no longer welcome here, Madam. I would ask you to take your leave as soon as you can.”

  It was like a death blow and Sarah, who had up till this point managed to keep calm, wept bitterly. “Don’t you see,” she sobbed, “that I am doing this because I can no longer bear to inflict either myself or Lord William’s child upon my poor husband?”

  But they were not listening to her, sweeping out of the huge room without a backward glance, only poor fat Ste turning in the doorway to give Sarah a sad and sorrowful look, shaking his head, before he, too, departed.

  Sobbing aloud, Sarah opened the letter which Lord Holland had given her.

  “I hereby give you notice, that if you refuse to return yourself and Louisa to my care, you leave me no alternative but to begin the process of divorce. I shall immediately put the matter into the hands of my solicitor, John Swale, who will file suit against Lord William Gordon for his criminal conversation with you, and a second suit relieving me of the obligation to cherish and support you. Do not think I shall hesitate for one moment. You have pushed me to the limit of my endurance — and beyond. Charles Bunbury.”

  So it was over. She had lost a King and a husband but at least she had gained a true and loyal heart.

  “All for love,” breathed Sarah, and prayed to herself that she had, at long last, set her foot upon a path that would lead her to the fulfilment and stability she so desperately craved.

  *

  She left Holland House at dusk, taking Louisa with her, unable to bear the thought of a night under such an unwelcoming roof. Having no carriage of her own, Sarah instructed Caroline’s coachman to deposit her at the Swan with Two Necks in Piccadilly, a hazardous journey in the dark. There, having slept very little, Sarah boarded the public stagecoach at four o’clock the following morning bound for Southampton, her destination the address that William had told her to go to in case of trouble. They breakfasted in Bagshot, Sarah withdrawing to feed her child, then dined four hours later at Arlesford. After that they did not stop until they arrived at Southampton at seven o’clock that evening, Sarah only too glad to take a room for the night at the Dog and Duck. Finally, the next morning, she hired a chaise to take her to Mrs Bissell’s lodging house in Redbridge.

  Mrs Bissell, unlikely though it seemed, was known to a friend of Lord William’s who had stayed with her whilst eloping abroad. Her house had been recommended as remote and peaceful, while the landlady herself was a good-hearted country soul who bustled about trying to make her guests comfortable. As Sarah stepped through the front door she saw a beamed and whitewashed room, heavy oak furniture, rag rugs scattered on the polished floor and patchwork curtains at the windows. There was a smell of baking and beeswax and, miraculously, Louisa, who had not travelled well, stopped crying.

  Glad that she had done so much acting in her younger days, Sarah told Mrs Bissell her tale. She had married without the approval of her parents or friends and, as a result, was ostracised in town. Because of this she and her husband were desirous of living together privately in the country and Mrs Bissell’s lodging house seemed the very haven of tranquillity they were looking for. If all was in order and the landlady agreed to their lodging with her, Sarah would send for her husband, Mr William Gore, to join her within a few days. It was a convincing act and Mrs Bissell was charmed. Thus, on the following Sunday, his Lordship arrived and the lovers were reunited at last, together with the child they had brought into the world.

  It was like paradise, like being in the Garden of Eden. The cold spring days grew warmer, snowdrops and crocuses sprang in the woods where they strolled, Louisa in her bassinet, sometimes pulled by her father, sometimes her mother. This life of rustic domesticity seemed to be all that anyone could ever desire and Sarah began to believe, in that deluded way self-deceivers have, that she and William really were husband and wife, that they had been married for some time and were the most blissfully happy couple in the world. Full of these thoughts, the two of them threw themselves into their roles and went out and about, socialising with the inhabitants of Redbridge, blissfully unaware of the sensation they were causing. William, with his dark red hair and sadly romantic features was every woman’s dream. Sarah, with her black tresses and beautiful face, set the men alight.

  “Mr and Mrs Gore must be quality folk,” Mrs Bissell’s closest friend, Mrs Tyler, said to her.

  “Oh they are, my dear. So well-mannered and beautifully spoken, the pair of them.”

  “Did you read in the newspaper about the runaway lovers?”

  “What lovers would they be?”

  “Apparently, the Duke of Richmond’s sister, Lady Sarah Bunbury, has deserted her husband and run off with Lord William Gordon. They have a child with them, so it’s said.”

  “Gracious!” Mrs Bissell’s face had clouded. “You don’t think it could be …” Her voice trailed away.

  “It’s possible I suppose. But if it is, then it would have been a cruel hard thing to have deceived you so.”

  “Indeed it would. What do you think I should do?”

  “Watch carefully and we’ll confer again.”

  So it had been left. But the landlady was now on her guard and was horrified to learn Lady Sarah Bunbury’s child was called Louisa, while Mr and Mrs Gore’s daughter bore the same name.

  “What do you think about that?” she asked Mrs Tyler.

  “I think it’s very suspicious, that’s what. I think something should be done.”

  “What sort of something?”

  “Leave it to me,” Mrs Tyler answered mysteriously, and winked a beady eye.

  On 17th March, St Patrick’s Day, the lovers toasted Sarah’s Irish upbringing with the usual bumpers of champagne. Laughing and jolly, they sat in front of the fire after their morning walk, the baby gurgling happily, a bunch of guinea-bright daffodils on the table. Loving life they felt that this idyllic existence would go on for ever. And it was into this delightful scene that a stranger walked, shown in by a darting-eyed Mrs Bissell who announced him with the words, “There’s a visitor for you, Mrs Gore.”

  Sarah and William glanced at one another in consternation, certain that their whereabouts were a secret known only to them. But the figure who bowed politely before them, grey-haired and serious countenanced, seemed vaguely familiar to Bunbury’s wife, and she jumped to her feet in alarm.

  “Lady Sarah Bunbury?”

  “Yes …”

  “You will remember me, no doubt. I am John Swale, Sir Charles’s confidential solicitor. And you, Sir, I take it, are Lord William Gordon?”

  “Yes, I am. What of it?”

  “This, Sir. I have here a writ issued by Sir Charles Bunbury who is suing you for damages on the grounds of your having had criminal conversation with his wife.” From behind his back, Mr Swale produced a sheaf of papers which he thrust into William’s unsuspecting hand. “And I issue you with it herewith,” the solicitor added nastily and allowed himself the pleasure of a small smile.

  “How the hell did you find us?” asked William furiously.

  “You were informed against, Sir. Your little deception is over. Your romantic adventure is at an end.”

  “Oh no,” said Sarah, the cry torn from her. “How cruel. We have been so very happy, you see.”

  “Happiness at the expense of others rarely lasts, Madam,” the lawyer answered gravely. “I bid you good day.”

  And with that he turned his back and walked away, his very gait, the dignified disgust of it, saying
more than words could ever do.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The tears had sprung into his eyes so fast, so uncontrollably, that he had been forced to leave the Drawing Room and seek solitude in order to indulge in a fury of weeping. The deepest, darkest depression was upon him, his mood so vile, so black, that in its thrall the King could envisage nothing but years of despair stretching away in front of him.

  April, 1769, had been a particularly horrible month. The Devil’s man Wilkes, freed from prison and standing yet again for Parliament, had got himself elected for a seat in Cornwall. And, as if this were not bad enough, Sir Charles Bunbury had appeared before the Ecclesiastical Court stating that Lady Sarah was of a loose and abandoned disposition, that she had been wholly unmindful of her conjugal vow, and had contracted and carried on a lewd and adulterous conversation with Lord William Gordon. To crown it all George’s sister, Princess Augusta, now married to the Duke of Brunswick, had declared loudly that Bunbury’s wife was a slut and that he would have been quite justified in putting her under lock and key long ago.

  The Drawing Room had buzzed with gossip.

  “Who would have believed Sir Charles to have had it in him? I always thought him so languid. Yet he verbally assassinated his wife in the witness box, they say.”

  “He’s a changed man according to all who’ve seen him.”

  “Yes, I grant you that. But I still cannot get over the speed with which he has acted. As soon as he discovered where the lovers were hiding, he served a writ on Gordon. And now, a mere five weeks later, he has already appeared in court.”

  “She has fled to Scotland to avoid the scandal, I hear.”

  “Silly bitch! It will follow her for the rest of her days. Bunbury has sworn that he has not seen nor cohabited with her since January and that he last had intercourse with her in the winter of ’67. Can you imagine it?”

  “How will she ever hold up her head again?”

  “God knows.”

  Of course the King had overheard it all, little titbits of tittle tattle coming from every corner of the room. Much as he had tried to keep calm, much as he had wanted to rise above it, he none the less could feel one of his dreaded periods of flurry coming on. For the truth was that he blamed himself for Sarah’s misfortunes, believed that he, who had robbed her of her virginity, had started her on the road to hell. George also thought, and this was what made him cry so bitterly now, that had he not jilted Sarah Lennox, had he had the strength to stand up to Bute and marry the girl he wanted, this terrible tragedy would not have befallen her.

  And it was true, of course. As his Queen and consort he would have given Sarah all the love she could cope with and the need to beg for it elsewhere would never have arisen. Sobbing uncontrollably, the King let his imagination wander over such a happy prospect, thinking that even his children would have been nicer, better looking, if they had not had ugly Charlotte for a mother. But there he pulled himself up guiltily. The poor thing had been a good wife, devoted and loyal, hanging on his every word. Yet, he wondered, would he have got quite so flustered, quite so damnably depressed, if Sarah had brought her sunshine into his life.

  But it was impossible to conjecture thus. He had gone his way, she hers. He had ended up marrying a woman he did not love who obediently produced a child for him every year. Sarah had also entered into a loveless marriage but had had the courage to run away with someone she cared for, and had given birth to her only child as a result. Deeply moved by the thoughts of what might have been, the King sank his head into his hands.

  *

  Every word the beau monde said was true; Sir Charles Bunbury had undergone a sea change of such magnitude that he was scarcely recognisable as the dandified creature, easy-going almost to the point of stupidity, who had wooed and won the most beautiful girl in town. Now a thin, sardonic, energetic whiplash of a fellow had sworn on oath in court that his wife was unfaithful to him and that it was impossible for him to have fathered her child.

  The process of divorce was necessarily complex and somewhat drawn out. Yet Sir Charles had attacked the matter with such vigour that by June he had been granted the preliminary part, a partial divorce and separation freeing him from any obligation to maintain or support his wife. It now rested with the plaintiff as to what should be done next. Only by private Act of Parliament could he obtain the final decree which would allow him and also Sarah, of course, to marry again. But she herself was powerless. The non-guilty party alone could bring such an action.

  “Do you think he will do it?” said Sarah, having obtained a copy of a London newspaper in which the matter had been fully reported.

  “I don’t know,” answered William uninterestedly.

  “Why do you say it in that voice?”

  “Because it doesn’t matter. We’re perfectly happy as we are, I believe.”

  John Swale had called on them again in Redbridge, this time serving Sarah with the citation from the Ecclesiastical Court. At that, Mrs Bissell, declaring that she ran a respectable house, had asked them to move on. It had seemed to the lovers then that the only place where tongues would not be wagging, where they would not be recognised instantly, was Scotland. Accordingly, they had made the difficult journey from London to Berwick, catching the stagecoach at Waltham Cross at forty minutes past nine at night, then stopping at Ware for their first halt. The entire trip took four days, the second stop being spent at Barnaby Moor, where they fell into the inn, exhausted, at half past nine and had to rise again to be off at four in the morning, while on the third evening, the coach party were put down at Rushyford, also extremely late. It wasn’t until the fourth night that they finally drove into Berwick where Sarah, William and the child had alighted with the other passengers but had said goodbye to them at breakfast, the remainder of the group going on to Edinburgh. The runaways, at last within striking distance of their destination, had hired a chaise to take them to Earlston where they had been loaned a house by James Hume with whom William had been to school.

  “Sanctuary,” breathed Sarah, as the square whitewashed Wilding, prettily situated on the banks of the River Leader, at long last came into view from the carriage window.

  “What a journey,” answered William. “I could sleep for a week.”

  “Well, now you can,” she said, smiling at him lovingly. “Here we’ll have all the time in the world.”

  And with that she had gone inside to set about making a comfortable home for them.

  *

  They had arranged to meet in Edinburgh after making their separate ways there. Alexei was playing in Manchester the day before, so it had seemed easier for him to go direct, whereas Sidonie, who hated long journeys, flew from Gatwick. She always claimed that by the time she was finishing her second drink the plane was touching down, and therefore enjoyed this particular flight as much as most. And today was no exception. They flew through a cloudless sky, the hostesses were chatty and friendly, being under no undue pressure, and Edinburgh airport was both slick and smart. As always when she came north of the border, Sidonie got wild ideas of buying a run-down castle, restoring it even beyond its former splendour and turning the place into a concert hall as well as a sumptuous home. A sort of McGlyndebourne was how she pictured it.

  A taxi took her to her hotel, an elegant Georgian building in one of the many streets lying behind Princes Street. Sidonie was astonished to see that it bore a plaque stating that it had once been the town house of Thomas Erskine, sixth Earl of Kelly, Director of the Edinburgh Musical Society in 1757 and Deputy Governor in 1767. Shivering at the thought that she seemed in almost an uncanny way to be following in the great man’s footsteps, Sidonie set off to find her practice room, lent to her by the Music College, and have a good look round before meeting Alexei’s train.

  It pulled into Waverley Station almost to the minute and the musician got the usual thrill of introducing someone fresh to a beloved city, seeing it anew through his eyes, glad that it was not quite the end of July and the seeth
ing masses who attended the Festival had not yet arrived.

  “Guess what!” she said, kissing Alexei joyfully on the cheek. “We’re staying in an hotel that was once the Earl of Kelly’s town house.”

  “The man of whose work you are now supposed to be the world’s greatest exponent?” he asked in an Arts programme voice.

  “Who says so?”

  “I read it in the paper so I knew it must be true.”

  “You,” said Sidonie, kissing him again, “are starting to crack English jokes. This could be dangerous.”

  “It’s the tour,” he answered. “I met so many people and saw so many places and learnt English humour. But isn’t Britain dirty, apart from the jokes! My God, one of these days your entire country will disappear under a pile of litter.”

  “You’re telling me. I simply loathe it. But enough of that. You’ve been a smash hit. I read that in the papers.”

  Alexei laughed. “The worst review said I was a cross between Tom Cruise and Paganini. It called me the biggest sex symbol ever to hit the violin.”

  “Who said it, the Sun?”

  “No, the Daily Mirror.”

  Sidonie shrieked. “Well, according to the Express, you’re the boy wonder who made Nigel Kennedy look in the mirror.”

  “Nigel who?” Alexei asked innocently, and she shrieked again.

  *

  Aware that the Earl of Kelly’s compositions were going to be more than popular in his native city, Sidonie had decided to concentrate on his work for the main part of her recital. And proof of the wisdom of this choice could already be seen by the glimpse of enthusiastic students peering through the window in the door of the rehearsal room. Sidonie ended the session with a firecracker version of the Scarlatti Sonata 27 and heard them applauding her in the corridor outside.

  And those same music students were on their feet and cheering when that night Alexei Orlov, more inspired than Sidonie could remember hearing him, played the Mendelssohn Violin Concerto as never before. High and sweet rose those passionate notes, loud, clear as a bell, soft, gentle as the song of wind and sea, lifting the spirits of everyone privileged enough to be in the audience.