by Deryn Lake
“Yes, I read about it in the papers,” Finnan answered nonchalantly, completely throwing her off balance.
“How did you manage that?”
“A lot of French Canadians get French newspapers. I read an article about you in Paris Match.”
Sidonie attempted a careless laugh. “If I remember that one correctly it implied he was my toyboy.”
Finnan looked her straight in the eye. “My French isn’t that good but I think it gave that impression, yes.”
Fate hung in the balance and Sidonie sat silent, unable to utter, aware that to do so might change everything for ever. Finally, Finnan spoke.
“I looked up ‘toy’ in the dictionary the other day. It said, ‘a plaything, a trifle, a thing only for amusement or look, a matter of no importance’.”
Sidonie smiled, putting out her hand and covering one of his. “He wasn’t exactly of no importance to me. And I suppose he’ll be very important to somebody, some day, but I wasn’t the somebody and it most certainly wasn’t the day.”
“I think with very talented people it might be easy to fall in love with the gift rather than the person,” Finnan said slowly.
“I love Alexei’s talent all right,” Sidonie answered truthfully. “He’s a genius, it’s the only way to describe him. But he’s not meant for any one woman, he belongs to all women.”
Finnan grinned and said Irishly, “That could prove tiring, by God.”
The awful moment had passed and would never come back, Sidonie knew it, but still there was one thing left to be said.
“You must feel that love of their talent about your women colleagues. What was the name of the one in your team?”
“Jeannie O’Rourke. Oh, yes, I fell madly in love with her.”
“Oh.”
“The only trouble was that her husband had a black belt in karate.”
He was grinning even more broadly, his eyes twinkling, and it was absolutely impossible to tell whether he was serious or not. Sidonie’s brain stepped beyond the situation and thought clearly. To go any further down this path could be destructive for them both. They had reached a J.B. Priestley “Dangerous Corner” and got safely round it. Enough was enough.
“Tricky things, black belts,” she answered, “unless they’ve got suspenders on.”
“He didn’t wear those, at least not that I know of.”
“Well, that’s all right then.”
It was over, the air was as clear as it was ever going to be. Now they could start to build their friendship again.
“I heard you playing when I got home the other night. It sounded wonderful,” Finnan said. “Are you going to tell me how your metamorphosis came about? Was it something to do with Sarah?”
“Oh, yes.”
And, just as if they were chatting about an old friend, Sidonie told him about the various sightings in France and how she had stood rapt and attentive, listening to a musician long dead interpreting the music of another age.
“And it really was the Earl of Kelly you heard playing?”
“I’m positive of it. He transformed my entire approach.”
“My God, what a privilege. You are chosen amongst mortals, Sidonie.”
“I know.”
“So other than Nigel, it’s all been going well?”
“How did you know about him?”
“Your changed phone number; you told me the other night, remember?”
“I do now. Honestly, Finnan, he’s getting a bit of a worry. He seems to be obsessed with the idea that we’ll get back together. In fact there was a really nasty incident in Bath when he sort of attempted rape.”
“What do you mean?”
“He got into my room and leapt upon me, as they say. It was nothing really. He didn’t get anywhere.”
“Did you report him?”
“I couldn’t bear the idea of it.”
Finnan looked thoughtful. “I think you should be very careful. If he comes anywhere near you again you must serve him with an injunction.”
“I will, I promise. Now can we talk about something else? To be honest, it depresses me even to think about him.”
“All right, on one condition.”
“Which is?”
“That you don’t let him get away with one more thing.”
And with those words said almost severely, Finnan launched into an amusing description of the Canadian way of life, while Sidonie, listening, knew that wonderful lifting of her spirits only experienced in the company of a true and loyal friend.
*
When she got home and went into her flat, for Finnan and she were far from ready yet to sleep with one another, there was a change in it. Nothing had moved, not a thing had been disturbed, and yet there was a subtle difference in the atmosphere. At first Sidonie thought it was a smell and stood sniffing. And, indeed, there was the faintest lingering of perfume, though that could have been anything, have even blown in from outside.
It was rather more, Sidonie thought, that in some indefinable way the air had been stirred and shaken, to quote Walter de la Mare. There was a change in the very essence of the rooms, particularly the one leading into the garden, Sidonie’s music room. It was an eerie feeling and she could have sworn, had it not been for the fact that no door or window had been tampered with, that someone had been in the Garden Flat, looking around.
Yet how could she ring the police or even tell Finnan? Not one thing, not one particle of dust, was out of place. There was no evidence, no proof of any kind of intrusion. Somewhat nervously, Sidonie finally went to bed, only to lie awake, the thought of Nigel and his apparent mania uppermost in her mind until she fell into a dream-ridden sleep.
Chapter Thirty-One
An inexplicable urge to go to Holland House, consciously to seek out Sarah, swept over her so intensely that Sidonie found she could concentrate on nothing else. Usually, music was guaranteed to absorb her completely but on this particular day, having dreamt of Sarah the night before, nothing could alleviate her desperate longing to glimpse the past. Ignoring the fact that it was a Thursday morning and there was a piece by Haydn that Sidonie wanted to rethink, she went out through the garden, pulling the door that led onto Holland Walk firmly closed behind her, for she had been very conscious of security ever since the night she had sensed an intruding presence in her flat.
The delicious smell of autumn was in the air, crisp as apples, the smoke from bonfires in the park wafting and evocative, hinting at colder days to come after the harvest festival and the gathering in of fruit. Despite the distant noise of traffic there was a golden peace about the gardens and Sidonie, strolling, enjoying the warmth of the late September sun, wished she had a jolly laughing child to kick up leaves and feed the birds with. A longing for a baby swept her and, despite the miserable circumstances of her birth, Sidonie at that moment envied Sarah her daughter Louisa Bunbury.
Holland House always looked its best at this time of year, the old bricks turned to amber by the mellow sun, the mullioned windows glistening darts of fire. As was her habit Sidonie eased round the barrier blocking off the courtyard and made for the cloisters in the east wing, walking their length down to the room overlooking the gardens. Of all the rooms left standing, this one above all retained its character, for the original vaulted ceiling was still in place, its lovely lines clearly visible despite the ravages of time and war.
Unable to resist looking at it, Sidonie stared in through the window.
She thought afterwards that in some mysterious way, Sarah must have been calling her, for the hunt was over before it had even begun. Kneeling up on the window seat within, her face deathly white against her black clothes, was the girl Sidonie sought. The centuries rolled away at once, and Sarah Bunbury and Sidonie Brooks were face to face, gazing at one another through a sheet of glass that represented two hundred years.
At this close proximity it was easy to read the Georgian woman’s expression, which changed from horribly startled to one of almost tragic
gratitude as Sidonie smiled and held out her hand. There was a hunted look about those thin white features, an element of despair within the beautiful eyes. The toll of all she had endured was leaving its visible mark on Sarah, and Sidonie could see at once that the Beauty must now be approaching thirty.
Trying to get even closer, to demonstrate her friendship, Sidonie put her palms flat against the window to cover those of Sarah on the other side of the glass. But, even as she looked, the window seemed to blur, as if water were running down the panes and a second later Sarah had gone and Sidonie was staring into an empty room, only an old cigarette packet showing that the place was still in use in the present century. Suddenly bereft, feeling that she had more to say, more to do to comfort the other woman, Sidonie turned and going back to the end of the arcade, entered the building through the youth hostel fire door.
Holland House was full of people and just for a moment Sidonie gaped at them blankly, wondering which era she was in. But the modern-day uniform, jeans, trainers and sweat shirts, said it all. This was not the age of individualism unlike that other fascinating time she was occasionally privileged to see.
“G’day,” said a large friendly Australian, to which Sidonie, attempting to look like a mature student, responded with “Hello.”
“New here?”
“Yes.”
“Give us a hand with the bags.”
Delighted to get a look at Holland House in the twentieth century, Sidonie joined a group enthusiastically hefting backpacks up a flight of stairs, just recognisable as the old east staircase which had ascended behind the principal staircase. And then, loaded with gear, she suddenly found herself in Sarah’s bedroom at the back of the house, seeing it full of single beds and bits and pieces of inexpensive furniture. Hardly able to look, Sidonie dumped the bags and would have gone back down the stairs had not a noise caught her ear. She froze, listening intently, and as the babble died away identified the sound as that of a harpsichord.
Suddenly conscious of the absence of voices, Sidonie looked round and saw that she was alone on the east staircase, that the youth hostellers and their luggage had completely disappeared. And as she came down the steps to the ground floor, she realised that Holland House had once again restored itself to its fine splendour with not a modern thing in sight.
Yet for all its grandeur the house was empty of people and as Sidonie crossed the great entrance hall and made her way to the west wing she became conscious of the fact that she had passed no one at all, that the house appeared to be deserted. Yet still the harpsichord played on and opening a door facing her very gently, Sidonie found herself looking into a glorious music room which she had not known existed.
Sarah was there, sitting at an instrument which bore such a striking resemblance to Sidonie’s own that she went towards it out of sheer curiosity, all thoughts of caution forgotten. As she drew nearer to the sound, the musician was able to recognise that the Georgian girl was a very competent player indeed, though not a great one. And she also identified, with a laugh, the piece Sarah was performing, her own namesake “Lady Sarah Bunbury”, composed by the Earl of Kelly.
But it was the instrument itself which filled the modern woman with awe and a sense of disbelief. For the impossible appeared to have happened. Sidonie was looking at a harpsichord made by Thomas Blasser in London in the year 1745, a harpsichord which, at this very moment, was safely at home in the Garden Flat. Now, at long last, the link between the two women became completely clear to her. The Blasser harpsichord was definitely the property of them both.
Sarah played a wrong note and made a sound of irritation and, looking at her closely, Sidonie saw that in the fifteen or so minutes since she had last seen her, Sarah had grown older. A mature woman in her early thirties was at the keyboard, the mourning clothes gone. Several years had passed for Sarah in what had been a twinkling of Sidonie’s eye.
Entranced, Sidonie watched as Sarah stopped playing and pressed a knob in the base of the instrument below the lower manual. A small drawer flew open and, reaching inside, the Georgian woman withdrew a letter. It was dated 25th February, 1761, Sidonie saw over Sarah’s shoulder, and about the flourishing signature at the bottom there could be no doubt. It was a love letter from the King of England himself.
My dear Lady Sarah, With what Joy has my Heart been filled since A Very Pretty Lady came from Ireland November twelvemonth. Do You know Who I mean? I send this Pretty Lady a Gift for her Birthday so that she may play the tune Betty Blue, taught me at Twelve Night by Herself. George R.
Smiling yet sighing, Sarah brushed the letter with her lips, then put it back in the secret drawer and returned to the keyboard. But again she made a mistake and Sidonie could no longer resist what she longed to do. Very slowly, she walked into Sarah’s line of vision, smiled to reassure the girl, then sat down beside her on the double music stool and, putting her hands to the manuals, played “Lady Sarah Bunbury” correctly.
They could not touch, it was not possible for them to do so, nor could they converse with words. But Sarah turned on her a look of such joy, of such gratitude and delight, that Sidonie felt the tears start into her eyes.
“Oh Sarah, be happy,” she said, horribly conscious that the other woman might not hear the words, but longing to reassure her for all that. “I know your future will be bright. Please try to be brave a little longer.”
And with that Sidonie rose and walked slowly from the room, more than aware that according to Sarah’s journal there was no record of them ever meeting again.
*
On 19th March, 1776, the London newspaper Packet had carried the following announcement. “A Petition of Thomas Charles Bunbury was presented yesterday to the Upper Assembly, praying leave to bring in a Bill to Dissolve his Marriage with Lady Sarah Lennox, his now wife, and to enable him to marry again.”
Forlorn and humiliated, Sarah had returned to Goodwood from Castletown in Ireland, aware that though she studiously avoided looking at the newspapers, her servants were most certainly studying them avidly and, no doubt, remarking about her secretly as she sat down at dinner.
In the end this feeling of being sniggered at behind her back had proved too much to tolerate and, in April, Sarah and Louisa had departed for Stoke to stay with Lady Albermarle, her father’s sister, being sure of a welcome in that lively old lady’s company. Sarah was thirty-two, her aunt seventy-three yet the empathy between them was spoken of respectfully amongst the family. With a great sigh of relief to be away from the renewed gossip, Sarah and Louisa threw themselves into the whirlwind of Lady Albermarle’s social life.
It was well known that old Lady Anne liked nothing better than to invite folk to dine and on this particular soft April evening, with spring lambs grazing in the fields beyond the park and the four o’clock sky the colour of irises, six guests arrived by carriage to join the party. There was Squire Thomas, a local landowner, and his wife, and Sir Hugh and Lady Milton, a minor knight and his spouse. But by far the most interesting guest, as far as Sarah was concerned, was Colonel George Napier, introduced to her as a friend of Lord George Lennox, Sarah’s brother.
The military man stood well over six foot tall and appeared remarkably handsome and fine in his regimental red coat and white wig, beneath which Sarah could catch a glimpse of crisp curling brown hair. Immediately interested in him as a person, she would have liked to question George Napier about the American colonies, a subject dear to Sarah’s heart, but unfortunately the presence of the Colonel’s wife Elizabeth, a mousy little thing of about twenty, very slim and demure, put paid to monopolising him in earnest conversation. However, at dinner they were placed next to one another, and Sarah turned to him.
“If I may say so, Sir,” she commented, “you look mighty young to be colonel of a regiment.”
He smiled, somewhat ruefully. “The truth is, my Lady, the army’s desperate with the American colonists causing so much commotion. In fact I’m twenty-five and green for my commission.”
&n
bsp; ‘A mere boy,’ thought Sarah, but did not say so.
“Tell me,” she said, “what are your views on the colonists?”
“I have every sympathy with them. What they are doing is neither treasonous nor rebellious. They are justified in every moral sense.”
“But people might get killed,” put in Mrs Napier.
“No doubt they will,” her husband answered drily.
“I hate war,” stated Sarah. “I hate civil war even more. And my flesh creeps at the thought they are fighting on the very spot where recently lived my friend Lady Susan O’Brien. Also my nephew Harry Fox is out there. But, for all that, I sympathise with the poor Americans, I truly do.”
She was being too outspoken for the dinner table and knew it.
“Why?” asked Squire Thomas.
“Because they have every right to be independent of us if they so wish.”
“The awful thing is,” said the Colonel, “I agree with their principles entirely and yet may well be ordered to go out and fight them.”
“It’s worrying,” sighed Elizabeth Napier. She cleared her throat, obviously anxious to change the subject. “I hear you have a little girl called Louisa, Lady Sarah. Pray how old might she be?”
“Eight at the end of this year.”
“I, too, have a Louisa, though aged only two.”
So the dashing Colonel, boy though he was, was already a family man. Suddenly feeling decidedly middle-aged, Sarah looked at Elizabeth and said, “Then I pray your husband is not called to war. I always feel it is the children of army men who are the ultimate victims.”
“Oh yes,” answered Mrs Napier with great feeling, “you are so very, very right.”
And the two women gave each other a sad smile that neither ever forgot.
*
It had been the King’s reaction to her divorce that had finally broken Sarah’s spirit, not the public humiliation nor the shame of having her name bandied about as adulteress. She had stayed at Stoke as long as she dared, getting to know Donny Napier, as the Colonel was nicknamed, and his wife. The more she saw of Elizabeth, the better the older woman liked her. For the girl was a gentle soul, a sea captain’s daughter whom Donny had met and married on the beautiful island of Minorca. As for the Colonel himself, he proved, most surprisingly, to be an intellectual. Well read in several languages, versed in both modern and ancient history, the brilliant young man had also studied mathematics, chemistry and engineering. Sarah considered him quite the most attractive and clever creature she had met for years.