by Deryn Lake
But eventually the time had come for her to leave her new friends and the unhappy woman had reluctantly returned to Halnaker Farm to face the inevitable.
The divorce, despite all the sordid publicity, had gone through, and by 24th May had been passed in both the Lords and the Commons and was now ready for the King’s assent. But then had come that part of the proceedings which had finally reduced Sarah to a pulp of tears.
“His Majesty is too upset to put his stamp on the Act,” the Duke of Richmond had told her, walking over to Halnaker in his shirtsleeves, his face more serious than Sarah could recall seeing it.
“What are you saying?”
“That it is rumoured at Court that the King cannot bring himself to be present when your divorce Act is read. That he does not wish to hear your adulterous conduct proclaimed aloud.”
“Oh, my God, why?”
“Can’t you guess?” answered Richmond harshly. “Have you lost all reasoning power? Surely the matter speaks for itself. The poor devil still has strong feelings for you and refuses to be present when you are publicly shamed.”
After her brother had gone, Sarah sat quite alone, going over every detail of her relationship with the man who, for a few crazy months in the summer of 1761, had not only captured her heart but broken it. For the very first time she saw with clarity the pressures he had been put under to let her go, the agony of spirit he must have endured, the disappointment when, with his innate sensuality and love of beauty, he had first cast eyes on his ugly little bride.
“Oh George, George,” she murmured, and wept as she never had before. Not only for herself but for the King and Bunbury too, married so that a jilted girl might be seen with the most dandified man in town, not for the right reasons at all. Enormous love welled in her, a love whose basis was compassion. And it was now that she saw herself for what she had been, cheap and reprehensible, an overpainted strumpet who had deserved her fate, asked for it indeed. Yet in getting her just dues another innocent life had been hurt — fatherless Louisa Bunbury, that engaging unpretty girl whose only wish in life was to please, and who caused as little trouble as it was possible for a child to do.
Sarah sank back in her chair drained of everything but the most bitter regrets. What point was there in continuing an existence as worthless and shallow as hers? Then thoughts of Louisa’s friendly little face, her wide mouth smiling, twisted her heart. She must go on for the sake of the child she had brought into the world so carelessly. Determined to make a fresh start she stood up, went to her writing desk, picked up her pen and addressed a letter to him who once had loved her so much and who still, in some strange way of his own, obviously continued to do so.
She simply wrote, “Sir, From the bottom of my heart I thank you,” and signed it with her maiden name. Whether he would ever see the words she did not know. Perhaps, at some level, an equerry would decide it was not politic for His Majesty to receive such a thing. But she had done it and that was all that mattered. Weeping as if she would never stop, Sarah went into the grounds to find her daughter.
*
1774 had indeed been an evil year for the Foxes. Starting with the libel against Sarah and Charles James, which had led almost certainly to his dismissal from office, then going on to the deaths of Lord Holland and Caroline, the most tragic event of all had taken place at the end of November. Ste, the second Lord Holland, aged only twenty-nine, had died of dropsy, leaving Mary a grieving young widow with two children.
Money problems had pressed and the bereft Lady Holland had been forced to hold a sale of furniture and books in Holland House conducted by Mr Christie. Walpole, who had been so close to Henry Fox, found himself unable to face the ordeal and wrote to a friend, “The sale of Holland House will produce treasures. I did not go. It would have been a horrid sight to me who lived there so much, but I hear the most common furniture sold as dear as relics.”
But one thing that had not been put up for auction was Sarah Lennox’s harpsichord. In her first flurry of hatred towards George, she had left it behind when she had gone to live in Suffolk, telling Caroline carelessly that she was welcome to it, that it meant very little to her, in fact was a positive eyesore. But now, with Holland House rented out to Lord Rosebery, for poor little Mary had taken her children and gone to live with her family in the country, Sarah feared for it. Suddenly, because the King had made this final tragic gesture of fondness when no one else seemed to care, she wanted to have the harpsichord he had given her more than anything else in the world.
The divorce had gone through, His Majesty having given his assent to the Bill in absentia, and feeling she had no further caste to lose, Sarah had written asking Lord Rosebery for permission to reclaim her possession. A fairly pleasant reply had come back, one which had given her hope that Charles James’s prediction that the beau monde would eventually pass on to the next source of gossip and forget all about her, might be coming true at last. Accordingly, a carter had been hired and Sarah had gone ahead in one of Richmond’s carriages to oversee the removal.
Perhaps she had been too hopeful too soon, Sarah thought, when she finally arrived at the great house. For though the servants were in residence, both his Lordship and her Ladyship were not at home. Pulling a wry little face, Sarah surveyed the silent brooding place which had once been the scene of such gaiety, from Caroline’s successful balls and parties to the amateur theatricals which all of them had so greatly adored. Now, Holland House seemed to be haunted by shadows and Sarah knew for certain that a great era had come to an end, the like of which would not be seen again for many years.
“His Lordship said to offer you refreshment, my Lady,” the major-domo announced grandly as she went into the entrance hall.
“I think I would rather go straight to the music room,” Sarah replied with dignity.
“As your Ladyship wishes.”
Even here, the ravages of the sale following Ste’s death could be seen. Bound books of music were missing and Sarah noticed that Caroline’s little spinet had gone, she only hoped to a member of the family rather than at auction. But still there, beautifully polished and as fine as the day it had been given her, stood the King’s present for her sixteenth birthday, the Thomas Blasser harpsichord. With a little cry of pleasure, Sarah sat down at the manuals and started to play the tune that the Earl of Kelly had composed for her in France, “Lady Sarah Bunbury”.
And then a memory came, of herself as a spoilt little upstart reading the King’s birthday message and thrusting it into a secret drawer which she had discovered hidden within the instrument. She had been recovering from her broken leg, then, and had come back to London to catch a King for bridegroom, to spite Lord Newbattle as much as anything else.
“Lord, what a shallow bitch,” Sarah said now and, finding the knob that released it, opened the drawer and took the letter out.
The words made her smile. “With what Joy has my Heart been filled since A Very Pretty Lady came from Ireland November twelvemonth.”
If only it could have been different, if only two people who had truly loved one another had been allowed to have their own way. Yet there was no point in dwelling on the past. The only course was to go forward courageously. With a certain determination, Sarah put her hands on the manuals and started to play once more. And then she froze, aware that there was a change in the room, that something had come in that was not quite of the world. Startled to the point where she played a wrong note, Sarah looked up.
The ghost was there, standing as close to her as she had ever been, so close, in fact, that Sarah could have put out her hand and touched her. But she hesitated, not so much afraid as not wanting to disturb the balance of things. As she looked, the beautiful creature smiled at her, and Sarah thought for the first time that they were now much of an age, for, through the years she had seen it, the apparition had remained the same whereas she, Sarah, had grown older.
And then the loveliest thing took place, a thing that she would remember all the days of he
r life, a thing that seemed to be a turning point, a moment from which Sarah could truly begin to live again. The ghost sat down beside her on the double music stool and played “Lady Sarah Bunbury” so beautifully, so faultlessly, that every hair on the listener’s neck stood on end at the quality of sound. Not since the Earl of Kelly had written it for her, had Sarah heard the piece performed so well.
How she longed to be able to speak then, to talk to the mysterious being who had never been far away from her since Sarah first came to Holland House. Yet still some sense of fear stopped her, though the woman was attempting to leap that very chasm, for Sarah could see her lips moving. But the words escaped her, as probably they were meant to do and she had to be content with watching silently as the wondrous creature rose, then went from the room and out of her line of vision.
For a long time Sarah sat staring at the place where the woman had been, before she, too, finally and reluctantly got to her feet. She had the strangest feeling that they would never see one another again, that the link between them was about to break. And yet the harpsichord remained, the harpsichord that the ghost had obviously enjoyed playing so much.
“Perhaps one day,” Sarah said slowly, “perhaps one day you will come back to visit me.”
And with that, unable to fathom the mystery of it all, she too left the music room behind her.
Chapter Thirty-Two
He was there again, Sidonie was certain of it. He was standing in the darkness waiting for her to make a move. For though she had heard no noise, had been awoken by nothing remotely audible, the air of the flat had once more been stirred and disturbed. There was even that faint whiff of perfume she had smelt after the intruder’s earlier visit. Filled with stark and instant terror, Sidonie sat bolt upright in bed.
Silence was everywhere, thick and heavy. She thought she had never known such silence and was just wondering how she could quiet her own breathing lest he should hear it, when there was the very faintest of creaks. Straining every muscle, Sidonie attempted to identify from where the sound had come.
It was not in the same room as she was, nor did the noise seem to be on the same floor. With a hideous rush of certainty, Sidonie felt sure that the unknown person who lurked in her flat in the darkness was down in the music room. Very, very cautiously, knowing that somehow she must get to the telephone, Sidonie got out of bed.
She had had an odd two days since the last sad sighting of Sarah Lennox, thrown into a state of elation by finding George III’s letter in its original hiding place, then worrying about what she ought to do with it. Furthermore, Finnan was away at a medical conference and the careful reweaving of the threads of their lives was, if only temporarily, back on hold. And now she was alone in the flat, wondering whether the doctor had returned home or not, with a menacing presence in the very room where the precious letter lay concealed.
The telephone was in the hall, recharging overnight, but if she spoke into it she would be overheard, and there lay possible danger. In an agony of indecision, Sidonie sat on the edge of the bed, wondering what to do for the best. And then the sound of the harpsichord being pounded, almost maniacally, drove every other thought from her head, and she rushed out of her bedroom and towards the music room, her one idea to protect the precious instrument.
It was a most creepy and sinister experience for as she started down the small flight of stairs that led to the garden rooms, the violent playing stopped and there was nothing but the sound of her breathing and the knowledge that somebody waited for her in the blackness below. Petrified, Sidonie froze where she stood, caught in the trap that had been set for her. And then, out of nowhere, somebody was upon her, pulling her headlong down the remaining stairs, putting a hand over her mouth so that she could not scream and rending her nightdress. Clutched in a vice-like hold, Sidonie struggled impotently feeling as powerless as a puppet.
But now that he had touched her, she knew who held her captive, knew by his lingering perfume, his body feel. It was Nigel Beltram who gripped her so viciously and, though he said not a single word, Sidonie felt she could guess his intent. The man was high as a steeple on something or other and had come either to rape or murder, perhaps both.
“Don’t be a fool,” she muttered, forcing her mouth free of his restraining hand. “You’ll lose everything. Your career, your future, you’ll be ruined.”
She couldn’t have done worse than to remonstrate, for a stinging blow to the face which really hurt her was the only answer Sidonie got, and she realised that under the influence of whatever substance he had taken, Nigel’s violent nature was holding full dominance.
‘He’s going to kill me,’ she thought, and wondered that anyone could hold such a grudge for so long.
All sorts of advice flew through her head; if you knee his crotch you might overbalance, better to take a swing. If he puts his hands round your throat your own hands are free, use them. Go for his eyes, his jugular, anything. It was like a nightmare because all the time she kept thinking of how much he once had loved her and wondering how he could possibly be doing this to her. And then Nigel made his intentions clear as one hand went to his clothing.
Making a ball of her fist she hit him ferociously, and as Nigel’s head flew back, she raced up the stairs, out of her front door and up the next flight to Finnan’s flat, where she pounded the knocker like a demented thing.
The Irishman came to the door almost immediately and Sidonie guessed that he had only been asleep a short while. But one look at her torn nightdress, her bruised and battered face, was enough to galvanise him into action. Shooting straight past her, Finnan O’Neill careered down the stairs and into the Garden Flat, Sidonie in hot pursuit despite the fact that the relief of finding him at home was starting to make her feel suddenly weak.
But there was no one there. Nigel had gone, not through the front door but via the garden and the door leading onto Holland Walk, which now swung open, a silent testimony to his escape route.
“Right,” said Finnan, “you’re going into the kitchen for a hot drink. Then we phone the police. I’m afraid I’m not going to clean you up till they’ve seen you.”
“Nurse, the screens,” Sidonie managed to say through a rapidly swelling mouth.
“That’ll be enough of that, just you behave yourself. Now, what happened for God’s sake?”
“It was Nigel. He got in here somehow. I think he must have a key. Anyway, he attacked me again, much more roughly this time.”
“How did you get rid of him?”
“A well-aimed punch.”
“Barry McGuigan strikes back!” said Finnan and, despite it all, they laughed, giggling like schoolchildren, as much with relief as anything else.
An hour later it was over in every sense. The police had been, had gone to Nigel’s flat, only to get him out of bed.
“According to his flatmate he’s been there all the time,” said the detective sergeant ruefully.
“But it was him. I’d swear to it.”
“There’s nothing we can do with his friend giving him an alibi. It’s their word against yours, I’m afraid.”
“But somebody attacked Miss Brooks,” Finnan put in angrily. “Look at her! She didn’t do that to herself.”
“Obviously there was an intruder, sir, but the question is did the lady make a mistake. Was it somebody unknown to her.”
There was no point in arguing further. Nigel’s friend, either believing he was telling the truth or else lying through his teeth, had sworn that they stayed up late watching television, had then gone to bed and, though they had their own rooms, he would have been awoken by the sound of anyone going out.
“That’s it,” said Sidonie, when the police had gone. “He’s got away with it.”
“You’re positive it was Nigel?”
“Finnan, it was. I could smell him. He wears some naff aftershave which is quite distinctive. I’ve smelt it in here before but I couldn’t place what it was.”
“You mean he’s got in
on another occasion?”
“Yes, I believe so, though nothing was touched.”
“Then he must have a key. We’d better get the locks changed in the morning.”
“The police made light of that point. Do you know what I think?”
“What?”
“That they reckon I had some man in here and we had a quarrel. They kept saying there was no sign of breaking and entering and giving me meaningful looks.”
“Oh Jesus and Joseph,” exploded Finnan. “Wouldn’t it get on your tits!”
“How colourfully you swear.”
“Shall I go and break Nigel’s head for you?”
“No, I’d hate it. Let him be. The very fact the police went round and saw him may have frightened him off. MP questioned and all that.”
“If he does it again, I’ll string the bugger up.”
“I only hope I’ll be alive to see it,” Sidonie answered pessimistically.
“You’re getting morose. Come on, give me a cuddle.”
And that was how she came to spend the night in his arms, her body too bruised for any physical demonstration of passion, but so much warmth and kindness flowing between the two of them that it simply didn’t matter. This then, Sidonie thought, must really be what it is all about. To feel as contented as this with not even a kiss must be the height of it.
“I think I love you,” she said to Finnan through bruised lips, not caring any more about tactics or frightening him off.
“I know I love you,” he answered. “In fact I’m bloody certain of it.”