by Deryn Lake
“Jeannie O’Rourke?”
“Alexei Orlov?”
“Nuts,” answered Sidonie, and pulled him as close as her aching body would permit.
*
At long last, after so many depressing years, the word contentment had once again entered the vocabulary of that outcast of society, Lady Sarah Lennox. Looking back, she thought the process had begun at Stoke during her stay with Lady Albermarle. Meeting the Napiers, both of whom had treated her in a most civilised fashion despite the fact that her divorce was in the very process of going through, had made Sarah very happy. Then, and she could have kissed him for it, the Duke of Richmond had decided that now his sister was a single woman again, she should have a home of her own. And with that end in view he had asked Sarah to draw up plans of what kind of dwelling she would like, and had set about building her a little house in the grounds of Goodwood Park.
“My house consists of a large staircase of twenty by sixteen,” Sarah had written to Susan delightedly, “a housekeeper’s room on one side, a pantry on the other with a passage to the offices, which are out of the house, and then to the front. I have a drawing room of twenty-eight by eighteen, and a dining room eighteen square. Above stairs are two bedchambers of eighteen square and a little dressing room, and two smaller bedchambers at the back for servants. You see, nothing can be more compact.”
The situation, too, was lovely. A mile from the big house, Sarah’s home was to be built in a valley surrounded by wooded hills, sheltered and with a noble prospect. It was all that anyone could desire, the only irritating thing being that the workmen were taking so long about the actual construction. The other annoyance, of course, though this was a major one and affected everybody, was the conflict with America.
Sarah’s firm stand on the side of the Colonists had not altered, though she considered the Bostonians to be very bad people, quarrelsome, discontented, hypocritical, enthusiastical liars, or so she told Susan in yet another letter. But though she might hint to her friend that she was violently angry with the King because of his attitude towards the whole wretched war, the thought that, had she been Queen, she could have persuaded George away from this bloody confrontation haunted her constantly. With her by his side as consort, the very history of the world might well have had to be rewritten, or so Sarah Lennox truly believed.
In January, 1779, a letter had arrived from Elizabeth Napier telling Sarah that Donny had left the 25th Regiment to go to the 80th, and had now been ordered to America. Both she and little Louisa were to go with him, a thought which she dreaded as Elizabeth was once again pregnant. Sarah had written back immediately sending her love and giving fond hopes for the safety of all of them, but had posted it with rather a heavy heart. With so many friends and relatives on the other side of the Atlantic, every day brought fresh worries. As much to take her mind off the war as for the reason that her house was still not quite ready, Sarah had set off for London in company with Louisa.
And it was there, during a visit to Lady Albermarle in her town house, that something took place which brought Sarah another step towards the restoration of her happiness. Quite out of the blue a letter had come from Sir Charles Bunbury asking if he might see her. Old feelings of fondness for him returned unbidden and Sarah had written to agree to a meeting.
In fact it transpired they met twice for, on the first occasion, Sarah had burst into such a flood of weeping that her ex-husband had had no choice but to take his leave. But when he called again the next day, Sarah was calm, and they greeted one another with a chaste kiss. She thought he looked well and in excellent spirits, he found her beauty in the full bloom of its maturity, her serenity giving her an inner glow of loveliness.
“No weeping this time then?” Charles said cautiously.
“I’ll try not to, I promise,” she answered, but still with a shake in her voice.
“There’s no need, Sarah, truly. I don’t bear any malice.”
“How can you say that after all I have done to you?”
“What is past is past. It is my true wish that from now on we can be friends and that you will allow me to call on you whenever I like.”
He was so genuine, so kind and generous, that she felt the tears start up again.
“Now don’t weep,” said Bunbury warningly. “You’ll drive me off if you do. If the very sight of me makes you reproach yourself then I’d better keep away.”
“No, no, I want you to stay. I can think of nothing better in the world than our being companions. It’s just that you are so very good to me.”
“Will it ease your mind if I ask a favour?” Charles answered, taking the initiative and settling his elegant frame into a chair. “For there is something you can do for me.”
“And what is it?” asked Sarah, sitting down beside him, feeling the warmth and comfort of his presence almost with a sense of physical wellbeing.
“I would like to see something of Louisa, to treat her as if she really were my daughter. I have loved her for years, from the moment she was born in fact, and I’ve missed not watching her grow.”
“How sweet you are,” said Sarah, and at long, long last meant every word of it.
“It is my belief that every child should have a mother and father where at all possible.”
“I do so agree.” Sarah frowned. “Oh Charles, I am very worried about poor Ste’s children.”
“What has happened to them?”
“Well, you know that sad little Mary, his widow, died last year of consumption, still only in her twenties?”
“Yes.”
“As a result the two children have been split up. Caroline was sent to live with Lady Warwick, which is a great disappointment to us all as we had hoped she would stay with our side of the family, and Henry, who is a dumpling of a little boy, the image of Ste, has gone to Lord Ossory.”
“How tragic.”
“It certainly is but it was under the terms of Mary’s will, so one cannot argue against it.”
“And what of Holland House?”
“Still let to Lord Rosebery and will remain so during Henry’s minority, I suppose.”
“So everything’s changed,” said Charles wryly.
“Yes, nothing at all is as it was.”
He stood up. “Will you call on me tomorrow and bring Louisa?”
Sarah rose too. “It will be a pleasure. She is no beauty, Charles, being all teeth and very skinny, but has the most amiable, loving disposition.”
Bunbury looked away. “Does she ever see her father?”
“Never. He has renounced all interest in her.”
“Then I shall take his place and gladly.”
And with that he drew Sarah into his arms and kissed her most fondly before he departed.
Chapter Thirty-Three
He had floated up out of his body and was hanging suspended somewhere near the ceiling gazing down on it with as much emotion as if it were an old suit of clothes. The room was very bright, full of light and colour, and Elizabeth was there, her face anxious yet angry, and her head shaking no. Leaning over his body was a physician, a handkerchief to his nostrils, and he, too, was shaking his head.
“Gone?” said an army man, standing a little distance from the narrow bed.
“I’m afraid so,” the doctor answered.
“Pity, he was a damned fine fellow. And what the devil are we going to do with his child in view of this?”
“There’s a survivor?”
“His daughter, a scrap of a thing, about four years old. She’ll have to be sent back to England.”
“Very sad,” and the physician made to draw a sheet over the man’s face.
“No, don’t,” shouted Elizabeth, though neither of them seemed to take any notice of her. “Don’t do that, you mustn’t leave him. Donny —” she had turned to look at him, floating up beside him so that their eyes were on a level “— you’re to go back, do you hear? You can’t abandon Louisa like this. Return at once.”
“I don’t
want to,” he answered. “I prefer to rest.”
“But who’ll look after our daughter? Oh, Donny, please.” Elizabeth’s dear face took on a cunning expression. “Besides, there’s a lot of living left to do, and a lot of loving as well.”
“Loving?”
“Yes, loving. You’re only twenty-eight years old; there’s a whole life ahead of you. Now go back.”
“Good God!” exclaimed the doctor.
“What?”
“His eyelids flickered and there’s a very faint pulse. This man’s still alive, the fever’s broken.”
“Thank the Lord. So the child’s not orphaned after all.”
“Well, Napier’s not out of the wood yet but there’s a fighting chance.”
“God be praised,” said the soldier, and went to inform his commanding officer.
*
“Gracious me,” said old Lady Albermarle, reading the letter which had just arrived in the post-boy’s sack.
“What is it?” asked Sarah, looking up from her book.
“It’s from Donny Napier. He’s sailed into Spithead on a transport ship. But, oh dear, oh dear.”
“Bad news?”
“Elizabeth and their baby son both died during the yellow fever epidemic in New York.”
“Oh, how tragic! She was such a good sweet soul.”
“Apparently he and Louisa also contracted the illness but survived, though Donny wasn’t expected to live and his commission was sold to provide money for his daughter in the event of his death. He says he has nothing but the clothes he stands up in — but can he come and see me!”
Despite the gravity of the situation, aunt and niece laughed. “Well, at least he’s not pretending. Will you let him come?”
“Of course I shall. Sarah, dear, go and give instructions for two extra bedrooms to be prepared.”
“I’ll be glad to do so,” she answered, and wondered why her feet danced to the doorway at the thought of seeing the intelligent and handsome Donny Napier once more.
It had been an April evening when she had first met Colonel Napier and now it was April again; April, 1780, four years almost to the very day. Looking out of the window of Lady Albermarle’s house at Stoke, Sarah Lennox saw an afternoon of quiver and dash, a light wind blowing the daffodils, making the young sheep dance, wetting the coats of the older ones as it blew droplets of water down from the hills. The colours of the day were soft — pale gold, a distant hazy plum, gentle, gentle English green. And through this pastel landscape, the wild throating of early evening birds rising in a chorus of welcome, came Donny Napier’s hired chaise, making its way up Lady Albermarle’s long drive, a distant shape that drew ever nearer, carrying Sarah’s destiny.
She had never seen two people so altered as he and his child descended from their conveyance. Where he had stood tall and well-made, a fine figure of a man, now he was thin to the point of being skeletal, his deep blue eyes blazing in a face that had known the ravages of fever. As for Louisa, Sarah’s heart went out to such a solitary, hollow-eyed little thing.
“Oh, my dear,” she said involuntarily, and rushed to take the scrap and hold it tightly in her arms. Over the child’s head, Sarah’s gaze met Donny’s bright stare and she looked quickly away, busying herself with removing Louisa’s travelling clothes. And then her Louisa came in, all teeth and smiles and the importance of being eleven years old, and took over the charge of her small wan namesake who so desperately needed every friend she could get.
“Well,” said Lady Albermarle, “I’ve a mind to let those two dine together and early so that we can hear all you have to tell us, Donny.”
He smiled, though Sarah thought she saw the glint of a tear in his eye. “I’ve been looking forward to this moment ever since I first knew I was going to pull through. I can’t tell you what being here means to me. In my mind I’ve come through this front door a thousand times.” He turned to Sarah. “Sometimes I imagined that you would be present, my Lady, and sometimes not.”
“It is pure chance that I am,” she answered lightly. “For I have my own house in Goodwood Park these days, very small but very charming. I do hope you and Louisa will visit me there.”
“I would regard it as an honour,” answered the soldier, and gave a little bow.
They sat late round the dinner table watching the April evening take on the colour of violets before it died quietly away. Then candles were lit and the port was passed and the two women sat in silence while Donny Napier described to them the siege of Charleston in South Carolina and how, when he had returned from there to New York, it had been to find that Elizabeth and her son had both died of yellow fever, alone in a strange country, dead and buried by the time he even heard the news.
“I didn’t want to live without her, I’ll be honest. But in my delirious state I felt Elizabeth wanted me to stay alive, so I fought for it. But I was actually put on board the transport ship unconscious. My first memory is of coming to at sea.”
“What an ordeal for your child; she must have been terrified.”
“I sometimes wonder if she will ever recover. Do you know, she often spends days without speaking at all.”
“Louisa Bunbury will soon put that right,” answered Lady Albermarle with certainty. “She’s a regular chatterbox. And now if you two young people will excuse an old lady I’ll be off to bed. Please stay up and reminisce. It is good for the soul to talk of one’s troubles, Colonel Napier.”
“Colonel no longer, I fear. My commander-in-chief sold my commission when he thought I was as good as dead so that Louisa would at least have enough money to get back to England. As I told you in my letter I have no career left and few prospects.”
“Then you’ll have to do something about it,” Sarah remarked certainly, then wondered if she had sounded too peremptory.
Donny flashed a smile and his too thin, hawkish face relaxed visibly. “I’m thinking of going to Ireland to try and raise a regiment so that I can at least get a captain’s commission again.”
Sarah wondered why disappointment sank within her like a stone. “And will you take Louisa?”
“Yes, of course. My mother’s family come from Dublin. I’ll lodge her with them.”
They had not noticed that Lady Albermarle had quietly left the room.
“Your father is a Scot, is he not?”
“Was, Madam. My nephew is now Lord Napier and head of the family. Anyway Papa was a dour old peer with ten sons and two daughters. He bred us, educated us and sent us out into the world to make our way. I’m afraid there was never any financial help from him.”
“Never mind,” said Sarah, “you’ll just have to achieve success on your own.”
Donny leant back in his chair, twirling the stem of his glass between his fingers, staring into its ruby red heart with a smile on his lips.
“How civilised this is.”
“What?”
“Sitting here, replete, drinking an excellent port, and hearing words of encouragement from a beautiful woman.”
“I didn’t realise that I was being encouraging.”
“I thought you were going to say you didn’t realise you were beautiful.”
“I used to be when I was younger, but alas no more. Do you know, Mr Napier —”
“Donny, please.”
“Donny, I recently celebrated my thirty-fifth birthday.”
“Surely age is only what one looks or feels, nothing else.”
Sarah laughed. “But I am beginning to look old.”
“On the contrary. I think you are even more beautiful than when I saw you last. You will never be spoiled by the passing years, Lady Sarah. In the words of Shakespeare, ‘Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety.’” There was silence in the room and a log fell in the fireplace sending up a thousand sparks.
“Thank you,” said Sarah finally.
“I mean every word,” answered Donny Napier, and she saw by the look within his spectacular blue eyes that he spoke nothing bu
t the truth.
*
The violent assault was like a canker, slowly spreading its poison, affecting Sidonie more dramatically than she would have thought possible. All the practical things had been done at once but they had merely been like papering over cracks. No amount of changed locks, extra bolts, peepholes and chains could ever make her feel the same about the Garden Flat. It was as if Nigel had attempted rape on her home as well as herself, for now its peace, its lovely atmosphere, was gone, rudely shattered by the fact that Sidonie’s past had caught up with her present. And the thought that if he could manage to get in once, he could do it again, haunted her constantly.
Her physical hurts had healed quickly under Finnan’s sure touch, and that same sure touch had at last brought Sidonie into the full bloom of grown-up love, no toyboys, no fears or tricks, just unashamed happiness in her lover’s company and bed. In fact the only thing spoiling an otherwise perfect time for them both was that they were presently away quite a lot, he giving lectures on his Canadian research project, she playing at various music festivals in Britain, France and Italy.
Returning from the airport when the doctor was not at home brought its own kind of nightmare to Sidonie. She would run from her car in the darkness, often carrying a case, rush into her flat, close the front door — then wonder if she was alone. But there had been no sign of Nigel since that terrible night and she guessed that the police visit had worried him, that in his sober moments he could see the terrible trouble he was bringing on himself.
“Is there nothing you can do?” Rod had said when she told him about the incident.
“Not while his friends are going to give him alibis, no.”
“You’re sure it was him?”
“Don’t start that. Yes, I’m positive. Honestly, Rod, I think he’s flipped, as they say. He’s drinking things and sniffing things and God alone knows what else.”
“Can’t you threaten to expose him to his constituency party?”
“I thought of that. But until I can actually prove something, would they listen?”
Rod had made a face. “No, I suppose not. What a bugger. You need a heavy.”