by Deryn Lake
As Shadows Haunting
Dinah Lampitt
© Deryn Lake 1993
Deryn Lake has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1993 by New English Library, a division of Hodder Headline PLC.
This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Historical Note
Acknowledgments
Bibliography
For the elegant gentleman I met at The Society of Authors Annual
Reception on whose suggestion this book was written.
At length burst in the argent revelry,
With plume, tiara, and all rich array,
Numerous as shadows haunting faerily
The brain, new stuff’d, in youth, with triumphs gay
Of old romance.
— THE EVE OF ST. AGNES
John Keats, 1795-1821
Chapter One
How strange is memory! To a child the elm avenue had seemed so tall, so gigantic, that Sarah had been prone to giddiness when she had bent her head back to stare at the tops of the trees. But now, similarly craning her neck to look out of the window of the coach that bowled along the avenue’s impressive length, she could see that, though magnificent, the elms were actually no higher than any others nor, indeed, more imposing. How odd, then, that she had for so many years been convinced that the tree-lined approach to the mansion was quite the grandest she had ever beheld.
Early that morning she had left London in order to reach the village of Kensington before it grew dark, for it was November and gloomy, and the muddy tracks that connected the sweet place with the metropolis were shadowy with footpads, haunted by highwaymen and dangerous to traverse once the light grew dim. So it had been with a sense of relief that Sarah had seen the wrought-iron gates loom up beyond the fields and felt the sway of the carriage as it turned off the road and started up the two-mile, elm-lined drive towards Holland House. Yet that very relief had been tinged with a certain apprehension at the thought of the future ahead of her, for Sarah was about to take up residence with an older sister whose face she could only recall as a dim memory from her early childhood.
With a crack, one of the carriage wheels dipped into a rut and at exactly that moment the first distant glimpse of Holland House came into view at the end of the avenue’s sweeping lines. Even though it was barely two o’clock in the afternoon there was something about the light that already held a hint of dusk and the cloisters which ran on either side of the east and west wings were full of shadows. But despite this, the towers and balconies which soared above them were bathed in the sharpness of autumn sunshine. The girl was instantly overwhelmed by the warmth of the house’s red brick, the many gleaming mullioned windows in both the wings and central block and the whiteness and grace of the steps leading to the front door. She knew at once that in this instance her memory had played no childish tricks; the house was as she remembered it, gracious and charming yet at the same time overwhelming in its size and splendour.
As Sarah Lennox gazed in admiration at her future home the carriage turned through the small wicket gate into the sweep and she saw that at the bottom of the flight of steps leading to the courtyard a liveried footman hovered, ready to open the door of the coach as soon as it came to a standstill. With a swift movement, Sarah pulled a mirror from inside her muff and rapidly checked her appearance. But there was no time, they were drawing to a halt, and she was left with only a fleeting impression of an unruly mass of black hair fast escaping from her hat, a pair of long-lashed eyes more green than blue in this autumnal light, and a complexion of poppies and snow made fine by the wild damp climate of Ireland, the lilt of which land was in her voice as she stepped out of the equipage and thanked the servant for his trouble.
He bowed low. “Welcome to Holland House, Lady Sarah. If you would be good enough to follow me, Lady Caroline awaits within.” And with that he bowed again and led the girl across the courtyard, flanked on either side by the arched cloisters, to the semicircle of steps that rose to the main entrance. The door opened even while she stood at the top, not so much catching her breath as collecting herself, and Sarah went through, vaguely aware of the vast paintings on the walls, the chandelier already ablaze with candles against the coming night, and the ornate ceiling, scroll-enriched in low relief, the letter H and a coronet decorating the square panels. But it was to none of these that her gaze was drawn. Instead, Sarah looked at the tall thin woman who stood waiting, suddenly remembering the angular features and brilliant eyes set beneath straight dark brows which made her sister’s countenance so arresting.
“Caro!” she exclaimed, and flung herself into the older woman’s arms.
It was almost a Dutch face that Sarah first stared into, then kissed, and indeed Netherlands blood ran in the family. Caroline and Sarah, amongst many, many others, were the daughters of the Duchess of Richmond whose mother had been of sober Holland stock, and it was to this grandmother that Caroline had thrown back in appearance. Sarah, for her part, had inherited the dark vivid looks of two far more interesting ancestors, namely the girls’ great-grandfather, King Charles II himself, and Louise de Querouaille, his witty, clever mistress, a Frenchwoman endowed with all the style and grace of that country.
La Querouaille had openly become the King’s lover in 1672 and he had created her Duchess of Portsmouth as a reward. When her son was born in July of the same year, Charles had attended his baptism in person, giving the boy the surname of Lennox and his own Christian name. And three years later this fruit of royal lust had been ennobled, little Charles Lennox being created Earl of March and Duke of Richmond, Duke of Lennox, Earl of Darnley and Baron Methuen of Torbolton. Louis XIV, not to be outdone, had bestowed on the Duchess of Portsmouth the title and estates of Aubigny in France in gratitude for her faithful services to her country!
It had been this particular royal bastard who had founded the Lennox dynasty and whose son had been the father not only of Sarah and Caroline but eighteen other children as well, quite a few of whom had survived to adulthood. And it had been the dark looks of both Charles Stuart and his French lady that had passed through the generations to Sarah Lennox, making her, at fourteen, already one of the great beauties of her day.
“You’ve grown lovely,” said Caroline, holding her sister away and looking at her intently. “But then you always were. Such an adorable little creature.”
Sarah pulled a face. “A forward brat, you mean.” Her expression altered. “Oh, Caroline, you haven’t changed at all. I had this terri
ble feeling on the way here that I wouldn’t even recognise you, but I do. You look just the same. I would have known you anywhere.”
Her sister gave a delighted laugh. “No older?”
“Not a day, not an hour, not a minute. I feel as if I have just stepped outside for a moment, not been away eight years.”
“But, sweetheart, you were a little child when you left here and now you have returned to us a Beauty. But enough of that or I’ll turn your head. Would you like to see your room straightaway or would you prefer to take tea first?”
“Tea, please. I’m famished for a cup. And anyway I want to greet the others.”
Caroline smiled, the angular features lighting with an inner radiance which made her suddenly attractive. “Alas, Mr Fox is in London and the two older boys are both at Eton until Christmas.”
Sarah looked wistful despite herself. “Then it will be just the two of us?”
Caroline smiled again, this time a little impishly. “I had not thought, my darling, that you would relish an empty house after Emily’s entourage in Ireland so I have taken the step of inviting Mr Fox’s niece to join us. She tends to vegetate in Somerset and prefers Kensington as somewhere nearer to town.”
“Is she pretty?” asked Sarah, without meaning to put the thought into words.
“Not so much as you, dearest, but lively and vivacious. I promise that you will either love or loathe her, and if it be the latter then I shall send her home on some pretext.”
“La, Caro, you have not changed a bit,” said Sarah and tucked her arm through that of her beloved sister, her earlier fears allayed, her excitement mounting at the prospect of dwelling once more in Holland House. So, turning to follow the arched corridor towards the east wing, the pair of them went to find Mr Fox’s niece.
In after years, Sarah thought of her first meeting with Susan Fox-Strangeways and wondered if there were indeed such a thing as predestination, if the hand of fate really had been at work to bring her together with someone who would prove to be as close as any sister of the flesh.
Tea had been served in Caroline’s sitting room, the fire glowing, the candles already lit. And into that splendid light, the gloom without, the luminosity within, had walked Susan, small, demure, with a round almost childish face, a soft mouth and clear steadfast grey eyes bright as crystal. She had looked round and appraised the newcomer, afraid of rebuff, wanting so hard to be friends.
“Lady Sarah, may I present my niece, Lady Susan. Lady Susan, my sister Lady Sarah Lennox,” Caroline had said formally.
But there had been no need. The two girls had looked at one another and both had felt that extraordinary sensation of recognition experienced so rarely, yet with such utter clarity. Pretty curtseys had masked other, deeper thoughts.
“I am sure we are going to be friends,” Sarah said, and really meant it.
“May I show you Holland House later, my Lady?”
“Please call me Sarah, I much prefer it. And yes, I would love to see all those half-forgotten places again. I have not been here since I was five, you know.”
And conversation flowed at that, giving Caroline a chance to sit quietly and study her sister, observing the sculpted arches of her cheekbones, the sweeping dark lashes, the amusing but attractive Irish accent that the girl had acquired during her eight years in that country.
The Duke and Duchess of Richmond, Caroline and Sarah’s father and mother, had died within a few months of one another and their three youngest children, Louisa aged eight, Sarah, six, and Cecilia, only a tiny tot, had been sent to join yet another sister, Lady Emily Kildare, to be brought up in her household. Emily herself had been barely twenty years old at the time of the deaths but had earlier, at the age of sixteen, made a brilliant match with the Earl of Kildare and was thus able to offer the girls a good home. So it had been in the carefree atmosphere of elegant Dublin society that Sarah had been educated — and with what results! Even listening to her now, Caroline could hear the freshness of her approach to life, the sharpness of her wit.
‘She will cause a sensation when I take her to London,’ she thought, and could already imagine the hordes of suitors pressing for the hand of this most eligible of young women.
Caroline stood up. “It is high time we changed for dinner. Mr Fox should be home within the hour.”
“Is he still as big a rogue as ever?”
Susan looked slightly shocked at Sarah’s forthright question but Caroline only smiled.
“He is the kind of man who never loses his fascination for me.”
“Then you are lucky indeed, dearest.”
“I am truly. Now, little sister, I have given you a bedroom in the east wing next to Susan’s apartment. Go with her now and discover whether you like it.”
“I’m sure I shall,” Sarah answered, pleased even before she had seen her new room. She turned on the spot, her eyes taking in every detail of Caroline’s parlour. “Oh, how I love Holland House. Sure, Kildare House and Carton were magnificent but there’s something quite fascinating about this place.”
“Then let it be hoped you will always feel the same.”
Leaving Caroline’s sitting room, situated at the most northerly end of the wing, the two young women made their way through an adjoining chamber, used by Mr Fox when he wanted to relax away from the world, into a smaller hall out of which rose the east staircase. Climbing this they came to a passageway from which led Susan and Sarah’s bedrooms. Throwing open the door of hers, Lady Sarah exclaimed with pleasure.
It seemed that there were windows everywhere, encompassing the entire far wall and also that on the left, all overlooking the parkland which stretched as far as the eye could see, to the village of Kensington itself several miles off. Behind the west wing lay the terrace and the formal garden, geometrically arranged and separated by straight paths, a warm brick wall running its length. Beyond the formal lay the Iris Garden, with a pool and fountain, the icehouse standing nearby.
“Do you like it?” asked Susan from the doorway.
“It’s even nicer than I had hoped.”
“Then I shall leave you to prepare for dinner.”
Sarah turned away from the window. “Lady Susan, forgive me if I have not given you my full attention today. The journey from Ireland to London and thence to here has filled my thoughts, added to which has been the excitement of seeing dear Caroline again. But I feel most certain that we will grow like sisters.”
“I believe it. I have a houseful at home in Somerset but somehow, Lady Sarah, you are more interesting.”
And with that the crystal eyes twinkled and the seventeen-year-old whirled away to her own quarters.
Sarah stood stock-still for a moment then went to the writing table, glad to see that her journal, leather bound and clasped in brass, had already been unpacked by the invisible army of servants who had seen to her luggage as soon as the coach had gone to the stables. Opening it, she drew up a chair, picked up the waiting pen and wrote importantly:
This day, the 15th November, 1759, I took up Residence in Holland House, the home of my Sister Lady Caroline and her Husband the Rt. Hon. Henry Fox, Politician and Paymaster. I shall miss all in Ireland but cannot wait to enter London Society.
This done, Sarah called for her new maid, Lucy, hovering eagerly outside the bedroom door, and the business of getting into “full dress” for the evening began.
*
Sarah had often heard it said in conversation that while children of a very elderly sire were often born genius or mad, Henry Fox was quite indubitably a mixture of both. For, looking at him where he sat on her left at the head of the long dining table, studying those large expressive eyes beneath his full white wig, watching the mouth that barely suppressed a smile and frequently twitched at the corners, listening to the elegant voice full of notes and nuances, Sarah supposed that only such a divine lunatic as he could have wooed her sister and won her hand against all odds.
Sir Stephen Fox, Henry’s father, had married twi
ce, for the second time when he was seventy-six and his bride, who had been brought up with Sir Stephen’s own daughter, twenty-five. From this extraordinary union had come four children, two boys and two girls. One child, Henry’s twin sister, had died in infancy but the other three had survived to become adults.
Henry Fox’s form of madness had been to fall in love first with a married woman many years his senior who had spitefully responded to her own hopeless situation by wedding her only daughter to her youthful lover’s brother. Thus, Stephen Fox had become the husband of Elizabeth Strangeways-Horner, and these two, in their turn, had produced Susan Fox-Strangeways. But whether any feelings of guilt racked the enigmatical Mr Fox as he looked at his niece, presently sitting on his left and regarding him with a clear cool gaze, it was impossible to tell. He had forgotten all about his affair with the girl’s grandmother the moment he first cast eyes on Caroline Lennox.
Caroline had been ten years old and Henry twenty-nine at that first fateful meeting. But wild though he might be, Mr Fox was a gentleman. He had not started to court his love until she was twenty.
Only a man of his charm, Sarah thought now, could have succeeded in winning such a young and attractive woman. Forty years old, inclining towards stoutness and double chins, those liquid eyes and magnificent voice of his must have done the wooing for him, these assets combined with his witty, immensely fine personality. For fall in love with him Caroline most certainly had. When Their Graces, her parents, had refused permission for her to marry, introducing her to another more suitable suitor, Caroline had cut off her eyebrows in protest. And when, in May 1744, they had announced their intention of removing Caroline from London she had slipped out of the house on the morning of the 3rd and married Henry Fox at a secret ceremony. Then she had returned home and waited for her husband to break the news to his father-in-law.
The Duke and Duchess had gone wild with fury. Indeed the whole of London had been suitably shocked, even the King growing angry and taking the Duke’s side. Walpole had roundly stated that the elopement of Princess Caroline could not have caused a greater sensation. Then, in 1745, just before Charles Edward Stuart landed in Scotland and gathered the clans to march south, Caroline had given birth to her first baby. Yet still her parents had continued to ostracise her. They finally relented three years later and through Stephen Fox, now elevated to the Barony of Ilchester, sent for the erring couple and at long last made their peace with them.
