by Deryn Lake
“No, my sister has arranged for a man to come from London.”
“A man!” shrieked Lucy, clapping her hand over her mouth and giggling frantically.
“And why not? It is considered de rigueur in France for a friseur to do a lady’s hair.”
“Oh, my soul!” said Lucy, and laughed all the more.
*
She was still laughing when, three days later, Monsieur Claude arrived early in the morning having set out from London at daybreak by coach, his pale rather silly face peering anxiously out of the window all the way for fear of being set upon by thieves. Caroline, who was nothing if not practical, had him cut the two elder boys’ hair while he was there, much to the annoyance of Ste who was trying to grow his long, Eton style.
“If I run late I beg I must stay the night, Lady Caroline. The highways are simply crawling with both foot and rum padders.”
“Have no worries on that score, Monsieur. We will not put you in any danger.”
“Très bon,” said the hairdresser, much relieved, and crammed a vast purple ostrich plume into Caroline’s already elaborate headdress.
But with the girls he worked a delicate miracle. There being few fresh flowers available he used artificial, weaving wild poppies into Sarah’s ebony coiffure, while on Susan, whose hair was much lighter, the colour of barley, he put a simple wreath of rosebuds. These decorations enhanced their new dresses, both of the gown and coat variety, which meant a robe worn open over a petticoat itself extended on hoops. Sarah’s petticoat was of the same material and decoration as her gown but Susan’s contrasted, both styles being highly fashionable. Caroline wore purple, looking like an inverted tulip as she swept down the steps and into the waiting coach, and Mr Fox complemented her in a deep pink topcoat and breeches made of silk, heavily embroidered with silver lilies-of-the-valley, his silver waistcoat bearing the same motif.
There was a cheer as the equipage bowled off down the elm drive, Monsieur Claude waving a lace handkerchief and shouting “Huzzah” several times.
“Do I look presentable?” asked Susan nervously.
But though Caroline nodded Sarah did not reply, intent on staring out of the window, gazing at a distant figure the sight of which, though innocuous in itself, laid a sudden cold finger of fear along her spine. For standing in the Green Walk, which ran parallel with the drive and consisted of a long pathway alongside the fields leading to the east wing of Holland House, was a woman, a woman whose hair gleamed brightly in the winter sunshine. Even at this distance and across the parkland, Sarah was convinced it was the same creature who had stood in the doorway of her room on the night she arrived. She strained to see, half rising from her seat, and realised that the woman was turning to watch the coach go by.
“Sit down, Sarah, do,” said Fox sharply, “your hoops have just knocked my cravat flying.”
And he would not be placated until Caroline had rearranged the lace neckpiece to his complete satisfaction. But though Sarah took her seat meekly enough she kept her head slightly turned, perturbed that something she had dismissed as a dream, a figment of her overtired imagination, should after all be a creature of flesh and blood, visible in the broad daylight, standing in the Green Walk as bold as you please.
“Does one of the farm hands have a wife with auburn hair?” she asked despite herself, despite the grand occasion to which she was going and should by rights be thinking about.
“Auburn hair?” repeated Caroline in astonishment. “Yes, I expect so. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, just because I’ve seen such a woman round and about,” Sarah answered casually. “It’s mere curiosity.”
For not even with her sister, that most trusted of people, could she discuss the extraordinary impact the sight of the stranger had had upon her, the fearful lurch of her heart, quite disproportionately violent when all she was seeing was one of the many people working round the Holland House estate.
But even this inexplicable feeling of fright was forgotten as the carriage arrived at Kensington Palace and swung through the archway beneath the Clock Tower into the courtyard. Ahead of them lay a line of coaches and chairs awaiting entry.
Mr Fox laughed, “Every exquisite in London is here, my dear girls. This will be a great opportunity for you to be seen.”
Now Sarah’s heart thumped for a very different reason and as the Fox conveyance finally came to a halt at the head of the queue and a liveried footman helped the passengers out, she and Susan exchanged a glance of genuine anguish. And then there was a queue of another sort as a crush of magnificently dressed ladies and gentlemen started a progress up the King’s Grand Staircase, through the Presence Chamber towards the Drawing Room where His Majesty was receiving his guests that night.
It seemed to Sarah as she walked on that she passed through “three great staring rooms full of men” — or so she wrote to her sister Louisa afterwards — before she got to the door of the Drawing Room. But small wonder that the fashionable world stared, for tonight the girl’s special beauty was immense, the deep set blue-green eyes vivid in a face the colour of whipped cream, wild flowers blooming in both her cheeks and hair.
Craning her neck past the shoulder of the liveried major-domo who was sonorously announcing, “Lady Caroline Fox, Lady Sarah Lennox, Lady Susan Fox-Strangeways and the Right Honourable Henry Fox,” Sarah gazed at the scene that lay waiting for her.
The King, stouter and shorter than she remembered him with a vivid complexion the colour of port, sat in a gilded chair, a grim-faced middle-aged frump whom Sarah identified as Princess Amelia, his unmarried daughter, on his right. On His Majesty’s left sat his granddaughter, the Princess Augusta, named after her mother in the usual confusing manner of the times.
This particular princess, the Prince of Wales’s elder sister, claimed the dubious privilege of having nearly been born in a coach. Poor Prince Frederick, her father, was so loathed by his parents, George II and Queen Caroline, that the Queen in particular had become convinced he would try and foist a spurious child, a creature smuggled in a warming pan, on the nation, that her son was too odd or too incapable to sire his own progeny. Even when Frederick had announced that his wife was pregnant, Caroline had remained unconvinced, so much so she had announced, “At her labour I positively will be … I will be sure it is her child.”
To spite the Queen the young couple had decided the baby would be born at St James’s, and not at Hampton Court as the King had ordered. Twice they had hurried off in a coach and twice it had proved to be a false alarm. On the third occasion, therefore, they left it rather late and poor Augusta had nearly been caught short, only just managing to struggle into the palace in time where she was “delivered of a little rat of a girl, about the bigness of a large toothpick case”. The furious Queen on seeing the child had declared that such a “poor, little, ugly, she-mouse” could be nothing but her son’s child. And that had been that. The young Princess Augusta had arrived in the world to be followed eleven months later by her brother, George.
Behind this fairly unprepossessing trio hovered a young man, looking about him and smiling. Not quite sure if she was right, Sarah guessed that this must indeed be the Prince of Wales and gazed in frank admiration at a tall, slim creature with fresh colouring and large, very gentle, china-blue eyes set beneath sweeping well-defined brows. Just as fortune would have it the Prince chose this very moment to glance up, presumably sensing that someone was staring at him intently, and looked straight across at her. Invisible arrows flew as the two fine young people instantly became aware of one another.
“God’s mercy,” said Fox beneath his breath, “the Prince is givin’ Sarah the eye!”
Fortunately nobody heard him, for the next moment they were propelled into the mêlée and his wife was making as gracious a curtsey as anyone could wish. And then it was Sarah’s turn.
“May I present my sister, Your Majesty?” Caroline asked clearly, and on the monarch’s nodded assent took Sarah by the hand and led her forward am
ongst the now silent circle of onlookers.
The girl’s curtsey was deep, executed just as she had practised it with her dancing master at home, but all she could think as she rose, straight-backed and dignified, was that the Prince of Wales’s eyes were fastened upon her, a look of obvious admiration in their depths. Slowly, Sarah stood up and shyly glanced at her King.
“Cooee,” said George, leaning forward in his chair and pinching her cheek rather too hard. “‘Marlbruk s’en va t’en guerre’, eh what? Chook, chook, chook.”
And with that he got to his feet and danced a few steps towards the horrified girl, bowling an imaginary hoop as he came. There was a titter of polite laughter and the information that His Majesty used to play with the female in question when she was a child was passed round in a loud whisper. Not knowing quite what to do, Sarah stood motionless as the King approached.
“Well, little Sarah,” he said, stopping in front of her. “Do you remember how you used to sit on my lap, eh? And how I would cuddle you and sing songs?” And His Majesty put his arms out roguishly as if she were still five years old.
Horrified, Sarah felt a horrid red blush sweep her face and neck and involuntarily took a step back, not saying a word and hanging her head in total embarrassment. The King chucked her chin then held on to it forcing Sarah to look him in the eye.
“Don’t you want to play any more?” he said, obviously rather hurt.
She would like to have answered then, at least to have had the courtesy to say something to her sovereign. But the press of people round her, the fact that every pair of eyes in the Drawing Room was turned towards her, overcame the poor girl completely.
“Pooh,” said the King, releasing Sarah and walking away from her, “she’s grown quite stupid!”
And with that he returned to his chair looking thoroughly put out.
Into the awful silence that followed, Princess Amelia spoke, her voice gruffer and even lower than her father’s.
“No manners, what?”
Sarah wanted to die, for the floor to open up and allow her to descend into the cellar, for everyone to stop staring at her. Caroline saved the day by saying loudly, “And if Your Majesty permits, this is my niece, Lady Susan Fox-Strangeways,” thrusting the unfortunate girl into the arena in Sarah’s place. All eyes turned to examine the next victim and for the moment at least the pressure was off.
And then the miracle happened. A voice at Sarah’s elbow said, “Seasonably cold weather, is it not?” and she found herself looking up into the bright eyes of the Prince of Wales. Blushes came again but this time the delightful sort. Almost as a reflex action, Sarah swept her very best curtsey and gave a charming smile.
The Prince was really very good-looking indeed. Both his great-grandfather and grandfather had been and were short, unkindly known as the Strutting Dwarfs, but this George was long and gracefully lithe. Sarah, who at five foot four inches was considered tall for a woman, had to bend her head back to look at him, admiring as she did so the straight nose, passionate mouth and large china-blue eyes. Even better, in an age of rotten teeth his were excellent, strong and white.
‘What a very agreeable and mighty pretty sort of man,’ thought Sarah, and promptly lost her heart.
“It is indeed cold, Highness,” she answered, “but I quite like that. In fact I love snow. We used to play in it when I lived in Ireland. The winters are quite severe there, you know.”
“I thought I detected an Irish brogue,” he said, smiling so that his perfect teeth were even more noticeable.
“Is it very pronounced? I’m trying hard to lose it.”
“Oh don’t,” George replied earnestly, and actually laid a hand on her arm in mock restraint. “It’s very attractive. It enhances your beauty, if that were possible.”
Beyond the singing in her ears Sarah was aware of a sound in the room like that of the incoming tide and glancing under her lashes saw that, once again, a bevy of quizzing glasses was flashing in her direction. Just for a second she glimpsed her brother-in-law, his mouth very slightly open and his eyes starting from his head.
‘God’s mercy,’ she thought with amusement. ‘I’ve triumphed after all!’
But it was only the Prince’s intervention that had done it and now she gave him another grateful smile. “Thank you for coming to my rescue, Sir. I was somewhat flummoxed at that moment.”
“I,” answered George unexpectedly, “am frequently flummoxed. Adieu, Lady Sarah, I do hope that we will meet again.”
This curtsey was even better than the last and Sarah held it respectfully as the Prince walked away. But as soon as he was safely out of earshot Fox was at her side, and a few moments later several other people came up, asking to be introduced to his sister-in-law.
“Well done, child, well done,” he hissed as just for a second the two of them were alone. “What did His Highness say to you?”
“We talked about the weather,” answered Sarah, her face completely straight.
“The weather?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Nothing else?”
Sarah frowned, looking for all the world as if she were trying hard to remember. “Oh yes, he told me I was beautiful.”
And with that she went to join Caroline and Susan, both covering their excitement with a thin layer of calm, leaving her brother-in-law for once in his life quite speechless.
But in the coach home Fox’s wits had most certainly returned.
“Damme, Sal, it’s the consensus that you made a hit with Wales. Newcastle stated firmly that he had never seen the boy so animated.”
“Boy?” put in Lady Susan. “Surely the Prince is in his twenties?”
“He’s twenty-one but everyone’s a boy to Newcastle.”
And they chattered on. But Sarah was not listening, thinking instead of that pair of china-blue eyes whose owner had not even tried to conceal the fact he found her fascinating. It was then, on her way back to Holland House from the Drawing Room at Kensington Palace, she was certain that she had indeed finally grown up.
*
With two young women in the house, both beautiful and of marriageable age, it occurred to Fox he should start to entertain more and that a fifteenth Birthday Ball for Sarah would be a splendid plan. So on 25th February, 1760, Holland House opened its doors to the cream of Society. Everyone of note was there and the guest list included the Earl and Countess of Kildare (born Emily Lennox), the Countesses of Coventry, Holderness, Stafford and Hillsborough, the Ladies Betty and Diana Spencer, the Earl of March, the Dukes of Bedford and Marlborough and Mr Horace Walpole, always worth inviting because of his viperish tongue and high command of the latest gossip. All in all there were some seventy guests and Ste and Charles James had been fetched back from Eton by their father, a hopelessly indulgent parent, in order that they might attend. The one person missing who should perhaps have been present was the Prince of Wales.
“Should we invite His Highness?” Fox had said to Caroline in January, when the gold-edged invitations had gone out.
“No,” she had answered emphatically, sipping her early morning chocolate.
“But damme, Caro, he fancies the girl.”
She had looked at him reprovingly. “How coarse you can be on occasion, Mr Fox.”
“You don’t always object to that,” her husband had answered, and given a wink.
“If you don’t mind we are discussing the Prince of Wales and Sarah.”
“How well those two names sound together.”
“Henry!” Caroline had exclaimed sharply. “You are beginning to scheme and that is dangerous. If His Highness fancies Sarah — to use one of your unpleasant words — let him seek her out for himself. No good will come of forcing the issue.”
Fox had sighed heavily. “Very well, my dear; like a dutiful husband I accede to your command.”
But secretly he had known that Caroline was right, that to push his sister-in-law at this delicate stage of the proceedings could be fraught with hazard. B
ut, in his inimitable style, he had immediately started to plan how he could get Sarah back to court and there, most casually of course, make sure that the Prince not only saw but conversed with her.
Most fortunately for Caroline, who very much hoped to copy a highly successful house warming she had given in May some years previously, that particular February was delicately mild and it was decided that the balconies above the two cloistered arcades of the east and west wings could be used as places on which the guests might promenade. Torches were made and fixed to the outer walls, giving the house a theatrical and exciting look, and a thousand extra candles were ordered, many to go in the first floor Gilt Room where there was to be dancing. On the floor below tables were set up for supper in both the Saloon and the Dining Room, these two rooms leading into one another. Additionally, three card tables were put up in Caroline’s dressing room which opened off the Great Staircase.
Behind the scenes, lacking the assistance of Monsieur Claude, Lucy fought nobly with Sarah’s hair, eventually having to beg Lady Susan to hold the green feathers with which the maid was trying to create a fashionable arrangement.
“La, but I’m in a twit of nerves,” said the birthday girl, visibly excited that such a very grand occasion had been arranged especially for her. “Thank God, say I, that His Highness is not coming.”
“I don’t think you really mean that,” answered Susan, her crystal eyes sparkling at the patent falsehood.
“Oh yes I do.” Sarah grinned defiantly at their two reflections in the dressing-table mirror.
“Hold still, my Lady,” said Lucy, her usual plea.
“What’s he like?” asked Susan curiously.
“The Prince? You saw him as plainly as I did.”
“Don’t mince. I meant what is he like as a person.”
“Well, he don’t talk nonsense and pester one with music. He talks the same as other people.”
“I think you have taken kindly to him, Sarah Lennox, despite all you say.”
The younger girl smiled. “He’s pretty, both in nature and looks. Yes, I think perhaps you’re right.”
