by Deryn Lake
“Oh bugger!” said Sidonie to the soapdish. “Why did I have to go and fall for him?”
It did not reply, nor did the cat who had wandered in on the off-chance it might be feeding time.
“Blast and damn,” Sidonie went on, throwing her flannel about. “Of all the flats in all the houses in all the world, why did I have to walk into his?”
But then if she hadn’t, she thought, if she had gone to one of the other places she had looked at when her grandmother’s legacy had meant she could move to somewhere bigger and better, she would never have seen Holland House and become involved in its mystery.
Finnan looked well despite his late night, and it was as much as Sidonie could do not to hug him, saying how pleased she was to see him. But he saved her the trouble, swinging her off her feet as he gave her a smacking kiss of greeting.
“Well, how’s yourself? And how was life amongst the Samurai? Did you have fun?”
“It was very hectic but they’re very appreciative.”
“You didn’t get abducted by one of those big wrestlers?”
“I did actually but I wasn’t going to tell you.”
Finnan grinned. “I’m green with envy. I’ve always wanted to throw salt around and devote my life to putting on weight.”
“They say the biggest one weighs over fifty stone. He’s known as the Incredible Bulk.”
“I believe you could be making this up,” answered the Irishman, “so let me turn your mind to more serious matters. May I escort you to lunch somewhere and what would you like to drink?”
“Yes, please to the first and dry white wine to the second.”
“Talking of weight,” said Finnan, “you’ve lost some.”
“Good. Last time I put it on I went jogging and ran into George III.”
He paused, corkscrew in hand. “You’ve seen nothing strange since?”
“No, but I haven’t been around much. Finnan, you do believe me, don’t you? You don’t think I suffer from hallucinations?”
For the first time that morning the doctor looked serious. “Do you remember the case of those two old girls at Versailles?”
“Miss Moberly and Miss Jourdain?”
“That’s them. Well, I read a book that convinced me they were a couple of frauds, that they were always seeing things and that this particular incident was something so ordinary they did not even discuss it for several days after the event occurred.”
“I thought what they witnessed was a dress rehearsal for a pageant in eighteenth-century costume.”
“Yes, there’s that theory too.”
“But Finnan, where does that leave me? Do you think I’m like one of those gaga old ladies?”
“No, that’s just the point. I don’t. There have been other cases, well documented and well researched, which do prove that what you have experienced is possible. What about the crossword and D-Day business?”
“What do you mean?” asked Sidonie, shaking her head. “I don’t know that story.”
“Well, D-Day was planned with absolute maximum security and yet in the months leading up to 6th June, 1944, the words Overload, Utah and Omaha, which were the codenames of the actual invasion and two of the landing beaches, appeared in the Daily Telegraph along with several other relevant words. Everyone thought there had been a major secrets leak, but when they raided the paper’s offices all they found was an erudite schoolmaster who had been creating the crossword for the past twenty years. He had never heard of D-Day.”
“Good God, what a weird tale. He must have been glimpsing the future.”
“And you the past. According to J.B. Priestley isn’t it all one and the same?”
“You are very comforting, Doctor. You make me feel psychic and special.”
“You are psychic and special, particularly if you’re seeing dear old George. What a bad press the poor soul had.”
“You think it was all the fault of the quack doctors?”
“The Willises? Well, not all but most of it.”
“I’ve been reading about his love for Sarah. Oh Finnan, it’s so evocatively put. I just adore Mr Fox.”
“An old crook but an endearing one.”
“Was he? I must find out more.”
“Shall we walk before lunch?” asked Finnan, getting organised.
“Yes, let’s. I’ll go and get a jacket.”
It was the last day of April, still showery, furry little clouds whizzing across a rather watery sun. The pavements were damp and inclined to be slippery and despite the fact that it was Sunday, Kensington High Street smelt of petrol fumes as traffic roared past on its way into central London.
“Why aren’t we going to the park?” asked Finnan, surprised that Sidonie had led him straight towards the shops.
“There’s rather a gorgeous evening dress in one of the windows. I thought it might do for my next concert. I’m going to attempt standing on my head to see the price ticket.”
Finnan laughed. “I’ve heard that sort of thing before. It’ll be me doing handstands, I can feel it in my bones.”
And with those words he took Sidonie’s hand in his and she was suddenly light-headed with happiness.
‘I want commitment,’ she thought wildly. ‘I want to be with this man. Sleeping with him simply isn’t enough.’
And there lay the crux of what could possibly endanger their future relationship, her desire to become more deeply involved, his to go along exactly as they were.
‘Hell!’ thought Sidonie, and concentrated on looking at the dress.
It was beautiful, a mermaid’s garment, slimly cut to the knees where it ruched out into frills. A mysterious shade of sea-green, it was complemented by beading that looked iridescent.
“Glory be!” exclaimed Finnan Irishly. “But you’d look stunning in that.”
Sidonie put the palms of her hands flat against the glass and peered closely, trying to see the price label which had got folded back and was barely visible. Behind her she could hear Finnan coughing as a particularly noxious car went past, and then the texture of the glass changed, there was an overwhelming smell of new-mown hay, and the doctor was silent. Sidonie’s eyes jerked shut involuntarily then blinked open, her gaze fixed and immobile. She was staring at grass seeds while beneath her hands the feel of them pricked her palms.
“Oh God!” she exclaimed aloud and slowly, indeed fearfully looked about her.
She was in a place of rare beauty and as she inhaled in surprise could taste fresh clean air in her mouth. To calm herself, Sidonie breathed deeply and the smell was heady as wine. She stood by a wide track, large enough for two coaches to pass one another, albeit in close proximity. To her left stretched fields in which people were making hay and it was on one of these small ricks that she had been leaning. In one of the further fields stood a large haystack, while a smaller version was visible in the neighbouring. On the right-hand side of the track were the parklands of Holland House, the Home Farm buildings nearby, behind them a cultivated flower and vegetable garden which backed onto the track. Elated with wonderment, Sidonie stared closely at the haymakers.
Clearly visible amongst them, her black hair tumbling in curls from beneath the brim of a gypsy hat on which the flirt had pinned some real cherries, was Sarah. She was dressed as a country girl in a plain black skirt, a white blouse, over which was a red bodice laced with black ribbons, the top loop left casually undone to reveal a glimpse of rounded bosom, completing the ensemble.
‘A beautiful figure as well,’ thought Sidonie, and wondered whether the outfit belonged to Sarah or whether she had borrowed it especially.
That the King would soon come along Sidonie had no doubt as it occurred to her she must be standing in the Great Road, which centuries later had become Kensington High Street, and that it was surely here the King had taken his daily exercise when resident in Kensington Palace. It was obvious that the beautiful creature in the hayfield expected him too, for she frequently looked over her shoulder towards the track
then away again with a certain air of sadness.
A coach went past, then the post-boy, two sacks of mail tied to his saddle, a third strung across his back. He was going very quickly and had obviously read his instructions, “This Mail must be conveyed at the Rate of Six Miles in the Hour at least … And if any Post-Boy or Rider conveying this Mail is found loitering on the Road, he will be committed to the House of Correction, and confined to hard Labour for one month.”
After a pause a shepherd appeared, blocking the way with his scurrying flock, and then a single horseman. Sidonie knew at one glance that the miracle had happened again, that she was in the presence of King George III of Great Britain and Ireland. Overwhelmed, she did not even try to hide herself, but stood and stared as he drew level with her, giving her one quick glance. Then His Majesty dismounted, holding the reins of his horse loosely in his hand.
“Lady Sarah,” he called out in a quiet voice which none the less carried to the fields. “I’m here.”
Sidonie saw the girl turn and hurry towards him, smiling and lively, unable to conceal her genuine delight in seeing him.
“Oh Sir, I am so very pleased,” Sarah said breathlessly, and dropped a curtsey before the King, then grew very pink as he raised her fingers to his lips.
Nothing could have given her greater pleasure than to see him. The day before, delayed no doubt by matters of state, he had not come, and Sarah had waited forlornly until dusk before making her way home. She had worked in the fields since the beginning of the week, prompted by Mr Fox, who had gone to the Isle of Thanet, ostensibly for a week’s bathing and rest, in reality to remove himself from the political arena at such a fraught time. At the Drawing Room three days after the Birthday Ball, the King had looked out of sorts and melancholy and, though he had talked most civilly to Sarah, there had been no exchange of fondnesses. Caroline had at once jumped to the correct conclusion. It was obvious that the Princess of Wales had been regaled with all that had taken place and was finally making her move.
“The King’s been tutored,” she had said to Fox, and his niece, Lady Susan, had agreed.
So the wily one had left London, reminding his sister-in-law of the King’s daily riding habits and advising her to work in the fields alongside the haymakers. The plan had succeeded. On Tuesday the King had passed by, seen the object of his adoration, and stopped to speak.
“I will come back, tomorrow or the next day,” he had promised as they parted.
“Come at midday, Sir. It is jolly then. The workers drink cider and eat cheese, and on Monday a fiddler played. It was fun,” Sarah had answered, and seen his handsome honest face flush with pleasure.
“I will, I promise it.”
And now he had kept his word. It was Wednesday, it was noon, and her royal lover stood beside her.
“I am so very glad,” Sarah repeated.
“Not nearly as glad as I, my dear Lady.”
And with that the King wove his fingers through hers, the most intimate thing he had ever done and, leading his horse behind him, walked with her into the fields.
It was idyllic, English pastoral beauty at its best. The June sun, splendidly hot, beat down on the golden hay which seemed to reflect in a sky so deeply blue that it was almost mauve. A heat haze lay over the park where the cattle swished their tails to keep off the flies and the sheep stood motionless in the shade of the trees.
“And is this my country?” said the King softly, gazing round.
“It is yours and more. And will you love it?”
“I shall — if they will let me.”
They were speaking in whispers, the things they were saying too deep for normal tones, when the high bright sound of the fiddle broke across the lovers’ reverie.
“It’s time for the break,” said Sarah. “Will you sit with us?”
The King smiled with pure pleasure and took from his saddlebag an apple and some cheese. “I have come prepared,” he answered.
In all the after years, in every memory she had of him, that one above all others moved Sarah to tears. The young King’s patent joy in the simplicity of pastoral life, and the pathetic fact that he had brought his own small bits of food for the noontime break.
The sound of the fiddle was unbelievable; a folk melody of such intricacy, such beauty, that Sidonie stood up behind the hayrick and listened wide-eyed. She felt that she had gone back to the age of gold, that she was hearing sounds, seeing sights that none before had ever been privileged to see.
A King sat leaning against the great haystack, his coat off, his horse tethered, his beautiful sweetheart dressed like a gypsy at his side. They were both so young, so vulnerable, that her heart lurched for them, and Sidonie felt a great surge of frustration that she could do nothing to help them, that she could only observe, knowing that what was to come must come and there was nothing she could do to stop it.
The music soared on, the old fiddler standing with his back to her, creating a melody so rare and sweet that the musician knew she would never forget so lovely a tune.
“How I love that sound,” said George. “What is it?”
“A gypsy song, I think, Sir. I believe the old man is one of their race.”
“He plays well. I wish he were at Court.”
“He would never give up his life beneath the stars.”
The King smiled fondly. “How beautiful you are and how beautifully you say things.”
She smiled up at him in the demanding sunshine, not one drop of shadow to hide what she thought, and George knew then that she had grown to love him, that if he took her for his wife he need never be alone again. He leant forward and gave her that kiss which is a vow, the very first kiss and the finest of them all.
“I love you,” he said.
“And I you,” she answered, and putting her arms round his neck Sarah drew him to her heart.
It was over, all the despair and struggle. All that was past lay behind them, all that was to come ahead.
“We have enemies, my dearest,” said George quietly. “My mother and Lord Bute wish me to marry a German princess.”
“They berated you for your behaviour at the Birthday Ball, did they not?”
“How did you guess?”
“Because you were so restrained at the Drawing Room.”
“I wanted to hide what I felt. I wanted no one to hurt us.” The King took great pleasure in saying us and watching Sarah’s face as he did so.
“Nobody ever can if we are resolved, for you are King.”
“Kiss me again or I shall die for lack of you.”
And he felt such pain and passion in his chest that he really meant it.
“Can you stay this afternoon?”
“I shall stay with you come what may. Let them look for me. Just for once duty can go hang.”
This speech was so untypical of him that Sarah could scarcely believe her ears.
“Then, Sir, do you truly love me?”
“I always will,” answered George, and did not lie.
She saw them wander off from where she lay hidden and prayed, as if she were really there, a participant in those times, that all might go well for them, yet knowing, even as she did so, that there were too many forces stacked against them, that the King’s very upbringing by a long-nosed and fearful mother would make himself the enemy he should most fear.
And then came faintness, harsh and sick, and the substance beneath Sidonie’s hands turned from straw to glass. She let out a cry as everything began to dissolve and fade.
“What was that?” said George, pulling himself away from the splendour which was Sarah. “Who cried out?”
She looked round startled, for she too had heard something. “I don’t know. It seemed to come from the Great Road.”
“Should I go and see?” asked the King, half indoctrinated to run errands ordered by women, half wanting to please and impress his dark-haired darling.
“Let us both go.”
They were in a mild state of disarray but wer
e far from love’s consummation. The King had undone Sarah’s blouse and, for the first time in his life, kissed a naked breast.
“No, wait a moment more,” said George, reluctant to leave such warmth and comfort as lay within the confines of the great haystack.
But the gypsy fiddler had gone to look, also hearing a sound and aware as only a Romany could be that something strange was afoot. Impassively he watched as Sidonie vanished from his sight, knowing that he was seeing a ghost but not afraid of this. In his own tongue he made a prayer for the dead and then by some extraordinary instinct that he did not understand, added a prayer for children, babies and those who as yet remained unborn.
“It’s all right,” said Sarah, looking across to the Great Road. “The old man has sorted it out.”
“Has he?” said His Majesty absently and delighted once more in the sensation of running his lips over warm flesh that somehow seemed to grow ever softer beneath his touch.
*
This time — in a way reassuringly — the coming-to, the reawakening, was hideous. Sidonie found herself, at lunch time on a Sunday, slumped in a shop doorway in Kensington High Street as if she were a derelict, a vagrant, a tragic inhabitant of Cardboard City. As she made to stand up nausea gripped her and she had to cling to the window for support. And it was then that she saw Finnan, running like a man demented, peering into doorways, pale and desperate about the eyes.
“I’m here,” she called. “Finnan, I’m here.”
At once he was at her side, his arm about her, and was helping her as they walked back home, both too frightened to say much, extremely glad to be reunited, taking the shaky steps towards Phillimore Gardens. It was not until they were in his flat, a stiff drink in hand, that they finally spoke properly, looking each other in the face for the first time.
“It happened,” said Sidonie, “a trip back. I saw them both, Sarah and George. The whole thing was beautiful in its way, though I wish I hadn’t frightened you.”
