by Deryn Lake
“I’ll admit that not since I was caught in a bomb explosion in Belfast have I been so bloody scared.”
“Why?”
“Because you disappeared. I turned away to cough — ever the perfect gentleman —” he added wryly, “and when I turned round again you had vanished into thin air. I never believed I’d see the like of it. I thought at first that you were at another shop so I started to follow you. And then, hardened old cynic that I am, I guessed that you’d gone —”
“Walkabout?”
“Yes.”
Sidonie swallowed her drink. “It frightened me, Finnan. I felt so nauseated, both going and returning. And yet what I saw was so immense, so captivating. I even heard a folk tune from a century long dead.”
“I don’t know whether to envy you or just be thankful that it doesn’t happen to me.”
“They were very much in love,” Sidonie went on, hardly paying attention to him. “More than the history books realise. I think they tend to discount how genuine their feelings were because of what happened afterwards.”
“You’re talking about the King and Sarah Lennox.”
“Yes. Oh Finnan, I wonder why it is she haunts me like this.”
“Perhaps because you play the music of her century and are more in sympathy with the past than most.” He looked at her closely. “You’re still shaking. Come and lie down.”
And he led her into his bedroom and, in what she could only think of as a professional way, undressed her to her underwear and put her to bed. It was tremendously comforting to be looked after like a child, to be cossetted and cared for, and when he brought her lunch in on a tray, Sidonie fell more in love with him than ever.
“It’s worth the shock if I’m going to be treated like this every time.”
“Well, I can’t promise that but if I’m around you can rely on it.”
She felt instantly sad, realising that he was finding a nice way to tell her he would soon be off on his research project, that she mustn’t count on his being there for much longer.
However, she hid her feelings and said lightly, “I’ll remember that.”
He looked thoughtful. “If this was the last experience of a time slip you were ever to have would you be glad or sorry?”
“I think sorry though I can see that it could well become menacing. But that music, oh Finnan, that music. Here, lend me a dressing gown and I’ll go downstairs and try to play it for you. In fact I want to write it down before I forget.”
Clad in bright striped towelling, Sidonie sat at her little spinet and picked out the fiddler’s tune, then added chords and played it through.
“Can you imagine this ringing out on a summer’s day, the haymakers eating their lunch, the King and Sarah making love in the haystack …”
“Literally?”
“I couldn’t see them. There are limits you know, even for a time traveller.”
The Irishman laughed uproariously. “You are the quaintest creature that ever stepped out of a storybook. I have never met anyone like you, Sidonie Brooks.”
“I should hope not indeed. I wouldn’t like to think all your women friends are harpsichord players with a penchant for stepping out of this century and disappearing into the eighteenth.”
“Come to bed,” he said.
They seemed to flow, become part of one another the moment their bodies touched. Sidonie thought that her bones were melting as her breasts lifted against Finnan’s chest and their thighs moved longingly together. Against her flesh, over which flew flame, or so it felt, she could feel the hardness of him, hardness within, the hardness without, every particle aching with sensation. She never wanted this divine carnality to end, for now, physically joined to him, Sidonie felt safe in her love, felt that even if he went away, Finnan O’Neill must return to her, so strong were the bonds between them.
The stroking of his hands grew reckless, his kisses consumed her lips. Sidonie believed that she would scream if the relentless beautiful throbbing did not end soon. And then it was over, an explosion of stars, each to the other, and they lay quietly, not thinking, barely breathing in a silence so intense Sidonie longed to whisper, “I shall love you always.”
*
They parted at sunset, slowly and reluctantly, feeling that they should have stayed together all night, yet knowing that other people, other commitments, would not allow them this joy.
The King was shy yet deliriously happy. At the age of twenty-three he had done for the first time in his life what the naughty boys of town achieved many years earlier. In the great haystack, hidden from the world and from the haymakers who had moved tactfully away, he and Sarah had lain naked beneath the sun, and instinct, inexorable undeniable instinct, had had its way. Kissing and touching had turned to something more and George had found, to his intense delight, that he had known what to do. The fact that he was as passionate, as sensual, as his forebears had been denied to him by his mother and Bute, but in truth George was stirred by beauty and now to have it lying in his arms, joined to him by part of his body, was the most rapturous sensation he had ever experienced.
In its way it was an innocent seduction out there in that sylvan scene, but Sarah, other than for the fact she felt on fire with love, found the carnal act painful and wished that it would soon be over so that her loss of innocence could be forgotten and she could begin to enjoy what the beau monde so obviously delighted in. But as the evening shadows fell she and her lover parted and she was left to walk back to Holland House, feeling wicked and worldly now that he had gone, wondering what would happen next. Even in the height of ecstasy the King had not made a proposal of marriage and this gave her certain cause for alarm.
There was something else providing food for thought as well. As George had mounted his horse he had said, “Who was that woman who stood and watched me arrive? Is she one of your servants?”
“Who do you mean? What did she look like?” Sarah had answered, but already there had been a sinking of her heart.
“She was very distinctive. She wore strange clothes, like a boy’s, and her hair was flame red. Furthermore, she stared quite rudely and gave me no salute.”
“Have you ever seen her before?”
Her lover flushed. “I may have done. Why?”
“Was it the day you spied me with that ape Newbattle? Oh dear sweet, how you must have hated me for that.”
“I could never hate you,” His Majesty had protested hotly. “It made me all the more determined to see my rival off.”
“I love you,” they had chorused together, and the King had leant down in the saddle and kissed his sweetheart once more.
“Yes it was that day,” he said some five minutes later.
“Then if you do not know her, neither do I. Oh, Sir, I do believe she is of supernatural origin.”
“We must ask the gypsy,” George had answered wisely. “For I am certain he saw her too.”
“I will do so tomorrow. Oh, my darling, will you join me?”
“Yes,” said George determinedly. “Even if my dear friend Bute should beg me not to I will come to you.”
“But surely it would be better to keep our meeting secret?”
“In this instance, yes. But I shall have to inform him soon.” George’s face had clouded.
“Don’t think about it now. We will deal with that problem when it arises.”
And with that they had kissed and gone their separate ways. And now Sarah sat before the harpsichord he had given her, feeling that in a way she touched the King when she played it, and picked out the air that the old fiddler had played that day.
“What a lovely melody,” said Lady Susan, coming into the music room. “What is it?”
“A tune the gypsy played when the haymakers stopped at noon.”
“It’s a love song, I think. Tell me, did he come?”
Sarah shook her head. “I really ought not to say, for things are getting towards matters of state. But it is so hard to lie to you, dear Suke. Yes, he di
d come and yes, he does love me.”
Susan went very pink. “Has he asked you to marry him?”
“No, not yet.”
“But he will?”
“I think so, in fact I’m sure of it. Oh Susan, everything is in turmoil.”
“Get some sleep,” said her friend soothingly. “Perhaps he will propose tomorrow so you will want to look your best.”
“Yes, indeed.” Sarah rose from the harpsichord and went to stand beside Susan. “Good night, my dear. I’ll see you in the morning.” And with that she left the room.
*
“Good night, darling. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
And with that Finnan quietly left Sidonie’s flat and went back to his own to spend the rest of the night. She lay in the moonlight and wondered if she would ever sleep again, her mind so full of images and thoughts of the past and the present, of love fulfilled and love unrequited. Then, almost as if she were in a trance, Sidonie got out of bed and without putting the lights on went down in the silver radiance to the garden room.
The harpsichord looked almost ghostly, standing partly in shadow, partly lit by the rays coming through the garden door. Crossing over to it, Sidonie lifted the lid and from beneath her fingers stole out the sound of the gypsy fiddler’s tune. She saw again, as she played, the pastoral lovers, the Daphnis and Chloe who had been King of Great Britain and Ireland and the sister of the Duke of Richmond. And she smiled a little wistfully in the moonshine at the thought that nothing ever changes.
Chapter Twelve
He had done as he had promised. As the sun reached the meridian point the King had come at the canter, dressed sportingly, his wig short and tied back in a bow. The fiddler had scraped a few brave notes of welcome and Sarah had run through the fields to meet him while the other haymakers toiled on discreetly.
“So you were not stopped from coming, Sir,” she said breathlessly as he kissed her hand.
George frowned. “The Princess of Wales wished to talk to me but I put her off until this evening.”
“Was she annoyed by that?”
“Somewhat. But I said my head ached and I needed to clear it by riding forth.”
“Does she suspect that you are meeting me?”
“I don’t care,” said the young King rashly. “Nothing matters if we are together.”
They ate their midday repast sitting at some distance from the others. This day the King had brought a cake which he broke in half and shared with Sarah, a fact that moved her to tears. And then came an afternoon of love, sheltered from prying eyes by the great rick which stood, warm as a bed, beneath the midday sun.
At last Sarah knew the pleasure of passion, enjoying the sensations of naked limb upon naked limb, and this time the desires of such a sensual man as George had been even more aroused. She had felt his caresses grow wild, his body strong, his shyness vanish, and then had been born in her a sensation she did not even know existed. It was like a firework leaping towards heaven before bursting into a million coloured stars. Here, then, was true fulfilment for it seemed that George had experienced this wonderful thing at the same moment as she.
Sarah wept with ecstasy and surprise as the King mingled his joyful dew with hers.
“We must never part,” he whispered over and over again.
“No never,” she answered. “Oh, Sir, did you know such delight as I did?”
“Yes, oh yes. Sarah, make me be resolute, I beg you. Make me fear no one.”
“Why should you? You are the King.”
“But Kings are prey to more pressures than most other men.”
“If you want me I promise we shall stay together always.”
“I want you more than anything else in the world,” answered His Majesty and kissed Sarah so ardently that she ceased to wonder whether or not she had just received a proposal of marriage.
*
“So,” said Fox, unbuttoning his emerald satin waistcoat, removing his wig and letting out a sigh of pure satisfaction, “the stratagem worked. He rode past the hayfields and spoke to her.”
“That is what Sarah said, yes,” replied Caroline, who was growing distinctly uneasy about the entire situation.
“Good. And how many times did he do this, do you know?”
“Three I believe.”
“And did he stay long?”
“Really Mr Fox!” his wife exploded. “All I was told was that His Majesty rode past the hayfields and on each occasion stopped for a chat with Sarah. That is the sum total of what I know and if you want my opinion it means absolutely nothing at all.”
Fox put the tips of his fingers together and said, more to himself than anyone, “So there has been no proposal I take it.”
“No, nor do I think there is likely to be. Everyone says that a German princess has been settled on and will soon be sent for.” Caroline’s bony features looked bleak. “And what price my poor sister then?”
Fox stroked his chin thoughtfully. “A princess may indeed have been suggested, Caro, but it does not follow that His Majesty has to take her. He has the power to do what he likes.”
“And stand up to Bute? I doubt he could summon the nerve.”
“That depends on how much he has fallen in love with Sarah. And I see there’s nothing for it. I shall have to ask her that question myself.”
“You are not to browbeat her, Henry. My sister has enough to contend with at the moment.”
Fox looked askance. “Would I do such a thing? Browbeat indeed!” And with that he plunged his nose into a book and refused to converse further.
His plan to interrogate Sarah was thwarted, however, by an urgent summons to London, for which the Paymaster left hurriedly next morning, having first firmly requested his wife to speak to the younger woman in confidence.
“Regarding what?”
“Regarding whether or not she expects an offer of marriage.” Seeing Caroline’s truculent face, Fox added hastily, “It is essential we know everything if we are to help her.”
The elder sister had found the younger sitting on the stone seat in the middle of The Wilderness, idly turning the pages of a book on which she did not appear to be concentrating. Without saying a word, Caroline went to sit beside her, taking her hand.
Sarah had never felt so ashamed. For the first time in her life she was concealing the truth from her sister and was in torment as a result.
“Dearest, I would like to talk to you,” came Caroline’s opening gambit.
Despite her guilt, Sarah turned an open face towards her and said innocently, “About His Majesty, I suppose.”
“Yes. You have probably guessed that I have reservations about the whole affair and it is Mr Fox who has enjoined me to ask you certain things.”
Sarah blushed deeply and Caroline wondered why. “What things? And why do you have doubts?”
“My doubts are as to whether you would enjoy being a queen, whether you are cut out for such a life. Mr Fox’s queries are more specific. He wants to know if the King has asked you to marry him.”
Sarah’s mind went back to the passionate episodes in the haystack and she dropped her gaze.
“Not really, no. He said he always wanted me to be with him but that is all.”
Caroline looked serious. “That is a commitment of a kind. Oh, my darling, would you really want such great responsibility?”
Her sister turned on her a glowing face. “Yes, if it meant being his wife. You see, I love him. His Majesty is gentle and sweet and all the things I admire in a man. I would take on the world if I could marry him, though I beg you to keep that to yourself.” Looking away she said quietly, “Never tell how deeply I care for him in case the situation goes wrong.”
“Why do you say that? Do you think it might?”
“I pray not, though I fear the power of His Majesty’s mother.”
“As do I,” answered Caroline softly, squeezing Sarah’s hand. “She has no love for the Foxes.”
“I hope she doesn’t hurt him because
of it,” her sister replied.
*
The storm had broken round his young, good-natured head when he returned to Kensington Palace, still warm from the touch of Sarah’s body, his mouth bruised from the ardour of her kisses. He was deeply in love and the fact that he had expressed this physically only added to the depth of his feelings. For the King was a loyal, faithful soul, despite his innate sensuality, and in his mind had now committed himself irrevocably to Lady Sarah Lennox. Thus, thinking of her and smiling at the memory of all they had experienced together, George III walked into his apartments in Kensington Palace to find his mother and the Earl of Bute lying in wait for him.
“Where have you been?” said the Princess Augusta of Wales without preamble, as if her son were a nothing, a stupid child that nobody trusted.
“Out riding,” replied the King, terrified but determined not to show it. “I told you I had a headache so I remained away till it had cleared.”
The Princess gave a snort of contempt. “Six hours! God ’a’ mercy, do you expect me to believe that? You have been with that Lennox girl and don’t dare deny it!”
George did not answer, staring at his boots, and the Earl of Bute put in smoothly, “Sir, Madam is thinking only of the good of the realm. When you told me of your feelings for Lady Sarah some eighteen months ago I warned you then that the future Queen must be above politics. And, if you recall, you promised me on your honour that you would give up all idea of her for the sake of the nation.”
The King stared at him obstinately. “Lady Sarah is not interested in politics.”
“But her brother-in-law is,” interrupted the Princess. “If you allied yourself with the house of Fox God alone knows what trouble there would be. Anyway, further discussion of the matter is pointless. Your future bride had been sent for. All we need is your consent.”
Bute thought to himself that his mistress had gone too far this time, for the King lost all colour and stared at them stricken.
“What?” he gasped.
“I have sent for Princess Charlotte of Mecklenburg. You looked at her portrait, you said she was not unpleasing, so she has been chosen. And there’s an end to it,” Augusta added triumphantly.
