As Shadows Haunting

by Deryn Lake

  “You shall have it, Sir,” she answered coquettishly, and placed her hand in that of the eager young nobleman, ignoring the fact that poor Frederick’s palm was very slightly moist.

  *

  An appreciation of style and beauty being an innate part of the French character, the arrival of any newcomer endowed with not only those qualities but also talent caused an obvious sensation. Added to this was the fact that the English musician had fainted in the most spectacular manner in the house of Pierre Sevigne. All at once the name of Sidonie Brooks was on the lips of the entire Parisian jet set.

  She had been picked up from where she lay slumped over the keyboard of the Blanchet harpsichord and carried away as if she were a broken doll.

  “Careful with her,” she had heard a familiar voice call out as she was moved.

  But when Sidonie finally opened her eyes it had been to see she was in a palatial bedroom, lying on a bed, the crimson drapery and golden crested eagle of which denoted that it had once belonged to Napoleon.

  A man dressed as an eighteenth-century nobleman was taking her blood pressure, while Marie Antoinette was cleaning up Sidonie’s forehead.

  “Oh dear,” she said, then added predictably, “Where am I?

  Pierre Sevigne came into her line of vision. “My dear Madame Brooks, you are still in my house. You fainted while you were practising and we brought you in here to recover.”

  Sidonie struggled to sit up. “But what about the concert?”

  “You won’t be able to play, I’m afraid,” said the nobleman. He shook Sidonie’s hand formally. “I am Dr Laurent, one of Monsieur Sevigne’s guests. This lady is my wife and is also a doctor. I’m afraid that you have received a bad cut to your forehead and require a couple of stitches. I have already rung the hospital. My junior is on duty and expecting you. I would do the suturing myself but —” He spread his hands and gave a charming Gallic smile, “— it took me hours to get into this costume and it would take another hour to get out of it. But, you can believe me, Dr Vanier is an excellent young man. His stitching will not mar your beauty in any way.”

  “You’re very kind,” Sidonie answered, “but I can’t let everyone down like this.” She turned to Pierre. “Not after all the trouble you’ve taken.”

  He raised a soothing hand. “Your friend Alexei has stepped into the breach. He had his violin with him by a lucky chance.”

  Sidonie smiled faintly. “He takes it everywhere, I don’t think he trusts it out of his sight.”

  Pierre nodded. “So all is well. Monique Amboise is here, by the way. She hopes to see you before you go.”

  Madame Laurent spoke for the first time. “If you will take my advice, Miss Brooks, you should return to your hotel when you have been sutured and have a good rest. You’ve suffered a nasty crack and, besides, fainting itself can be caused by stress. You professional musicians push yourselves far too hard.”

  Sidonie nodded. “I’ll certainly do as you say but may I just have a quick word with Alexei. I’ve got to tell him what’s going on.”

  “Of course you may. We’ll leave you alone.”

  With everyone gone, Sidonie felt free to give the Russian a hug, for he came through the door looking wretched with worry, his terrible black tie halfway round his neck where he had tugged at it nervously.

  “I’ve got to go to hospital,” she said, as he laid her gently back on the pillows.

  “I know. I am devastated that I cannot attend with you. But I told them I would play. Do you mind?”

  “How could I mind? You’ve helped me out of a terrible situation.”

  “I meant, do you mind that I can’t be there to hold your hand?”

  “No to that too. It’s only a couple of stitches. But the woman doctor told me to go back to the hotel afterwards. I won’t be able to see the New Year in with you after all.”

  “There you are wrong. As soon as I have finished here I will join you. It will be about eleven. We shall drink champagne.”

  “I’ll probably be in bed.”

  “Is that an invitation because, if so, I accept with pleasure.”

  “You’re not to tease an injured woman.”

  Alexei’s expression suddenly became serious. “Why did you faint, Tovarish? What happened?”

  “I saw a ghost,” she answered, testing him, wondering how he would react.

  He nodded seriously. “I had that experience when I was a child.”

  “What did you see?”

  “I think one of the murdered Grand Duchesses. I was visiting the Winter Palace with my parents and I saw this girl on the stairs. She was not in modern dress and she was running down, oh so swiftly, with such a joyful expression on her face.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “She was pale with wide dark eyes. I think it was Tatiana.”

  “Then you believe they were assassinated?”

  “Yes, all of them. But tell me what you saw.”

  “Later, in the hotel. I daren’t keep them waiting. Thank you for taking over the concert.”

  “I would do anything for you,” Alexei answered, “even and including making myself an overnight sensation.”

  Sidonie shook her head. “You are just so naughty. Now go away.”

  *

  She was back in her room shortly after ten; stitches in, forehead frozen, clutching some sleeping pills to take later. Pierre’s housekeeper, a gorgeously thin Frenchwoman called Amelie, had insisted on seeing her safely into bed, and Sidonie had thought how nice it was, like a return to childhood.

  “You are sure you will be all right, Madame?”

  “Positive, thanks. You’ve been so good to me. I am grateful.”

  “I will telephone in the morning to see how you are.” Amelie paused in the doorway. “Did something frighten you in the salon?”

  “Why?” asked Sidonie, hedging.

  “Because the house has many memories,” the older woman answered simply. “Not all of them can be good.”

  “Who was the Prince de Conti?”

  “It is a title reserved for one of the king’s sons. Not the eldest, you understand.”

  “So Sarah continued to mix with top people.”

  “Sarah?” repeated the housekeeper.

  “One of the ghosts.”

  “So you saw them,” said Amelie, and, nodding, turned to leave.

  At exactly quarter past eleven Alexei walked through the door of the hotel room with an expression on his face that could only mean one thing. He had been given a tumultuous reception and was already being hailed as an enfant terrible.

  “I don’t think they missed me,” said Sidonie wryly, smiling at him.

  “They did miss you, particularly the men. It is because I am Russian that they loved me. Everyone thought I was a poor starving youth. There is something very romantic about people from a country that few have visited. One rich American lady has already offered to sponsor me.”

  “Toyboy?”

  “You bet.” Alexei grinned. “She’s taking me out to dinner and coming to Chambord.”

  “You really are unbelievable!”

  “An opportunist maybe. But, sweetest Sidonie, I have champagne. Pierre sent it for us.”

  And with that the violinist opened his case to reveal several bottles.

  “I don’t know that I ought to drink.”

  He turned to her, instantly contrite. “I have not asked how you got on. I am so selfish.”

  “Well, I’ve been stitched up, the anaesthetic is wearing off, and my head hurts. Other than that I’m fine.”

  Almost in one move Alexei threw off his dinner jacket and got down on the bed beside her, cradling her in his arms so kindly that Sidonie suddenly wanted to cry.

  “Forgive me. I think only of myself. From now on I am your nurse. Order me.”

  “Then pour some champagne. If I blow up, I blow up.” Sidonie hesitated. “Alexei, there is something I feel I ought to tell you.”

  “And what is that?�
�

  “I have a sort of boyfriend, someone I’m very fond of. He’s in Canada at the moment on a research project.”

  The Russian turned to look at her from where he stood opening the bottle.

  “I did not think that someone as beautiful as you would be without admirers. It was to be expected. Are you going to marry this person?”

  “I don’t know. He hasn’t asked me.”

  “Then he is a fool. I would be your husband and not hesitate.”

  “I’m not sure I want to get married again. Nigel put me off.”

  “That is not surprising. Now, Sidonie, stop talking and listen. I shall spend the night here, on the floor if you insist, in order to look after you. And I will not force my attentions, that is the right phrase, isn’t it?”

  “It is.”

  “Then may I?”

  “Yes.”

  And with that they clinked glasses and prepared to see in the New Year.

  *

  The eagerly anticipated arrival of the Duc de Lauzun was almost an anticlimax. Sarah saw a small, neat, dapper young man come into the reception room and bow to the Prince, and thought that the best thing about him was his suit of expensive brocade.

  ‘So you’re the one set to seduce me!’ she thought, and arranged her features into a glacial smile as the Prince and the Duc advanced towards her.

  De Conti nodded indulgently as Sarah curtsied. “I beg your kindness, Milady, for my Lauzun. He is very wild, very extravagant, very pleasant. He will do you the honours of Paris better than anyone. Permit me to pay you his respects. I stand surety for his desire to win your favour.”

  Very much to her surprise, Lauzun bowed as if bored to sobs at this introduction and Sarah, in response, dropped one of her impeccable curtseys and said, “How dee do?” between gritted teeth.

  “Well, thank you,” he replied, dabbed at his upper lip with a lace handkerchief, and sauntered off to where an elegantly aristocratic slut sat in a chair consuming the Duc with her hot blue eyes. If he had announced it at the top of his voice, Lauzun could not have made his lack of interest in Sarah more obvious. But there was worse yet to come. The slut, who was the type to whisper loudly in public, thrust her head to within an inch of Lauzun’s and muttered something into his ear. He shrugged eloquently.

  “She’s not bad,” he said in a loud and carrying voice, “but for the life of me I do not see anything in her to turn a man’s head. If she spoke good French and came from Limoges, no one would give her a second thought.”

  There was a shrill burst of laughter and Sarah wished that the floor would open and swallow her up.

  “Who is that woman?” she said to Carlisle who was, as always, hovering close at hand.

  “Madame de Cambis, Lauzun’s mistress. Apparently she is mad for love of him but he is profoundly bored with her.”

  “Why?” asked Sarah crossly. “She looks willing enough.”

  “That’s just the point. She fell into his arms without a struggle, whereas the Duc loves a conquest.”

  “Oh, does he?”

  “What man does not? Yet I have pursued a lady till I could drop with fatigue and still have no smile from my sweetheart.”

  “Are you referring to me?” said Sarah, venting her spleen on the hapless youth.

  Carlisle looked nervous. “There is no one else to whom I would give that name.”

  “Then I believe you to be indiscreet, Sir. I am a married woman as well you know.”

  “But yet I felt I had cause for hope.”

  “Hope? For what? That I would become your cheap whore. Marry, come up, Lord Carlisle, I thought you just to be a friend.”

  How cruel she was, Sarah thought, as she saw the boy’s face go a deep and raw-looking red. She had given him enough reason to be encouraged, God only knew, and now here she was chastising the poor wretch because Lauzun had upset her.

  “I would never betray Sir Charles,” she added for good measure. “Never!”

  “Even though he does it to you?” Frederick muttered.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  But before Sarah could ask the lordling to repeat what he had just said, indeed before either of them had time to get more heated, a call for supper was made by the Prince’s major-domo, and there was a general exit in the direction of the dining hall where once the Grand Prior of the Knights Templar had sat down to dine.

  Within the hall several dozen small tables had been prepared and it was to one of these that the Prince de Conti now ushered Sarah, only for her to find that the hot-eyed slut, Madame de Cambis, was sitting one place away from her, an empty chair between them.

  ‘No doubt,’ thought Sarah as the Duc de Lauzun came to claim it, ‘this is the Prince’s idea of a joke.’

  Across the space, Lauzun’s mistress preened herself for battle and Sarah, impulsively accepting the challenge, did likewise. Sparkling, her smile full of mischief, she turned to the Duc with a tiny yawn.

  “La, Sir, I must apologise for the paucity of my French. I never could concentrate on my lessons for I found the language to be the idiom of leisure, and preferred to go riding with my brothers than bother learning it.”

  Lauzun twitched his lips, his eyes insolent. “You do not like our native tongue, Milady?”

  “It is not so much that, Monsieur, as trying to master the nuances of dialect. For example, I have been told that a Parisian accent is not to be emulated whereas that of Limoges is the one the beau monde strives for.”

  This said, Sarah gave the Duc a saucy grin and turned her attention to the foie gras which had just been set before her. Lauzun stared at her hard-eyed before he raised his crooked brows and murmured, “Touché,” which caused Madame de Cambis to curl her sultry lips into a pout. From where he sat, the Prince de Conti smiled to himself that his stratagem was working so well, convinced that his favourite might just have met his match.

  To say that Armand de Gontaut, Duc de Lauzun, was world weary was to give a mere hint of his outlook on life. By the time he was a boy he had seen it all. His father, Louis Antoine, Duc de Gontaut, the Marechal of France, and that extraordinary nobleman, the Duc de Choiseul, who looked so like a bull mastiff that he was known as le dogue had married sisters. Originally, while Choiseul was still a bachelor, Gontaut’s wife had been his mistress and in fact it was generally accepted that Lauzun was le dogue’s son. Whatever the case, Lauzun’s mother had died giving birth to her child and had, on her deathbed, commanded her twelve-year-old sister to marry Choiseul in order to take care of him. Thus Lauzun’s nominal father and his actual became brothers-in-law. But this was not to be the end of the complications.

  Choiseul’s sister, retired early to a convent because she could not find a husband, eventually consented to marry the ghastly Duc de Gramont. Having done so, she separated from him at once going to live with le dogue and his young wife, and sharing her brother’s bed according to common gossip. Within this nest of vipers and whispers young Lauzun had been brought up.

  The close friendship between the Duc de Gontaut and Madame de Pompadour, Louis XV’s mistress, meant that Lauzun had spent his childhood with her, sitting on her lap, playing with her jewels, reading out loud to her as soon as he had learned his letters. But it was not only the art of reading in which Armand had been instructed at the court of Versailles. His “delicious lessons” began the moment he was in his teens. He took them with servants, ladies, actresses and even a cousin of Madame de Pompadour herself, and the fact that he had entered into an arranged marriage with Amelie de Boufflers did nothing to stop this rake’s progress. He enjoyed sexual liaisons to the full and as a married man continued to sleep with the wife of Choiseul’s younger brother. But in this adulterous adventure, Lauzun met opposition from an unexpected source.

  The incestuous Duchesse de Gramont, regardless of the fact that Armand was her brother’s nephew, decided to fall in love with him. Spurned, she then accused him of corrupting the morals of the Duchesse de Stainville, his uncle’s sister-in
-law, causing such a furore that the lovers took fright and parted. Very angry with this interference in his private affairs, Lauzun had reacted by pointedly ignoring the Duchesse de Gramont, setting up a pretty little actress in her own apartments, and sending for Madame de Cambis to come and sleep with him at Versailles. His boredom with his current mistress had begun then and there, when she responded to this summons within four hours. And now he sat at table, his back slightly turned to her, thinking that the next person into his bed would be the beautiful English Milady and that the slut-faced de Cambis had to go.

  “Armand,” said his lover with a petulant sigh.

  “What?” He hardly bothered to do more than turn his shoulder.

  “I want to talk to you.”

  “You are doing so.”

  “I meant privately.”

  “Not now,” Lauzun answered angrily. He leaned towards Sarah. “How long are you staying in Paris, Milady?”

  “Another few weeks, though I fear my husband is already bored with it. He misses his exercise you know. At home he is a great man for the sporting life.”

  “Really?” The Duc attempted to sound interested. “And which is your husband, Madame?”

  “He is sitting over there. The handsome one wearing claret velvet.”

  “Handsome indeed. Un beau garçon.”

  “I am very fortunate.”

  “Oh yes,” answered Lauzun, and looked deeply into her eyes.

  Sarah returned his glance, thinking how hard his pupils were, like pebbles, dark stone, two points of flame. Staring at him in this way she felt her senses dance as though she were in a wonderful dream and could think of nothing nicer than to lie in the Duc’s arms with not a stitch of clothing on her body.