As Shadows Haunting

by Deryn Lake

  “Will you be wearing your diamonds, Milady?”

  “Most certainly, tonight I intend to sparkle.”

  She smiled at her own feeble joke but was glad, when the chaise bearing herself, Charles and the inevitable Carlisle, drew up in the Rue St Antoine, that she had dressed to kill. Exquisite women and elegant men were alighting from their carriages and moving inside to ascend slowly the double staircase and be received by Madame de Boufflers, who stood at the top. The quality of the clothes beggared description. Brocades, velvets and silks were everywhere, all so profusely trimmed with bows and flowers, jewels and gemstones that one could hardly see the material beneath. Most relieved that her dress was strewn with a thousand glittering brilliants which enhanced the diamonds at her throat, ears and wrists, Sarah proudly climbed the stairs, head high, aware that she was in every way one of the most dazzling women present.

  Lauzun, of course, was waiting for her, a vision himself in dark green satin. But even as he kissed her hand, running his tongue surreptitiously over her fingers, Sarah exclaimed in surprise.

  “What is it?”

  “I do believe I see a familiar face.”

  “Where?”

  “Over there, the man in the blue velvet suit. Surely he is the Earl of Kelly.”

  The Duc followed Sarah’s eyes. “That’s the musician giving the concert.”

  “Then we are in luck. The Earl is one of the finest harpsichord players in the country, trained by Johann Stamitz in Mannheim. He is a director of the Edinburgh Musical Society, you know.”

  “Really? I must invite him to play for me. I enjoy the harpsichord and consider myself to be reasonably accomplished.”

  “And in the art of love?” asked Sarah pertly.

  “Hopefully you will soon find that out for yourself.”

  And with those words the Duc drifted away as Charles and Carlisle came to stand at Sarah’s side.

  The evening had been arranged with great care by their hostess. After an hour for refreshment the concert was scheduled to take place in the grand salon, this followed by a buffet supper for which three separate rooms had been set aside. There would then be dancing and cards until the New Year when everybody would be expected to join a chain dance led by Madame de Boufflers herself. It was all very amusing and light-hearted and yet Sarah felt slightly ill at ease. There was an atmosphere in the house she could not pinpoint and she found her thoughts, rather reluctantly, turning towards the ghost.

  She had not seen the woman for months, over eighteen in fact, and had begun to think the haunting was over, that the vision standing beneath the trees in the Tivoli Gardens, the vision which had faded before Sarah’s eyes, had been the last. Yet tonight there was a feel of the creature, as if she might appear at any second. Thrusting such thoughts away, Sarah, Lord Carlisle tagging a pace behind, went to the refreshment room, surrounded by her usual admiring troupe of dandies, determined to put such dismal thoughts from her mind.

  Yet even the gossip, the witty speeches and risqué anecdotes could not enliven her. Relieved that she could finally sit quietly, Sarah was one of the first to go into the concert, taking her place beside that of Lauzun in the front row. A dais had been raised in front of the curtains and on to this some ten minutes later strode Thomas Erskine, sixth Earl of Kelly, one of the most gifted musicians of his day.

  “Bravo,” called Sarah and, looking over, the Earl acknowledged her with a bow of his head.

  He was a handsome man, prematurely grey at thirty-four years old but with a clear young skin and dashing dark brows above bright bluebell-coloured eyes.

  “Oh la la!” chorused several of the ladies but the Earl ignored them and with much flurrying of coat tails sat down at the harpsichord, launching into his programme with two of his own compositions, both minuets, one entitled “The Duchess of Richmond”, the other, “Lord Fothergill”. As a socialite, Lord Kelly often wrote music for aristocratic gatherings and Sarah had little doubt that a minuet entitled “Madame de Boufflers” would be played before the night was out.

  His own work getting him off to a good start, the Earl played the Sonata VI by Paradies, went on to a flowing composition by Arne, then let fly on a fiendishly difficult piece by Scarlatti, the Sonata 264. Enraptured with every note, her senses swimming, Sarah watched the long strong fingers scurrying over the two manuals, going so fast they almost turned into a blur.

  ‘How small they are for a man,’ she thought, ‘they seem almost like a woman’s hands,’ and the very idea terrified her.

  Half realising what she was going to see, Sarah raised her eyes to find that the Earl was no longer sitting at the harpsichord. In his place, in exactly the same position as he had been, was the girl with the fox-coloured hair. Sarah knew a moment’s madness, for how could a ghost play an instrument, how could a phantom make a living man vanish and take his place? Frightened out of her wits, Sarah felt herself sink into a kind of catalepsy.

  Something about her stillness must have alerted Lauzun because at that moment he tore his eyes from his beloved and looked at the harpsichord player. She saw him gasp and then freeze, almost as if he were carved from stone, and watched his eyes become still and dark as he stared straight ahead.

  ‘He’s seen her,’ she thought, and for no reason the idea of this made Sarah panic, almost as if she wanted to protect that red-haired apparition who came into her life without warning yet whose actions never proved harmful.

  In consternation, Sarah looked at the dais and knew then that she had indeed gone mad. For the Earl was sitting there again, tackling the keyboards with élan, while very quietly, under his breath, the Duc de Lauzun was chuckling, a sound so extraordinary that it sent a frisson of fear through Sarah’s heart.

  “Oh, God,” she murmured, “oh, my dear God.”

  And the last thing she saw as she slipped almost elegantly downward, was a row of surprised faces and the floor coming up to meet her.

  *

  Dinner over and coffee and brandy taken in that most majestic of drawing rooms, Sidonie was ready for sleep. And the thought of lying in the imposing four-poster was so delectable that she was finally forced to say to her hostess, “If you’ll forgive me, I’d rather like to go to bed. I had my stitches out yesterday and it seems to have made me tired.”

  Chantal was on her feet at once. “But of course, my dear. I’ll come up with you to see that you have everything.”

  “There’s really no need.”

  “But I’d like to.”

  As they climbed the gracious staircase leading to the chateau’s upper floors, her hostess smiled. “I can’t wait to hear you both practising tomorrow. It will make the house seem so alive.”

  “Have you decided which of us should have first turn?”

  “Alexei suggested that you went second so that you could have some extra time in bed. He is very concerned for you. I think he loves you very much.”

  Chantal said this with a great simplicity which was typically French. Where an Englishwoman would have apologised for interfering, for not minding her business, she spoke with refreshing frankness.

  Sidonie decided to adopt the same tactic. “I love him too, in a way. But he’s very young and there’s somebody else.”

  “Who loves you as much?”

  “That I don’t know. I thought so at one time but he hasn’t declared himself, to use an old-fashioned phrase.”

  “Men like that are so irritating. I think in these enlightened times one ought to be able to ask them.”

  “I was afraid of frightening him off.”

  “Complications! If I were you I would have an affaire with the young man. Maybe it will help you to see things more clearly.”

  “What do you mean?” said Sidonie, turning to look at the Frenchwoman, her hand on the bedroom door.

  “All the while you are together and you have not slept with him you will be in doubt. Once you have, you will know which one to choose.”

  “I’d never thought of it like that
,” answered Sidonie, smiling despite everything. “Thank you, I’ll probably take your advice.”

  ‘How wonderfully amoral,’ she thought as the door closed behind Chantal.

  The room rushed to meet her, absorbing her into its very fabric. “Bed, here I come,” said Sidonie in response, and rapidly undressing and having the quickest of washes, snuggled into the four-poster’s historic depths. She was asleep at once, deeply but not peacefully, for Sidonie, exhausted as she was, was none the less subjected to one of the most vivid dreams she had ever had in her life.

  It seemed to her that she was standing at the top of the beautiful curved staircase, head on one side, listening intently. From a room on the floor below came the sound of a harpsichord and she clearly identified the music as the Scarlatti Sonata 27. Drawn against her will yet longing to see who was playing, Sidonie, very conscious of the fact that she was only wearing black satin pyjamas and that it was a bitterly cold night, started to descend.

  The door of the music room was slightly open and through it she could glimpse the player, his profile turned towards her. He was not old, despite the fact he had white hair, for it was a young face with dark brows that Sidonie could see. Very quietly she crept forward so that she could have a better look. And then she stopped, riveted by the explosion of sound, for here was Scarlatti interpreted as she had never heard him before. Every note, every nuance, every descent and leap of the left hand, every repeated chord, was different. Stunned, Sidonie stood in the doorway and absorbed the music as the man played on, apparently unaware that she was observing him. And then another sound penetrated that unorthodox display of brilliance. Somebody was coming up the stairs.

  From where she stood, shivering in her thin nightclothes, Sidonie wheeled and saw Sarah Bunbury walking hand-in-hand with that naughty creature who had caused her to faint. Suddenly terrified, not knowing whether this was dream or reality, Sidonie sank back into the shadows, as still as her racing heart would allow.

  They passed right by her, exchanging a kiss before they went into the music room, and Sidonie heard Sarah call out, “Oh well played, my Lord,” as the sonata came to an end.

  “Gracious, you startled me,” answered the musician in English, his voice cultured but decidedly Scottish. “Have you been there long?”

  “No,” answered Sarah’s escort, his accent French. “We’ve only just come up the stairs. Why?”

  “Somebody was watching me from the doorway, or at least I thought so.”

  “Who?”

  “It was a woman, I believe, but to be honest I didn’t look at her properly.”

  “It was probably one of the servants,” Sarah answered carelessly.

  “I expect so.”

  “Anyway she’s gone now. Oh please, Lord Kelly, play my minuet.”

  “Very well, here it is, ‘Lady Sarah Bunbury’,” and he launched into a bubbling piece that utterly captured the girl’s irrepressible personality.

  Dream though this must be, Sidonie’s emotions changed from fear back to enchantment. Here was an unknown work by the Earl of Kelly dedicated to one of history’s most delightful characters and she was being privileged enough to hear it. Very carefully she edged forward once more and again peeped inside.

  Sarah and the Frenchman were dancing while Thomas Erskine, Lord Kelly, one of the most celebrated musicians of his time, played with such skill that Sidonie was left breathless.

  “Oh, God, don’t let this dream end,” prayed Sidonie. “Listen to the man! He’s simply magnificent. I just want to eavesdrop as long as I can.”

  “What was that?” said the Frenchman, surely Lauzun himself.

  “What? I heard nothing.”

  “That woman’s in the doorway again,” said the Earl. “I can see her out of the corner of my eye.”

  “I’ll teach her to spy on her betters,” said Sarah’s suitor with force, and crossed the room in what seemed to be a single stride.

  Sidonie fled, up the stairs in her bare feet, her heart pounding, engulfed by a feeling of total terror. And it was in this awful state that she leapt down the corridor, flew inside her bedroom, into the depths of the four-poster bed and huddled beneath the covers.

  There was absolute silence, not a mouse breathed, and she knew then that it had been an illusion, a creation of her own mind. For what were Sarah and the Earl of Kelly doing in a remote château in the Loire Valley? Unless, of course, the Duc de Lauzun was the link. Had it happened again, had she travelled in time and space, or was it a dream? Suddenly, Sidonie felt she could stand no more strain and burst into tears.

  *

  “No, no, Monsieur,” called Sarah. “Let me take care of it.”

  “Why? She’s my servant.”

  “Yes, I know. But she may be frightened. I’ll see to her.”

  And with that Sarah neatly sidestepped the Duc and rushed up the stairs in hot pursuit of the black-clad figure whose mane of hair revealed her true identity.

  “What are you doing here?” Sarah called softly. “What is it you want with me?”

  But there was no reply and turning into the corridor she just had time to see her quarry rush into Sarah’s own bedroom and close the door. Curious rather than angry, Sarah hurried after her, pushed the door open again and stood in the entrance staring inside.

  Just for a second she thought the room was not the same, the furniture changed. The great blue bed was different, draped now in rosy red, the polished dressing table that carried Sarah’s horde of pots, powders and pomades, unguents and oils, was gone, in its place one with many more mirrors and different things upon it, bottles and outlandish utensils she could not recognise. Clothes were lying on a chair, clothes that resembled no apparel Sarah had ever seen. And then she blinked and everything was restored to normal. The room as she knew it had returned and Sarah was left with a strange feeling of disappointment that once again the phantom had slipped from her grasp.

  “Well?” said Lauzun, coming up behind her.

  “I could not find her. She must have run away and hidden.”

  “Did she come in here?”

  “No,” lied Sarah.

  The Duc looked at her with narrowed eyes. “Do you dabble, Milady?”

  “In what?”

  “The pursuit of knowledge.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand you.”

  “Do you not?”

  He was looking at her cynically now, his curved brows rising at the ends.

  “No, I don’t,” declared Sarah hotly. “What are you implying?”

  “You have heard of the Hell Fire Club?”

  “Oh yes,” said Sarah, “I most certainly have.”

  For who had not? Started by Sir Francis Dashwood, the Earl of Bute’s Chancellor of the Exchequer, the Order had become notorious, succeeding the Mohock Club but far worse in its practices. In the rudely shaped groves of Medmenham Abbey and in the High Wycombe Caves, rakes, dandies and politicians practised a form of devil worship, replacing Christ with Satan and the Virgin Mary with Venus. But this was not all. Sarah had heard terrible stories of initiation ceremonies that parodied religious worship, of Black Masses involving naked females, of orgies in a Roman Room where the participants were whores from London. It was said venereal disease was so prevalent amongst the Club’s members that they called one another Signor Gonorrhoea and Monsieur de Croix de Venus.

  “You have never been there have you, Armand?”

  “No, I have not. But some years ago one of its brethren came to stay with me; John Wilkes.”

  “Oh, him.”

  “You do not like him?”

  “He publishes terrible things in The North Briton. Cruel satires that offend the King.”

  “The King?” repeated de Lauzun, raising his brows. “Are you then such a loyal subject that this worries you?”

  Sarah flushed uncomfortably. “I think downright viciousness is unforgivable.”

  “I see that we might argue,” answered the Duc soothingly. “So let us talk
instead of other things, of magic and alchemy and turning lead to gold.”

  “I believe you think I practise it, or something of that nature,” she answered defensively. “But truly that isn’t so. What is it about me that gives you such an impression?”

  “You have a familiar, a woman. I saw her on New Year’s Eve, playing the harpsichord in place of the Earl of Kelly, and I saw her again just now.”

  “Then it is not all my imagination,” Sarah said under her breath.

  “Far from it.”

  She turned to look at him, liking Lauzun still despite this slightly sinister conversation. “Then if you saw her too, what is she?”

  “A ghost perhaps, or maybe something a little more subtle.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Perhaps she comes from another age entirely. Perhaps she has not yet been born but has somehow managed to walk through time.”

  “But that’s not possible.”

  “It is, very very possible. Have you never had a dream of some coming event and then it transpires as you dreamt it?”

  “Not really.”

  “Well, a great many do, and that is an example of time going out of rhythm.”

  “I can believe that, in premonitions, but I cannot credit the rest of the things you are saying.”

  “Ah,” said Armand, and put his fingers together.

  “But if she is so special, if she is a being from a different century, why did you laugh when you saw her?”

  “I was laughing not at her but with amusement, because I thought, wrongly, that there was another side to you, a hidden aspect. I believed we shared something more than just great attraction.”

  “Don’t say any more, Monsieur. If I think you are a warlock I will hate you.”

  “No, that is where you are wrong, my dear. You will never, never be able to hate me for the rest of your days on earth.”

  “I could try,” said Sarah, and turning on her heel walked away from him.

  Chapter Twenty