As Shadows Haunting

by Deryn Lake

  “That,” said the Russian, kissing her nose, “is part of my plan.”

  They flew from Paris in the late afternoon and arrived at Heathrow at dusk; clambering aboard the little bus that took them to the long-stay carparks, Alexei guarding his violin which had gone with him on the plane.

  “I hope to God I can remember where I left the car,” Sidonie remarked, peering through the twilight.

  “Haven’t you got a ticket?”

  “Yes, somewhere or other. But it doesn’t give the location.”

  “Oh dear.”

  But with the help of the bus driver they sorted themselves out and set off through the raw January night towards London, Alexei staring at the lights of the motorway and saying, “So this is England.”

  “A scar on its face more like. But there are beautiful parts. You’ll love them.”

  “I’d love anywhere if you were there,” Alexei answered gallantly, and Sidonie smiled at his sweetness, only one of the Russian’s many endearing qualities.

  The Garden Flat in Phillimore Gardens was quiet as the grave and its owner shivered as she crossed the threshold, Alexei close behind her. Memories of Finnan came rushing back again and the musician felt like a cheap drab as she showed Alexei the bedroom and told him where to hang his things. But he noticed nothing, was not aware of her sudden silence as he rushed round examining the place, dashing down the stairs to the music room and giving a great shout of delight.

  Sidonie stood on the top step listening to him, trying to come to terms with the situation, trying to find a recipe for peace of mind. But there was none other than to live only for the moment, to pretend that Finnan was as faithless as she, to put into practice the self-deception she had started to learn in the Château des Cedres.

  “What a harpsichord!” Alexei was saying. “Where did you get it?”

  “At an auction in Ireland. It’s got the owner’s initials carved underneath the name board. Do you want to see?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Sidonie unscrewed the board. “There, look at that. S.L.”

  “Who was she?”

  “She? I always thought it was a he.”

  “That’s because you’re prejudiced. This harpsichord was definitely owned by a woman.”

  “Good God!” exclaimed Sidonie.

  “What?”

  “I’ve just guessed who it might well have been. Sarah Lennox. It would make sense. And Ireland would fit in with her life after Bunbury.”

  “Bunbury who?”

  “Sarah’s first husband. He was a great man of the turf, a horse breeder, a racing buff.”

  “When was all this?”

  “In the eighteenth century, when Catherine the Great ruled Russia and slept with Alexei Orlov.”

  “Why do you think it belonged to Sarah?”

  “Because she used to live in Holland House which is just over there.” She pointed towards the door leading to the garden. “And because, my darling Russian toyboy, she is my own private, personal and very very special ghost.”

  *

  It was indeed the way of the world. When Sarah had arrived in Paris during the month of November she had been the darling of Society. By the time she was due to leave in February of the following year she had been castigated as a little whore, a coquette, a bitch who held men off in order to lead them on. She who had been so sought after, so copied and admired, had fallen from grace with a vengeance.

  Horace Walpole’s great friend Madame de Deffand was speaking for the rest of Society when she wrote to him, “She is all off with the Duc de Chartres. He made the running for a while, but then so did twenty others. Lauzun holds the field, and I don’t think she minds that much one way or the other. He seems rather a blind and shield for her affair with Lord Carlisle, so that she sees him only to put the world off the scent. Her good Baronet seems to think that both look alike to him.”

  But though she was shrewd enough, the old French lady was wrong in her written opinion. Quite the reverse had happened. Though Sarah hardly knew how to face it herself, could hardly bear to admit the truth, she had undergone a sea change when Lauzun had tried to make love to her. Some terrible lusty thing had been awoken in her, some inherited longing for sexual adventure. She could not forget the sight of him, ready for coupling and spurned at the last second. In a part of her that she did not admire nor even fully understand, Sarah suddenly became obsessed with the thought of Armand de Gontaut, Duc de Lauzun.

  She, Sir Charles and Carlisle had left the Château des Cedres on the morning after the incident and returned to Paris, where Sarah had appeared to embark on an affair with the Chevalier de Coigny, currently sleeping with Lauzun’s ex-mistress. Just as she had intended, news of this latest scandal soon reached the Duc’s ears and he had hurried to the capital to find out the truth.

  Sarah would have given herself to him there and then, so delighted was she to see him again, but there was no opportunity. It was February and the end of the French visit. A few days after Armand’s return, the Bunbury coach bowled out of Paris with that of the Duc de Lauzun close behind it. He had got leave of absence from his guard duties at Versailles and was accompanying his sweetheart as far as he could on her journey to Calais.

  ‘And I had no need even to cast a spell,’ he thought to himself in wonderment, and then suspected, shrewdly, that it had been his rough state in the stable, his momentary vulnerability, that had both excited and caught her attention.

  He wondered if there was any chance of consummation during the journey but Lauzun’s hopes were dashed on this score when, on the party’s first stop at a dark and dirty inn at Pont St Maxence near Chantilly, he was forced to share a room with Lord Carlisle, who promptly challenged him to a duel.

  “For the love of God,” Armand answered languidly, “can’t we do it in Paris? It’ll upset the lady if we set to here.”

  “Don’t sully her name with your lips,” hissed Frederick, puce pink with agitation. “Have you seduced her, vile man?”

  “Unfortunately, no,” answered Lauzun, yawning. “Have you?”

  “Of course not. I respect Lady Sarah.”

  The Duc laughed derisively. “You tragic little tripehound, don’t add hypocrisy to all your other failings. Why, the lady would only have to lift a finger and you’d be in her bed arse-naked.”

  “How dare you!” shrieked Carlisle, and slapped Armand round the face.

  “You’re as big a fool as ever pissed,” the Duc snapped angrily and, taking poor Carlisle by the collar, threw him halfway down the flight of stairs.

  “Come outside,” gasped Frederick, flat on his back and glaring malevolently.

  “Cock brain,” Lauzun responded and, shutting the bedroom door, turned the key in the lock.

  Hearing all from where she lay beside a peacefully slumbering Sir Charles, Sarah giggled beneath the sheets and then took herself to task for being so irresponsible. She was married to a good man whose only fault lay in his lack of passion. She had no cause to be delighted that two men were fighting over her.

  ‘If only I were frigid,’ she thought and then, remembering her ancestry, that her grandfather had been the love child of Charles II and a French slut, albeit a high-born one, that her brother the Duke of Richmond had been in and out of women’s boudoirs since he had barely arrived in his teens, she was hardly surprised that the passion the King had aroused in her had finally been rekindled.

  “Oh, Charles,” she said, and laid her hand on his chest.

  “Good night, my dear,” he answered sleepily, and gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek.

  It was in this state of hostile neutrality that the Bunbury party finally arrived at Arras, a day’s journey away from Calais. And it was here that the Duc de Lauzun regretfully decided that he must return to Paris and his duties at Versailles. And it was also in Arras that Frederick Howard, Earl of Carlisle, played his trump card.

  He had stated all along that when the Bunburys left France he would continue on alone, tou
ring Europe and seeing the great sights, joining his schoolfriend Charles James Fox in Italy. But now he announced, with one triumphantly beady eye on Armand, that he had changed his mind, that he was, after all, going to return to England with Sir Charles and Lady Sarah. Sick with jealousy, Lauzun ground his teeth but had had no option other than to get into his carriage, wave the trio goodbye, and head back to Paris.

  “Oh God,” groaned the Duc as he finally lost sight of his Lady, still waving hard, “if only I’d been able to have a good sturdy roger with her just once.” Then he took himself to task for using this word which had originated in the American colony of Virginia and became universally popular rather than a decent, or indecent?, French expression. But language aside, his longing for Sarah was becoming unbearable and tears had been in his eyes when he had said farewell.

  “I’ll come to England soon,” he had whispered under his breath.

  “Oh please, please,” she’d answered, and Armand had thought he had seen a gleam of moisture on her lashes too.

  *

  The time had come to say goodbye, and in the unappetising surroundings of a Heathrow airport coffee bar at that. It had always struck Sidonie as amazing how scruffy international travellers seemed to be and now, glancing round, her thoughts were reindorsed. Everywhere was a welter of blue jeans, while earrings, tattoos, beer guts and aggressive boots abounded.

  “And that’s only the women!” she said aloud.

  “You make a joke?” asked Alexei.

  “I do but it’s boring if I repeat it.”

  “OK.”

  Neither of them was feeling particularly talkative, both aware that after this parting nothing would ever be quite the same again between them, that Alexei would be lionised as a prodigy throughout Europe, that Sidonie would be sought after as a truly great interpreter of eighteenth-century music.

  “It’s been great fun,” said Sidonie as they walked towards passport control.

  “Don’t say it as if we’ll never meet again. You’re coming to the concert in Venice, remember?”

  “I will if I can. But Rod was hinting at busy times ahead after my Purcell Room concert.”

  “Well, try.” Alexei took hold of Sidonie’s hands. “Whatever happens I’ll see you when I get back. Don’t forget our holiday together.”

  “Of course I won’t. Have a good time.”

  “I will.”

  He kissed her and walked away, his violin case firmly in his hand. Sidonie gave a little wave but Alexei didn’t see it, already showing his passport, on the way to the next part of his life.

  *

  The rider caught up with Lauzun at the inn in Boyelles where he had stopped to refresh himself at midday.

  “Monsieur le Duc de Lauzun?” asked the messenger breathlessly, gazing at the gleaming equipage outside the inn, the horses loosened from the traces and being watered.

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “I have a letter for you, Monsieur, from the inn at Calais.”

  Lauzun was so pleased he could have kissed the man but instead gave him a very good douceur.

  “It is from the lady I presume?”

  “Indeed it is, Monsieur.”

  Breaking the seal, the Duc read the contents and felt that, at last, he had truly won Sarah’s love.

  “My dear Armand, You have utterly changed my heart, my friend. It is sad and broken, and although you hurt me so, I can have no thought save for my love. I had no idea such a thing could happen, and I imagined myself too proud, too virtuous, for my happiness ever to depend on a French lover.

  The wind is against us, and I am not sorry. It is better to be in the same country. I shed copious tears. I told Sir Charles that I had a headache, and he was satisfied with that. Lord Carlisle did not believe it, for he gazed at me very seriously. Heavens! All this that I am doing must be very wicked, since I try to conceal it, and I, the most truthful woman living, am obliged to lie and deceive two people whom I esteem so highly!

  They are both out, and I have chosen to stay indoors to write to him who is dearer to me than the repose which I have lost for his sake. I dare not send my letter to the post by one of our servants so I have appealed to the waiter in this inn. He has an honest kindly face.”

  Lauzun sipped his wine and sighed. Victory was his, it was only a matter of time now before Sarah became his lover. He read the rest of the letter swiftly but let his eyes linger on the ending.

  “Come, so as by your presence to fill your mistress with the greatest joy to which she can look forward. I have no fear of your not understanding my ridiculous French. Your heart and mine will always understand each other. Adieu, for I am afraid of being taken by surprise. Remember that it is for you alone that there exists your Sarah.”

  “Oh, my darling,” said Lauzun, kissing the paper passionately. “Two weeks at the most and I will be at your side.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The Duc de Lauzun was as good as his word. Organising his Court duties, leaving behind his young amiable chit of a wife, he sailed for England in the middle of February and, arriving in London, deposited himself on the French Ambassador, the Comte de Guerchy. However, the beau monde was not deceived. The formidable combination of Madame de Deffand and Horace Walpole, who kept up a continuous correspondence one with the other, had already alerted everyone in town that the Duc had come to England for love of Lady Sarah Bunbury and that the Ambassador’s receptions and ceremonies of presentation were merely a blind for Lauzun’s true purpose. And, sure enough, when the official part of the Duc’s visit was finally over, he vanished into the Suffolk countryside as a guest of Sir Charles Bunbury and his wife.

  “What the devil does her husband think he’s playing at?” said Lady Diana Spencer, who had married Viscount Bolingbroke in 1757 and was now, ten years later, in the process of getting a divorce from him.

  “God knows,” answered Lady Mary Coke, as big a wasp as ever buzzed round Society.

  “There’s something rum about that feller. He don’t seem to realise how a pretty woman like Sarah attracts admirers.”

  “Don’t or won’t! It’s my belief he actively encourages the situation.”

  “But why?”

  “Perhaps Milady’s flirtations distract attention from his own activities,” said Lady Mary, fluttering an eyelid.

  “Oh, so that’s it.”

  “Who knows? There is no proof. But if not, then he’s either an innocent fool or else gets a vicarious thrill from contemplating his wife’s amorous intrigues.”

  “A pretty coil indeed.”

  But while tongues wagged and eyebrows were raised, Sir Charles Bunbury continued on his enigmatical way, announcing after a few days at his country seat, Barton, that he was bored and would be returning to London. Staring at him in amazement, Sarah could believe neither his indifference nor her luck.

  “But I shall be left alone with the Duc,” she said protestingly, half hoping Charles would at long last notice that Lauzun admired her and do something about it.

  “I’m sure you’ll be able to entertain him, my dear,” her husband answered absently.

  “But for how long will you be gone?”

  “I don’t know yet, possibly two weeks, maybe three. It all depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On whom I meet,” Charles replied vaguely, and with that Sarah had to be content.

  However, managing an adulterous affair in an establishment full of servants loyal to their master was not as easy as might be imagined. For several nights the prospect of how to avoid being caught daunted both the lady of the house and her would-be lover.

  “Might I not creep into your room when everyone is asleep?” he said finally, lowering his voice even though they were in the garden.

  “Yes, you could try. But you must be quiet. If we are discovered we are undone.”

  “Are we?” asked the Duc cynically. “Surely your husband must be aware of the fact that I long for you. Does he truly believe either of us could
resist such a temptation?”

  “I don’t know, I don’t know,” answered Sarah in confusion. “I must confess it does seem very odd.”

  “It’s inexplicable. But whatever Bunbury’s motives, I can wait no longer. Tonight I am coming to you.”

  How strange it was, thought Sarah, lying in bed in the moonlight, that though she was on fire for Armand she still hesitated about committing the carnal act with him. Why was it that her passionate nature did not simply allow her to fall into his arms and be done with it? But something, somewhere, held her back from the final commitment.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ she thought, as she heard his delicate step on the landing and her door swung slowly open. ‘Tonight let me be wicked, let me just this once have no scruples whatsoever.’

  But that, in fact, was not to be.

  *

  Sitting in her garden in the weak February sunshine, Sidonie read Lauzun’s published account of his life and couldn’t help but smile at the episode dealing with Sarah Bunbury’s doomed attempt to stay out of trouble.

  At length, one evening, she told me that I might come down to her chamber when the household were gone to bed. I awaited this longed-for moment with the utmost impatience. I found her in bed, and supposed that I might take a few liberties. She appeared so offended and distressed by them that I did not persist. She allowed me, however, to lie down beside her, but she required of me a moderation and reserve of which I thought I should die. This charming torment continued for several nights. I had ceased to hope for consummation, when, clasping me on one occasion with the liveliest ardour, she gratified all my desires.

  “Poor old Lauzun,” Sidonie said to the cat, which was watching a bird and hoping for the best. “She did lead him a dance. Mind you, he gave me such a fright in Paris that I can’t really feel sorry for him.”

  The marks on her forehead where she had been cut and stitched were fading now but the memory of her spectacular faint in that equally spectacular house had hardly diminished. Nothing about that trip, about the strange events in the Château des Cedres, of the exotic love affair that had started on a bitter January morning, had grown less clear with the passing of time.