As Shadows Haunting

by Deryn Lake

  “Sir Charles,” she called brightly, and hurried forward to kiss him on the cheek.

  There was a flutter amongst his friends who, with a great deal of bowing, took their leave.

  Looking at her shrewdly, or so Sarah guiltily thought, her husband raised an eyebrow. “I wasn’t expecting you so soon. I thought you would be spending some time in London with Lauzun.”

  “He has returned to France. Urgent affairs, I believe.”

  “You’ll miss him,” Charles answered drily.

  “And so will you,” she rejoined, and her husband said nothing further.

  Returning to the Plume of Feathers, the couple dined together, then strolled forth. As it was a Wednesday there was no ball and as public gaming had been forbidden long ago by an Act passed in 1745, the couple went privately to the Duchess of Marlborough’s house to play faro and ombre. And if it had not been for the nagging of her conscience, Sarah would have found the evening most pleasant.

  ‘Yet I must not let guilt ruin everything. If I can only turn it to advantage by teaching Charles to love me,’ she thought desperately.

  With this uppermost in her mind, she met his eye where he sat at another table, and gave a smile and a tiny little wink, which obviously caught him quite off guard for he flushed and looked down at his cards.

  “Damnation,” muttered Sarah to herself, and Lord Irvine, her partner, said, “What?”

  So it was with a troubled mind that she walked back to their lodging, arm-in-arm with her husband. And it was with certain trepidation that Sarah laid aside her shift and got into bed unclothed. Charles was already within, his lawn nightshirt crisp and beautifully ruffled, but he looked up in surprise from his book at the feel of her warm flesh beside him.

  “What’s this?”

  “An expression of how glad I am to see you.”

  And with that she removed the book from his hand and, bending over, kissed him on the mouth in the French way. Charles gave a strange sort of moan but did not pull away as Sarah’s lips ran down the length of his body. Though he was not truly partial to this kind of sexual activity he knew that he was growing hard and let out a yelp of ecstasy as his wife trailed her mouth all over him. Then, as he lay there, she mounted him and started to ride slowly up and down. Charles Bunbury was in a frenzy, the sensation driving him wild. But though this coupling was the best they had ever shared, Sarah knew no satisfaction. For, as soon as he had climaxed, groaning his pleasure as he did so, Charles closed his eyes and, after swiftly bidding her good night, went to sleep.

  Sarah lay awake, staring into the darkness, wondering what it was about her husband that made him so different from the hot-blooded Duc de Lauzun, and slowly, and at long last, it began to dawn on her. Remarks had been made about Charles Bunbury almost from the moment she had met him, remarks which she had never understood and therefore ignored, that is until this moment. But suddenly all was clear. He was, as Charles James Fox would have put it, a rum duke, an odd fellow, who preferred the company of his own sex to that of the ladies.

  “Oh, my God,” she whispered silently.

  Quite clear now were the hastily executed matrimonial duties, duties done at such spasmodic intervals it was small wonder that after five years of marriage she still had not conceived a child. Explained, too, were Charles’s mysterious absences, particularly the last which had left him so ill and worn out. Frantically, Sarah wondered what to do and decided that she must not tell a living soul, not even her dear friend, Susan, with whom she still corresponded regularly. The fact that her husband was of a different sexual persuasion to most men must remain a secret never to be revealed.

  But what of herself and her needs? The King had taught her passion, Lauzun had not only revived but enhanced that knowledge. After his embraces she could never be content with what little Charles could do for her. Now, in a moment’s clarity, Sarah bitterly regretted the games of pride which had lost her the intriguing Frenchman.

  *

  Bath, as always, was like a tonic. A city of unparalleled charm, whose extraordinary history was intriguing enough without the added bonus of a beautiful situation, fine air, and the atmosphere of civilised living, Sidonie was uplifted the minute she set foot in it. And, as had become a habit with her these days, she arrived earlier than necessary in order to explore. It was May, the weather gentle and, as soon as she had checked into her hotel, the musician set off to climb Lansdown Hill and walk at Mount Beacon, looking down on that gem of Georgian architecture made unique by the extent of its Roman remains.

  She was in a strange mood, desperately needing solitude, which was odd for anyone who worked so many hours on her own. Sidonie had flown back from Venice to prepare for her concert in the Purcell Room, wondering whether perhaps she should have stayed at home after all. Dalo’s determined efforts to get Alexei into bed had become boring rather than annoying, but still had cast a blight over what should have been a relaxing few days.

  “You don’t like her, do you?” Sidonie had asked the Russian in astonishment.

  “She amuses me,” he had answered, which had not been entirely reassuring.

  “The price of Alexei’s new-found fame, Sid bach,” Rod had remarked, watching the couple from a distance.

  “Would I sound big-headed if I said I once thought he had a passion for me and wouldn’t stray elsewhere?”

  “Not big-headed, just naive. Men are always straying.”

  “Don’t be sexist, so are women.”

  “Well, then.”

  “Do you think he’ll go to bed with her?”

  Rod shrugged. “Possibly, I don’t know. I’ve chucked the old boot out in any case.”

  It hadn’t been the most satisfactory of conversations and an uneasy feeling had come over Sidonie. Determined not to let anything ruin the all-important concert, she had taken the time-honoured cure, throwing herself into work like a lunatic, adding to every piece in her repertoire the sound she had learned from the Earl of Kelly.

  As always, music had cured her and she was just beginning to feel in really good spirits again when another letter from Canada had arrived.

  “Dearest Sidonie, The months have gone by so quickly that I can hardly believe it is spring already. It seems no time at all since Christmas and our last phone conversation. I did try you a couple of times after that but the answerphone was on and I didn’t leave a message as I thought you were probably away.

  Things are going particularly well here, so much so that I am staying on another few months in order to get as far ahead with the research as I possibly can. St Mary’s were a little lukewarm about extending my leave but things have been finally sorted out. I won’t bore you with the details. I now hope to be home either in late summer or early autumn, I’m not sure which as yet. I can’t wait to see you. There will be so much to catch up on!

  My brother and his wife came to stay in the flat for a few days in January but said you weren’t around. I expect you were in France where, or so I hear on the grapevine — yes we even have one in Canada — you got brilliant reviews. I couldn’t help wondering if Lady Sarah had anything to do with your transformation. Perhaps you will tell me when you see me.

  Take care of yourself and do try to write if you have a spare moment. My fondest love, Finnan.”

  She wished, foolishly, that he’d said, “I miss you like hell because I’m madly in love with you and can’t think about anything else,” but then remembered Alexei. Suddenly the reason why Finnan was not returning took on a more sinister note. Looking back over the letter, Sidonie became convinced that despite its friendly tone, the doctor had not only read her reviews in the French papers, but also the story of her relationship with the Russian violinist. Sickened, she wondered how she was going to get through the forthcoming recital.

  Sidonie had been booked to play in the Guildhall in Bath where, according to Rod, tickets for the concert had been sold out for some time following the reviews for her Purcell Room recital. The consensus among British music c
ritics had been very much in accord with their French counterparts. Ms Brooks, it was generally agreed, had gone through some sort of metamorphosis and had emerged as “one of the most important harpsichord players alive today. Sidonie Brooks’s mastery of eighteenth-century music is almost without equal.”

  “Home and dry, Sid. Home and dry,” Rod had said, but now there was another audience to face, another challenge to her skill. Sighing a little, the musician got to her feet and made her way back down the hill and into the city.

  *

  It was easier, Sarah thought, to let Charles spend the evening with his friends and for her to mingle amongst the other guests at the Thursday ball in the Upper Rooms. Richard Nash, the famous Beau of Bath and Tunbridge Wells, had stated that the balls should begin at six o’clock sharp, and this custom still prevailed, despite the fact that the poor old wretch had died five years earlier, in 1762, in shabby poverty. Watched now by the new master of ceremonies, Sarah curtsied to Lord Frobisher and was led out for a minuet.

  But though she appeared to concentrate entirely on her partner, Bunbury’s wife was, in fact, alert to every newcomer who entered the room. She was waiting for Lord Carlisle to whom she had secretly written asking him join her.

  Frederick Howard was nineteen years old by now and still a virgin, for his devotion to Sarah would never have let him betray her with another woman. His failure to join Charles James Fox on the Grand Tour had caused disappointment and annoyance to his old friend. Henry Fox, Lord Holland, who was recuperating from illness in Italy and staying with his son, had composed an ode in imitation of Horace about the wretched young man’s infatuation. Secretly delighted to be the cause of so much flattering gossip, Sarah was determined at long last to show Carlisle the real meaning of love.

  The object of her schemes arrived at the ball at eight o’clock, beautifully attired but looking somewhat weary.

  “My my, dear Frederick, you seem done up,” said Sarah pointedly as they danced together for the first time. “I hope you are not too tired to please a lady.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked, gasping slightly at her strange remark.

  “I’ll answer that later,” was the provocative reply. “Now tell me, where are you staying?”

  “At the Katherine Wheel.”

  “In the High Street?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, tomorrow you are to move into the Plume of Feathers with me. It will be much more convenient.”

  The poor Earl blushed, wondering if it was only in his fevered mind that his beloved’s words held so many innuendoes.

  “Very well, I will.”

  “Good. I am sure, dearest Frederick, that you will not regret it.”

  He simply couldn’t be mistaking her meaning, the wretched young man thought. Perhaps, at long last, his most cherished wish was to be granted. With this in mind, he pulled Sarah close to him during the country dance and felt her deliberately press even nearer. Then a horrible idea struck him.

  “Where’s Lauzun?” he asked abruptly.

  “Gone back to France — for good!”

  “Thank God for that.”

  He was all for slipping out of the ballroom then and there, to see how far Lady Sarah intended to go. But she would not agree to this and, as it transpired, Frederick had to wait until next day for his introduction to the delights of intercourse. Sarah, her brain cool, very much she imagined as a courtesan must feel, seduced him in the same way she had done her husband only a few nights before. It was wonderful, she thought, to be in control, to watch Carlisle’s face as she mounted him. Lacking experience, he climaxed fast but it was not long before he was ready again and, this time, Sarah showed him how to take the lead.

  “Oh, how glorious,” he gasped, as once more he soared into ecstasy.

  “No,” answered his mistress, “you are merely beginning. One day you will find out what the word passion really means.”

  “I think,” answered Frederick, truly happy for the first time since he had met Sarah Bunbury, “that then I might well die of joy.”

  *

  Sidonie’s first evening in Bath was delightful. She had dined alone in a small wine bar and then gone to the Theatre Royal thinking, as she looked round its superbly restored Georgian interior, that Lady Sarah Bunbury must have sat as she was doing now, gazing at the building’s elegance before concentrating on the play.

  There had been no sighting of the girl, no experience of time turning in on itself since the dream. Yet, Sidonie wondered again, had that really happened? Had she been privileged enough to set eyes on the great Earl of Kelly and actually hear him play?

  How strange that she should have seen Sarah so frequently in France and not at all since she came back to England. And, odder still, though these glimpses into another century had taken place within a matter of days in Sidonie’s world, time was obviously passing at a different rate for Sarah. The woman outside the music room had been an experienced beauty far removed from the innocent young girl whom Sidonie had first seen as a reflection in a mirror at Holland House. In short, Sarah was obviously growing older at a far quicker rate than Sidonie.

  These thoughts were uppermost in her mind as the musician walked back to her hotel near the Abbey, and got her key from reception. Irritatingly, as she went through the bedroom door, the phone by the bed was ringing and it seemed almost an intrusion, a rude awakening to the demands of the present century when she had been so happily lost in another.

  “Hello,” said a vaguely familiar voice as she picked up the receiver.

  “Hello, who is it?”

  “Me.”

  “Who’s me?”

  “Nigel.”

  Sidonie’s heart sank and she sat down heavily on the bed. “What do you want?”

  “To see you. I’m in Bath as it happens, and I thought it would be rather nice if we could meet up.”

  “Look, I thought I made it perfectly clear that our association is finished,” she answered harshly. “We both have different lives now. There’s nothing left to say to one another.”

  “I’m trying to be supportive,” Nigel answered sadly. “I’ve bought a ticket for your concert. You see, I’m so proud of you.”

  “That’s very kind but it still doesn’t alter the case. We were married once, we aren’t any more. We must get on with our own affairs.”

  “Please,” said Nigel, “please darling. Let me just see you this evening and I promise I won’t bother you again.”

  It was to that kind of emotional blackmail she should have shown most resistance, Sidonie knew it. She should have told her ex-husband to leave her alone for good and all, then banged down the telephone. But some reprehensible streak of weakness simply wouldn’t allow her to do so.

  “It’s late and I’m going to bed. I’ll meet you for coffee tomorrow morning,” she answered reluctantly.

  Nigel paused, as if he were going to argue, then said, “I look forward to it. I’ll meet you in the foyer at eleven o’clock.”

  “How did you find out where I was staying?” Sidonie asked suspiciously.

  “I’m booked into the same hotel actually. I saw your name in the register. I’m in Bath for the weekend.”

  “Oh, God,” she said silently, and replaced the receiver.

  *

  She was dreaming again, this time that she wandered in the streets of Bath as once they must have looked. Sidonie saw people in sedan chairs being carried to the bath house and, wandering inside, glimpsed through the steam which perpetually hung on the surface of the water, men and women bathing together, all of them attired from head to foot in the most extraordinary bathing clothes. The women were clad in stiff canvas gowns, ridiculously wearing hats and carrying before them a small tray on which stood the essential snuff and powder boxes. The men wore drawers, shaped like large modern-day directoire knickers, and waistcoats which, like the women’s gear, turned yellow in the hot and sulphurous water. Watching a nubile female being helped out, Sidonie saw that it was S
arah and followed like a ghost as the girl was stripped naked, put into a flannel nightgown and carried back to her lodgings. Dodging through the crowds, Sidonie pursued the sedan chair to an inn called the Plume of Feathers.

  She was invisible, she was positive of it, because she entered Sarah’s room and stood watching as Milady was put to bed to sweat. But no sooner had the attendants gone than there was a gentle knock at the door and Sidonie saw a handsome youth come in, also dressed in night attire. Shocked but fascinated, she watched him climb in beside Sarah. Then both nightgowns were thrown out and left to lie on the floor and she fled as the couple started to move in a way that left no doubt as to what they were doing.

  ‘And under her husband’s very nose,’ Sidonie thought as she mingled with the patched and powdered populace, wandering into the Pump Room where crowds of people buzzed like humming birds, ate Sally Lunn cakes oozing with butter, undoing all the good of the rigorous bathing, listened to music, laughed, flirted, played cards.

  The sheer vitality of the second half of the eighteenth century consumed Sidonie Brooks as it never had before and she was sorry when she woke alone and silent, to see it was four o’clock in the morning. But yet it was not altogether peaceful in her world. Very gently but very persistently there was a knocking at Sidonie’s door.

  “Who is it?” she called, but there was no reply.

  Still under the influence of the dream, her head spinning slightly, the musician got out of bed.

  “Who is it?” she called again.

  “It’s Nigel,” his voice answered from the other side of the door. “Can I come in a minute?”

  “No, you can’t. Please go away. Do you realise what the time is?”

  “No, I’m not sure. The fact is I’m feeling terrible. I’ve got a splitting headache and wondered if you’d got any painkillers.”