As Shadows Haunting

by Deryn Lake

  “No, I haven’t. Go and ask the night porter.”

  “I’ve been looking for him but there isn’t anyone around. Oh, please help me, Sidonie. I really do feel ghastly.”

  Very much against her better judgement, his ex-wife opened the door a crack and peered out, only to see him leaning heavily against the wall, sweating profusely and looking exceedingly pale. Momentarily, Sidonie wondered if this could be some kind of trick, part of a plan to get into her bedroom, then decided that nobody was that good an actor, particularly Nigel Beltram, MP.

  “You’d better come in,” she said.

  Her ex-husband lurched past her and crashed on to the bed with a groan. Putting his hand to his forehead, he whispered hoarsely, “I’m very ill.”

  “Have you been drinking?” Sidonie asked suspiciously.

  “No, of course not.”

  But the smell of whisky on his breath told her all she needed to know.

  “I think you’d better leave immediately. You’ve obviously got a hangover and there really is very little I can do about that.”

  He opened his eyes. “Why are you always so bloody unkind? In all honesty, what have I done to you? My only crime has been loving you too much. That was why I wanted you to give up your career and be a full-time wife all those years ago. I can see now that I was utterly in the wrong, the last of the dinosaurs, but I meant well, believe me.”

  Put like that, said with just the right note of pathos in the voice, it was very hard indeed to argue, and Sidonie for no good reason found herself apologising.

  “We were both very young at the time. It wasn’t anybody’s fault really —”

  “Yes, it was mine,” Nigel interrupted, his voice cracking. “I struck you and that was utterly unforgivable. I behaved like a brute and a bastard and you were quite right to leave me.” He heaved a sob. “Oh, Sidonie, just say you forgive me for that unspeakable act and I will leave you alone for ever more.”

  ‘How pompous he is,’ she found herself thinking. ‘Every word he says sounds like a political speech. Forgive me, Tory lady, for the unspeakable act of knocking your hat over your eye.’

  “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “Am I forgiven?”

  ‘Can I die a happy man?’ Sidonie’s irreverent thoughts ran on.

  Composing her features sternly, she said, “It was all so long ago. Can’t it be forgotten?”

  “Do you forgive me?”

  “Yes, of course. Now, don’t you think you ought to be getting back to your own room?”

  “Yes, I suppose so,” Nigel answered in an Eeyore voice, and heaved himself to his feet.

  Sidonie stood staring at him, wishing that her brain would stop this nasty habit of going outside itself, regarding situations analytically. How fat he looks, she thought, how unwholesome, unappetising really.

  “Well, good night then,” he sighed, and went to kiss her on the cheek.

  Afterwards, Sidonie thought her great mistake had been flinching away, because Nigel pulled her close to him almost spitefully, pressing against her body in a way that she found both disgusting and suggestive.

  “I’m still in love with you,” he said hoarsely.

  She pushed him to arm’s length. “This is turning into a repetition of Moscow. I think it best for both of us if you leave at once.”

  For answer, Nigel sank his lips on to hers and gave her a long sucking kiss which had the blood turning to forks of ice in her veins.

  “I’m ready for you,” he muttered thickly, and his hand began to fiddle inside his dressing gown.

  “Get out!” Sidonie shrieked. “Just get bloody well out. We are divorced, you have no rights over me at all.”

  But it was too late, Nigel had flung her back on the bed and was pulling up her nightdress. Against her thigh, Sidonie felt the knock of his penis.

  “If you dare,” she hissed in a voice so menacing that even she didn’t recognise it, “if you dare rape me I will have you through every court in the land. Don’t think I’ll be afraid. I’ll ruin you, you bastard.”

  He ignored her, trying to insert, panting and frantic.

  A grim thought went through Sidonie’s mind, that the more one fought the more bestial the rapist became. Was her best tactic, knowing he was quite capable of hitting her, to offer no resistance? But she needn’t have worried. Gasping for breath, Nigel attempted penetration, thrust in once, and was finished.

  Sarcasm became Sidonie’s new and obvious weapon.

  “Hardly worth it, was it?” she said, shoving his inert body to one side. “Well, I’m not going to spend the rest of the night listening to your snores. Goodbye.”

  And with that she snatched the key from Nigel’s dressing-gown pocket and crept off down the corridor to his room where she wept bitter tears like drops of blood at the enormity of what had just been done to her. But in the cool clear light of day, Sidonie knew perfectly well that she could take no action against him. Her ex-husband’s attempt at rape had been ludicrous, pathetic really.

  Yet the thought of doing nothing in retaliation was nauseating. In a moment of pure malice she took his fashionable grey suits and silk ties to the balcony and tied them to the balustrade, where they fluttered like pennants in the fresh morning breeze.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  She had by now become somewhat deranged. Sarah was aware of that, aware that in her frenzied quest for love she was actually allowing herself to do nothing more than indulge in sordid liaisons and shabby affairs. Yet she could not stop herself, even though at times she felt like a Roman empress of long ago, wallowing in an orgy of sexual adventure and experiment. Even worse, she enjoyed it, addicted to lechery as she had become. Lady Sarah Bunbury was as callous as a whore, as cheap as a hired slut, but excused herself her depraved actions with the thought that it was all part of her search for the right man, the lover with whom she could spend the rest of her days on earth.

  The descent had begun, the abandonment of her principles had commenced when her adventure with Carlisle, whom she felt she had initiated so well into the art of love, had proved to be short-lived. Sir Charles had no sooner returned from Bath, pronouncing himself recovered, than he had gone down with a stomach complaint. Temporarily in funds, thanks to his horses consistently winning at Newmarket, he had decided on the strength of it to spend some time in Spa in France, informed by his physicians that a second cure was indeed advisable.

  So, in the summer of 1767, the new lovers had parted, Sarah instructing Carlisle that he was not to correspond with her directly but only through the offices of George Selwyn, a mutual friend. The Earl, much saddened, had joined Charles James Fox in Italy at long last, while Sarah had gone meekly to France, trying to look like a dutiful wife.

  Spa, truly little more than a village, had proved to be an amiable, idle, somewhat boring place, and Sarah had been able to indulge only in the mildest of flirtations with a certain young Count Ravinski, a mere eighteen-year-old yet recovering from wounds received in a duel over his mistress’s honour. Charles, however, was restored to his old self. Sparkling-eyed and fit, he became once more a divine elegant, gaming from morn till night, hosting lavish breakfasts and balls for his new-found friends.

  But the idyll had finally come to an end and the Bunburys had returned home in late summer to find themselves involved in family matters. Ste’s wife had given birth to her first child, Sarah being present to hold her hand, while Sir Charles sought re-election to Parliament.

  And then had come the autumn with its usual round of pleasure, George Selwyn often visiting Privy Garden at this time to give Sarah news of Carlisle and, whilst doing so, escorting her to the playhouse and the opera, dining and dancing with her in the blue room at Almack’s, while Sir Charles just looked on and smiled at his wife’s latest little intrigue.

  It was this, Sarah thought afterwards, that was the final trigger. If he had raised his voice about her seeing so much of Selwyn, if he had been angry that they whispered in co
rners about young Frederick, she could have tolerated the situation. But her husband’s indifference, rum duke that he might be, was finally too much to stomach. She began to invite gentlemen of rank to dine with her alone in Privy Garden and afterwards, if not on that night, very soon, into her boudoir.

  It was during these encounters with all the eager rakes of London, that Sarah felt she simultaneously plumbed the depths and soared to unknown heights. The titillation of a new man every few weeks, a new body to be discovered, strong and virile, was the most enthralling of experiences. Yet the feeling of cheapness when the affair was over and she was on the lookout for another, the shame that welled up from time to time, was indescribably awful. Sarah had never been so excited nor so miserable in all her life.

  Naturally, gossip was round town in a matter of days. Her lovers, full of wonder at Sarah’s performance, thrilled beyond measure that she could make them groan in ecstasy with her tricks, boasted volubly when they had slept with her.

  It became a matter of pride to have had carnal knowledge of Lady Sarah, then talk about it. It was considered a social stigma for a man not to receive an invitation; those too old were sneered at, those too young encouraged to try their luck. The name of Sarah Bunbury became a byword for all that was decadent, all that was debauched and forbidden.

  It wasn’t long, of course, before someone whispered the truth in Sir Charles’s ear and he, at long last, stirred himself from his usual apathy.

  “I hear my home’s become a whorehouse,” he said bluntly as he and Sarah sat alone, the servants dismissed.

  “I don’t understand you.”

  “Really? Well, at my club it’s all the talk. They say you’re little better than a doll common — and twice as enthusiastic. I’m surprised at you, Sarah.”

  She was so upset, so sick with herself, that she used fury for her weapon. “And what am I supposed to do when you show no interest in me? Why, you have not served me for a month.”

  “Couldn’t get a place in the queue,” Charles retorted laconically.

  “You have brought this upon yourself,” Sarah stormed in reply, stung to the quick by her husband’s sarcasm. “You are not man enough to make love to me. Small wonder I am seeking someone who is.”

  Charles Bunbury went very white, his suave features suddenly pinched and thin. “I have given you a home and everything you wish,” he snarled. “I have given you a comfortable life and turned a blind eye to your lewd habit of engaging in pointless flirtations, yet you accuse me of lacking manhood. It is true that I do not have your obscene and insatiable desires but I have never failed in my duty to you.”

  “Duty, duty,” Sarah sobbed. “It should have been done for love.”

  Her husband ignored her. “You have gone too far with me this time. As far as I am concerned our marriage is over and done. Oh, don’t worry, I will continue to feed and clothe you. But you’ll bring no further disgrace on my house. In future you can do your whoring elsewhere. And if you should meet this paragon you seek, then begone, and good riddance to you, you evil little slut.”

  And with that he turned and slammed from the room, more dignified and more authoritative than Sarah could ever remember him.

  She cried all night and most of the next day and then, so low had she sunk, looked round for a place of assignation where she could continue her love games unhindered. It was at that moment, as she searched the streets of London, discreetly gazing out from her carriage window, she finally realised she was crazed, that the lusty behaviour of her royal great-grandfather, nicknamed Old Rowley after a particularly rampant ram, had been echoed in her. But she could no longer help herself.

  “I’ll do as I please,” Sarah said defiantly. “I’ll make love as often as I wish. Why, it’s prejudice against women that men are considered amusing for raking, but we are called harlots for the very same act.”

  The poor unhappy girl found exactly the place she was seeking in Long Acre. It was a series of elegant apartments reached by a staircase which opened onto a little courtyard with only a passage wide enough for a carriage as entry. Below was a dining house of sorts, though the waiters served food and drink solely to the occupants of the rooms above. A private key gave access to the staircase and another to the apartment chosen, over the door of which an iron bar could be put down when it was occupied.

  “I’ll take a room for tonight,” she said airily to the sleazy, faceless woman who managed the place.

  And now there was the additional thrill of clandestine meeting and intrigue. Heavily veiled, hiring a closed carriage, Sarah made her way through the darkness only to find that her latest choice, the actor William Powell, whom Sarah had seen six years earlier standing in for David Garrick and had admired ever since, had arrived before her. Masked and cloaked, dramatically she thought, he was standing downstairs making much of ordering the finest food and wines.

  “My dear,” he said, as Sarah stepped from her coach, “I never thought such happiness as this could be mine.”

  She thought then that this could be her great love, handsome and fascinating as he was, and that maybe her search was over. And, indeed, Will proved well-made and lusty, performing as well in the bedchamber as ever he did on stage.

  “Tell me something,” he said as they sat afterwards in front of the fire, eating the delicacies brought up for them and put in the dining room, the waiters never being allowed to enter the room beyond.

  “What is that?”

  “Does it not bother you that you have a reputation, that you are considered fast, notorious even?”

  “Not a whit,” Sarah answered carelessly. “I do not see why women should not enjoy the same pastimes as men.”

  “Perhaps it is their fear of motherhood,” Will said thoughtfully. “Are you not terrified you might conceive?”

  “I can’t,” she replied with the same nonchalance. “I was married for years and nothing ever happened. It is obvious there is something wrong with me. One of my sisters is the same.”

  “That’s as well for you, then, if you want to play in a man’s world.”

  Sarah smiled lazily. “Yes, isn’t it? By the way, I’m enjoying this wine — are you, Mr Powell?”

  “I’m enjoying you even more,” he answered, and with that they hastened from the table and returned once more to the bedchamber.

  Their affair lasted several weeks, during which they visited the Long Acre house as often as Mr Powell’s stage engagements would allow. Sarah, with some idea of fidelity, went to see every performance and sat applauding with the rest, smiling secretly at what she knew about the man bowing so solemnly. She had convinced herself that she was truly in love with him, that, like her friend Susan, she was about to run off with an actor. And then everything came to a head one wicked night.

  They had both drunk far too much wine and had, most indiscreetly, carved a message in the wood surrounding the window. “Mr P—, the actor, and Lady S— B—, have more than once made offerings to Venus at this altar.”

  Afterwards they had made love vigorously and then, when both were finally replete, talked before they slept.

  “I’m worried about the situation,” Will said, propping himself up on his elbow and looking down at Sarah’s beautiful face, just beginning to show its first signs of dissipation.

  “In what way?” she asked, gazing fondly back.

  “I can’t go on like this.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If I dance all my jigs with you, Sarah, how will I ever meet anyone else?”

  She bristled angrily, pulling the sheets to her chin to hide her nudity. “Why should you want to? Aren’t I enough for you?”

  “More than enough. You can please a man more cleverly than any woman I have ever met.”

  “Well, then?”

  “The point is that one day soon I shall want marriage. An actor cannot go on for ever. I will need a companion for the years ahead.”

  Poor little Sarah, senseless fool that she had become, entirely m
istook his meaning.

  “Oh Will,” she cried joyfully, “if only you knew how much I want just such a friend. Oh thank you, thank you.”

  “For what?” he said, frowning at her in surprise.

  “For asking me to be your wife,” she answered, a smile of pure gratitude transforming her features.

  He moved away from her. “You mistake me, my dear. You are the type men roger, not wed.”

  She stared at him in silence, unable to comprehend what he was saying.

  “Frankly, Sarah, you are governed by your senses. In truth, I pity Charles Bunbury, not envy him.”

  Clutching at the rags of her dignity, Sarah stood up and wrapped herself in her cloak. Every muscle in her body was shaking. She could no longer avoid the reality of cruel truth but with a pathetic attempt at some semblance of honour, she left the room and did not look back.

  The closed carriage waited in the courtyard. But once returned to her matrimonial home, respite did not come. Sarah lay awake knowing that her reckless behaviour must stop, that her descent into hell must end. Weeping bitterly, she lit a candle and made an entry in her journal.

  “I can no longer go on like This. I am drifting like a Rudderless Ship. I must somehow salvage my Soul.”

  *

  The letter had arrived unexpectedly.

  Tearing it open, Sarah read: “My dear Madam, I have heard your name most highly spoken of. I commend myself to you. I shall call next Thursday with your friend Miss Kitty. Ever your faithful servant, Captain Roderick Shaw.”

  For two weeks, she had led a blameless life, and now felt her heart fall at this new temptation. She did not know the identity of either the writer or her purported friend, until Sarah remembered a small, rather gnome-like woman on the fringes of good company, admitted despite the slight breath of scandal which attached itself to her, tolerated only because it was amusing to make fun of her. Remembering this, Sarah allowed the couple in when they were announced on the day arranged.