Polly and the Prince (11 page)

“Lady John was a governess,” his mother reminded him stubbornly.

“Well, I shall talk to Polly,” said Ned with a sigh, “but if she does not have a mind to either I shall not press her. I wish she might find a husband she can care for who is of our own station in the world.”

“The world?” Nick bounced in, grubby and dishevelled as always. “I’d give the world for something to eat right this instant, but Mrs. Coates says I must wait until dinner-time. I wish you will put Ella in charge of the kitchen, Mother. She would not starve me half to death.”

Reminded of the hour, Mrs. Howard hustled her sons upstairs to wash off their dirt and change their dress. It was too late for Ned to talk to Polly before dinner, though she, for once, was in good time. Sure that the interview would be painful, he wanted to get it over with.

Fortunately, after the meal, Nick took himself off about his own business when his elders repaired to the sitting room. Ned settled his mother by the fire with a branch of candles to light her everlasting sewing. Polly sat at a small writing desk in the window with her sketch book before her. She often spent the evenings planning the composition of her next landscape, but Ned saw that she was gazing out into the dusk without even picking up her pencil.

He hesitated, unsure how to introduce the subject of her suitors. It would be easier, he thought, if he were her father rather than her brother and her friend.

She started as he pulled up a chair beside her and put his hand over hers. “Polly, dear,” he said with quiet sympathy, “I hate to see my tranquil, cheerful sister so despondent.”

“Despondent? Not I.” She smiled brightly.

“I fear you miss Mr. Volkov,” he persisted.

“I’m by far too busy to miss anyone, I assure you.”

“Then you do not fancy yourself in love with him?”

“In love? Heavens no! Is that what has brought about your long face, dear Ned? Pray put it out of your mind. Mr. Volkov was an agreeable acquaintance and I enjoyed his company, but Lady John warned me, you know, that he is a shocking flirt, so of course I did not take him seriously.”

Ned was afraid she was trying to convince herself, but his relief at her denial was such that he allowed her to persuade him that her heart was untouched. Though she undoubtedly missed the Russian, in time she would regain her serenity. He braced himself to tackle the next point.

“Mother tells me you have lost interest in your aristocratic admirers. Do you dislike Lord Fitzsimmons and Mr. Bevan?”

“I like them very well.”

“Then will you try to look more kindly on them? Mother fears you will drive them away, and either would be an excellent match.”

“I would never marry a man only because he was an excellent match,” she said, indignation overcoming her listlessness.

“I know you would not and I’m glad of it,” Ned soothed. “But you said you like them.”

“No better than I liked Dr. Leacroft or Mr. Grant.”

“Your Tunbridge Wells suitors? I seem to remember the rector of King Charles the Martyr popped the question, too.”

She smiled at his teasing, a real smile. “Yes, and I refused them all. I doubt I shall ever marry, Ned, for a husband will expect me to give up painting, and that I will not do.”

He believed her. In the weeks she had lived at Loxwood, he had come to comprehend her dedication to her work as he never had on his short visits to Tunbridge Wells. She was capable of being a loving, if absentminded, wife and mother, but she would never have any attention to spare for household matters. The man who married her must be sympathetic and encouraging as well as loving, ready and able to relieve her of the practical details of everyday life. Where was she to find such a paragon?

Ned sighed. The weeks since his sister, his mother, and his brother had joined him had also taught him that he wanted a family of his own. He wanted children in his house, a little Nick and Polly who would call him Papa. He wanted a wife…but there his longing dissolved in formless dreams of warmth and comfort.

He gave his sister a quick hug and kissed her cheek. “I’ll take care of you, Poll,” he said, and went to try to explain to his mother why her undutiful daughter intended to refuse the hand of a wealthy baron. He hoped she would consider that her rejection of the charming but destitute foreigner was compensation enough.

* * * *

Polly had almost succeeded in convincing herself, with her words to Ned, that Kolya had been no more to her than an agreeable acquaintance. He was so obliging it was impossible not to like him, and it was flattering to have a gentleman of discernment admire her pictures—and admire them enough to want to keep five. Besides that, he was a romantic figure with his rescue of Lady John and his escape from Russia. But there was no room in her life for romantic figures. She must put him out of her mind.

She turned the pages of her sketch book, studying the drawings she had made of Loxwood Manor, then began to plan the painting she would begin tomorrow.

It turned out to be a perfect day for painting outdoors, cool and still with interesting cloud shapes sailing ponderously across the sky. Nick helped Polly carry her equipment to a gently sloping field overlooking the gardens and the black-and-white Elizabethan manor, framed by trees clad in fresh springtime green.

She had been working for some time when a loud “Halloo!” announced the approach of Lord Fitzsimmons and Mr. Bevan. Dismounting, they tethered their horses to a hedge-maple and strolled across the tussocky grass towards her, doffing their hats.

“Young Nick told us where to find you, Miss Howard,” Bev said. “We came to say good-bye.”

      
“You are leaving?” Polly breathed a silent sigh of relief.

“Back to town tomorrow.”

“Not by my choice!” Fitz broke in. “Thing is, Danville’s going to be away for a few days.”

“Some sort of political nonsense. You could have knocked me down with a feather when he confessed he’s looking to stand for Parliament.”

“Daresay I ought to take my seat in the Lords one of these days,” said Fitz gloomily. “The pater would be turning in his grave if he knew I hadn’t done it yet. But you see, Miss Howard,” he returned to his explanation, “it won’t do for us to stay at Five Oaks with Danville gone. And when he gets back, he and Lady John will be removing to the manor, as you doubtless know.”

“Yes, I’m painting this view of the house as a gift for the Danvilles when they come to Loxwood.”

The gentlemen moved to stand behind her.

“Very pretty.” His lordship sounded dubious.

Polly smiled to herself. The canvas as yet displayed little more than patches of colour and light. “You flatter me, my lord,” she said demurely, adding a touch of blue to a shadow.

“No, no, I assure you. Deuced pretty, ain’t it, Bev?”

“Interesting,” pronounced that gentleman with a degree of caution.

“Anyway, the thing is, the Danvilles won’t want guests while they are settling down at the manor. It will be a few weeks before I can come down again, but I promise you, my dear Miss Howard, I shall return. I don’t suppose there’s any chance of you coming up to Town?” he added hopefully.

“I fear not, my lord. I am always particularly busy in the summer, since the weather is often fine enough to allow me to paint outdoors. The trees are green, flowers are blooming—indeed, my family complains that I scarcely have time to pass the time of day.” Polly hoped he would take the hint that if he returned to Sussex he would not find her at leisure to entertain him.

She knew she had failed when he said with an indulgent smile, “I particularly admire your contentment with country pastimes, Miss Howard. So many young ladies would spend every moment repining for the frivolities of London.” He glanced around.

Mr. Bevan had tactfully wandered off and was poking with his riding crop at something in the hedge. Lord Fitzsimmons seized his chance and Polly’s hand.

“Miss Howard,” he said, slightly hoarse, his handsome face flushed, “you must know how I admire you in every way. When I return I shall have something most particular to say to you.
Most
particular.”

Polly tugged at her hand. With a great effort she managed to keep a tremor of laughter out of her voice. “I beg your pardon, sir, but I fear you may find a smear of paint on your glove. Prussian blue, I fancy.”

He dropped her hand and stared for a moment in dismay at his pale yellow pigskin glove, then hid the horrid sight behind his back. “Yes, er, um, nothing to signify,” he stammered.

“I daresay your man will be able to remove the stain,” Polly said kindly. “Tell him to try
a mixture of boiled linseed oil and vinegar.”

Lord Fitzsimmons looked blank. The notion of advising his valet on how to clean oil paint off leather clearly baffled him. To his obvious relief, Mr. Bevan returned to join them.

“Hedgehog,” he said, an ingenious if unlikely excuse for his absence. “I hate to interrupt but we’d best be getting along, Fitz old fellow. One or two more calls to pay,” he added to Polly. “Servant, Miss Howard.”

His lordship bowed and took his leave, repeating, but with less assurance, his intention of returning to Loxwood as soon as he was able. As they walked away, Polly saw him whip his handkerchief from his pocket and rub surreptitiously at his desecrated glove.

Chuckling, she turned back to her painting.

Her improved mood did not last. She could not help thinking how Kolya, rather than make fatuous remarks about the unfinished canvas, would have been interested in her technique.

Try as she might, he would not stay banished from her mind. She was forced to admit that, even though she did not love him of course, she missed him. She did her best to hide her megrims from her family.

Mrs. Howard was delighted to hear that Lord Fitzsimmons had promised to return. The rest of her meeting with his lordship Polly described only to Ned, so her mother did not know that Fitz’s resolve had been shaken.

Ned grinned and said, “What a devious way to discourage an importunate suitor.”

* * * *

Several days of fine weather enabled Polly to finish the picture of Loxwood Manor before drizzle once more confined her to her studio. She was drawing a posy of yellow and purple pansies, and wondering how best to paint the velvety sheen of their petal faces, when Nick burst into the room and shook like a wet dog.

“I went down to the Onslow Arms to fetch the post,” he announced. “There’s a letter for you. The ink on the outside has run a bit in the rain but it looks to me as if it
comes from Brighton.”

Chapter 10

Polly doubtfully examined the damp paper. She had never seen Kolya’s handwriting, but the address was written in what looked like a feminine hand. Then she brightened as she recalled that the Russian alphabet was different. He might have had someone write it for him.

He might have had some
female
write it for him—but at least he had written. The smudged scrawl in the corner, haloed where the ink had run, definitely said Brighton and she knew no one else there.

“Open it,” said Nick impatiently, offering his pocket-knife.

She slit the seal and carefully unfolded the sheet. Her eyes went straight to the signature at the bottom: Lady Sylvia Ellingham.

“Is it
from Kolya?”

“No.”

“Oh, then I’m going to get something to eat.” Nick took himself off.

Subduing her disappointment, Polly read the letter. Lady Sylvia Ellingham had bought one of her paintings, a picture of a child, in a Brighton shop. She wondered if Miss Howard would be so kind as to come and stay with her for as long as it would take to paint the portraits of her two daughters. She suggested a fee of one hundred guineas, but if this was insufficient she would be happy to negotiate.

One hundred guineas! Polly’s landscapes had sold in Tunbridge Wells for seven guineas apiece, five for her and two for Mr. Irving. How much had Kolya received for the pictures she had given him?

       Not that it mattered. He needed money desperately, and she hoped he had realised a goodly sum. All the same it hurt to know that he had so quickly parted with them, after asking for them as mementos of their friendship. No, he had changed the word “friendship” at the last minute.

        Polly forgot that she had been the first to say “acquaintance.”

Brooding over their last meeting was pointless, she told herself firmly. She turned back to Lady Sylvia’s letter, but even before she reread it her mind was made up. She would go to Brighton. Between new scenes, new faces, and the bracing sea air, her megrims would vanish.

The pansies abandoned, she dashed through the rain to the house to write to Lady Sylvia.

* * * *

Mrs. Howard wept and worried. Nick congratulated Polly enviously—she was going to see the sea. Ned, once assured of his sister’s determination, borrowed an outdated edition of the
Peerage
from the manor’s library and looked up Lady Sylvia Ellingham.

Her ladyship was the daughter of the Earl of Bridgnorth and had married James, Viscount Ellingham, in 1812. Lord Ellingham’s country seat was in Warwickshire and he owned a small estate, Dean House, near Brighton. Since the volume was published in 1813, there was no mention of offspring.

Ned assured his mother that Lady Sylvia was the acme of respectability, and Polly diverted her by asking her assistance in packing for a stay of several weeks. Nick carried Polly’s trunk down to the Onslow Arms. Two days after the arrival of the letter, in the middle of another wet afternoon, Polly stepped off the stage at the Ship Inn in Brighton.

* * * *

She had never seen such a confusion of carriages, ostlers, waiters, porters, and travellers. As she looked around uncertainly, a liveried coachman jumped down from the box of a smart landau and approached her.

“Be ‘e Miss Howard?” His voice was slow and countrified, soothing, his face creased with smile lines under his dripping hat.

“Yes, I’m Miss Howard,” she said thankfully.

“Lady Sylvia sent Oi to pick ‘ee up, miss. If ’ee’ll just show Oi which be thy boxes, us’ll be off out o’ this hubbub.”