Polly and the Prince (12 page)

The coachman seemed to have a preference for the quieter back streets, but through the drizzle Polly caught glimpses of fine houses, elegant terraces, and gardens. To her disappointment she did not see the exotic domes of the Pavilion. Nor, of course, was there any sign of Kolya.

The buildings became smaller and more scattered, with fields beyond. They looked new, and a number were under construction. Then the landau turned in at a gateway and stopped before a pretty Queen Anne house. Even in the carriage Polly could smell the purple-blooming wistaria which grew up its brick front and over the roof of the projecting porch.

Ned had warned Polly that she would be in an awkward position, neither guest nor servant. Doubtfully she regarded the stone-flagged porch with its two white pillars and three steps up to the green front door where a brass lion-head knocker gleamed. Ought she to ask the coachman the way to the servants’ entrance? Before she could make up her mind, the door swung open.

“So ye found Miss Howard all right and tight, did ‘ee, Dick?” called the plump middle-aged woman on the threshold. She wore a black gown and white apron and cap. The housekeeper, Polly decided as she bustled down the steps with a friendly smile.

Dick opened the carriage door and let down the step. “This be my old ‘oman, miss.”

“Now what sort of an introduction is that?” scolded his wife. “I’m Mrs. Borden, miss, and welcome to Dean House. Her ladyship’s expecting you. Put miss’s trunk under the porch, Dick, out of the rain, then stable the horses afore ye carry it up. Please to come this way, miss.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Borden.” Polly picked up her bandbox, stepped out of the carriage, and followed the woman into the house.

The first thing she noticed in the hall was a vase of flamboyant tulips, scarlet slashed with yellow, reflected in the glossy surface of a beechwood half-moon table against the wall. She stopped to gaze at them in delight.

Seeing her interest, the housekeeper said in an indulgent voice, “My lady grows ‘em herself. She’s a great one for flowers. I daresay ye’ll be wanting to tidy yourself afore ye
meets her ladyship, miss. I’ll show ‘ee your bedchamber and have hot water brought up.”

Polly’s bedchamber was on the first floor, a pretty room with ivy-leaf patterned chintz curtains at
the windows and the tester bed. The floor was polished oak with a large green and gold rug between the bed and the washstand, and a small, warm-toned Vermeer interior hung on one whitewashed wall.

“Just ring the bell when ye’re ready, miss,” said Mrs. Borden. “Summun’ll come to show the way.”

The cheerful maid who brought her hot water curtsied and introduced herself as Jill. “Mrs. Borden says as I’m to take care of you while you’re here, miss. Is there aught I can get you now? I’ll be up to unpack soon as Old Dick brings your trunk.” She took Polly’s pelisse and bonnet and put them away in the huge armoire.

Polly thanked her and was once more admonished to ring the bell as soon as she was ready to go down. It seemed to be a happy house, she thought, washing her face and hands with the lilac-scented soap she found beside the basin. And so far, at least, she had been treated like an honoured guest
.
She was glad she had come.

She was seated at the dressing table, tidying her hair, when a soft tapping sounded at the door.

“Come in, she called.

The door inched open and a small, inquisitive face appeared, with brown eyes and long, straight, pale gold hair.

“Are you the artist?”

“Yes. Do come in. You must be one of my subjects.”

The rest of the child appeared, clad in a pink frock with deep rose ribbons. “Hallo. I’m Winnie and I’m six.” She turned her head and reached behind her. “Come on, Nettie. She’s nice.”

A somewhat taller girl in blue, with flaxen hair, allowed herself to be pulled into the room. “Curtsy!” she hissed. “And don’t call me Nettie! How do you do, Miss Howard. I’m Annette Ellingham, and her proper name is Edwina.” They both curtsied, Winnie with a wobble.

“How do you do, Miss Ellingham, Miss Edwina.” Polly smiled at
the two children. They were very alike but the elder was slim, with the shy look of a fawn, and the younger sturdy, a merry twinkle in her eyes. It would be a pleasure to paint them.

“She’s my sister and she’s eight,” announced Miss Edwina. “She doesn’t like being called Nettie, but sometimes I forget. You can call me Winnie, if you like.”

A heavy elderly woman, red-faced, appeared in the doorway. “Miss Nettie, Miss Winnie, you’ll be the death of me yet. Didn’t I tell you to go down to your ma and wait for Miss Howard there? Beg pardon, miss, these scamps move too fast for my pore ole legs.”

“It’s all right, Nurse, she doesn’t mind,” said Winnie confidently. “We can show her the way to Mama’s sitting room.”

“It’s quite all right, Nurse,” Polly confirmed, earning a glance of gratitude from Annette. “I am ready to go down, and the young ladies shall escort me.”

As they went downstairs, Winnie’s hand slipped into hers. Half listening to the child’s chatter, Polly wondered what Lady Sylvia was like. Judging by the
ambiance of the household she was good-tempered. Her love of flowers—and her appreciation of Polly’s talent—indicated an eye for beauty. Polly was prepared to like her on sight.

With Annette following, Winnie led her towards the back of the house, pushed open a door, and ran forwards crying, “Mama, Mama, the lady is here who’s going to paint us.”

The woman who set down her book, rose from the chaise longue, and put her arm about her younger daughter was about Polly’s age, perhaps a year or two younger. Her hair was the exact shade of Winnie’s pale gold, but her brown eyes had Annette’s diffident, almost apprehensive expression. She wore a morning gown of pale grey silk ornamented with jet beading, and a net and lace
cornette
with a wide white satin ribbon tied beneath her chin.

“Heavens,” said Polly, raising her hand to her bare head, “I forgot to put on my cap.”

The ice was broken. Lady Sylvia laughed and came forwards with outstretched hand. “I’m so glad you came, Miss Howard. I see my girls have not been behindhand in making your acquaintance.”

“No indeed, my lady, they have been most helpful in showing me the way.”

“Pray be seated, ma’am. I have ordered refreshments, as I’m sure you must be tired and hungry after your journey. I wish you had given me longer notice so that I might have sent the carriage to Loxwood to fetch you.”

“
I
have never travelled on the stage before. It was very interesting.” Polly sat down, fortunately choosing a large chair as Winnie promptly squeezed in beside her. “Such a variety of people, and the scenery was all new to me,” she went on, doing her best to put her hostess at ease.

“If you like to walk, there are some superb views from the downs behind the house.” Lady Sylvia took a seat opposite her and Annette pulled up a footstool at her mother’s knee. “You can see the sea, and the whole of Brighton spread out below you.”

“I shall certainly explore. I doubt Miss Ellingham and Miss Winnie will want to sit still for me for more than an hour at a time.”

“Do we have to sit
quite
still?” asked Winnie, wriggling. “I’m not very good at sitting still. Nettie—Annette is much better than me.”

The door opened and Mrs. Borden ushered in a girl carrying a tea tray laden with cakes and biscuits and neat little sandwiches. Polly discovered she was starving. There had been no time at the stage stop to swallow more than a cup of tea and a slice of bread and butter.

Winnie jumped down from the chair and went to the tea tray. “I’ll get you what you want, Miss Howard,” she offered. “Do you like samwiches? And macaroons? They’re my fav’rite. And there’s queen cakes, do you like them? Mama, will you cut some gingerbread for Miss Howard, please.”

She carefully brought the heaped plate to Polly, and Annette followed with a cup of tea. Winnie helped herself to a handful of macaroons and moved to a straight chair, where she sat munching and swinging her feet.

As she ate, Polly described her working method. “I should like to
spend a day or two just sketching the young ladies, ma’am. At their lessons, at play, whatever they are doing. Then we can decide how you would like them posed.”

“Oh, I shall leave that entirely to you, Miss Howard. I am enchanted by your picture of the little boy.”

Lady Sylvia indicated the wall to her right and Polly saw the solemn, wide-eyed child she had painted at the Pantiles. Kolya had chosen well—properly framed and hung it was indeed charming. She hoped he was enjoying the proceeds of the sale.

The momentary cloud was dispersed by Winnie, who said hopefully, “Do you want to see the nursery and the schoolroom? I’ll show you.”

“When Miss Howard has finished her tea, I expect she will want to rest,” her mother intervened.

“I am quite restored, thank you, my lady. I should like a tour if Miss Winnie will oblige. I hope you will go, too, Miss Ellingham?”

Annette nodded, her face solemn as the boy in the picture, then came to perch on the edge of the chair next to Polly’s. “Please, ma’am, will you call me Annette? Miss Ellingham doesn’t sound like me.”

“Certainly, if you will call me Miss Polly.”

The child smiled. “Oh yes, that’s a pretty name.”

Her sister rushed over and thrust her hand into Polly’s. “Me too,” she said anxiously. “Can I call you Miss Polly, too?”

“Of course.”

“Annette, pray bring me Miss Polly’s cup to refill, and while she is drinking it, take Edwina to wash her hands. We shall come up to the nursery presently.” As soon as the girls were gone, Lady Sylvia said with an air of relief, “I’m so glad they like you. We have few visitors, and I was afraid they might be difficult.”

“They are delightful children, and it will be a pleasure to paint them, ma’am,” Polly assured her.

Praise of her daughters was obviously the way to her ladyship’s heart. Her smile of pleasure increased her likeness to Annette. “Doubtless they will want to show you all their little treasures when we go up,” she said, “and then, if you should like it, I will show you mine. My father-in-law was something of a collector, and there are a number of fine pictures in the house.”

Polly was delighted. She had had little opportunity of studying the old masters except through prints, which were unsatisfactory at best.

The late viscount, she discovered, had been a connoisseur of Flemish works, landscapes with windmills silhouetted against wide skies, portraits of ordinary people, and intimate interiors like that in her chamber. There were few of the grand Italian paintings beloved by most English collectors, but maybe he had hung those at his main seat in Warwickshire.

By the time Lady Sylvia had shown her every picture in the house, inviting her to examine them later at her leisure, Polly was beginning to wonder where the present viscount was. There had been no mention of him, no references by the girls to “Papa.” Nor, she realised, had she seen any menservants except Dick Borden. Though the house was not large and its furnishings were far from ostentatious, everything was of the best. Clearly the Ellinghams were wealthy, and wealthy households, she was sure, were usually run by a butler and boasted swarms of footmen.

The sun was making fitful, watery appearances between the clouds, and Lady Sylvia invited Polly to stroll on the terrace at the back of the house. She forgot about the viscount’s absence as she surveyed the brick-walled garden, breathing the scent of heavy-headed lilacs.

Near the house flowers abounded: beds of roses with swelling buds, tulips and pansies, fragile columbines, polyanthus, and rich-hued peonies. Lady Sylvia pointed out a hedged enclosure concealing the vegetable garden. Espaliered fruit trees grew against the south-facing wall, and a huge chestnut, covered now with candle-spikes of bloom, shaded a stretch of velvety lawn. A swing dangled from one branch.

That would be a good place to sketch Annette and Winnie, Polly decided. She might even paint them on the swing.

Beyond the far wall rose the smooth green humps of the South Downs. Polly noticed a door in the wall. “Is that the way to the views of the sea you mentioned?” she asked, pointing.

“Yes. It is locked, but I shall show you where the key is kept in the potting shed. I am no great walker—nor is Nurse, as you may have noticed!—but one of the maids sometimes takes the girls out rambling. If you ever want company I’m sure they would be delighted to go with you.”

“How far can one walk on land belonging to Dean House?”

“No farther than the garden wall, I fear.” Lady Sylvia seemed ill at ease, but explained, “The estate used to stretch for some distance to the south, but the land has been sold. I daresay it will soon all be built on, for Brighton is growing at a prodigious rate.” She dismissed the subject with apparent relief. “Shall we go in? I told Mrs. Borden we shall dine at seven, but if that does not suit you it can be changed.”

“I should not dream of upsetting your arrangements, my lady. I expect Lord Ellingham has definite ideas about the dinner hour. My brother Ned is sadly discomposed if he is forced for some reason to alter his habits, though Nick is ready to eat at any time.”

Lady Sylvia flushed. “I…Lord Ellingham…I daresay I ought to have told you that I am a widow.”

Contrite, Polly reached out to clasp her hand. “No, why should you? I’m so sorry.”

“Indeed, there is no need…” Her ladyship was flustered. “That is, it was several years ago. You must be surprised that I do not have a companion, but I cannot think it necessary, living here retired as I do. If I lived in London, or at Westcombe—that is an estate near Lewes I inherited from an uncle…”

“I’m sure it is perfectly acceptable for you to live without a companion,” Polly said firmly. “Pray do not think that you owe me any explanation.”

As she changed for dinner, Polly confessed to herself that in spite of her words she was curious about Lady Sylvia’s unusual situation. Her curiosity faded when she discovered that the window of her bedchamber looked out over the garden to the downs beyond. She took her sketch book from the dressing table, where Jill must have put it when she unpacked, and began to draw the flowing shapes of the rolling uplands.