Polly and the Prince (6 page)

Nick groaned. “Did I not just say so? In the drawing room with Mother. She says you’re to come quick.”

“Yes, of course, at once,” she said in a daze. She set down her palette and brush on the table and hurried out.

Following her, Nick continued, “Ned went out, and Mother needs your help to entertain the Danvilles. You should see Lord John’s curricle—slap up to the echo!—and a pair of spanking greys. D’you think
Ned will teach me to drive the gig?”

Polly scarcely heard him. She sped to the drawing room. Pausing on the threshold she saw, sitting opposite the door, a young lady in a carriage dress of straw-coloured gros de Naples ornamented with bows of mahogany velvet down the front and around the hem. Her velvet bonnet matched the dress and boasted three curling, mahogany-dyed ostrich plumes. She smiled shyly at Polly.

Behind her stood a large, dark, handsome gentleman, who nodded. Polly’s gaze moved on and found her mother’s aghast face. Suddenly she realised that she was still wearing her painting smock.

“Lady John,” Mrs. Howard said bravely, “may I present my daughter?”

“How do you do, Miss Howard?” If her ladyship was shocked by Polly’s appearance, her soft voice and delicate features gave no hint of it.

Polly curtsied, smiling at her, already determined to paint her some day.

Her husband bowed. “Miss Howard.” He looked more amused than offended by her disgraceful apparel. “I understand you are acquainted with my friend, Volkov.”

Turning, she came face to face with Kolya. For a moment all she was aware of was his eyes laughing at her, and her heart leaped with gladness. Then she noticed that he was elegantly clad in a close-fitting tan riding coat, starched cravat tied in an immaculate Waterfall, spotless buckskin breeches, and glossy black boots. How could she ever have supposed he was anything other than a gentleman?

What a quiz he must think her, bursting into the room in her painting clothes. Her cheeks grew hot and she stammered, “P-pray excuse me. I left my brushes out. I must go and wash them.”

He put out a detaining hand. “May I go with you, Miss Howard?
Madame
tells me you have a new studio. I should like to see.”

“Volkov has told us that you are an artist, Miss Howard,” said Lord John. “One day we should like to see your work, should we not, my dear?” He laid a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “But not today, I think, as we have a number of other calls to make. We just wanted to welcome you to Loxwood, ma’am, Miss Howard. Kolya, we shall see you later.”

The Danvilles made their farewells and departed, Nick dashing out after them to see the bang-up curricle bowl away down the lane. Still feeling flustered, Polly took Kolya—Mr. Volkov, she must call him now-out to the back garden.

As they walked towards the studio, she noticed that he was walking awkwardly.

“You are limping,” she exclaimed. “Have you hurt yourself?”

“No, ma’am, but I am wearing Danville’s boots.” He sighed ruefully. “Are the excellent boots, but his feet are shorter and wider than mine. Is easy to change the size of the clothes. The feetwear are more difficult.”

“Much more difficult,” she agreed, laughing. Her bashfulness fled at the realization that his finery was borrowed. She hoped Lord John was going to have some “feetwear” made to measure for his friend. “I did not expect to see you again,” she confessed.

“Did I not say to you
do svidaniya?”
He was teasing.

“What does that mean?”

“Is same as French
au revoir.
Until we meet.”

“Well, how could I have guessed? Here is my studio. Dear Ned had it all ready for me when we arrived.”

He looked around. “Is good. I may see the pictures?”

Polly hesitated. She had a score or so of paintings that she had kept because she was particularly fond of them, or because Mr. Irving had not thought them suitable for display in his shop. To be sure, visitors to the Wells had bought her work, but that did not mean it was fit to be displayed to a cosmopolitan gentleman like Kolya—Mr. Volkov.

She knew that the Russian army had looted Paris and carried off to St Petersburg half the art treasures that Napoleon had stolen from all over Europe. As an officer in that army, Mr. Volkov had probably seen them.

“You do not want to show, I will not press,” he said gently.

“No, no, you may look. I just hope you are not expecting too much.”

The partitioned crates provided by the carter had proved an efficient way to store the pictures. The first one Kolya pulled out was of an apple tree in bloom. Its delicate white and pink blossoms were silhouetted against the far-off hills of the common and a pale blue sky set with puffy clouds whose sunrise glow faintly echoed the pink of the petals.

“Khorosho!”
said Kolya, sounding surprised. “Is good.” He balanced it on the side of the box, leaning against the wall, and stepped back to look from a distance. “Is excellent.”

His surprise convinced Polly of his sincerity better than any protestations could. As he continued to pull one picture after another from the crates, she picked up her brush and palette and went back to work on the precise shade she wanted for the underpainting.

She was applying it to the canvas when he put the last picture away and asked, “What you are working on now?” With innate courtesy he did not move around the easel to look.

“I’m just beginning your portrait.”

“You wish that I sit for you again? I can come easily from Five Oaks. Danville has the bang-up horses and is not far.”

“Will you? I’m sure it will be better if I can paint from life, not just from sketches.”

“You are a true artist. You had the lessons?”

“Yes, at school. My teacher learned from Gainsborough and Sir Joshua Reynolds, and he taught Mr. Turner and John Constable.” It was easy to talk to him while she was busy. “When he retired from teaching at the Royal Academy, he came to live in Tunbridge Wells. He knew lots of people and he used to take some of us to Chiddingstone and Penshurst Place to see the collections of art masterpieces. He died several years ago.”

“Was an excellent teacher.”

“He used to say that he had all the
techniques of a great artist but insufficient imagination and dedication.”

“I think you have enough imagination and dedication,
nyet?”

“Dedication, certainly.” She smiled at him, and then turned serious. “Sometimes I think my imagination is too good. I dream of holding a private exhibition one day, but it is never likely to be anything more than a fantasy.”

“Nothing is impossible, Miss Howard. Is necessary to have a dream. I have nothing, only good friends, but still I dream and I will work till dream comes true.”

“What are you going to do?”

“First I learn to manage an estate, like your brother. In Russia, the farming is very backwards, you understand, and I am for a long time interested in the English agriculture. Danville says Mr. Howard is the excellent estate agent. He has turned Loxwood from the wilderness to productive farm. You think he is willing to teach me?”

“Ned?” Polly was taken by surprise. “Why, I expect so. You must ask him, but he will not be home till this evening, he said.”

“I come tomorrow early, to ask and to sit for you. And I wish to ask favour of you, also.”

“A favour?”

“I explain. Danville and Rebecca Ivanovna—Lady John, I should say—tell me I must learn to speak better the English since I will live in England. You do not say ‘the’ England?”

“No, just England.”

“Ah, in French is
l’Angleterre
but I was sure is not same in English. So, they tell me I leave out ‘a’ and ‘the’ when should be used, but when I put in, they laugh and say, ‘not there.’ Is very complicated, I think. You will help me when I make the mistakes?”

“‘A mistake’ or just ‘mistakes.’ You are right, it is complicated. I had never considered it before. I think you speak excellent English, though. I shall try to help but I scarcely ever notice anything wrong. Except when you say something like feetwear.” Polly giggled.

“Is not right word?”

“It
is not
the
right word. It should be footwear.”

Kolya grinned and shook his head. “Is not—It is not logical, the English. Feet is the plural, foot is the singular,
nyet?
If I put on only footwear I must hop.” He suited action to the word, then squawked as Lord John’s boot pinched his toes.
“Chort vozmi!
I hope shoemaker works quickly.”

“What does
chort vozmi
mean?” she enquired.

“It is not good for a young lady to say these words,” Kolya reproved her, then laughed. “I see there is advantage to live in a foreign country. When I swear, the ladies will not be shocked.”

“I may not have understood the words,” said Polly serenely, “but I could tell very well from your tone of voice that you should not have been saying them.”

That made him laugh still more. When he had recovered from his mirth sufficiently to sit still, he posed for her for an hour or so, before saying he must go as the Danvilles expected him. Soon after, Ella called her in for luncheon.

Only her mother was there, far too gratified by the Danvilles’ visit of welcome to give Polly more than a perfunctory scold for appearing in her smock. Nick had taken some sandwiches and gone off exploring. Polly decided to follow suit that afternoon, looking for good places to set up her easel, but she was forestalled by the arrival of the vicar and his wife.

The Reverend and Mrs. Wyndham were duly impressed by Mrs. Howard’s carefully casual mention of the Danvilles’ morning call. They had already heard that a mysterious foreigner was staying at Five Oaks and Mrs. Wyndham was openly agog for further news. Their hostess was no scandalmonger. She told them only that she had met Mr. Volkov and understood that he was a Russian. Her genteel reserve did her no discredit in their eyes. When the vicar pleaded urgent business and departed, Mrs. Wyndham stayed behind to drink a dish of tea.

Pleased that her mother had so soon found a new friend, Polly submitted patiently to an afternoon of excruciating boredom.

When the vicar’s wife left, Mrs. Howard went to the kitchen to check on preparations for dinner. Passing the kitchen door on her way to the studio, Polly heard her mother’s wail.

“Oh Nicky, what have you been doing?”

She looked in. Mrs. Howard, Mrs. Coates, and Ella were all staring at the scullery doorway where Nick stood. He was plastered to the knees with mud, which was also liberally bedaubed elsewhere upon his person, and he wore a look of injured innocence.

“Nothing. Just fishing. I brought a couple of bream for dinner, but if you don’t want ‘em…” He stepped backwards, squelching.

“Fresh bream do make a tasty mouthful,” Mrs. Coates assured him.

“Now don’t you stir till you’ve stripped off every stitch you’re wearing, Master Nick.” Glaring at the cook, Ella asserted the right of a longtime family servant. “Right down to your drawers. It’s a hot bath you’ll be needing.”

As everything appeared to be under control, Polly went on her way. Behind her she heard Nick’s voice.

“I met a famous fellow, Mother. He lent me proper fishing tackle today, and tomorrow he’s going to take me out shooting rabbits.”

That remark did not seem calculated to soothe a mother’s anxious heart. Polly hurried her steps in the opposite direction.

* * * *

She worked in the studio until dusk, according Ned no more than a brief wave when he looked in after stabling Chipper. He shook his head with a grin as he strolled towards the house. He had forgotten just how single-minded she was.

For several years he had been forced to be equally single-minded. He had worked very hard but now the estate was running smoothly. Instead of spending his evenings catching up on bookkeeping and business correspondence, he had time to spare for reading and conversation. It was a joy to have his family about him.

Nick appeared at the back door. “Ned, Ma says I’m not to go out rabbit-shooting tomorrow.”

It was a joy, Ned assured himself silently, to have his family about him.

Diligent enquiry revealed that his brother’s “famous fellow” was the eldest son of Sir Robert Brent, the squire of Alfold Crossways, a neighbouring village. Ned had himself taught Nick to shoot during his summer holidays last year, but it took some time to persuade his mother that her little boy was old enough to take out a gun. Ned went up to change for dinner determined to write tomorrow to the duke to request his influence in finding Nick a midshipman’s berth.

Fortunately his Grace’s brother was a Lord of the Admiralty, so it should not take too long.

At dinner, Ned told his family that Lord John had asked him to take Mr. Volkov about with him on his daily business and to explain to him the management of an estate. “His lordship offered to pay me for my pains,” he added, helping himself to a large piece of fish. Mrs. Coates had cooked the bream with a pinch of lemon thyme, and its smell made his mouth water.

“Mr. Volkov told me he is eager to learn,” Polly said. “I believe he hopes to find a post as an overseer, for he has nothing. Nothing but good friends, he said. Shall you help him, Ned?”

“Yes, but I shall not take the money. Lord John insisted that the payments should be kept secret. I daresay Mr. Volkov is too proud to accept it and I would not have him think I was doing for friendship what I was actually being paid for.”

“A nice scruple.” Mrs. Howard sounded doubtful.

“I think it’s splendid of you,” said Nick. “Pass the potatoes, please, Mother, I’m starving. I’m glad you like Kolya after all, Ned. He’s a great gun. You must ask him to tell you all his adventures.”

“Mr. Volkov is going to sit for me.”

Polly’s statement was met with silence. Nick had his mouth full of steak-and-kidney pie, and Mrs. Howard looked as dismayed as Ned felt.

After a moment, he said, “I cannot think it wise.”

“Most unwise,” his mother seconded him. “Indeed, Polly dear, it would not be proper.”

“He did before,” she pointed out, unruffled.

“But we did not know then that he was a gentleman.”