Venus (23 page)

T
he piercing wails rending the air as Nicholas sauntered into Thomas Killigrew’s playhouse at Moorfields a week later sounded as anguished as if they were wrenched by the rack. However, experience having taught him that the vigor of Polly’s protests tended to bear little relation to the severity of their cause, he made no effort to hasten his step as he strolled down a narrow passageway in the direction of the tiring room, from whence emanated the pitiable cries.

Sounds of hammering and laughing voices came from the stage to his right. A lad, clutching a piece of planking taller than himself, scurried past at an imperative bellow from the scene-setters on stage. Nicholas pushed open the door to the tiring room, where he stood, for the moment unnoticed by its three occupants, surveying the scene.

“Half an inch more, Lizzie.” Thomas Killigrew, perched on the edge of a tiring table, instructed the flushed and flustered tirewoman, who was struggling to tighten the laces of a bone corset behind a furiously complaining Polly.

“It is impossible!” Polly yelped, gripping the back of a chair until her knuckles whitened. “I cannot breathe. You would suffocate me.”

“Nonsense,” retorted the impervious Master Killigrew.
“A little discomfort is inevitable until you become accustomed to it.”

“I will
never
become accustomed!” She squirmed, twisting her head over her shoulder, peering at Lizzie’s busy fingers. “Oh, Nicholas!” Her eye fell on the spectator in the door. “Tell Thomas that he cannot
do
this. My bones are breaking!” This last emerged on a long-drawn-out wail as Lizzie finally secured the laces.

“Ah, Nicholas, you are well come, indeed.” Killigrew, pushing himself away from his perch, greeted the new arrival with visible relief. “Perhaps you can better explain the realities to Polly.”

Nicholas regarded the fulminating figure of his mistress. Only the linen of her smock protected her skin from the bone stays, which prevented any curve of her spine, any slump of her shoulders, and lifted her breasts to swell invitingly over the smock’s, low-cut bodice edged with a teasing scrap of Venetian lace.

“You must wear it,” he said. “What you wear beneath your gown is more important than anything you may put atop.”

“As I have been saying,” interpolated Killigrew. “The corset governs your form, controls the way you move. Without it, your gowns will not sit right, and you will not be able to perform any stage movements correctly. It is particularly vital with the curtsy. Surely you would not wish to spoil the effect of what you already do so well?”

“I will not be able to do anything at all if my ribs are broken and I have no breath,” she said, still mutinous, holding her narrowed waist.

Nicholas crossed the room, turned her around, assessing the fit with an expert eye informed by intimate knowledge of the shape beneath smock and corset. “It is a little tight, Killigrew,” he pronounced. “It could be loosened somewhat—at least for the first time.” Without waiting for agreement, he released the laces himself, not by much, but sufficiently to afford the sufferer considerable relief in contrast.

“I find it hard to believe that you have not been obliged toI find it hard to believe that you have not been obliged to wear such a garment before,” observed Killigrew. “If you had a governess with strict notions of deportment.”

“My aunt died of tight lacing—when she was with child,” Polly embellished shamelessly. “So my mother would not countenance it. Besides, my parents were of a Puritan turn of mind and did not encourage vanity.”

That disposed of that, reflected Lord Kincaid, with some admiration. However, when they were private, it would perhaps be wise to advise such a consummate inventor of the truth that there were dangers inherent in gilding the lily. For the moment he contented himself with a change of subject.

“Do you still intend presenting
Flora’s Vagaries
today sennight, Thomas?”

“If Polly will be so good as to be accommodating,” replied Thomas, with a caustic edge. “I do not ask for much.”

“Nay, only that I should be squashed like a preserved quince,” Polly retorted.

Killigrew raised his eyes heavenward. Nicholas said appeasingly, “Put on the gown, sweetheart. You will then see the point in the corset.”

Polly could not resist his coaxing smile or the softness of his tone. Having already realized that she was going to be compelled to yield, it seemed niggardly to continue with her waspishness. She offered him a tiny smile, part apology, part complicity, before turning readily to Lizzie, who was shaking out the folds of an embroidered petticoat. The brocaded satin gown that followed it was richer and more voluminous by far than any she had yet worn, and was encumbered by a long train.

She stood for many minutes surveying her image in the glass, not with vanity but with the air of one looking for information. The first thing she realized was that the corset, while restricting in one way, paradoxically freed her in other ways. She had no need to think of her posture, of whether her décolletage was appropriately displayed, of whether her skirts fell in a graceful sweep. The undergarment ensured all of those things. She stepped over to a low chair, feeling the
swish and weight of the train behind her. Sitting on the chair with any grace was not going to be easy, she decided. She must somehow bring the train to heel if it was not to knock over the chair as she swung round; somehow kick her voluminous skirts forward if she was not to tread on and tear them; more important, somehow ensure that she did not miss the chair altogether as it became lost beneath her gown. And all these maneuvers must take place simultaneously.

“Why do you not hazard it? The chair will not bite you.” Thomas broke into her cogitations, and she turned to him with a laugh, her earlier contrariness forgotten.

“I was wondering if it would stay still.”

“I will show you how to do it.” Killigrew came across to her. “Take your skirt at the back in one hand … like so … Now swish the train to the side as you push your right foot forward, kicking away the skirt. That’s it. Now lower yourself onto the seat. There.” He smiled in satisfaction. “That was not so very difficult, was it?”

“It is not very restful,” Polly observed, sitting at the very edge of the chair. “If I lean forward or backward, those dreadful bones poke into me.”

“But then, it is not at all becoming to slouch,” Killigrew told her. “Flora may be a high-spirited, sharp-tongued young lady, but she is a lady and would never sit slumped upon her chair, as you are aware.”

Nick was frowning. “Are you sure that a sennight will be sufficient time for Polly to learn as much as she must?”

“Indeed it will!” Polly spoke up vigorously. “I will practice all night, if necessary, but I am determined that I shall not stay in this backwater for any length of time.”

“I think there is little fear of that,” Killigrew said with a wry smile. “Moorfields will not be able to contain you for very long.”

It became abundantly clear to Nick during the next seven days that Polly was as good as her word. Killigrew was a hard taskmaster, but there was nothing he expected of her that she did not expect of herself, and more. She had no difficulty learning the part of Flora, pressing Nick into service to read
with her during the evenings, when he could think of many more exciting occupations. And with grim fortitude she gritted her teeth and wore the detested corset constantly until it felt like a second skin.

“I am most deeply apprehensive,” Killigrew said with surprising gloom to Nicholas on the sixth day, as they both watched the rehearsal from the pit.

Nick looked startled. “How so?”

“Beside her, the rest of the cast appear as inept and as unappealing as wooden dummies. This audience will not know how to react. I doubt they have been treated to such talent or such beauty before. If they do not recognize the quality, but only that she is different both from what they are accustomed to and from her fellows, they may well hiss her off the stage.”

“If there is any danger of that happening, Thomas, I’ll not permit her to perform tomorrow.” Nick spoke with finality. Polly was not going to be hurt in any way while he had a say in the matter.

Thomas smiled lazily. “How would you prevent her, my friend? I should dearly love to see you try.” Rising to his feet, he strolled to the foot of the stage. “Polly, you are playing that fan as if ’tis a wet fish! It is a part of you, to be used as expressively as you use your eyes or your voice. In this instance, you are expressing annoyance. Flick your wrist so that it falls open and then closed. Just so. Do it several times, each time sharper than the last.”

How would he prevent her? Nick shook his head ruefully, watching her as she discovered rapidly what Killigrew wanted, beginning, with obvious enjoyment, to add her own little touches. Of course he could not, short of locking her in her chamber. No, the performance must take place on the morrow. There would be some members of the audience who would know what they were seeing. Richard De Winter, Sir Peter, and Major Conway would be there, all as anxious as he to see how their protégée performed. Only then would they be truly able to judge whether their plan could succeed.

Nicholas knew that it could. He also knew that he did not want it to. What he did not know was how to reconcile those two facts with the promise he had made to his friends—a promise he was in honor bound to fulfill.

However, he had little time to dwell on his dilemma over the next twenty-four hours. Polly’s moods fluctuated wildly and without warning as the hour of her testing drew nearer. She progressed through snappish irritability to unbridled temper to complete withdrawal. Nick struggled for patience, even as he wondered how such an extraordinary change could have been wrought in his sunny-tempered, equable, mischievous mistress. She was as impervious to his caresses as she was to his annoyance. It was not until, in complete exasperation, his patience finally shredded, he strode to the door of the parlor saying that he would leave her to enjoy her bad temper in solitude that she returned to her senses.

“Nay, do not leave me alone, please, Nick!” She ran to him, seizing his arm. “I beg your pardon for being so horrid, but I am so dreadfully afeard! I am certain I will forget what to say, or trip over my skirt, or sit on the floor instead of the chair! And they will laugh and throw oranges at me!”

“No one will throw oranges at you,” he said in perfect truth. In Moorfields they favored tomatoes, but he did not add that. “Besides, you will have friends in the audience. You know that De Winter is promised, and Sir Peter, and the major. And I will be there—” He stopped, frowning, as the street knocker sounded from belowstairs. “Lord of hell! Who could that be at this hour?”

Polly ran to the window, peering down at the dark, rainy street. A lad with a lantern held a horse, which she immediately recognized as Richard’s. “Why, Lord De Winter is come.”

“A late visitor, I know.” Richard spoke from the doorway, shaking free his russet frieze riding cloak in a shower of raindrops. “But I have some news that I thought might be of sufficient interest to excuse my intrusion.”

“Come to the fire, Richard, and take some wine. No visit
from you could be termed intrusion.” Nicholas gestured hospitably as Polly took their guest’s coat and hat.

Richard smiled his thanks, while casting an appraising look at his hostess. He raised an interrogative eyebrow at Nicholas, whose returning grimace explained all. “You are not in best looks, Polly,” Richard said with customary directness. “You are perhaps apprehensive about the morrow?”

Polly turned from the table where she had been filling a goblet of Malaga for him. “Do you find it surprising, my lord, that I should be?” She was completely at her ease with De Winter, accepting him as Nick’s closest friend with a natural warmth and confidence.

He took the glass from her and shook his head. “On the contrary. But what I have to tell you may well ease your trepidation.” He paused. “Then again, it might worsen it. You shall be the judge.” He sipped his wine. “This is a good Malaga, Nick. My compliments.”

He reposed his long, elegant length in a carved oak chair and sipped his wine again. Polly clasped her hands in front of her, compressed her lips, and stood, a veritable monument of patience, until De Winter was quite overcome and could persist in his teasing no longer. “I was at court this evening. There was a dance in the queen’s apartments. A somewhat insipid affair,” he added, as if his audience would be interested in the judgment.

Nicholas smiled, throwing another log on the fire. “Polly, come here.” He patted his lap in invitation. “You look as taut as if you have received the attentions of a clock winder!”

De Winter waited until she was settled upon Nick’s knee, her head resting on his shoulder, his fingers twisting in the hair spilling over the warm mulberry wool of her nightgown. “The talk was mostly of some surprise that Master Killigrew is keeping up his sleeve. It is said that if one were to venture to the Nursery at Moorfields tomorrow afternoon—should one be prepared to mingle with such playgoers as one might find there—” Richard waved his cambric handkerchief through the air as if to dispel whatever noxious attributes might be found amongst such an audience”—one
might discover the surprise a little earlier than Thomas had intended.”

“Clever,” murmured Nick, mindful of the discussion when Killigrew had been afraid that a Moorfields audience would find Polly too rare a flower for their taste. If the theatre was filled with intrigued courtiers, who would most certainly respond with approval, those in the pit would either follow the courtiers’ lead, or their disapproval would be drowned. “And is there a move to discover this secret?”

“It appears so.” Richard smiled over his glass. “Even Davenant is anxious to see what is making his rival so smug. Buckingham has sworn to attend, and where the duke goes—”

“The world follows,” Nick concluded, swallowing his unease before it could raise more than a prickle on his spine. “The king also?”

“He cannot. The French ambassador has requested an audience, and Clarendon is being most persuasive that it should be granted. There is still hope for an alliance in the question of this damned Dutch war.”