Venus (6 page)

“Lord of hell!” exclaimed his lordship. “Polly, stop bellowing for a minute; I cannot hear myself think.” The noise ceased with a suspicious immediacy, although the combing continued. “What is going on, pray?”

“I’ll not have her bringing lice into the house,” declared her ladyship tightly. “Her head is crawling with them.”

“It hurts!” Polly protested with a vigorous sniff. Matters were not proceeding at all according to her chosen plan, and at this point, she rather thought that life at the Dog tavern had a certain appeal.

“Then it must be cut off,” announced Margaret with ill-concealed satisfaction. “It is the devil’s vanity anyway.”

“No,” Nicholas said. “Devil’s vanity or no, sister, it is not to be cut. Why do you not send her to the hothouse? She may be bathed there and her hair washed.”

“Bath!” Polly stared at him in horror. He could not surely expect her to immerse her entire body in hot water. “All of me? No, I will not. It is dangerous.” Infinitely more dangerous than life at the Dog tavern!

“It will not kill you,” Nicholas said with an effort at patience. “Have you never bathed before?”

Polly shook her head. Prue washed her hair for her when it became too itchy, and she occasionally took a damp rag to her body, but she could never really see the point; a little dirt hurt no one.

“This is hardly an appropriate matter for you, brother,” Lady Margaret said. “You may safely leave it in my hands.”

Polly instantly began to wail again, the soft, sensuous mouth quivering pitiably, her eyes fixed on Kincaid so that he thought he would drown in their liquescent green-brown depths. There was no resisting that appeal even though he was convinced that her distress was in some degree feigned.

“Stop that noise,” he said softly. “You are not going to be hurt. I will take you myself.”

“Brother! You cannot do such a thing.” Margaret, in her outrage, forgot the unseemliness of a brangle with her brother in front of the servants.

“May I not?” He lifted an incredulous eyebrow. “I think I may be the judge of that, Margaret.” He turned to Susan. “You will accompany us. We shall stop at the Exchange for clothes on our way. You will know what to purchase that will be appropriate, and then you may assist Polly in the bathhouse.”

Susan cast an anxious look at her mistress, uncertain whether obedience to the master’s commands would be construed as disobedience to the mistress. But Margaret knew when she was defeated, just as she knew that further protest would simply make her look ridiculous.

“If you wish to burden yourself with such a task, brother, far be it from me to object. Susan will know what clothes I consider suitable for a girl in that position.” Casting Polly a look of loathing, she swept out of the kitchen.

“Tom, have the carriage brought around,” Nicholas instructed the footboy. “Susan, find a cloak or some such to cover that smock; and some pattens for her feet.” He also left the kitchen, well aware that his intervention had done Polly no good with Margaret, but confusingly unsure what else he
could have done. It should have been simple enough to leave women’s work to the women, but when Polly had looked at him in that manner, he had become as putty. Now, instead of spending his morning at Whitehall in the leisured pursuits of a courtier, he was going to drive around the city with two maidservants, buying stuff gowns and petticoats, and encouraging one recalcitrant, lice-infested wench into the hothouse!

“Lord love us!” Susan ejaculated, once the kitchen was returned to the sole use of its accustomed occupants. She regarded Polly with awed interest. “What you done for ’is lordship, then? ’E never goes against her ladyship, never.” She nudged Polly with a salacious grin. “Given ’im a bit o’ the other, ’ave ya? Aren’t ye the lucky one, takin’ ’is fancy like that!”

Polly frowned, thinking of last night and his refusal of the offer of her body. “I don’t think I have taken his fancy,” she replied honestly, not a whit put out by the girl’s manner or a conclusion that she could see would be the only reasonable one. She was perfectly at home in the kitchen; which, in all its essentials, except for the extraordinary degree of cleanliness, resembled her usual haunts, and perfectly at ease with Lord Kincaid’s servants for much the same reasons. “I did save his life, though,” she confided, her frown clearing at this happy truth. Just in time, she stopped herself from continuing blithely that in exchange he had promised to help her with her life’s ambition. It would take a much less astute mind than Polly’s to have missed the significance of Lady Margaret’s dress and bearing and pronouncements on the devil’s vanities. She was in the house of a Puritan.

She had scrambled into adulthood in a land ruled by the Lord Protector, where all forms of entertainment and gaiety were forbidden as the devil’s work. Color and adornment in dress were held sinful vanities, punishable by stocks and pillory. Only in the last five years, since Charles II had been brought triumphantly from exile, had the Puritan rule lost its sway. Indeed, the pendulum had swung to the opposite extreme, and there was little extravagance in dress or behavior
that was now considered impermissible. It was a matter of some interest, she reflected, that his lordship, whose dress and bearing bore ample witness to his allegiance to the courtly norms, should share houseroom with such a stickler for the sober and divine. But then, kin had claims upon kin, and not since the reign of Henry VIII had there been anything unusual in two members of the same family holding opposing views on the manner in which the worship of God should be conducted. The present rule of the land was much more tolerant of differences in religious conviction and lifestyle than the Lord Protector’s.

Polly dismissed the matter as being of little importance and turned her attention to the immediate issue—that of a visit to the hothouse. The gentleman—she still could not think of him in any other way—had told her last night that she would be required to do certain things that she would not wish to do, but that it was all part of some plan that would enable her to achieve her object. If immersing herself in hot water would draw her closer to her goal, then she supposed she would have to submit. At least she would do so in friendly company.

“’ow d’ye save his life, then?” asked Susan, rummaging in a cupboard. “’Ere, these’ll do you.” She handed her a pair of wooden pattens. “Ye’d best borrow Bridget’s cloak, for I’ll have need of mine.”

“Carriage is ’ere!” Tom appeared breathless in the door. “’is lordship’s coolin’ ’is heels abovestairs, and bids ye both come straightway.”

Polly smiled her thanks as she took the cloak of coarse homespun handed her by the cook. The smile, did she but know it, did much to reconcile Bridget to the loan of such a precious garment.

“We must make haste.” Susan pranced in the doorway, in her anxiety and excitement quite forgetting that she had not received an answer to her question.

Nicholas, while he was resigned to the task ahead, was also regretting his impulse until Polly appeared, wrapped in the ample folds of the cook’s cloak. She turned the full sun of
that glorious countenance upon him and smiled—a smile that carried a hint of shyness behind its gratitude. He ceased to regret the impulse, accepting that it had been as inevitable as the sunrise. Clean, groomed, not at a disadvantage, who would she not entrance? He would welcome De Winter’s second opinion, and such an opinion would only be hastened by the speedy performance of the business in hand.

“Come.” He gestured to the open front door, where the carriage waited, set his plumed hat upon his head, and followed the pair. “Susan, you may ride upon the box.”

Susan climbed up to sit beside the coachman, very much wishing that she could have exchanged a glance with Polly. The sedate Kincaid household had achieved a most lively addition, one who was like to create a fair number of sparks if she continued to bask in the favor of my lord and the disfavor of my lady.

“The Royal Exchange,” Kincaid instructed the coachman, before climbing into the carriage behind Polly, who took her seat, patting the leather squabs with an appreciative hand. This carriage was a far cry from the hackney of the previous evening.

“It is a most elegant coach, sir,” she said politely. Her gaze ran approvingly over his attire as he sat opposite her, adroitly swinging his sword to one side so that it would not catch between his legs. “And you are a most proper gentleman, my lord.”

Nicholas’s lips twitched, but he accepted the compliment with a gracious bow of his head.

“You were not quite so magnificent last night,” Polly continued, as if apologizing for not having complimented her companion earlier.

“One dresses rather differently when one is intending to visit the court from when one is frequenting a wharfside tavern,” he explained solemnly.

“I imagine so,” agreed Polly, frowning. “But I do not understand why you would wish to frequent a wharfside tavern when you can go to court or … or even to the playhouse.”

“Have you ever been to the play?” Nicholas asked curiously, hoping to take her mind off her question… Her eyes glowed as she shook her head. “Not to a real playhouse, no; but Twelfth Night four years ago, a troupe of strolling players came to the Dog tavern and put on an entertainment to pay for their cakes and ale. It was wonderful!” The glow deepened as she seemed to be looking into another world. “The costumes and the dancing. They let me take part a little and said I had some talent.” She shot him an almost defiant look as if daring him to contradict her. “They would have taken me with them, only Josh overheard me asking; so I got his belt instead.” She shrugged, cheerfully insouciant. “But I am going to be a good actor.”

“That would not surprise me in the least,” he said mildly, and Polly looked instantly gratified. “I have witnessed a fair number of your performances since last evening.”

There was something in his tone that took a little of the gilt from the statement, but the carriage at this point came to a halt, and Polly, pulling aside the leather curtain, gazed upon the riotous bustle of the Royal Exchange, where stall keepers jostled for custom, calling out their wares to prospective shoppers, maids and mistresses, gentlemen and loungers, who picked over the merchandise and haggled over the prices.

Polly had her hand on the door latch, ready to leap to the ground, when his lordship spoke with soft determination behind her. “Nay, you must stay in the carriage. You cannot possibly show yourself in public in such undress.”

Her face fell ludicrously, all the glow and sparkle fading from those great eyes. “But I have never before seen such a place. I will pull the cloak around me—”

“Nay!” he repeated, sharply this time. “It is freezing outside. You exposed yourself to the elements sufficiently last evening.” Stepping past her, he sprang lightly to the ground, where Susan already stood in attendance. He closed the carriage door firmly, then, although he knew it to be a mistake, glanced upward. Polly looked at him through the window, as pathetic as any prisoner, as appealing as a drooping violet
after a rainstorm. Kincaid sighed. “If you promise not to set the hothouse on its heels with your wailing, we will stop here on the way back, and you may explore to your heart’s content.”

The violet lifted its head to the sun, unfurling its radiance. Her mouth curved in that devastating smile as she propped her elbows on the edge of the window and settled down to observe the scene from shelter. Kincaid, completely bewitched, shook his head helplessly.

“Come, Susan, let us deal with this matter without delay.” He strode off with the maidservant in tow.

When they returned within half an hour, Susan was lost behind the number of packages heaped in her arms. But when the coachman relieved her of her burdens, thus revealing her face, her expression was one of shock. When the mistress shopped, particularly for her servants, every item was subject to careful consideration, a weighing up of necessity against cost. The materials were all to be sturdy and hard-wearing, coarse and without frills or furbelows, and only the strictest necessities were purchased. His lordship, while bearing in mind that a servant in his sister-in-law’s house must be clad only in the most sober, modest garments, had bought a petticoat and smock of the finest Holland, a kirtle of warm, fine wool, and a plain dark gown of a mixture of wool and silk. There was a thick serge cloak with a fur-trimmed hood, and a pair of leather gloves. Two pairs of woolen hose, a pair of leather pumps, and a pair of cork-soled pantofles to wear over the pumps in inclement weather completed a wardrobe that would enrage Lady Margaret by a quality and scope that was most definitely unsuited to the status of a kitchen maid.

“Lor!” murmured Susan, climbing back on the box. “There’ll be fireworks when the mistress sees that lot.” She regaled the fascinated coachman with a full account of the purchases as they bowled along to the hothouse.

Their arrival at this building caused Polly to assume the mien of one about to ascend the scaffold. She stepped hesitantly out of the coach into the courtyard and stood still,
clinging to the door handle. The vehicle, bearing the Kincaid arms upon its panels, brought the establishment’s proprietor hustling across the cobbles, calling over his shoulder to have one of the privy chambers prepared for his lordship. When informed that his customer was not, on this occasion, to be his lordship, but, instead, the tumbled, begrimed girl at his lordship’s side, he rapidly revised these instructions. The common baths in the female wing would do perfectly well. Only the gentry were entitled to privacy.

He was required to revise his plans yet again when he received his lordship’s orders, and a more than generous payment. There was to be privacy, a limitless supply of hot water, plentiful towels, whatever assistance was requested for however long the ablutions should take.

The proprietor glanced at the wench again, deciding that it was going to be a long and tedious task. Why was his lordship concerning himself with the cleanliness of this street drab? Then the girl looked up at him, and he understood why. God’s grace! But where had he found such a pearl? She was in sore need of cleaning up, though, even if one was not particularly fastidious.