Polly and the Prince (18 page)

He was the first man she had met who had actually encouraged her painting. She had had no fears that as her husband he would insist on her dropping her work to take care of family responsibilities. Of course, why should His Excellency, Prince Nikolai Mikhailovich Volkov, care whether an obscure Englishwoman gave her life to her art or to household duties? It made no possible difference to him.

His kindness in arranging the exhibition was doubtless simply a matter of
noblesse oblige,
of the obligation of the
aristocracy to
patronize the arts. Her hostility on discovering his identity had probably killed that patronage. She ought to have pretended she did not care, for the sake of her work.

But she did care. She had not wanted to marry him because of his support, but because she loved him.

The castle in Spain had crashed to the ground. Before her stood the palace in Brighton, waiting to be painted. She must not let her foolishness destroy her dedication. The sunset behind her bathed the pale Bath stone and white-painted domes in rosy light, glinting on windows. All was still; the
workmen had packed up their tools and departed to
their homes.

Polly scraped off the paint hardening on her palette and mixed a fresh batch. For half an hour she worked steadily, till the last of the pink tint had faded from the walls though the western sky was still streaked with crimson.

She was packing up her equipment when she saw a file of men moving through the dusk towards the Pavilion. There were six of them, four carrying small barrels on their shoulders. They seemed to be dodging stealthily from shadow to
shadow between the brick piles and bushes, heading towards the south end of the building. Polly watched them, puzzled by their odd behaviour.

As they disappeared into a group of trees, a cheerful whistle announced Nick’s arrival.

“You missed dinner,” he said by way of greeting.

“The light was just right. Look, Nick, do you see those men?” She pointed to where they were emerging from the trees.

“What about them?”

“They are behaving strangely. They have been sneaking up to the Pavilion as if they do not want to be seen.”

“It does look as if the one in front is scouting the way and the last man is guarding the rear. Do you think they are burglars?”

Polly tried to calm her brother’s excitement. “Surely not. Why would burglars be carrying barrels? I expect after all they are just delivering kegs of brandy or something. The kitchens are at that end of the building.”

“A wine merchant’s men wouldn’t be skulking in the bushes,” Nick said scornfully. “Come on, we’d best go see what they are up to.” He set off at a run.

After a brief hesitation, Polly followed at a more sober pace, abandoning her painting things. She could not leave Nick to investigate on his own, whether the men were on legitimate business or some sort of skulduggery.

Since Nick, like his quarry, dodged from cover to cover and she went straight towards the corner where the six had last been seen, they arrived at the same moment to see the rear guard sneak into the Pavilion by a small, inconspicuous door. Nick pulled her behind a bush as the man glanced round suspiciously before closing the door.

“I know him,” Polly said. “That is, I have seen him before. He owns one of the lodging houses on the other side of the Pavilion.”

Nick made a dash for the door. He put his ear against it, paused, then tried the handle. He beckoned urgently, and Polly joined him.

“We cannot go in!” she objected.

“Yes we can, it’s not locked. It’s our
duty
to find out if they
are burglars.” Forestalling further argument, Nick pushed the door open a crack, peered in, and slipped inside.

Decidedly uneasy, Polly went too.

They were in a narrow passage. From ahead came kitchen smells and the sound of voices. There was only one door onto the corridor, on their right.

“They must have gone through there,” Nick whispered, “or they would have been seen.”

“I expect they went straight ahead and delivered their barrels of flour to the cook,” said Polly hopefully, but Nick was already testing the nearby door. To Polly’s dismay it also was not locked.

An oil lamp hanging on the wall illuminated a flight of brick steps leading down into a wine cellar. The air was chilly. Rack after rack of bottles, some gleaming, some coated with dust, stood like silent sentinels in serried ranks.

“I told you it was brandy.”

“Sshh, they’re not in here. Come on.”

Polly was amazed at how softly Nick could move when he tried. They made their way past the wine racks till they came to a cleared aisle. To their right it led to a row of doors where the width of the cellar appeared to be partitioned into several rooms. To their left it led under brick arches into the dim distance.

“There!” breathed Nick, pointing.

For a moment a figure was clearly outlined against a pool of lamplight, before it vanished again into the shadows.

Creeping from arch to arch, they passed rows of hams hanging from the ceiling, huge tuns of ale that scented the air with hops, stacks of barrels marked Cognac and Madeira, and then a long stretch of black heaps of coal. Here and there stairs lit by lamps provided access to the unseen magnificence above their heads.

As they approached the far end of the cellar they
passed an extinguished lamp, and then the last one ahead of them winked out. Once again Polly was ready to turn back, but Nick grabbed her hand and tugged her after him into the darkness. She did not dare protest aloud.

A spot of light bobbed across a row of doors like those at the south end some four hundred feet behind them
,
reached the
last to the left and found the lock.

“Dark lantern,” Nick whispered.

A hand came out of the darkness with a large key, inserted it
in the hole, and turned. The lantern moved into the room. Against its faint glow they saw four silhouettes follow. A fifth stood in the doorway, his tense pose suggesting he was alert to
hear the slightest sound. Polly held her breath.

Moments later the lantern reappeared, the key once more clicked in the lock, and the six men came towards them. The barrels were gone.

Nick and Polly scurried back from the aisle and huddled behind a brick pier as they approached. They moved stealthily, in
single file, always keeping to the shadows. For several minutes after they passed, the watchers stayed in their hiding place.

“Bloody hell,” swore Nick softly. “How can we see what they
are up to when they locked the door?”

Polly refrained from reproving his language. “It must be something nefarious. Let us get out of here and go and tell someone.”

They slipped back the way they had come, staying well behind and out of sight of the villains. When they emerged into the corridor at
the top of the stairs, Polly turned towards the
kitchens.

“Where are you going?” Nick demanded. “It’s no use telling the
scullery maids. We must go and find Kolya.”

“Kolya! Oh no!” Despite her words, Polly followed him out into the night. The palest tinge of pink still remained in the
west, and she recalled her abandoned equipment. “I must fetch my easel.”

“All right, but then we’ll go to Kolya. I know you are upset because he’s a prince, though I’m dashed if I can see why, but he’s still
my
friend and he will know what to do.”

Kolya was not at his lodging. They went to the Pavilion’s main entrance and asked for him. The bewigged footman in his scarlet livery looked down his long nose at Polly’s paint smock and the coal dust on her hem and informed them in no uncertain terms that Mr. Volkov was not on the premises. When Nick tried to explain that they had seen men with barrels behaving in a suspicious manner in the cellars, he snorted and said, “Run along now, sonny, afore I calls a guard.”

As they
turned away, they heard him mutter to his fellow, “Barrels in the cellar, what next! Bats in the
belfry if you ask me.”

Disconsolate, they walked homeward under a rising moon. “I suppose we are making a mountain out of a molehill,” Polly said hesitantly.

“They were not behaving as if they had legitimate business there. Unless the king buys smuggled brandy and has it
sneaked into his private cellar.” Cheered by this thought, Nick resumed his jaunty whistling.

Polly wondered where Kolya had gone. Having seen the king he had completed his business in Brighton, she realised dejectedly. He had probably left town for good.

* * * *

As it
happened, Kolya had ridden up to Dean House shortly after Nick left to look for his sister. He wanted to see Polly. He had never seen her angry before, and it had shaken his confidence that she was coming to love him as much as he loved her. Though he had expected her to be vexed with him for concealing his identity, the depth of her resentment puzzled him. It had not seemed a good moment to try to explain his intentions, but surely she must have calmed down by now.

When Mrs. Borden announced that Miss Howard was not at
home, he assumed that she refused to see him. She needed more time
.
He
would not press her, but perhaps Lady Sylvia might put in a good word for him.

“
I
may speak to her ladyship?” he enquired. “For a few minutes only.”

He was ushered into Lady Sylvia’s sitting room. She greeted him with a worried look in her brown eyes.

“Good evening, Prince. Pray be seated.”

“I beg do not call me thus, ma’am. In England am Mr. Volkov. I hoped to see
Miss Howard but she is still angry, I think?”

“I fear Polly is convinced that you have been laughing at her all the time she has known you. In her eyes, your friendship was a mockery, a joke.”

“Joke! Ah no, was no joke.”

“She cannot believe that a genuine friendship is possible between a prince and a family with no claim to distinction.”

“
Is
no joke.” Kolya ran his fingers through his hair. “This I will prove to her. Even if she will not see
me, I must continue arrangements for exhibition. I will go to Loxwood to fetch paintings.”

“To...to Loxwood?” Lady Sylvia faltered, paling.

Kolya wondered at her emotion. “Ned will give me pictures for exhibition,” he said confidently. “You wish that I take message? Is more problem with your estate?”

“No. Yes. No.” She looked down at her twisting hands, her golden ringlets hiding her face. “I owe Mr. Howard an apology,” she blurted out. “I
cannot
write it, I must give it in person. Will you try to bring him back with you? Make some excuse. Tell him Polly needs him, or Nick.”

“I will say Polly is unhappy and wishes to see
matyushka—
her mother. Mrs. Howard will not travel without escort of Ned.”

Her ladyship brightened. “Oh yes. Tell her I hope she will stay here at Dean House, that everything shall be done to make her comfortable. Surely Ned cannot be so angry with me that he will not bring his mother here.”

Kolya hid a smile at her slip of the tongue. The use of Ned’s christian name confirmed the suspicion that more than a desire to apologize lay behind her urgency to see him.

“Ned is not one to bear a grudge,” he said.

“Nor is Polly,” she assured him eagerly. “I daresay by the time you return she will have forgotten she was miffed at you.”

“I trust you are correct, ma’am.” His spirits rose. “If I am lucky she will be planning a new picture and will have no thought for anything else. I ride tonight to Loxwood.”

He
bowed over her hand, promised to bring Ned back with him, and took his leave.

His borrowed steed was a sweet goer and he an expert horseman. In the moonlit night the miles fled swiftly beneath them. Nonetheless, by the time he reached Loxwood it was far too late for paying social calls. Kolya knew that he would be made welcome at the manor whatever the hour of his arrival, and he could see Ned in the morning. Impatient, he decided to ride past the Howards’ house on the off chance that Ned might be sitting up late.

A crack of light showed between the curtains of the office. Kolya dismounted and knocked on the open window.

“Ned,” he called softly.

“Who is there?” The curtains were flung back and Ned held up a candle. “Mr. Volkov! Is Polly ill? Or Nick?”

“No, no, my dear fellow. All is well. And what is this return to formality? Are we not friends?” He wanted to be sure of his ground before he revealed his title.

“Will you come in, Kolya?” Ned was slightly flushed. “I’ll open the
front door. I’m finished with my bookkeeping anyway. You had best stable your horse with Chipper.”

They rubbed down the horse in companionable silence, fed and watered him, then went into the house. Ned led the way to the sitting room and poured them each a glass of brandy.

“Za zdorovye.”
Kolya raised his glass in salute and sipped, feeling a pleasant lethargy steal over him.

“Your health.” Ned returned the toast. They chatted about Loxwood for a few minutes, then he topped up the glasses and said, “Don’t think you are not welcome, but I suppose you had a reason for your return and for calling at this hour?”

Until that moment Kolya had not been sure how much he
was going to tell his beloved’s brother. The brandy loosened his tongue, and he plunged straight in. “Polly is very angry with me.”

“Oh?” said Ned noncommittally. “Why is that?”

Kolya swallowed a strengthening draught. Unlike vodka, brandy was meant to be sipped, but it
went down very smoothly, and he followed it with some more before confessing, “Because she discovered I am a prince.”

“A what!” Ned too had recourse to his glass. Being unused to
swigging large quantities of spirituous liquors, he choked. His face scarlet, he gasped for air and tears started in his eyes. Kolya dashed to the kitchen and brought back a glass of water. Ned took it gratefully, quenched his burning throat, and demanded, “Did you say just now what I think you said?”

“I am a prince. My father is a prince. My mother is a princess, and my brothers and sisters are princes and princesses. In Russia are many princes.” He fortified himself once more, noticing that his companion was sipping again, with caution. Refilling their glasses he went on, “Polly is angry that I did not tell her.”