Polly and the Prince (22 page)

“My lip is sealed.” He cast about for a polite way to change the subject. Impatience won. “Polly is coming?”

Ned’s joyful expression turned to
embarrassment. “She...er...my mother has advised her to keep to her
chamber today.”

“She is not well?” Kolya asked anxiously. “In the
cellar was cold.”

“Nothing to worry about, she’s just tired.”

Ned looked uncomfortable and would not meet his eye. Kolya’s eagerness to assure Polly that he would never do anything to thwart her career began to fade. He had not been pleased, last night, when Lady Conyngham had attempted to force Polly to wed him. That was not how he wanted her to come to him. Nonetheless, he had thought that he had only to assure her of his commitment to supporting her work for her to withdraw her objection.

He had high hopes that the king’s reward would be sufficiently generous to allow him to take a wife. After all, the
tsar often rewarded his favourites with land and serfs. Ready to ask for her
hand in exchange for the heart she had long possessed, he was now forced to face the possibility that
her outcry in the king’s library was a mere excuse.

Her protest that she was a dedicated artist had simply been the denial that first came to mind. If Ned’s discomfort now meant anything, it meant that she really didn’t want to
marry him.

“Ponimayu,”
he
said, the English words washed from him by a wave of coldness more chilling than the bitterest St Petersburg winter because it began in his heart. “I understand. Please convey best wishes for swift recovery.” He recalled the other reason for his visit—how unimportant it seemed now! But he would not let her down. “I must take to
Mr. Lay the pictures we brought from Loxwood. Is necessary to frame before can be hung.”

“Of course.” Ned was only too anxious to be of service. “I believe the crates were carried into the coach house. I’ll take you there.”

Old Dick helped them load the boxes into Kolya’s borrowed carriage. His Russian soul filled with gloom, he drove towards the Steyne.

In his back room, Mr. Lay pulled the paintings from the crates one at a time with squeaks of delight. “Splendid. Oh, first rate. Simply bang-up, my dear sir. Or should I say, Your Highness.”

“No, you should not,” said Kolya, annoyed to find that word of his title had apparently spread throughout the town. Despite his misery, he could not forebear teasing. “Correct address is
‘prevoskhoditelstvo.’”

“I beg pardon, I’m sure, presoveeto.” The printseller grimaced as he attempted to twist his tongue around the Russian word.

“Please—it translates as excellency, but here I am plain Mr. Volkov.”

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir.” He breathed a sigh of relief. “Well, Mr. Volkov, I’m sure the exhibition’s going to be a grand success. The lady can expect to sell most all of these, I’d say. I daresay, though, that some are not for sale. If you’d just be so good as to point out to me which belong to other people and which Miss Howard wishes to keep, I’ll be sure to mark ‘em.”

Kolya gazed around at the pictures leaning against the walls. “These have been lent by Lady Sylvia Ellingham,” he said, pointing at the
child on the Pantiles and a portrait of Winnie and Annette on the swing. “This panorama of Brighton—you sold it, I think.”

“Aye, and right glad Dr. Ogilvy is to have it hung in a Royal Exhibition, I can tell you.”

“As for the others,” he shrugged, and suddenly his spirits rose, “I cannot tell. Must ask Miss Howard.” There was his excuse to see her again!

As he returned the carriage to its owner, Kolya’s unquenchable optimism revived. He remembered Polly’s reaction to his touch, unmistakable even in the pitch dark. If her hand had not alighted on his icon, reminding him of his mother, there was no knowing how far he might have gone. Almost he wished he had taken advantage of that warm, soft, compliant body, had seduced her on the spot—that would have settled her doubts.

But perhaps his fearless Polly was afraid of succumbing to her own feelings. Perhaps, though it seemed impossible to him, she was unsure of his intentions. He had told Ned he wanted to marry her, but Ned had been drunk and in any case would probably not have informed his sister.

Kolya looked back over their relationship. To him it had been a straightforward process of falling in love. To Polly had come shock after shock. In a few short weeks the labourer she had met
in the street had become first a gentleman and then a nobleman. It might be better, he thought, to start again from the beginning.

He would woo her slowly and gently until she was unable to hide from herself any longer that she loved him.

* * * *

After returning the carriage, Kolya walked to the Pavilion. The talk was all of yesterday’s decision by the Privy Council to deny the queen her crown. Already the
king had set the date of his coronation, the nineteenth of July. As he had spent months planning it, little remained to be done and he would not leave for London until next Monday.

Next Monday, Kolya realised, was the ninth, the day Polly’s exhibition opened. He went to find Lady Conyngham to try to persuade her not to set out until she had called at Mr. Lay’s shop.

“But of course, dear Prince,” she gushed. “I assure you, His Majesty intends to make a detour to visit Miss Howard’s exhibition on his way out of Brighton. He is mindful of how much he owes the
two of you.”

“King himself will come?
Chudesno!
I thank you from the heart, my lady.”

“
I
trust you mean well by that young woman,” she chided, diamonds flashing as she shook her plump finger at him. “I daresay a certain amount of eccentricity is permissible in an artist, but God grants no licence to disobey the
rules of morality.”

Kolya managed to hide his disgust from the pious “vice-queen.” “Miss Howard’s virtue is safe, ma’am.”

“I am glad to hear it. His Majesty is still pondering how best to reward you, and I should not like to think that he was encouraging impropriety.”

How dare Lady Conyngham cast aspersions on his Polly’s virtue! Though the general opinion was that King George’s age, girth, and state of health made it unlikely that the woman was actually his mistress, their relationship was far from innocent. She might read sermons with His Majesty in public, but the pair was not infrequently closeted together in private. Nor was shared piety sufficient to explain the jewels he lavished on her.

Until now, Kolya had regarded her hypocrisy and avarice with
the amused tolerance he
felt towards most human foibles. He must continue to “turn her up sweet,” in the splendid English idiom, for Polly’s success might depend on her bringing the king to the
exhibition. Her favour or disfavour could also influence the munificence of their rewards.

Not for nothing had Kolya been a courtier as well as a soldier for the past decade. With a few flattering words and expressions of gratitude, he left Lady Conyngham very much in charity with him.

* * * *

The next morning he went again to Dean House. Mrs. Borden reported that
Miss Polly had gone to
paint on the downs, Mr. Howard and Master Nick were out, and Lady Sylvia and Mrs. Howard were in the schoolroom, giving Miss Nettie and Miss Winnie their lessons.

Miss
Nettie
and Miss Winnie their lessons.

Regretfully, Kolya decided not to go after Polly. The housekeeper sent a maid to enquire whether her ladyship could receive him, and he was invited to go up to
the schoolroom.

As he walked through the door, Winnie jumped down from her chair and ran to hang on his arm.
“
Mr.
Howard’s going to
be our papa,” she informed
him excitedly. “Mine and Nettie’s.”

He congratulated her and her sister, wished Lady Sylvia happy, and agreed with Mrs. Howard on her good fortune in acquiring so delightful a daughter.

“I hoped to see your other daughter, ma’am,” he went on, and explained that Mr. Lay needed Polly’s decision about which pictures were for sale and at what price. “As soon as possible,” he added. He intended to haunt Mr. Lay’s shop until he came face to face with her, quite by accident of course, and he wanted to see her
soon.

“
Oh dear, she is gone out painting. I shall have to send Nick to fetch her.”

“I understand Nick is not at home.”

“He will be back. If there is one thing certain in this world,” said his mother resignedly, “it’s that Nick will come home for luncheon.”

Chapter 19

“But that is one of the pictures the king bought,” said Polly, spotting the cherry blossom.

“Indeed it is, Miss Howard.” The plump printseller rubbed his hands together, beaming. “His Majesty graciously sent it over with a request that it be hung prominently with his name as the
owner.”

“How very obliging,” whispered Mrs. Howard, awed.

“Pray do the
same with mine,” Sylvia requested. “Make sure it is plain that they belong to Lady Sylvia Ellingham.”

“Certainly, my lady.” A bell tinkled in the other room as the
street door opened. “Excuse me, ladies, a customer.” He bustled out.

Polly continued to look through the canvases, feeling overwhelmed. To be sure the king was obliging, but how
much more so was Kolya. None of this would have happened if he had not made it his business to bring it about. Surely such kindness must indicate a warmer feeling than mere friendship? But no, she remembered that even Ned had remarked on his willingness to help a fallen child or an old woman with a heavy basket. And she remembered the look of dismay on his face when Lady Conyngham had said they must marry.

With a start, she realised that that was
his
voice in the next room. What was she going to say if he should come through and speak to
her? She strained to hear his words but only the Russian intonation was plain.

Bending her head, she concentrated on the pictures, setting aside those she wanted to keep. There was Kolya’s portrait. It would be hen-witted not to sell that, to have it always near her, reminding her of his laughing eyes. Yet she could not bear to part with it. She picked it up, and saw the tag—not for sale.

Her mother and Lady Sylvia watched in astonishment as she rushed into the front room.

“Why is this already marked?” she demanded, doing her best to keep her gaze on Mr. Lay and away from Kolya.

It
was he who answered, though. “You gave to
me. I wish to keep.”

She had to look at him, but she refused to tell him she wanted it herself. “Why?” she asked. Those slanting hazel eyes were grave, giving her a peculiar feeling that he was trying to
see into her mind.

“To remind me of the so pleasant days at Loxwood, Miss Howard. When I look at it, I see the
artist.”

Oh, but his eyes were laughing now! Probably he was recalling her forgetfulness of time and place, she thought in indignation, and picturing her in her smock with paint on her nose. It was maddening when this afternoon, for once, she was perfectly respectably dressed, in a new gown of midnight blue cambric adorned with amber satin ribbons. She even had a matching spencer of blue and amber striped soie de Londres and a Leghorn hat with matching bows and roses. She certainly hoped he didn’t suppose she was wearing them on the off chance of meeting him.

“I did give it to you,” she acknowledged reluctantly.

“I wish to commission another portrait, for my mother. You will paint?”

A refusal hovered on her lips. It would be too painful to spend so much time with him. Then she thought of his mother, thousands of miles away, never to see her son again. For all she was a princess, she was also Kolya’s—
matyushka,
was that the word? How she must miss him! A portrait might ease the aching loss a little.

“Very well.”

His face lit, and for a moment Polly forgot her feelings and saw with an artist’s eye the features she had longed to paint again. She looked down at the portrait in her hands, back at its subject. Perhaps three-quarter profile this time? She reached out and took his chin between finger and thumb. “Turn a little to the left, if you please. That’s it. Where’s my sketch book?”

He laughed. Blushing furiously, she muttered, “Come tomorrow morning,” and fled back to the
exhibition room.

Perhaps the confusion she
displayed at his teasing laughter troubled him, for when he came the next day he was solemn. He treated her as he did Lady Sylvia, with gentle courtesy and consideration, as if she were no more than an acquaintance. It should have pleased her, since she had determined to be utterly businesslike about the portrait, but instead it left her forlorn.

He must be relieved at her rejection of Lady Conyngham’s insistence on marriage, she thought. His mantle of aloofness was intended to remind her of the
distance between them. She was afraid that her stupid embarrassment in the print shop had revealed to him at least a hint of her feelings.

She strove to conceal her love, to
see his face as nothing but a collection of planes and angles, highlights and shadows. Her sketches came out wooden.

That night, in the privacy of her chamber, she tore them all to shreds. Taking a prepared canvas, she drew him from memory, letting love inform every pencil stroke. Tomorrow she would paint for as many hours as he would pose, and Sunday, too, if necessary, losing herself in her work. On Monday, after the
opening day of the exhibition, she would give him his portrait and then go home to Loxwood. Soon the whole family would be moving to Westcombe with Ned and Sylvia, and she need never see Kolya’s beloved, tormenting face again.

* * * *

Good resolutions were all very well, but what was Polly to do when the wretched man turned up with a huge bouquet of roses? Pink, yellow, white, deep crimson, they perfumed the entire house.

“I stole from the Pavilion garden,” he confessed with his impish grin, his eyes alight with mischief.

“I suppose the
head gardener is one of your bosom bows,” she responded tartly, burying her face in the sweet-scented petals. He had even wrapped the stems in a length of cloth to protect her
hands from the
thorns.