Venus (41 page)

Polly had thought it the most famous jest that Richard De Winter, elegant, aloof Richard, should have been chosen for this role, but she realized rapidly how clever a move it had been. It was the Lord’s task to keep the wildness from becoming out of hand, and De Winter enforced his discipline by fixing sconces, or penalties, of wickedly witty appropriateness, so that the miscreant, in paying his forfeit, would provide lavish entertainment for the assembled company. A sullen look, an unkind remark, the bringing of dissension, were punished instantly, as was horseplay that crossed the boundary of play. To be accused as a spoilsport of either kind meant the ordeal of firecrackers and squibs, and while the company might split its sides laughing at the antics of the offender, leaping and dancing as the fiery things tied to his heels and hems exploded, the delinquent was unlikely to repeat his offense.

Polly, who had the misfortune to hiccup with laughter in the midst of some exaggeratedly dignified speech of the Lord of Misrule, was required for her insolence to walk upon her hands for the length of the state room. Fortunately, her costume for that evening permitted her to perform the gymnastic feat without loss of modesty. She was dressed as a grimy street urchin, in tattered breeches and torn shirt, soot smudges on her cheeks, her hair hidden beneath a ragged cap. Not a costume that detracted from her beauty in the least, Kincaid reflected, watching her progress between the lines of cheering revelers. The cap fell off, and her hair tumbled loose over her face, but she completed the walk nevertheless, flipping her legs over her head at the end to land neatly on her feet, brushing her hair away from her face,
flushed with the upside-down exertion, as unselfconscious as if she had performed for them upon the stage at Drury Lane.

“How did you know she could accomplish such an exercise?” Nick asked Richard, standing beside him.

“An accurate surmise,” said the other, laughing. He glanced at his companion, who was looking in soft amusement at the antics of his mistress. “What d’ye intend, Nick? Now that the business with Buckingham is over.”

“About Polly?” Nick’s smile broadened. “There’s no hurry, Richard. She is happy with matters as they are. I’ll not lay the burdens of wife and motherhood upon her just yet. I’d have her enjoy some playtime first. She’s had little enough in her life … not even a birthday present, Richard—” He broke off abruptly as the subject under discussion came prancing over to them.

“Am I granted absolution, my Lord of Misrule?” Polly bowed before Richard, cap in hand.

“You have done your penance,” he said solemnly, tapping her shoulder lightly with his black rod of office. “But have a care, lest you offend again.”

The musicians, who had played a march tune during Polly’s gymnastics, struck up a galliard. Polly, despite her incongruous costume, was whisked away into the stately line. Taking advantage of this peaceful interlude in the generally riotous proceedings, the two men turned their backs on the room.

All softness and amusement had gone from Kincaid’s expression now. “D’ye mark it, Richard?” he said quietly. “There is a most noticeable coolness. It has been building these last weeks, and now he barely accords me a nod in return for a bow.”

“Aye,” Richard replied in the same low voice. “I mark it well. Can you think of a reason for it?”

“I have racked my brains, man, but can come up with nothing. I wondered if, perhaps, ’twas Polly. His Majesty would have her in his bed and chooses this manner to tell me to withdraw. But that is not his way. All his mistresses have husbands or keepers; ’tis useful, is it not, to have someone
available to acknowledge as his own any royal bastards?” This last was said with a cynical twist of his lips, and received a simple nod of agreement from his friend.

“Our sovereign is a man of moods,” Richard said. “Mayhap this will pass as quickly as it came.”

“It’s to be hoped so,” Nick said somberly. “Else I fear to receive my conge without ceremony. Say nothing of this to Polly. I’d not spoil her present pleasure for the world.”

“No indeed,” Richard agreed, turning back to the room. “’Twould be the act of a rogue to do so. Such unaffected delight is a gift to all.”

Polly’s own gifts this Christmas numbered twelve as her true love followed the old carol. Each morning she found upon her pillow some new delight. There was a saddle of tooled Spanish leather, then boots to match; a little locket of mother-of-pearl; inlaid combs and lace ruffles; and one morning, a tortoiseshell kitten with a blue satin ribbon around its neck.

“She is called Annie,” Nick said, propping himself on one elbow beside her, enjoying every nuance of expression on the mobile face. “With care, she should not become so dirty that she will have to be thrown away.”

“Oh, I love you!” Polly declared, hugging him fiercely.

“And I you.” He stroked the rich honeyed mass tumbling over his chest, looking beyond her head into the middle distance. From somewhere the storm clouds were gathering, and for the life of him, he could not grasp a thread of explanation.

“What is it?” Polly felt his sudden tension in the stroking hand on her head, in the broad chest against her cheek. She sat up.

Nick smiled and put aside his foreboding; there was nothing he could do until he knew what he was facing. “What could possibly be the matter? Let us go riding.”

By the end of January, Polly was once more ensconced with the Bensons in Drury Lane, the court was back at Whitehall,
Parliament at Westminster, and the decimated capital began to pull itself back together. There were still cases of the plague, but the recovery rate was now much higher than that of the fatalities, and the populace ceased to fear; and ceased to observe even the most minimal precautions. As a result, the scourge retained the sting in its tail.

The Theatre Royal opened again. Thomas Killigrew assembled his scattered company, setting to with a will to entrance the play going public.

Polly was once more absorbed in the magic of the theatre. The Duke of Buckingham became as he had once been, just a member of the audience and a courtier she would avoid when at Whitehall. So busy and involved was she that she had little time for Susan’s gloominess, and quite failed to notice Nick’s increasing distraction. Until both were brought forcibly to her notice.

“Just what is the matter with Susan?” Nick demanded with unusual irritability as the parlor door banged on the departure of a red-eyed Sue. “She has had a permanent cold in the head since we returned from Wilton.”

“Oh, I meant to talk to you about that!” Guiltily, Polly clapped her hand to her mouth. “It is just that Thomas is being so pernickety, and Edward wants to play a scene differently, and Thomas says he can go and play for Sir William Davenant in that case, and—”

“Yes, I do not need a recitation of all the trials and tribulations at the playhouse,” Nick interrupted, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “What is amiss with Susan?”

Polly, swallowing an indignant retort at this impatient response, looked at Nick carefully. His face was drawn and haggard, the emerald eyes somehow dulled, sunken in the hollows of his face. It occurred to her, with a wash of remorse, that she had been so full of her own activities in the last two weeks that she had asked him nothing about his own concerns. He was frequently in conference with Richard, and sometimes she would come into the room and have the unmistakable impression that they had abruptly switched the subject on her arrival. But she had simply dismissed the
vague puzzle, assuming they would share the confidence when they chose.

“Are you ailing, love?” she asked now, coming over to him, stroking his face with a fingertip. A note of fear tinged her voice as she thought of the plague, but Nick shook his head.

“I am quite well; just fatigued. What is it with Susan?”

She bit her lip, not willing to be so easily dismissed. But perhaps Nick did not want to be pressed, and to do so would simply increase his weariness. She turned to the sideboard, pouring him a glass of wine, wishing that she had thought to mix him a bowl of the punch which she knew well he enjoyed on these cold, inhospitable nights.

“Come feel the fire,” she said softly, taking his hand, encouraging him to the hearth warmth. She pushed him into an elbow chair, then sat at his feet, resting her head against his knees. “Sue is sore afflicted, my lord.”

The amusement in her voice told him that he need not react to this as to tragedy. He ran his hands through the bright locks pouring like molten honey over his knees. “Enlighten me, pray.”

“Why, ’tis Cupid’s dart,” Polly said solemnly. “Did you not mark Oliver at Wilton?”

Nick thought. “I do not think that I did,” he said.

“He is a footman, and most comely,” Polly went on. “And Sue is smitten with Oliver and Oliver is smitten with Sue. So you see, ’tis not at all convenient for the one to be here and t’other in Wiltshire.”

“No, I can see that it is not at all convenient,” Nick agreed. “It could well cause a permanent cold in the head. Well, what’s to be done?”

“It seems that Oliver is only an underfootman at present and cannot begin to think of marrying; but what he really would like is to be a gamekeeper in a little cottage, and Sue could have a tribe of babies, which would suit her very well—”

“Just a minute.” Nick tugged on a strand of hair to bring
this vision of domestic bliss to a conclusion. “How is this ambition to be achieved?”

“Well, I do not see how it can be if you do not take a hand.” Polly turned ’round, kneeling up to rest her elbows on his lap. “I have been meaning to bring it up this age, but—”

“You have been somewhat occupied,” Nick finished for her.

“And you have been somewhat distracted,” Polly said quietly, examining his face with grave attention. “What is troubling you, Nick?”

“Nothing of any moment.” He shrugged. “To return to Sue and her headcold; in what fashion am I to take a hand?”

“It is obvious, is it not? You must employ Oliver as a gamekeeper on your estate in Yorkshire. Then they may marry and live happy ever after.”

Nick scratched his nose thoughtfully. “Yorkshire is a very long and arduous journey away. ’Tis a very different life from the one to which they are accustomed. Would you really be doing them a favor? Mayhap Oliver can find such work in Wiltshire. It is a softer life, and not so far removed from London for Susan.”

“You will not help, then?” Polly sounded as disappointed as she looked, and more than a little surprised.

“I did not say that. I suggest that you think about it, and consult further with Sue before we make any decisions.”

“But if she thinks it a good idea, you will agree?”

“I will write to my steward to see what work and accommodation are available,” he promised. “But do not be in such a hurry, moppet. You are not so anxious to lose Susan, are you?”

“No, of course not. I shall miss her most dreadfully. But I cannot be so selfish as to hinder her happiness for such a reason.”

Nick smiled at her very clear indignation at such an implication. He pinched her nose. “Your pardon, madame; I did not mean to cast aspersions on your character.”

Polly’s chuckle was swallowed in a yawn. Nicholas stood
up, drawing her up with him. “’Tis past your bedtime, sweetheart. And I must away.”

“You will not stay?” She looked at him in that same searching way, but could see nothing more than weariness. “Where must you go at this time of the night?”

“To Sir Peter’s. There are some matters we must discuss.” He reached for his cloak. “But if it is not too late, I will come here afterward. Although I’d not wish to wake you.”

“Then I cannot imagine what point there would be.” Polly pouted in mock vexation, receiving an ungentlemanly swat for her pains. She skipped to the door and opened it for him. “Begone, sir. The sooner you are about your business, the sooner will it be done, and you may return.”

Nick pulled on his gloves, picked up his rapier stick, and turned up the fur collar of his cloak against the January winds. “I had better find you asleep on my return.” Tilting her chin with a gloved finger, he kissed her closed mouth, lingering on its soft, pliant sweetness for long minutes before reluctantly releasing her.

Polly stood at the head of the stairs, shivering at the cold blast of icy air as he opened the street door. Then it had closed behind him, and the draft set the fire in the parlor spurting orange. She went over to the warmth, hugging her arms across her breast, a small frown buckling her forehead. Whatever Nick might say, something was causing him powerful worry. Yet if he would not confide in her, how could she help him?

She sighed, staring down into the fire as if, within its constantly shifting pattern, she would see answers. But the pictures formed and dissolved, offering no enlightenment. Turning her attention to a matter in which she could be helpful, she strode to the door.

“Sue! Sue, are ye busy?”

The girl appeared from the kitchen quarters, coming to the foot of the stairs. “D’ye need summat?” she asked apathetically.

“Only some company,” Polly coaxed. “I have some news that might cheer you. And there’s chestnuts we can roast.”

Susan, looking as if she could not imagine being cheered by such offerings, came up to the parlor. “’is lordship gone out, then?”

“Aye, some business he had to attend to. But pray listen, Sue. I have talked to him about you and Oliver, and guess what he has said.” Eagerly, Polly expounded her plan and the positive part of Nick’s reaction. She could see no reason to depress Sue further by explicating possible drawbacks to the scheme.

“D’ye think he really means it?” Susan breathed, all evidence of tears vanished. “Why, t’would be the most wonderful thing.” Reaching into the coals, she hitched out a glowing, ashy chestnut, dropping it abruptly onto the hearth, licking her singed fingers.

“But Yorkshire’s a mighty long way.” Polly decided that in good conscience she should perhaps point out this fact, at least. Picking up the chestnut, she tossed it from hand to hand, in the hopes that the movement would cool it.

Susan, however, disregarded this disadvantage completely. “I’ve no family ’ere,” she said. “An’ Oliver’s folk’re in Cornwall, so ’e don’t pay them no mind as ’tis.”