Venus (48 page)

“I have no desire to be importunate, my friend, but I think you have need of me,” replied Richard easily. “If matters grow heated, clarity may be lost. I believe that I may provide the latter.”

“Richard is right.” Polly spoke for the first time. “He has been my supporter in all this, and ’tis only right he should bear a part in the explanation.”

“Very well.” Nick opened the door, gesturing politely that they should precede him. In the parlor, he dismissed Susan, who was setting out the platters for dinner, before saying, “Let me have the truth, Polly.”

Polly looked helplessly at Richard. “I do not know how to begin.”

“Then I will tell it,” Richard said. “Pour us wine, child. You may interrupt me if I do not tell it correctly.”

Nicholas listened to the bald narrative told in De Winter’s unemotional tones. Since Richard did not know of the brothel, or any details of the seven nights, Nick did not hear of them, but what he heard brought an icy, fearsome rage to
fill and enfold him. There was no overt sign of it, however. When Richard finally fell silent, turning his attention to the Rhenish in his wine cup, Nick looked at Polly. She was standing by the table, as she had been throughout, her eyes fixed upon him with a painful intensity.

“Why did you not stop her, Richard?” Nick asked, still looking at Polly.

“The matter was in full flood before I knew of it,” Richard answered quietly. “But, in any case, I would not have considered I had the right to stop her. To advise, yes, but not to direct.”

“I would not have admitted anyone’s right to prevent me.” Polly spoke at last. “The matter was between myself and the duke. And it rests there.”

“Ah … no,” Nick said with finality. “It rests with me.” He turned his cup between his hands, frowning. “Let us dine. You’ve to be at the theatre at four o’clock.”

“I do not understand what you mean,” Polly said, feeling distressfully for the right words. “I … I understand if you should feel I … I have betrayed you, but, in truth, I have not. It was not me he touched, Nick—”

“Enough!” Nick cracked. “How can you talk such foolishness? Do you imagine I do not know what hell you endured? You will put the matter out of your head, in as far as you are able. It now rests with me, and when I have dealt with it, I will do what I may to heal you.” He went to the table, pulling out a chair for her. “Come, take your place. Richard.” He gestured to the chair opposite Polly, then pulled the bell rope.

Polly looked uneasily at Richard, but he was his customary impassive self, turning the conversation to trivialities as Susan and the goodwife put the venison pasty upon the table.

“What do you mean, the matter rests with you?” Polly asked when the door had closed on the two women. “It is finished, love. I am quite whole, and you are safe. Lady Castlemaine may whisper, but I shall not mind that now that
you know. I was only afeard this morning because I wished to keep it from you.”

“To spare my feelings, I daresay,” Nick said with heavy irony. “And I am to be grateful for such consideration, I suppose.” He sliced the pasty, placing a piece on Polly’s platter. “Eat your dinner.”

“I ask your pardon,” Polly whispered, staring down at her platter, where the food blurred in a haze of tears. “I could not think of anything else to do.”

“You are harsh, Nick,” Richard remonstrated quietly.

“Harsh!” Nick exploded. “I am to understand with a grateful smile that a woman living under my protection, having undergone an ordeal of God alone knows what degrading torment to buy my freedom, feels it in her province to keep such information from me! What manner of man do you think me?”

There was an uncomfortable silence, while Polly’s tears continued to plash upon her uneaten dinner. “It was not Richard’s doing. He said I should tell you,” she managed finally.

“Then I could wish you had heeded him.” His tone softened. “Eat your dinner, now. You cannot perform on an empty belly.” He turned to Richard. “I will visit Buckingham after dinner. I may count on you in this?”

“You would demand satisfaction?” De Winter asked, for once startled out of his calm assurance.

Polly’s knowledge of court rules and etiquette had still occasional gaps, but there were some things she did know. “You cannot possibly!” she exclaimed, aghast. “The duke would not meet you over such a matter. It is a question of a whore—bought and paid for. Wherein lies the insulted honor? He would laugh in your face.” Then she sprang to her feet, as Nick’s chair clattered to the floor under the force of his own rising.

“By God, I told you what I would do if you ever spoke like that again!” His fury now blazing, open on his face, he strode round the table.

Polly, choosing the better part of valor, fled for the door.
“Why will you not understand?” she cried, no longer tearful, simply angry and frustrated at his blindness. “In this case, it is merely the truth—an insignificant truth. If I do not mind it, why should you?”

Wrenching open the door, she jumped through it. The door banged shut in Nick’s face. With a wrathful oath, he reached for the latch.

“Nay, Nick, stay!” Richard spoke, sharply imperative. “Have you not lashed her sufficiently?”

Nicholas turned slowly. “I did not mean to do so.”

“But you did, nevertheless. She has endured enough; and if she wished to spare you pain, then you should honor her for it.”

“Richard!” Nick’s face was contorted with anguish. “Do you think I do not know what she has suffered? I cannot bear to think of it. It is as if vultures tear at my gut. But I will have that debaucher’s blood for it!” The promise was spoken softly, but the ferocity chilled Richard.

“Talk sense, man! Polly is quite right. Villiers would laugh in your face, and the story would keep the court in mirth for months to come. You would be a laughingstock, and so would she. She is your mistress, Nick. You hold no umbrella of honor over her. Would you commit murder? For ’tis your only option.”

Nicholas stood very still, feeling the warmth of a ray of sun on the back of his head. The chamber was bright with winter sun and the fire’s glow; the air was redolent with the good smells of Goodwife Benson’s cooking; the dinner table was laden with plenty, the wine rich in the cup. A scene of perfect domestic tranquility, except that the lady of the house was missing. He shook his head in annoyance. “I should be pilloried for a fool! I have been procrastinating for no sufficient reason—” He shrugged. “Well, that is done with now. Come, Richard. You must forgo the rest of your dinner, I fear. I need your help, for there is much to arrange in a short time.”

• • •

Polly had reached the theatre without fully realizing that that was her destination. But once there, she knew that it was the only place where she would be able to compose herself for the task ahead. Whatever had happened, whatever lunacy Nick might yet decide upon, she had to go onstage. Too many people would be depending upon her this afternoon—John Dryden, Thomas, her fellow actors. And even more, herself. She had relied on pride and determination to carry her through the last sennight. Those resources were not exhausted—they could not be. This afternoon she would demonstrate to Buckingham, and to Lady Castlemaine, and to anyone else who was interested, that, bloodied though she may be, she was unbowed. They could not touch her with the slimy coils of their own sordid souls.

She went into the tiring room. Her costumes were laid out: the gown and petticoats for Melissa in the first act, then the breeches, wig, and waistcoat when Melissa became Florimell. Melissa/Florimell was a character she enjoyed, a triumphant character, who carried the duel of wit and words to victory, for all that she suffered a degree of tousling at Celadon’s hands in the unmasking. Amazingly, Polly chuckled to herself. The role had been created for her, and she would do justice to the creation.

Thomas Killigrew found his leading female actor early at her dressing. She responded cheerfully to his greeting, and he was relieved to see that the light in her eyes contained none of the fevered piquancy of the last days. Thanking God and the fates for Kincaid’s safe and timely return, he turned his attention to the pressing matter of a recalcitrant box hedge that was disinclined to remain upright on the stage.

Nicholas and Richard arrived halfway through the performance. Polly was not aware of their arrival, any more than she had been aware of their absence. The audience was, as always, a featureless mass below her. She was attuned to their reactions, but as a whole, not as individuals, and she knew that they were enjoying every luscious, wickedly provocative second of Master Dryden’s
Secret Love.

Nicholas experienced again the emotions of that first performance
of
Flora’s Vagaries
, at Moorfields. He knew he had to come to terms with the knowledge that that ravishing, magical creature created her own world into which she invited every lusting, eager member of the audience. But frequently, as now, he failed lamentably. She belonged to everyone, by her own choice, understanding the hungers and needs, gratifying them with grace and pleasure. And he must learn to live in peace and harmony with such creative generosity. There was no alternative, and there never had been.

He glanced sideways at De Winter. Richard smiled in complete comprehension. “Faith, but you’ll be the most unpopular man in London, Nick, if you take her away from this.”

“Think you I could?” Nick asked, with a wry grimace.

“Not and keep her happy,” Richard agreed. “By God, listen to her purr. I fear poor Celadon is about to lose this encounter.”

“And count the world well lost for love,” said his companion softly.

The play reached its conclusion: Florimell, after much delicious tousling and mousling, was revealed as Melissa; the lovers were reconciled; and the audience came to their feet, those who were close enough crowding upon the stage, expressing their pleasure as vigorously as they would have done their displeasure. Polly emerged, laughing and breathless from the throng, tumbled and disheveled in her breeches and boots, her ruff torn by Celadon’s unmasking, peruke lost in the fray.

Nicholas stepped onto the stage from the wings. “Come.” He took her hand. “We have no more time to waste.”

“Come where?” Polly protested, following willy-nilly, tripping over her feet. “I must change and—”

“No, you need not.”

“But I do need.” She pulled back on his hand, trying to orientate herself in the real world. For three hours she had lived in another universe, and now Nick was behaving in a
most extraordinary fashion. There was a grim purpose about him that set butterflies dancing in her stomach.

“Nick, if you are still vexed about what I said—” she began tentatively.

“I have decided to overlook it on this occasion,” Nicholas interrupted, marching her toward the rear door of the theatre. “You’ll not say it again.”

“Oh.” She skipped to keep pace with his long stride. “But, please, where are we going, and why may I not change?”

“We do not have the time,” came the succinct reply. They emerged through the stage door onto Drury Lane, where Kincaid’s coach stood waiting, Richard De Winter and Sir Peter Appleby beside it.

“Good even, Polly,” Richard greeted cheerfully, opening the carriage door.

“Good even; and you, Sir Peter.” Bewildered, Polly returned the courtesies in an automatic mumble.

“Seldom have I enjoyed such an afternoon at the theatre,” Sir Peter said. “You surpassed yourself, Polly.”

“Th-thank you. I am glad you enjoyed it,” Polly said as she was hustled into the dark interior of the coach. The three men climbed in after her; Nick slammed the door. “What is happening?” Polly asked in some desperation. “I am all tumbled and disheveled, and my hair is fallen down.” To her indignant consternation, her three companions began to laugh.”

“’Tis hardly fair, Nick, to do such a thing to a maid,” chuckled Sir Peter. “Ye might have granted her time to tidy herself.”

“For what?” cried Polly, receiving renewed chuckles in answer. She put her hand on the door latch. “I am getting out. I do not like people laughing at me when I do not know the cause.”

“Keep still, sweetheart.” Nick, laughter still bubbling in his voice, caught her against him with an arm at her waist. “You will share the jest in a moment.”

Polly subsided, grumbling under her breath, until the carriage
came to a halt. She stepped out to find herself on the broad thoroughfare of Holborn. She stood looking around her for some clue to this mysterious journey. The Fleet River flowed nearby; Hatton Garden and Leather Lane were across the street. St. Andrew’s Church, showing lamplight, stood behind her.

“Come,” Nick said, taking her elbow, turning her toward the church.

“Why must we go to church? ’Tis not Sunday. I am hungry, and I want my supper.” Protesting vociferously, Polly found herself jostled into the church. Whatever this jest was, it was not one she wished to share, she decided furiously. The day had been one of unremitting strain from the moment she had woken, and she could feel tears of weariness and hunger pricking behind her eyes. It was so unlike Nicholas to be inconsiderate, even when he was angry. He did not seem to be vexed at the moment, however. Indeed, there was an air of elation about him, and the emerald eyes bent upon her face contained only warmth and gentle amusement.

“You should have eaten your dinner, moppet,” he said, propelling her up the nave to where a cassocked clergyman stood before the altar.

“Ah, my lord, I was about to give you up,” the clergyman said ponderously. Then his eye fell upon the resistant, disheveled, breeched Polly. “This is the young lady?” His eyebrows disappeared into his scalp.

“Aye,” Nick agreed briskly. “Shall we proceed?”

“I will not play this game anymore!” Polly cried, finally pushed beyond bearing. She stamped one booted foot on the cold stone of the nave. “I do not know what is happening—”

“If the lady is unwilling, my lord,” broke in the clergyman, “I could not in conscience perform the ceremony.”

Polly’s jaw dropped. She looked up at the smiling Nick, ’round at Richard and Sir Peter, who were both beaming. She shook her head in bemusement. This was some fantastical joke.