by Jane Feather
“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 mo
usling, 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.
“You are not unwilling, are you?” Nick asked softly, catching her face between his hands.
“But … but you cannot possibly wed a—”
“You dare!” A hard finger pressed against her lips. “Will you marry me, Mistress Wyat?”
Polly seized his hand, pulling him urgently into the shadows of the Lady Chapel. “I was going to say a Newgate-born, tavern-bred bastard,” she whispered, a little resentfully. “That is not a truth you have ever denied.”
“It is a truth known only to Richard and ourselves,” Nick said softly. “As far as the world knows, you are either some nobleman’s by-blow or the stagestruck daughter of a respectable bourgeois. Noble bastards abound at court, and no one will turn a hair at bourgeois gentility. Now,” he repeated patiently. “Will you marry me?”
“You are run mad, my lord.”
“Then will you take a madman to husband?”
Polly stood, for the moment silent, in the chill shadows of the chapel. What he had said was the perfect truth. And if no one knew her antecedents, and Nick was not concerned by them, then why should she not accept the conquering hand of love? The unquestionable, undeniable love that had fallen upon them with such unbidden force when they had first come together in the ways of passion. Slowly she nodded, returning his smile. “Aye, if that is truly what you wish, love.”
Nick sighed with relief, drawing her back into the dim light of the nave. “It seems we may begin, Master Parson.”
It was a short ceremony in the dank, winter-night cold of the drafty church. But Polly was quite unaware of her surroundings, or of any lack of magic in such a wedding—never having expected to have one at all. Her hand remained in Nick’s throughout; she said what was required at the required moments, and wondered when she would wake up. At the end, the witnesses duly signed the Parish register, the parson was paid his fee, and the four went into the night.
“John Coachman will take you home now,” Nick said, opening the carriage door for her.
Polly peered up at him, studying his expression in the faint starlight. “Take me home? But what of you?”
“I have some business to transact,” Nick said evenly. “I will be with you as soon as may be. You are in sore need of your supper, as you have been saying so vociferously.” He smiled, gently teasing, but Polly was not to be cajoled.
“Then I will come with you. I am not so hungry that my supper cannot wait.”
“No,” he said. “You may not accompany me.” The laughter had left his mouth and eyes, a certain grimness in its place. “Go home. I will come to you soon.”
Polly shook her head. “You would wed me in one breath and banish me in another. It makes no sense, my lord.”
Nick sighed. “I seem to recall that not so many minutes past you made some solemn vows. Would you break them so soon?”
“I was not aware, sir, that I promised obedience to commands I do not understand,” she said tartly.
“Rule a wife and have a wife,” Richard murmured in the darkness. “Have done with this, Nick. ’Tis cold as charity, and the night grows no younger.”
“A timely reminder,” Nick said grimly. He scooped up his wife, bundling her unceremoniously into the coach, closing the door firmly on her protests. “Drury Lane, John.” The coachman whipped up his horses and bore Lady Kincaid, cursing like any tavern-bred wench, back to her lodgings.
“’Tis no way to start a marriage,” sighed Nick.
“’Tis no
t a marriage you can start in good earnest till this business be done with,” Richard reminded him. “Let’s to it.”
The three men walked to Temple Stairs and took the water to Somerset Stairs. From there they walked in silence to the Duke of Buckingham’s mansion in the Strand.
Villiers was in his library when he was brought the information that Lord Kincaid, Lord De Winter, and Sir Peter Appleby were desirous of waiting upon him.
“At this hour?” Villiers frowned. “Bid them enter.” He awaited their arrival in thoughtful silence. If this was a social call, it was a damned unsociable hour for it. And if it was not …
“Gentlemen.” Smiling, he greeted them. “This is a most unexpected pleasure, but nonetheless welcome. Ye’ll take wine?”
“I think not,” Nicholas said. “’Tis a matter of honor that brings us, Buckingham.”
All superficial bonhomie was wiped from the duke’s face. “You pleasant, Kincaid, surely.”
“Nay, ’tis no pleasantry.” Nick threw his gauntlet upon the table before the duke. “There’s an insult to be avenged.”
The duke’s lip curled in derision. “Y’are mad, man. There’s been no insult to honor that I know of. Don’t let passion go to your head. ’Twill only make you a jesting-stock.”
“Pick up the glove, Duke, else you’ll be the butt of more than jest,” Nick said quietly. “There’s witnesses to cowardice.
Buckingham went white about the lips, but scorn laced his voice as he said, “Pray tell me, just whose honor has been insulted?”
“My wife’s,” Nicholas replied. “And, therefore, my own.”
Shock leapt into the heavy-lidded eyes, then Buckingham recovered himself. “I see.” A twisted smile touched his lips. “Why did I not expect it? That were foolish in me.” He picked up the gauntlet. “Where and when, gentlemen?”
“Barn Elms, at dawn.” It was Richard who spoke. “As seconds, Sir Peter and I claim the right to fight beside our principal. You will choose your own seconds accordingly, Duke.” A polite smile accompanied the statement.
