by Carola Dunn
“Howard brought you?” asked Lord John. “My thanks, Howard. Her ladyship and I shan’t forget this.”
“I’m happy to be of service, my lord. And I must thank you for lending me the carriage.”
“Family arrived all right and tight, are they? Splendid. Come on, old chap, we mustn’t keep Beckie waiting.”
Ned watched them walk away, once again talking nineteen to the dozen. The Russian looked thinner and shabbier than ever beside the strongly built, fashionably dressed English lord.
Pulling on his gloves, he recalled the feel of Kolya’s rough, hard-skinned hand. As he mounted and turned Chipper’s head towards home, he pondered the mystery of the obviously intimate friendship between the Russian labourer and the son of the Duke of Stafford.
* * * *
As Kolya followed John into the small, comfortably furnished sitting room, a familiar voice asked eagerly, “Is it really him?”
“Yes, love, it’s Kolya.” John moved aside and his wife hurried forwards, both hands held out.
“Nikolai Mikhailovich, we were so worried about you.”
He took her hands, very conscious that his friend was watching their meeting. He had once had a notion to marry Miss Rebecca Nuthall himself. “I am honoured to be subject of your concern, Lady John,” he said.
“Lady John! I am still not used to the name. Will you not call me Rebecca Ivanovna as you did before?” Marriage had given the shy girl he had known poise and self-confidence—and an inner glow of happiness which radiated and made her beautiful.
Kolya glanced at John, who nodded, grinning. “There’s no harm in private, and even in public people will only think you are a mad Russian.”
“This is true, but I mean to become English gentleman.”
John eyed his worn, shapeless clothes and roared with laughter.
“Hush, John, do not be so rude,” Rebecca scolded. “Come and sit down, Nikolai Mikhailovich, and tell us everything. His Grace heard from Princess Lieven that the tsar found out you helped us escape and exiled you. Our thoughts have been with you constantly.”
“Well, not quite constantly,” John demurred, dropping a kiss on his bride’s cheek as he sat down on the sofa beside her and took her hand.
It was Kolya’s turn to laugh. “I hope new-marrieds have better things to think of.” He took a seat opposite the loving couple.
Rebecca blushed. Apparently she had not altogether conquered her shyness. “A great deal, anyway,” she amended. “I have been longing to thank you for rescuing me from that terrible place.” She shivered and John put his arm around her shoulders.
“Please, is better not to think of past. Some day I tell you my adventures and you tell me how you came back to England. Now we talk of future.”
“Looking into my crystal ball,” said John, “the first thing I foresee is buying you some new clothes.”
Rebecca pressed closer to her husband. Kolya wondered whether talk of a crystal ball had reminded her of the time his presence had saved John from an enraged Gypsy. It would be foolish to deny that they were in his debt. He would willingly accept their hospitality, but pride revolted at the thought of taking money.
“I have not feather to fly,” he said, pleased with the English idiom despite his troubles. “Will not run up debt with no prospect to pay tailor.”
“My purse is yours, my friend. You said that to me once.”
Kolya shook his head. “And you did not take advantage. Nor will I. You say ‘hang on sleeve,’ yes? I will not hang on sleeve.”
John looked stubborn, but Rebecca intervened. “There is no need to buy new clothes. If you do not mind, Nikolai Mikhailovich, I can easily have some of John’s things altered to fit you, and Lord Danville left some clothes here too, which he will never miss.”
“Thank you, Rebecca Ivanovna, I will not refuse this. Truth is, I hate to wear peasant clothes. Will be good to dress as gentleman once more.”
“Not my new green coat from Weston,” John said threateningly.
Rebecca’s voice was demure but her eyes danced. “Why, I was just thinking, love, how well it would become Knyaz Nikolai.”
“No, no, do not call me prince, I beg of you. Is not right for penniless exile to use title.” A thoroughly Russian passion rose in Kolya. “English will mock my country, my family. I love them still, though I have put them behind me forever.”
“Forever?” asked John, embarrassed as he always was by the Slavic display of emotion. “You don’t think the tsar will relent?”
“Forever. Did I not tell you once that moya dusha—my soul is English? I will be English gentleman, plain Mr. Volkov. I will find respectable position to earn living. Perhaps duke will help?” he added hopefully.
“Of course his Grace will help,” John assured him. “He knows we owe you our lives.”
“If you gentlemen will excuse me, I shall go and sort out some clothes for Mr. Volkov, and draft a letter to his Grace for John to copy.” Again Rebecca was teasing her husband, Kolya realised. How the timid girl had blossomed in the warmth of his love!
“Beckie was a governess, remember,” said John ruefully as they rose. “And she taught me Russian, too. Sometimes she seems to forget I’m not still one of her pupils.” He watched her slight figure every step of the way to the door.
Kolya felt a pang of envy. Dunyashka danced through his mind. But his Dunyashenka had doubtless found another protector long since. The merry ballerina’s features faded, and in their place appeared Polly’s intent face.
She vanished in turn as John interrupted his reverie. “Sit down and tell me what you’ve been up to all these months, old man.”
* * * *
The back parlour of Ned’s house was a pleasant sitting room with dark oak wainscotting below whitewashed walls on which the African masks Polly was unpacking would look very well. Ned had furnished it with comfortable, overstuffed chairs, unlike the elegant Hepplewhite and Sheraton in the drawing room at the front of the house.
When he arrived home from Five Oaks, Polly saw him stable Chipper in the nearest of the outbuildings on the north side of the garden. She opened one of the casement windows wide and leaned out.
What she really wanted to know was how Lord John had received Kolya. What she said was, “The carter is come already. Your house is in chaos, I fear.”
“Our house.” With a cheerful smile he strode towards her across the lawn. He looked as if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders, and Polly knew he was relieved to be rid of the Russian, one way or another. “Is Mother pleased with it?”
“Excessively. It was kind in the duke to let you take your pick of the furniture at the manor.”
“He is refurnishing the place from cellar to attic for Lord John, though there was nothing wrong with the old pieces.”
“Mama is delighted with your choice. I must warn you that having two parlours has vastly set her up in her own conceit. Papa’s collection has been banished to the sitting room.”
“I know she displayed them only out of loyalty to his memory.”
“She always squirmed when visitors commented how interesting they are. Guess what she means to decorate the drawing room with.”
“That’s easy. Your pictures, I hope.”
“Yes. I’m certain she has always hoped that if she ignored my painting it would go away. Do you think she is becoming reconciled to having an artist for a daughter?”
“I should not count on it if I were you, but at least she is acknowledging that your work has merit. Speaking of reconciliation, is Ella resigned to Mrs. Coates yet?”
“Heavens no, though she has been brought grudgingly to admit that the house is too large for her to cope with by herself. You never told us that it is so much larger than the Tunbridge Wells house.”
“I feared Mother might feel that I was belittling her house. There is not so great a difference.”
“Two parlours! And Mama is almost as pleased to have two maidservants. Who takes care of the garden?
I’m sure you have not time to keep it so neatly.”
“Lord John told me to have one of the Loxwood Manor gardeners come over one day a week.”
His mention of Lord John gave Polly the opening she had awaited. “Did...did you see his lordship just now?”
“Yes, and he was very grateful that I took Kolya to him. It was a great relief, I can tell you.”
“He was pleased to see him?” Polly was equally relieved, though for different reasons. She had hated the thought of Kolya’s weary walk to London with no certainty of a welcome when he got there.
“Pleased! Ecstatic is the word. They fell into each other’s arms, in what I suppose to be the Russian manner. I cannot understand how my lord can be on intimate terms with such a common fellow.”
“His manner was not in the least common,” said Polly indignantly.
“His clothes, though, and more significant, his hands.”
“Yes, I noticed his hands. But he was forced to work his way here from Russia, which would be enough to account for that. He must be a gentleman, after all.” She was glad for Kolya’s sake that he was able to return to his proper station in life.
“I hope he was not offended by the way we treated him,” said Ned uneasily.
“I daresay we shall never see him again.” Polly was unable to repress a deep sigh, but her brother was cheered by her words.
“No, probably not. Do come out, Polly, I have something to show you.”
Willing to be distracted from her unaccountable depression, she hurried to the back door. Ned had opened it and was waiting for her.
She looked around with interest. The garden was hedged on two sides, with gates leading respectively to the lane and to a pasture where red Sussex cattle grazed. From here the small buildings on the north side were hidden by a row of fruit trees, including a cherry that seemed about to bloom. Polly’s eyes gleamed at the prospect of painting it.
Ned offered his arm and led her towards the outbuildings. The first housed Chipper and a light gig.
“That’s a potting shed at the far end,” Ned said, waving at it. “This one in the middle is what I want to show you.” He opened the door.
The single room, some twelve foot by sixteen, was bare but for a stone sink in one corner and several shelves on the wall beside it. The floor was covered with oilcloth and three large windows in the north wall gleamed spotless.
Polly turned to Ned.
“Your studio, madam,” he announced.
Tears rose to her eyes as she flung her arms around him. Blinking furiously—she never cried—she murmured, “Dearest Ned, you are quite the best brother in the world.”
“Thought you’d like it,” he said, satisfied.
Chapter 5
Polly spent the day after the Howards’ arrival at Loxwood unpacking her paintings and supplies and arranging them in her new studio. Ned had the Loxwood estate carpenter build a trestle table to her specifications; Mrs. Coates, with a degree of suspicion which made Ella sniff in scorn, was persuaded to give up a pair of old kitchen stools and a bundle of rags; and Mrs. Howard was invited to pick her choice of the pictures she wanted for the drawing room.
As she had never before expressed any interest in Polly’s avocation, she was surprised by the variety she had to choose from.
“Why, Polly, some of these are quite charming. I should like the daffodils and the geraniums—such gay colours—and the view from your bedroom window across to the Common. Oh, and here is one of the house. I do hope the tenants are taking care of my house.” She had to find something to worry about.
Polly hid a smile. “I’m sure they are, Mama. They had excellent references or Ned would never have let it to them. Is that enough or do you want some more?”
“One more, I think, to go over the fireplace. Gracious, here is one of your poor dear father. I never knew you had painted a portrait of your father or I should have hung it in the house long since.”
Her daughter refrained from reminding her that at the time she had been vexed by her husband’s insistence on spending so much of his brief leave posing for his portrait.
Though Polly’s technique had improved greatly since then, the captain’s grey, far-seeing eyes gazed out from the canvas and his weatherbeaten features expressed both geniality and the habit of command. If the gold braid on the hat lying on the table beside him looked somewhat like scrambled egg, and the rigging on the model ship was tied in inextricable knots, Mrs. Howard did not mind. Here was Captain Howard of the Royal Navy, to be proudly displayed to her new acquaintances.
“Thank you, dear,” she said. “Ned’s carpenter will frame them for me. Painting is a most acceptable occupation for young ladies, after all.”
She trotted back to the house, Polly watching with amused affection not unmingled with dismay. Apparently two parlours and two maids were giving rise to pretensions of gentility. Mrs. Howard had never before claimed to be anything more than a respectable woman, and here she was bestowing the status of “young lady” on her daughter.
Of course it was perfectly proper, expected even, for young ladies to sketch and to paint in watercolours. Producing and selling oil paintings was another matter altogether. Polly had no aspirations to join the ranks of the gentry and she could only hope their new neighbours would not be offended by her mother’s putting on airs above her station.
To call her young was equally inaccurate. Was not Mama herself forever telling her that it was time to start wearing a spinster’s cap? Not that she ever remembered.
Dismissing the thought, she returned to her work. She set up her easel and propped on it the canvas on which she had sketched Kolya in charcoal, then spread her drawings of him on the table.
He laughed up at her from the paper, the slanted eyes that had first attracted her interest now less important than their expression. Was he a gentleman after all? For a wistful moment Polly wished she really were a lady. The gulf between the gentry and the middle classes seemed as wide as that between the middle class and the labourer she had thought him to be.
It was growing too dark to paint. She went into the house to change for dinner.
* * * *
The next morning, dressed in an old gown, she went out to her studio right after breakfast and put on her bedaubed smock. She was determined to work on Kolya’s portrait, in the unacknowledged hope that completing it would exorcise his haunting image from her mind.
She knew already that the tone of the painting was to be a warm golden brown. That was how she saw him. She closed her eyes and envisioned her first sight of him, waiting at the bottom of the Pantiles steps: crisp, light brown curls, weather-bronzed face, hazel eyes, threadbare brown jacket. Patient and humble he had appeared, until she fell into his arms and saw the amusement in his face.
And then the spilt turpentine, the greedy terrier, his timely reminder that she had lost her loaf of bread. Even then he had seemed to understand and excuse her absentmindedness.
If she had supposed for a moment that he was a gentleman, she would never have been so forward as to ask him to sit for her. But she had not known. She had sent him to buy bread, had walked home with him carrying her basket. Daydreaming, Polly wandered through her all too brief acquaintance with Kolya until she came to the last moment.
She had met him at the front door of the new house. Her mother had called her, and Ned was waiting to take him to Five Oaks.
“Good-bye,” she had said hurriedly. “And good luck.” It was inadequate but no other words came to mind.
“Do svidaniya, Miss Howard.” His tone had been light and teasing, inconsequential. He had smiled down at her, then bowed and kissed her hand.
Polly sighed. She had long since decided that the kiss was a meaningless gesture, a mere Continental habit. Opening her eyes, she set about mixing the colours for the imprimatura.
“Polly!” On the gravel path, Nick sounded like a herd of elephants. The door flung open. “Polly, guess what! Kolya is here.”
Sh
e stared at him.
“Kolya, the Russian,” he said with exaggerated patience. “You remember him? Tall, thin, had the most amazing adventures?”
“Of course I remember him, you silly boy. He’s here?”
Nick groaned. “Did I not just say so? In the drawing room with Mother. She says you’re to come quick.”
“Yes, of course, at once,” she said in a daze. She set down her palette and brush on the table and hurried out.
Following her, Nick continued, “Ned went out, and Mother needs your help to entertain the Danvilles. You should see Lord John’s curricle—slap up to the echo!—and a pair of spanking greys. D’you think Ned will teach me to drive the gig?”
Polly scarcely heard him. She sped to the drawing room. Pausing on the threshold she saw, sitting opposite the door, a young lady in a carriage dress of straw-coloured gros de Naples ornamented with bows of mahogany velvet down the front and around the hem. Her velvet bonnet matched the dress and boasted three curling, mahogany-dyed ostrich plumes. She smiled shyly at Polly.
Behind her stood a large, dark, handsome gentleman, who nodded. Polly’s gaze moved on and found her mother’s aghast face. Suddenly she realised that she was still wearing her painting smock.
“Lady John,” Mrs. Howard said bravely, “may I present my daughter?”
“How do you do, Miss Howard?” If her ladyship was shocked by Polly’s appearance, her soft voice and delicate features gave no hint of it.
Polly curtsied, smiling at her, already determined to paint her some day.
Her husband bowed. “Miss Howard.” He looked more amused than offended by her disgraceful apparel. “I understand you are acquainted with my friend, Volkov.”
Turning, she came face to face with Kolya. For a moment all she was aware of was his eyes laughing at her, and her heart leaped with gladness. Then she noticed that he was elegantly clad in a close-fitting tan riding coat, starched cravat tied in an immaculate Waterfall, spotless buckskin breeches, and glossy black boots. How could she ever have supposed he was anything other than a gentleman?
