by Carola Dunn
“Is not enough room here for my horse,” he pointed out. He wanted to remove her from this spot where they might be seen together by any passing busybody. “Besides, better you finish first the picture you have started. Perhaps we sit in the garden?” That would be the perfect place, hidden from prying eyes yet visible from the house, so not needing a chaperone.
“Yes, I have done so little perhaps we could,” she said consideringly. Already lost in thought, she gave him her sketch book and folded her little canvas stool.
He took it from her, tucked it under his arm with the sketch book, and helped her up the muddy slope to the road. She was hardly aware of his presence, his hand under her elbow. He was reminded of walking with her to her home in Tunbridge Wells—but then he had been a ragged fellow. Now he was once more clad as befitted his station, though not in the magnificent green and red uniform of the tsar’s own Preobrazhensky regiment of the Imperial Guard. Colonel Prince Nikolai Mikhailovich Volkov, eldest son of the Minister, was not accustomed to being ignored by young ladies, even of the highest rank.
Though he laughed at himself, he was piqued.
Polly drifted at his side, not speaking until they turned into the drive which led to the back of the house, their feet crunching on gravel.
“Yes,” she said then with satisfaction, “I believe I can transfer it outside without much change, which probably means I ought never to have tried it indoors in the first place. Will you sit on the bench under the cherry tree?”
For the next hour Kolya had no cause to complain of neglect. When her gaze was not on his face it was on his growing likeness on the canvas. She asked him to tell her about Russia, and he knew she was listening because her questions were intelligent and to the point. Having once completed the planning in her head and taken up pencil or brush, she worked by a sort of instinct combined with practised technique which required only part of her attention.
The only thing she was completely unconscious of was the passage of time.
“Miss Polly,” Ella called from the back door, “the master’s home and the missus wants to know if you mean to eat your luncheon. And she says to ask Mr. Volkov if he’ll kindly step in and take a bite.”
“Already? All right, Ella, we are coming. Will you be able to stay a little longer after luncheon, sir?”
He was tempted. He had always been an active man, but after the ceaseless struggle for survival of the past few months it was pleasant to lounge in the sun and talk to a pretty girl.
There was a soothing quality to Polly’s listening. Kolya realised that in describing his country, as opposed to the adventure stories he had told Nick, he was somehow letting go of it, setting himself outside it. In spite of his determination to build a new life in England, he had been unknowingly clinging to the idea of going home. Holy Mother Russia must be put behind him. Tsar Aleksandr would never forgive an officer who had flouted his authority, and Tsar Aleksandr was in his prime. It might be thirty years before a new reign brought the hope of pardon.
They had reached the house before he said, “I am sorry, Miss Howard, but your brother is expecting that I go with him again this afternoon. I must learn. I do not mean forever to sponge on my friends.” Enough of solemnity. He grinned. “Is fine English idiom, nyet?”
She laughed and nodded, pleased with his pleasure.
* * * *
The April days slipped past, sunshine sparkling after showers, green buds bursting on oak and elm, the cherry in bloom and every coppice carpeted with bluebells reflecting the sky. In St Petersburg the ice on the Neva would be breaking up with its thunderous, crackling roar, but Kolya had no time to think of St Petersburg.
He found his studies unexpectedly fascinating, and his admiration for Ned Howard’s expertise grew. As they rode about the estate, overseeing drainage and ploughing and planting, dealing with tenants’ problems, he told Ned what be knew of farming in Russia.
Serfs with nothing to gain from their labours were lazy and careless, and they strongly resisted any attempt to introduce modern methods. Kolya did not tell Ned that once he had planned to free his serfs as soon as he inherited the vast Volkov estates. That moment would never come. To reveal that his father was Prince Volkov, one of the wealthiest and most influential men in Russia, was worse than pointless: it might spoil his friendship with the Howards.
Even thinking him merely a private gentleman, Ned was always deferential to his pupil, though he would have scorned to toad-eat. Polly, on the other hand, had not a deferential bone in her body. She treated with the same placid friendliness the village children who gathered around her easel and Rebecca Ivanovna, Lady John Danville, whom Kolya brought one afternoon to see her paintings.
When her ladyship bought a flower study and agreed to sit for her portrait after removing to Loxwood Manor, Polly was pleased, but she did not fawn.
Kolya flattered himself that for him Polly’s smile was just a bit brighter than for anyone else, her greeting more eager, her leave-taking tinged with regret. That did not mean that she learned punctuality to please him. Often when he arrived for his sittings, he had to chase off after her across the countryside. She would be sitting on a knoll, under an oak tree, sketching Five Oaks; or, closer to home, painting a cottage garden gay with orange pot-marigolds and heavy-scented purple stocks, or the mallards in the stream with their glossy spring plumage. They would walk together back to the house, loaded with easel, box of paints, stool, huge green umbrella, and the wet canvas in its protective sling, discussing painting techniques and the philosophy of art.
She usually remembered to tell someone where she was going, but Kolya was learning the way her mind worked and soon found he could guess where she might be.
She would not let him see his own portrait. “The subject of a portrait is rarely completely satisfied,” she explained with the seriousness which enchanted him, “so until I am satisfied there will always be a temptation to change it to suit the model, not myself.”
The April days slipped by, and every day Kolya found himself more attracted to the absentminded artist.
* * * *
In the middle of April, Lord John’s cousin Lady Graylin and her husband, Sir Andrew, came to stay at Five Oaks on their way to the Continent. Sir Andrew had been posted to Switzerland as Consul General and he had promised to take Teresa to Paris en route, though her pregnancy was beginning to show. Lady Graylin had never allowed such minor considerations to hinder her.
Kolya had known the Graylins and their little girl in St Petersburg, and he was glad to renew the acquaintance. He also knew, from his visit to London in 1814, two of John’s friends who turned up a day or two later.
“Repairing lease, don’t you know,” said Mr. Bevan jauntily over the port after dinner on the day of their arrival. “The Season’s more exhausting than ever, what with the coronation coming up. Besides, you can’t go on honeymooning for ever, old chap. Mind you, I’m not saying I blame you. Dashed restful female, Lady John, not for ever dashing about and chattering.”
“She don’t lie about languishing on a sofa, neither,” put in Lord Fitzsimmons, who had recently inherited a barony and was forced to contemplate settling down. “Be damned if it don’t make a fellow think it wouldn’t be so bad to be leg-shackled after all.”
“I say, no need to go so far as that, Fitz.”
The rest of the gentlemen laughed at Bev’s alarm, but it set Kolya to thinking. He had once seriously considered marrying Rebecca Ivanovna. Polly had the same restful quality as the younger woman, without the shyness. Of course, her dedication to art, while admirable, was bound to prove inconvenient at times, but... He pulled himself up—for the forseeable future he was in no position to support a wife.
“Shall we rejoin the ladies?” John suggested hopefully.
In the drawing room they found that, emboldened by Teresa’s encouraging presence, Rebecca Ivanovna had decided to hold her first dinner party. She was not yet ready to tackle the local landowners, but the vicar and
his wife and daughter were agreeable and uncritical, and there was a widowed Danville cousin who lived in a cottage on the estate.
“And I thought perhaps the Howards,” she went on, “if you do not object, John? Mrs. Howard is a thoroughly respectable woman, and I found Miss Howard most amiable. We could send the carriage for them.”
Though Kolya noticed Bev and Fitz exchanging a martyred look and a murmured “devilish flat company,” John unsurprisingly gave his fond approval. Kolya offered to deliver an invitation to the Howards on the morrow.
The invitation was received by Mrs. Howard with complacency, by Ned with misgiving, and by Polly with pleasure.
“I should like to know Lady John better,” she said when they discussed it at dinner that evening.
“You cannot expect to be on intimate terms with her ladyship,” Ned pointed out. “Don’t forget that her husband is a duke’s son, and way above our touch.”
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Howard. “Polly is the daughter of an officer and a gentleman, and I understand that Lady John was once a governess. It is not as if Lord John will ever be duke. Mrs. Wyndham says that his elder brother has two sons. Still,” she added, “it will not do to appear encroaching.”
“I don’t see why I can’t go,” Nick grumbled. “Mr. Volkov says Lord Fitzsimmons and Mr. Bevan are top-o’-the-trees Corinthians. I want to meet them. Are you sure the invitation was not for me too, Mother?”
“No, dear, of course not.”
“But I…”
“Pray do not be forever arguing, Nicholas. Polly, is your blue silk fit to wear? Oh dear, it must be new trimmed at least, I’m sure, and the village shop has nothing fit for it. What are we going to do?”
Ned came to the rescue. “Don’t worry, Mother, I can drive you into Billingshurst tomorrow afternoon.”
“Thank you, dear. Miss Pettinger told me that Billingshurst has a very adequate haberdasher, and Mrs. Bruton patronises an excellent seamstress there if ever we have need of new evening gowns.”
“Why, Mother, I’m always quite content with gowns of your making. Ned, shall you leave Mr. Volkov on his own tomorrow? Is he a good pupil?”
“He’s enthusiastic and learns very quickly, and he has a natural air of authority. He is quite capable of supervising the men for an afternoon. Everyone likes him in spite of his being a foreigner—in fact, he is very popular with the tenants already. He never forgets their names and he’s always ready to pick up a fallen child or carry a heavy basket for an old woman.”
“Then you think he will be a good bailiff?”
“One day, certainly. He’s making an excellent start. It’s knowing what crops to plant in which fields, where drainage is needed, when to send cattle to market, and so on that takes years of experience.”
Polly sighed, she was not sure why. She wondered whether Kolya realised how long it would be before he was ready to run an estate on his own.
Chapter 7
Polly let her mother choose the new trimming for her evening gown. Mrs. Howard had an eye for colour and style which could have done justice to a far larger budget for clothes than she was ever likely to see. The elaborate ruffles and rouleaux that were coming into fashion suited her very well, but her daughter’s taller, fuller figure required simplicity.
The midnight blue silk looked most elegant with ivory lace stitched around sleeve and bodice and in deep, narrow, reversed V’s rising from the hem almost to the high waist. No one could possibly guess that Honiton lace, and not the finest Brussels, adorned the gown. The only trouble was, Polly was not there to put it on.
Mrs. Howard’s grey satin gown rustled agitatedly as she pattered once more to the window to peer into the lane. She even opened the casement and leaned out, conduct she would normally have stigmatized as shockingly vulgar.
“Ned, where can she be?” she wailed. “Surely Nick must have found her by now.”
“I really think I had better go and search, too,” he said patiently, not for the first time.
“No, you are already dressed, and very fine you look.” She spared an admiring glance for his black swallow-tailed coat and pantaloons, modestly striped russet brown waistcoat and well-starched, neatly tied neckcloth with the captain’s carnelian pin. “Much good it will do if Polly does not come soon. We cannot go without her.”
“Perhaps we should.”
“Even if she arrives this minute, we shall be shockingly late. I do not know which is most ill-bred, to arrive late, to go without her, or not to go at all.”
“You had best go on your own, Mother, so as not to upset Lady John’s numbers.” Ned’s attempt at humour fell flat.
“We shall never be invited again.”
“Mother!” Nick’s halloo rang through the quiet evening, followed by the sound of the church clock striking six.
“At last!” Mrs. Howard leaned out of the window again, then sank back onto the nearest chair. “Alone!” She buried her face in a handkerchief.
Nick pounded up to the window. “Can’t find her anywhere. And here’s the carriage,” he added as the duke’s barouche turned the corner. “I’ll have to go instead.”
His mother did not appear to find any consolation in the notion, for she burst into tears. Nick was speaking to the coachman and failed to notice this evidence of maternal affection. He returned to the window, grinning.
“Message from Mr. Volkov. He says to try the mill.”
“Polly did mention the reflection of the setting sun in the mill pond,” Ned said, going over to him. “You might as well try. And ask the coachman if he minds waiting.”
“Right, I’m off, but…” He stopped as the drawing room door opened. Ned swung round.
“I’m on time for once,” said Polly, looking pleased with herself.
“On time!” screeched her mother, dropping her handkerchief and surging to her feet.
“Yes. You said six o’clock and the church clock just struck six.”
“Six o’clock the carriage was to pick us up. It is past six, and look at you.”
Polly looked down at her serviceable brown walking dress and muddy half-boots. “Oh,” she said blankly. “I forgot I have to change my gown.” She raised a hand to tuck in a bothersome wisp of hair.
“Don’t touch your face! You have paint on your fingers. Upstairs with you at once.” She shooed her daughter out, calling, “Ella, hot water to Miss Polly’s room, quickly.”
Nick returned to the window from another consultation with the coachman. “He says he was told he might have to wait.” He laughed. “It looks to me as if Mr. Volkov has everything well in hand.”
Above-stairs, with Ella and Mrs. Howard getting in each other’s way, Polly split a seam in her hurry to take off her dress. She washed, scrubbing most of the Venetian red off her hands. The church clock chimed the quarter. Her mother pulled the blue silk over her head and started doing up the tiny buttons down the back as Ella eased her feet into the blue kid slippers. She sat down at the dressing table and Ella unpinned her hair, brushed it, and replaited it.
“No time for a fancy coyffer,” she mumbled through the hairpins in her mouth, fastening the braids into the usual coronet. “Too late for ringlets.”
“So ill-mannered to be so late,” Mrs. Howard moaned. “What will her ladyship think!”
Polly stared at herself in the mirror. Her dark eyes were wide with apprehension. They were going to be late. Lord and Lady John would be offended. But what really mattered was that Kolya would be vexed with her for offending his friends.
Mama fastened around her neck the gold locket with Papa’s dark hair curled inside. Ella draped about her shoulders her cloak of blue velours simulé, put her bonnet on her head and tied it, and handed her her gloves. Pulling them on, she followed her mother down the stairs as the clock chimed the half.
Late, late, late, late, sang the bells. Late, late, late, late.
“Don’t look so down-pin,” Ned whispered as he handed her into the barouche. “You did your best.
”
She squeezed his hand, grateful but uncomforted.
The horses trotted along the winding lanes with agonizing slowness. Polly imagined messages being sent to the kitchen, the cook getting hotter and crosser, the fowls on the spit drying out and blackening. Only a sunset which swirled across the sky in swathes of rose and lemon distracted her, and it was over all too soon.
At last the carriage turned into the long avenue leading up to Five Oaks. Polly had only seen the Palladian mansion from a distance, impressive and beautiful but merely part of a wide landscape. As they approached, the vast building loomed in the twilight, its pillared façade stretching endlessly ahead. And its inhabitants were all being kept waiting by Polly’s tardiness. She cringed.
The entrance hall was a marble cavern. The stately butler met the Howards with no hint of disapproval, but then his face might also have been carved in marble for all the expression it showed. An equally impassive footman in green livery trimmed with red was divesting Polly of her cloak, when Kolya strode into the hall.
He was grinning. Even, Polly thought indignantly, on the edge of laughter. Bowing, he welcomed them to Five Oaks.
“What is so funny?” she hissed as her mother, looking distinctly nervous, and Ned followed the butler across the echoing chamber.
He offered his arm and urged her after the others. “You are early, Miss Howard. This I did not expect.”
“Early!”
“Not too early,” he quickly soothed her ruffled feelings. “One guest is not here yet. But I thought I had planned all so that you will come at precisely twenty to eight o’clock, and it is only half past the seven.”
“You planned it?” She was puzzled.
“I arranged that the coach came at six o’clock, with the message for young Nick to find you by the mill pond in plenty time. You were not by the mill?”
“Yes, I was. But I remembered to listen for the church clock and I was home by six.”
