Polly and the Prince

by Carola Dunn

“I think I can manage them,” Kolya said gravely.

  Polly and Nick did not keep them waiting long. The little girl was swathed in a blue woollen shawl with a white garment under it that looked suspiciously like a pillow bere with holes cut for head and arms. Her curls were neatly combed. She still clung to Nick, who was still in his damp and dirty shirt and breeches.

  “Susie starts crying if I leave her,” he explained.

  “I was going to go with you, to hold her,” Polly said, “but I believe Nick will have to go.”

  “I meant to anyway. I found her, so I ought to make sure she gets home safely.”

  “You are a dear, Nick.” Polly kissed his cheek.

  Kolya saw both Mr. Bevan and Lord Fitzsimmons brighten as they realised that she would be staying with them.

  He had not the slightest difficulty in driving Mr. Bevan’s bays. Once he was sure of that, he turned his attention to his companion, whose face was gloomy above the child he held in his lap.

  “What is wrong, Nick?”

  “Bob Brent called me a milksop.”

  “I do not know this word.”

  “It means a fellow who acts like a girl.”

  “Because you take care of Susie?”

  ‘Yes. But what else could I do, sir? She might have fallen in again and drowned, or wandered on and never found her way home.”

  “You feel bad because the friend called you milksop. Tell me how you will feel tomorrow if you hear that devochka is drowned?”

  “Terrible.” Nick shuddered. “Much worse than for any name Bob could think up. I’m glad I didn’t leave her there alone.”

  “So, is a good feeling, nyet?”

  “Yes, and I’ll be blowed if I care what Bob Brent thinks. Besides, I can’t wait till I see his face when he hears you drove me in Mr. Bevan’s curricle!”

  Kolya laughed. “One day I will drive you in Lord John’s curricle,” he promised, “and I will spring ‘em.”

  Nick was further convinced of the rightness of his action when the overjoyed Mrs. Stebbins insisted on presenting him with a freshly baked apple cake and a large cheese. Neither remained intact for more than a few minutes. Anyone would suppose that Nick was starved at home, mused Kolya, refusing a chunk of cheese hacked off with a pocketknife of doubtful cleanliness.

  When they reached Loxwood it was too late for Kolya to sit for Polly as Ned was expecting him, but the portrait was finished the next day. Kolya did not have to think up an excuse to continue visiting, as Polly at once announced that she wanted to paint another. However, as the days went by, somehow the moment never arrived to begin it. She was walking with Lord Fitzsimmons or driving with Mr. Bevan, who had unwittingly stolen a march on his friend when he offered to drive him down to Five Oaks in his curricle, thus depriving him of his own vehicle.

  Kolya was forced to recognize that he was jealous. There could be only one reason for jealousy—he loved Polly and wanted to marry her. He wanted to take care of her, to advance her career, but he could not even support her.

  Two well-to-do Englishmen of impeccable birth were courting her. Kolya found what consolation he could in the fact that Polly apparently did not wish to paint either his lordship’s perfect features or Bev’s interestingly ugly mug.

  * * * *

  One wet day at the beginning of May, Kolya arrived back at Five Oaks in the evening to find a letter waiting for him. It was franked by the Duke of Stafford. At once his hopes were aroused. Though he enjoyed learning to manage an estate, it would be years before he was competent to support himself thus. Perhaps the duke had found him a position which would allow him a modest independence at once while building towards future affluence.

  Eager as he was to discover what his Grace had to say, his clothes were damp and it was time to change for dinner. He took the letter up to his chamber. A footman brought hot water and divested him of coat and boots.

  Moments later, still in his shirtsleeves, Kolya was knocking at the door of John’s dressing room. His lordship’s valet, Pierce, admitted him.

  His lordship, engaged in the serious matter of arranging his neckcloth, looked round. “Kolya, what’s to do?”

  “I have a letter from the duke. He has told your king how I helped you in St Petersburg. Here, read.” He gave his friend the letter.

  “Sit down, old chap.” John was perusing the single sheet when there was a knock at the door leading to his bedchamber.

  Rebecca Ivanovna peeked in. “John, are you ready to go down? Oh, I beg your pardon, I did not see that Nikolai Mikhailovich is with you.”

  “Come in, Beckie, love. You won’t mind if she hears your news, will you, Kolya?”

  “Of course not.”

  “What news? Good, I hope.” She perched on a stool close to her husband.

  “Prinny wants to see Kolya in Brighton. He’s down there sulking until he finds out whether Parliament will insist on allowing the queen to be crowned at his side, I collect. Splendid news.”

  “Is splendid?” Kolya was far from sure.

  “If Prinny takes a liking to you, he might give you a post in his household. After all, you were aide to the emperor, so you’re well qualified. At the very least, between his interest and my father’s influence you are bound to find something.”

  “But if you do not, you will always be welcome at Loxwood, will he not, John?”

  “Of course, always.” John took her hand.

  Kolya knew that they meant what they said. He knew also that John still unconsciously regarded him as a rival. There was a way to relieve him of that misapprehension.

  “When the king commands, I must obey,” he said with a sigh, “but I shall be sorry to go. Will be difficult to leave Miss Howard.”

  John looked blank.

  His wife clapped her hands. “Oh, you are in love with her! I have been wondering. I’m so glad, she is charming.”

  “Yes, I love her. I wish to marry her.” Kolya saw that John was embarrassed by his confession. An English gentleman does not reveal his emotions. Turning away, he leaned his elbows on the chest of drawers and bowed his head in his hands, for having begun he could not stem the flood of words. “I love her, but for me is no hope. I cannot support wife. She will wed Lord Fitzsimmons, whose sister stopped the painting when she married, and who will expect my Polly to stop. Or Mr. Bevan, amusing idiot who understands nothing. Perhaps is better that I leave, before I see this. I will go. Tomorrow I will go to Brighton.” He raised his head.

  Beckie gazed at him with sorrowful sympathy in her brown eyes.

  John stood up and patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. “Frightfully sorry, old chap. I didn’t realize things had come to such a pass. You shall have the carriage, of course. His Grace has a house on the Steyne where you are welcome to stay, but I daresay they will put you up at the Pavilion.”

  Kolya summoned up a smile. “Ah yes, Pavilion that is known as the Little Kremlin. It will be interesting to see.”

  “That’s the spirit. Do you want me to explain your departure to Ned Howard for you?”

  “No, I must thank him for his help. And will be rude, I think, not to say good-bye to Mrs. Howard, who has often given the hospitality. I shall see Polly one more time.”

  As he went back to his room to dress, Kolya wished he could ask Polly to wait for him, until he was able to support her. It would not be fair, since she had two eminently eligible suitors at hand.

  Chapter 9

  Polly dashed through the drizzle to the studio. Another dank, grey day, and no doubt Fitz and Bev would be underfoot the half of it. It was all very well driving about the countryside with Mr. Bevan, discovering new scenes worthy of her brush, or chatting with Lord Fitzsimmons as she painted the picturesque pond or stream he was fishing in. Having to entertain them in the drawing room was another matter.

  They kept her from her work.

  Mama would not let her avoid their presence. Mama was certain that one or both gentlemen were about to come up to scratch. She had been s
een casting significant looks at her daughter’s suitors while whispering to the vicar’s wife, who wore an air of mingled complicity and congratulation.

  She might even be right about his lordship, Polly thought as she pulled on her smock. Fitz was growing more and more particular in his attentions, and kept casting out remarks about his family and his home. He was more serious-minded than Bev, whose extravagant compliments were to be taken with a grain of salt.

  At least, Fitz was serious about his wretched fishing. Polly was all too aware that he regarded her painting in the light of a suitable hobby which would naturally fade away when she had her own home and family to care for. Like his sister’s watercolours—she had not forgotten his sister. As for Bev, she rather thought he was the quintessential bachelor. She doubted she would be called upon to reject him. Not that she really considered Fitz likely to propose marriage. After all, he was a peer and she was merely the daughter of a sea captain.

  Thank heaven they were well-bred gentlemen who would not dream of paying a call before eleven in the morning. She had a couple of hours to herself now. What she really wanted though was the time and the weather to start on another portrait of Kolya. Since Fitz and Bev arrived, she had seen so little of him.

  As if in answer to her thought, there was a knock on the door, and he came into the studio.

  “Mr. Volkov,” she greeted him with delight, “I was just wondering when I should be able to start another painting of you. Are you not going out with Ned this morning? I could make some sketches if you are not in a hurry.”

  He smiled, but his eyes were grave. “I am not going out with your brother. I have just now taken leave of him, and of madame and Nicholas.” His voice sounded strained.

  “Taken leave? I don’t understand.” Polly had a horrid feeling that she did understand, all too well.

  “I must go today to Brighton.”

  “That is not far. You are going for several days?”

  “I cannot be sure for how long. The king commands my presence.”

  “The king!”

  “Lord John believes His Majesty may offer me a position in his household.”

  “Then you might not come back?” Polly struggled to keep her voice even. She could not meet his eyes.

  “Whatever happens I shall visit the Danvilles.”

  “So perhaps I…we shall see you again one day. I…I am glad to have made your acquaintance, sir, and I wish you well.”

  “Miss Howard!” He held out both hands towards her but she pretended she did not see. He cleared his throat. “Miss Howard, I may ask you one favour?”

  “Yes, of course.” Surprised, she looked up. For a breathless moment she thought he was going to kiss her, then he stepped back, as if afraid to be too close.

  Again he cleared his throat. “I would like to take a few pictures, as reminder of our friendsh...acquaintance. You do not mind?”

  “No,” she said dully. “Take what you want.” She realised that her hands were tightly clenched together, and made a deliberate effort to relax them. She wished she had not—they seemed to have been holding her together, and suddenly she felt limp all over. Reaching behind her for her stool, she sat down and stared blindly at her toes.

  He did not speak as he sorted through the crates of paintings, and she did not ask which he wanted. She did not even care how many he took.

  His firm tread returned across the room and stopped before her. “Thank you, Miss Howard.”

  “You are welcome, sir.” Raising her head, she looked into his face.

  Did the regret in his hazel eyes rival her own? No, she must have imagined it, she thought, remembering Lady John’s warning, but at least he was not laughing at her. She could not have borne that.

  He bowed, awkwardly because of the canvases under his arm, and in a few swift strides he was gone. No word of sorrow at parting, no promise to meet again—the door clicked shut behind him and he was gone. All she meant to him was a light flirtation, a pleasant way to pass the time while he was stuck in the country with no better entertainment. He even expected to forget her without her paintings to remind him.

  Polly sat quite still until she heard the crunch of his horse’s hooves on the gravel. Then she picked up her paints and lost herself in a fiery sunset of angry reds and blazing oranges.

  * * * *

  Three days passed before she checked to see what Kolya had chosen. The picture of Five Oaks was gone, with the apple blossom and another landscape. He had taken a painting of a small boy who had been so fascinated by her one day at the Pantiles that he had stood and stared for a good half hour, until his scolding nursemaid came and removed him. And he had taken his own portrait.

  “I wish he had left me his portrait,” she said sadly to Ned when he came into the studio after stabling Chipper that evening. She had all her sketches of Kolya spread on the table.

  He was shocked. Though Mrs. Howard had told him Polly was pining for the Russian, he had thought it just another of his mother’s unwarranted worries. He was always out most of the day, and though he had noticed his sister’s quietness in the evenings, he had set it down to her usual abstraction while planning a new painting.

  “You put a great deal of effort into painting Volkov,” he said with attempted casualness. “It must always be a wrench to part with your best work. Are you coming in now to dress for dinner?”

  “No, I have to clean up here first. Don’t worry, I shall not forget the time.” Her smile was a pitiful travesty of her usual cheerfulness.

  Hurrying into the house, Ned found Mrs. Howard in the sitting room, folding her sewing. “Mother, you are right, Polly is in the mopes. I fear she is too fond by far of Mr. Volkov.”

  “Did I not say so? I was glad when he left, but she continues to fret herself into a decline.”

  “Is it as bad as that? My poor sister! No wonder you are worried.”

  However, his mother’s anxiety was by no means all for her daughter’s health. “The worst of it is that when Lord Fitzsimmons and Mr. Bevan are here she sits in a corner like a mouse and makes no effort to attract them. She will lose them both, mark my words.”

  “Surely you would not have our Polly setting her cap at those gentlemen! I hope she has better principles than to do any such thing.”

  “Of course she is not to set her cap—such a vulgar phrase, Ned. I meant only that they were both enchanted with her sunny nature and now the sun is hidden in clouds of gloom.”

  Ned was unimpressed by his mother’s fanciful eloquence. “You cannot expect Polly to put on a show of gaiety when she is unhappy.”

  “Men are so very impractical,” bemoaned Mrs. Howard. “Think how wonderful it would be to see our girl a baroness. Of course Mr. Bevan has no title, but he is related to the best families and able to support a wife in style. It is worth a little effort to catch one of them.”

  “I believe you are over optimistic. Even if Polly were her usual contented self, I cannot suppose that either his lordship or Mr. Bevan has any serious intentions. They must be acquainted with scores of young ladies far more eligible than my sister.”

  “Lady John was a governess,” his mother reminded him stubbornly.

  “Well, I shall talk to Polly,” said Ned with a sigh, “but if she does not have a mind to either I shall not press her. I wish she might find a husband she can care for who is of our own station in the world.”

  “The world?” Nick bounced in, grubby and dishevelled as always. “I’d give the world for something to eat right this instant, but Mrs. Coates says I must wait until dinner-time. I wish you will put Ella in charge of the kitchen, Mother. She would not starve me half to death.”

  Reminded of the hour, Mrs. Howard hustled her sons upstairs to wash off their dirt and change their dress. It was too late for Ned to talk to Polly before dinner, though she, for once, was in good time. Sure that the interview would be painful, he wanted to get it over with.

  Fortunately, after the meal, Nick took himself off about his o
wn business when his elders repaired to the sitting room. Ned settled his mother by the fire with a branch of candles to light her everlasting sewing. Polly sat at a small writing desk in the window with her sketch book before her. She often spent the evenings planning the composition of her next landscape, but Ned saw that she was gazing out into the dusk without even picking up her pencil.

  He hesitated, unsure how to introduce the subject of her suitors. It would be easier, he thought, if he were her father rather than her brother and her friend.

  She started as he pulled up a chair beside her and put his hand over hers. “Polly, dear,” he said with quiet sympathy, “I hate to see my tranquil, cheerful sister so despondent.”

  “Despondent? Not I.” She smiled brightly.

  “I fear you miss Mr. Volkov,” he persisted.

  “I’m by far too busy to miss anyone, I assure you.”

  “Then you do not fancy yourself in love with him?”

  “In love? Heavens no! Is that what has brought about your long face, dear Ned? Pray put it out of your mind. Mr. Volkov was an agreeable acquaintance and I enjoyed his company, but Lady John warned me, you know, that he is a shocking flirt, so of course I did not take him seriously.”

  Ned was afraid she was trying to convince herself, but his relief at her denial was such that he allowed her to persuade him that her heart was untouched. Though she undoubtedly missed the Russian, in time she would regain her serenity. He braced himself to tackle the next point.

  “Mother tells me you have lost interest in your aristocratic admirers. Do you dislike Lord Fitzsimmons and Mr. Bevan?”

  “I like them very well.”

  “Then will you try to look more kindly on them? Mother fears you will drive them away, and either would be an excellent match.”

  “I would never marry a man only because he was an excellent match,” she said, indignation overcoming her listlessness.

  “I know you would not and I’m glad of it,” Ned soothed. “But you said you like them.”

  “No better than I liked Dr. Leacroft or Mr. Grant.”