Polly and the Prince

by Carola Dunn

  “Your Tunbridge Wells suitors? I seem to remember the rector of King Charles the Martyr popped the question, too.”

  She smiled at his teasing, a real smile. “Yes, and I refused them all. I doubt I shall ever marry, Ned, for a husband will expect me to give up painting, and that I will not do.”

  He believed her. In the weeks she had lived at Loxwood, he had come to comprehend her dedication to her work as he never had on his short visits to Tunbridge Wells. She was capable of being a loving, if absentminded, wife and mother, but she would never have any attention to spare for household matters. The man who married her must be sympathetic and encouraging as well as loving, ready and able to relieve her of the practical details of everyday life. Where was she to find such a paragon?

  Ned sighed. The weeks since his sister, his mother, and his brother had joined him had also taught him that he wanted a family of his own. He wanted children in his house, a little Nick and Polly who would call him Papa. He wanted a wife…but there his longing dissolved in formless dreams of warmth and comfort.

  He gave his sister a quick hug and kissed her cheek. “I’ll take care of you, Poll,” he said, and went to try to explain to his mother why her undutiful daughter intended to refuse the hand of a wealthy baron. He hoped she would consider that her rejection of the charming but destitute foreigner was compensation enough.

  * * * *

  Polly had almost succeeded in convincing herself, with her words to Ned, that Kolya had been no more to her than an agreeable acquaintance. He was so obliging it was impossible not to like him, and it was flattering to have a gentleman of discernment admire her pictures—and admire them enough to want to keep five. Besides that, he was a romantic figure with his rescue of Lady John and his escape from Russia. But there was no room in her life for romantic figures. She must put him out of her mind.

  She turned the pages of her sketch book, studying the drawings she had made of Loxwood Manor, then began to plan the painting she would begin tomorrow.

  It turned out to be a perfect day for painting outdoors, cool and still with interesting cloud shapes sailing ponderously across the sky. Nick helped Polly carry her equipment to a gently sloping field overlooking the gardens and the black-and-white Elizabethan manor, framed by trees clad in fresh springtime green.

  She had been working for some time when a loud “Halloo!” announced the approach of Lord Fitzsimmons and Mr. Bevan. Dismounting, they tethered their horses to a hedge-maple and strolled across the tussocky grass towards her, doffing their hats.

  “Young Nick told us where to find you, Miss Howard,” Bev said. “We came to say good-bye.”

  “You are leaving?” Polly breathed a silent sigh of relief.

  “Back to town tomorrow.”

  “Not by my choice!” Fitz broke in. “Thing is, Danville’s going to be away for a few days.”

  “Some sort of political nonsense. You could have knocked me down with a feather when he confessed he’s looking to stand for Parliament.”

  “Daresay I ought to take my seat in the Lords one of these days,” said Fitz gloomily. “The pater would be turning in his grave if he knew I hadn’t done it yet. But you see, Miss Howard,” he returned to his explanation, “it won’t do for us to stay at Five Oaks with Danville gone. And when he gets back, he and Lady John will be removing to the manor, as you doubtless know.”

  “Yes, I’m painting this view of the house as a gift for the Danvilles when they come to Loxwood.”

  The gentlemen moved to stand behind her.

  “Very pretty.” His lordship sounded dubious.

  Polly smiled to herself. The canvas as yet displayed little more than patches of colour and light. “You flatter me, my lord,” she said demurely, adding a touch of blue to a shadow.

  “No, no, I assure you. Deuced pretty, ain’t it, Bev?”

  “Interesting,” pronounced that gentleman with a degree of caution.

  “Anyway, the thing is, the Danvilles won’t want guests while they are settling down at the manor. It will be a few weeks before I can come down again, but I promise you, my dear Miss Howard, I shall return. I don’t suppose there’s any chance of you coming up to Town?” he added hopefully.

  “I fear not, my lord. I am always particularly busy in the summer, since the weather is often fine enough to allow me to paint outdoors. The trees are green, flowers are blooming—indeed, my family complains that I scarcely have time to pass the time of day.” Polly hoped he would take the hint that if he returned to Sussex he would not find her at leisure to entertain him.

  She knew she had failed when he said with an indulgent smile, “I particularly admire your contentment with country pastimes, Miss Howard. So many young ladies would spend every moment repining for the frivolities of London.” He glanced around.

  Mr. Bevan had tactfully wandered off and was poking with his riding crop at something in the hedge. Lord Fitzsimmons seized his chance and Polly’s hand.

  “Miss Howard,” he said, slightly hoarse, his handsome face flushed, “you must know how I admire you in every way. When I return I shall have something most particular to say to you. Most particular.”

  Polly tugged at her hand. With a great effort she managed to keep a tremor of laughter out of her voice. “I beg your pardon, sir, but I fear you may find a smear of paint on your glove. Prussian blue, I fancy.”

  He dropped her hand and stared for a moment in dismay at his pale yellow pigskin glove, then hid the horrid sight behind his back. “Yes, er, um, nothing to signify,” he stammered.

  “I daresay your man will be able to remove the stain,” Polly said kindly. “Tell him to try a mixture of boiled linseed oil and vinegar.”

  Lord Fitzsimmons looked blank. The notion of advising his valet on how to clean oil paint off leather clearly baffled him. To his obvious relief, Mr. Bevan returned to join them.

  “Hedgehog,” he said, an ingenious if unlikely excuse for his absence. “I hate to interrupt but we’d best be getting along, Fitz old fellow. One or two more calls to pay,” he added to Polly. “Servant, Miss Howard.”

  His lordship bowed and took his leave, repeating, but with less assurance, his intention of returning to Loxwood as soon as he was able. As they walked away, Polly saw him whip his handkerchief from his pocket and rub surreptitiously at his desecrated glove.

  Chuckling, she turned back to her painting.

  Her improved mood did not last. She could not help thinking how Kolya, rather than make fatuous remarks about the unfinished canvas, would have been interested in her technique.

  Try as she might, he would not stay banished from her mind. She was forced to admit that, even though she did not love him of course, she missed him. She did her best to hide her megrims from her family.

  Mrs. Howard was delighted to hear that Lord Fitzsimmons had promised to return. The rest of her meeting with his lordship Polly described only to Ned, so her mother did not know that Fitz’s resolve had been shaken.

  Ned grinned and said, “What a devious way to discourage an importunate suitor.”

  * * * *

  Several days of fine weather enabled Polly to finish the picture of Loxwood Manor before drizzle once more confined her to her studio. She was drawing a posy of yellow and purple pansies, and wondering how best to paint the velvety sheen of their petal faces, when Nick burst into the room and shook like a wet dog.

  “I went down to the Onslow Arms to fetch the post,” he announced. “There’s a letter for you. The ink on the outside has run a bit in the rain but it looks to me as if it comes from Brighton.”

  Chapter 10

  Polly doubtfully examined the damp paper. She had never seen Kolya’s handwriting, but the address was written in what looked like a feminine hand. Then she brightened as she recalled that the Russian alphabet was different. He might have had someone write it for him.

  He might have had some female write it for him—but at least he had written. The smudged scrawl in the corner, haloed where t
he ink had run, definitely said Brighton and she knew no one else there.

  “Open it,” said Nick impatiently, offering his pocket-knife.

  She slit the seal and carefully unfolded the sheet. Her eyes went straight to the signature at the bottom: Lady Sylvia Ellingham.

  “Is it from Kolya?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, then I’m going to get something to eat.” Nick took himself off.

  Subduing her disappointment, Polly read the letter. Lady Sylvia Ellingham had bought one of her paintings, a picture of a child, in a Brighton shop. She wondered if Miss Howard would be so kind as to come and stay with her for as long as it would take to paint the portraits of her two daughters. She suggested a fee of one hundred guineas, but if this was insufficient she would be happy to negotiate.

  One hundred guineas! Polly’s landscapes had sold in Tunbridge Wells for seven guineas apiece, five for her and two for Mr. Irving. How much had Kolya received for the pictures she had given him?

  Not that it mattered. He needed money desperately, and she hoped he had realised a goodly sum. All the same it hurt to know that he had so quickly parted with them, after asking for them as mementos of their friendship. No, he had changed the word “friendship” at the last minute.

  Polly forgot that she had been the first to say “acquaintance.”

  Brooding over their last meeting was pointless, she told herself firmly. She turned back to Lady Sylvia’s letter, but even before she reread it her mind was made up. She would go to Brighton. Between new scenes, new faces, and the bracing sea air, her megrims would vanish.

  The pansies abandoned, she dashed through the rain to the house to write to Lady Sylvia.

  * * * *

  Mrs. Howard wept and worried. Nick congratulated Polly enviously—she was going to see the sea. Ned, once assured of his sister’s determination, borrowed an outdated edition of the Peerage from the manor’s library and looked up Lady Sylvia Ellingham.

  Her ladyship was the daughter of the Earl of Bridgnorth and had married James, Viscount Ellingham, in 1812. Lord Ellingham’s country seat was in Warwickshire and he owned a small estate, Dean House, near Brighton. Since the volume was published in 1813, there was no mention of offspring.

  Ned assured his mother that Lady Sylvia was the acme of respectability, and Polly diverted her by asking her assistance in packing for a stay of several weeks. Nick carried Polly’s trunk down to the Onslow Arms. Two days after the arrival of the letter, in the middle of another wet afternoon, Polly stepped off the stage at the Ship Inn in Brighton.

  * * * *

  She had never seen such a confusion of carriages, ostlers, waiters, porters, and travellers. As she looked around uncertainly, a liveried coachman jumped down from the box of a smart landau and approached her.

  “Be ‘e Miss Howard?” His voice was slow and countrified, soothing, his face creased with smile lines under his dripping hat.

  “Yes, I’m Miss Howard,” she said thankfully.

  “Lady Sylvia sent Oi to pick ‘ee up, miss. If ’ee’ll just show Oi which be thy boxes, us’ll be off out o’ this hubbub.”

  The coachman seemed to have a preference for the quieter back streets, but through the drizzle Polly caught glimpses of fine houses, elegant terraces, and gardens. To her disappointment she did not see the exotic domes of the Pavilion. Nor, of course, was there any sign of Kolya.

  The buildings became smaller and more scattered, with fields beyond. They looked new, and a number were under construction. Then the landau turned in at a gateway and stopped before a pretty Queen Anne house. Even in the carriage Polly could smell the purple-blooming wistaria which grew up its brick front and over the roof of the projecting porch.

  Ned had warned Polly that she would be in an awkward position, neither guest nor servant. Doubtfully she regarded the stone-flagged porch with its two white pillars and three steps up to the green front door where a brass lion-head knocker gleamed. Ought she to ask the coachman the way to the servants’ entrance? Before she could make up her mind, the door swung open.

  “So ye found Miss Howard all right and tight, did ‘ee, Dick?” called the plump middle-aged woman on the threshold. She wore a black gown and white apron and cap. The housekeeper, Polly decided as she bustled down the steps with a friendly smile.

  Dick opened the carriage door and let down the step. “This be my old ‘oman, miss.”

  “Now what sort of an introduction is that?” scolded his wife. “I’m Mrs. Borden, miss, and welcome to Dean House. Her ladyship’s expecting you. Put miss’s trunk under the porch, Dick, out of the rain, then stable the horses afore ye carry it up. Please to come this way, miss.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Borden.” Polly picked up her bandbox, stepped out of the carriage, and followed the woman into the house.

  The first thing she noticed in the hall was a vase of flamboyant tulips, scarlet slashed with yellow, reflected in the glossy surface of a beechwood half-moon table against the wall. She stopped to gaze at them in delight.

  Seeing her interest, the housekeeper said in an indulgent voice, “My lady grows ‘em herself. She’s a great one for flowers. I daresay ye’ll be wanting to tidy yourself afore ye meets her ladyship, miss. I’ll show ‘ee your bedchamber and have hot water brought up.”

  Polly’s bedchamber was on the first floor, a pretty room with ivy-leaf patterned chintz curtains at the windows and the tester bed. The floor was polished oak with a large green and gold rug between the bed and the washstand, and a small, warm-toned Vermeer interior hung on one whitewashed wall.

  “Just ring the bell when ye’re ready, miss,” said Mrs. Borden. “Summun’ll come to show the way.”

  The cheerful maid who brought her hot water curtsied and introduced herself as Jill. “Mrs. Borden says as I’m to take care of you while you’re here, miss. Is there aught I can get you now? I’ll be up to unpack soon as Old Dick brings your trunk.” She took Polly’s pelisse and bonnet and put them away in the huge armoire.

  Polly thanked her and was once more admonished to ring the bell as soon as she was ready to go down. It seemed to be a happy house, she thought, washing her face and hands with the lilac-scented soap she found beside the basin. And so far, at least, she had been treated like an honoured guest. She was glad she had come.

  She was seated at the dressing table, tidying her hair, when a soft tapping sounded at the door.

  “Come in, she called.

  The door inched open and a small, inquisitive face appeared, with brown eyes and long, straight, pale gold hair.

  “Are you the artist?”

  “Yes. Do come in. You must be one of my subjects.”

  The rest of the child appeared, clad in a pink frock with deep rose ribbons. “Hallo. I’m Winnie and I’m six.” She turned her head and reached behind her. “Come on, Nettie. She’s nice.”

  A somewhat taller girl in blue, with flaxen hair, allowed herself to be pulled into the room. “Curtsy!” she hissed. “And don’t call me Nettie! How do you do, Miss Howard. I’m Annette Ellingham, and her proper name is Edwina.” They both curtsied, Winnie with a wobble.

  “How do you do, Miss Ellingham, Miss Edwina.” Polly smiled at the two children. They were very alike but the elder was slim, with the shy look of a fawn, and the younger sturdy, a merry twinkle in her eyes. It would be a pleasure to paint them.

  “She’s my sister and she’s eight,” announced Miss Edwina. “She doesn’t like being called Nettie, but sometimes I forget. You can call me Winnie, if you like.”

  A heavy elderly woman, red-faced, appeared in the doorway. “Miss Nettie, Miss Winnie, you’ll be the death of me yet. Didn’t I tell you to go down to your ma and wait for Miss Howard there? Beg pardon, miss, these scamps move too fast for my pore ole legs.”

  “It’s all right, Nurse, she doesn’t mind,” said Winnie confidently. “We can show her the way to Mama’s sitting room.”

  “It’s quite all right, Nurse,” Polly confirmed, earning a gla
nce of gratitude from Annette. “I am ready to go down, and the young ladies shall escort me.”

  As they went downstairs, Winnie’s hand slipped into hers. Half listening to the child’s chatter, Polly wondered what Lady Sylvia was like. Judging by the ambiance of the household she was good-tempered. Her love of flowers—and her appreciation of Polly’s talent—indicated an eye for beauty. Polly was prepared to like her on sight.

  With Annette following, Winnie led her towards the back of the house, pushed open a door, and ran forwards crying, “Mama, Mama, the lady is here who’s going to paint us.”

  The woman who set down her book, rose from the chaise longue, and put her arm about her younger daughter was about Polly’s age, perhaps a year or two younger. Her hair was the exact shade of Winnie’s pale gold, but her brown eyes had Annette’s diffident, almost apprehensive expression. She wore a morning gown of pale grey silk ornamented with jet beading, and a net and lace cornette with a wide white satin ribbon tied beneath her chin.

  “Heavens,” said Polly, raising her hand to her bare head, “I forgot to put on my cap.”

  The ice was broken. Lady Sylvia laughed and came forwards with outstretched hand. “I’m so glad you came, Miss Howard. I see my girls have not been behindhand in making your acquaintance.”

  “No indeed, my lady, they have been most helpful in showing me the way.”

  “Pray be seated, ma’am. I have ordered refreshments, as I’m sure you must be tired and hungry after your journey. I wish you had given me longer notice so that I might have sent the carriage to Loxwood to fetch you.”

  “I have never travelled on the stage before. It was very interesting.” Polly sat down, fortunately choosing a large chair as Winnie promptly squeezed in beside her. “Such a variety of people, and the scenery was all new to me,” she went on, doing her best to put her hostess at ease.

  “If you like to walk, there are some superb views from the downs behind the house.” Lady Sylvia took a seat opposite her and Annette pulled up a footstool at her mother’s knee. “You can see the sea, and the whole of Brighton spread out below you.”