by Carola Dunn
“I shall certainly explore. I doubt Miss Ellingham and Miss Winnie will want to sit still for me for more than an hour at a time.”
“Do we have to sit quite still?” asked Winnie, wriggling. “I’m not very good at sitting still. Nettie—Annette is much better than me.”
The door opened and Mrs. Borden ushered in a girl carrying a tea tray laden with cakes and biscuits and neat little sandwiches. Polly discovered she was starving. There had been no time at the stage stop to swallow more than a cup of tea and a slice of bread and butter.
Winnie jumped down from the chair and went to the tea tray. “I’ll get you what you want, Miss Howard,” she offered. “Do you like samwiches? And macaroons? They’re my fav’rite. And there’s queen cakes, do you like them? Mama, will you cut some gingerbread for Miss Howard, please.”
She carefully brought the heaped plate to Polly, and Annette followed with a cup of tea. Winnie helped herself to a handful of macaroons and moved to a straight chair, where she sat munching and swinging her feet.
As she ate, Polly described her working method. “I should like to spend a day or two just sketching the young ladies, ma’am. At their lessons, at play, whatever they are doing. Then we can decide how you would like them posed.”
“Oh, I shall leave that entirely to you, Miss Howard. I am enchanted by your picture of the little boy.”
Lady Sylvia indicated the wall to her right and Polly saw the solemn, wide-eyed child she had painted at the Pantiles. Kolya had chosen well—properly framed and hung it was indeed charming. She hoped he was enjoying the proceeds of the sale.
The momentary cloud was dispersed by Winnie, who said hopefully, “Do you want to see the nursery and the schoolroom? I’ll show you.”
“When Miss Howard has finished her tea, I expect she will want to rest,” her mother intervened.
“I am quite restored, thank you, my lady. I should like a tour if Miss Winnie will oblige. I hope you will go, too, Miss Ellingham?”
Annette nodded, her face solemn as the boy in the picture, then came to perch on the edge of the chair next to Polly’s. “Please, ma’am, will you call me Annette? Miss Ellingham doesn’t sound like me.”
“Certainly, if you will call me Miss Polly.”
The child smiled. “Oh yes, that’s a pretty name.”
Her sister rushed over and thrust her hand into Polly’s. “Me too,” she said anxiously. “Can I call you Miss Polly, too?”
“Of course.”
“Annette, pray bring me Miss Polly’s cup to refill, and while she is drinking it, take Edwina to wash her hands. We shall come up to the nursery presently.” As soon as the girls were gone, Lady Sylvia said with an air of relief, “I’m so glad they like you. We have few visitors, and I was afraid they might be difficult.”
“They are delightful children, and it will be a pleasure to paint them, ma’am,” Polly assured her.
Praise of her daughters was obviously the way to her ladyship’s heart. Her smile of pleasure increased her likeness to Annette. “Doubtless they will want to show you all their little treasures when we go up,” she said, “and then, if you should like it, I will show you mine. My father-in-law was something of a collector, and there are a number of fine pictures in the house.”
Polly was delighted. She had had little opportunity of studying the old masters except through prints, which were unsatisfactory at best.
The late viscount, she discovered, had been a connoisseur of Flemish works, landscapes with windmills silhouetted against wide skies, portraits of ordinary people, and intimate interiors like that in her chamber. There were few of the grand Italian paintings beloved by most English collectors, but maybe he had hung those at his main seat in Warwickshire.
By the time Lady Sylvia had shown her every picture in the house, inviting her to examine them later at her leisure, Polly was beginning to wonder where the present viscount was. There had been no mention of him, no references by the girls to “Papa.” Nor, she realised, had she seen any menservants except Dick Borden. Though the house was not large and its furnishings were far from ostentatious, everything was of the best. Clearly the Ellinghams were wealthy, and wealthy households, she was sure, were usually run by a butler and boasted swarms of footmen.
The sun was making fitful, watery appearances between the clouds, and Lady Sylvia invited Polly to stroll on the terrace at the back of the house. She forgot about the viscount’s absence as she surveyed the brick-walled garden, breathing the scent of heavy-headed lilacs.
Near the house flowers abounded: beds of roses with swelling buds, tulips and pansies, fragile columbines, polyanthus, and rich-hued peonies. Lady Sylvia pointed out a hedged enclosure concealing the vegetable garden. Espaliered fruit trees grew against the south-facing wall, and a huge chestnut, covered now with candle-spikes of bloom, shaded a stretch of velvety lawn. A swing dangled from one branch.
That would be a good place to sketch Annette and Winnie, Polly decided. She might even paint them on the swing.
Beyond the far wall rose the smooth green humps of the South Downs. Polly noticed a door in the wall. “Is that the way to the views of the sea you mentioned?” she asked, pointing.
“Yes. It is locked, but I shall show you where the key is kept in the potting shed. I am no great walker—nor is Nurse, as you may have noticed!—but one of the maids sometimes takes the girls out rambling. If you ever want company I’m sure they would be delighted to go with you.”
“How far can one walk on land belonging to Dean House?”
“No farther than the garden wall, I fear.” Lady Sylvia seemed ill at ease, but explained, “The estate used to stretch for some distance to the south, but the land has been sold. I daresay it will soon all be built on, for Brighton is growing at a prodigious rate.” She dismissed the subject with apparent relief. “Shall we go in? I told Mrs. Borden we shall dine at seven, but if that does not suit you it can be changed.”
“I should not dream of upsetting your arrangements, my lady. I expect Lord Ellingham has definite ideas about the dinner hour. My brother Ned is sadly discomposed if he is forced for some reason to alter his habits, though Nick is ready to eat at any time.”
Lady Sylvia flushed. “I…Lord Ellingham…I daresay I ought to have told you that I am a widow.”
Contrite, Polly reached out to clasp her hand. “No, why should you? I’m so sorry.”
“Indeed, there is no need…” Her ladyship was flustered. “That is, it was several years ago. You must be surprised that I do not have a companion, but I cannot think it necessary, living here retired as I do. If I lived in London, or at Westcombe—that is an estate near Lewes I inherited from an uncle…”
“I’m sure it is perfectly acceptable for you to live without a companion,” Polly said firmly. “Pray do not think that you owe me any explanation.”
As she changed for dinner, Polly confessed to herself that in spite of her words she was curious about Lady Sylvia’s unusual situation. Her curiosity faded when she discovered that the window of her bedchamber looked out over the garden to the downs beyond. She took her sketch book from the dressing table, where Jill must have put it when she unpacked, and began to draw the flowing shapes of the rolling uplands.
Time passed unnoticed. The maid had to be sent to summon her to dinner.
* * * *
That evening she wrote a brief note to her family to announce her safe arrival, and a few days later she sent a letter describing her activities. Mrs. Howard gave it to Ned when he came home in the evening.
He scanned it quickly and would have liked to discuss Polly’s news over dinner, but the meal was interrupted by a fierce dispute between his mother and his brother. Ned had to order Nick to hold his tongue, an expedient he thoroughly disliked. After dinner, Nick retired sulkily to his chamber, while Mrs. Howard walked down to the vicarage to join in an evening of sewing for the Poor Basket.
Ned went to his office, intending to go over some figures relating to a c
opse that was to be thinned and the timber sold. He found himself thinking of Polly instead. Until she left he had not realised to what extent her equable temper had acted as a shield between his argumentative brother and his easily agitated mother. Her simple presence, without any active intervention, was a calming influence on both. Ned missed her on his own behalf too. He was aware of an emptiness, a dissatisfaction with his life, which he had never been conscious of before.
He took her letter from his pocket and read it again. She was enjoying herself sketching Lady Sylvia’s daughters and beginning on their portraits, walking on the downs, making a thorough study of the pictures at Dean House. She was already grown very fond of both the girls and their gentle mother.
Did he imagine a certain wistfulness when she mentioned that she had had no occasion to go into Brighton, or to view the Royal Pavilion? Ned hated to think that she was still pining for the Russian.
Slowly he folded the letter and put it away in a desk drawer. The figures he ought to be working on stared up at him. A cup of coffee would clear his head, he thought.
He was in the hall on the way to the kitchen when the front door-knocker sounded. Hearing the kitchen door open, he called to Ella, “I’ll see who it is.”
He opened the front door. On the step stood Kolya Volkov.
Chapter 11
Ned Howard stared. Kolya could not tell from his face whether he was pleased or annoyed, or simply surprised, to see his erstwhile pupil.
“I beg pardon that I disturb you so late.”
“Not at all.” His response appeared to be automatic rather than heartfelt but he stood aside and said, “Won’t you come in? Your business in Brighton is finished?” He led the way into the drawing room.
“No, I must return tomorrow.” Kolya glanced around the empty room. His impatience was not to be contained. “If you please, I may see Miss Howard?”
“Polly is not here.”
“I will wait, unless is better I come back in the morning?”
“She’s not out, she has gone away. I’m surprised no one mentioned it at the manor if they knew you were coming here.”
Limp with disappointment, Kolya dropped into the nearest chair. “I have not been yet to manor. She is gone? To where?”
Ned avoided his question. “Will you take a glass of brandy? Or coffee, perhaps; I was about to have some.”
“Coffee, thank you.” He waited while Ned rang the bell and gave Ella the order. The maid curtsied to Kolya with a nod and a smile. She, at least, was glad to see him.
“You said you have not been to the manor yet,” Ned said abruptly. “Have you dined?”
“Na samom delye—as matter of a fact—no.”
“There’s some cold pigeon pie, sir, and Mrs. Coates could heat up the rest of the sparrowgrass soup.”
“Ask her to do that, Ella.” His duty as a hospitable host carried out, Ned seemed to relax.
“Please, where is Miss Howard?” Kolya ventured to repeat.”
“She has been commissioned to paint a portrait.”
His unwillingness to say where Polly was suggested the answer to Kolya. “In Brighton?”
Ned’s affirmation was reluctant.
“Already! Is better than I hope. You will give me the address, please? I wish to pay my respects.”
“I’ll have to think about it. You must understand that my only concern is for my sister’s welfare.”
Kolya conceded temporary defeat. “I will come in the morning,” he said philosophically, and proceeded to enquire about various matters concerning the Loxwood estate.
When, an hour or so later, he rose to leave, Ned said, “You will find that Lady John is still much occupied in organizing her new household. I know you will be welcome at the manor, but she was not best pleased when Lord Fitzsimmons appeared a day or two ago.”
“Fitz came back?” Nor did the news please Kolya. “Is not my business, but I beg you will tell me, you gave Miss Howard’s address?”
“No,” said Ned shortly, sighing. “I shall see you tomorrow.”
Kolya rode on to the manor, well fed and in good spirits. Ned Howard was a good fellow, and their parting had definitely been more amicable than their meeting. Besides, he had a plan. If Polly’s address was still withheld in the morning, he would suborn Nicholas. The lad was bound to know the name of his sister’s patron if he did not know the address.
* * * *
John and Rebecca Ivanovna were happy to see him. They sat up late discussing John’s plans to stand for election to Parliament. Nonetheless, they were all at breakfast when Ned Howard arrived at the manor at nine the next morning.
Ushered into the dining room by the new butler, the nephew of the stately individual who had tyrannized over the Five Oaks staff for decades, Ned accepted a seat and a glass of ale. He apologized to Lady John for introducing business at her breakfast table.
“My lord,” he continued, “I mentioned to you the necessity of finding a buyer for the timber which is to be cut down. I have heard that Mr. Nash, the architect, is purchasing materials for building the king’s new chapel at the Brighton Pavilion, and it occurred to me that, being so close, we might make an advantageous sale.”
“Sounds like a good notion.” His lordship cast a knowing glance at Kolya. “You’ll want to go down to Brighton, I daresay, to make arrangements. You will stay at his Grace’s house, of course.”
“Thank you, my lord. I wondered whether…that is, do you suppose it would cause any difficulty if I took my brother with me?”
“I doubt one more will seriously disrupt the household. Want to keep your eye on young Nicholas, do you?”
“He’s a good lad, sir, and I wouldn’t want you to think otherwise. It’s just that, well, my mother’s nerves are not of the strongest…”
Kolya and John laughed. “I seem to remember when I was that age her Grace never set eyes on me without suffering a spasm,” said John understandingly. “By all means take the boy.”
“I shall call on Mrs. Howard while you are gone,” Lady John promised, “to make sure she wants for nothing.”
“Thank you, my lady, you are very kind.” Ned looked at Kolya.
“We shall travel together, of course,” Kolya assured him. His heart was light. The cautious brother would not be going to Brighton to keep an eye on his sister if he did not mean to reveal her whereabouts. “I am at your service.”
Ned had a few matters of estate business to deal with before their departure, but travel was swift on the fine June day. It was shortly after four by the time the three reached the outskirts of Brighton and walked through the gates of Dean House.
“Why can’t I wait till tomorrow to see Polly?” Nick demanded, not for the first time. “If I’m going to join the Navy, the sea is much more important.”
“The sea will still be there tomorrow,” Ned pointed out.
“So will Polly.” Heaving a big sigh, Nick abandoned the argument as his brother raised the gleaming door-knocker.
“I’m Miss Howard’s brother,” he told the maid who opened the door. “Pray inform her that I am here.”
She looked flustered. “I’ll ‘ave to ask Mrs. Borden, sir,” she said, and scurried off.
They waited several minutes on the doorstep, Kolya increasingly impatient, Nick muttering remarks of which “waste of time” were the only audible words. At last a grey-haired woman approached.
“Miss Polly’s out, sir, but if you’ll step this way her ladyship’ll see you in the garden.”
Kolya had no desire to meet her ladyship, but politeness forbade retreat. Apparently agreeing wholeheartedly with the first part of this reflection, Nick stepped backwards. Kolya seized his arm and propelled him after his brother. In the wake of the housekeeper, they crossed the hall and a sitting room to emerge through French doors onto a terrace.
Far from strolling the walks of the garden, or taking her ease on one of the benches scattered about it, Lady Sylvia was on her knees by one of the flowerbed
s, planting out seedlings.
“Here’s Mr. Howard, my lady,” Mrs. Borden announced.
Her ladyship cast a quick, scared glance up at them from under the wide brim of her hat, then returned to her task with dogged determination. As Ned went down the brick steps towards her, Kolya held Nick back. If for some reason the pretty young woman was afraid of them, it was better if she had only one to deal with.
Kolya heard her say in a hurried, breathless voice, “You are Miss Howard’s brother?”
He could not make out Ned’s words, but his tone was soothing. A moment later he helped Lady Sylvia to her feet and with her returned towards the terrace. Her steps were slow and reluctant.
“It seems Polly has taken the Misses Ellingham for a walk,” Ned said. “Her ladyship has kindly offered to show us which way she went, if you choose to go with me, Volkov?”
“Not I,” murmured Nick, but he had manners enough to keep his comment inaudible to all but Kolya.
“Certainly,” Kolya assented promptly. A meeting in the countryside would suit him much better than in a drawing room.
Ned presented his companions to Lady Sylvia. As she turned to lead the way across the garden, Kolya saw her appealing look at her housekeeper, who was still standing on the terrace. Mrs. Borden gave her a nod of encouragement.
Though Kolya was mildly intrigued by this odd behaviour, his mind was on Polly. He and Nick followed Ned and the lady through a door in the wall around the garden. Immediately beyond, a chalky path ran at an angle across a gentle slope of short, wiry turf to a stile set in a hedge wreathed with blush-pink dog roses.
When they reached the stile, Lady Sylvia stopped. On the other side the path divided into three and the slope steepened, rising unbroken to a rounded hilltop. She pointed to the right-hand path.
“Miss Howard said she was going to go that way.”
Kolya had the impression that she meant to return to the house, but Ned offered his arm to help her over the stile. She accepted it without demur, and without looking at him.
