by Carola Dunn
“Asking her to do anything so out of the ordinary would only distress her unnecessarily. Besides, it will be good camouflage to have you paint a picture of Westcombe. It will provide a reason for my being there.”
“Oh Ned, I’m sure you can manage without me. Suppose the weather were to change before you are ready to return, so that I cannot paint outside.” Polly tried to persuade herself that her reluctance had nothing to do with the fact that Kolya would not be there.
“Apart from anything else, you can scarcely stay on at Dean House in the absence of your hostess. It will be for only a few days, and the weather could change tomorrow anyway,” he pointed out with unassailable logic.
Logic won the day. That afternoon when Kolya arrived, Polly told him that servants had been sent ahead to Westcombe to prepare the house. He seemed unconcerned that she was going away, merely wishing her a pleasant visit. In fact, he appeared to be more interested in Ned’s explanation of the problems with the estate.
Polly could not help wondering whether he had only been squiring her about from a sense of obligation. Doubtless he was tired of escorting so unfashionable a lady in this fashionable town.
The following afternoon the Howards and the Ellinghams reached Westcombe in time for tea. Despite her megrims, Polly was glad of an opportunity to paint the house. A Tudor half-timbered building, not unlike Loxwood Manor though somewhat smaller, it nestled in a fold of the downs, framed by the steep, sheep-cropped hills.
Immediately after tea, Winnie and Annette took Nick off to explore the house. Polly went outside to begin planning her painting, the purpose of the visit already half forgotten.
She scarcely saw Ned for the next few days. When he was not out talking to neighbouring farmers, he was buried in the Westcombe accounts or closeted with Lady Sylvia, presumably discussing his findings. Polly knew he had ridden into Lewes, for he made a point of telling her it was a charming town, worthy of her brush. When she finished her picture of the house she thought of requesting a carriage to take her there, but then she went walking with Nick and the girls and discovered the view from the top of the hill behind the house. The steep northern slope of the downs fell away into the Vale of Sussex, opening new vistas which demanded to be painted.
One warm evening, warned by her stomach and the westering sun that dinnertime was approaching, Polly carried her equipment down the hill to the house. Entering by a back door, she passed the small room Ned had been using as an office. From it came an angry bellow.
“And who the bloody hell are you to jump down my throat!”
Ned’s voice was crisp and clear. “As I told you, Mr. Welch, I have her ladyship’s authorization to act in her name.”
“I’ll just have a word with her ladyship meself.”
A slight movement in the dim passage beyond the door caught Polly’s eye. Lady Sylvia, looking frightened, was backing away. Polly went to her, missing Ned’s next words, but the whole house must have heard Mr. Welch’s response.
“Dismissed! I’ll see you damned in hell for this, Howard, and her bloody ladyship needn’t think I’ll take it lying down neither. You’ll both of you regret this day’s work.”
Lady Sylvia was shaking. Polly put her arm round her waist and led her away. A backward glance showed Dick the coachman, elderly but sturdy, coming in through the back door. He winked at her, looking not at all discomposed, and she recalled catching a glimpse of Mr. Welch a day or two before. The overseer’s voice was more impressive than his short, stout frame.
Old Dick stopped at the office door. “Will Oi be a-sendin’ fer t’magistrate, sor?” he enquired.
Polly heard no more. The hall was full of chattering maids who fled as she led Lady Sylvia to the drawing room. The housekeeper bustled after them, tut-tutting.
“Tea for her ladyship if you please, Mrs. Borden. Or no, better a glass of wine I believe.”
“Edward...Mr. Howard...will he be all right?” Lady Sylvia said faintly. “I never should have asked him...” She burst into tears.
“Ned can take care of himself,” Polly assured her.
By the time she had soothed the distraught woman, Ned was entering the drawing room. Far from appearing fearful, he was positively jaunty.
“That’s all settled,” he said with satisfaction, then noticed Lady Sylvia’s pale, tear-stained face. “Syl—Ma’am!” In three strides he was on his knees before her, taking her hand. “I promise you, ma’am, the wretch is gone. You have nothing to fear. It is settled.”
“What I should like to know,” said Polly placidly, noting with interest her ladyship’s trembling smile, “is just what has been going on at Westcombe.”
Ned stood up and took a seat opposite. “It’s a bit involved. You know that the greater part of the estate is down in the Vale of Sussex?”
“Is it? I have been painting the view on the other side of the hill, but I have to admit I did not know who owned it.”
“I don’t suppose you did,” he said indulgently. “Be that as it may, there is an adjoining estate in the valley, Wivelston Place, which is selling off two or three farms. The house itself is not for sale, so the price is good. It seems her ladyship’s solicitor in Lewes has amassed quite a fortune, by what means I prefer not to know, and had a notion to set up as a country gentleman. He has an option to buy the farms but he wanted more than that, so he conspired with our friend Welch to persuade Lady Sylvia to sell.”
“As I must have done in the end, had Mr. Howard not discovered the plot.” Hands clasped, Lady Sylvia leaned forward with an earnest expression and continued, “I must reward you for your assistance, sir, or at least pay you for your time and trouble.”
“That is not necessary,” said Ned brusquely, rising to his feet.
Though taken aback she persisted. “I have dared to hope that you might agree to take the position of bailiff here at Westcombe.”
“Impossible. As it is, I have wasted too much of my employer’s time. I must ride to Brighton tonight to conclude Lord John’s business there in the morning, and then return at once to Loxwood. Polly, I trust you and Nick can be ready to leave Brighton by noon.”
“Impossible,” said Polly, noting that her brother looked everywhere but at Lady Sylvia. “I cannot guarantee even to be in Brighton at noon tomorrow, and if I was I have a dozen things to do there.”
“But…”
“I’m sure Lady Sylvia will be willing to let Nick stay at Dean House, so you need not be concerned at leaving him alone at the duke’s.”
Her ladyship, bewildered, nodded acquiescence.
“As you will,” said Ned, impatiently. He bowed to Lady Sylvia. “Thank you for your hospitality, my lady. I shall look out for someone suitable for the vacant position.”
A moment later he was gone. They heard his hurried footsteps in the hall.
“I did not mean to offend him.” Lady Sylvia’s brown eyes once more swam with tears. “I have come to rely on him.”
“I am sure he will always be willing to advise you.”
“It is not just his advice I want,” she wailed. “Somehow his presence is so very comforting.”
To Polly’s relief the girls came in to say good-night, forcing their mother to regain her composure. Then it was time to change for dinner. Polly caught Nick before they went down and told him of Ned’s departure. His surprise was short-lived; he was much too eager to describe a bang-up afternoon spent haymaking with a new friend to worry about the doings of his elders.
At the dinner table, his chatter diverted attention from Lady Sylvia’s low spirits and lack of appetite. Immediately after dinner her ladyship retired, claiming a slight headache. Polly was left wondering why Ned should take offence at the offer of a job, and why Lady Sylvia was so out-of-reason upset by his sudden departure.
* * * *
They all returned to Brighton the following afternoon, in time for Polly to go straight to the Pavilion to paint. Kolya found her there, in her usual spot, and asked how the visit to West
combe had gone. Always lively, he seemed full of suppressed excitement, his slanting eyes sparkling as he listened to her uncertain answer.
“Very well, I suppose. Ned discovered that the bailiff and the solicitor were in league to cheat Lady Sylvia—only that leaves her without either.”
“I daresay are some very good solicitors in Brighton. I will find one, and he will find a new bailiff, nyet?”
“Yes, I should think so. That is excessively kind of you.” He shrugged. “Is nothing. I wish I knew already enough to take position for self. But soon at least I return to studies.”
Polly had been going to tell him about the contretemps between her brother and Lady Sylvia, but this comment distracted her. “You have seen the king at last?” she demanded.
“Yes, I have seen the king. Is most affable gentleman. And I have done more—I showed to the king your pictures, and His Majesty has bought two.”
Polly stared, dazed. “Mine? My pictures? The king bought two of my pictures?”
Kolya nodded, grinning. “Wait, is more. When I saw the king, already I have arranged with Mr. Lay to hold an exhibition of your work. And when I told this to the king, he gave leave to claim that the exhibition is under the Royal Patronage of His Majesty, King George the Four.”
Chapter 14
“And Mr. Volkov is going to take me tomorrow to make final arrangements with Mr. Lay.” Far too excited to care what she ate, Polly helped herself at random from the dishes set out on the white cloth.
“It is excessively obliging of Mr. Volkov to go to so much trouble for you,” said Lady Sylvia, summoning up a smile. Her subdued and inexplicable unhappiness was the only check on Polly’s joy.
“I think you ought to marry Kolya,” Nick proposed, piling his plate high with mushroom fritters and succulent slices of roast sirloin. “He’s a great gun.”
“He has not asked me. Besides, he is a gentleman, and we have no real claim to gentility.”
“Kolya is not so stupid as to care for that. He has friends of every station.”
“Friends, yes, but a wife is another matter.”
“Forgive me for meddling in what is none of my concern,” Lady Sylvia said earnestly, “but I believe you rate yourself too low, and Mr. Volkov too high. It is not as if he is a nobleman, only a private gentleman and a foreigner, and your father was an officer.”
“Mama is forever pointing out that Papa was an officer,” Polly agreed with mingled doubt and hope.
“It is not an insuperable gulf, where there is true affection.” Her ladyship blushed painfully. “But of course I cannot say...I do not know...I beg your pardon!”
“Nor do I.” Polly sighed. “In any case, he is not in a position to marry, and though I have earned more than I ever hoped, I cannot possibly support a family.”
“This exhibition of yours will make a fortune,” Nick prophesied. “Then you can buy that estate next to Westcombe and hire Kolya to manage it on condition that he weds you.”
His sister laughed at his triumphant expression, but Lady Sylvia looked sadder than ever. Marriage was not a topic calculated to cheer her. Polly changed the subject.
She tried not to place too much importance on Lady Sylvia’s belittlement of the difference in station between herself and Kolya. Nonetheless, ever the optimist, she woke in the morning with hope added to the thrill of the prospect of her own exhibition. Sooner or later Kolya would be able to support a wife, and if he asked her she would wait for him.
Even if he did not ask her, she would probably wait for ever, she acknowledged with a rueful smile at her image in the glass.
She was glad she had never got around to wearing a spinsterish cap, but her wardrobe was sadly shabby and outdated. Should she spend some of her money on a new gown or two?
She was still pondering this question when Kolya came to fetch her, this time in a borrowed curricle. Though he stigmatized his team of high-stepping roans as “showy slugs,” the phrase pleased him greatly. His spirits were as high as Polly’s, and everything they saw as they drove into town was a source of amusement.
As they passed the Pavilion, Polly remembered that he had promised to present letters from the distressed neighbours to the king. She asked if he had done so.
“Yes, I gave them to His Majesty, but I fear he will do nothing. At present he can think of nothing but his feud with the queen. He passed the letters to equerry, and they will no doubt go to Mr. Nash, the architect, who already cannot pay bills of builders.”
“So I suppose the builders are angry, too. I wonder the king can sleep at night when he owes money to so many people.”
“I believe he does not sleep well, but for worry over Queen Caroline, not over debts.”
“If his mind is so taken up with his wife, I daresay he did not offer you a position?”
“On contrary, he offered a commission in the Guards. I will not take, however. Is not good, I think, to be in the army of the country that is not my own. But do not fear, I now know many people of influence and wealth. When I have learned all that Ned can teach, I will not have difficulty in finding post.”
They turned onto the Steyne. A moment later he halted the showy slugs in front of the print shop and tied them to the railing. The proprietor came out to greet them. Beaming, he ushered them into his establishment and led the way into the inner room, lit by skylights.
“You see, I have already begun to clear the space,” he said, waving his hands at one wall almost bare of pictures. “It’s quite a job, finding somewhere to put them, I can tell you. Now, ma’am, how many pictures was you reckoning on hanging? Mr. Volkov said a couple of dozen. We don’t want to crowd ‘em, you know, like they do at the Royal Academy.”
“I can provide twenty-four or so. I expect Lady Sylvia will lend hers. You have some way of marking those that are not for sale, I daresay?”
“To be sure, ma’am, to be sure.” Mr. Lay rubbed his hands. “I’ve taken the liberty of drawing up a handbill. It’s all ready for the printer’s, saving the date. If you’ll just step back this way, ma’am, sir, I’ll show it you and you can tell me any changes you want, and we’ll fix on a date that suits.”
From under his counter, he produced a roll of paper and spread it on the polished wooden top.
Mr. Adolphus Lay
respectfully begs to inform
his illustrious clients
of a private EXHIBITION of paintings
the work of
Miss Howard
at his premises on the Steyne
under the GRACIOUS PATRONAGE of
HIS MAJESTY KING GEORGE IV
Polly read it in awed silence. Kolya frowned.
“This ‘Miss Howard,’ “he said. “Must be...how do you say ‘glavnaya bukva’?” He pointed at the bottom line.
“Capital letters? If you say so, Mr. Volkov, but it’ll have to be smaller than the king’s name.”
“And why private?” Kolya asked. “We wish that many people come.”
“Aha, now that’s a little trick of the trade, if you get my meaning, sir. Invite the public and the nobs’ll stay away. What you do is invite half a dozen Names as people recognize—Lady Conyngham, f’rinstance, who’ll be flattered to be asked to the opening—then you pass the word who’s coming and sell tickets to them as wants to be seen with the Names. Then after a day or two you publish another bill for the public and they all flock to see what the nobs was so interested in.”
“That sounds very clever,” Polly marvelled.
“I’ll tell you what would be clever, miss. If Mr. Volkov can borrow them paintings the king bought, now that’d bring ‘em in like flies to a honey-pot.”
“I will ask,” Kolya promised. “I will go on the knees and beg.”
They settled on the ninth of July, a week hence, for the opening of the exhibition, then Polly and Kolya went out to the curricle. As he was handing her in, Lady Conyngham’s barouche pulled up alongside.
“Good day, Miss Howard,” she said condescendi
ngly, her plumes nodding. “I expect you are making arrangements for your exhibition? His Majesty is delighted with the paintings Prince Nikolai sold him.”
“Thank you, my—Prince Nikolai?” Polly stared at the vice-queen.
She tittered. “Oh my, don’t tell me he has not mentioned it to you! The king did say it was in confidence, but I presumed, as you are such great friends, that you would know his true rank.”
“True rank, my lady?” Her heart sinking, Polly turned her gaze on Kolya, standing beside the curricle, who appeared distinctly embarrassed.
“Why yes, Miss Howard. Our mutual friend is Prince Nikolai Volkov, eldest son of the tsar’s minister of state. Gracious, I see I have set the cat among the pigeons. You must give His Highness a good scolding, my dear. Drive on, James.”
Kolya looked up at Polly pleadingly. “Am not highness. Highness is only imperial family.”
Feeling betrayed, her hopes withering, she looked straight ahead. “But you are a prince.”
“Yes. My father is Prince Volkov, tsar’s minister. In Russia are many princes.”
“If not highness, what should I call you?”
“Excellency is correct word, but I wish that you call me Nikolai Mikhailovich, or Kolya.” He reached towards her. She did not turn her head and he let his hand drop. “Even Mr. Volkov is better.”
“Pray drive me home at once, Your Excellency.”
“Polly...”
“Or I shall walk.”
She made as if to climb down and he hurried to unhitch the roans from the post. Inside she was crying, but her eyes were dry, burning. When he sprang up beside her, she edged away from him, pressing against the side of the curricle.
“Miss Howard, let me to explain,” he said urgently.
“What is there to explain? You deceived me. You deceived us all.”
“Because that I feared you will be vexed.”
“You were right. Your Excellency.”
Stiff and silent he drove her home. When he stopped in front of Dean House she jumped down without waiting for his help and hurried into the house.
