Polly and the Prince

by Carola Dunn

None the worse for wear, Nick thudded into Ned’s chamber at noon, set a steaming pitcher on the washstand, and flung back the curtains to reveal the first wet day in months.

  “I’ve come to lend a hand,” he announced. “How are you feeling?”

  “In prime twig.” Despite the throbbing ache in his shoulder and the dismal weather outside, Ned was filled with joyful anticipation.

  “You’re to breakfast in bed. Mother’s orders.”

  As Nick helped him wash his face and hands and comb his hair, Ned tried to subdue his hopes. Lady Sylvia had been grateful for his rescue of Winnie and solicitous of the injury received in her service, but he must certainly have imagined anything more. A gently bred, bashful young widow could not have kissed his cheek, let alone called him her dear.

  All his tender thoughts vanished when Nick approached him with shaving brush and razor.

  “Not on your life!”

  “I shaved the fellows I fagged for at Winchester,” said Nick, injured. “I’ll be shaving myself soon.” He dabbed hopefully at his upper lip.

  “Send for a barber. He’ll be here by the time I’m ready to dress.”

  “All right, but you’re going to regret it.” Grinning mischievously, he opened the door, stepped outside, and said, “He’s decent, sort of. I’ll take that teapot, it’s heavy.”

  Bearing a tray, Lady Sylvia glided into the room, her eyes lowered, a faint blush tingeing her cheeks with rose. Ned felt his stubbled chin and silently cursed his brother for not warning him. Still grinning, Nick set the teapot on a small table, took the tray from her ladyship and set it on Ned’s lap, and moved a straight chair to the bedside.

  “Pray be seated, ma’am,” he requested with a sweeping bow, then headed for the door, which he closed firmly behind him.

  Ned’s gaze was on her face, but he had a distinct impression that his wretched younger brother had glanced back and winked on his way out of the room.

  “I’ll pour you some tea,” said Sylvia hurriedly, taking the cup and saucer from the tray. At the table, her back to him, she added, “I...I thought you might need some help eating.”

  “I do,” he said softly, though he hadn’t looked to see what was on his plate.

  Still not meeting his eyes, she brought the cup of tea and set it on his tray. She sat down in the chair Nick had placed for her and leaned forward to cut up the cold sirloin. The tray wobbled.

  “You can’t do it from there. Come and sit here.” Ned patted the side of the bed.

  Fiery faced she obeyed, but he caught her hand before she could return to knife and fork.

  “I’m not really hungry. Sylvia, tell me if I am presuming— I can’t help myself. Our stations are so very unequal, but I have never met another woman like you. I love you, and I want to take care of you. Will you be my wife?”

  At last she met his urgent gaze and he read love and need glowing in her brown eyes. Modest, bashful Lady Sylvia leaned forward and kissed him full on the mouth.

  The tray tilted, the tea spilled, and a steady drip soaked the sheets. Neither Sylvia nor Ned noticed.

  * * * *

  Some time later, a soft but determined tapping on the door recalled them to the world. Sylvia jumped up, snatched up her cap and sped to the mirror on the dresser to smooth her hair.

  “Who is there?” Ned called.

  “It’s just us, sir.” Winnie tugged Annette into the room. “Have you finished your breakfast? Nick said you’re going to marry Mama.” She marched to the bedside and confronted him. “What we want to know is, will you please be our papa, too?”

  “If you think I shall suit, I shall be delighted,” he said gravely.

  “Oh yes, you will suit. We like you, don’t we, Annette?”

  Her solemn sister nodded.

  “Then come and give me a kiss, girls, to seal the bargain.” Beaming, Winnie started to scramble onto the bed, then stopped with a gasp. “You’ve spilled your tea,” she whispered. “Mama will be cross.”

  “Then don’t let’s tell her,” he whispered back. Over the two small, golden heads, he saw his beloved examining a wet patch on her gown in dismay. Catching her eye, he blew her a kiss. She returned it with a blush as she hurried off to change out of the incriminating garment.

  Ned leaned back against his pillows with a sigh of contentment and allowed his two new daughters to feed him his breakfast.

  When Nick came to help him dress, he was too happy to issue a stern reprimand at the premature disclosure to Winnie and Annette, though he did grumble.

  Nick grinned. “I reckoned it would give you a shove in the right direction if you hadn’t yet got down to business.”

  “I trust you said nothing to Mother and Polly!”

  “Do you take me for a complete buffle-head? I even swore the girls to secrecy,” he said virtuously. “Besides, Polly’s still a-bed. Mother says she’s to stay there all day to recover from her ordeal.”

  “Poor Poll. I’ll break the news to Mother and then I’ll go and see her.”

  The barber came to shave him, then Ned went downstairs. Mrs. Howard was aux anges when she heard of his betrothal.

  “An earl’s daughter!” she marvelled. “And such a dear girl. Why, she could not have been kinder last night, when we were so worried, if I had been her own mother.” She carried on in this vein for some time, then changed course. “Ned, what is this I hear about Mr. Volkov turning out to

  be a prince? If he has been trifling with our Polly’s affections, you must call him to account.”

  “It’s true he is a prince, Mother, but he is still penniless.”

  “Oh dear, what a dreadful coil! They were locked in together all night. What will people say?”

  “We must hope they will say that the king was saved from a horrid fate and forget the manner of his rescue. Have you talked to Polly about it?”

  “I tried, but all she will say is that the prince behaved with perfect propriety and that she wants to go home. But I cannot go home now, indeed I cannot, or people will think I am snubbing dear Sylvia.”

  Ned soothed her and went up to see Polly in her green-and-white chamber. She was sitting up in bed, looking perfectly healthy and perfectly miserable. For want of any better subject, she was sketching the candlestick and pile of books on her bedside table.

  Seeing his sling, she said, “Is your shoulder still painful? Poor Ned.”

  “I don’t need sympathy.” He could not help beaming with joy as he perched on the edge of her bed. “Sylvia has consented to marry me.”

  “My dear, I’m delighted!” Her pleasure was unfeigned, but he noticed a wistful look in her eyes. “You could not have chosen better, and I know you will make her happy.”

  “I mean to, I promise you. I wish I knew a way to do the same for you. I fear you have set your heart on the unattainable.”

  Her lips quivered but she spoke with tolerable composure. “I want to go home. I know you will not wish to leave Sylvia so soon, but surely Mama can go with me.”

  He explained their mother’s fear of appearing to slight his betrothed. “Besides, if you both leave I cannot stay in the house, and Sylvia needs my support. We must inform her family, and she dreads their reaction.”

  “Yet she’s willing to face it for your sake. You have won a true treasure. Very well, I’ll stay, but please, Ned, I cannot see him!”

  “Of course you need not.” Ned’s suspicions were aroused. Despite what she had told Mrs. Howard, was it possible Kolya had made improper advances? “Do you want to tell me why? You’re the most independent of sisters, but I’m still responsible for you. I hope you know you can always count on me.”

  “I know.” She laid down her sketch book and reached for his good hand. “You need not feel obliged to defend me, for he was perfectly gentlemanly. But pray do not press me, I don’t care to speak of it.”

  At that moment the maid knocked and came in. “Beg pardon for interrupting, miss, but His Highness has called and he’s asking to see you.” />
  Polly clutched Ned’s hand.

  “Thank you, Jill,” he said, “I will come down. My sister is not receiving callers today.” He kissed Polly’s cheek and followed the maid out of the room. “Are my mother and Lady Sylvia with Mr. Volkov? Prince Nikolai, I mean.”

  “He did say to tell as Mr. Volkov was calling, sir. No, my lady and Mrs. Howard are writing letters in the sitting room. The gentleman’s in the drawing room.”

  The gentleman was pacing the length of the drawing room, back and forth like a caged wolf, when Ned went in. He turned eagerly at the sound of the door closing.

  “How are…” His voice died away in disappointment when he saw who had entered. “How are you, Ned? The shoulder is painful still?”

  “Yes, but I care nothing for it. Lady Sylvia has done me the honour of consenting to be my wife.”

  Unsurprised, Kolya strode forward and gripped Ned’s good hand. “My dear fellow, pozdravlayu vas. I congratulate most heartily.”

  “You will not mention it to anyone. It’s not yet been announced.”

  “My lip is sealed.” He cast about for a polite way to change the subject. Impatience won. “Polly is coming?”

  Ned’s joyful expression turned to embarrassment. “She...er...my mother has advised her to keep to her chamber today.”

  “She is not well?” Kolya asked anxiously. “In the cellar was cold.”

  “Nothing to worry about, she’s just tired.”

  Ned looked uncomfortable and would not meet his eye. Kolya’s eagerness to assure Polly that he would never do anything to thwart her career began to fade. He had not been pleased, last night, when Lady Conyngham had attempted to force Polly to wed him. That was not how he wanted her to come to him. Nonetheless, he had thought that he had only to assure her of his commitment to supporting her work for her to withdraw her objection.

  He had high hopes that the king’s reward would be sufficiently generous to allow him to take a wife. After all, the tsar often rewarded his favourites with land and serfs. Ready to ask for her hand in exchange for the heart she had long possessed, he was now forced to face the possibility that her outcry in the king’s library was a mere excuse.

  Her protest that she was a dedicated artist had simply been the denial that first came to mind. If Ned’s discomfort now meant anything, it meant that she really didn’t want to marry him.

  “Ponimayu,” he said, the English words washed from him by a wave of coldness more chilling than the bitterest St Petersburg winter because it began in his heart. “I understand. Please convey best wishes for swift recovery.” He recalled the other reason for his visit—how unimportant it seemed now! But he would not let her down. “I must take to Mr. Lay the pictures we brought from Loxwood. Is necessary to frame before can be hung.”

  “Of course.” Ned was only too anxious to be of service. “I believe the crates were carried into the coach house. I’ll take you there.”

  Old Dick helped them load the boxes into Kolya’s borrowed carriage. His Russian soul filled with gloom, he drove towards the Steyne.

  In his back room, Mr. Lay pulled the paintings from the crates one at a time with squeaks of delight. “Splendid. Oh, first rate. Simply bang-up, my dear sir. Or should I say, Your Highness.”

  “No, you should not,” said Kolya, annoyed to find that word of his title had apparently spread throughout the town. Despite his misery, he could not forebear teasing. “Correct address is ‘prevoskhoditelstvo.’”

  “I beg pardon, I’m sure, presoveeto.” The printseller grimaced as he attempted to twist his tongue around the Russian word.

  “Please—it translates as excellency, but here I am plain Mr. Volkov.”

  “Yes, sir, thank you, sir.” He breathed a sigh of relief. “Well, Mr. Volkov, I’m sure the exhibition’s going to be a grand success. The lady can expect to sell most all of these, I’d say. I daresay, though, that some are not for sale. If you’d just be so good as to point out to me which belong to other people and which Miss Howard wishes to keep, I’ll be sure to mark ‘em.”

  Kolya gazed around at the pictures leaning against the walls. “These have been lent by Lady Sylvia Ellingham,” he said, pointing at the child on the Pantiles and a portrait of Winnie and Annette on the swing. “This panorama of Brighton—you sold it, I think.”

  “Aye, and right glad Dr. Ogilvy is to have it hung in a Royal Exhibition, I can tell you.”

  “As for the others,” he shrugged, and suddenly his spirits rose, “I cannot tell. Must ask Miss Howard.” There was his excuse to see her again!

  As he returned the carriage to its owner, Kolya’s unquenchable optimism revived. He remembered Polly’s reaction to his touch, unmistakable even in the pitch dark. If her hand had not alighted on his icon, reminding him of his mother, there was no knowing how far he might have gone. Almost he wished he had taken advantage of that warm, soft, compliant body, had seduced her on the spot—that would have settled her doubts.

  But perhaps his fearless Polly was afraid of succumbing to her own feelings. Perhaps, though it seemed impossible to him, she was unsure of his intentions. He had told Ned he wanted to marry her, but Ned had been drunk and in any case would probably not have informed his sister.

  Kolya looked back over their relationship. To him it had been a straightforward process of falling in love. To Polly had come shock after shock. In a few short weeks the labourer she had met in the street had become first a gentleman and then a nobleman. It might be better, he thought, to start again from the beginning.

  He would woo her slowly and gently until she was unable to hide from herself any longer that she loved him.

  * * * *

  After returning the carriage, Kolya walked to the Pavilion. The talk was all of yesterday’s decision by the Privy Council to deny the queen her crown. Already the king had set the date of his coronation, the nineteenth of July. As he had spent months planning it, little remained to be done and he would not leave for London until next Monday.

  Next Monday, Kolya realised, was the ninth, the day Polly’s exhibition opened. He went to find Lady Conyngham to try to persuade her not to set out until she had called at Mr. Lay’s shop.

  “But of course, dear Prince,” she gushed. “I assure you, His Majesty intends to make a detour to visit Miss Howard’s exhibition on his way out of Brighton. He is mindful of how much he owes the two of you.”

  “King himself will come? Chudesno! I thank you from the heart, my lady.”

  “I trust you mean well by that young woman,” she chided, diamonds flashing as she shook her plump finger at him. “I daresay a certain amount of eccentricity is permissible in an artist, but God grants no licence to disobey the rules of morality.”

  Kolya managed to hide his disgust from the pious “vice-queen.” “Miss Howard’s virtue is safe, ma’am.”

  “I am glad to hear it. His Majesty is still pondering how best to reward you, and I should not like to think that he was encouraging impropriety.”

  How dare Lady Conyngham cast aspersions on his Polly’s virtue! Though the general opinion was that King George’s age, girth, and state of health made it unlikely that the woman was actually his mistress, their relationship was far from innocent. She might read sermons with His Majesty in public, but the pair was not infrequently closeted together in private. Nor was shared piety sufficient to explain the jewels he lavished on her.

  Until now, Kolya had regarded her hypocrisy and avarice with the amused tolerance he felt towards most human foibles. He must continue to “turn her up sweet,” in the splendid English idiom, for Polly’s success might depend on her bringing the king to the exhibition. Her favour or disfavour could also influence the munificence of their rewards.

  Not for nothing had Kolya been a courtier as well as a soldier for the past decade. With a few flattering words and expressions of gratitude, he left Lady Conyngham very much in charity with him.

  * * * *

  The next morning he went again to Dean Ho
use. Mrs. Borden reported that Miss Polly had gone to paint on the downs, Mr. Howard and Master Nick were out, and Lady Sylvia and Mrs. Howard were in the schoolroom, giving Miss Nettie and Miss Winnie their lessons.

  Miss Nettie and Miss Winnie their lessons.

  Regretfully, Kolya decided not to go after Polly. The housekeeper sent a maid to enquire whether her ladyship could receive him, and he was invited to go up to the schoolroom.

  As he walked through the door, Winnie jumped down from her chair and ran to hang on his arm. “Mr. Howard’s going to be our papa,” she informed him excitedly. “Mine and Nettie’s.”

  He congratulated her and her sister, wished Lady Sylvia happy, and agreed with Mrs. Howard on her good fortune in acquiring so delightful a daughter.

  “I hoped to see your other daughter, ma’am,” he went on, and explained that Mr. Lay needed Polly’s decision about which pictures were for sale and at what price. “As soon as possible,” he added. He intended to haunt Mr. Lay’s shop until he came face to face with her, quite by accident of course, and he wanted to see her soon.

  “Oh dear, she is gone out painting. I shall have to send Nick to fetch her.”

  “I understand Nick is not at home.”

  “He will be back. If there is one thing certain in this world,” said his mother resignedly, “it’s that Nick will come home for luncheon.”

  Chapter 19

  “But that is one of the pictures the king bought,” said Polly, spotting the cherry blossom.

  “Indeed it is, Miss Howard.” The plump printseller rubbed his hands together, beaming. “His Majesty graciously sent it over with a request that it be hung prominently with his name as the owner.”

  “How very obliging,” whispered Mrs. Howard, awed.

  “Pray do the same with mine,” Sylvia requested. “Make sure it is plain that they belong to Lady Sylvia Ellingham.”

  “Certainly, my lady.” A bell tinkled in the other room as the street door opened. “Excuse me, ladies, a customer.” He bustled out.