by M C Beaton
“No!” said Polly. “He lied.”
“Colonel Anderson is an officer and a gentleman. I am disappointed in you, Polly. I had hoped you would be honest with me.” He turned away.
“Wait!” said Polly. “Wait, my lord, and hear me. I have read in the newspapers that people can pay to see the route I took to make my escape and that my former jailors can be questioned. Go there! Ask them if I ever so much as took a drink or whether I had any villainous friends to visit me. Even Barney and Jake deserted me.”
“I will not disbelieve my friend. And why should I believe you?”
Polly sank back against the pillows and half closed her eyes. “You are right,” she said wearily. “There is no reason why you should believe a word I say.”
She looked so frail that his heart gave a lurch and he said softly, “We shall talk of this later … when you are stronger.”
The marquess gently closed the door and then strode off in a flaming temper. How could she say such a thing about his closest friend! It was not as if he had sent a woman to see her. Everyone knew women were fickle and prone to tell lies.
He drew on his gloves in the hall, picked up his tricorne and rammed it down with unnecessary force on his head. He marched across the square, relieved to be away from the house, relieved to be away from Polly. He was furious with himself when he found he was automatically walking toward the city. He kept telling himself he had no intention of going to Newgate Prison to check her story and he was somehow still telling himself that as he walked up Snow Hill.
The novelty of Polly’s escape had not worn thin and there were many people in line, queuing to get in. He almost turned to flee when he saw ahead of him Miss Ponsonby and her parents. How could they be so vulgar? How could he ever have for one moment considered Miss Ponsonby as a suitable bride? She probably attended the public hangings.
He drew his hat down over his eyes and turned away, not wanting the Ponsonbys to see him.
At last he found himself being conducted to Polly’s cell. He stood for a long moment, looking down at the pile of discarded fetters and padlocks on the floor. How could anyone who was so miserably chained down carouse with friends? He drew one of the jailors aside.
“You were present, were you not, when Polly Jones was a prisoner here?” the marquess asked him.
The jailor, a Mr. Williams, nodded. “Do you remember a certain Colonel Anderson calling?” pursued the marquess.
“Hard to recall, my lord,” said Mr. Williams, “for in truth a great number of ladies and gentlemen came to see her.”
“And how was her demeanor? Did any of her own villainous friends call? And did she drink with them?”
“No, my lord. I don’t call to mind her having one friend. Wait a bit. There was a little scrap of a fellow. Brought her a Bible.”
“And she drank with him?”
“No, my lord. She drank nothing but water, and such money as was given her she gave to me so that food and drink could be bought for the other prisoners.”
“And how was her manner?”
He passed Mr. Williams a guinea. Mr. Williams tucked it away in his pocket. “You ask as to her manner, my lord? Well, there’s the strange thing. She was very quiet and sad and then for a while her spirits rallied and she did her best to entertain her visitors, but more like a lady in a drawing room than a common felon. Now, if you will follow me, my lord, I shall take you to the room above and thence to the chapel.”
“No,” said the marquess. “I have seen and heard enough.”
Outside the prison once more, he decided to get Polly out of London as quickly as possible. His own best friend had proved untrustworthy. The marquess now saw enemies everywhere.
He did not find the colonel at his lodgings, but eventually found him in Durham’s coffee house in the Temple, one of the colonel’s favorite haunts.
“I am come from Newgate Prison,” said the marquess, pulling out a chair next to the colonel’s and sitting down.
“Didn’t think you would be interested in sights like that,” said the colonel uneasily.
“Why did you not tell me she was cruelly chained to the floor?”
The colonel shrugged. “Felons are always chained.”
“They have leg irons, yes,” said the marquess dryly, “but her confinement was exceptional. Also, her jailor said no friends had visited her, with the exception of one man who brought her a Bible and was probably, in my opinion, not a friend at all but some cracked lay preacher. Nor did she drink anything but water.”
“If you will believe a jailor …” began the colonel huffily.
“He had no reason to lie. Had you?”
The colonel looked for a long time into the depths of his coffee cup, as if trying to read his future in the dregs at the bottom. Then he heaved a sigh. “Yes, my friend, I did lie. But she is a common thief, and your interest in such a person alarmed me. I did it for your own good. I offered her a purse which she would not take but instructed me to take it to a poor address in Shoreditch and give it to a family called Brewer, and that much I did for her. Were she not beautiful, you, like me, would see her with clear eyes for what she is. You said she had admitted to stealing from the Mereslys. Such a connection would sully your great name. It is largely believed that she was one of the odd miracles of Tyburn and did not die and you only snatched her away for a wager. But I came to believe you had bribed the hangman to keep her alive. You must be guided by me. You …”
“No,” said the marquess, getting to his feet. “I will not listen to you preach to me on the subject of Polly Jones. I am not a child and am well able to take care of myself. I am very angry with you.”
“Stay!” cried the colonel. “I trust you have no knowledge of her whereabouts.”
“Of course not,” said the marquess sharply. “I am sure you went out of your way to tell her I had no interest in her whatsoever, so why should she come to me?”
He turned and walked away before the colonel could reply.
All the way back to St. James’s Square, the marquess wondered and wondered what to do with Polly. He could not keep her hidden in his bedchamber forever.
Polly looked up as he came in and put down the book she had been reading. He sat on the edge of the bed and looked down at her. He took one of her hands in his, but there seemed to be some sort of charge of emotion running up his arm, and so he dropped her hand quickly.
“I apologize, Polly,” he said. “You are right. The colonel did lie.”
“Why?” asked Polly.
“He considers you a highly unsuitable interest for such as myself.”
“Oh.”
“So we will forget about Colonel Anderson for the moment, except to tell you that you instructed him to take a purse to a family in Shoreditch, which he did. What family was that, Polly?”
Polly told him about Silas.
“So you are not entirely friendless. Did you not think to go to them?”
Polly shook her head. “They have so little, and I could bring them great trouble. You, on the other hand, are rich and powerful and do not know what it is to suffer.”
“Money does not protect the human race from suffering,” he sighed. “But now the question is, what to do with you. My home, Hand Court, lies in Shropshire. I had originally planned to take you there and turn you over to the housekeeper for training. That will no longer answer. The dower house lies empty at the moment and you could live there, but were you to live there alone, it would occasion comment. You need a companion, some female …”
He sat lost in thought.
“There is Miss Drusilla Gentle,” said Polly suddenly. “She is Lady Comfrey’s companion and leads a most miserable existence. I am sure she would be glad to escape. She was the one who taught me ladylike manners and speech while we were both in Newgate. She had been put there because she was accused of stealing from her employer, but Lady Comfrey subsequently said she had found the missing brooch that Drusilla was supposed to have taken and so she w
as released.”
“And she would not betray you?”
“No,” said Polly. “She is too much of a lady.”
“Ladies and gentlemen can be as great betrayers and liars as anyone else,” said the marquess bitterly, thinking of the colonel.
There came the faint sounds of an altercation from belowstairs. The marquess went to the door and listened. Then he hurried back to the bed and started to tear off his clothes.
“What are you doing?” squeaked Polly, pulling the blankets up to her chin.
“Shut up,” he snapped. “I am not going to bed you. I am merely going to embarrass the good colonel away.”
He dragged back the blankets and, dressed only in his drawers, he climbed into bed, pulled Polly roughly into his arms, tumbled her under him, forced her head down and began to kiss her with great force and energy.
“I insist on seeing your master,” came the colonel’s voice. “With a doxy? Fie for shame, Beauly. The master would not pollute his house with such a type.”
The bedroom door crashed open.
“Darling,” said the marquess passionately, and buried his firm lips in Polly’s soft and trembling ones.
“Oh, the deuce,” cried the colonel. “I am most awfully sorry, Beauly.” The door shut again and the colonel’s voice came faintly as he descended the stairs. “Pray do not tell Canonby of my visit. He will kill me.”
The marquess heard all this, but Polly none of it. Her lips and breasts and body were swelling and throbbing and burning under his touch. His body felt cool and impersonal against her fevered skin. His chest was smooth, hard-muscled and hairless. Mr. Barks would have fainted with envy had he seen it.
“Well, that’s got rid of him,” said the marquess, propping himself upon one elbow and grinning down at Polly’s dazed face. He kissed her lightly on the nose and swung his long legs out of bed. He turned away from her and began to pull on his clothes. “It’s a good thing you are not a lady, Polly Jones,” he said over his shoulder, “or I should find myself well and truly compromised.”
Oh, the wicked, insensitive cruelty of men!
Polly had not allowed herself to cry, not when Meg died, not on the scaffold and not in prison. But his words sent a rush of tears up to her eyes. She fiercely blinked them away. There was no time to cry. She must think of her future. She said—amazed that her voice should sound so cool and firm, “And so, my lord, do you think you can contrive to ask Drusilla if she will come with me?”
“I think I can manage to do that this evening,” he said, his voice muffled as he pulled his shirt over his head. “There is a ridotto at Lady Comfrey’s this evening. I shall speak to her then. Now, I have various calls to make and must tell the servants I shall be gone from town. I have given my valet a holiday and my poor secretary will wonder why he is left behind.”
After he had gone, Polly threw back the bedclothes, lifted up her nightgown and squinted down at her naked body, expecting it to look different, to look hot and swollen, but it still seemed the same.
Lady Comfrey looked first amazed, then furious, and finally tried to laugh when the marquess of Canonby asked her permission to dance with Miss Drusilla Gentle.
“Indeed, my lord, you are too kind,” said Lady Comfrey, her eyes snapping behind her mask. “But my poor dab of a Drusilla does not dance. You would be wasting your time. I, on the other hand …”
“Nonsense. I should consider myself honored,” said the marquess, smiling down into Drusilla’s frightened eyes. He led the companion onto the floor. “I do not really want to dance,” he said softly. “Is there somewhere we can talk? It is most important.”
Drusilla gave a scared little nod. “The library is hardly ever used, my lord,” she said. “We could go there. But I must beg you to be quick. Lady Comfrey is not pleased with me.”
The marquess said nothing until they were inside the library.
“Miss Gentle,” he began, “I am here to throw myself on your mercy.” He studied her weak and trembling face, wondering whether such a poor creature would not cry out in fright when she heard he was harboring the notorious Polly Jones.
Drusilla looked at him curiously. “I am sure you exaggerate, my lord. But how can I help you?”
“Do you remember Polly Jones?”
Color flooded Drusilla’s face. “Indeed I do. Such a dear creature. So warm, and so good. Is is possible that you know something of her?”
“I have Polly Jones safe with me.”
Drusilla let out a long slow breath. “God is good,” she said simply.
“The reason I am come to you, Miss Gentle,” said the marquess, “is that it is important to remove Polly from London immediately. The dower house on my estate lies vacant. She could reside there … but not alone. She would need a companion.”
Drusilla clasped her hands tightly together. “Are you asking me to be that companion?”
“Yes, Miss Gentle. I would insure that no harm came to you, and that you would be funded with a generous pension for life.”
“Oh, my lord, you are an answer to all my prayers.”
“My dear Miss Gentle, the gratitude is all on my side. I am asking you to be companion to an escaped felon.”
“You do not know what my life has been like,” said Drusilla in a low voice. “Polly Jones is the only one who has shown me warmth and kindness. She has all the courage and gallantry I lack.”
“Then I suggest you, naturally, do not speak of this to anyone. I do not wish my servants to know of this and so must leave during the night. When do you think you can get away?”
“This evening,” said Drusilla. “I have only a few belongings, and can escape by the back stairs.”
“You do not lack courage and gallantry,” said the marquess, kissing her hand. “I feel it necessary to tell you that there is no intimate relationship between myself and Polly, nor shall there be. I am sure you will be glad to be assured on that point.”
“Oh, no, my lord.”
“Why? Because I am evidently a man of honor?”
“I am sure you are, my lord. But you see, I know Polly Jones to be a woman of honor.”
“And yet she admits she stole from the Mereslys.”
“To such as I the circumstances are understandable,” said Drusilla.
“Well, we must not waste time discussing the morality of Polly’s actions. I shall await your arrival, Miss Gentle, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
Polly received the news of Drusilla’s impending arrival with mixed feelings. It would indeed be wonderful to have Drusilla as companion and friend. And yet, Drusilla’s arrival meant her period of intimacy with the marquess was shortly to end.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Polly had largely forgotten the immense social gulf which lay between her and the marquess, and so when he stopped the carriage on top of a hill, pointed with his whip and said, “Hand Court,” Polly’s heart gave a great lurch and a little black feeling of dismay settled in her stomach.
Hand Court lay at the foot of the valley in the golden, late-afternoon sun, power, security and wealth emanating from its every stone, from its deer park, its smooth lawns, its ornamental lake.
They had left in the middle of the night by the back stairs, and the marquess had harnessed a team to the carriage himself. No servant must be allowed to see Polly. She was now so notorious, it would be stretching the loyalty of the servants to the limit. It would be different in the country, he had explained. Such servants as he had there did not know what the famous Polly Jones looked like. She would take up residence in the dower house under her former alias of Miss Peterson.
The journey had been leisurely. Drusilla tried to maintain a sedate and ladylike front, but she was obviously elated at her escape from Lady Comfrey and inclined to worship the marquess. They had broken their journey at a posting house. Drusilla and the marquess had talked of plays and books, and Polly, smiling and listening, felt very close to him and not in the least overawed by his rank.
Far away a dog barked, smoke rose from the tall chimneys of Hand Court, and the soft air smelled of leaves and flowers.
“God bless the squire and his relations. And keep them in their proper stations,” thought Polly rather incoherently. There was no breaching the social ranks in the country. That she knew. In town, beauty or novelty might give some upstart a temporary entrée into the glittering world of society, but in the country, the roots of class distinction were deep and secure.
