Venus v-8

by Jane Feather

  Polly thought for a minute. This was not how she had imagined her first meeting with this man. Somehow she had thought there would be ceremony, that it would all take place in the hushed glory of the theatre, which she had never yet entered, investing the meeting with all the magic of fantasy. But if this was the way it was to be, then she must adapt.

  She imagined herself in a crowded drawing room, her husband standing to one side, Nick, as the prospective lover, bowing before her. Master Killigrew was clearly the audience, so she must ensure that he had the full benefit of her decolletage, the curve of hip when she pointed one delicate toe, and allowed her rear to sink onto her bent back leg. It was a very slow descent, her eyes lowered modestly as she dipped. But once in position, she raised her eyes and looked directly at Lord Kincaid. It was no more than the merest whisper of a glance, since to hold his gaze would bespeak an effrontery that would draw unwelcome notice from those around her. She had no fan, but it was not difficult to mime the unfurling as she fixed melting yet mischievous, inviting eyes upon the chosen one, while she held the position of subjection just long enough to underscore the invitation, and to allow both men full appreciation of her bare shoulders, artlessly tumbled curls, the rise and fall of her semiexposed bosom. Then she was swimming upward, turning her eyes discreetly to one side as if to deny that the exchange had taken place, gliding sideways as if she were moving on to another guest.

  "Superlative!" breathed Killigrew. "You have had no experience of the stage?"

  "To quote the bard, as far as Polly is concerned: All the world's a stage," laughed Nick. "She rarely loses an opportunity to perform."

  Polly colored, imagining a note of reproof beneath the laughter. He had made it clear often enough that it was one of her habits which tended to displease him. "I have not served you such a trick for this age, my lord," she said with frigid dignity. "It is ungallant to refer to matters that I had thought were past."

  "You misunderstand, moppet. I was but paying you a compliment on this occasion."

  The flush of annoyance faded, the stiffness left her shoulders. "I beg your pardon, sir. I did not mean to jump to conclusions."

  Killigrew listened, fascinated. She had the prettiest voice, light and musical, and was giving rein to her emotions quite without artifice, as if there were no one but herself and Kincaid in the chamber. A lack of selfconsciousness was a great gift for an actor as long as it could be channeled. If she was impatient of counsel and direction, however, it would not matter how beautiful her face and form, how natural her talent-and meek and submissive she most definitely was not.

  Where had Kincaid found her? he wondered. There was a naivete about her, a curious innocence that belied her position as a kept woman. She was very young, of course, and her speech and manners were not those of one who had been bred in Covent Garden or its equivalent. But the name was unknown to him, so presumably she was not the scion of some impoverished noble family, either. A merchant's daughter, maybe, willing to exchange her virtue for social and financial advancement. Impoverished nobility, genteel tradesmen's daughters, Covent Garden whores, had all found their way to the stage in the last few years, all in search of material or social advancement. Both were available for such a beauty as this one along the path she had chosen, and

  indeed, it would be a crying shame to leave such a paragon to the mediocre destiny of a merchant's wife.

  "Do you care to accompany me to the playhouse, Mistress Wyat?" Killigrew said now. "I'd like you to read something for me, if you would be so kind."

  Polly was about to say that she would be more than willing so long as the words were not too difficult when she caught Nick's eye, reminding her that she must give no indication of her true background. "I am at your service, sir," she said instead, the carefully formal response concealing both the quickening of excitement at the prospect of entering a playhouse at long last, and an apprehensive sinking at the knowledge that the moment had come to put to the test all that she believed she possessed. What if she was wrong, if she had no aptitude, if Master Killigrew rejected her? It was a prospect that afforded a most dreadful void of hopelessness- the void that she had fought so long and so hard to escape. "I will fetch my cloak." She went into the other chamber.

  Nicholas picked up his own cloak from the chair in the parlor, slinging it around his shoulders. "You do not object if I accompany you, Thomas?"

  "If you think she will not be distracted by your presence," spoke the manager of the king's company, no longer concerned with formal courtesies that were irrelevant to the making of a business decision.

  "On the contrary, she will be less apprehensive," responded Kincaid, with a dry smile that encompassed his understanding both of Polly's feelings and of Killigrew's position. "The situation will be quite strange for her, and I would not have her ill at ease if I can prevent it."

  Killigrew looked a little surprised. Such gentle concern was unusual in a court where the softer emotions were derided as lack of sophistication, as lack of understanding of the realities of a world where no man could be truly called friend, and only fools put their trust in another's word. The women were as hard-bitten as their menfolk, as quick to take advantage of another's disadvantage, as eager to bring about another's downfall if it would mean their own advancement,

  and as unscrupulous as to the methods they used in such work. If Lord Kincaid was going to cast a protective umbrella over his protegee, it would give rise to much comment, and not a little contemptuous amusement.

  Nick had little difficulty in guessing the other man's thought processes. He shared them, indeed, and his rational self found his present obsession with the well-being of a seventeen-year-old miss a matter for considerable incredulity. But since he seemed to have little control over his feelings at the moment, he was obliged to accept love's shaft and follow where it led him.

  It led him now into the bedchamber, where Polly had been closeted in search of her cloak for an inordinate length of time. He found her sitting on the bed looking like a paralyzed rabbit, hands clasped tightly in her damask lap, eyes gazing sightlessly into the middle distance.

  "Perhaps I cannot do it," she said without preamble as he came in, closing the door. "Perhaps I have been mistaken all these years, and I cannot act at all. What will I do then, Nicholas?"

  Nicholas reviewed his options rapidly. He could imagine the pit of desolation into which she was staring as the moment of trial loomed. For so long she had seen only one way out of the vicious and complete impoverishment of the destiny she had been dealt. If this way failed, she could at this moment see only a return to that destiny. He could offer her reassurance that he would not permit that, whatever happened in the playhouse; he could be hurt and accusatory at her failure to trust him; or he could put the steel back into her spine by stinging her into a resurgence of her old confidence.

  "Are you telling me you mean to cry off?" he demanded, no sympathy in his voice. "For weeks you have made my life wretched with your constant importuning that I arrange a meeting for you with Master Killigrew. You have lost no opportunity to. demonstrate this talent you insist that you have. Am I now to believe that the whole was a sham?"

  Polly had stood up in the middle of this speech. The color

  ebbed in her cheeks, but her eyes had focused again, her lips were set. She picked up her cloak. "You will see that it was not a sham!" With that, she brushed past him and marched into the parlor. "I am ready to accompany you, Master Killigrew." Without waiting for either of them, she continued her march out of the parlor and down the stairs.

  "Mistress Wyat appears to be of a somewhat tempestuous temperament," observed Killigrew, drawing on his gloves.

  "Only when provoked," Nicholas responded with a smile. "In general, she is of a most sunny disposition."

  They were obliged to follow her impetuous progress along Drury Lane, since she showed no inclination to slow for either of them, and to catch her up would require a hastening of their own speed that was hardly cons
onant with the dignified lassitude of the courtier.

  Polly waited for them when she reached the steps of the playhouse. The march in the cold air had served to clear her head, enabling her to view Nick's intervention in a new light. "That was done deliberately, was it not?" she asked when he reached her. There was a slight smile in her eyes, and when he nodded she laughed. "I beg leave to tell you, my lord, that your tactics are most underhand."

  "But most effective," he countered, grinning.

  "Aye." She sobered, saying, "I am most grateful… for that, and all else."

  "I am amply recompensed," he said softly. That same intensity caught them again, held them in breathless acknowledgement of its force.

  Master Killigrew, who had gone up the steps to unlock the great door, turned to see what was delaying them. He saw the naked emotion flickering between them, an almost palpable current. He drew in his breath sharply, then the force receded, freeing the lovers from its grip. Nick gestured courteously to the steps, and Polly came up ahead of him.

  The door swung open, and Polly found herself in the king's playhouse. They had entered from Drury Lane by what she would soon call the stage entrance, and stood now in a dark passageway. "The tiring rooms are there." Kil-

  ligrew pointed to the left as he pushed through a door ahead. Polly, following him, stood for the first of what would be countless times upon the stage of the Theatre Royal.

  She stood and stared. A glazed cupola covered the pit that stretched below in front of the stage; there were boxes, ranged in galleries, to the side and the back of the theatre. She tried to imagine those seats filled. Why, there must be seating for at least four hundred souls. How lonely and exposed one would feel on this tiny, bare wooden platform. She shivered as cold despair threatened again.

  Killigrew had gone to one side of the stage, where he picked up a sheaf of papers and began rifling through them. "This scene, I think."

  "What play have you in mind?" Nick, with considerable interest, came to peer over Tom's shoulder. "Oh, Flora's Vagaries." He chuckled. "I could not have chosen better myself."

  "Why do you not read Alberto?" Killigrew offered the suggestion casually, as if he had not drawn the conclusions that he had about Lord Kincaid and Mistress Polly Wyat. "You will perhaps find it less uncomfortable, Mistress Wyat, if Kincaid plays opposite you."

  "I am no actor," Nick demurred.

  "You have no need to be. Just read the lines. We will leave the acting to the lady." Killigrew, smiling, crossed the stage to where Polly still stood, taking in her surroundings, seemingly unaware of this exchange. "I will tell you a little about Flora," he said, and she shook herself free of her reverie. "She is a most sprightly young lady, not one to be dominated by circumstances or individuals, and most particularly not by men." He watched her as he drew the word picture of one of the stage's most engaging and daring heroines. "She is the ward of a foolish boor, a lout, who would keep both her and his daughter incarcerated to prevent their falling under the eye of love or lust."

  Polly smiled, giving him a look of complete comprehension. Killigrew nodded and continued. "In this early scene, Flora's suitor, Alberto, commits the grave error of telling a

  story about the lady that is not entirely to her credit. Flora overhears and treats her would-be lover to a tongue-lashing of some considerable eloquence." He handed her the pages. "Read it through for yourself first."

  "May I ask how Alberto reacts to this upbraiding?" Polly nicked through the pages, praying that the words would be easily made out.

  "He decides that this is a lady worthy of serious respect." It was Nicholas who answered her. "It is for you to convince the audience that a railing female is not simply a scold in need of bridling, but one who is entitled to object to mockery, and to speak her mind." He took her elbow. "Come, let us go into a corner and read it through together. I have never ventured to try myself in such a matter, and have need of a few moments reflection."

  Polly felt such a surge of gratitude that threatened to overcome her already frail equilibrium. But she said only, "By all means, sir. I would welcome the opportunity to familiarize myself with the text."

  "I will sit in the pit." Killigrew stepped off the stage into the auditorium, lit by the gray afternoon light filtering through the cupola. "Begin whenever you are both ready."

  "Read it for yourself first," Nick instructed in an undertone. "If there is a word you cannot make out, just point to it."

  Polly concentrated with frowning intensity on the scrawled pages, her anxiety that she might stumble over the text superseding the fear that she would be unable to act the part. But as she read, she could hear in her head how the lines should sound, could picture Flora-pretty, witty Flora with a sharp tongue and a firm belief that she was second to none. She looked up at Nick with a grin. "I find myself in some sympathy with this lady."

  He nodded. "If you are ready, then, let us engage in this duel for Master Killigrew's benefit."

  Thomas Killigrew sat forward on the bench as the two came to the front of the stage. One hand rested lightly on the lacquered knob of his cane, firmly planted upon the

  floor; his other lay upon the hilt of his sword. He was quite motionless. After three lines he knew he had been offered a female actor who would make the most of the spirited love game that so entranced his audiences. With every vivacious toss of her head, every ringing accusation directed at the hapless Alberto, every provocative movement, she spun a web of excitement and titillation that could not fail to entertain even the most abysmally ill-behaved audiences-and there were plenty of those. Add to that the peerless beauty of face and form, contemplate her in the deliriously provocative breeches parts, and Mistress Polly Wyat was destined for greatness.

  "I thank you both," he said at the end of the scene. "I do not think that Nicholas will ever make an actor, I fear." He sauntered across to the stage. "Mistress Wyat, on the other hand…" Pausing, he smiled up at her. She returned the smile with a somewhat vague and distracted air. It was an air with which he was familiar, and of which he approved. It denoted complete involvement in the part she had just been playing. "Do you wish to join the king's company, mistress?"

  "Of all things," she replied, with a fierce intensity. "May I?"

  "I see no reason why not. You will have to gain His Majesty's approval, of course, but we will not seek that just yet."

  "What do you have in mind?" Nicholas, accepting with considerable relief that his brief venture into the thespian arena was over, took snuff.

  Killigrew came up onto the stage. "A short spell in my Nursery at Moorfields first. There are skills and practices to be learned, and even a natural talent is the better for honing. Then I will put on The Rival Ladies here. It is one of the king's favorites and provides ample scope for an actor to show to advantage all that she may have to show." He and Nicholas exchanged a comprehensive glance at this. Polly looked between them in some bemusement.

  "I do not quite understand. What is your Nursery, Master Killigrew?"

  "A training school," he replied. "I put on plays for the people in a theatre at Moorfields. It is not the most appreciative audience, but one that provides valuable experience for a novice. You will learn much-not least how to win distracted and possibly hostile playgoers."

  "I would rather start here," Polly said, indicating the theatre around her. "Why can I not learn here the skills and practices of which you speak?"

  "Because you would do so at the expense of the experienced actors. They do not care to perform with a tyro, my dear, however talented she may be, or however much she may feel she has nothing to learn."

  Polly swallowed this unpalatable statement with a grimace. Nick, though he recognized the justice in the snub, and appreciated Killigrew's need to establish mastery at the outset, felt a stab of sympathy for her discomfiture. "You will have but one chance to win the king's approval, Polly. It is surely wiser to take that chance when you are properly prepared."

  "Yes. I understand. I do beg y
our pardon, Master Killigrew, if I seemed of an overweening conceit." Those great eyes were raised to his face, a tremulous smile hovered on her lips, and Thomas felt an overpowering remorse for his harshness.

  He smiled warmly. "No, no, my dear. I did not think that. It is quite natural for you to be impatient of delay. But you must trust me, you know."

  "Oh, but I do!" she averred passionately, her hands clasped to her bosom. "I will do whatever you suggest. I am so grateful-"

  "That will do, Polly," Nicholas put in hastily, sensing that Killigrew was about to slide into a hypnotized trance under the full force of that melting gaze and the impassioned plea of her penitence.

  Killigrew blinked, startled by this interpolation. Polly turned on Nicholas reproachfully. "I meant it! I was not

  playing. I am truly regretful if I seemed vain and importunate-except that I do not think I was being."

  Nick's lips twitched. "You are a most beguiling jade! You will become accustomed to her tricks, Killigrew. She is possessed of more wiles than a barrel-load of monkeys. You fall for them at your peril, I can promise you."

  "I begin to see that," Thomas murmured, stroking his chin. "It clearly behooves me to be on my guard." He chuckled. "I am an old hand at this game, Mistress Wyat, so have a care before you lock swords with me."

  "Why, sir, I would not be so impertinent as to hazard such a thing." Polly sank into a deep obeisance, twitching her skirts to one side, bending her head so that the slender column of her neck was presented, bared as the honeyed ringlets fell forward. It was a posture of perfect submission, yet every line of her body radiated a coquettish impudence.

  Killigrew gave a shout of laughter. "Ah, Mistress Wyat, I foresee that in the stage curtsy you will excel. It is by far the most important pose for a female actor to master, and you appear greatly proficient already, even without the assistance of a corset. You have had an accomplished dancing master, I gather."