by Jane Feather
Nick pushed up her smock, responding to her need with his own abrupt, unceremonious craving. They came together, clung, suspeneded in a moment of rough-hewn passion that excluded all but the need to lose themselves in each other, in the ravaging torrent of pure sensation.
Afterward, spent and at peace, Polly slept in the crook of Nick’s arm, while he lay looking into the darkness, trying to rationalize the deep foreboding that had rushed into the void left by the retreat of bodily bliss.
Chapter 13
Where are your wits this morning, Polly?” demanded a puzzled Killigrew the following day as she stumbled for the tenth time over her lines. “You had the part word-perfect yesterday.”
“I seem to have forgotten it,” Polly said apologetically, stepping to the front of the stage. “Will ye grant me some time to con the lines anew?” She smiled at him, but the smile was really directed over his head to where the Duke of Buckingham sat in the dim light of the auditorium. His Grace was not the only courtier in the theatre this morning, although Nick was absent. Watching rehearsals was one of the favorite activities of those who enjoyed the play, and often enough dabbled in the art of the playwright themselves.
Thomas sighed. “I suppose I must, since we can achieve nothing while you stumble and stutter in this manner.”
Polly gathered up her skirts and stepped lightly into the pit. “Mayhap Your “Grace will assist me?” She gave Villiers the lodestone of her smile. “If you would read with me, sir, then the task will be all the easier.”
Buckingham rose immediately to his feet. “I can imagine nothing that would give me greater pleasure, Mistress Wyat.”
“Then let us repair to the tiring room, where we may have a little privacy.” She turned back to the stage, still smiling at him over her shoulder. It was not an unusual service she was requesting; indeed, it was one eagerly performed by those gentlemen fascinated by the theatre and its actors, But this was the first time that Mistress Wyat had requested the help of any but her protector.
Buckingham hid his satisfaction. It was as he had expected. The lady had decided it was time to move onward and upward, and was delicately indicating her willingness to accept the invitation that he had issued at court the previous evening.
He reposed his elegant frame on the scroll-ended couch in the tiring room. “I am honored to be singled out in this fashion, my dear.”
Polly merely smiled again, an enigmatic smile that hinted at much. “If you would read the other lines, my lord duke, I will test my memory.” She handed him the script before sitting upon the couch beside him, carefully arranging her skirts, using the movements to conceal the quick look she cast up at him. Had he grasped the message? He would have to be a fool not to; and George Villiers, in matters such as these, was no fool.
She had the part by heart, but she made sufficient errors to add credence to her ploy, and to give her companion the satisfaction of correcting her and receiving her blushing thanks in return. Members of the company wandered in and out of the tiring room while Polly played her game. The lack of complete privacy suited her purposes perfectly. At no point did she wish to find herself in the position of having to declare herself openly as interested in the duke’s patronage. With hints and innuendo she would intrigue him, and it was much easier to offer these tantalizing clues on a public stage than in private, where he might reasonably expect more openness.
“I am so grateful to you, sir.” At the end of an hour, she stood up. “I think I now have it to Thomas’s satisfaction. You have been most helpful.”
“May I, perhaps, ask a small favor in return?” He took snuff, the eyes beneath drooping lids searching her face.
Polly curtsied. “How may I serve you, my lord duke?”
“I am having a small card party this evening. Just a few of my friends. Dare I be so bold as to hope that you might join us?”
He did not waste any time, reflected Polly. But then, why should he? Once the game had been started, why delay its conclusion?
“I am desolated, sir, but I am pledged to a supper party given by Lord De Winter,” she said smoothly.
“Not an arrangement you could break?” he asked, the heavy eyelids drooping even lower.
“I am afraid not. I could not be so discourteous, Your Grace.” She showed him a face free of guile, an expression of genuine regret in her eyes, an apologetic smile upon her lips.
There was a moment’s silence while the duke considered her with narrowed eyes, his displeasure undisguised. Her heart began to speed. Did she truly know what she was doing by deliberately risking so much more than his simple displeasure? Then he smiled, shrugged, dropping his snuffbox back into his pocket.
“I can see I must ensure in future that my invitation is received early enough to take precedence, Mistress Wyat.”
“That would please me greatly, sir,” she responded, putting a wealth of promise into the soft voice, the inviting curve of her lips.
That naked hunger leapt into Buckingham’s eyes, was for a moment etched upon that dissolute countenance. He bowed, raising her hand to his lips. “Your servant, madame.”
“Polly!” Thomas strode into the room, then paused. “Your pardon, Buckingham, but if this play is ever to be performed, I need Mistress Wyat’s presence onstage straightway.”
“I am quite ready,” Polly said, moving past the duke toward the door. “His Grace has been infinitely patient with me, and most helpful.”
“Then I am in his debt,” Thomas said somewhat caustically. “I do not know what came over you, to forget the part in that fashion.”
And I trust you never will, thought Polly, fervently hoping that she would not again have to incur Master Killigrew’s annoyance with a display of professional ineptitude. He was not inclined to the long-suffering and had no scruples about fining any member of the company for failing to perform to standard, regardless of excuse.
The duke returned to the auditorium, settling down to watch the remainder of the rehearsal, not a flicker disturbing the smooth impassivity of his expression. But when Thomas at midday released the company, Buckingham appeared at Polly’s side.
“You will permit me to escort you to your lodging, Mistress Wyat.” There was no question mark, and Polly did not make the mistake of pretending that there had been one.
“You are too kind.” She returned the formal platitude, allowing him to help her with her cloak. “Your company will be most welcome, sir, although ’tis but a step.”
They went out into the fresh spring day. Drury Lane was busy and bustling, women crowding around the stalls selling fresh meat and fish, haggling vociferously with the baker over his price to bake their own dough. Doors and windows stood open to the street in honor of the sun. Children tumbled in the kennels. Scrawny dogs yapped. It was London town on an ordinary March Tuesday, and Polly could force herself to relax, to talk naturally to her companion as they strolled through this familiar scene.
At the door of her lodging, she turned smiling to her escort. “I must bid you farewell, sir.” It was at this moment that Lord Kincaid stepped through that same door onto the street.
Nicholas stood for a bare second, making rapid assessment. He could detect nothing out of the ordinary in Polly’s face, as radiant as ever, upturned toward the duke as she placed her hand in his. “I give you good day, Buckingham,” he said casually, drawing on his gloves. “It is rare to see you on foot, but for such company, what would a man not sacrifice?”
“What, indeed?” replied Buckingham, brushing the fingers he held with his lips.
“Why, my lord,” Polly said with a cool smile, turning her attention toward Nicholas. “You did not say you would visit this morning. Are you come to dine?”
“No, I cannot. I had a commission to execute, but now I must be on my way.”
“Oh.” Polly frowned. “What commission?”
“You will see,” he said, moving out of the door. “If you go to the Strand, Buckingham, I will bear you company.”
; Both men bowed in farewell to Polly, who curtsied politely, then stood watching them stroll in the direction of the Strand, talking companionably. Nick, she knew, would be making sure that Buckingham realized he had a complacent lover on his hands, one who would be quite indifferent to whatever sidelines his mistress might contemplate. The game was begun.
Polly turned into the house, wondering what Nick had meant by a commission he had had to execute. In the parlor, she found the answer to the puzzle. A familiar figure from the days of Lady Margaret’s rule was tending the fire.
“Sue!” Polly exclaimed. “Whatever d’ye do here?”
Susan turned, a shy smile on the plain, good-tempered countenance. She looked hesitantly at Polly, who was dressed in working attire, a simple print gown over a plain kirtle. There was nothing in the figure to alarm, and Sue beamed. “’is lordship brought me. ’Tis wonderful, Polly. I’m to live ’ere with you.” Prancing delightedly across the room, she embraced Polly with her usual warmth.
Polly returned the hug with equal enthusiasm, but then drew back, surveying the other girl in utter bemusement. “I do not understand, Susan. What do you mean that his lordship says you are to live here with me?”
“I’m to look after ye,” Susan explained, her smile broadening. “’Is lordship says ye’ve need of someone to keep yer wardrobe in order and ’elp with yer dressin’ and things …” Her voice faded as she saw the look on Polly’s face. “D’ye not want me?” she said, a stricken look in the brown eyes. “Oh, pray don’t say so! I’m to ’ave me own chamber in the attic—all to meself, Polly, just imagine! And jest to ’elp the goodwife when she needs, and go with you to the theatre and ’elp ye there.” Her eyes were very round. “Is it true? Y’are a famous actor now?”
“I do not know about famous,” Polly demurred. “But I am an actor.” A rueful smile touched the corner of her mouth as she remembered the conversation between Bridget, the cook, and Susan in Lady Margaret’s kitchen, after Big Rob’s visit. “Do you truly wish to live with a brazen hussy of Covent Garden breeding, Sue? And his lordship’s whore into the bargain?”
That was how Susan would see it, Polly knew. Once a girl of their class lost her maidenhead without benefit of clergy, she was branded by her own kind as whore regardless of the circumstances. However, the words were no sooner between her lips than she looked guiltily over her shoulder at the door, as if afraid to see an irate Lord Kincaid as audience to the forbidden description.
“Gawd!” murmured Susan. “’is lordship don’t behave as if you’m a whore, Polly. Talked to me about you as if y’are a proper lady, ’e did.”
“Aye. Well, his lordship is a proper gentleman,” said Polly a little tartly. “And he will not understand that when one has been a servant, it is very uncomfortable to have someone to wait upon one.”
Susan’s face fell to her boots. “I’d not make ye uncomfortable, Polly. Don’t tell ’im ye don’t want me, please. You don’t know what it’s been like since ye left. Lady Margaret’s been in a pucker, summat awful! What with ’is lordship ’ardly ever in the ’ouse, and ’er knowing it’s something to do with you.”
Polly had little difficulty imagining the situation. It was not one to which she would condemn her worst enemy, and Susan had stood her friend through her own trying times in that household.
“Tell me what has been happening since I left,” she invited, moving to the fire that, despite the sunshine, was still necessary to keep at bay the March wind.
Sue seized on the invitation with gusto, chattering cheerfully, filling the room with her merry presence, making Polly laugh with her gossipy prattle.
Polly had no woman she could call friend. There were men like Killigrew and De Winter whom she thought of as particular friends, in whom she reposed absolute confidence. In Nick she had thought she had everything one could want in the way of friendship, companionship, love—for as long as she had his undivided attention, of course. That rider had wormed its way unbidden to undermine her complacent satisfaction on more than one occasion. Nick would have to take a wife at some point. However, on this occasion she squashed the unpalatable thought as resolutely as always, and returned her attention to Sue.
Until this moment, she had not had a moment’s yearning for the easy companionship of one of her own age and sex. Now, as she slipped without thought into a delicious discussion of Bridget’s courting by a local ostler, she realized how much she had missed this. And she realized with slow appreciation exactly what Nick had given her. No maidservant, but a companion who would benefit from the situation every bit as much as Polly.
She stretched her fingers to the fire and smiled. “I am famished, Sue. Let us dine.”
Susan paused. “I cannot dine with you. I’m to take me dinner in the kitchen, with the goodwife and ’er folk.”
“Nonsense,” declared Polly, reaching up for the bell rope. “When my lord is here, then I daresay that will be best. But when he is not, I am damned if I’ll dine alone when I can dine with you.”
Susan giggled nervously, clearly shocked by this forthright speech, but not unwilling to hear the sentiment thus expressed. However, she retained sufficient presence of mind to forestall Polly with the bell rope, saying that she would go belowstairs herself to fetch up the fricassee of rabbit and chicken that the goodwife had prepared for her lodger’s delectation.
Nicholas heard their laughter drifting down the stairs when he returned to the house some three hours later. He paused outside the parlor door, feeling strangely as if he should knock to alert them of the arrival of an intruder. Then, with a little shake of his head, he opened the door as noisily as he could.
Both girls were sitting on the floor before the fire, glasses of wine in hand, the remnants of dinner still laid upon the table. Polly turned as the door opened, her cheeks flushed with wine and the fire’s glow. “I swear you are as full of surprises as a bran tub, my lord,” she declared in mock reproach, rising to her feet. “Although the last time I put my hand in a bran tub, at the Martinmas Fair last year, I pulled out the most meager surprise—a tin whistle, as I recall. And I had had such hopes that my farthing would bring me something wonderful!” She laughed, her pleasure glowing in her eyes as she came across to him.
“It is the disposition of bran tubs,” said Kincaid, slipping his arms around her waist. “There is always the hope that blind fingers digging into the bran will produce the grand prize, worth far more than one’s farthing. But, of course, ’twould hardly be a commercial proposition for the fairman if that were the case.” He chuckled. “It is part of human nature, this triumph of hope over experience.”
“I seem to have found myself a bran tub where the prizes far exceed the outlay,” she said softly, standing on tiptoe to kiss him. “But I should tell you, sir, that I think you very devious in achieving your own object.”
“My object being your compliance in matters where you show an unfortunate intractability,” he returned, kissing the corner of her mouth. “I see that I have achieved that in this instance.” He looked over her head to where an embarrassed Susan stood, unsure where to put herself, or to direct her eyes in the face of this display of affection.
“Susan, are matters arranged to your satisfaction?” he asked affably, in an attempt to put the girl at her ease. Unfortunately, such condescension merely served to render her speechless with discomfort.
“Oh, of course, they are!” Polly exclaimed impatiently. “And we have been having the most comfortable time until you appeared.”
“My apologies, madame.” He bowed low. “I will remove myself forthwith.”
“Idiot!” Laughter sparked in her eyes. “That is not at all what I meant, as well you know.”
Nick took pity on Susan. “Why do you not clear the table, Susan. It seems that the dishes have lain overlong.”
Her relief patent at haying a customary function to perform, Susan mumbled apologies and set to, disappearing from the parlor with a laden tray.
“Does Susan
please you?” Nick pinched Polly’s chin, looking deep into her eyes. “You are at ease with her, and she will have no difficulty understanding what you require of a helper.”
“Aye, she pleases me,” she said, touching his lips with a delicate finger. “As no one else could.” She drew back from him as the cold shadow of the morning obtruded into this love-lit warmth. “You had a pleasant walk with His Grace, I trust?”
“He was at some pains to indicate his interest in my mistress,” Nick said evenly. “As I was at pains to appear totally indifferent.”
“Aye, ’twas what I thought would be discussed.” She turned back to the fire. “I made it clear this morning that I was available. But I refused an invitation for this evening. It seemed wise to appear not overeager.”
“How did he react to such a refusal?” Nicholas went to the sideboard to pour wine. “Have you had sufficient, or shall I refill your glass?” He held the decanter, an eyebrow raised in question.
“There is no performance this afternoon, but I have to return to the theatre for another rehearsal,” she said with a grimace. “I had best have no more, lest I make further errors. Thomas is like to prove uncommon difficult in such a case.”
“Further errors?”
Polly shrugged and told him the story of her morning’s ploy. “It worked well enough,” she finished. “But to answer your question about the duke’s reaction to my refusal: I do not think he was best pleased, at first. But then he seemed to take it in his stride.” She poked the fire, sending sparks shooting up the chimney. “I do not think ’twill be long before I receive another invitation—one that I will accept.”
The following morning, the household quiet was shattered by the hammering of the door knocker. Polly, in the absence of Nicholas and his strictures on correct deportment at mealtimes, was consuming a peripatetic breakfast while she roamed the parlor muttering lines between mouthfuls, and improvising gestures as they came to her.