Polly and the Prince

by Carola Dunn

  A crack of light showed between the curtains of the office. Kolya dismounted and knocked on the open window.

  “Ned,” he called softly.

  “Who is there?” The curtains were flung back and Ned held up a candle. “Mr. Volkov! Is Polly ill? Or Nick?”

  “No, no, my dear fellow. All is well. And what is this return to formality? Are we not friends?” He wanted to be sure of his ground before he revealed his title.

  “Will you come in, Kolya?” Ned was slightly flushed. “I’ll open the front door. I’m finished with my bookkeeping anyway. You had best stable your horse with Chipper.”

  They rubbed down the horse in companionable silence, fed and watered him, then went into the house. Ned led the way to the sitting room and poured them each a glass of brandy.

  “Za zdorovye.” Kolya raised his glass in salute and sipped, feeling a pleasant lethargy steal over him.

  “Your health.” Ned returned the toast. They chatted about Loxwood for a few minutes, then he topped up the glasses and said, “Don’t think you are not welcome, but I suppose you had a reason for your return and for calling at this hour?”

  Until that moment Kolya had not been sure how much he was going to tell his beloved’s brother. The brandy loosened his tongue, and he plunged straight in. “Polly is very angry with me.”

  “Oh?” said Ned noncommittally. “Why is that?”

  Kolya swallowed a strengthening draught. Unlike vodka, brandy was meant to be sipped, but it went down very smoothly, and he followed it with some more before confessing, “Because she discovered I am a prince.”

  “A what!” Ned too had recourse to his glass. Being unused to swigging large quantities of spirituous liquors, he choked. His face scarlet, he gasped for air and tears started in his eyes. Kolya dashed to the kitchen and brought back a glass of water. Ned took it gratefully, quenched his burning throat, and demanded, “Did you say just now what I think you said?”

  “I am a prince. My father is a prince. My mother is a princess, and my brothers and sisters are princes and princesses. In Russia are many princes.” He fortified himself once more, noticing that his companion was sipping again, with caution. Refilling their glasses he went on, “Polly is angry that I did not tell her.”

  “Don’t blame her.”

  “You too are angry?”

  Ned appeared to search his mind, then shook his head. “Don’t think so. But I unnerstand why Poll is. Rotten thing to do to a girl.”

  “Lady Sylvia told me Polly thinks I was mocking her, pretending friendship.”

  “Fine woman, Lady Sylvia. Very fine woman. Love her,” said Ned with drunken earnestness. Kolya recalled that in general he was most abstemious. “Want to marry her,” he went on, “take care of her, but she’s a lady ‘n’ I’m jus’ a bailiff.”

  “She wishes to see you. She told me to bring you back with me.” With the clarity of detachment Kolya noted that as usual his English improved when he was slightly top heavy—and a fine English idiom that was.

  Ned brightened, then sank back into gloom. “No good,” he said despondently, shaking his head. “Ever’one’ll say ‘m a for…a for…a fortune hunter. ‘Sides, all she wants is to offer me a job again. You really a prince?”

  “Yes, but a destitute prince. I want to marry your sister, but I cannot support a wife.”

  “No good.” Ned shook his head again, this time finding it difficult to stop. “No money no good, an’ anyway a prince can’t marry a commoner. An’ anyway, Polly don’ want to marry anyway...anyone. De’cated to art. Husban’ll stop her painting. Tol’ me so. ‘Swhy won’t marry Lord Fitz.”

  “I shall not stop her painting. I wish to encourage her.” With some surprise he remembered the purpose of his journey. “There is going to be an exhibition of her work in Brighton. I came to fetch her pictures.”

  “Goo’ fellow, Kolya.” A huge yawn overcame him. His eyelids drooped, and Kolya was just in time to rescue his glass from suddenly slack fingers.

  Ned was no lightweight. After carrying him up the stairs, dropping him on his bed, and pulling off his boots, Kolya decided against saddling up and riding on to the manor. He removed his own boots, coat, and neckcloth, abstracted a quilt and a pillow from under his snoring friend, and dossed down on the floor.

  Prince or no, on the long journey between St Petersburg and Tunbridge Wells he had slept in many worse places.

  Chapter 16

  The hired chaise bearing Mrs. Howard and her daughter’s pictures, escorted by Ned and Kolya on horseback, reached Brighton early the next evening. As they passed the church on its hill and continued down Church Street, the white domes of the Pavilion blazed in the golden light.

  “I am certain that Polly must be painting,” Kolya said to Ned. “I wish to look for her. You will continue to Dean House?”

  Absorbed in his own thoughts, Ned merely nodded. Kolya trotted south on the New Road wondering just how much his friend remembered of their conversation last night.

  Polly was just where he expected to find her. Concentrating on her painting, she did not notice his approach, so he rode on to the vast, domed Royal Stables, left his mount, and walked back to her.

  “Kolya!” She looked up with a glad smile in her deep blue eyes. A matching smear of indigo decorated her chin, he noticed with loving amusement. Her smile faded. “I beg your pardon—Your Excellency.”

  He shook his head, laughing. “First thought is best thought, Polly. Lady Sylvia told you I have gone to fetch your pictures for the exhibition?”

  “Yes, and I’m very grateful.” She sighed. “How difficult it is to continue resenting your deception when you are so kind!”

  “Is much too difficult. You must not try.” He tore his gaze from her rueful face, turning to the canvas on her easel where sunset-flushed domes stood out against a darkening sky. “This painting is one of your best, I think. Will be ready in time?”

  “Yes, just a few finishing touches.” She returned to her work. “I caught it at precisely the right moment yesterday. Oh, Kolya, Nick and I were looking for you yesterday. We saw some most peculiar goings-on down in the Pavilion cellars, but no one would take any notice of what we said.”

  “In the cellars! Why were you and Nick in the cellars?”

  “We followed some men.” Continuing to paint, she explained.

  “I have a bone to pluck with young Nicholas,” he said grimly, when she finished the story.

  “Bone to pick. Crow to pluck,” said Polly, setting down her paintbrush. “There, that’s done.”

  “Was wrong to take you with him,” Kolya persisted.

  “I could not let him go alone, and I could not stop him. Anyway, there has been no outcry so it seems they did no harm.” She began to pack up her equipment. “Those who refused to believe us were right.”

  He was not so sure. “Where did you see these men?” he asked, helping her fold the easel. “Where did they enter the Pavilion?”

  She pointed towards the southern end of the building. “We first noticed them over there. They went through a door in the southern end, by the kitchens, and...Kolya, look! Did you see him?” She clutched his arm with multicoloured fingers.

  A furtive figure with a coil of rope slung over his shoulder dashed from one bush to the next. “Yes, I see, and there is another. I must follow.”

  “It’s much earlier than yesterday, there are only two of them, and they have no barrels. Perhaps they are nothing to do with the others.”

  “They move as you described, to stay hidden.” Probably because they did not wish to be seen taking a short cut across the Pavilion grounds—Kolya did not really believe anything was seriously amiss. He rather fancied the smuggled brandy theory; it would be typical of the crazy English, he felt, to have a king who was in league with smugglers.

  However, no more than Nick could he resist the possibility of an adventure. “I will follow.”

  “Then I’m coming too. If it’s the same men, then I can show you
which way they went. Here, take these.” She thrust the easel and her paint box into his hands, picked up her stool and the canvas in its sling, and set out in pursuit.

  Kolya caught up with her and made an unsuccessful effort to dissuade her from going with him. Together they hurried between the piles of building materials, then through the bushes, until Polly stopped and pointed out the door by which she and Nick had entered the Pavilion.

  The men had disappeared. Probably they had gone innocently about their own business, but in any case Kolya wanted to investigate. He headed for the door, Polly close at his heels.

  The cellars were just as she had described them. They left her painting things hidden near the entrance and made their way cautiously towards the far end.

  “I don’t believe they are here,” Polly whispered. “I haven’t seen a sign of them. Yesterday we kept catching glimpses. I’ll show you the room they went into, though.”

  The door to the room was ajar when they reached it, outlined by a dim light beyond. Effortful grunts and the sound of heavy objects being moved issued from within. Kolya crept closer, trying to see what was going on without being seen.

  The light wavered and went out.

  “Hell and damnation,” swore a hoarse voice softly. “Didn’t you refill the bloody lantern, you fool?”

  “I thought there were plenty left.” The second man sounded scared.

  “We’ll have to pinch some oil from one of them lamps. Come on, hurry.”

  Uncertain footsteps approached the door. Kolya moved backwards, nearly stumbling over Polly who was once again at his heels. Two men came out of the room and made for the nearest unlit lamp.

  “Stay here,” Kolya hissed over his shoulder and slipped into the room. It was pitch dark but for the faintest of illumination from a distant lamp farther down the cellar.

  As he paused to allow his eyes to adjust, that illumination was momentarily cut off and he realised Polly had followed him—and the bobbing light of the lantern was close behind her. He pulled her back against the wall, found her hand, and felt his way around to the far side of the room, cursing himself for letting her come with him.

  The brick wall gave way to a dirt-lined alcove. They crouched there, huddling into the corner, as the narrow beam of the dark lantern played over the pile of barrels in the center of the brick floor.

  “It’ll do,” said the hoarse voice. “Give that lantern here.”

  “I dunno,” the other whimpered. “It don’t seem like such a good idea, after all.”

  “Why should his fat majesty revel in luxury he ain’t paid for while our children starve,” the first man snarled. The lantern moved abruptly, bobbing floorward. “There. Let’s get a move on now.”

  Before Kolya could react, the door slammed shut and the key clicked in the lock.

  The lantern was gone but a flickering light provided a brief glimpse of Polly’s white face as he sprang up. He knew what he would find as he strode round the stack of barrels.

  Towards the stack a lilac flame crawled inexorably, releasing suffocating fumes. He had seen similar fuses used by Russian sappers—a core of compressed gunpowder wrapped in waxed hemp, burning at two feet per minute. Ten feet to the point where it disappeared under the nearest barrel, one of a pyramid he could not hope to move so fast.

  Dropping to his knees beside the fuse, he felt in his pocket. “You have knife? Quick.”

  Polly was at his side, handing him the little penknife she used to sharpen her charcoal sticks. “Can I do anything to help?” Her voice trembled.

  “Pull it taut. Will cut more easily.” He sawed at the sinister snake with the pitifully frail blade.

  * * * *

  Raising the brass lion-head door-knocker, Ned wondered what his reception at Dean House would be. Vaguely he recalled opening his heart to Kolya last night, but just what had been said escaped him. He was ashamed of his overindulgence.

  Though he had come to Brighton today to escort his mother, at her insistence, he knew that sooner or later he would have had to see Lady Sylvia again. Her sweet face had haunted his dreams since he stormed away from Westcombe in a passion of hurt and despair. He was ashamed of that, too. In general his temper was as equable as his sister’s, and he should have turned down the offer of a position with calm courtesy. But he did not want to be her agent!

  One of the maids opened the door. “Oh, sir, her ladyship’ll be that glad you’re come!” She turned and called down the hall, “Mrs. Borden! Mrs. Borden, ‘tis Mr. Howard.”

  Ned saw the plump housekeeper hurrying towards them, wringing her hands, her face sagging with worry, and his pleasure at his welcome faded. “What is it?” he demanded. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Miss Nettie and Miss Winnie, sir, and Master Nick. He’s that good about bringing them home for their tea, but they should have been in an hour and more since.”

  “What is it, Ned?” called Mrs. Howard from the chaise. “Did I hear Nicky’s name?”

  She was fumbling with the door. Ned hurried back to help her out, paid the coachman and gave him swift orders to unload the luggage and Polly’s pictures. By the time he turned back to the front door, Lady Sylvia was standing on the step. He led his mother to her. It did not seem the moment for formal introductions.

  “I daresay it is nothing,” said her ladyship, her lower lip trembling, “but you know how good Nick has always been about bringing the girls home on time. I beg your pardon, Mrs. Howard, this is a poor welcome. Pray come in.”

  “Where’s my Nicky?” she asked suspiciously, stepping over the threshold.

  “He took my daughters for a walk, ma’am, as he does often. He has been very good to them. I’m sure he has simply forgotten the time.” Lady Sylvia turned to Ned and held out both hands. “Only I cannot help remembering the threats Mr. Welch uttered when you…when I was forced to dismiss him.”

  Ned took her hands in a comforting clasp but had to release them at once when his mother let out a shriek.

  “Nicky! He has been abducted and murdered, I know it!”

  “Of course he has not, Mother. Welch was all bluff and bluster.”

  “Come and sit down, Mrs. Howard.” Lady Sylvia regained her composure as the older woman lost hers. “You must be quite tired out after your journey. Ned—Mr. Howard is quite right about Mr. Welch, of course; it was foolish of me to think of him. They are not so very late. Mrs. Borden, tea in my sitting room, if you please.”

  Ned followed the ladies, his heart overflowing with love as he saw how her ladyship soothed and comforted his mother. As soon as Mrs. Howard was settled on the chaise longue and a maid had been sent for lavender water and hartshorn, he asked quietly, “They are gone up on the downs? I shall go and look for them at once.”

  The look in her soft brown eyes told him that his reassurance about the dismissed overseer had convinced her no more than it had convinced him. She pressed her lips together, then said in a tolerably steady voice, “Please. I will take care of your mama. Be careful.”

  He could not resist kissing her hand before he strode from the room, across the terrace and garden, and out through the gate in the wall.

  The sun was still well above the horizon, the long July day scarcely waning. As he climbed the slope, Ned’s fear that Welch might have abducted the children warred with his happiness in Sylvia’s dependence on him. He hallooed as he went, stopping to peer down into every green coomb. They could not have gone far, he thought; the little girls had short legs.

  Walking the crests of the hills, he circled the deep valley where he had strolled with Sylvia so short a time before. Nick had talked of playing hide-and-seek in the bushes down there, and there was the ruined house, though he had promised to stay away from it.

  An hour passed during his circuit. Another hour and darkness would be drawing near. Ned hurried down into the valley, shouting his brother’s name.

  As he pushed through the bushes, he realised that they were the remnant of an abandoned shrubbery—la
urels, ilex, and privet—now tied together in an almost impenetrable thicket by ivy and wild clematis. He emerged into a clearing where rose bushes flourished in tangled abandon, a profusion of scented flowers reverting to their single-petalled ancestors after years without pruning. From here the house was clearly visible.

  He had not been close to it before. Now he saw that it was indeed a ruin, nothing left of the centre part and the south wing but charred timbers. The north wing was somewhat better preserved, if no more livable. The roof had caved in and the windows of the upper floors gaped glassless, but the westering sun struck shards of light from the ground-floor windows. Purple-pink fireweed grew tall through the gaps in the terrace paving.

  If his brother and Sylvia’s daughters were not there, Ned had no idea where to look next. He started towards the house.

  “Nick!” he called. “Annette! Edwina!” He paused. Was that a shout? “Nicholas?”

  “Ned!”

  A figure appeared at a first-floor window. Ned broke into a run, flailing at the rose branches that caught his clothes and scratched his face. By the time he reached the house, Nick was emerging from a doorless doorway.

  “Lord, Ned, I’m devilish glad to see you.” He was filthy, his hands, face, and clothes smeared with black. “Come in, quickly. The girls get frightened if I leave them. That’s why I couldn’t go for help.”

  “What’s happened? What are you doing here?” Ned followed his brother into the house.

  “Careful on these stairs, they’re shaky. We were playing hide-and-seek, and Winnie decided the best hiding places must be in here. I think she just plain forgot she wasn’t supposed to go near the house. She’s only little.” He stopped at the top of the creaking stairs and barred the way. “This is where it gets difficult.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Just around the corner. Winnie went into a room and shut the door, and it’s stuck. I can’t budge it an inch. The trouble is, the floor’s in rotten shape. Annette,” he called, “we’re coming.”