by Carola Dunn
Polly continued to look through the canvases, feeling overwhelmed. To be sure the king was obliging, but how much more so was Kolya. None of this would have happened if he had not made it his business to bring it about. Surely such kindness must indicate a warmer feeling than mere friendship? But no, she remembered that even Ned had remarked on his willingness to help a fallen child or an old woman with a heavy basket. And she remembered the look of dismay on his face when Lady Conyngham had said they must marry.
With a start, she realised that that was his voice in the next room. What was she going to say if he should come through and speak to her? She strained to hear his words but only the Russian intonation was plain.
Bending her head, she concentrated on the pictures, setting aside those she wanted to keep. There was Kolya’s portrait. It would be hen-witted not to sell that, to have it always near her, reminding her of his laughing eyes. Yet she could not bear to part with it. She picked it up, and saw the tag—not for sale.
Her mother and Lady Sylvia watched in astonishment as she rushed into the front room.
“Why is this already marked?” she demanded, doing her best to keep her gaze on Mr. Lay and away from Kolya.
It was he who answered, though. “You gave to me. I wish to keep.”
She had to look at him, but she refused to tell him she wanted it herself. “Why?” she asked. Those slanting hazel eyes were grave, giving her a peculiar feeling that he was trying to see into her mind.
“To remind me of the so pleasant days at Loxwood, Miss Howard. When I look at it, I see the artist.”
Oh, but his eyes were laughing now! Probably he was recalling her forgetfulness of time and place, she thought in indignation, and picturing her in her smock with paint on her nose. It was maddening when this afternoon, for once, she was perfectly respectably dressed, in a new gown of midnight blue cambric adorned with amber satin ribbons. She even had a matching spencer of blue and amber striped soie de Londres and a Leghorn hat with matching bows and roses. She certainly hoped he didn’t suppose she was wearing them on the off chance of meeting him.
“I did give it to you,” she acknowledged reluctantly.
“I wish to commission another portrait, for my mother. You will paint?”
A refusal hovered on her lips. It would be too painful to spend so much time with him. Then she thought of his mother, thousands of miles away, never to see her son again. For all she was a princess, she was also Kolya’s—matyushka, was that the word? How she must miss him! A portrait might ease the aching loss a little.
“Very well.”
His face lit, and for a moment Polly forgot her feelings and saw with an artist’s eye the features she had longed to paint again. She looked down at the portrait in her hands, back at its subject. Perhaps three-quarter profile this time? She reached out and took his chin between finger and thumb. “Turn a little to the left, if you please. That’s it. Where’s my sketch book?”
He laughed. Blushing furiously, she muttered, “Come tomorrow morning,” and fled back to the exhibition room.
Perhaps the confusion she displayed at his teasing laughter troubled him, for when he came the next day he was solemn. He treated her as he did Lady Sylvia, with gentle courtesy and consideration, as if she were no more than an acquaintance. It should have pleased her, since she had determined to be utterly businesslike about the portrait, but instead it left her forlorn.
He must be relieved at her rejection of Lady Conyngham’s insistence on marriage, she thought. His mantle of aloofness was intended to remind her of the distance between them. She was afraid that her stupid embarrassment in the print shop had revealed to him at least a hint of her feelings.
She strove to conceal her love, to see his face as nothing but a collection of planes and angles, highlights and shadows. Her sketches came out wooden.
That night, in the privacy of her chamber, she tore them all to shreds. Taking a prepared canvas, she drew him from memory, letting love inform every pencil stroke. Tomorrow she would paint for as many hours as he would pose, and Sunday, too, if necessary, losing herself in her work. On Monday, after the opening day of the exhibition, she would give him his portrait and then go home to Loxwood. Soon the whole family would be moving to Westcombe with Ned and Sylvia, and she need never see Kolya’s beloved, tormenting face again.
* * * *
Good resolutions were all very well, but what was Polly to do when the wretched man turned up with a huge bouquet of roses? Pink, yellow, white, deep crimson, they perfumed the entire house.
“I stole from the Pavilion garden,” he confessed with his impish grin, his eyes alight with mischief.
“I suppose the head gardener is one of your bosom bows,” she responded tartly, burying her face in the sweet-scented petals. He had even wrapped the stems in a length of cloth to protect her hands from the thorns.
Roses or no roses, the portrait was finished by Sunday evening. Polly stood it on the mantel in her chamber and lay in bed gazing at it. In the uncertain light of her single bedside candle his expression was haughtily aristocratic, the compensating humour imperceptible. She had decided his mother would prefer a formal depiction, in the well-cut coat and starched neckcloth of a gentleman, the icon clearly visible in his hand. Technically it was better than the first portrait, but Polly infinitely preferred the merry wanderer of the original to this unapproachable nobleman.
She shook her head at her own fancy: unapproachable was an adjective which no one could honestly apply to Kolya, not even the king’s gardener. That was what made it so difficult to know how to respond to his friendly overtures.
It was late when she at last fell asleep, and she did not wake the next morning until Lady Sylvia brought her a cup of tea.
“It’s ten o’clock,” she said, drawing back the ivy-leaf curtains to admit a flood of sunshine, “and your exhibition opens at noon, so we thought you ought to rise soon. You must be horridly nervous.”
“Nervous? Heavens no.” Polly sat up and reached for the tea, eager to be up and about. “I’ve dreamed of my own exhibition for years and at last it’s come true. I’m not nervous, I’m in raptures. You look happy, too. More so than usual, I mean.”
“I received a letter from my father this morning. I dreaded that he would storm and rant at me and try to prevent my marrying your brother, but he says he has washed his hands of me.” Her delicate features suffused with joy, Sylvia took a paper from her pocket and opened it. “He says I always was a stubborn chit, and as I failed to produce an Ellingham heir my determination to marry a commoner comes as no surprise and is a matter of complete indifference to him. Is it not splendid?”
“Splendid,” Polly agreed, laughing. “After all, you washed your hands of him long since. Now if you will please ring for Jill, I shall be dressed in a trice.”
“Yes, do hurry down.” Sylvia pulled the bell cord. “We are all ready to go with you, even Nick. Oh, I nearly forgot to tell you, there is a letter for you below with the king’s seal.”
“The king’s seal?” Polly jumped out of bed as the maid came in with hot water. “Why did you not bring it up? Jill, my blue gown, quickly.”
“Nick said it would speed you up if you knew it was waiting for you. I see he was right!”
Not half an hour later, Polly in her new blue cambric sped into the sitting room. With a flourishing bow, Nick presented her with the king’s letter. Ignoring her mother’s morning litany: “Polly, where is your cap?” she took the paper knife Ned offered and carefully slit the magnificent royal seal.
She skimmed the lines, in a neat secretarial hand, expressing fulsome gratitude for her part in saving the Royal Person from a treasonous plot. Then she read the last two lines, above the sprawling signature, “George Rex,” and sank into the nearest chair with a gasp.
“It’s an invitation to the coronation! For me! To see the king crowned,” she babbled incoherently.
“The coronation!” exclaimed her mama. “Good gracious, what an honour. Are you s
ure you read it right, Polly?”
“You deserve it,” Nick assured her. “Jupiter, that’ll be something to tell the fellows on the Steadfast.”
Ned congratulated her, then turned at once to practical matters. “It’s lucky the coronation is on the nineteenth. I’m sure you will be able to stay at Stafford House with Nick and me.”
“You will need a new gown,” Sylvia said. “We shall go shopping tomorrow.”
“Don’t lose the invitation.” Mrs. Howard was determined to find something to worry about. “You had best give it to Ned for safekeeping.”
Polly re-read the letter before handing it to her brother. “I suppose I shall not be able to take my sketch book,” she said. “Do you think Kolya has been invited, too?”
Ned read the first few lines. “I imagine so, since he was equally instrumental in saving the king’s life.”
“Let’s go to Mr. Lay’s quickly and find out.” Polly jumped up. “He said he will be there early.”
She was ready to set out as she was, on foot. Her mother and Sylvia persuaded her to wait for the carriage to be brought round, and to don spencer, gloves, and hat. She sat on the edge of the seat all the way to the Steyne, and hopped out of the carriage before Dick had time to let down the step.
Mr. Lay’s shop was decked out with a green and white striped awning and a red stuff carpet across the pavement. Polly stood staring at a billboard with her name in large letters (and “under ROYAL PATRONAGE” still larger), until Ned stepped out behind her and took her arm.
“I’m very proud of you, Poll,” he murmured.
She looked up at him with shining eyes. “it’s really true. I can hardly believe it.”
“Let’s go in.”
“But Mama and Sylvia…”
“Nick will bring them. This is your day.”
Mr. Lay appeared in the doorway, beaming, with Kolya’s tall figure behind him.
“Come in, Miss Howard, come in. I trust my arrangements will meet with your approval.”
As Kolya stood aside to let her pass, he whispered, “In your eyes are stars, Polly. Next project must be self-portrait.”
All her pictures had been simply framed and hung at eye level, landscapes alternating with portraits and flower studies to lend variety. Here and there were groups of gilt chairs with red plush seats, to encourage the ladies to linger. A small table in one corner bore a vase of yellow roses.
Polly turned to Kolya. “Stolen from the king’s gardens?” she enquired in an undertone.
“But of course.”
“Did you receive an invitation to the coronation this morning?”
His grin faded. “Yes,” he said shortly, frowning.
“So did I.” Polly wondered why he was displeased, but today nothing could spoil her elation. “Is it not splendid? Ned says I shall be able to stay at Stafford House with him and Nick. Would it be very improper to take my sketch book to the coronation?”
“Am certain the king will be delighted to see a drawing of his day of splendour. You will allow me to be your escort?”
She drew a deep breath, trying not to burst with happiness. “Oh, yes, please.”
Her mother, Lady Sylvia, and Nick joined them at that moment. Mrs. Howard looked around the room and said doubtfully, “Do you think anyone will come?”
“Many of my friends and acquaintances have promised to come, ma’am,” Kolya told her.
Mr. Lay, who had been discussing with Ned the pricing of the pictures, also hastened to assure her that any number of his regular customers had begged for invitations to the private opening. “Don’t you be worrying, Mrs. Howard, if they come slow at first. ‘Tis fashionable to be late.” He pulled a huge silver turnip watch from his pocket and consulted it. “Never hurts to open the doors a few minutes early though.” He trotted out to the front shop.
The first to arrive were a prosperous merchant and his stout wife. Mr. Lay introduced them to Polly as Alderman and Mrs. Piggott. They looked at her curiously, then went to stare at the two paintings the king had lent.
“You needn’t think we’ll have the whole city council in here,” Mr. Lay assured Polly in a whisper. “No one below alderman, no matter what they was willing to pay. Can’t have the raff and scaff mixing with the nobs.”
A pair of gentlemen escorted two ladies into the room. They all knew Kolya, and the younger of the ladies at once began to flirt with him. Polly had no time to repine; the older of the gentlemen begged her to be so good as to give him a personal tour of the exhibition. He was exclaiming in admiration over a Brighton panorama, with not a few sidelong glances at the fair artist, when Alderman Piggott’s voice was heard.
“If it’s good enough for His Majesty, it’s good enough for me, cost it never so much. Pick whichever you fancy, Mrs. Piggott, and we’ll hang it by the front door.”
Polly was called away from the admiring gentleman to be introduced to some new arrivals. For half an hour people wandered in and out, and then the boy who stood at the outer door, checking invitations, ran into the room.
“Mr. Lay, Mr. Lay,” he called shrilly. “He’s come!”
The printseller seized Polly’s arm and pulled her towards the door. “He’s come. You must greet him at the entrance.”
“Who?” she asked, bewildered.
Kolya materialized at her other side. “The king. Lady Conyngham said he will, but I did not tell you as I was not certain.”
As word spread, the seated ladies rose and an aisle opened from the door to the centre of the room. Mr. Lay and Kolya hurried Polly out, just in time to make her curtsy as His Majesty’s majestic form filled the doorway. And fill it he did, though he seemed not quite as vast as he had in his crimson dressing gown. He was soberly dressed for travelling and undoubtedly wore his stays.
Lady Conyngham followed, on the arm of a nondescript gentleman who turned out to be her husband. The king moved into the exhibition room, the wood floor creaking beneath his weight. Abandoning her lord, the Vice Queen joined her monarch, who proceeded to exchange an affable word with those present whom he knew.
Polly watched, feeling slightly dizzy. The king was not looking at her pictures, but even she was worldly enough to know that his visit was enough to ensure her success. Then he stopped before the painting of the Pavilion at sunset.
“Miss Howard?”
She dashed to his side. “Your Majesty? Sir?”
“Daresay this is the one you were working on when you noticed certain goings-on, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Makes my little place into quite a fairy palace, don’t it, my lady?” he enquired of Lady Conyngham. “I’ll take it.” With a nod of dismissal and a regal wave to the bowing and curtsying company, he surged out.
From then on, a constant stream of visitors arrived and departed. Though most of them talked more of His Majesty’s amazing condescension than of the exhibition, by the time Mr. Lay closed his door, most of the pictures were sold. Polly was exhausted when she retired to bed straight after dinner.
She told herself that the dispirited feeling that hung over her was simply weariness and a natural sense of anticlimax after the excitement of the day. After all, she was the richer by several hundred guineas, and Kolya was going to escort her to the coronation. What more could she want?
All the same, the image that stuck in her mind when she thought of the coronation was not his request to escort her, but his frown.
Chapter 20
Kolya frowned as he rode towards Loxwood. Though rain dripped from the brim of his hat, it was not the weather that brought the scowl to his usually cheerful features.
A young farmer trotting towards him dug his heels in to urge his cob to a clumsy canter in his hurry to pass the irascible gentleman.
An invitation to the coronation! Kolya thought in disgust. Polly might be flattered and delighted, but he had counted on a more substantial reward. He wanted to support her in comfort, if not in style, and he wanted to marry her now, not in some di
stant future when he had made his way in his adopted country. He wanted to wake each morning to find her fair head on the pillow beside him, her dark blue eyes opening to greet the new day with an eagerness to match his own.
Shaken by a sudden longing to hold her in his arms, he made up his mind then and there to ask her to wed him after the coronation, come what might. There must be some way to manage it. Had he not told Polly, when he scarcely knew her, that nothing is impossible?
He began to plan. When he reached the lane which led to Loxwood Manor, he turned instead towards the village. Polly, Mrs. Howard, and Nick were staying in Brighton until the exhibition closed at the end of the week, but Ned had gone home to oversee the barley harvest and to give Lord John his notice. He and Lady Sylvia planned to marry at the end of August.
As Kolya hoped, the rain had kept Ned at work in his office instead of out in the fields. He came out to the hall at once, smiling a welcome, on hearing Ella’s “Why, if it isn’t Mr. Volkov! Come in out of the wet, sir, do.”
“Kolya, I didn’t expect to see you here. Come into my office. Ella’s given me a fire as a treat this miserable day.”
“If you aren’t soaked to the skin, sir! You’ll catch your death. Off with that coat this instant and Mrs. Coates’ll have a nice hot cup of tea for you in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”
“Thank you, Ella, that will be welcome.” Kolya felt as if he were already one of the family. “But do not be concerned for my health. Recall that in Russia we have six feet of snow six months of the year.”
“That’s as may be. You’re an Englishman now, sir,” said the maid firmly, and bore off his topcoat to the kitchen.
Following Ned to the office, Kolya said laughing, “Perhaps my preference for England over other nations of Europe is only because, like Russians, you drink tea at all hours.” He stood with his back to the fire, his buckskins steaming. “I am on my way to the manor. Ned, you have told John you will leave?”
“Yes. His lordship was kind enough to say he doesn’t know how he will go on without me.”