Polly and the Prince

by Carola Dunn

  “I have big favour to ask.”

  Ned leaned back in his desk chair and crossed his legs. “Go ahead.”

  “I want to ask John to give me your post. I know he will do this, for he thinks self in my debt still, but I cannot run Loxwood without your advice. You will be busy with a new family and with Westcombe. Is too much to ask that you help me also?”

  “My dear fellow, of course not. I shall not be so far away that I cannot come over for a day now and then. If you were not already familiar with the land and the people I should not think it possible, but it may do very well.”

  “You can guess why I am in a hurry?”

  “Polly? I may have been drunk at the time, but I do remember your saying you wanted to marry her.”

  “I cannot wait.”

  “I know how you feel.” Ned’s grin was sympathetic.

  Ella brought in the tea tray, shoving aside her master’s papers to set it on a corner of the desk. Kolya sat down and helped himself to one of Mrs. Coates’s scones.

  “This,” his gesture embraced the small whitewashed room and the rest of the small whitewashed house beyond, “this is not the home I have imagined for my bride. You are not offended? I do not mourn the splendour of my father’s mansion, you understand—would not suit my Polly—but had hoped for something…” He shrugged, unable to find the words.

  “Something more in keeping with your station in life. Don’t forget that Polly has been perfectly contented living here.”

  “Is true.”

  “And my little sister’s earnings are growing quite substantial, are they not? At least one of her pictures was marked at a hundred guineas.”

  “This money will of course be her own,” said Kolya decidedly. “To spend for the little comforts and frivolacies which women like. Or to save for our children. Though my son will never be Prince Volkov, I hope we will have children, but this also worries me. Polly must be free to paint, so I will have to hire nursemaids and governesses.”

  Ned flushed. “I’m sure Sylvia will want to help. She is embarrassingly wealthy, you know, and neither of us plans to cut a dash in society. She is very fond of Polly and admires her painting.”

  Had they been standing, Kolya could not have resisted embracing his future brother-in-law Russian style, with a hearty kiss on each cheek. “My friend, for Polly I will forget pride and accept help with greatest gratitude,” he said emotionally. “Also, my father will perhaps send money now and then. We shall contrive!” He paused, suddenly recalling the one possibility he had not taken into account. “If she will marry me. Ned, do you think she will marry me?”

  Frowning, Ned said slowly, “If you had asked me a fortnight since, I should have said yes, yet I cannot forget how she refused to see you the day after your adventure in the Pavilion. She swore you had not made any improper advances...”

  “I did not!” It was Kolya’s turn to flush.

  “…but her nerves were thoroughly overset.”

  Kolya explained Lady Conyngham’s insistence to the king that he and Polly must marry, and Polly’s reaction.

  “That doesn’t sound hopeful,” Ned agreed. “Still, she has shown the most unusual sensibility ever since you appeared in our lives. She always had the most equable disposition before. That may be a good sign.”

  “Or bad.” Kolya sagged back in his chair. “What shall I do if she rejects me again?”

  “Keep trying,” was the only suggestion Ned could offer. Gloomily, Kolya took his leave and rode on through the rain to the manor.

  A letter awaited him, from Prince Lieven. The Russian ambassador and his wife invited him to stay at the embassy in London for the coronation. They had a communication for him from his father.

  Kolya was glad to accept their invitation, and his spirits rose still further when John expressed himself delighted to offer him Ned’s position.

  “Howard has everything running smoothly,” he said, “and if he has agreed to advise you I’m sure it will work out, don’t you think, Beckie?”

  His wife smiled and nodded. John had proudly revealed that she was enceinte, and she seemed already to have put on a new matronly dignity. Kolya half expected that one or the other would want to hear of his progress in wooing Polly, but either they were too tactful to enquire or they had forgotten his confidence.

  Uncertain as he was of the answer, he was relieved not to be asked.

  * * * *

  By the day of the coronation, Polly had not seen Kolya for a week. It seemed much longer. Of course she understood that he was unwilling to continue to enjoy the king’s hospitality when His Majesty was gone to London. All the same, she wished he had stayed just to see that the last few days of her exhibition were as successful as the first. Every single picture was sold, and it was all thanks to him.

  Leaving their mother at Dean House, she and Nick travelled in Lady Sylvia’s carriage to Town, meeting Ned in Crawley on the way. Crossing Westminster Bridge, they drove along Whitehall and Pall Mall before turning into Park Lane. A dozen times Polly wanted to stop to sketch the splendid buildings, especially Carlton House. Its dignified Classical façade was such a contrast to the exotic Pavilion, it was hard to believe both were the creations of the same prince.

  When the Howards reached Stafford House they were welcomed by the duke’s butler, Mr. Boggs, an impressive personage with a head like a polished egg. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Howard,” he said, beckoning to a footman. “James, take the Howards to Mrs. Davis’s room.”

  Mrs. Davis, the housekeeper, looked harassed. “We’ve that many guests up for the coronation I don’t know which way to turn,” she apologized. “Mr. Howard, you won’t object to sharing with your brother, I hope?”

  She called a maid to show them to their rooms. There seemed to be miles of passages and stairs. Polly wondered whether she would ever find her way back to the front hall.

  To her relief, Ned and Nick were in the chamber next door. Her room was small and plain but comfortable, with a window overlooking Hyde Park. Polly was standing at it sketching when another maid brought hot water.

  “There’ll be two sittings to dinner, miss,” she announced, “there being so many people in the house. Mr. Howard said seven o’clock’ll suit, and he knows the way to the steward’s room.” She bobbed a curtsy and dashed off.

  The Howards dined with Mrs. Davis, the duke’s steward, secretary, and chaplain, the governess of Lord Danville’s children (Lady Danville, the wife of his Grace’s heir, never travelled without her children), and the duchess’s companion, Miss Carter.

  “I generally have a tray in my room,” Miss Carter confided to Polly, her round face earnest, “when I do not eat with the family, but the servants are run off their feet, poor things, and it seemed unconscionable to give them extra work. Besides, I have a message for you from Aurelia.”

  “Aurelia?”

  “The duchess. She is my cousin, you know. Prince Nikolai dined here yesterday, and they arranged that he shall meet you at the door of the Abbey at nine o’clock, as the Lievens will take him to the coronation. The duke has to go early to be present at His Majesty’s robing, so you shall go in the carriage with Aurelia and the Danvilles.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “My dear, do you have a suitable gown?” Miss Carter asked anxiously. “I do not mean to interfere, but perhaps you will allow me to advise you?”

  “Lady Sylvia Ellingham helped me choose one in Brighton, ma’am, but I shall be glad of your opinion.”

  Miss Carter was pleased to approve Polly’s pale green sarcenet with white muslin ruffles and the headdress of a garland of white silk roses with green leaves. “The court ladies will wear ostrich feathers, of course, but this is by far more suitable in your position. You will do very well, Miss Howard.”

  As the little lady bustled out, Polly hung up her gown, then sank onto her bed. “In your position,” Miss Carter said. In the excitement of seeing London and looking forward to the coronation, s
he had not spared a thought for her position. Her family had dined in the steward’s room, while Kolya, yesterday, had evidently dined with the ducal family. It was too easy to forget that he was a prince.

  How would he feel, the day after tomorrow, escorting a female who as befitted her position was not wearing plumes? Would he be ashamed of associating with her before that glittering company? Was that why he had looked so annoyed when she asked him whether he had been invited to the coronation?

  It was no use trying to persuade herself that he had offered to squire her because he wanted to. He had done it because he was the kindest, most obliging gentleman in the world and knew that she would not “do very well” on her own. He would have done as much for any acquaintance. He must have been hoping that she would refuse. Perhaps she ought to have, yet she was glad that she had not.

  The coronation might be the last time she would ever see him. Afterwards she would go to live at Dean House and Westcombe; all connexion with the Danvilles would be over and there would be no reason for Kolya’s path to cross hers.

  She was going to enjoy the coronation if it killed her, Polly decided fiercely. She was going to revel in resting her hand on his arm, in sitting close to him, in seeing the amusement in his slanting hazel eyes and hearing his richly rolling Russian ‘r’s. And when she had said good-bye and thank you, she would go home and put him out of her mind and dedicate herself anew to the solitary life of an artist.

  If that prospect, once so enticing, had lost its lustre, she did her best not to admit it.

  * * * *

  The next day she succeeded in forgetting her woes in the delight of sketching the elegant streets and squares in the neighbourhood. She also went across the road to Hyde Park and drew Stafford House, intending to paint it when she went home as a gift for the duke and duchess in gratitude for their hospitality.

  That night, every half hour from midnight on, church bells pealed and guns roared to remind the king’s deafened subjects that he was about to be crowned. Not surprisingly, Polly was wide awake when Mrs. Davis, as she had promised, sent a maid to her at half past six to help her dress. The new gown was soft and cool on her skin, whispering about her ankles. With the maid’s assistance, she pinned her hair up in a topknot and fastened the silk wreath around it.

  “You look a fair treat, miss,” the girl said enviously. “Lor, that’s really something, that is, going right into the cathedral and seeing him crowned up close, like. D’you reckon you could make some pictures for us after?”

  “Yes, of course. I shall take my sketch book with me, if I am allowed.”

  “There’s breakfast in Mrs. Davis’s room, miss.”

  “I’m not hungry, thank you.” Polly’s nerves were on edge, and the thought of food made her feel slightly ill.

  “Mrs. Davis said you’d say that. She says as you’ve got to eat, acos likely you won’t get nothing more till this evening. You wouldn’t want to faint from hunger right in the middle of the cathedral, would you, miss?”

  So Polly forced herself to swallow a slice of ham and a muffin. She thought that a cup of tea might soothe her, then rejected it for fear of having to answer a call of nature in the middle of the ceremony.

  It was only seven thirty when she finished. The entire household was astir like a nest of ants, rushing purposefully to and fro, and Ned and Nick had already gone out to see the sights. Restless and with nothing to do, Polly decided to go across to Hyde Park to make one more sketch of Stafford House while she was waiting for the duchess.

  The park was already swarming with celebrators. There was to be a grand fireworks show for the populace in the evening. To take advantage of the crowds, a city of stalls, marquees, puppet shows, and temporary taverns had risen overnight among the trees. Women hawked gingerbread, and a pieman cried his wares. The scene was irresistible.

  Polly filled page after page of her sketch book. She could have done a roaring trade, but as she explained to would-be purchasers, she wanted to combine her drawings into a painting later. Time passed unnoticed, until once more guns roared and bells rang and a man standing near her said to his companion, “That’ll be nine o’clock?”

  “‘Sright,” said the other, consulting a battered tin watch. Nine o’clock, Miss Carter had said. Polly lifted her skirts and fled. She raced across Park Lane, dodging vehicles. Outside Stafford House there was no sign of the ducal carriage. Panting, she scurried up the steps and into the front hall.

  The elderly porter in his red and green livery drowsed on his stool. No one else was in sight.

  “The duchess,” Polly moaned. “Is she gone already?”

  “Huh? Whassat? Her Grace an’ his lordship an’ her ladyship left half a hower gone. They was asking fer you—you’d be Miss Howard?—but no one knowed where you was an’ they cou’n’t wait.”

  Polly dropped her sketch book as her heart sank to the very tip of her new green kid slippers. “Oh please,” she cried, “call me a hackney.”

  Grumbling under his breath, the old man lumbered down the steps and waved imperiously at a passing hackney. The driver hauled on the reins and his bony nag gladly halted.

  “The cathedral,” Polly ordered as she jumped in. “Hurry, please hurry.”

  She tumbled onto the smelly seat as the jarvey whipped up his horse. For a hundred yards the creature rose to a trot before sinking back into a steady plod. Polly clenched her fists, her nails digging into the palms of her hands through her gloves. She would be late, she would be late, and Kolya would be so angry with her. They might not even be allowed in. If she had caused him to miss the coronation, she would never be able to look him in the eye again. If she was lucky, she thought in an agony of remorse, he would have gone in without her.

  Gradually it dawned on her, through her despair, that the streets they traversed were growing emptier and emptier. Surely, even if she was hopelessly late, there should be crowds. Then the hackney stopped. Digging in her reticule for her fare, she jumped down, paid the man, and turned—to find herself on the broad flight of steps leading up to St Paul’s Cathedral.

  Her shoulders sagged. The cathedral, she had told the jarvey. She could hear her own voice ringing in her ears. She could hear the maid, this morning, talking with envy of the cathedral.

  Slowly she started up the steps. Kolya was waiting for her at the doors of Westminster Abbey. She would never see him again.

  Chapter 21

  Waiting at the main entrance to Westminster Abbey, Kolya saw Tom Danville’s tall form moving towards him through the throng. Behind the equally tall guardsman who was clearing a path, the Duchess of Stafford, her daughter-in-law, and Polly were still invisible. As they came closer, he saw the duchess, her ostrich feathers nearly as tall as she was, and then Lady Danville. Shading his eyes, he searched for a glimpse of Polly. He had wonderful news for her.

  “Your Grace, my lady.” Impatiently he bowed over their hands. “Danville, where is Miss Howard?”

  “The silly chit did not turn up when we were ready to leave, Prince,” the duchess said crossly. “Neither Boggs nor Davis could find her and we could not wait.”

  “Sorry, Volkov,” said Lord Danville, “but no one had any idea where she had gone.” Another group moved up behind them. “We’ll have to go in now. Do you go with us?”

  Kolya was ready to wager he could guess, if not where Polly was, then what she was doing. No doubt she would turn up, breathless, in a hackney in a few minutes. How he would tease her!

  “No, I shall wait here,” he said.

  Lady Danville laid her hand on his arm. “I do hope she comes in time,” she said earnestly.

  The three went on into the Abbey. The stream of guests and dignitaries continued to flow past him in swirls and eddies, now and then casting up someone he knew to exchange a few words. The flood began to slacken. One of the guards came up to him.

  “We’ll have to close the doors soon, sir. Make sure everyone’s settled before the procession arrives.”

  K
olya nodded. She was not coming. His only reason for attending the coronation was to enjoy her pleasure in the colourful pageantry. The king would never notice his absence. He remembered how he had defied protocol in St Petersburg to take Rebecca Ivanovna home early from the tsar’s midsummer fête—there was far less cause to dread King George’s wrath.

  He waited until the great doors swung shut, then pushed his way through the crowd and found a hackney to take him to Stafford House.

  It was several minutes before anyone answered the door bell. A footman in the green-and-red livery which reminded him of his Preobrazhensky uniform opened the door and said firmly, “No one’s home, sir. They’s all gone to the crownation.”

  “Miss Howard is not here? She did not come to Westminster Abbey.”

  “I don’t know, I’m sure, sir. I’ll ‘afta ask Mr. Boggs.”

  Waiting in the grand circular vestibule with its pink marble floor and pillars flanking each doorway, Kolya paced impatiently. Then he caught sight of a familiar object on a side table. Polly’s sketch book. He picked it up and flipped through it. Page after page of celebrating Londoners met his eye—he was right, she had been drawing and had forgotten the time. But she must have come back to the house to leave this. Where on earth had she gone?

  Mr. Boggs hurried in, buttoning his coat, followed by Mrs. Davis straightening her cap.

  “Beg pardon, sir,” said the butler, “we was just putting our feet up, as you might say, with everyone gone. You’re looking for Miss Howard? I’d know if miss came in, sir.”

  “She’s not here,” the housekeeper confirmed. “Will I send for the maid who helped her this morning, sir? Could be she said something.”

  The maid was sent for. “Miss told me she wanted to draw pitchers of the crownation, sir, if they’d let her,” she said. “She promised to show ‘em to me. Fine as fi’pence she were in her pretty new frock. For sure she was meaning to go to the cathedral.”

  Kolya laughed. “Expect she went to cathedral,” he said. He could imagine her, rushed and flustered, the word “cathedral” uppermost in her mind after the maid’s morning chatter. That was what she would have told the jarvey, and in the unfamiliar city she would not have realised she was going the wrong way.