Polly was in fact dwelling more on the twin evils of leading the innocent Lady Laura astray and being considered as a potential bride for Lord Henry. If her mother only knew the advice she had dispensed to Laura but fifteen minutes ago! And the irony of suggesting that Lord Henry should marry anyone when he was so obviously incapable of a necessary steadiness of character!
Polly wandered slowly back up the steps as her mother forged on ahead, instructing Medlyn to have the drains checked, “For this heat is causing all kinds of noxious vapours!”
The sound of horses’ hooves on the gravel gave Polly pause just as she was about to go inside. A lone horseman was galloping up the drive, sliding from the saddle in front of her and flinging his reins carelessly to a grinning groom with a familiarity that suggested that he was happy to be home.
“Peter!”
Peter Seagrave picked his sister up and twirled her about.
“Hello, Poll! Who was that visiting just now? Pretty little piece, ain’t she!”
“Peter,” Polly said with asperity, “that was Lady Laura Marchnight and she has come to the country precisely to avoid rakes such as yourself! Besides,” she added with a little smile, “you will have to fight Charles Farrant for the privilege—he only met her a se’nnight ago but he is already smitten!”
“Oh, well…” Peter let her go and gave her a smile that seemed a little frayed at the edges “…I’ll secede graciously to Farrant’s prior claim! I daresay I am not very welcome here, am I? But I had nowhere else to go!”
Polly slipped her hand through his arm. “You are not in Mama’s good books, certainly, but you know she is always glad to see you at heart! What has happened, Peter?”
“Pockets to let,” her brother admitted reluctantly. “I haven’t a feather to fly! Oh, God, Poll, I’ve been an unmitigated fool! I heard that Hetty had become betrothed to Edmund Grantley and I got blind drunk and let Wellerden’s cronies fleece me. So I’ve come to throw myself on Mama’s mercy!”
“It’s not just Mama,” Polly said, bluntly. “Nicholas is here too. He and Lucille returned early from their tour, for Lucille is increasing. You have missed all the news, Peter!”
“So it seems,” Peter said, clearly torn between pleasure at the news of an impending niece or nephew and concern at finding his brother unexpectedly in residence.
Polly squeezed his arm. “It will be all right. But how did you hear about Hetty’s betrothal?”
“Lady Bolt told me,” Peter said bitterly. “She was at Wellerden’s place. Said she’d had a letter from Hetty herself! Straight from the horse’s mouth!”
Polly reflected that there were plenty of things one might call Lady Bolt, of which a horse was the most flattering.
“I scarcely think Mrs Markham likely to allow Hetty to correspond with Lady Bolt,” she said carefully, “foster sister or no! I think you may have been duped, Peter!”
Her brother seemed much taken by this idea. “Lord, I never thought of that!” He paused in the entrance hall. “The scheming harpy!”
“I thought you were much struck by Lady Bolt,” Polly said, suppressing a giggle. “I remember that you admired her exceedingly and were most cast down when she favoured Garston over you! You do not sound so complimentary now!”
Peter shot his sister a darkling look. “Dashed improper of you to say so, Poll, though you may be right!” He grinned suddenly. “The truth is the woman’s a dishonest doxy! And anyway, I couldn’t afford her!”
Polly, enchanted by this graphically unflattering description of Lady Bolt, nevertheless tried to get back to matters which were more important.
“But what do you intend to do about Hetty?” she asked demurely. “This news of a betrothal may all be a hum, Peter, and you do still care about Hetty, don’t you?”
“Of course I do,” Peter said crossly. “The silly chit is supposed to be marrying me, not Edmund Grantley! I tell you, Poll, it goes against the grain with me to sit here and do nothing, but what can I do? Can’t rush to Kingsmarton and call the fellow out, can I?”
“At least you could go to Kingsmarton and find out what is going on,” Polly suggested hopefully.
Her brother looked unconvinced.
“Suppose I’d better go and beard Nick in his lair before I decide what else to do,” he said glumly. “He’s bound to cut up rough at me losing so heavily to Wellerden. Still, I’m not the only pigeon his lordship is intent on plucking! I heard that Marchnight was due to arrive in a couple of days’ time and you know what a gamester he is! Lady Bolt was aux anges to hear that he was joining them!”
“Lord Henry?” Polly was amazed and, she discovered, annoyed. “But he has been here in Woodbridge these four days past! He has just been here now!”
“Well, he’s expected at Wellerden’s place shortly,” Peter asserted incontrovertibly. “Heard about it from Wellerden himself! Like I said, Lady Bolt is waiting for him in an agony of impatience! She don’t let her bed go cold!” And with this final, scandalous sally he strolled off to Seagrave’s bookroom, unaware of the variety of emotions, all of them unpleasant, which he had aroused in his sister’s breast.
Peter stayed only a day at Dillingham, much to his mother’s dismay. He had an uncomfortable interview with his elder brother, emerging silent and tight-lipped from Seagrave’s room after half an hour.
The next morning Peter left for Kingsmarton at first light.
“I do hope that matters will sort themselves out,” Lucille sighed, sitting with her sister-in-law under a huge tented pavilion which had been erected on Dillingham Court’s green lawns. “Perhaps I was wrong to encourage Hetty to accept Peter last year. She is very young, after all, and marriage is a very serious business. She has shown a sad unsteadiness of character these months past—”
“So has Peter,” Polly said frankly. “This outrageous business of Lady Bolt, for example! He and Hetty deserve each other!”
Polly knew she sounded bad-tempered even before Lucille gave her a look of amused concern. Peter’s intelligence that Lord Henry was taking up with Lady Bolt again should not have surprised her, but it had certainly made her very crabby. To have to console the Dowager Countess over Peter’s abrupt arrival and departure had been almost too much to bear, when his advent had brought her such unwelcome news.
“Upon my word, you sound very severe!” Lucille said calmly. “Quite as though you are suffering the gout! Perhaps your own affairs are not prospering either?”
“You are very acute, Lucille,” Polly admitted with a half-smile, feeling some of her good humour start to return. “The truth is that I seem to have been dispensing advice liberally these past few days, yet I can only seem to make a mull of my own business!” She sighed and got to the point. “I understand from Peter that Lord Henry Marchnight was taking his place at Wellerden’s houseparty—in more ways than one!”
Lucille put her book down. “Here’s a tangle! You mean to imply that Lord Henry has taken up with Lady Bolt? Surely Peter is mistaken?”
Polly shrugged pettishly. “Is it so surprising after that flagrant public display at Richmond? Oh, Lord Henry denied it to me, but I did not believe him! What an extraordinary woman! Peter, Lord Henry and the Duke of Garston all in the space of a few short weeks! Anyway—” she shrugged again “—I neither know nor care! I am done with Lord Henry! He is forever flitting hither and thither like some will o’ wisp! It tries my patience!”
“He certainly seems very busy for a man who has no purpose in life,” Lucille agreed, straight-faced, remembering certain secret information Nicholas had imparted to her about Lord Henry’s activities.
“No purpose!” Polly’s indignation was well established again now. Like many people who were seldom disagreeable, once she really lost her temper she had to give it full rein.
“He seems to have purpose enough in gambling and debauchery! And to take up with Lady Bolt, who has been bought and sold by half of London! Well, I will not take her leavings!”
“Oh, dear,�
�� Lucille said, lips twitching into a smile, “you are hopelessly in love with him still!”
“In love! I have a mind to marry the next man who asks me!”
Polly caught Lucille’s eye and her anger simmered into reluctant amusement. “Well, no doubt I am a fool to want a man to be other than he is…”
“Not at all!” Lucille stretched like a cat in the warmth of the sun. “Rather, you would be a fool to settle for second best! But I am still not entirely sure that Lord Henry has succumbed to Susanna’s rather overblown charms!” She yawned. “And let us hope Hetty does not feel as you do, or Peter may return home without her! She certainly has a great deal to forgive in his behaviour!”
Polly sighed. Despite the bright promise of the day, she felt strangely discontented.
“Love!” she said crossly.
“‘Most loving mere folly,’” Lucille quoted lightly, “Lord, why do I feel so tired all the time?” And she fell asleep where she sat.
The interview with Peter had obviously made Nicholas Seagrave as out of sorts as his brother. He was curt almost to the point of rudeness at lunchtime, announced that he had a number of visits to make about the estate and asked Polly, somewhat surprisingly, whether she would like to join him on the ride. As the day was fine and cooler than of late, Polly agreed with alacrity. They called at a couple of the tenant farms, had tea and cakes at each since Polly was too kind-hearted to refuse the offer, and finished with a gallop along the springy turf at the edge of the sea before turning for home.
The fresh air and exercise had quite restored Polly’s spirits and it was unfortunate that as they entered the lime avenue that led up to Dillingham Court, the cause of her ill-humour should appear before her eyes and undo all the good work of the afternoon.
Lord Henry Marchnight, on an elegant bay, was just trotting down the drive and reined in hastily at the sight of them.
“Lord Seagrave! Lady Polly! This is good fortune indeed! I am just come from the house, where I was told you were out about the estate. I came to take my leave, for I shall be departing Suffolk on the morrow.”
Coming so quickly after Peter’s assertions, this could only confirm Polly’s suspicion that Lord Henry was for the Wellerden houseparty. Her chestnut mare jibbed slightly as her hands tightened involuntarily on the reins.
“Is this a permanent departure, Lord Henry?” she enquired sweetly. “You seem to be forever travelling hither and thither! Such a busy life!”
Out of the corner of her eyes she thought she saw a flicker of a grin cross her brother’s face, but Lord Henry remained impassive.
“A temporary separation only, Lady Polly,” he said, very courteously. “As you know, I am as fond of Suffolk as anywhere on earth! I shall be back as soon as I am able.”
Polly made a great show of examining her riding gloves. “And where is your present destination?” she enquired, as though it was of no great moment. “I have heard that Buckinghamshire is proving very popular this summer!”
Lord Henry raised his eyebrows. He was looking so lazily amused that Polly felt herself go hot with annoyance. So he thought it a diversion to trifle with her feelings and then go after other game as the fancy took him!
“Good luck and godspeed then, Harry,” Nick Seagrave said, leaning over to shake his hand. Polly, watching this display of masculine complicity with irritation, nevertheless noticed the significant look which passed between the two men. She frowned a little as Lord Henry turned his horse and cantered away. It was almost as though Seagrave knew something, and yet what was there to know? Lord Henry was, by his own admission, a man whose prime concern was to seek after pleasure, and if there were other, more mysterious, aspects to his character, what could Nick Seagrave know of those?
“I collect that you were wishing him good luck in his gambling,” she said crossly.
“In all his ventures,” Seagrave agreed smoothly.
Lady Laura Marchnight was becoming a regular visitor to Dillingham Court, where she and Polly would walk together in the gardens or set their easels up with some idyllic aspect before them, in the hope of capturing it in watercolours or charcoal. Laura made no further reference to her burgeoning relationship with Mr Farrant, and at the evening soirées and parties in Woodbridge, under the watchful eye of the Duchess, she appeared to be avoiding him. Polly was sad but not surprised that rank and consequence had won the day. In the face of the Duchess’s powerful disapproval, it was difficult to see how the romance could have prospered. She asked no questions but simply enjoyed Laura’s company, which was certainly a welcome change from that of the Dittons.
The Dittons were relentlessly sociable, especially with those they sought to cultivate, and it was difficult to avoid all their invitations. Polly, having managed to excuse herself from a trip to the theatre in Woodbridge in their company, found that good manners forced her to accept the next pressing invitation, which was to make up a party to visit Myrmingham Abbey, a former Franciscan priory whose ruins were particularly romantic and picturesque. The scenery was indeed very fine but the company a sad trial with Mr Ditton uncertain whether to bestow his dubious compliments on Polly or Laura, and Miss Ditton sulking at not being the centre of attention.
“Lady Polly is becoming quite tanned,” Mrs Ditton observed to the Dowager Countess, with a hint of malice, as they returned to the carriages at the end of the day. “I should not encourage my Thalia to wander about in the sun without a parasol!”
Lady Seagrave looked hard at her daughter but could observe no more than a healthy colour. “Polly looks very well,” she said coldly. “And she always wears a hat with a very wide brim!”
They all returned from the outing in a scratchy mood that the romantic ruins had done nothing to soothe and Polly was sorely tempted to reject the suggestion that they all go to the Fair at Cold Hollow two days hence. Rather to her surprise, however, Laura Marchnight seemed very eager to attend and almost begged Polly to go with her.
“The Fair is accounted to be great fun, Lady Polly,” Laura said, looking hopeful. “I am persuaded that you would enjoy it a great deal!”
Her anxious face relaxed into a smile at Polly’s reluctant acquiescence.
In the event, Polly rather enjoyed the spectacle. Cold Hollow was only a small town, but its Fair was famous for miles around. The proceedings were opened by the Town Crier ringing the revels in as the Mayor processed down the street, accompanied by four civic dignitaries. They seemed very full of their own importance and Polly and Laura could not help but laugh at their rather tattered livery of gold and blue.
Once the ceremonial part was over, the traders and stallholders were free to start peddling their goods. The visitors strolled between the booths, admiring the variety of entertainments, from livestock to a small circus. Tristan Ditton was persuaded to show his prowess in the boxing booth, despite Mrs Ditton’s protests that it was not suitable in front of the ladies. He took a heavy fall almost immediately against the Suffolk Champion, Mal Marcombe.
“Oh, dear,” Lady Laura whispered in Polly’s ear, “I believe Mr Ditton’s pride has taken the heaviest tumble! He looks quite furious! Do let us stroll on ahead, Lady Polly, and avoid his ill temper!”
The day was fine with a light breeze, and it was fun to meander through the crowd, eyeing the attractions. Lady Laura caught Polly’s arm.
“Oh, look, a gypsy fortune-teller! I am minded to go in and discover my destiny!”
Polly hesitated, for she was not at all sure that this was the sort of entertainment of which the Duchess of Marchnight would approve. Turning around, Polly saw that Mrs Ditton, their chaperon for the day, was a considerable distance behind and appeared to be involved in some kind of altercation with both her children and an angry stallholder. Polly’s heart sank. She had no wish to rejoin them and become embroiled in the dispute, and Lady Laura was already at the tent entrance, ready to pull aside the flap and go in.
“Very well,” Polly said weakly. “I shall wait here for you, Laura. And
do not let them cozen you!”
But it was too late. Lady Laura had already disappeared into the tent’s dusky, sweet-scented interior and with a sigh, Polly sat down on the grass to wait.
It was very warm in the sun and Polly was almost convinced that she had nodded off to sleep, although when she opened her eyes again everything looked much the same. She could not see the Dittons, for which she was profoundly grateful, but as she blinked against the bright sunlight, she was almost certain that she saw Lady Laura, arm in arm with Mr Farrant, just passing out of sight behind the roundabouts. She scrambled to her feet, pulling aside the tent flap and peering into the gypsy’s den.
Dark, inquisitive eyes surveyed her from top to toe.
“Fortune, lady?” the old woman asked, holding out a hand to encourage Polly forward. “I can tell you all about the handsome gentleman waiting to steal your heart—”
“No, thank you,” Polly said hastily, backing out of the tent. So Laura had slipped away! Polly hurried past the stalls that lay between her and the fun fair. Where had they gone? Polly could not spot Laura’s slender figure anywhere. Bells for sheep, leather gaiters, linen gaberdine for labourers, Birmingham jewellery…Polly’s head spun. She hurried around a corner, convinced she could see Laura in the distance, and found herself back in front of the fortune-teller’s tent. Nor was she alone there.
“Good afternoon, Lady Polly,” Lord Henry Marchnight said politely.
Shock at his sudden appearance and the recollection that she had failed in her duty to keep an eye on his sister held Polly silent for a moment. Henry was smiling very slightly.
“Have you lost your party again, perhaps?”
“No, of course not,” Polly snapped, brushing the grass from her skirt and feeling foolish at having been caught in such a situation. “I saw the Dittons but a moment ago and I have been waiting for Lady Laura, who—”
“Who has tricked you into thinking she was having her fortune told whilst in fact she is making secret assignations,” Lord Henry finished a little grimly. “I take it that that is why I find you outside Madame Rose’s tent, Lady Polly? You were not thinking of parting with your money in return for the assurance that a tall, fair gentleman would presently sweep you off your feet?”
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