Lady Polly

by Nicola Cornick

  “A secret passageway?” Polly was curious despite herself. “You mean—for smuggled goods?”

  “No doubt that was what it was used for some years ago,” Lord Henry agreed, “although there’s precious little to be gained from such a trade now that the excise duties are so reduced. I imagine the passage to have been silted up for some time, but it is interesting, is it not? I must ask Lady Bellingham’s permission to investigate further. Would you care to see the cave entrance?”

  “I think not,” Polly said severely. “To go in there with you would be the utmost folly!”

  Lord Henry grinned. “Perhaps you are right, ma’am! Ah well, I see I must continue my investigations alone! And no doubt I should return you to your party now. They must be becoming anxious of your whereabouts.”

  There was no sign of the others as they retrod the springy turf path back to where Polly had left her paints and paper. Lord Henry viewed her drawings with undisguised interest.

  “This is very pretty,” he commented, pointing to a sketch of the tumbledown cottages, their washing blowing against the blue sky. “But this…” he paused “…this has real depth and passion. The earth colours, the texture…It is a very sensuous picture…” His gaze dwelt thoughtfully on her for a moment and Polly hurriedly covered the painting up. It was a country picture that she had drawn a few weeks previously, a study of the fields and woods about Dillingham, but instead of her usual pastels she had used oil paints and the effect had been startling. The rich reds and browns had given the painting a tactile quality, as though one could almost step into the picture. Polly was not quite comfortable with it.

  The breeze was becoming fresher now and Lord Henry was frowning a little as he scanned the eastern horizon.

  “I do believe we are in for a storm. Do you see those clouds massing out at sea? Where are your carriages, ma’am?”

  Polly turned. “I think they must have gone down to the village to collect the others, sir. But it is only a step. Perhaps if I follow them down—”

  The first drop of rain landed on her drawing paper, apparently out of the blue sky. It was followed by another and another. The wind had suddenly become strong. Polly bent to scoop up her scattered paints and paper and stuff them all into her portfolio. The easel blew over with a sudden crack, making her jump.

  “We had best seek shelter,” Lord Henry said, all hint of easy amusement gone from his tone. “No, it is too far to the village. The House of Tides is nearer. Hurry, please!”

  Polly could understand his urgency. She had no coat to protect her, and already the rain was heavier. The sky over the sea had turned a leaden grey. She could not believe how quickly the weather had changed and now the air was heavy with the threat of thunder.

  The first flicker of lightning touched the sky as they reached the edge of Lady Bellingham’s land. Polly was almost in a panic now. She hated thunderstorms and the ones that rolled in from the sea could be particularly fierce.

  “Not far now.” Henry’s voice was reassuring. “We will go in the back way, through the shrubbery, as it’s closer.”

  He held the little gate open for her and they slipped through as the rain began to pour in earnest. Polly, clutching her soaking portfolio and box of crayons under her arm, wondered briefly what on earth Lady Bellingham would make of the arrival of two such drowned rats. She had only met her ladyship a couple of times for, though travelling copiously, Lady Bellingham was virtually a recluse when she was in Suffolk.

  Henry helped Polly up on to the terrace with a hand under her elbow. The steps were slippery in the rain and she almost stumbled.

  Then the French windows were flung open before them and Lady Bellingham’s rich contralto tones, warm with amusement, said, “Well, upon my word! Apollo and Niobe! Or am I mixing my Greeks and Romans? I was never very good at mythology, alas!”

  Polly, regardless of her dripping clothes, found herself engulfed in a huge scented embrace. Lady Bellingham’s many colourful scarves wafted about her like a massive sheet.

  “Dear child!” her ladyship said fondly. “How delightful to see you again! And Henry!” Now there was a roguish twinkle in her dark eyes, “You have been away too long, dear boy!”

  There was a fearsome clap of thunder overhead. Polly jumped violently.

  “Come in, come in!” Lady Bellingham urged, stepping back so that they could go into the drawing-room.

  “We have come to throw ourselves on your mercy, Lady Bellingham,” Henry said with a smile, pushing the soaking hair back out of his eyes. “Lady Polly and I were taking a stroll on the cliffs when the storm came up, and we thought to seek shelter here. Lady Polly has become separated from her party in all the confusion. I apologise for the imposition.”

  “Nonsense, dear boy, and you know it!” Lady Bellingham clapped her hands so that her bracelets jingled loudly. A fat white cat, asleep on a puffy sofa, raised its head briefly before closing its eyes again with the most perfect indifference.

  “I adore excitement, as you know,” she continued, eyes sparkling, “and I lead such a retired life usually. Your arrival is most timely for I was about to succumb to ennui. I shall rely on you for all the gossip in recompense!”

  Her eye fell on Polly, dripping quietly on to the carpet.

  “Dear me! I should not keep you talking or you will catch a chill! Now, I will take Lady Polly away to change her clothing and Gaston, my general factotum, will fetch some dry things for you, my dear Henry! Then he can go and see if he can find trace of your friends, my dear.” She smiled at Polly. “I am sure we can reunite you all soon!”

  She swept Polly out of the room, paused briefly in the hall to summon Gaston and give him her instructions, then whisked Polly off up the ornate staircase to a small bedroom decorated in the French fashion.

  Polly stared at her reflection in the pier glass with something approaching horror. Her hair was straggling around her face, drying in wisps, and her clothes were sticking to her. She was not normally vain, but she could hardly bear to think of Lord Henry seeing her thus.

  Lady Bellingham smiled understandingly. “Never mind, my love! I am sure Lord Henry finds your dishevelment attractive rather than otherwise! That was always my experience of gentlemen! And I can see that he admires you exceedingly!”

  Polly blushed bright red. “Oh, Lady Bellingham, I think you must be mistaken. Lord Henry and I—” She broke off, quite unable to continue in the face of Lady Bellingham’s amused cynicism.

  “Fustian, my dear! Stuff and nonsense!” Lady Bellingham was busy pulling some enormous gowns out of the closet. Her voice was muffled. “You may pretend to be indifferent to each other, but you cannot cozen me! I have known Henry Marchnight for years and he has never truly cared for any young lady. But you—! Well!” She emerged with a huge lilac-coloured dress over her arm. Polly held it up in front of her. It was going to look like a tent. If Lord Henry found her attractive in that then the only explanation could be that his wits must have gone a-begging.

  Chapter Eleven

  Miss Ditton certainly found the outfit rather diverting when she and the rest of Polly’s lost party were shepherded into the drawing-room an hour later.

  “La, Lady Polly, you are all the crack! You must tell me where you buy your modes!”

  “Miss Ditton, I presume!” Lady Bellingham glided forward smoothly to greet her unwanted guests. Her smile was all that was gracious, but there was a look in those world-weary dark eyes that suggested that she had met Miss Ditton’s type many times before and knew precisely how to deal with them. She welcomed Miss Ditton and her brother coolly, Hetty with more warmth and Peter with almost as much enthusiasm as she had shown Henry, who was now lounging before the fireplace watching with amusement. He looked considerably more elegant in his borrowed plumes than Polly did in hers. Polly wondered where Lady Bellingham had got such stylish gentlemen’s clothes from. She could hardly imagine the lugubrious Gaston cutting a dash in the slim black pantaloons, black jacket and snowy white sh
irt.

  Gaston had found Polly’s companions huddling in one of the cottages in Shingle Street. When the rain had started they had hurried to the carriages, intent on setting off back immediately until Peter had remembered Polly and had set out to look for her. This had delayed them sufficently for the road to become waterlogged, since it was scarcely more than a sandy track, and they had no choice but to inflict their presence on one of the glum village families until the rain stopped. This was not quite how Miss Ditton saw their predicament and she was loud in her condemnation of the noisome cottage and its smelly occupants.

  “…and do you know, my dear Lady Polly, they actually had the animals in there with them!” She shuddered. “Apparently it helps them to keep warm!”

  Polly caught Henry’s eye just as he tried to repress a smile.

  “Doubtless your presence incommoded the poor pigs considerably,” Lady Bellingham said, with a suspiciously straight face. “They are not animals that take kindly to a disruption of their routine!”

  The precise nature of Miss Ditton’s difficulties now became clear. She could not snub Lady Bellingham, for she had no doubt that her ladyship was perfectly capable of turning her out into the rain if she chose. On the other hand, the Dittons had never acknowledged the former actress, even after the Seagraves had taken her up. Mr Ditton cleared his throat noisily, settling himself on the sofa.

  “Extraordinary customs these inbred country folk have! Why, I remember—”

  He broke off with a loud yelp. “Good God, ma’am, that creature has bitten me!”

  Lady Bellingham smiled fondly at Horace the cat, who was moving more swiftly than anyone had ever seen in his attempt to get away from under Mr Ditton.

  “Dear Horace,” Lady Bellingham said sweetly. “Such a good judge of character! You are sitting in his place, I fear, Mr Ditton. He will not be quick to forgive!”

  Fortunately a loud thunderclap interrupted this exchange and the ladies all exclaimed in dismay. The rain was still tumbling from a leaden sky. Lady Bellingham prosaically ordered tea and Henry sensibly suggested that Tristan Ditton and Peter join him in a game of billiards to while away the time.

  The rain ceased for a while at about five, but Gaston gloomily reported that the road was still impassable by carriage. Henry suggested sending a messenger to Dillingham, Fenchurch and Westwardine to explain that they were marooned for the night, and the Dittons reluctantly agreed.

  “I suppose staying here for the night is preferable to being set upon in the forest in the dark,” Miss Ditton said discontentedly, staring out at the drenched garden.

  “Preferable for you at least,” Henry agreed blandly, smiling at her. Polly stifled a giggle. She had noticed how Henry’s personality had undergone a subtle shift again as soon as they had company. He was still perfectly pleasant but the incisive edge had gone. Once again, Polly puzzled over the curious insipidity he could apparently assume at will.

  “Perhaps, Miss Ditton, if you are very fortunate, Lady Bellingham will lend you one of her nightdresses,” she said politely.

  “Oh, my maid, Conchita, has just the thing for Miss Ditton!” Lady Bellingham said cheerfully, ignoring Thalia Ditton’s look of horror at being obliged to wear a maid’s night garments.

  Lady Bellingham, revelling in her unexpected dinner party, did them proud with a meal of quail’s eggs, honey-roasted duckling and strawberries with cream. Even Miss Ditton could not find fault with the hospitality. In the flickering candlelight they looked a motley crowd. Peter had become soaked looking for Polly earlier and had borrowed one of the late Lord Bellingham’s outfits. Unfortunately his lordship, like his spouse, had been built on ample lines and had also been several inches shorter than Peter. Polly felt like a small girl who had been rummaging in the dressing-up box and there was something distinctly raffish about Henry Marchnight’s appearance, with no neckcloth and his tumbled fair hair. Polly thought he looked most attractive but rather as though he had spent a long night at the gaming tables.

  It was, in fact, one of the most enjoyable aspects of the evening that Henry spent so much time in her company. The others played a few desultory hands of whist and Miss Ditton insisted in entertaining them at the pianoforte, but Henry gently monopolised Polly’s company and talked to her for most of the evening. Nor was it idle chitchat—they discovered and re-discovered their shared interests in music and the theatre, reading, walking and the countryside. Polly did not want the evening to end.

  Miss Ditton yawned loudly.

  “Lud, how quiet it is out here in the middle of nowhere! I declare I would succumb to a fit of the megrims if I were forced to spend any time here! One could imagine all kinds of spectres and demons howling at the door!”

  “They do say that Rendlesham Forest is haunted, Miss Ditton,” Lord Henry said idly, “so it is fortunate you were not obliged to make your way back through the dark. A broken axle, a lost wheel, and you would be at the mercy of the spirits! They say that the black shuck, a huge black spectral dog, stalks its prey on stormy nights!”

  Mr Ditton gave his excitable, whinnying laugh. “Or you would be at the mercy of more human predators! Is it true, dear Lady Bellingham, that there is a band of smugglers still at work in these parts, tapping on the window to signal the delivery of their goods, hiding brandy kegs in the churches…?”

  Polly shivered as the shadows flickered. Out here, isolated on a stormy night, it was easy to believe almost anything. Hetty’s eyes were huge and frightened as she clutched Peter’s hand.

  “I have never heard of it,” Lady Bellingham said comfortably, leaning forward to put another log on the fire and smiling at Henry as he took it from her to place in the grate. “The smugglers are long gone from here, Mr Ditton. But by all means let us frighten ourselves with stories if we wish to be Gothic!”

  Tristan Ditton looked put out by such determined common sense.

  “Alternatively,” Lady Bellingham beamed, “we could have crumpets and hot chocolate before we retire! Gaston!” She rang the bell vigorously. “Some refreshments, please!”

  It was strange, Polly thought, how the room seemed to brighten and the atmosphere lift with Lady Bellingham’s words. Her ladyship was now telling an enthralled Hetty about some of her experiences at Drury Lane Theatre.

  “You should have seen me in The Country Girl, my dear, one of my greatest triumphs! Why, it was an innocent version of that old Restoration romp, The Country Wife, but to tell the truth I always preferred the bawdier version! I was perfect for the part, so natural and unspoilt, for I was a country girl myself, you see, and only nineteen years of age at the time! Ah, what a time it was!” And she shook her head reminiscently.

  Polly tried to imagine Lady Bellingham as a country girl of nineteen and failed sadly. There was something so world-weary and disillusioned about Lady Bellingham, though that was not to say that she had lost her natural kindness. Polly was conscious, as she had been when speaking to Lucille, of the sheltered nature of her own upbringing, in comparison to those who had had to make their own way in the world. There were precious few similarities between the former actress and the current Countess of Seagrave, but one was that they had made their own luck, not been born with all the privileges like Polly had. Somehow it made her feel inadequate as well as fortunate.

  Polly, returning to the turret bedroom she had used earlier, found the bed neatly turned down and a small fire burning in the grate. It looked warm and welcoming, but she could hear the thunder away out at sea and shivered. As soon as she was alone, all her nervousness had returned. On such a night it was all too easy to think of the miles of thick forest that cut them off from the town, the dense, secretive trees, the storm clouds harrying the moon. The bright beauty of the day had gone and the stark loneliness of the place created an eerie atmosphere.

  There was a door in the corner of the bedroom, which Polly assumed must be the turret stair. Feeling rather foolish, she went across and checked that it was locked. There was no key on her side o
f the door, but the door did not move at all when she turned the knob. Satisfied, she climbed into the downy bed, convinced she would not sleep a wink.

  Surprisingly, she fell asleep almost at once, to wake in the middle of the night with a feeling of suffocating uneasiness. The fire had gone out and the wind was pounding the corner of the house, whistling through the cracks in the windowpane. Out on the landing, a floorboard creaked. Polly stiffened, listening for footsteps. A sliver of light appeared at the bottom of the door, flickered and went out. Another board creaked.

  Polly slid out of bed and opened her door a crack. She was conscious of a need to establish normality, certain that she would see nothing more than a servant tiptoeing about his or her business whilst the rest of the house slept.

  There was no one on the landing. Then she heard the voices.

  “Not tonight, at any rate…Yes, certain…He was looking around earlier, but…No, no question of it. They will not risk coming in and the tide is already on the turn…”

  Polly edged to the bannister and peeped over. The hall was lit with dim candlelight, deeply shadowed. Lord Henry Marchnight was standing in the drawing-room doorway, brushing cobwebs from his clothes. He was fully dressed.

  Lady Bellingham, in the centre of the hall, was clad in a dressing-gown of glossy, bright hue and formidable respectability. Polly rejected her first reaction that this was an illicit lovers’ tryst; it was ridiculous to assume an affaire between them, even given her ladyship’s preference for attractive young men. There was something too watchful in Henry’s manner and too businesslike in Lady Bellingham’s. The grandfather clock chimed one suddenly and Polly jumped. Henry, who had been turning to close the drawing-room door, paused and his narrowed gaze scanned the landing. Polly’s heart was in her throat. Would he see her in the shadows of the pillar? And what would he do? What was his business, on such a stormy night? Suddenly she did not wish to know.