Polly and the Prince (23 page)

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 sure 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 distant 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.”

“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.”