Venus (36 page)

She noticed that two more houses across the street bore the red cross and the scrawled letters of the only prayer left for the inhabitants to pray: Lord have mercy upon us. The watchman leaned against one of the doors, absently picking his teeth. A window opened above him; a head appeared. The watchman stood away from the door, looking up. Then, with a short nod, he went off up the street. To fetch the physician, perhaps, Polly wondered, or the nurse; not the dead cart yet; that would not start its rounds until nightfall, when the city would resound to the melancholy tolling of the bell, and the cry to “Bring out your dead.”

Nick stood looking at her averted back as he fought with an anger fueled by desperation and fear. The longer they remained in this city-become-lazar-house, the more inescapable their fate. The court, anxious to get as far from London as possible, had moved from Hampton Court to the seat of the Earl of Pembroke, Wilton House, near Salisbury. People were fleeing the city in droves; he had an absolute family duty to ensure the safety of his sister-in-law and the household dependent upon him. And Polly was telling him that that duty did not encompass her.

If she were his wife … No, now was hardly the appropriate moment to bring up that particular matter. He had intended, once the wretched affair with Buckingham was dealt with, to tackle the question at leisure. It was a subject of some considerable complexity, involving as it would the inevitable, boundless opposition of his sister-in-law; questions of residence, both Margaret’s and theirs; and not least his own unresolved difficulties with the idea of sharing his wife with the theatregoing public. It was hard enough for him to share his mistress with an outward show of equanimity—but the mother of his children! In the last weeks, however, all issues had become subsumed under a brutal and undiscriminating scourge. Death, and its avoidance, were the only relevancies at present.

“I am not asking you to travel in the same coach as Margaret.” There was a frayed edge to his voice that warned Polly she was pushing against his outer limits. “You may
travel in your own vehicle, which, like Margaret’s, will be under the protection of my outriders and postilions.”

“And what about the stops we must make along the way?” demanded Polly, unable to understand how he could not see how impossible it would be for her. “Must I stay under the same roof, or will you scout the countryside each night for two suitable neighboring inns in which to house your—” She was about to say “whore” in imitation of Lady Margaret, but caught herself in time. “Your mistress and your sister?”

Nicholas gave up the attempt to reason with her. “I will make what arrangements I deem necessary,” he said. “If you oblige me to use force to achieve your compliance, I will do so. But in such a situation you will find your position much more embarrassing than anything you fear at the moment, I can promise you.”

“Dear me,” came a quiet voice from the door. “I do beg your pardon for intruding, but matters must be serious if Nicholas is obliged to resort to threats.” Richard stepped into the parlor, closing the door behind him. “I am come to bid you farewell. I leave for Wilton House this evening, and assume you will be gone yourselves without delay.”

“I will
not
travel with Lady Margaret!” Polly cried in despair. “And Nicholas is going to make me! Can you imagine what it would be like, Richard?”

“Worse than being dead of the plague, I suppose,” snapped Nick.

Richard frowned, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “As usual, I suffer from the dubious gift of seeing both sides. It would be wretchedly uncomfortable for you, Polly, but Nick cannot be in two places at once, and neither you nor Margaret can travel without his escort.”

“I am quite willing to do so,” muttered Polly, then her eyes lit up. She clapped her hands with inspiration. “Why cannot I travel with you, Richard? If you go to Wilton House, we may go together, and Nick can join us there once he has seen his sister-in-law safe with her brother.”

There was a short silence, while Polly looked hopefully
between the two of them. “I would not be any trouble,” she assured hesitantly.

Richard laughed. “My dear, I should enjoy your company. Will you entrust me with the charge, Nick?”

“If you are willing to take on such an intractable wench, then you have my blessing … and my condolences,” replied Nicholas, his annoyance for the moment unabated. “If she has Susan with her, at least you will not be obliged to act as tiring woman!”

“Well, of all the things to say!” spluttered Polly, pink-cheeked. “As if I would ever—”

“You are capable of anything,” Nick interrupted. “It was not so long ago you unilaterally decided I would make a suitable patron and proceeded to adopt me—quite without my say-so, as I recall.”

“You are unjust,” Polly accused, blushing furiously.

“My patience is not inexhaustible, and you have tried it sorely,” Nick retorted in explanation. “If you are to leave with Richard, you had best call Susan and get on with your packing.”

“I will leave you to make peace.” Richard, ever the diplomat, went to the door. “I will delay my departure until tomorrow sunup, Polly. Can you be ready by then?”

Polly assured him that she could, and the door clicked shut in his wake. She turned to Nick with a tentative smile. “I did not mean to try your patience, love. I do not wish to part bad friends, and you will be all of three weeks upon your journey.” The smile hovered on her lips, the anxiety of an innocent unjustly accused swam in the deep forest pools of her eyes, her chin trembled, and her shoulders sagged a little. Nick groaned in defeat, reaching for her with ungentle hands.

On a glorious morning at the end of June, thoughts and images of a plague-ridden metropolis no longer sharply etched in mind and memory, Lord Kincaid and Mistress Wyat were riding through the fields skirting the park of Wilton
House. Polly was atop a broad-backed piebald of sluggish disposition. Her own disposition left much to be desired.

“I will not have my bridle held any longer!” Polly declared on a lamentably petulant note, plucking crossly at the leading rein, which her companion held loosely with his own. “You said you would teach me how to ride, not how to sit like a cabbage whilst you lead my horse.”

“For as long as you sit like a cabbage, so shall I hold the leading rein,” Kincaid said equably, waiting for the explosion. It came with predictable force.

“I do not sit like a cabbage—”

“Your pardon, Polly,” he murmured. “I thought that was what I heard you say.”

“You are detestable,” she said with feeling. “I can make this stupid animal go forward and left and right and stop. When will you allow me to do it alone?”

“When I am satisfied that your seat is secure enough,” he responded coolly. “You do not wish to fall off, do you?”

“I am not going to fall off,” Polly muttered. “It is so mortifying! There is to be a hawking expedition on the morrow, and I would wish to go. But I cannot when you lead me like a baby.”

“’Tis your foolish pride that will prevent you,” Nick said, with a touch of acerbity. “There is no reason to be abashed simply because you were not bred to horsemanship from childhood. You will be a good horsewoman, I promise you. But for the moment you are learning, and I am teaching you. So do as you are bid and cease this shrewish railing, else I abandon the task.”

Polly glowered at him from beneath the wide brim of her black beaver hat. “I do not need this leading rein. I will prove it to you.”

“Indeed you shall,” Nick said soothingly. “By the end of the week, if we ride every day, you shall then show me exactly what you can do on your own.”

Polly compressed her lips. She had no intention of waiting until the end of the week, and she had every intention of
joining the hawking expedition on the morrow—without another hand on her bridle.

They turned onto a broad ride running among majestic oaks, chestnuts, and copper beeches; the sun filtered through the leaves, dappling the mossy ground beneath the horses’ hooves with dancing will-o’-the-wisps. The sound of voices drifted through the sultry air along the path ahead.

Polly pulled back on the piebald’s reins; the stolid animal came to a puzzled halt, tensing his neck against the contrary tug of the leading rein.

“Now what is the matter?” Nick drew rein.

“Can you not hear the voices? ’Tis Lady Castlemaine and Buckingham,” Polly whispered, trying to turn her mount, who became thoroughly confused by the conflicting instructions he was receiving from leading rein and bridle. “They are coming this way, and I will not be seen by them like this.” She tugged again at the rein Kincaid held. “Lady Castlemaine never loses an opportunity to say something belittling, and I’ll not put the weapon in her hand … Move, you stubborn, stupid animal!” Frantically, she urged the piebald to turn. Nick, grinning, provided the necessary encouragement with his own rein.

“Perhaps we had better try a canter,” he said, still grinning, “If you’ve a mind to outdistance them.” He set his own mount to a trot, and Polly’s piebald reluctantly increased his speed. Nick did not ride his powerful chestnut during these hours of instruction, since Sulayman would have difficulty keeping his pace to the plodding of the animal his lordship had chosen for Polly, but even the calm mare he was riding today, once she got into her stride, threatened to outstrip the piebald lumbering into a reluctant canter on the mare’s flank.

They broke through the trees into the open fields again. “Can we stop now?” Nick called over his shoulder, throwing her a teasing, glinting smile. “Have we removed ourselves far enough from the danger of mockery, or should we attempt a gallop?”

“’Tis not funny,” Polly expostulated, bouncing in the
saddle as her horse slowed abruptly, throwing up his head with a disgusted snort. “She would regale everyone this evening with the story, and I cannot abide the snickers.” Her voice automatically took on the exact inflections of Lady Castlemaine’s. “Why, my dear Mistress Wyat, how I admire your courage to take up horsemanship in this way.” A trill, in perfect imitation of the countess, accompanied the statement, as she continued in the same voice, “I am too full of conceit, I fear, to expose myself by attempting to learn something in the company of those who cannot imagine what it would be like to be a novice. One is so inelegant, initially—”

“That’ll do, Polly,” Nick interrupted, although he was laughing. “Why should you imagine that people will mock you?”

“Have you not noticed, sir, how the female court follows where the countess leads in such matters?” Polly asked with asperity. “For some reason, ever since I arrived here, it has pleased my lady to make game of me when she can. I do not understand what I could have done to offend her.”

Nick looked curiously at his companion. Had she really no understanding of the nature and workings of feminine jealousy? Surely she had to realize that a woman who commanded the admiration, bordering in some cases on besottedness, of practically every man who crossed her path was going to fall foul of her own sex. The Countess of Castlemaine was not alone in fearing that in these close quarters the beautiful young actor would attract the more than friendly eye of the king. At the moment, King Charles treated this young female member of his theatre company with an easy familiarity, akin to that shown her by Killigrew and De Winter. She responded with the natural unselfconsciousness that she exhibited to those others, and it was not hard to see that the king, accustomed to the flatterers and the overawed, was pleased with her, and found her company amusing. But Nicholas had the shrewd suspicion that it would go no further than that. King Charles was far too busy juggling the competing claims of Frances Stewart and Lady
Castlemaine to add to his seraglio one who would infuriate them both.

“The men do not make game of you,” Nicholas said now, watching her. “Perhaps therein lies your answer.”

Polly frowned. “Lady Castlemaine could not possibly be jealous of me. She is the wife of an earl and the king’s mistress, while I am nothing. True, she does not know exactly how much of nothing I am, but unless she wished to be your mistress also, I cannot imagine why she should be envious.” She offered him that mischievous, heart-stopping smile, and chuckled. “Of course, I could hardly blame her for wishing such a thing. You are a great deal more handsome than either the king or the Earl of Castlemaine. But I should tell you that I will not permit it. Should you succumb to blandishment, sir, you will take damaged goods to another’s bed.”

“Why, you ferocious shrew!” exclaimed Nicholas. “I had not thought you bloodthirsty!”

“Merely careful of mine own, my lord,” she said sweetly. Then the laughter died from her eyes. “Methinks His Grace of Buckingham follows my Lady Castlemaine’s lead. Since he arrived from his country estate two days ago, he has had barely a word for me, civil or otherwise. I have done as you said and behaved as if that last meeting had not occurred, but he has not forgotten it. I know it.” She shivered in the warm summer air. “Have you marked the way he looks at me sometimes?”

Nicholas had, indeed, noticed the covert and still covetous gaze of His Grace resting upon Mistress Wyat, and it had certainly occurred to him that Buckingham had possibly not left the field. However, he could see no immediate cause for alarm. “I cannot imagine what he could do to harm you here,” he said. “There are too many eyes upon him. Nay, he will have forgotten his annoyance by the autumn, FU lay odds, if you continue to treat him with a purely social courtesy. He will find other fish to fry.”

Polly shrugged in apparent acceptance of this reassurance. But she could not feel completely easy. Nick had arrived just
over a week ago, and until Buckingham’s appearance, this country sojourn had proved delightful, apart from the needling of the king’s mistress and her ilk, and Nick’s infuriating intransigence over the matter of the leading rein. There was a constant round of entertainments—masques and dances, tennis matches, hunting and hawking—and she found herself taking inordinate pleasure in them all. Master Killigrew would occasionally put on an impromptu play for His Majesty’s entertainment; then Polly was required to earn her place at court, but she did not find the earning at all arduous; much less so than on the stage at Drury Lane. And Nick, for all that he treated her with fashionable casualness when they were in public, never forwent an opportunity to be alone with her, as now.