She sighed, staring down into the fire as if, within its constantly shifting pattern, she would see answers. But the pictures formed and dissolved, offering no enlightenment. Turning her attention to a matter in which she could be helpful, she strode to the door.
"Sue! Sue, are ye busy?"
The girl appeared from the kitchen quarters, coming to the foot of the stairs. "D'ye need summat?" she asked apathetically.
"Only some company," Polly coaxed. "I have some news that might cheer you. And there's chestnuts we can roast."
Susan, looking as if she could not imagine being cheered by such offerings, came up to the parlor. " 'Is lordship gone out, then?"
"Aye, some business he had to attend to. But pray listen, Sue. I have talked to him about you and Oliver, and guess what he has said." Eagerly, Polly expounded her plan and the positive part of Nick's reaction. She could see no reason to depress Sue further by explicating possible drawbacks to the scheme.
''D'ye think he really means it?" Susan breathed, all evidence of tears vanished. "Why, t'would be the most wonderful thing." Reaching into the coals, she hitched out a glowing, ashy chestnut, dropping it abruptly onto the hearth, licking her singed fingers.
"But Yorkshire's a mighty long way." Polly decided that in good conscience she should perhaps point out this fact, at least. Picking up the chestnut, she tossed it from hand to hand, in the hopes that the movement would cool it.
Susan, however, disregarded this disadvantage completely. "I've no family 'ere," she said. "An' Oliver's folk're in Cornwall, so 'e don't pay them no mind as 'tis."
"Well, perhaps you should write and ask him what he thinks," suggested Polly, peeling the steaming nut. "Before my lord writes to his steward. Just in case Oliver does not care for the idea."
"Oh, 'e will," Sue said with confidence. She looked dreamily into the fire. "Just think on't, Polly. To be married, with my own 'ouse, and babes, and a cow, and a chicken…" The thought of such plenty rendered her speechless for a minute, then she said curiously, "D'ye think of marrying, Polly?"
The question triggered the old unease, the uncertainty that she usually managed to suppress by refusing to think beyond the loving glories of the present. Now she lied. "I've never thought on it, Sue. I'm an actor, and there's Nick. Why would I want to marry?" She smiled slightly, reaching into the fire for another chestnut so that Sue could not see her face. "There are wives and there are whores in the world
you and I come from, Susan. You are made to be wife, and I to be whore." She shrugged and made the lie complete. "I am content with my lot. Cottages and chickens and cows and babes would not please me half so much."
"But what about when 'is lordship takes a wife?" Susan asked diffidently. "Will 'e keep you, d'ye think?"
That was the nub-the aspect of the future that Polly dared not dwell upon. Nicholas, Lord Kincaid, would need a wife-and it could not be a Newgate-born, tavern-bred bastard. Society might not frown too heavily on an actor's becoming a baroness, but Polly Wyat had more than just the stage in her background, as she and Nick knew. Women with her dubious origins did not make the wives of noblemen and the mothers of their heirs, however much they were loved. So what would happen when Nick did take a wife? Would a wife look complacently upon an established mistress? Or would she demand he throw up his whore and devote his full attention to the marriage bed? In the shoes of this putative wife, Polly felt that she would most certainly insist. It was a desolate thought. "One day I must ask him," she said with a light laugh, another shrug. She was not an actor for nothing.
"Now, do you not think ye should discover Oliver's views on this?" She returned briskly to the original subject, and Sue, fortunately, found it sufficiently absorbing to put the other matter out of her head.
"But 'ow am I to ask 'im?" Susan frowned, then her face cleared. "Ye'11 write the letter for me, won't ye, Polly? Now y'are so book-learned."
Polly looked a little doubtful. "I can read all right, anything at all now; but I've not a fair hand." She grimaced. It was a subject on which Nick was inclined to be testy, maintaining quite correctly that if she bothered to apply herself to the task, she could manage to produce something that did not look as if it had been written by a rampant rabble of centipedes. "But I'll try."
Getting up from the floor, she went to the press for paper, sharpened a goose quill, and sat down at the table to com-
pose the missive. Sue came to stand behind her, exclaiming in admiration as Polly demonstrated this amazing art of writing. "Who's to read it for him?" Polly asked, shaking the sand caster over the script.
"Oh, there'll be someone." Susan peered closely. "What's that squiggle there?"
' 'Tis just a squiggle," Polly said regretfully. "I told you I have not a fair hand. But there's fewer blots than usual. Shall I read it to you? Then you can say what else you want written."
The task took them well into the night, as the fire died and the candles guttered, but so absorbed were they, they noticed nothing until Polly shivered suddenly. "Put more coals on the fire, Sue. We're like to freeze to death."
The sound of the front door made them both start. " 'Tis Nick," Polly said, relaxing at the familiar tread.
"What the deuce goes on here?" demanded Nick, coming into the parlor. " Tis near two in the morning."
"Oh, we have been writing a letter to Oliver," Polly told him cheerfully, reaching up to kiss him in greeting. "At least, I have been writing."
"Then heaven send Oliver uncommon powers." Nick tossed his cloak onto the settle. "He'll never be able to decipher it, else. You might just as well leave him in ignorance."
"Oh, that is unjust," Polly exclaimed. "I have made it fair. Only see." She held out her handiwork.
Nick scrutinized the communication, returning it with a head shake of mock exasperation. "You spell most vilely, Polly. I swear I should have used the rod to teach you with."
"Oh, I do not care a jot for your opinion," Polly declared. "It says what Sue wished it to say."
"Then it had best go to the carrier without delay." Nick took his long clay pipe from the mantel. "Be off with you to your bed, Susan."
He lit the pipe and stood, shoulders to the hearth, squinting through the fragrant blue smoke as if trying to decide on something.
Polly stood immobile, afraid that a movement would dis-
tract him, and she did not want him distracted because just possibly he was deciding to confide in her. A dreadful thought reared an ugly head, nurtured by her conversation with Sue. Perhaps he had resolved to take a wife, and was even now trying to think how best to break it to her.
Nicholas was thinking of the conversation he had just had with his friends. It was clear to them all that for some cause, Kincaid was regarded with deep disfavor by the king. While he had not been denied admittance to Whitehall since their return from Wilton, he was made to feel like a leper, ostracized by all but his special friends. It was a pattern familiar to all habitues of Whitehall in these days of favoritism and conspiracies, both real and imagined. In a society defined by a complete absence of trust, no one was really safe. A certain coolness would be noticed, an absence of attention if one approached the king; then came the frown, the turned shoulder that denied audience; then came the whispers that fed more whispers; and a man was on his way to outer darkness.
Matters had now reached this last stage for Nicholas, and he was no nearer to understanding the cause than he had been at Christmas. None of his friends could throw light on the matter, either. They knew only that Kincaid was persona non grata, that the king mistrusted him, and it was best not to be seen in his company if one was not to be tarred with the same brush.