Polly, who had the misfortune to hiccup with laughter in the midst of some exaggeratedly dignified speech of the Lord of Misrule, was required for her insolence to walk upon her hands for the length of the state room. Fortunately, her costume for that evening permitted her to perform the gymnastic feat without loss of modesty. She was dressed as a grimy street urchin, in tattered breeches and torn shirt, soot smudges on her cheeks, her hair hidden beneath a ragged cap. Not a costume that detracted from her beauty in the least, Kincaid reflected, watching her progress between the lines of cheering revelers. The cap fell off, and her hair tumbled loose over her face, but she completed the walk nevertheless, flipping her legs over her head at the end to land neatly on her feet, brushing her hair away from her face,
flushed with the upside-down exertion, as unselfconscious as if she had performed for them upon the stage at Drury Lane.
"How did you know she could accomplish such an exercise?" Nick asked Richard, standing beside him.
"An accurate surmise," said the other, laughing. He glanced at his companion, who was looking in soft amusement at the antics of his mistress. "What d'ye intend, Nick? Now that the business with Buckingham is over."
"About Polly?" Nick's smile broadened. "There's no hurry, Richard. She is happy with matters as they are. I'll not lay the burdens of wife and motherhood upon her just yet. I'd have her enjoy some playtime first. She's had little enough in her life… not even a birthday present, Richard-" He broke off abruptly as the subject under discussion came prancing over to them.
"Am I granted absolution, my Lord of Misrule?" Polly bowed before Richard, cap in hand.
"You have done your penance," he said solemnly, tapping her shoulder lightly with his black rod of office. "But have a care, lest you offend again."
The musicians, who had played a march tune during Polly's gymnastics, struck up a galliard. Polly, despite her incongruous costume, was whisked away into the stately line. Taking advantage of this peaceful interlude in the generally riotous proceedings, the two men turned their backs on the room.
All softness and amusement had gone from Kincaid's expression now. "D'ye mark it, Richard?" he said quietly. "There is a most noticeable coolness. It has been building these last weeks, and now he barely accords me a nod in return for a bow."
"Aye," Richard replied in the same low voice. "I mark it well. Can you think of a reason for it?"
"I have racked my brains, man, but can come up with nothing. I wondered if, perhaps, 'twas Polly. His Majesty would have her in his bed and chooses this manner to tell me to withdraw. But that is not his way. All his mistresses have husbands or keepers; 'tis useful, is it not, to have someone
available to acknowledge as his own any royal bastards?" This last was said with a cynical twist of his lips, and received a simple nod of agreement from his friend.
"Our sovereign is a man of moods," Richard said. "Mayhap this will pass as quickly as it came."
"It's to be hoped so," Nick said somberly. "Else I fear to receive my conge without ceremony. Say nothing of this to Polly. I'd not spoil her present pleasure for the world."
"No indeed," Richard agreed, turning back to the room. " 'Twould be the act of a rogue to do so. Such unaffected delight is a gift to all."
Polly's own gifts this Christmas numbered twelve as her true love followed the old carol. Each morning she found upon her pillow some new delight. There was a saddle of tooled Spanish leather, then boots to match; a little locket of mother-of-pearl; inlaid combs and lace ruffles; and one morning, a tortoiseshell kitten with a blue satin ribbon around its neck.
"She is called Annie," Nick said, propping himself on one elbow beside her, enjoying every nuance of expression on the mobile face. "With care, she should not become so dirty that she will have to be thrown away."
"Oh, I love you!" Polly declared, hugging him fiercely.
"And I you." He stroked the rich honeyed mass tumbling over his chest, looking beyond her head into the middle distance. From somewhere the storm clouds were gathering, and for the life of him, he could not grasp a thread of explanation.
"What is it?" Polly felt his sudden tension in the stroking hand on her head, in the broad chest against her cheek. She sat up.
Nick smiled and put aside his foreboding; there was nothing he could do until he knew what he was facing. "What could possibly be the matter? Let us go riding."
By the end of January, Polly was once more ensconced with the Bensons in Drury Lane, the court was back at Whitehall,
Parliament at Westminster, and the decimated capital began to pull itself back together. There were still cases of the plague, but the recovery rate was now much higher than that of the fatalities, and the populace ceased to fear; and ceased to observe even the most minimal precautions. As a result, the scourge retained the sting in its tail.
The Theatre Royal opened again. Thomas Killigrew assembled his scattered company, setting to with a will to entrance the play going public.
Polly was once more absorbed in the magic of the theatre. The Duke of Buckingham became as he had once been, just a member of the audience and a courtier she would avoid when at Whitehall. So busy and involved was she that she had little time for Susan's gloominess, and quite failed to notice Nick's increasing distraction. Until both were brought forcibly to her notice.
"Just what is the matter with Susan?" Nick demanded with unusual irritability as the parlor door banged on the departure of a red-eyed Sue. "She has had a permanent cold in the head since we returned from Wilton."
"Oh, I meant to talk to you about that!" Guiltily, Polly clapped her hand to her mouth. "It is just that Thomas is being so pernickety, and Edward wants to play a scene differently, and Thomas says he can go and play for Sir William Davenant in that case, and-"
"Yes, I do not need a recitation of all the trials and tribulations at the playhouse," Nick interrupted, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "What is amiss with Susan?"
Polly, swallowing an indignant retort at this impatient response, looked at Nick carefully. His face was drawn and haggard, the emerald eyes somehow dulled, sunken in the hollows of his face. It occurred to her, with a wash of remorse, that she had been so full of her own activities in the last two weeks that she had asked him nothing about his own concerns. He was frequently in conference with Richard, and sometimes she would come into the room and have the unmistakable impression that they had abruptly switched the subject on her arrival. But she had simply dismissed the
vague puzzle, assuming they would share the confidence when they chose.
"Are you ailing, love?" she asked now, coming over to him, stroking his face with a fingertip. A note of fear tinged her voice as she thought of the plague, but Nick shook his head.
"I am quite well; just fatigued. What is it with Susan?"
She bit her lip, not willing to be so easily dismissed. But perhaps Nick did not want to be pressed, and to do so would simply increase his weariness. She turned to the sideboard, pouring him a glass of wine, wishing that she had thought to mix him a bowl of the punch which she knew well he enjoyed on these cold, inhospitable nights.
"Come feel the fire," she said softly, taking his hand, encouraging him to the hearth warmth. She pushed him into an elbow chair, then sat at his feet, resting her head against his knees. "Sue is sore afflicted, my lord."
The amusement in her voice told him that he need not react to this as to tragedy. He ran his hands through the bright locks pouring like molten honey over his knees. "Enlighten me, pray."
"Why, 'tis Cupid's dart," Polly said solemnly. "Did you not mark Oliver at Wilton?"