Polly and the Prince by Carola Dunn Read Free Book Online Page A

watching with amused affection not unmingled with dismay. Apparently two parlours and two maids were giving rise to pretensions of gentility. Mrs. Howard had never before claimed to be anything more than a respectable woman, and here she was bestowing the status of “young lady” on her daughter.
    Of course it was perfectly proper, expected even, for young ladies to sketch and to paint in watercolours. Producing and selling oil paintings was another matter altogether. Polly had no aspirations to join the ranks of the gentry and she could only hope their new neighbours would not be offended by her mother’s putting on airs above her station.
    To call her young was equally inaccurate. Was not Mama herself forever telling her that it was time to start wearing a spinster’s cap? Not that she ever remembered.
    Dismissing the thought, she returned to her work. She set up her easel and propped on it the canvas on which she had sketched Kolya in charcoal, then spread her drawings of him on the table.
    He laughed up at her from the paper, the slanted eyes that had first attracted her interest now less important than their expression. Was he a gentleman after all? For a wistful moment Polly wished she really were a lady. The gulf between the gentry and the middle classes seemed as wide as that between the middle class and the labourer she had thought him to be.
    It was growing too dark to paint. She went into the house to change for dinner.

* * * *
    The next morning, dressed in an old gown, she went out to her studio right after breakfast and put on her bedaubed smock. She was determined to work on Kolya’s portrait, in the unacknowledged hope that completing it would exorcise his haunting image from her mind.
    She knew already that the tone of the painting was to be a warm golden brown. That was how she saw him. She closed her eyes and envisioned her first sight of him, waiting at the bottom of the Pantiles steps: crisp, light brown curls, weather-bronzed face, hazel eyes, threadbare brown jacket. Patient and humble he had appeared, until she fell into his arms and saw the amusement in his face.
    And then the spilt turpentine, the greedy terrier, his timely reminder that she had lost her loaf of bread. Even then he had seemed to understand and excuse her absentmindedness.
    If she had supposed for a moment that he was a gentleman, she would never have been so forward as to ask him to sit for her. But she had not known. She had sent him to buy bread, had walked home with him carrying her basket. Daydreaming, Polly wandered through her all too brief acquaintance with Kolya until she came to the last moment.
    She had met him at the front door of the new house. Her mother had called her, and Ned was waiting to take him to Five Oaks.
    “Good-bye,” she had said hurriedly. “And good luck.” It was inadequate but no other words came to mind.
    “Do svidaniya, Miss Howard.” His tone had been light and teasing, inconsequential. He had smiled down at her, then bowed and kissed her hand.
    Polly sighed. She had long since decided that the kiss was a meaningless gesture, a mere Continental habit. Opening her eyes, she set about mixing the colours for the imprimatura.
    “Polly!” On the gravel path, Nick sounded like a herd of elephants.  The door flung open. “Polly, guess what! Kolya is here.”
    She stared at him.
    “Kolya, the Russian,” he said with exaggerated patience. “You remember him? Tall, thin, had the most amazing adventures?”
    “Of course I remember him, you silly boy. He’s here?”
    Nick groaned. “Did I not just say so? In the drawing room with Mother. She says you’re to come quick.”
    “Yes, of course, at once,” she said in a daze. She set down her palette and brush on the table and hurried out.
    Following her, Nick continued, “Ned went out, and Mother needs your help to entertain the Danvilles. You should see Lord John’s curricle—slap up to the echo!—and a pair of spanking greys. D’you