"Are you telling me you mean to cry off?" he demanded, no sympathy in his voice. "For weeks you have made my life wretched with your constant importuning that I arrange a meeting for you with Master Killigrew. You have lost no opportunity to. demonstrate this talent you insist that you have. Am I now to believe that the whole was a sham?"
Polly had stood up in the middle of this speech. The color
ebbed in her cheeks, but her eyes had focused again, her lips were set. She picked up her cloak. "You will see that it was not a sham!" With that, she brushed past him and marched into the parlor. "I am ready to accompany you, Master Killigrew." Without waiting for either of them, she continued her march out of the parlor and down the stairs.
"Mistress Wyat appears to be of a somewhat tempestuous temperament," observed Killigrew, drawing on his gloves.
"Only when provoked," Nicholas responded with a smile. "In general, she is of a most sunny disposition."
They were obliged to follow her impetuous progress along Drury Lane, since she showed no inclination to slow for either of them, and to catch her up would require a hastening of their own speed that was hardly consonant with the dignified lassitude of the courtier.
Polly waited for them when she reached the steps of the playhouse. The march in the cold air had served to clear her head, enabling her to view Nick's intervention in a new light. "That was done deliberately, was it not?" she asked when he reached her. There was a slight smile in her eyes, and when he nodded she laughed. "I beg leave to tell you, my lord, that your tactics are most underhand."
"But most effective," he countered, grinning.
"Aye." She sobered, saying, "I am most grateful… for that, and all else."
"I am amply recompensed," he said softly. That same intensity caught them again, held them in breathless acknowledgement of its force.
Master Killigrew, who had gone up the steps to unlock the great door, turned to see what was delaying them. He saw the naked emotion flickering between them, an almost palpable current. He drew in his breath sharply, then the force receded, freeing the lovers from its grip. Nick gestured courteously to the steps, and Polly came up ahead of him.
The door swung open, and Polly found herself in the king's playhouse. They had entered from Drury Lane by what she would soon call the stage entrance, and stood now in a dark passageway. "The tiring rooms are there." Kil-
ligrew pointed to the left as he pushed through a door ahead. Polly, following him, stood for the first of what would be countless times upon the stage of the Theatre Royal.
She stood and stared. A glazed cupola covered the pit that stretched below in front of the stage; there were boxes, ranged in galleries, to the side and the back of the theatre. She tried to imagine those seats filled. Why, there must be seating for at least four hundred souls. How lonely and exposed one would feel on this tiny, bare wooden platform. She shivered as cold despair threatened again.
Killigrew had gone to one side of the stage, where he picked up a sheaf of papers and began rifling through them. "This scene, I think."
"What play have you in mind?" Nick, with considerable interest, came to peer over Tom's shoulder. "Oh, Flora's Vagaries." He chuckled. "I could not have chosen better myself."
"Why do you not read Alberto?" Killigrew offered the suggestion casually, as if he had not drawn the conclusions that he had about Lord Kincaid and Mistress Polly Wyat. "You will perhaps find it less uncomfortable, Mistress Wyat, if Kincaid plays opposite you."
"I am no actor," Nick demurred.
"You have no need to be. Just read the lines. We will leave the acting to the lady." Killigrew, smiling, crossed the stage to where Polly still stood, taking in her surroundings, seemingly unaware of this exchange. "I will tell you a little about Flora," he said, and she shook herself free of her reverie. "She is a most sprightly young lady, not one to be dominated by circumstances or individuals, and most particularly not by men." He watched her as he drew the word picture of one of the stage's most engaging and daring heroines. "She is the ward of a foolish boor, a lout, who would keep both her and his daughter incarcerated to prevent their falling under the eye of love or lust."
Polly smiled, giving him a look of complete comprehension. Killigrew nodded and continued. "In this early scene, Flora's suitor, Alberto, commits the grave error of telling a
story about the lady that is not entirely to her credit. Flora overhears and treats her would-be lover to a tongue-lashing of some considerable eloquence." He handed her the pages. "Read it through for yourself first."
"May I ask how Alberto reacts to this upbraiding?" Polly nicked through the pages, praying that the words would be easily made out.
"He decides that this is a lady worthy of serious respect." It was Nicholas who answered her. "It is for you to convince the audience that a railing female is not simply a scold in need of bridling, but one who is entitled to object to mockery, and to speak her mind." He took her elbow. "Come, let us go into a corner and read it through together. I have never ventured to try myself in such a matter, and have need of a few moments reflection."
Polly felt such a surge of gratitude that threatened to overcome her already frail equilibrium. But she said only, "By all means, sir. I would welcome the opportunity to familiarize myself with the text."
"I will sit in the pit." Killigrew stepped off the stage into the auditorium, lit by the gray afternoon light filtering through the cupola. "Begin whenever you are both ready."
"Read it for yourself first," Nick instructed in an undertone. "If there is a word you cannot make out, just point to it."
Polly concentrated with frowning intensity on the scrawled pages, her anxiety that she might stumble over the text superseding the fear that she would be unable to act the part. But as she read, she could hear in her head how the lines should sound, could picture Flora-pretty, witty Flora with a sharp tongue and a firm belief that she was second to none. She looked up at Nick with a grin. "I find myself in some sympathy with this lady."
He nodded. "If you are ready, then, let us engage in this duel for Master Killigrew's benefit."
Thomas Killigrew sat forward on the bench as the two came to the front of the stage. One hand rested lightly on the lacquered knob of his cane, firmly planted upon the
floor; his other lay upon the hilt of his sword. He was quite motionless. After three lines he knew he had been offered a female actor who would make the most of the spirited love game that so entranced his audiences. With every vivacious toss of her head, every ringing accusation directed at the hapless Alberto, every provocative movement, she spun a web of excitement and titillation that could not fail to entertain even the most abysmally ill-behaved audiences-and there were plenty of those. Add to that the peerless beauty of face and form, contemplate her in the deliriously provocative breeches parts, and Mistress Polly Wyat was destined for greatness.
"I thank you both," he said at the end of the scene. "I do not think that Nicholas will ever make an actor, I fear." He sauntered across to the stage. "Mistress Wyat, on the other hand…" Pausing, he smiled up at her. She returned the smile with a somewhat vague and distracted air. It was an air with which he was familiar, and of which he approved. It denoted complete involvement in the part she had just been playing. "Do you wish to join the king's company, mistress?"