"I find it hard to believe that you have not been obliged to wear such a garment before," observed Killigrew. "If you had a governess with strict notions of deportment."
"My aunt died of tight lacing-when she was with child," Polly embellished shamelessly. "So my mother would not countenance it. Besides, my parents were of a Puritan turn of mind and did not encourage vanity."
That disposed of that, reflected Lord Kincaid, with some admiration. However, when they were private, it would perhaps be wise to advise such a consummate inventor of the truth that there were dangers inherent in gilding the lily. For the moment he contented himself with a change of subject.
"Do you still intend presenting Flora's Vagaries today sennight, Thomas?"
"If Polly will be so good as to be accommodating," replied Thomas, with a caustic edge. "I do not ask for much."
"Nay, only that I should be squashed like a preserved quince," Polly retorted.
Killigrew raised his eyes heavenward. Nicholas said ap-peasingly, "Put on the gown, sweetheart. You will then see the point in the corset."
Polly could not resist his coaxing smile or the softness of his tone. Having already realized that she was going to be compelled to yield, it seemed niggardly to continue with her waspishness. She offered him a tiny smile, part apology, part complicity, before turning readily to Lizzie, who was shaking out the folds of an embroidered petticoat. The brocaded satin gown that followed it was richer and more voluminous by far than any she had yet worn, and was encumbered by a long train.
She stood for many minutes surveying her image in the glass, not with vanity but with the air of one looking for information. The first thing she realized was that the corset, while restricting in one way, paradoxically freed her in other ways. She had no need to think of her posture, of whether her decolletage was appropriately displayed, of whether her skirts fell in a graceful sweep. The undergarment ensured all of those things. She stepped over to a low chair, feeling the
swish and weight of the train behind her. Sitting on the chair with any grace was not going to be easy, she decided. She must somehow bring the train to heel if it was not to knock over the chair as she swung round; somehow kick her voluminous skirts forward if she was not to tread on and tear them; more important, somehow ensure that she did not miss the chair altogether as it became lost beneath her gown. And all these maneuvers must take place simultaneously.
"Why do you not hazard it? The chair will not bite you." Thomas broke into her cogitations, and she turned to him with a laugh, her earlier contrariness forgotten.
"I was wondering if it would stay still."
"I will show you how to do it." Killigrew came across to her. "Take your skirt at the back in one hand… like so… Now swish the train to the side as you push your right foot forward, kicking away the skirt. That's it. Now lower yourself onto the seat. There." He smiled in satisfaction. "That was not so very difficult, was it?"
"It is not very restful," Polly observed, sitting at the very edge of the chair. "If I lean forward or backward, those dreadful bones poke into me."
"But then, it is not at all becoming to slouch," Killigrew told her. "Flora may be a high-spirited, sharp-tongued young lady, but she is a lady and would never sit slumped upon her chair, as you are aware."
Nick was frowning. "Are you sure that a sennight will be sufficient time for Polly to learn as much as she must?"
"Indeed it will!" Polly spoke up vigorously. "I will practice all night, if necessary, but I am determined that I shall not stay in this backwater for any length of time."
"I think there is little fear of that," Killigrew said with a wry smile. "Moorfields will not be able to contain you for very long."
It became abundantly clear to Nick during the next seven days that Polly was as good as her word. Killigrew was a hard taskmaster, but there was nothing he expected of her that she did not expect of herself, and more. She had no difficulty learning the part of Flora, pressing Nick into service to read
with her during the evenings, when he could think of many more exciting occupations. And with grim fortitude she gritted her teeth and wore the detested corset constantly until it felt like a second skin.
"I am most deeply apprehensive," Killigrew said with surprising gloom to Nicholas on the sixth day, as they both watched the rehearsal from the pit.
Nick looked startled. "How so?"
"Beside her, the rest of the cast appear as inept and as unappealing as wooden dummies. This audience will not know how to react. I doubt they have been treated to such talent or such beauty before. If they do not recognize the quality, but only that she is different both from what they are accustomed to and from her fellows, they may well hiss her off the stage."
"If there is any danger of that happening, Thomas, I'll not permit her to perform tomorrow." Nick spoke with finality. Polly was not going to be hurt in any way while he had a say in the matter.
Thomas smiled lazily. "How would you prevent her, my friend? I should dearly love to see you try." Rising to his feet, he strolled to the foot of the stage. "Polly, you are playing that fan as if 'tis a wet fish! It is a part of you, to be used as expressively as you use your eyes or your voice. In this instance, you are expressing annoyance. Flick your wrist so that it falls open and then closed. Just so. Do it several times, each time sharper than the last."
How would he prevent her? Nick shook his head ruefully, watching her as she discovered rapidly what Killigrew wanted, beginning, with obvious enjoyment, to add her own little touches. Of course he could not, short of locking her in her chamber. No, the performance must take place on the morrow. There would be some members of the audience who would know what they were seeing. Richard De Winter, Sir Peter, and Major Conway would be there, all as anxious as he to see how their protegee performed. Only then would they be truly able to judge whether their plan could succeed.
Nicholas knew that it could. He also knew that he did not want it to. What he did not know was how to reconcile those two facts with the promise he had made to his friends-a promise he was in honor bound to fulfill.
However, he had little time to dwell on his dilemma over the next twenty-four hours. Polly's moods fluctuated wildly and without warning as the hour of her testing drew nearer. She progressed through snappish irritability to unbridled temper to complete withdrawal. Nick struggled for patience, even as he wondered how such an extraordinary change could have been wrought in his sunny-tempered, equable, mischievous mistress. She was as impervious to his caresses as she was to his annoyance. It was not until, in complete exasperation, his patience finally shredded, he strode to the door of the parlor saying that he would leave her to enjoy her bad temper in solitude that she returned to her senses.
"Nay, do not leave me alone, please, Nick!" She ran to him, seizing his arm. "I beg your pardon for being so horrid, but I am so dreadfully afeard! I am certain I will forget what to say, or trip over my skirt, or sit on the floor instead of the chair! And they will laugh and throw oranges at me!"
"No one will throw oranges at you," he said in perfect truth. In Moorfields they favored tomatoes, but he did not add that. "Besides, you will have friends in the audience. You know that De Winter is promised, and Sir Peter, and the major. And I will be there-" He stopped, frowning, as the street knocker sounded from belowstairs. "Lord of hell! Who could that be at this hour?"
Polly ran to the window, peering down at the dark, rainy street. A lad with a lantern held a horse, which she immediately recognized as Richard's. "Why, Lord De Winter is come."