It was not until after Christmas, however, that the metropolis was considered sufficiently plague-free for the court's return. Polly did what she could to overcome her fear of Buckingham, to regain her pleasure in the sojourn in Wiltshire. Her efforts were assisted by the duke, who seemed to lose interest in her altogether, and eventually she was lulled into a sense of security, able to believe that he had enjoyed tormenting her in revenge for her rejection of his advances, but had now found other interests.
He had, indeed, found other, related interests, and the quiet work of discrediting Nicholas, Lord Kincaid, went on behind the scenes, and in the privacy of the king's bed.
The twelve days of Christmas at the court of King Charles II surpassed Polly's wildest dreams of that pleasure-oriented celebration.
Christmas at the Dog tavern had, in latter years, been celebrated with less than Puritan severity, certainly, but Polly had been kept far too hard at work to glean much amusement from the mummers and the musicians; the mistletoe hung upon the rafters had merely served to add to her burdens. There had been Christmas fare, and she had eaten her fill of goose and mince pies, but nothing in that experience had led her to expect the magnificence of this Christmas.
Day after day, the junketings continued to the music of viol and drum; tables groaned beneath the boar's head, the
pheasants, the sturgeons and carps, the venison pasties, cheesecakes and sugar plums, nuts and fruit. Faces remained flushed with the canary and sack, the punch and best October ale that flowed from earliest morning until the last reveler had sought his sodden slumber. And each night, the festivities were directed by the man who meant Christmas-the Lord of Misrule.
Polly had thought it the most famous jest that Richard De Winter, elegant, aloof Richard, should have been chosen for this role, but she realized rapidly how clever a move it had been. It was the Lord's task to keep the wildness from becoming out of hand, and De Winter enforced his discipline by fixing sconces, or penalties, of wickedly witty appropriateness, so that the miscreant, in paying his forfeit, would provide lavish entertainment for the assembled company. A sullen look, an unkind remark, the bringing of dissension, were punished instantly, as was horseplay that crossed the boundary of play. To be accused as a spoilsport of either kind meant the ordeal of firecrackers and squibs, and while the company might split its sides laughing at the antics of the offender, leaping and dancing as the fiery things tied to his heels and hems exploded, the delinquent was unlikely to repeat his offense.
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.