Venus

Polly looked uneasily at Richard, but he was his customary impassive self, turning the conversation to trivialities as Susan and the goodwife put the venison pasty upon the table.

"What do you mean, the matter rests with you?" Polly asked when the door had closed on the two women. "It is finished, love. I am quite whole, and you are safe. Lady Castlemaine may whisper, but I shall not mind that now that

you know. I was only afeard this morning because I wished to keep it from you."

"To spare my feelings, I daresay," Nick said with heavy irony. "And I am to be grateful for such consideration, I suppose." He sliced the pasty, placing a piece on Polly's platter. "Eat your di

"I ask your pardon," Polly whispered, staring down at her platter, where the food blurred in a haze of tears. "I could not think of anything else to do."

"You are harsh, Nick," Richard remonstrated quietly.

"Harsh!" Nick exploded. "I am to understand with a grateful smile that a woman living under my protection, having undergone an ordeal of God alone knows what degrading torment to buy my freedom, feels it in her province to keep such information from me! What ma

There was an uncomfortable silence, while Polly's tears continued to plash upon her uneaten di

"Then I could wish you had heeded him." His tone softened. "Eat your di

"You would demand satisfaction?" De Winter asked, for once startled out of his calm assurance.

Polly's knowledge of court rules and etiquette had still occasional gaps, but there were some things she did know. "You ca

"By God, I told you what I would do if you ever spoke like that again!'-' His fury now blazing, open on his face, he strode round the table.

Polly, choosing the better part of valor, fled for the door.

"Why will you not understand?" she cried, no longer tearful, simply angry and frustrated at his blindness. "In this case, it is merely the truth-an insignificant truth. If I do not mind it, why should you?"

Wrenching open the door, she jumped through it. The door banged shut in Nick's face. With a wrathful oath, he reached for the latch.

"Nay, Nick, stay!" Richard spoke, sharply imperative. "Have you not lashed her sufficiently?"

Nicholas turned slowly. "I did not mean to do so."

"But you did, nevertheless. She has endured enough; and if she wished to spare you pain, then you should honor her for it."

"Richard!" Nick's face was contorted with anguish. "Do you think I do not know what she has suffered? I ca

"Talk sense, man! Polly is quite right. Villiers would laugh in your face, and the story would keep the court in mirth for months to come. You would be a laughingstock, and so would she. She is your mistress, Nick. You hold no umbrella of honor over her. Would you commit murder? For 'tis your only option."

Nicholas stood very still, feeling the warmth of a ray of sun on the back of his head. The chamber was bright with winter sun and the fire's glow; the air was redolent with the good smells of Goodwife Benson's cooking; the di

Polly had reached the theatre without fully realizing that that was her destination. But once there, she knew that it was the only place where she would be able to compose herself for the task ahead. Whatever had happened, whatever lunacy Nick might yet decide upon, she had to go onstage. Too many people would be depending upon her this afternoon- John Dryden, Thomas, her fellow actors. And even more, herself. She had relied on pride and determination to carry her through the last se

She went into the tiring room. Her costumes were laid out: the gown and petticoats for Melissa in the first act, then the breeches, wig, and waistcoat when Melissa became Florimell. Melissa/Florimell was a character she enjoyed, a triumphant character, who carried the duel of wit and words to victory, for all that she suffered a degree of tousling at Celadon's hands in the unmasking. Amazingly, Polly chuckled to herself. The role had been created for her, and she would do justice to the creation.

Thomas Killigrew found his leading female actor early at her dressing. She responded cheerfully to his greeting, and he was relieved to see that the light in her eyes contained none of the fevered piquancy of the last days. Thanking God and the fates for Kincaid's safe and timely return, he turned his attention to the pressing matter of a recalcitrant box hedge that was disinclined to remain upright on the stage.

Nicholas and Richard arrived halfway through the performance. Polly was not aware of their arrival, any more than she had been aware of their absence. The audience was, as always, a featureless mass below her. She was attuned to their reactions, but as a whole, not as individuals, and she knew that they were enjoying every luscious, wickedly provocative second of Master Dryden's Secret Love.

Nicholas experienced again the emotions of that first per-

formance of Flora's Vagaries, at Moorfields. He knew he had to come to terms with the knowledge that that ravishing, magical creature created her own world into which she invited every lusting, eager member of the audience. But frequently, as now, he failed lamentably. She belonged to everyone, by her own choice, understanding the hungers and needs, gratifying them with grace and pleasure. And he must learn to live in peace and harmony with such creative generosity. There was no alternative, and there never had been.

He glanced sideways at De Winter. Richard smiled in complete comprehension. "Faith, but you'll be the most unpopular man in London, Nick, if you take her away from this."

"Think you I could?" Nick asked, with a wry grimace.

"Not and keep her happy," Richard agreed. "By God, listen to her purr. I fear poor Celadon is about to lose this encounter."

"And count the world well lost for love," said his companion softly.

The play reached its conclusion: Florimell, after much delicious tousling and mousling, was revealed as Melissa; the lovers were reconciled; and the audience came to their feet, those who were close enough crowding upon the stage, expressing their pleasure as vigorously as they would have done their displeasure. Polly emerged, laughing and breathless from the throng, tumbled and disheveled in her breeches and boots, her ruff torn by Celadon's unmasking, peruke lost in the fray.