Dancing the Maypole (10 page)

“I hate
beautiful men! Why would I want to dance with them?”

“Not all
beautiful men are big stupid cows Isabel.” It didn’t matter what
her brother thought. He wasn’t the one with a broken heart. “If
you’d married a sane short man when you had the chance I wouldn’t
have to listen to this stupid conversation.”

Monsieur de
Bourbon ignored his son,“ Bon, danse avec les hommes laid…it does
not matter what the men look like if they make you eat. We go to
Bath. You will be content.”

Isabel’s
shoulders slumped, “I’d rather visit Madame Guillotine. If we go to
Bath, I’ll have to call on cousin Agnes. She’s married to Peter
Smirke’s brother. I hate happy Smirkes.”

Her father
pursed his lips in thought. “We will send une lettre and tell to
her you are malade…if you have a disease that is catching, she will
not want to see you. C’est parfait.”

“I can’t tell
Agnes I have the plague and then dance past her at a ball.”

“You are
Français…if you danse past Agnes you will say you took the water,
et voila, le remède miracle. C’est parfait.”

“No-one can lie
to Agnes Papa. You know she can smell the truth.”

“Bah! You go to
Bath. You will eat and be content. I will write Agnes une lettre
and tell to her I will not let you call on her because I have taken
a dislike to Smirkes. C’est parfait, eh? Ton petite Papa, he is
intelligent non?”

“Oh Papa…je
t’adore!”

“Je t’aime
aussi…we leave dans la matin.” Her father kissed her on the
forehead and then removed her plate of mashed up food. He carefully
spooned a small amount of food onto a clean plate and put a clean
fork in her hand. “You will manger pour moi. Et toi…” Monsieur de
Bourbon knocked on the table until his son glanced up from his food
with ill-disguised irritation. “You Monsieur, will come et danse
with les femmes qui sont nubile, pas les petite adultères!”

Isabel’s
brother visibly bristled, “When I find the woman of my dreams I’ll
dance with her. Meanwhile, if I wish to dance with my mistress I
will.”

Monsieur de
Bourbon thumped the table with his fist,“ Tu besoin une légitime
épouse et un enfant mâle!”

“When I find a
wife I’ll happily endeavour to produce a son, but until then I’d be
much obliged if you’d leave my children in the future and let me
eat in peace.”

“Bah!” Her
father threw up his arms in disgust. “You kiss les petite
adultères, and you think you have no need for a wife.”

“I look
everywhere I go. I haven’t found her.”

“You will not
find her. You will look at her and say she is too big.” Isabel’s
brother slammed down his knife and fork and left the table with a
grim expression.

Isabel watched
her father return to his seat and accept her mother’s caress. “Ma
Coeur, you know the boy is sensitive.”

Her father’s
eyes bulged in irritation. “Il est trop sensible! Little-man needs
a big woman to make him feel like a big man.”

“Louis needs a
woman who can see he has a big heart. He’ll find her…”

Isabel ignored
the whispered conversation about her brother’s love life as she
slowly chewed a mouthful of food. Bath usually meant staying with
her cousin Agnes. Without Smirkes, Bath might prove the dullest
town in England. Isabel chewed another mouthful with force. If she
ordered new gowns she could flaunt her charms and her dowry. She’d
find a husband and with luck, the insufferable Lord Adderbury would
read about her happiness in The Gentleman’s Magazine before the end
of the year. He’d rot in his charming red stone village as the ton
laughed him into a solitary dotage. Black curly hair touched with
grey would slowly turn white as the proud shoulders slumped over a
lonely dining table. The mental image brought tears to her
eyes.

The food on her
plate blurred. Isabel saw a forest of candelabra flickering in the
air above a crowded ballroom that stank of unwashed bodies and rose
water. The moist air stuck in her throat as she sat against the
wall watching laughing dancers over the top of her fan. The ivory
dance card hanging from her wrist was unmarked. Men eyed her with
curiosity as if she were an odd decoration. Her eyes watered as she
heard the hated word, maypole, followed by guffaws of laughter.
Hiding behind her lifted fan, with her nose near smelling salts
hidden in her ring, the ball promised to be another evening spent
watching other people enjoy life.

“Isabel?”
Obediently lowering her fan, Isabel found her eyes level with a
large pair of masculine thighs encased in black silk. Her mother’s
next few words were unintelligible noise. Her gaze travelled up
over a white silk vest embroidered with baroque black birds, up
past a white linen cravat. She stared for several seconds at his
cravat bracing herself for disappointment; the man couldn’t be tall
and handsome. She nearly choked on her own breath as black eyes
smiled down at her from a beautiful face high above. She returned
his smile, barely aware that her mother was speaking. “…my youngest
daughter Isabel Désirée de Bourbon. Isabel, Lord Adderbury wishes
to make your acquaintance.” Standing up, Isabel nervously covered
her face with her fan, revealing only her eyes. Lord Adderbury
broke the English social ice with the habitual mention of the
weather and then admired the subject of her fan in French. She must
have mumbled some sort of reply, because he continued asking
questions. Staring up into smiling black eyes she felt petite and
beautiful.

Then, he said
the magic words, “May I have the next dance Mademoiselle?” Her
garbled acceptance must have made sense; he scribbled his name on
the ivory card dangling from her wrist with the attached silver
pencil. Bowing, he turned and walked away. Her mother whispered
something in her ear, but Isabel could only hear her heart dancing
in her chest as Lord Adderbury walked away. He was so tall his head
was a giant black spider crawling over the crowd. She’d never liked
spiders, but if Lord Adderbury spun a web… Her next thought left
her needing her smelling salts.

The beautiful
man reappeared at the correct time. Isabel’s hands trembled as she
stood and tipped back her head to return his smile. Led onto the
dance floor, she forgot she was a maypole. Answering his softly
stammered questions, seeing his eyes smile with amusement made her
float through the steps. As the haunting music trailed into
silence, he smiled down at her with a look that caused rapture. She
started planning what she’d wear when he called on her the next
day. He’d bring her the obligatory flowers. He’d sit and smile at
her, his black eyes silently admiring her. After the prescribed
number of polite social visits, he’d find a way of meeting her
alone so he could kiss her. They’d marry in June and have thirteen
children…

Her heart
chilled as warm black eyes turned to marble. Holding out his arm to
lead her from the dance floor he seemed to choke on his words,
“Would you c-c-care to meet my wife?” A pulsing pain radiated from
her heart into her limbs. Engulfed in bright flashing lights, she
fumbled the lid of her ring to expose her smelling salts. “Are you
ill? Let me help you.” He’d put one hand on her back and took hold
of her arm branding her with his warm palms. She felt a thousand
eyes staring as he helped her back to her chair. He politely
remained standing over her as she pressed her vinaigrette to her
nose. “Are you thirsty? May I fetch something…”

“My mother.
Tell her I need to return home. The heat of the dance floor…I feel
faint.” One glance up at unhappy black eyes and then she lowered
her head, pressing her nose against her ring.

“At once.”
Turning away, he forgot to add the usual platitudes of gratitude
for the honour of a dance.

The memory
over, Isabel refocused on her food. True love had turned out to be
a farcical tragedy with one of those pathetic non-endings. Peter
Smirke made no sense, but did any man make sense? Glancing at her
parents she watched her mother smile in amusement as her father
heatedly declared the French playwright, Molière superior to
Shakespeare. Was a warm apple tart dripping with cream superior to
a leg of lamb slathered with mint sauce? It was ridiculous to
compare the two. She hoped her mother would tell her father he was
an idiot, but the older woman calmly stated she enjoyed both men’s
work and changed the subject to Bath.

Why had Peter
Smirke insisted he didn’t like her and then less than ten minutes
later kiss her like a besotted lover who’d traversed all nine
levels of hell for the pleasure? Tired of pretending to eat, she
abandoned her knife and fork on her plate. When she next met Peter
Smirke, he’d be distantly polite, but it was unlikely their paths
would cross. He’d marry another petite blonde and retire from
society. Isabel scowled at the mantle clock as it cheerfully chimed
the end to another awful hour. If she could rewrite the week, Peter
Smirke would be engaged to a maypole. Willing herself not to cry,
Isabel pressed her vinaigrette to her nose and abruptly left the
table for her chamber where she could scribble a more romantic
ending for her story.

Peter’s gloomy
mood settled tightly around his throat as he entered the breakfast
room. Instead of using a bright cheerful colour, Agnes had covered
the upper half of the walls with a dark ivy silk. The fabric
shimmered in the sunlight, but the waist high bookshelves that
circled the lower half of the room, crammed with thick
leather-bound tomes, made it clear books were more often devoured
than food at the round mahogany table. Breakfast wasn’t meant to be
consumed in the dark. A few mirrors would have brightened the
space, but instead the couple had decided to hang several paintings
of chickens; the largest, a family group pecking in dirt next to an
ivy wall. Peter didn’t enjoy being reminded he would devour eggs
that might have grown into cute fluffy chicks, but he didn’t enjoy
eating on his own either.

Pulling his
chair up to the table, Peter joined the morning fray as all eight
Smirkes competed for the butter and latest dish of coddled eggs.
His stomach full, he stared unseeing at his half-emptied cup of
chocolate. After two weeks in Bath he’d acquired several new suits,
but had no desire to wear them. His plan for the day was to return
to his chamber, lock the door, and stare at Isabel’s fan.

George touched
Peter’s arm causing the mental image of Isabel to vanish. “Would
you please pass the chocolate pot?”

“What?”

“Why are
snapping at me? I only asked for the chocolate.”

“I’m not
snapping!”

“You’ve been
snapping for the last week and a half,” said George. “You need to
come out with us and get some air. If you want a wife, you have to
leave your room. Sane women don’t crawl in through first floor
windows to introduce themselves. Stop staring at that lady’s fan
and come stare at some ladies.”

James Smirke
looked up from his eggs, “What fan?”

“Papa keeps a
lady’s fan in his pocket,” said Cecil.

“I d-do not
have a fan.” Peter blushed as five pairs of black eyes stared in
disbelief. “Leave me alone!”

Robert raised a
black eyebrow. “The last time I told a lie I had to help muck out
the stables.”

Cosmo sneered
at his younger brother. “You mean the last time you were
caught.”

Peter was
starting to relax when Cecil, sitting to his right, pulled the fan
from Peter’s dressing gown pocket and spread the leaves. “Look what
I found; a lady’s fan!”

“Give it back!”
Peter lunged for his prize possession, but the young man twisted
out of reach and jumped up out of his seat.

“What does Papa
say? ‘Lying is a…”

“Sin!” chorused
all five brothers.

Cecil smiled at
his father as he slowly unfurled the fan. “Look!” He held up the
painted image. “Someone is being guillotined, and it looks singed.
Papa, did you burn your hand grabbing this out of a fire?” Cecil’s
eyes widened with excitement, “This is her fan isn’t it?” Peter
glared at his eldest offspring, but didn’t trust himself to speak.
“This is proof. Papa called on his dream mistress after apologising
to Mademoiselle de Bourbon.”

Agnes held out
her hand. “Give it to me, and sit down before I publish an
advertisement that a twit named Cecil Smirke is in search of a wife
to teach him manners.” She snapped open the fan. “It’s Robespierre
being beheaded; hardly a controversial subject for a royalist.
James, return this to your brother before he has heart failure and
we have to bury him in his new lilac suit.”

Peter snatched
back the fan and shoved it up the sleeve of his old-fashioned black
powdering gown. “Cecil, you may be legally independent, but that
does not mean you may rifle my p-pockets or correct me. If you need
to father someone, find a wife, and spawn your own troubles.”

“Does this
mystery woman know you have her fan?”

“Yes,” said
Peter. “Let’s talk about a something else.”

“Did she give
you the fan?”

“No.”

Cecil stared in
shock. “You took the lady’s fan without her permission?”

“She hates me!”
Peter cracked his elbows on the table in his haste to cover his
face with a hand. “She tried to burn it because it reminds her of
me. Will that satisfy your c-cursed curiosity for five minutes?”
The table was silent except for the sound of a single piece of
paper being unfolded.

Robert leaned
over and whispered loudly into Charles’ ear, “Papa doesn’t have
very good luck with the ladies…ouch! Papa, George just kicked me
for no reason.” Peter was far away in a mental monastery
suffocating in silence as he longed to wrap his arms around the
tall nun who delivered messages from a nearby convent. Even if they
met again, he’d be nothing to her. She’d be polite and then walk
away without ever knowing…