Dancing the Maypole (12 page)

“If you were
solid, I’d knock your teeth down your throat.”

“That’s not a
very charitable thought, especially since I’m six inches shorter
than you, the same height as Isabel Désirée. You’re feeling
disheartened. You fear my third piece of gossip is untrue. You’ll
have to ask her…if she marries you.”

“You’re a
double headed swine!”

“Do you want
Isabel Désirée thinking of you, imagining your infant in her
arms?”

“Yes.”

“Then, you need
to make some gossip.”

After two weeks
confined to the company of her dressmaker, Isabel was free of pins,
fabric swatches, and long inane discussions on trim for each gown.
She’d spent hours discussing how many flounces on a skirt would
look fashionable without making her appear taller. Dressed in a
pink morning gown with three flounces and a long skirted pink and
brown striped pelisse, she was fashionably attired to receive
gabbing visitors. Pouring Lady Wessex a second cup, Isabel sat back
and patiently waited for news of Peter Smirke. She’d seen him
several times in the distance; it was difficult not to notice a
giant man dressed in lavender. The first time she’d dropped her
packages in surprise. The man was up to something and her
gossip-loving caller would know the details. “Seven lumps of
sugar?”

“Yes, thank
you.” Lady Wessex accepted the cup from the scowling footman.
“Where did your mother find your footmen?”

“France,” said
Isabel. “French servants help Papa feel at home.”

“The best
servants come from Ireland. If you threaten to send them back they
behave ever so well. Your footman isn’t bad looking. If he were
taller, I’d be tempted to make him an irresistible offer.” The
footman briefly sneered at Lady Wessex. “Servants are the bane of
life. As soon as you train one up they disappear into another
household for threepence more a week, though there’s always the odd
exception. I’ve tried several times to hire Agnes Smirke’s
Frederick; what a beautiful man. Those lips…it’s just as well
he’s eclipsed by his master or there’d be talk.” Isabel sat up
abruptly nearly spilling tea on her new dress. After ten minutes,
the woman had finally mentioned a Smirke. “I offered to increase
his yearly wage by five pounds. Five whole pounds! And he declined!
I can only think he must be in love with one of the maids. Why else
would he turn down such an offer? Your cousin, Mrs Smirke, is a
good woman, but her husband’s family belongs in Bedlam. Has your
cousin introduced you to her brother, John? If the man was
sprinkled with holy water, he’d catch fire. I pity his wife…”

“I haven’t
met…”

“Mrs John
Smirke is one of those creatures who speak and act without
thinking. I was at the Opera the night she nearly fell out of their
box. One moment she was waving her handkerchief at some poor soul
and the next she’d leaned too far. My Lord wagered a gold guinea
she’d land in the pit, but Smirke leapt like a…beast that leaps and
grabs its prey. He grabbed her legs, and thankfully her skirts, or
every Lord in London would have seen her dangle like an over ripe
peach. The poor woman was forced to finish the performance sitting
on Smirke’s knee. I’d rather fall on my head than sit with Smirke’s
arm around my waist. There must be something wrong with Smirke
blood. Did you hear about Lord Adderbury’s advertisement for a
wife?”

“Well…”
Isabel’s attempt to sound nonchalant went unheeded.

“My dear
friend, Lady Vole, invited Adderbury to her house party at Delilah
Fraser’s suggestion. Delilah, a Captain’s widow, has been keen on
him for years, but he’s such an infamous prude she had to wait till
her husband died, in his fourteenth campaign, before she could
begin her campaign d’amour. Typically, Adderbury’s eyes were drawn
to younger flesh. That sickly sweet Miss Helene Carteret was
reeling him in until the morning paper provided numerous reasons to
throw the fish back into the sea. An aristocrat who doesn’t believe
in gambling? Honestly! One may as well claim the aristocracy have
no raison d’être. I’d die without an evening turn of Evens and
Odds, and Adderbury can’t possibly be a very good lover, if he’s
only ever bed his wife. The poor woman. Imagine being chained to a
lusty prude who refused to keep a mistress. It’s unthinkable, but
you should have seen Adderbury’s face after reading that
advertisement. I’ve never been so terrified; the man threatened to
kill all his sons! He probably will as soon as he can convince some
silly young virgin to share his bed, though I doubt he’ll find one
now.”

Isabel’s teacup
rattled as a feeling of dread clenched her stomach. “It sounds
unlikely…”

Lady Wessex
leaned forward and dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
“I understand Adderbury has to be tied to his bed every night.
Imagine those giant arms and legs akimbo, each tied to a bedpost.
His sons must have to wrestle him down, but if it keeps Adderbury
from killing the family in his sleep… If I hadn’t heard he was mad,
I’d have known it after our accidental meeting this morning!”

“This
morning?”

“I was
accompanying my husband to his morning bath; he suffers terribly
from gout. Adderbury was standing in the churchyard, with his hat
on the ground, dressed almost entirely in lilac and singing one of
those sickly love ballads favoured by the underclass. A man with a
reputed income of eight thousand a year and no debt? Three young
men were trying to persuade him to come away, but Adderbury brayed
on. The awful sound was echoing off the church making an audible
stink. It’s a pity men rarely wear swords in public these days,
someone might have run him through. My Lord asked him how much he’d
have to put in the hat to end the awful noise, and Adderbury looked
down at him with those evil black eyes and said, ‘One hundred
pounds, unless you can name the woman I hope to wed. ’I don’t think
Adderbury could control his tongue. His face was the colour of
boiled salmon, but he stood there waiting for my Lord’s response. I
named Miss Carteret, but he must be courting some other poor soul
as Adderbury continued singing only louder than before. My Lord
Wessex pulled out his purse and shouted, ‘One hundred pounds will
silence the noise.’ Money soon spilled onto the ground. One of
Adderbury’s sons picked up the hat full of money and the other two
physically dragged the noisy lord away. He may not be as solvent as
he claims, though he looked heartily relieved to retire.”

Lady Wessex was
momentarily silenced as she took another bite of cake. Isabel’s cup
threatened to tip its contents into her lap as she wondered if
Peter Smirke had decided not to marry Miss Carteret. “Agnes has
never mentioned any madness…”

“One doesn’t
inform the world one’s children may be tainted; it sours their
marital prospects. I fear Lord Adderbury may have to be committed.
Beauty so often masks a blemished brain…”

“My family has
no…”

“My dear
Mademoiselle de Bourbon, your family are far too diverse, too royal
to be mad. A French father an English mother…untainted blood breeds
good stock. The Smirkes, I fear, must be inbred; too many cousins
marrying cousins. Who could bear a Smirke other than a Smirke?”

“Lord
Adderbury’s mother is French.”

“Yes, but who
were her people? She’s never said. For all we know, her father was
her uncle. The madness may be on the Smirke side. He jilted a
beautiful heiress to marry a penniless émigré; either way their
children were tainted. I fear Lord Adderbury is losing his reason.
He’s been giving away silk ribbons for May Day…in the middle of
July!”

Isabel tried to
hide behind her tea cup as her heart threatened to burst from her
chest. “That is very odd.”

“Not as odd as
his choice of colours; lilac, purple, white, and green. When anyone
asks why those colours he says, ‘The maypole looks beautiful
dressed in these colours’. Whoever heard of a maypole without blue,
yellow, or red ribbons?”

“Are you sure
he said maypole?”

“What else is
he going to wrap May ribbons around? The man has been acting so
oddly, he may have to be committed. It’s such a shame! His heir
won’t be able to inherit his father’s title until Adderbury dies,
and you know how lunatics outlive the sane. Mr Cecil Smirke’s wife
will never be a viscountess. That will decrease his
marriageability, but his luck may change. The father may die in an
accident, or starve himself to death.”

Isabel was
suddenly wishing Lady Wessex would die. Forcing a pleasant smile
she said through her teeth, “There may be a perfectly reasonable
explanation for his actions. Perhaps he’s trying to get some
woman’s attention.”

Lady Wessex
looked taken aback at the thought. “Well…if this morning’s escapade
doesn’t win her attention, he might as well hang himself and spare
his children any more embarrassment. Did I mention what Adderbury
did with the money?”

“No…”

“After my Lord
finished bathing, we stopped at the sweetshop, where we found Lady
Worley telling how she’d gone to buy a fan and found Lord Adderbury
buying three. The shop owner was wrapping up the boxes when she
entered. She hadn’t yet heard what happened in the churchyard, so
she was shocked to see Adderbury pull money out of his hat to pay
the bill. Three fans suggest he’s courting three women. They must
be starving, poor wretches. What woman wants to wed a man five
inches over six feet?”

Isabel hoped
her cheeks weren’t obviously pink as she squeaked, “I would.”

“Don’t worry
Mademoiselle; he won’t chase you. His first wife was one of those
little blonde creatures as dull as mud. Miss Carteret could be
similarly described, bless her. A man with a stammer wouldn’t want
to marry a loquacious wit. He’s hardly going to set himself up to
look stupid at his own dining table. I suppose a beautiful face,
and a large…person are enough for some women, but I’ve always felt
a husband should do more than fill the opposite chair and eat his
food. A man should be witty between mouthfuls; don’t you
think?”

“Indeed…”
Isabel was feeling light headed, but didn’t dare pull out her
vinaigrette for fear Lady Wessex might suspect the truth. “…would
you care for another piece of cake?”

“Thank you…”
The footman regally served the visitor a third piece of sponge cake
and met the fat woman’s eyes with derision. “…your footman is
impertinent. If he worked for me, I’d soon teach him manners.”

“Étienne is
sulking because he won’t get to spend the summer in France. Papa
changed his plans and decided to come to Bath instead.” The
Frenchman muttered a curse on Romans and their baths.

“Shall I pour
another…”

“Mademoiselle,
if I drink another cup I’ll burst. Lord Wessex will be waking from
his nap. I should be there to see if he requires assistance…”
Isabel’s mouth offered the usual platitudes as her guest took her
leave. Having heard enough to satisfy her curiosity, Isabel
withdrew to her private sitting room to write a new scene in her
latest story. The scantily clad Pierre’s latest misfortune was to
eat the wrong mushrooms for lunch. Instead of singing of his love,
he was foaming at the mouth and raving like a lunatic. Tying
Isabeau to a tree with the remains of her dress, Pierre was dancing
around her in circles threatening to offer her as a sacrifice to
the God of May… She paused to think; was there a God of May? She
sat nibbling the end of her quill. The pagan ritual’s beginning was
lost in time, but it’s precepts had lived on, dancing and mating
like wild creatures around a tree. The dancing bears and bearded
ladies were, she assumed, a more recent invention, but Isabel
rather liked the thought of sneaking out to a May fair and meeting
Pierre, but only if they were the only two people present. Once the
poison wore off, the repentant Pierre took his bruised naked
Isabeau into his arms and… Isabel sighed in longing. It seemed
pointless to even imagine what might happen next. Slumping over her
ink-blotched paper she was lost in a dream where she’d been
kidnapped by an evil cardinal and locked in a secret cave where
Pierre would never find her.

Two days later…

Sitting back,
Isabel sneered at her afternoon’s work. Her latest inky adventure
with the black eyed Pierre who happened to be a tall Englishman,
wasn’t progressing. After rewriting the scene ten times, Isabeau
was still tied to the tree praying Pierre would survive the
mushrooms or at least die after untying her. That plot left no room
for escape. Isabeau would starve to death tied to a tree.

Snatching up
the ink-blotched paper, Isabel viciously crumpled her dreams into a
ball and threw them into the empty grate. It was as if she’d
poisoned the real Pierre as well as her imaginary lover. Peter
Smirke would marry some petite blonde and live happily ever after
while her own heart suffocated in a dusty box. She’d starve…like
the sad idiotic Isabeau, who’d allowed herself to be tied to a tree
like a cretin.

Wiping away her
tears, Isabel caught sight of the portrait of herself at eighteen
hanging on the wall. Brown eyes stared back with a sad resigned
expression. The pretty young woman dressed in white had given up
hope. Isabel cringed and turned away. She’d brought the painting to
persuade prospective husbands that the past eighteen years had been
kind. Even if her looks had faded, her eighty thousand pounds would
soon convince a short fortune-hunter to marry her. “Why did you
have to fall in love with Peter Smirke? Why couldn’t you give your
heart to some nice short unmarried man? Why did you have to be so
stupid?” The picture mutely stared back with longing. “Don’t even
say it…I don’t care if he’s the most beautiful man in the world. He
doesn’t want you…unless he really has lost his mind.” Two short
taps on the door made her jump. “Yes?”