Dancing the Maypole (13 page)

Rubbing her
sore neck she watched a footman open the door. “Mademoiselle; Lord
Adderbury, he asks whether he will be received.”

The brown eyes
in the portrait seemed to widen with hope. “Oui.”

“Bon
Mademoiselle…” said Étienne. “Shall I guide him to le salon?”

If she invited
him to the parlour, would he try to kiss her? “Non, I’ll see him
here.”

The footman
raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “Ici? Immédiatement?”

“No, I want you
to first take him on a tour of the kitchen.” Her sarcastic tone
made the footman purse his lips.

“Peut-être
premier le miroir Mademoiselle…”

“Are you a
footman or my lady’s maid? Immédiatement!”

Isabel snatched
up a piece of paper and dunked her quill in the inkwell. She’d look
busy. Peter Smirke didn’t need to know she’d been sitting there all
morning trying to write stories about him. The piece of paper was
covered in indecipherable scribbles when a knock at the door made
her pause, and lift her head. Was Pierre really on the other side
of the door? There was only one way to find out. “Entrer.”

The door swung
inwards, framing the footman. His pursed lips probably meant he was
thinking a real Frenchwoman wouldn’t meet a suitor without combing
her hair or refreshing her perfume. Isabel resisted an impulse to
throw her inkwell at the man and turned her page of inkblots over.
“Mademoiselle…Lord Adderbury…” She remained seated as her hero
stepped into the room with a pained smile and nervous eyes and
waited for the footman to close the door. Only a few feet apart,
the afternoon sun cast deep shadows across her caller. The lilac
silk suit was too loose in the shoulders and indecently tight in
the thighs. With the old-fashioned ebony walking stick wrapped like
a miniature maypole with lilac, white, green, and purple ribbons,
the man looked like a professional fool. Meeting his gaze, his
black eyes appeared strangely enthralled as if… Her next thought
made her blush. It was silly to think Peter Smirke was falling in
love with her. “Good afternoon my Lord…do you often call on ladies
dressed to attend a May fair? I hope you refused to pay the
tailor…”

“He wanted
three more fittings, b-but I c-couldn’t wait. I needed it to
impress my future wife. She likes lilac…” The man turned to the
left and scowled before pulling a large white handkerchief out of
his pocket and waved it in the air. “I also smell of lilacs…the
scent is almost as sweet as memories of her kisses…” The man then
winced, half his face scrunching up.

Had he already
chosen a wife? Clawing for her vinaigrette, Isabel inhaled ammonia
with a shaking hand. “You look an ass,” she said over her smelling
salts.

Her hero’s
shoulders slumped, “I feel like one.”

“Then why are
you wearing that silly suit?”

“Agnes and
James thought I should dress more romantically.”

“You don’t look
romantic, you look…” He looked disgustingly beautiful. “…like your
trousers will split any moment.”

The man’s pale
cheeks reddened as he glanced at his tightly encased thighs and
then back to her face. “You d-don’t like it?” Was the man
disappointed or acting a role?

“Doubtless your
future wife will find it entertaining,” snapped Isabel. Black eyes
gleamed with amusement as they focused on her face. Still clutching
the vinaigrette to her nose, Isabel Jumped out of her chair and
glared up at the man. “If you’ve come here to mock me I warn you…
Why are you smiling?”

“You have ink
on your face…” Icy chills crept over her arms as his forefinger
lightly touched her nose. “…here…” His finger caressed her cheek
and then slid to the edge of her lips. “…and here. Agnes says you
write romances. Do you plan to publish? I’d love to read one of
your stories.”

The thought of
Peter Smirke reading long passages about the black haired Pierre
making love to a tall brunette heroine named Isabeau recalled the
vinaigrette to her nose. “You wouldn’t want to read my stories;
they’re silly.”

“I enjoy the
odd silly novel. Unbeknown to my sons I do occasionally read
something other than improving texts and agricultural t-tomes. I
have a secret shelf of romances in my chamber at home, hidden
behind a thick wall of farm books.” The blush made it seem likely
he was telling the truth. “I’d be honoured if you allowed me to
read one of your stories.”

“I don’t allow
other people to read my stories.”

“You let Agnes
read two. She said they were amusing.”

“Agnes is too
kind.”

Isabel’s
thoughts were thrown into turmoil as he caressed her cheek again.
He was believably playing the part of an adoring suitor. “I was
hoping you’d be p-pining for me.”

Her lover’s
wooden tone conjured up an image of her father brandishing a
pistol. “Really Mr Smirke, if you’ve been taking acting lessons,
you haven’t yet learned your lines. Are you practising your
courting skills for some short blonde or have you developed a
sudden desire for wealthy maypoles?”

“I b-bought you
something; a replacement.” The oblong bulge in his coat pocket
turned out to be a long narrow case that could only hold a fan.
Opening the case she glanced up at the giver to find anxious eyes
watching her. Did he care if she liked it? Unfurling the fan she
found a plain lilac silk leaf with a narrow silver border attached
to carved wooden sticks painted silver. It was simple, elegant, and
smelled strongly of lilacs. “I wanted to order one made from the
same fabric as my suit, but the shopkeeper said it would take
months to be delivered.”

“Why would you
order a fan made from your unmentionables?”

“From the same
fabric, not from my… I understood you were fond of the
c-colour.”

“Have you an
eyelash in your eye?”

Mortified, he
rubbed his eye. “I was winking at you.”

“Winking?
Why?”

Masculine lilac
shoulders heaved in a sigh. “Because that’s what men do when they
wish to imply…” He coughed into his handkerchief and turned to his
right as if for inspiration from the cosmos. “…something. I’m not
very g-good at…winking or implying things. Unless you’re p-partial
to lilac I’ve made an ass of myself for nothing.”

“Unless I’m
partial?” She glanced down at his tight trousers that had to be
causing discomfort. “This awful suit is for me?”

“Oui.” He
sounded stunned that she’d even ask the question.

Relieved, she
smiled in amusement, “Considering Agnes has been helping you…” She
openly admired his suit. “You look like a hero forced to wear a
silly disguise to…” The room blurred as she imagined being locked
in the dank dungeon of a medieval castle. Pierre would have to
single-handedly kill fifty men just to reach her, but he would. And
when he reached her, he’d break open her rusty manacles and… She
coughed hoping he’d assume it was the reason she blushed. “You look
suitably heroic.”

His spine
snapped straight as his eyes gleamed with pleasure, “I do?”

Isabel
carefully folded the gift, replaced it in its box and pushed it
through the slit in her dress into her pocket underneath. “The fan
is lovely. Thank you.” If he tried to take it back, she’d scratch
out his eyes.

“May we start
over Mademoiselle?”

She pursed her
lips as if she didn’t know what he meant. “Start what over Mr
Smirke?”

“You and
I…J’implore le pardon…” For an unskilled actor his desire for
forgiveness sounded believably sincere.

“Why do you
want my forgiveness?”

“I hope to
p-p-persuade you to marry me. I’m sorry I’ve been such an ass.”

Isabel’s heart
threatened to hammer a hole in her chest as she stared into black
eyes filled with longing. She opened her mouth to accept him before
he could change his mind, but her foolish tongue had other ideas.
“And if I do? Will I wake on the morning of my wedding to learn
you’ve been carted off to Bedlam? I’ve been hearing some odd
reports. Lady Wessex thinks you should kill yourself to spare your
children any more damage to their marital prospects. Why have you
been giving away May Day ribbons in July?”

“In the hope
you’d hear about it and think of me.”

Isabel’s smile
faded as she remembered Lady Wessex’s story of the fan shop. “Who
are the other two women you’re courting?”

His forehead
wrinkled in confusion, “Tu es la seule femme. C’est la vérité!”

“Everyone in
Bath knows you bought three fans.”

“Not for three
lovers.”

Glancing up
over her vinaigrette she glared into black worried eyes, “I won’t
wait in line behind petite blondes for your kisses.”

“If I wanted a
petite blonde I wouldn’t be here.”

“Then who were
the other two fans for? You’ve been acting like a lunatic; how do I
know you haven’t lost your mind? Why are you here? Why me?”

Mesmerised by
angry brown eyes, Peter tensed his arms, hoping she’d faint so he
could catch her. A trailing brown curl drew his gaze down over the
frilly collar of her pale yellow pelisse onto a pink ink-stained
pinafore the same colour as her cheeks. “Why Mr Smirke?”

Peter felt his
face burn; he couldn’t remember the previous question. “Forgive me,
I was d-distracted by the colour of your pinafore.” He winced as
her face fell.

“This old
thing? Are you planning to add a pink suit to your wardrobe?”

“The colour
matches your cheeks. It’s quite a magical effect.”

“Oh!” Isabel
touched her face. “What was I saying? Oh yes, why three fans?”

“I’m wooing
you,” said Peter. The stiff words sounded as if he were hoping to
hire her to wash his clothes.

Agent 1680
rolled his eyes, “You’re wooing her? Tell her you’re here to make
love to her. It’s the same thing only more romantic.” Peter’s
shoulders fell as Isabel turned and walked away. “What are you
waiting for? Kiss her!” Peter glared at the dead man and lashed out
at the transparent man with his stick. “Don’t stand there like a
booby! Say something before she thinks she’s your least favourite
lover.”

“One of the
fans was for Agnes. I said something rude. It was an apology.”

“And the
other?”

“Is
for…someone.”

“Someone blonde
and short?”

The question
transported Peter mentally to Adderbury church. Even on a hot
summer afternoon, the church was cold enough to make him shiver.
For the sixth time, he was standing next to the baptismal font with
a few close family members. Isabel was standing beside him, holding
a sleeping infant. “I’ve never t-told anyone…”

“You have a
mistress?”

“Non!”

The transparent
man screamed, “Tell her you’ve made love to her in your dreams for
eighteen years. Tell her she’s your dream mistress. Tell her!”

Peter ignored
the dead man and braced himself to be mocked. “The third fan is for
ma fille.”

Isabel’s mouth
fell open in disbelief. “You have a bastard daughter?”

Peter
emphatically shook his head. “Non!”

“You don’t have
a daughter?”

“Non.”

She sighed in
relief, but she still looked confused. “You bought a fan for your
daughter, but you don’t have a daughter?”

“I b-buy things
I think she might like. It’s something I do.”

“Your wife
never knew?”

“No and it’s
just as well. Apparently, she d-d-discussed our intimate affairs
with everyone, but me.”

“Why do you
want a daughter?”

“I don’t know.
I never had a sister…” Peter felt his face go red as he cleared his
throat. “I like to imagine she looks like you, but with black
eyes.”

“That’s rather
odd Mr Smirke considering our recent past. Do you also imagine
mistreating your female dependents?”

“Non! I
imagine…” Peter’s eyes focused on parted lips and gulped hard. “I
imagine you laughing in my arms.” Sweat trickled down his spine as
Isabel leaned closer, wafting the scent of summer up his nose.

“You don’t make
any sense,” Isabel said. “Why would you imagine me the mother of
your daughter? Are you suffering from some sort of melancholy?”

“You’ll
understand…apres nous sommes mariér…”

“I’ll
understand after we’re married?” She pursed her lips with Gallic
displeasure. “Vraiment?”

“Oui! I might
not remember meeting you, but I never forgot you,” said Peter.

Isabel stepped
back in disbelief and folded her arms. “You can’t remember meeting
me, but you remember me? That makes no sense.“

“It will when I
explain…when I’m your husband.”

“Has my father
threatened to kill you if you don’t marry me?”

“Non!”

“And you want
me to marry you and give you a daughter?”

“Oui.” Peter
attempted a charming smile.

Isabel’s
expression of disbelief softened. “Has she a name?”

“Hawise
Françoise…” The name was spoken with reverence.

“Hahwiss
Smirke?”

The sour
expression on her Isabel’s face made Peter’s spine stiffen in
defence. He’d been calling his imaginary daughter Hawise Françoise
for two decades and had no intention of renaming her. “It’s a
lovely name. I had several medieval ancestors named Hawise.”

“I had a
medieval ancestress named Sigerith,” said Isabel.

Peter shook his
head, “No-one sane would call their child Sigerith. Hawise however
is a lovely name.”

“What about
Héloïse Solange? It’s romantic and would flow with Smirke.”

“Non,” said
Peter.

“Sibyla
Héloïse?”

“Elle s’appelle
Hawise Françoise Smirke!” The storm clouds in her eyes inspired
Peter to mentally say, Héloïse Solange. If he had to choose between
the mother and the child’s name…

“So the mother
of this poor girl who’s yet to be conceived, has no say in the
naming of her child? Do you expect your second wife to be an
obedient little servant who silently curtsies to your every
whim?”