Dancing the Maypole (16 page)

“Romeo died!”
cried Peter. “I wish to live and procreate with Mademoiselle.”

“You’ll deliver
a love token and leave. What could be easier?”

“You’re going
to get me k-k-killed. Leave me alone!”

“I’ll wake you
at half past two. Think of something romantic to take with you; a
short note revealing she’s been haunting your dreams for eighteen
years perhaps…”

“I want to be
alone!”

“You think
dying is bad, then you find you’re dead surrounded by ingrates.
Don’t thank me for my cheerful insightful service; I’m a glutton
for ingratitude. At least my wife appreciates me…”

Alone with his
misery, Peter locked the door, closed the curtains and fell on the
bed. He already knew what he’d do. He’d sneak into her bedchamber
and tie a single lavender ribbon around her wrist. That only left
the question; did he dare kiss her?

Already late
for the ball, Peter was finishing the perilous act of shaving with
a cutthroat razor when a demanding knock at his door made him jump.
“What?” shouted Peter.

The door swung
inwards several inches. “May I come in Papa?” said Robert

“Hurry and shut
the door.” Peter glanced at his pocket watch propped against the
reflection of his naked chest in his dressing mirror.

“Frederick said
you were still here.”

“Cosmo charmed
the k-kitchen into filling a hip bath with hot water. They must be
roasting alive in the kitchen. How the d-devil does he do it?”

“He probably
paid them money,” said Robert.

“I’ve been
waiting a c-cursed hour for a can of hot water.” Peter scowled at
his reflection. “Servants! Sometimes I think we should stay at a
hotel. At least I could c-complain about the service.”

“If Cosmo had
black hair he’d remember that some of us need to shave twice a day,
or we soon look like furry faced yokels.”

Peter watched
his youngest son perch on the corner of the dressing table and
cross his arms with languid grace. Of late, when he glanced at
Robert he felt disorientated. The boy looked so much like himself
he seemed to be gazing into a magic mirror at the past. “Are you
happy with your studies? Did you order those books you needed?”

“Yes. The
bookseller said it would only take two weeks.”

Peter bent over
to finish shaving, “Did you enjoy that lecture this afternoon?”

“Lecture? Oh
yes, the lecture. I enjoyed it very much.”

Robert’s
self-satisfied smile caused Peter a moment of doubt. Lucius always
wore that smile after visiting the Widow Browne. Peter shook his
head. His need for Isabel was affecting his judgement. Wearing a
clean shirt, Peter cursed fashion under his breath as he pulled on
two pairs of white silk stockings to hide the black hair on his
legs before reaching for white satin breeches. “Why aren’t you
d-dressed? Aren’t you coming?”

“I’m tired,
besides, attending a dance with Cosmo is embarrassing. He thinks he
can charm a lady by spouting the probability of her dying in a
carriage accident. I keep telling him to ask the young ladies what
they’ve been reading, but he won’t listen. He thinks the ladies are
impressed by his knowledge. I think a nursemaid dropped him on his
head. I’ve wagered Charles ten pounds that Cosmo chains himself the
first wealthy old maid who smiles at him. Mademoiselle de Bourbon
would be a prize with her eighty thousand pounds. It’s a pity she
hates you. You could have sent me on an extensive grand tour. Papa,
don’t wear all white. The company will think you’ve come from
playing the ghost in an amateur production of Hamlet. Reassure the
ladies you’re sane; wear black.”

“I need to wear
white.”

“Why?”

“I have my
reasons.”

Robert raised a
cynical eyebrow, “You’re not planning to do anything odd are you?
Lucius says he knows what ails you, but he’s a rum fish. Why would
any sane man work as his cousin’s steward when he could marry some
rich old hag and direct his own affaires?”

Peter scowled
at his son, “A good man is never content to live as a p-parasite.
Lucius is free to lose his heart and live his dreams. Once he’s
saved enough to buy an estate he’ll be his own man and he’ll have
paid for it with his sweat. I admire his resolve to avoid becoming
some old woman’s pet.”

“If I were
Lucius, I’d have married Lady Morley. She can’t live many more
years, and now Cousin Jasper will spend her fortune. He doesn’t
mind being chained to an old woman.”

“How can he
mind? He’s always drunk. I told the silly chit not to elope with
the man.”

Robert snorted
in amusement, “You can’t reason with an eighty-year old woman who
thinks she’s eighteen. Fondling wrinkled breasts would be
preferable to debtor’s prison. If I were ten years older, I’d marry
Mademoiselle. Think of all the experiments I could do with eighty
thousand pounds. It would be quite pleasant the first ten years; I
wouldn’t mind seeing her dénudé.”

Peter blushed
with horror, “Robert Benjamin!”

“What?”

“It is not
proper to think of Mademoiselle in that manner.”

“Why? Because
she’s old?”

“No,
b-because…” Peter couldn’t tell the boy Mademoiselle might soon be
his stepmother. If his sons found out, they might try to help.
They’d tell Isabel about his dream lover, and then she’d never
speak to him again. “…because it isn’t!”

Robert looked
at him with pity, “Papa, I know you’re old, but can’t you remember
what it felt like to admire a woman’s charms?”

“I’m not old. I
don’t need to remember.” Peter turned away to hide his red
face.

“What?” cried
Robert. “You still notice ladies’ charms?”

“I’m forty-four
not d-d-dead.”

“Then you
should examine Mademoiselle de Bourbon’s charms. She may be a
maypole, but imagine holding all that woman. I mean holding her
properly, not flinging her over your shoulder like a mailbag. I
wonder what it’s like to hold a woman that tall…”

The ache in
Peter’s chest spread through his limbs as the words conjured the
kiss on her bedchamber floor. “You’re too young to be measuring
maypoles. If you want to matriculate into a Cambridge college, you
need to study books not ladies. I’ve raised you to be a g-g-good
man…”

“Yes,” the
young man exhaled a weary sigh. “I know the sermon.”

“But do you
understand it?”

“Papa you don’t
have time to lecture me, you’re going to be late for the ball.”

“Blast!” Peter
frantically searched his dressing table. “I need a ribbon…not a
green one…that long lavender one.”

“What are you
going to do with the ribbon? Don’t tell me you’re going to wrap it
around some old woman at the ball? If you want to win your dream
lover, you need to forget old hags and start tying ribbons around
pretty wenches to make her jealous.”

“I don’t want
to make her jealous. I want her to think of me.”

“She’ll be
thinking of you Papa; she’ll be wondering how long before Cecil has
to lock you in the attic. I think you should stop acting like a
lunatic and call on the lady. Prostrate yourself at her feet and
beg her to marry you. It would be far less humiliating than wearing
that suit. You might not be able to have a daughter after wearing
those breeches. They look tight enough to unman you…”

“I know what
I’m doing.” Peter wrapped the long lavender ribbon around his waist
and let it fall against his left leg.

“No!” Robert
firmly shook his head as he picked up a diamond shirt pin. “Are you
trying to win or frighten the lady? Give me the ribbon.”

“I have to wear
it.”

“You look like
an impotent morris dancer who’s rolled up his handkerchiefs and
shoved them down his breeches.” Feeling seventeen, Peter stood
still as his son made a loop with the ribbon and carefully pinned
it to his coat. “Now if anyone asks about your silly ribbon, what
are you going to tell them?”

“I’ll say I’ve
been d-dancing a maypole.” Robert pursed his lips in displeasure
and gravely shook his head. “I’ll say I love a lavender heart.” His
son shook his head again. “I love lavender?”

“No Papa, you
won’t say a word. You’ll give them your most charming smile and let
them imagine whatever they please.”

“My most
charming smile?”

“Yes, it looks
something like this.” Robert’s face was transformed with a
come-hither smile that promised a pleasurable romp in the nearest
dark corner.

“I hope you’re
not using that smile on young ladies.”

“The ladies
find it charming. You try it…no not like that; you look in hasty
need of a chamber pot. Your eyes are too worried. When you step
into the ballroom, imagine your dream lover is naked on your bed
waiting for you…you’re not supposed to scowl.”

Peter blushed
in horror, “I can’t think that in polite c-company!”

“Do you want to
end your celibate ordeal or not?” Peter stared at the reflection of
his white waistcoat as his face burned in silent affirmation. “You
need to smile. You must have smiled at Mamma.”

“Of course…I
must have. I’ve never been g-good at charming ladies.”

“That’s because
you glare at them with your stern ‘I’d never be tempted to do
anything wicked with you’ expression.”

“I don’t
g-g-glare at the ladies.”

“Papa, I’ve
rarely seen you give a lady any other look. You charm a lady by
making her feel charming. To make a lady feel charming you have to
make her think she’s desirable. She has to assume she could tempt
you to do something wicked. It’s just as well you don’t want to
marry Mademoiselle de Bourbon. You should have seen how you looked
at her; the poor woman will probably have nightmares of dying an
old maid until some lucky fortune-hunter marries her money.”

“I wasn’t angry
with Mademoiselle; I was angry with Cecil. What is wrong with me?
Why do I ruin every…every chance?”

“Forget
Mademoiselle Papa, you need to smile at the lady haunting your
dreams so she’ll know you think her charms are charming. Smile at
her and she won’t be able to resist your proposal.”

“How will I
c-c-convince her to marry me when I can’t speak p-properly?” Peter
sighed in despair. “I sound like an idiot.”

“You don’t need
to talk! All you have to do is look like you’re listening and make
a few random noises as if you agree. Smile as if your companion is
tempting you to do something wicked, and the lady will think you
the most charming Smirke ever born.” Peter leered at himself in the
mirror and then grimaced in disgust. If he smiled at Isabel like
that she’d slap his face. Peter picked up his hat and gloves and
tried to smile again as Robert slapped him on the back. “Relax
Papa; hordes of unmarried ladies are dying to marry an eligible
Lord who can afford to dress like a lunatic. Think of the evening
as practice for when you call on your dream lover. There’s always a
chance she’ll change her mind, until she has some other man’s ring
on her finger. Let me see your charming smile.” Peter’s contorted
lips seemed to please his son. Scowling at the clock he grabbed his
hat and ran for the carriage. He was late for the ball.

Looking over
the dancers, Peter saw Isabel smiling at his son, George. At
twenty-two, George didn’t need his father’s permission to marry. A
momentary wave of panic made Peter’s heart race at the thought of
George marrying Isabel, but then common sense stepped on his toe.
Wincing in pain, Peter looked down to see an old woman scowling up
at him. “Madam?” His attempt at a charming smile had little
effect.

“I must be the
last dowager in Bath unmolested by Lord Madderbury. Tie one of
those ribbons around me and my son will call you out.”

“You’re safe
Madam; I didn’t bring any ribbons to give away.” The woman’s face
crumpled in transparent disappointment. “But perhaps you’d honour
me with a d-dance?”

The old woman’s
eyes widened in pleasurable horror as if he’d suggested a naked
tryst in a cold dark church. “Dance with a mad Lord I’ve not been
properly introduced to? Whatever is the younger generation coming
to?” Sighing in relief, Peter turned to look for Isabel only to
find numerous people staring. He smiled back as if he enjoyed being
ogled like a freak show exhibit and exhaled a deep breath. Looking
down over the company he spied Cecil in the far corner with half a
dozen young ladies. Peter could see by their horrified giggles his
son was entertaining them with the truth. Cecil wouldn’t marry for
money, but would Charles pass up love for eighty thousand pounds?
He spied his third son dancing with an average looking young woman
whose ensemble gave no sign of great wealth. By the beaming smile
on her face, she’d never had a beautiful young man ask for her
acquaintance let alone for a dance. No, Charles might look like his
Uncle John, but he had a tender heart like his brother George.
Charles had probably seen the young woman sitting forgotten against
the wall and sought out an introduction. Peter’s chest filled with
pride; his three eldest sons had grown into good men.

As the music
ended the dancers clapped in appreciation. His racing heart urging
his feet to walk faster, Peter headed for the tall woman in silver
satin. When he reached Isabel, George had taken his leave. Staring
into space, she was fanning herself with his gift. “Bonsoir
Mademoiselle…” Brown eyes turned in his direction with a smile.

“Good evening
my Lord. I didn’t think you were coming.”

“I had to
shave.” The words came out flat, like an absent minded statement
given while absorbed in calculating how many carts of dung he’d
need for a certain field.

After
inspecting his face, she returned his stare. “I see.”

Was she waiting
for more information? She didn’t seem inclined to start talking so
he could pretend to listen. “Cosmo mesmerised the kitchen into
filling a hip bath with hot water. I had to wait…” Peter tried to
give her a charming smile, but he could feel his lips grimace.
Giving up, he let his face return to a more habitual expression. He
was probably giving her that awful stern look his son told him not
to use. Isabel wouldn’t know he was being tempted beyond endurance
by silver framed breasts. She’d never guess that all she had to do
was crook her finger, and he’d follow her anywhere…do anything.
“Mademoiselle, would you honour me with a d-dance?” One dance and
then he’d have to pretend to admire other ladies so the gossips
would keep guessing the identity of his future bride.