Dancing the Maypole (21 page)

Twenty minutes
later Isabel was still standing there; her imagination a vast
desert littered with the bones of implausible schemes. She couldn’t
beg Peter to marry her; she’d look like a desperate old maid. A
knock on the door made her jump. “Yes?”

The footman
sneered in irritation, “Are you at home to Smirkes?”

Inhaling
another lungful of ammonia saved her from bursting into tears.
“Oui, I’ll receive them here.”

Isabel was
disappointed to see the young men had called without their father.
She forced herself to smile as Cecil offered her flowers.
“Mademoiselle…a small token of our esteem.”

She accepted
the posy of violets and held them against her nose. The sweet scent
filled her eyes with tears. “They’re lovely…thank you…you’re all
so…lovely…” Loosing control, she sobbed into her flowers as the
four eldest brothers stared in bewilderment. Feeling obliged to
comfort, George Smirke reached out and gently slapped Isabel on the
back. Following his brother’s lead, Cosmo gave Isabel some manly
compassion with a hardy slap on the back that nearly knocked her
off her feet.

Robert pushed
his brothers out of the way, “Idiots! That’s not how you comfort a
crying woman.” Robert took Isabel into his arms and mumbled
comforting sounds as she cried on his shoulder.

“She’s crying
harder,” said Cosmo. “She’s probably overpowered by the stench of
your armpits. Here, let me hold her. I smell better.”

Cecil sighed in
horror, “Cosmo, how many times do you have to be told that a man
doesn’t mention armpits in a lady’s sitting room?”

“Shut up
Cecil…take your own advice if it’s worth taking.”

“Enough!”
ordered Charles. “The lady is in distress. She doesn’t need a
debate on drawing room etiquette. We need to persuade her to talk
about why she’s upset. If she has a problem, we might be able to
help solve it. If it’s that time of the month it might wise to
return next week…”

“When did
Charles become an expert on women?” asked Cosmo.

“Since he
started walking the blind Widow Malet to church,” answered
Cecil.

Cosmo’s face
twisted with bemusement. “Widow Malet lives twenty yards from the
church. What could he possibly learn in twenty yards?”

Cecil flung up
his hands, “Don’t scowl at me Charles, I wasn’t the one who
mentioned yards. He was bound to find out eventually.”

“Find out
what…” Cosmo took a sharp intake of breath. “You and Mrs Malet? You
can’t bed Mrs Malet! She arranges the flowers for the altar.”

Charles winced
at having his private feelings aired, “We’re not here to discuss my
friends or my habits. We’re here to ask Mademoiselle for help, not
convince her Smirkes are all mannerless boors. Mademoiselle won’t
help Papa if she thinks we’re all lechers…”

Cosmo ignored
Charles unspoken request to change the subject. “You told George
and Cecil, but you didn’t tell me? Am I the only one who didn’t
know?”

“Mrs Malet is
my friend,” said Charles. “I enjoy her company. There’s nothing to
know.”

“Until the lady
convinces Charles to do more than fondle and kiss her,” said
Cecil.

Charles
clenched his fists and glared at Cecil, “Widow Malet loves me for
my personality and not my stupid pretty face. A woman doesn’t need
eyes to be a charming companion.”

Cecil snorted
in contempt. “You’re the one who’s blind, Charles. The woman is
desperate. I hear she’s in an interesting condition after the
blacksmith tightened the ropes on her bed.”

“He kindly
restrung her bed so her mattress wouldn’t sag in the middle. The
rest is mindless gossip.”

“Well I’m not
blind,” said Cecil. “I’ve seen her face when the blacksmith speaks
with her. If he weren’t married she wouldn’t need you to walk her
twenty yards to the church, he’d carry her in those large arms.
I’ve wagered the innkeeper two pounds that she has a boy and three
pounds that she names you as the father whether you’ve bed her or
not.” The sound of a loud forced cough drew the three men’s
attention back to Robert standing next to Isabel, whose red rimmed
eyes were staring at them over George’s handkerchief. “Ah
Mademoiselle, you’re composed.”

“My father has
decided to return to France.” Isabel’s eyes overflowed with tears.
“He’s says he’s going to find me a French husband.”

The five young
Smirkes stared at her as if she’d announced she was to visit Madame
Guillotine to have her hair trimmed. Cosmo elbowed his brothers
aside as he stepped forward to claim her attention. “You’re
leaving? When?”

“In the
morning. My trunks are being packed.”

“You can’t go!”
pleaded Cosmo. “We need you…” He turned around and looked at his
eldest brother. “She can’t go. We’ll never find Mabel. Papa will
die!”

Hearing a
woman’s name attached to Peter Smirke, Isabel flinched at a jabbing
pain in her chest. “Mabel?” She tried to sound casual. “Mabel
who?”

Robert rolled
his eyes, “Cosmo thinks Papa’s dream mistress is named Mabel, but
Cosmo is going deaf because I heard Papa mutter marble as in marble
statue. He was probably dreaming he was visiting Rome.”

“You’re the one
going deaf Robert,” said George. “I distinctly heard him say May
Belle. There was a definite pause between the two words. He was
obviously dancing some woman around a maypole.”

“He said
marble!”

“Mabel!”

“May
Belle!”

Isabel stared
over the top of her borrowed handkerchief feeling hope. “Or he
might have said Ma Belle.”

“No!” Cosmo
firmly shook his head. “I was right next to the bed. He said Mabel.
You must have a friend named Mabel. Cousin Lucius says you know
her.”

Isabel’s brain
quickly stitched together the young men’s revelation to the
fragmented memories of Peter’s last visit, and felt herself
spinning in mental circles. Inhaling her smelling salts, she could
see a new ending for her story. “I don’t think…Oh wait…” The five
young Smirkes crowded around her looking hopeful. “…I do have a
friend named Mabel. She’s a lovely woman, but she must be at least
sixty.”

Cosmo shook his
head in disappointment. “She’s too old! Mabel is young enough to
have children. Think! Don’t you know another Mabel? Maybe her
Christian name is Elizabeth, but her friends call her Mabel.”

“I can’t think
of any…” Isabel pressed her vinaigrette against her nose to give
her strength. “Who is this…Mabel?”

“Don’t tell
Papa we told you or he’ll disown us,” said Cosmo. “Eighteen years
ago Papa lost his heart…”

Cecil
continued, “But he was already married. He gave a death bed promise
to his father that he’d be a good man so he couldn’t elope with the
lady to France and start a new life…”

“Papa wouldn’t
have taken her to France,” sneered Cosmo. “An Englishman who stands
six feet five inches could hardly pretend to be a local. He’d have
been executed as a spy. Poor Mabel would have been left destitute
and desperate…probably with a black eyed infant son.”

Cecil shook his
head in despair, “Papa says Mabel is unmarried, but he won’t tell
us who she is. He won’t even try to kidnap her.”

“If I’d been
making love to a woman in my dreams for eighteen years,” said
Cosmo. “I’d kidnap her and carry her off to Gretna Green.”

“If Cosmo ever
falls in love he’ll have to kidnap her. No sane woman would
willingly chain herself to his boring facts.”

“Shut up
Robert. At least my wife won’t die of the pox.”

“Mine won’t die
of boredom!”

Isabel
interrupted, “Your father, he dreams about this Mabel? That’s very
romantic…”

“It doesn’t
sound romantic to me,“ said Cecil. “If we don’t find Mabel and
convince her to marry Papa, his heart will die. He thinks he can
settle for a pretty bed-warmer, but he was miserable with Mamma.
He’s lonely. We’ll help him even if it means we forfeit all future
Christmas money. We can’t let him give up on happiness.”

“Show her the
fan!” ordered Cosmo.

“Fan?” Isabel
felt faint as Cecil took her fan out of his pocket and reverently
revealed the familiar scene of Robespierre about to lose his
head.

Cecil held it
up so she could see it more clearly, “We have to return it to
Papa’s travelling desk before he wakes or he’ll kill us. This…this
is her fan.” Even with the smell of ammonia in her nostrils,
Isabel’s vision sparkled with white flashing lights. She was
distantly aware of her fall being halted by strong arms as
masculine voices spoke from far away. “George has her…leave her
alone Cosmo…she’ll come around shortly…hopefully.” Someone gingerly
picked up the vinaigrette resting against her bosom and lifted it
to her nose. Isabel opened her eyes to see five pairs of black eyes
watching her with concern. “Do you need a quack?” asked Cecil.

“Scented
water?” asked Charles.

“A Chair?”
offered George.

“A hot cup of
chocolate?” suggested Robert.

“She needs
cheese on toast,” said Cosmo.

Cecil eyed his
younger brother with suspicion. “Why would the lady want cheese on
toast?”

“Cheese on
toast always makes me feel better.”

“My father’s
announcement has unsettled me, but my smelling salts are enough.
Thank you for catching me Mr Smirke.”

George smiled,
“It was my pleasure…”

Cosmo
interrupted, “Have you ever seen one of your friends use Papa’s
fan?”

“The lady
nearly fainted,” snapped Charles. “Give her five minutes to gather
her wits before interrogating her.”

Isabel had a
strong feeling that revealing she was the owner of the fan would
cause her hero discomfort. If Peter didn’t want her to know she’d
been haunting his dreams, and he didn’t want his sons to know she
was the woman haunting his dreams it was probably best if both
parties remained in the dark. “I’m sure I’ve seen the fan
before.”

“Where?” urged
Cosmo. “Are you sure her name wasn’t Mabel? Think!”

“I agree with
George,” said Charles “I think Papa said May Belle. It would
explain the ribbons and maypole mania.”

“Kissing the
blind Widow Malet doesn’t make you an authority on women,” sneered
Cosmo.

Isabel felt an
internal roll of thunder as rain clouds of inspiration drenched her
inner desert. “I have an idea!” It was completely mad. She’d
probably cry a bucket of tears, but it would be better than being
reminded hourly that she should have accepted Adderbury’s first,
second or third proposal. “If Agnes and James have room for me, I
could help you find this Mabel. Your father has apologised for
being rude and insensitive…”

Cecil looked at
her as if she’d licked her eye with a forked tongue.
“Insensitive?”

Isabel shrugged
her shoulders. “I understand he was having a bad day. He was upset…
You’ve been so kind to me. Everyone deserves a second chance.”

Cecil didn’t
seem convinced, “The only room fit for a lady is the one next to
Papa. Charles and Cosmo can sleep in Uncle James’study if you don’t
mind hearing Papa moaning and snoring through the wall.”

“I won’t mind,”
said Isabel.

“Are you sure
you want to face Papa every meal?” asked Cecil. “It might be cursed
awkward. He’s not been himself lately. There’s no telling what
he’ll say or do from one hour to the next. He may glare at you,
ignore you, or be perfectly genial for no reason.”

Dropping her
vinaigrette, Isabel smiled. Sleeping in the room next to her hero
offered numerous plot twists. “I have every confidence he’ll be a
gentleman.”

“I wouldn’t
wager on it,” said Cecil. “We need to find his dream mistress
before he loses all reason. Cosmo says he nearly ended up in a
fistfight with Papa over your dance card last night.”

“Your father
probably wished to ask me about Mabel.”

Cecil still
didn’t appear convinced. “We’ll do our best to protect you, but we
may not always be in the house.”

“Your father
won’t hurt me.”

“Not
intentionally, but if we don’t find this woman soon we may have to
lock him in the attic.” Cecil sighed as if the nightmare was
inevitable. “No woman is going to find a giant lunatic lover
romantic. He’ll cry himself to death.”

“Your father
isn’t mad. I feel sure he’ll be able to persuade this Mabel to
consider his suit.”

“Mademoiselle’s
right,” said Charles. “All we have to do is identify Mabel and then
somehow persuade her that Papa would be an ideal husband. If we
could give her a list of Papa’s husbandly skills she might overlook
Papa’s new wardrobe and accept his proposal. George, what are
Papa’s husbandly skills?”

“Why are you
asking me? I’ve never been married to him.”

Isabel cleared
her throat as she prayed she wouldn’t blush. “Maybe he’s a good
kisser.”

Peter’s five
sons cringed as they glanced at each other to make sure they
weren’t the only one disgusted by the thought of their father
kissing a woman and causing sensual pleasure. “We can’t put that on
the list.” Cecil Smirke emphatically shook his head. “Papa can’t be
a good kisser. He only ever kissed Mamma on the cheek. If he tried
to kiss her on the lips, she’d turn away.”

Isabel felt her
heart contract. Was that all the passionate man had been allowed?
The thought made her eyes water. “Why wouldn’t she let him kiss her
on the lips?”

Cecil shrugged
his shoulders, “Obviously he wasn’t a good kisser, but now he’s
forty-four it doesn’t make much difference.”

“Why not?”
asked Isabel. “He may enjoy kissing. He may secretly read romance
novels.”

Cecil looked at
her as if she’d suggested his father was an elaborate automaton.
“If Papa read a romance novel, he’d turn into a pumpkin. You should
see the pile of boring tomes he keeps on his commode. He reads
pamphlets on the latest planting techniques before snuffing out the
light. Papa makes a boiled fish-head seem romantic.”