Dancing the Maypole (22 page)

Isabel could
easily imagine her hero alone in his bed pretending to read about
farming methods as he imagined holding her in his arms. “I assure
you he wants to kiss Mabel on the lips.”

“How do you
know?” Cecil’s question had a suspicious tone.

Isabel blushed
hoping they’d never guess she spoke from personal experience. “Your
father is a normal man.” All five young men looked at each other
with raised eyebrows. “He’s just like you only older. One day
you’ll be forty-four, and then you’ll understand there isn’t any
difference between twenty-four and forty-four except you’re older
and you look silly wearing bang up fashions. He needs help.”

“We’ve been
trying to help him, but he won’t listen,” said Cosmo. “He says
Agnes has been helping him, but she’s made him into a walking
haberdasher’s advertisement. He might as well put a sign on his
back saying, ‘buy the best silk ribbons at such and such street’.
Papa won’t listen to reason. You saw him last night. If he’d been
wearing a mask I’d have thought he was masquerading as an impotent
morris dancer. What are we going to tell Mabel? How are we going to
persuade her to give him a chance?”

Feeling
inspired, Isabel smiled. “We need to help Mabel see your father’s
secret romantic side.”

“If Papa had a
secret side, we’d have heard of it years ago,” said Cecil. “There
are no secrets in Adderbury.”

“Everyone has
secrets…if Mabel has any sense, she’ll see his good points.”

“You’re a woman
Mademoiselle,” said Cosmo. “You could speak with Papa and convince
him to give up the May Day ribbons. It’s cursed embarrassing. How
can he think he’ll win a woman’s heart dressed like a
fop-doodle?”

“Your father
may have a perfectly sensible reason for his actions. He might be
trying to cause gossip in the hope that Mabel will hear about
him.”

Cecil shook his
head, “Papa hates gossip. He’d rather die than encourage people to
discuss his affairs.”

Lord
Adderbury’s strange reluctance to inform his children that he hoped
to marry Isabel was suddenly understandable. “I’ll speak with your
father…” Five pairs of black eyes filled with hope. “…but we should
pretend you never mentioned Mabel. It might upset your father to
know I know about her. Return to your uncle’s. Tell your Aunt Agnes
of our plan and that I’ll be about half an hour behind you. And
don’t forget to return the fan. I wouldn’t want Lord Adderbury to
kill you.” After kissing her hand, the young men rushed away
leaving Isabel alone to dance around the room. They’d have pleasant
conversations. Peter would offer to drive her into the country to
admire the view. Finding a secluded spot they’d climb down, and
he’d kiss her…

Rushing to
finish his toilet, Peter nearly slit his throat while shaving. No
matter how fast he dressed, he’d be too late to stop his sons from
showing Isabel her fan or revealing she was the subject of his
private dreams. Peter pulled on his comfortable black clothes,
grabbed the beribboned cane and hobbled as quickly down to his
waiting carriage. The vehicle crawled like an arthritic dog through
the morning traffic, as the consequences of his sons’ helpfulness
loomed larger with every turn of the wheel. At last, the carriage
steps were lowered. Peter climbed down to knock on the door
himself.

After two firm
raps with the knocker, Peter waited in agony for the door to open.
Just as he was lifting his hand to knock again, the door slowly
opened. On seeing Peter, the footman smiled in amusement. “May
Lord?”

“Is
Mademoiselle receiving…?”

“Mademoiselle
iz not here…May Lord.”

“When is she
ex-ex-expect…”

“Jamais!”

“What?” shouted
Peter. “What do you mean never?”

“Mademoiselle,
elle a quitter le nid. How do you say; she haz left the nest.”

“What are you
talking about? Where has she gone?”

The footman
shrugged his shoulders, “Je n’sais pas. Peut-être she deed not
think you were a good lover. Peut-être she prefers the men who are
young.” The footman glanced down at Peter’s person, “Peut-être she
thinks you are too big.”

White lipped,
Peter clenched his teeth, “Is Madame at home?”

“Madame iz
occupayed,” said the footman. “We return to France
immédiatement.”

The door closed
in Peter’s face. Gone? The word struck him in the chest. Isabel
wouldn’t leave Bath without a word…she couldn’t. Choking on panic
he rushed back to his carriage, “Back to my brother’s house!” Once
more entombed in slow moving traffic, Peter’s panic subsided as he
remembered the obnoxious romantic agent would know Isabel’s
destination. One way or the other he would find her, but what if
she didn’t want to be found? The question made Peter’s head throb
in time with his knee. After only a few hours sleep, he couldn’t
think clearly. Reaching his brother’s house, Peter hobbled up the
steps as the beautiful Frederick opened the door. “Has a letter
c-come for me?” asked Peter.

“No my
Lord…”

“A
message?”

“No my
Lord.”

“Have you
overheard any of Mrs Smirke’s visitors ask after me this
morning?”

“No my Lord.
Are you expecting news?”

The footman’s
voice was far away, as if Peter were vanishing from his brother’s
doorstep. “Non.” His knee throbbing in time with the empty ache in
his chest, Peter limped up the stairs, past the open drawing room
where his sons were arguing over which of them should have the
honour of carrying some woman’s shopping. Locking his chamber door,
Peter turned to see Isabel’s fan laying on his travelling desk; an
offering to an angry God of love. Snatching up the fan he held it
against his chest and breathed a deep sigh of relief. If his brats
had shown it to Isabel, she’d have claimed ownership and his
helpful sons would have guessed the truth. Opening the fan he
stared hard at the painting as if straining his eyes would recall
the memory of dancing with Isabel, but his mind was a dark blank.
Carefully folding the fan he put it back in his travelling desk and
locked it. With the key hidden on the top of his wardrobe, the fan
and his secret were safe.

Sitting down on
the bed to remove his shoes Peter was distract by the past. He
couldn’t marry the wrong woman again. He didn’t want to sit alone
in his library for the next twenty-five years wishing his wife
would enter without knocking and treat his knees like her personal
throne. He didn’t want a woman who’d look up at him in awe and
agree with everything he said. He wanted a wife who’d throw things
at him when he tried to tell her how to feed her children or pull
his hair if he sat up late poring over planting schedules instead
of warming her bed. He wanted Isabel de Bourbon; preferably in his
arms.

Unless she’d
changed her mind, heaven was only a marriage ceremony away if he
could think of a reason that would persuade Isabel to accept him.
It was too late to tell her a Gypsy had read his palm and revealed
he’d marry a maypole. He couldn’t even lie and say he wanted to
marry her for her money because he’d already he admitted he
wouldn’t. The sound of two women talking in the passage interrupted
Peter’s depressing thoughts. One mumbled something causing his hair
to stand on end. He was going mad; it couldn’t be Isabel. The door
of the next room closed and the two women continued talking.
Straining to hear, it sounded as though they were speaking French.
One of the women laughed, and his stomach turned inside out.

Agnes has
probably hired two French maids, thought Peter. Feeling foolish he
continued undressing causing the bed to creak and groan. The two
women stopped as if to listen, but several seconds later muffled
laughter resumed. Five minutes later the next room’s door opened
and closed.

After two sets
of footsteps passed Peter’s door he was left in dreary silence.
Stretching out on the bed in his shirtsleeves, he closed his eyes,
and resurrected the memory of the moonlit dreamscape. Nearby
nightingales sang a duet out of the dark as he held Isabel’s warm
body close, her bluish-white skirts shimmering around her thighs
like woven moonbeams that would dissipate as soon as he pulled her
into the grass. The faint sound of his door handle being turned
made him sit up. His brats were listening at his door again. “Stay
out of my room!” Faint footsteps tiptoed away leaving him alone to
curse his various aching parts. Closing his eyes again, he started
mentally listing preparations necessary to send his five sons to
the continent, where they could torment foreigners with their
helpfulness, leaving Peter free to openly court Isabel.

Madame de
Bourbon set aside her needlework and calmly watched her husband
pace the room like a caged lion poked in the ribs with a sharp
stick. Having already spoken with Isabel, Madame could easily
imagine the scene that set Monsieur’s eyes on fire. His tightly
pressed lips, highlighted by a thin arched mustachio, suddenly
twitched with a sneer as he stopped and abruptly turned to face
her. “Little-man iz right, Adderbury iz a big cow stupide.”

“Isabel loves
him.”

The fire in his
eyes burned brighter. “Pourquoi? I will tell you why.” The man
lifted both hands in the air as if about to conduct an orchestra.
“He is big! I tell to Isabel I will take her to France and find for
her un homme Français who will love her. She refused! She will
marry cette…” His lips writhed in contempt. “Isabel has not the
heart to love un petite homme Français. Quelle horreur!”

“Louis wants to
look down at his wife. Isabel wants to look up at her husband.”
Madame shrugged her shoulders, “C’est normal.”

“Normal?” The
man’s eyes seemed to spin with rage. “Bof! I do not need to look
down at ma femme to feel like a big man. You do not need to look up
at some big cow to feel like une belle femme. What iz wrong with
your children?”

They were
always her children when they did something that upset him. “Our
children are not us,” said Madame. “Isabel wants to feel petite,
and Louis wants to feel big in his own house…”

Monsieur waved
an angry arm at his distant son, “Louis should thank the good God
he iz not ugly.”

“Louis
disagrees. Did you see him before he left for London? He had that
pained look in his eyes. I think another pretty tiny woman has
snubbed him.”

“Zut Alors!”
snapped Monsieur. “I pray to God twelve years for a son, and He
sends me a creature sullen who allows every insult to stab the
heart.”

“He has a
sensitive heart.”

“Little-man iz
trop sensitive et Isabel she iz…bah! How can she love that big
idiot? When I sneaked into your Papa’s house at the hour of the
dead, did I visite without waking you? Non! I whispered the love
words in your ear and kissed you until you trembled like une
rose.”

“If my father
had found out he’d have killed you.”

“Bah! Your papa
was un autre big idiot! How dare he say I waz too French, too…”
Monsieur’s eyes spun in remembered rage. “…too short for his petite
fille?” With a deep sigh his rage faded into doubt as he locked his
hands behind his back. “You do not sometimes wish that I was a big
man?”

“Non.” It was
the truth. He’d always made her feel dainty. On being introduced,
he’d looked her up and down like she was a French cream bun he
could eat in one bite. Her friends had all laughed at her zealous
little beau until the summer evening he walked her home from a
concert. The early summer twilight promised a few shadows to sneak
a kiss when two drunken rakehells decided her short escort made her
easy prey. He expertly impaled them both with his sword and then
spat in their eyes as they lay begging for mercy on the ground.
From that time on, her only fear was she’d lose him to a smaller
woman. Over the years, he’d risked his life on numerous occasions
to protect her. He no longer wore a sword, but he always carried a
loaded pistol. When she was in danger there was only one man she
wanted within arm’s reach. “Je t’adore!” Her smile eased the
tension from his shoulders.

“Mais oui, but
I can not carry you from the building in flames.”

“You could drag
me,” said Madame.

“Mais oui…some
people they laugh to see you with a little man. Would you love me
more if God had given me the inches of a big man?”

She raised an
eyebrow, “Would you love me more if I had to reach up to put my
arms around your neck?”

He scowled in
disgust, “Une question stupide.”

“Exactement.
What happened Monsieur? Did you visit Lord Adderbury and give him
some romantic advice?” Her tone was neutral. If he thought she was
accusing him of being at fault, he’d purse his lips in stubborn
defiance and storm off in a sulk. She’d then have to wait hours
before he’d finish the conversation.

“Bah!
Adderbury, he has the dreams agréable of Isabel, he fights over the
dance carte, her bed he visites at the hour of the dead; the man is
un imbécile to not comprend that he loves her.”

“He’s an
Englishman. He probably assumes the throbbing in his chest is
indigestion. He needs help…”

“He needs the
boot in the derrière!” snapped Monsieur.

The stubborn
look on his face told her; her husband had already taken action.
“Did you give him a boot in the backside?” asked Madame.

“Non. I kicked
him…on the knee.”

“I hope he’ll
be able to dance with a swollen knee. How will he know he loves
Isabel if they’re unable to relive their first dance?”

Monsieur’s lips
contorted in irritation, “Il est un imbécile.”

“That may be,
but you know what happened the last time you tried to help one of
our daughters’ lovers see sense. He nearly ate himself to death.
Poor Maurice, he still finds you intimidating. We have to let the
rose unfold. Pulling on the petals may tear them off.”