Dancing the Maypole (23 page)

“I did not tear
the petals. I gave the advice romantique.”

He scowled at
her amused smile, “How is that amusant Madame?”

“Remember the
romantic advice people gave us? What was it your cousin Jean-Paul
told you, ‘Don’t ever kiss her while she’s standing on the stairs,
not while she’s on a lower step, or you’ll give her a reason to
jilt you for a bigger man’?”

“Jean-Paul iz
un idiot!”

“And didn’t
your older sister tell you that to secure my heart you had to kill
my father for refusing your first offer of marriage?”

“Ma soeur, she
iz un idiot aussi.”

“I’ll never
forget your mother’s advice to me. ‘If you want my son to love you
when you are old and ugly, you will speak only French to his
children. You will serve only French food and employ French
servants. You will wear French fashions and read French magazines.
If you miraculously acquire a hint of elegance and wit before you
lose your teeth, you may retain his affections.”

He visibly
winced, “Ma mère, she thought you were trop Anglais…trop big. I
think you are parfait. My heart it has never loved les autres
femmes how it loves you. I do not tear the petals of la rose.” He
reached out and lightly caressed her cheek. “I have never torn the
petals…ma petite!”

“We can’t go to
France mon amour. We can’t leave Isabel and Louis…”

“Little-man has
thirty years! He is not un petit enfant. He does not want us to
breathe down his neck.” Monsieur waved his arm at his distant son,
“Louis wants to find a wife without the audience. I told to your
son if he does not have a wife when we return he will wish he had,
and then he said to me the things most rude.”

“He’s upset
about something,” soothed Madame. “He’s always rude when he’s
upset.”

“Non, he iz
rude tout le temps! He will not find une femme who will endure him,
and I will not have the grandson de Bourbon.”

“When we
threaten to chop the heels off his favourite boots we
unintentionally make Louis feel small. That upsets him.”

“Bof!
Everything upsets your son.”

“Our son
doesn’t like being made to look or feel smaller than he already
is.”

“Bah! I do not
make Little-man feel small.” Monsieur stared at her with stubborn
pursed lips, but after long silent minutes turned to stare at the
wall. “I will tell to him his boots are safe.” Monsieur sighed as
if the weight of France pressed down on his shoulders. “My son…il
me déteste.”

Madame shook
her head, “Louis doesn’t hate you mon amour. He hates being
reminded that he’s never been in love. The boy is as romantic as
Isabel. I wouldn’t be surprised if he secretly writes sillier
romances than his sister.”

“Impossible!”

“Speaking of
Isabel; we need to visit my sister Gwen.”

Her husband’s
lips contorted with grim distaste. “We do not need to visite the
house of giants. You will write une lettre.”

“I can’t ask my
sister to throw a ball for Isabel in a letter; I need to ask her to
arrange a ball, preferably within weeks.”

Monsieur
groaned in agony, “Pourquoi? There are Assembly Rooms for people
who need to dance. Why does your daughter need a private ball at
the house of giants?”

“Public
Assembly Rooms leave little room to dance, and one can barely think
over the noise of people talking, let alone have a romantic
conversation. And the Assembly Rooms have no private maze where a
courting couple can sneak off to steal a kiss.”

“Dommage!”
Monsieur tightly folded his arms, “I will not visite the house of
giants.”

“Mon amour, for
eighteen years Isabel has been in love with a fictional Lord
Adderbury. She needs to dance with the real man so she can let go
of her fictional hero. She needs to start over at the beginning…at
a ball.”

“We will throw
Isabel a ball in London…”

Madame’s
brother-in-law, the elder Robert Neilson, at six feet and nine
inches made her six foot sister look petite. The house and its
furniture had been made for large people. For Monsieur, the mere
act of sitting on a chair in his sister-in-law’s drawing room
caused deep mortification. His feet hung in the air making him look
like a grizzled child cast under an aging spell by an evil fairy.
“My love, you know Isabel won’t wait that long. She’ll run off with
Adderbury under a romantic full moon and be shot five miles down
the road by some inebriated highwayman. If you don’t wish to visit
Gwen and Robert I’ll go on my own.”

His eyes
widened in horror as if she’d threatened to lift her skirts and
flash her derrière at a monk. “Toute seule? Bof! Who will protect
you from the bandits?”

“Ladies often
travel on their own these days. I’ll take one of your pistols…”

“Absolument
pas!” He sighed in exasperation and muttered something under his
breath. “For you, I will suffer the house of giants.”

Madame smiled,
“I’m glad you’re coming Monsieur. I’d have been miserable without
you.”

His scowl
twisted into a smug grin. “Ah oui, you would not have the dreams
agréable sans moi.”

“True! When I’m
in your arms I like to imagine that we’re young lovers,
unencumbered with grown children who won’t fly the nest, running
from my mad father who’s threatened to run you through if he finds
us.”

“Ton Père, he
would not find us,” said Monsieur. “I would hide you in un château
secret.”

“You have a
secret castle?”

“C’est une
ruine, but there is une chambre we could inhabit.”

“That sounds
pleasant Monsieur. The two of us alone, in a secret castle where
our children cannot find us. I hope Isabel and Louis fly the nest
soon. It seems like a thousand years since our first few months
alone.”

“How many
Sèvres dishes did I buy for you that premier year Madame?”

“At least three
sets, but you were the one who insisted I break something so you’d
know I was angry.”

“It has been a
longtemps since you have thrown une soupière.”

“Nearly thirty
years.” Their eyes met as the unpleasant past shimmered in the air
between them. Within months of giving birth to her son, Madame had
discovered her husband had taken a mistress; a beautiful tiny
woman. Knowing he was in Paris visiting the woman, Madame had
smashed every piece of porcelain, every mirror, and half the
windows in his French palace. Taking her children, she disappeared
leaving a note wishing him happiness with his tiny lover. Within
months of arriving in Jersey, the revolution had erupted causing
agonising heartache. For a year, she cried herself to sleep until
the pains in her chest made it hard to breathe. Fearing she’d die
leaving her children at the mercy of strangers, she’d swallowed her
pride and sailed to England. Seeing her husband remove his hat to
greet them had nearly made her faint. His dark brown curly hair had
turned grey. He was gaunt as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks with deep
lines of agony carved into his face. After embracing their
daughters he’d knelt at her feet and sobbed into her skirt swearing
undying fidelity. She’d never told him about the strange pains in
her chest or that they’d stopped as soon as he was within sight.
Stretching out her foot she caressed his leg exorcising the past.
“Shall I start throwing dishes again Monsieur?”

“Pas le
Sèvres…it has the memories plaisant.”

“We should
celebrate when our children have flown the nest. We can dig out
some of old clothes and have a laugh. You’re so handsome in red
velvet and white stockings. We’ll powder our hair and dig out some
lace and dance a stately cotillion. Supper, music, fireworks…”

“Madame, are
you planning the ruin of my finances before running off with the
domestique mâle?”

“As if I’d
insult the father of my children by running off with a footman. The
man would have to be at least a Lord, preferably younger with
strong thighs and deep pockets.” She kept a straight face as the
Frenchman scowled in displeasure at her hypothetical lover. “Who do
you think I’d run away with Monsieur? Do you know any young bucks
who remind you of Oedipus?”

“If Oedipus
comes sniffing your skirts…” snarled Monsieur. “He will feed the
grass for my cows!”

“Poor Oedipus,
I suppose that’s the fate of young men who prefer older women. They
encounter irate older men who can’t be bothered to romance nubile
flesh and end up feeding the grass. Speaking of grass, I had an
agreeable dream this morning. A wicked witch was holding me hostage
in a stone tower. I leaned out the window and saw a man in armour
run up, kill my guards and then disappear through the door. I heard
him come up the stone steps at a run, and then he kicked in the
door and stood there with a sword in one hand catching his breath.
He was beautiful and tired so I invited him to come rest on my
bed…” She watched her husband’s face darken at the thought of her
bedding some other man in her dreams.

“Who was this
villain?”

“I’ve no idea,
but before he could remove his hauberk I heard more footsteps on
the stairs. A few seconds later you ran into the room dressed in
white velvet waving two pistols like an avenging angel. The man
rushed to cut you in two, but you shot him and pushed him out the
window, and then you…kept me company. The magic tower turned into a
field of poppies and there was only you as far as the grassy
horizon. It was a most pleasurable dream.”

Monsieur de
Bourbon’s pursed lips softened into a suggestive smile. Turning his
head, he shouted at the door, “Étienne!”

Opening the
door, the footman scowled at his employer. “Oui Monsieur?”

“I will have
des relations sexuelles avec ma femme sans interruption. The idiot
who opens the door will feed the grass for my cows. Comprends?”
Madame stared at her husband’s profile with faint exasperation.
After forty-three years, he still enjoyed making her blush.

The footman’s
lips twisted in distaste, “Oui Monsieur.”

“And tell to le
chef I wish him to prépare le cake Anglais…and tell to les autres
that we do not yet aller au France. Madame desires to visite the
house of giants.”

The footman’s
face crumpled in disappointment as he opened his mouth to
complain.

“Vite!” shouted
Monsieur. The footman slammed the door leaving them alone.
Shrugging out of his coat, the handsome profile turned to smile at
her as if she were still seventeen. “Les enfants have taken leave.
No-one will open the door to curse the English or demande the
money. Nous célébrons en ce moment.” Sliding up beside her, he
nibbled on her earlobe as she fumbled the buttons on his
waistcoat.

“I think you’ve
shocked Étienne,” whispered Madame.

“Bof! I can
have the hair grey and make love to ma femme. The young men are
stupide. They think love is a belle corps without the
wrinkles.”

She smiled at
the look in his eyes. “And how would you define love Monsieur?”

He caressed her
face as if he hadn’t heard her, but she could tell by the almost
imperceptible slant in his left eyebrow that he was thinking. “When
I wake from the nightmare that I can’t find you, that I’ll never
see you again…and find you la bas, asleep in the bed…I feel to weep
in soulagement. You open the eyes and smile as if I’m still the
young man and it makes the chest feel too small for the heart.
C’est l’amour.”

Wrapping her
arms around his neck, the faint sound of angry servants dropping
pieces of irreplaceable Sèvres faded as whispered French
endearments transported her back in time. She smelled the solitary
beeswax candle casting deep shadows over the bridal bed as her
husband lay beside her, reciting in a husky voice the last few
pages of the Romance of the Rose. Then he was kissing her, filling
her lungs with air that tasted of wedding cake.

The Smirke’s
green and gold drawing room smelled of burning coal and roast
chicken. Inhaling, each breath made Cosmo’s stomach loudly protest
its empty state. Hungry and bored, Cosmo scowled at Robert
dominating Mademoiselle de Bourbon’s attention, but the two were
oblivious to Cosmo’s resentment. He appeared to be the only one
resenting the fact dinner had been ready to eat for twenty minutes.
His aunt and uncle were having a relaxed tête à tête on the settee.
Cecil, George, and Charles were standing by the fire discussing
schemes to help their father find love. Cousin Lucius was standing
alone, staring out a window. As if to pour salt into Cosmo’s empty
stomach, the footman standing at attention inside the room was
visibly lost in some pleasant reverie. Frederick had probably eaten
half a chicken. The family were probably getting leftovers from the
servants’ table.

Cosmo scowled
as his older brothers all glanced in his direction without waving
him over. If he wished to be a part of their conversation he’d have
to wilfully intrude, not that they ever listened to his excellent
ideas. He remained seated where he could watch the minute hand on
the clock slowly jerk to the next line. Time seemed to be fighting
to remain in the present to keep him from his dinner. “What is
taking Papa so long?” asked Cosmo. No-one acknowledged his
question. Sighing in irritation, Cosmo turned to the footman.
“Frederick! You told Lord Adderbury we were waiting for him, didn’t
you?”

“Yes,” said
Frederick.

“You told him
dinner was ready?”

“Yes.”

“What was he
doing?”

“I believe his
Lordship was combing his hair.”

“Why would Papa
comb his hair for fifteen minutes? He has curly hair. It wouldn’t
make any difference if he combed it for five minutes or fifty. Papa
used to be a sensible man. Why is he suddenly acting like a vain
fop-doodle? It doesn’t make any sense.” If the footman had an
opinion, he kept it to himself. “Was he dressed?”

“Yes.”

“I hope he’s
wearing black. He looks like a fool in lilac. He didn’t smell of
lilacs did he?”