Dancing the Maypole (27 page)

“Ah yes, I’m
big. It’s easy to think you know b-b-better when everyone is
smaller. How did I become such a p-p-pompous ass?”

“My father
thinks he knows better because he’s French. My brother thinks he
knows better because he’s a man. My sisters think they know better
because they’re married and have children. No-one’s perfect. I’m
not. I throw things when I’m angry…”

“I know.”

“…and I often
say things I regret. If by some miracle I have children and they’re
anything like my nieces and nephews, I’m bound to tell them they’re
annoying snots and that I wish the fairies would carry them away.
Of course, it wouldn’t be true… They’d hate me.”

“Mademoiselle,
if your children were my children, they’d adore you.” She glanced
up at him, her eyes wide with hope. “Compared to their
sanctimonious know-it-all father their mother would seem
ideal.”

Mademoiselle
leaned closer, “That would be a very good reason to marry a
man!”

Peter’s empty
chest ached for air as brown eyes smiled up at him. “It would?”

“Papa!” Feeling
dazed, Peter’s head jerked up to see Cecil above on the landing
with a stern expression. “What are you doing with
Mademoiselle?”

“She feels
faint. I’m helping her to her room.” Peter’s defiant tone brought
the younger man marching down the stairs.

Stopping on the
next step up Cecil returned Peter’s spine-chilling glare. “I will
assist Mademoiselle.”

Peter flushed
in rage, “She asked me to assist her.”

“Mademoiselle
is probably too faint to remember the last time you helped her from
a room.”

The words had a
finality that threatened excruciating embarrassments if ignored.
The perfect opportunity to propose was blown into the wind like a
dandelion clock. There was no telling how long it would be before
Peter could snatch a few private moments with the woman. It might
be weeks. By then she’d have forgotten she’d practically declared
he should offer for her. With his luck, his helpful sons would have
introduced her to some young buck unencumbered with brats. She’d
fall in love with her new lover, and he’d be left to watch
happiness ride away in some other man’s carriage.

“I’m helping
Mademoiselle,” said Peter.

“I’ll help the
lady; you find Cosmo. You must have said something to upset him. He
cursed you like a sailor and swore he’d pay the first whore he
found to give him the pox just to spite you. You know he’ll fondle
some respectable widow and end up pushed into the street. Go find
him before he gets run over and you spend the rest of your life
feeling like a failure.”

Clenching his
teeth, Peter muttered, “There’s no need to wait for the rest of my
life. Excuse me Mademoiselle, my eldest brat insists on helping
you.” Removing his arm from around Isabel’s waist, Peter stood
there too angry to move as he watched the two climb the stairs and
disappear.

A few minutes
later his son was back with the stern expression, “What are you
waiting for?”

“I didn’t know
I needed my son’s p-permission to stop on the stairs and
think.”

“You don’t have
time to think. Cosmo is probably at the King’s Head moaning to the
nearest drunk that no-one understands him. If he doesn’t
proposition a virtuous widow, he’ll drink himself stupid and take
the king’s shilling. Do you want Cosmo to die at sea?”

“No…” Peter
stared up the stairs as he imagined the English Channel between him
and his five sons. If he sent them all on a grand tour of the
continent, he’d be able to marry Isabel. A blissful year alone with
Isabel would be worth the expense.

“Are you going
to gather wool or find Cosmo? I’d go, but he won’t listen to
me.”

Peter limped to
his room, pulled on his hat, and grabbed his walking stick.
Resisting the temptation to knock of Isabel’s door he forced
himself to set off to find his son. He tried to organise his
thoughts into a suitable apology, but the memory of Isabel’s brown
eyes smiling up at him made it hard to remember what he was
doing.

The King’s Head
was an old coffee house. It offered various refreshments to
undiscerning men too poor or blind to care that the tables hadn’t
been wiped in years with anything other than the coat sleeves of
its regular customers. Holding his small bowl of coffee Cosmo
scanned the clumps of patrons. Old black tricorns and round hats
were glamorised by the odd fashionable beaver bobbing up and down
as the wearers laughed at some shared joke. All the noses drooping
into their drinks were unfamiliar to him.

Moving to the
back of the room, Cosmo found an empty table with an abandoned
broadsheet. Claiming it, he sat down and sipped the sickly black
syrup as he looked to see whether any previous patron had carved
his name into the grime. Yes, someone had recorded a visit in 1753
and years later in 1777. Resisting the temptation to scratch 1818,
Cosmo picked up the broadsheet and stared unseeing at the
advertisements, wedding announcements, hangings, and other social
events. He couldn’t help wondering if the other men who’d shared
the table’s history had been equally cursed with heartless
families.

There was
something strangely comforting about the lingering stench of bodies
long since laid in earth. The England of his childhood was changing
into something he found deeply uncomfortable. As soon as he turned
twenty-one he’d plant himself at the larger of his two properties
and do his best to maintain the community the way he found it.
Change for the sake of change was a waste of money. People like
Robert wanted to kick the past into a dung hill and shove the human
race off a cliff into the hands of a few madmen who thought steam
powered carriages and electrical machines were somehow the future.
Horses had been doing a fine job for millennia; to what purpose did
the world need to travel faster? One couldn’t make corn grow faster
and even if one could, how would one keep it from the mice and
rats? Napoleon, another lunatic obsessed with change, had been
vanquished and imprisoned on a small island. That’s where Cosmo
would send all social innovators; a barren island where they could
torment each other with their new fangled nonsense.

Cosmo’s stomach
ached as his thoughts turned back to the ugly scene in the drawing
room. How could his father think he’d bed the evil Miss Ugly?
Charles wasn’t the only one the shrew sneered in the street. A
pleasant visit with Aunt Joan was always ruined by the short walk
past the local inn to visit the castle ruins. The thought of
exposing his nakedness to the heartless chit made him feel sick.
How could his father think he would? The thought brought his blood
back to the boil. He was trying to fathom how his father could be
so wise and yet so stupid when a man stopped next to his table, and
clearing his throat asked, “May I join you?”

Scowling up at
his father, he was pleased to see the man had to stand hunched over
to keep his head from hitting the ceiling. “If you must.” From
behind the broadsheet, he listened as the big man sat down and
cleared his throat again. “If you’re ailing my Lord, your time
would be better spent visiting an apothecary. If you’re lucky he
may even sell ribbons.”

“I’ve c-c-come
to apologise,” said Peter.

“That’s very
big of you,” sneered Cosmo.

“Robert admits
being the father.”

Cosmo crunched
his newspaper screen in shock, “What did you do, threaten to tar
and feather him?”

“He said your
uncle could raise the infant to be a free servant. I think he meant
it.”

“Of course he
meant it. Why do you think I hate him?”

“I’ve failed as
a father.”

“Why, because
Robert can’t keep his fall buttoned? We’ve all been to Bedlam to
see the lunatics suffering from the pox. If Robert thinks life is a
game of Evens and Odds he’ll deservedly die in Cecil’s attic.”

“I’m sorry I
said those things to you.”

“You mean
you’re sorry for accusing me of courting a woman who’s old enough
to be my mother and bedding a heartless slut?”

“I was
upset.”

“How could you
think I’d court Mademoiselle?”

“I’m not
thinking clearly…” said Peter.

“Clearly! You
need to persuade your dream Mabel to marry you before you go
mad.”

A large fist
thumped the dirty table, “It would be easier if you’d all stop
t-trying to help me.”

Cosmo cringed
as the other patrons turned to stare. “Lower your voice! You’re
embarrassing me.”

His father’s
eyes bulged. “I’m embarrassing you? If you want to know the meaning
of embarrassment, allow me to advertise that you need a wife,
revealing your most p-p-private feelings and desires.”

“Don’t blame me
Papa. It wasn’t my idea, and I thought you’d forgiven us.”

The man sighed
as if being reminded of another failing was too much to bear. “It’s
d-difficult…when you keep helping.”

“Helping?”
Cosmo scowled in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“Mademoiselle
de Bourbon!” said Peter.

“What about
her?”

“You keep
helping her!”

“So? What does
that have to do with you?”

“You’re trying
to help her, admit it!”

Cosmo opened
his mouth to reveal Mademoiselle was helping them, but he pinched
his lips back together and sighed in weary irritation. “It’s none
of your business.” The words made his father’s eyes bulge in anger.
“Why are you so upset Papa? You don’t even want her.” Cosmo assumed
his father’s coughing fit was a clear negative. “It’s just as well
she’s not the woman of your dreams. You’d have to order new
furniture. It’s one thing for a man to endure a dainty settee, but
a tall woman needs a large settee to look dainty.”

“A new bed…”
muttered Peter.

“Everything in
the house would have to be changed or moved. I can’t stand those
houses where all the rooms are refurbished in the latest style. A
house needs history, mismatching pieces of furniture, and the odd
hideous room. A tall wife would require too much change. You
wouldn’t be happy Papa.”

“I would if she
owned my heart.”

“Mademoiselle
will never want your heart. I’m surprised she can bear to sit next
to you at table. It’s a pity…she would have made a lovely
stepmother. Think of all the things you could have done with eighty
thousand pounds…eighty thousand…”

“A good man
doesn’t marry for money. He chooses the woman who makes him feel
whole and complete. The heart is b-blind to statistics and rules.
If it chooses a tall woman you’ll turn your house upside d-down and
think it a pleasure.”

“If the future
resembles the present I’ll die a bachelor.”

“You’ll find
someone Cosmo.”

“I don’t want
someone. I need a wealthy beauty, or Robert will crow his wife is
superior till one of us is slung into the crypt.”

His father’s
eyes chilled. “Are you intending to display or d-defend your
wife?”

“Both. If I can
find one.”

“A wife isn’t a
hinged porcelain ornament…”

“I don’t want
to talk about wives, or I might need to buy some female company.”
Cosmo’s half-hearted threat made his father visibly pale. Feeling
satisfied, Cosmo raised his paper hoping to end the
conversation.

“Son…”

“Yes?”

“Is there
anything I can do for you? Is there anything you need?”

If his father
felt really guilty, Cosmo knew this would be a good time to ask for
his longed for gig. He’d start by asking for something outrageous
and then slowly ease the conversation to the less expensive
vehicle. “I need a black and gold curricle with a pair of black
matching mares.”

His father sat
there staring at him with a pained expression, “I’ll pay half…when
you come of age.”

Cosmo stared
back stunned. “You will? Why aren’t you refusing to buy one as
usual?”

“Because I’ve
failed you as a father. The least I can do is help you buy
something you want.”

“You’re buying
my forgiveness with half a gift? I’m honoured by your
generosity.”

“A man values
his belongings when he has to reach into his own pocket. You’ll be
a more thoughtful d-driver if your own money is invested in your
horses.”

Cosmo sneered
at the offer, “I’ll buy my own. Buy Cecil half a curricle. Most of
his money is spent paying for servants to live in a house he never
visits. I’m glad I don’t have to live there. It still stinks of
Great Aunt Charlotte. George says she haunts her old dressing room.
She’s probably still admiring her wrinkled skin, waiting for that
fortune-hunter, the one who fell off his horse and broke his neck
trying to rescue his hat from a squirrel. Pray God they don’t have
to write that on my memorial. Killed by a squirrel…”

“Do you need
anything that costs less than ten pounds?” asked Peter.

“Actually, now
that you mention it there are a few things you could get for me
that might salve my wounded feelings; a large mixed bag of lemon
and black-current sweets, one dozen cravats, a bottle of my
favourite cologne, three pairs of dancing slippers, a new
toothbrush and a delicate ivory fan; one with a humorous
cupid.”

“The fan alone
will cost more than five pounds.”

“Will it? Then,
you can’t be very sorry for accusing me of being a lying, ugly slut
using, fortune-hunting, old-maid whoremonger.”

“I told you I
was sorry!” snapped Peter. “Why the d-devil do you need a lady’s
fan?”

“So I’ll have
something ready to give my intended once I find her. Some of us are
still sane enough to live in hope. You might want to hurry.
Sweetshops run out of lemon drops when Uncle John visits Bath. And
don’t forget my toothbrush. You don’t want my teeth to grow fungus.
Your dream lover will think you’re a miser.”

Watching his
father stand up, a painful thud was followed by curses on all low
beams. Fate had punished his father for being heartless. Cosmo
acknowledged his father’s polite bow with a faint nod and then
watched him leave, disappointed that the tall man escaped without
injuring his head a second time.