Dancing the Maypole (35 page)

“I can’t send
him off to be p-pummelled. I’m his father. I’m supposed to protect
him.”

“My brother
stands eleven inches over four feet,” said Isabel. “When he was
nineteen, he looked like a twelve-year-old boy wearing a fake
moustache. He’d come home almost every day with a new bruise
courtesy of some heartless bully who thought it amusing to
manhandle a little man. When he announced to my parents that he’d
be visiting Edinburgh, my father went as white as his shirt;
obviously imagining every conceivable harm that might befall his
only son. It was Mamma who, through clenched teeth, told Louis to
make sure he packed enough changes of linen and to refill the
contents of his travelling apothecary box before setting out. My
parents barely ate or slept during the two weeks Louis was away.
Louis returned with several new bruises and increased confidence.
Thankfully, he didn’t need another outing for several months, or
Papa would have starved to death. A mother hen can’t keep a young
cockerel under her wing. You have to let go. If he’s pummelled
enough times he’ll think before sharing facts. If his brothers are
always there to save him, how will he learn?”

Peter closed
his eyes against the insanity of allowing his socially inept son to
venture out into the world alone, but opened them on hearing the
door close. He was alone. Groaning in horror, he cursed his luck.
Isabel would refuse to elope until he’d spoken with Cosmo who might
already have left for the most distant beach in the kingdom.
Clenching his fists Peter unconsciously shook them at the mental
image of Cosmo smirking from the far side of the Isle of White. Out
of the dusty corners of his mind crept mental images of his own
mother making a similar gesture after Peter had failed to be a good
example for his younger brothers. There was only one suitable thing
to say. “Les Enfants!” Shouting at the ceiling seemed to ease the
rage. “Why d-do children have to make life so c-c-cursed hard?”

Hearing a loud
clicking, Peter whirled around, straining his injured knee. The
romantic agent was sitting on the window seat looking smug. His
wide brimmed hat shook slowly from side to side with exaggerated
pity. “What did you think children were for; to comfort you in your
old age, fill long winter hours with free entertainment, make you
happy?”

“I don’t need
your help.”

“Famous last
words… I can’t remember my last words, though obviously they
weren’t my last words. I probably said something boring like,
‘Arrrgh!’ though to be fair, I was in excruciating pain. I wouldn’t
have been singing about May flowers especially since I knew I was
going into the crypt. Always choose the crypt. That way you’ll
never end up a flower in some woman’s hair. It sounds pleasant
until you remember that women who pick flowers in graveyards don’t
often wash. Of course, it also means your heir, if he survives you,
never has to feel guilty about not visiting your grave because
he’ll sit near your grave every Sunday unless he takes up residence
in town to avoid the stench. When my son was born, I verbalised the
hope that he wouldn’t grow up to be a famous wit. He only survived
me by a year. His death finished off his poor mother. I don’t know
which my wife found more shocking; that she was dead or that I
resembled the man she married rather than the ugly corpse she’d
shoved into the family crypt. She’s quite pleased about that…”

Ignoring the
chatty transparent man, Peter reluctantly pulled on a coat, the
extra layer of cloth making the late evening heat almost
unbearable. Limping down the stairs to his brother’s study, he
found Cosmo with his back to the door leaning against the mantel.
With his face pressed against the sleeve of his light green coat,
Cosmo’s wavy golden brown hair looked almost blonde. Closing the
door, Peter loudly cleared his throat. “I’ve finished shaving.
Would you like to tell me what Charles said?” His son’s answer was
a faint bitter sigh. Overcoming his irritation at the non-reply,
Peter limped across the room. “Mademoiselle thinks I’m an idiot for
not letting you go to the seaside.” He paused, hoping to hear some
sort of angry retort. Filling the silence Peter continued, “You
misunderstood me. I’ve never thought you an idiot.” A slight
movement of the young man’s head seemed to suggest Peter should go
to the devil. “And you c-can be sensible, but your habit of sharing
facts easily upsets people. Remember that time you told the
visiting parson that you’d recently read that a large percentage of
Church of England Vicars were secretly Popish and the next d-day he
was found d-d-dead with a note pinned to his chest that said, ‘It’s
true!’.”

“Countless
things are true. It doesn’t mean my chance remark spurred the man
to hang himself.”

“He was found
d-dressed as a Roman Catholic priest.”

“You’re right
Papa. It must be my fault. How silly of me to think the man might
have lost his reason in the night.”

“Son, sharing
facts can have unforeseen consequences. Like the time you went to
Oxford on the mail coach with Charles, and you returned home with a
black eye and a fat lip.”

“That wasn’t my
fault. The man attacked me in a moving carriage for no reason.”

“Charles said
you were leering at the man’s sister.”

“I was smiling.
It’s polite to smile.”

“It’s not
polite to smile at unacquainted ladies while sharing facts about
oranges.”

“The young lady
had a basket of oranges on her lap. I was making polite
conversation.”

“So you asked
to buy one?”

“I was
parched!”

“The man
thought you were propositioning his sister.”

“How was I to
know orange sellers are notorious for selling more than fruit? You
never lectured me on fruit buying etiquette.”

“Cecil says you
were sharing more unwanted facts this afternoon.”

“I was making
conversation. That’s what a man is supposed to do when he meets a
lady.”

“Cecil says you
frightened her away by talking about murdered wives in
Oxfordshire.”

“The lady ran
away after Cecil admired her red and white striped spencer. While
ogling her breasts the idiot informed her she looked like a giant
boiled sweet he’d happily suck on forever. I nearly died of
embarrassment.”

Peter gasped in
horror. “Why d-d-didn’t you stop him?”

“How was I to
know what he’d say? I can’t read Cecil’s mind.”

“Why didn’t
George stop him?”

“George was off
talking to Lucius.”

“Well why did
you mention that you’re unlikely to murder a lady?”

“Because it’s
true,” said Cosmo, “and I think it an important thing for a lady to
know.”

“Son, by
sharing the fact that you’re unlikely to murder her you implied
there was a chance you might murder her. She probably thought you a
lunatic. Share your facts with a notebook and leave the ladies
uninformed or you’ll never find a wife.“

“So now I’m a
boring senseless idiot who’s doomed to die a bachelor. That’s great
news Papa. I’m so glad you sought me out to finish our
conversation.”

Peter rolled
his eyes at the ceiling and shook his clenched fists. Silence
returned to the room making him feel awkward. “I’m sorry Cosmo.
Mademoiselle is right. You’re a man, and I shouldn’t hover like a
nursemaid. If you have the money, and you wish to visit the
seaside…aller!”

The boy’s head
lifted slightly. “Will you come with me?”

Peter grimaced
as he anticipated his son’s disappointment. “I’m in the middle of
c-courting a woman.” The head sunk back down in disappointment.
“I’m not fobbing you off. We can go to the seaside some other
time.”

“When? Next
month?”

“One courts to
wed. I hope to be honeymooning next month. I’ll take you next
summer.”

“You’re
offering to spend time with me in a year? Typical! I can see it
now. When I remind you of your promise, I’ll discover on the day we
set off that we’ll be accompanied by your new wife and child.
Forget I asked. I’m sick and tired of asking for your company only
to find we’re joined by anyone you find more interesting. I might
as well talk to myself.”

“Have some
sympathy!” pleaded Peter. “I need Ma Belle. I’ve been waiting
years…and I’m setting aside my fears to let you be your own
man.”

“How big of
you.”

Peter was
shaking his fists at the ceiling a third time when he turned to
find George eyeing him with concern. “Is Cosmo sulking again?”

“I’m not
sulking. I’m upset! Papa thinks I’m a senseless idiot.”

Shaking his
head, George sighed in exasperation, and slapped his father on the
back. “We’re wanted in the drawing room. The fiends are performing
Cinderella with their little paper theatre. I’ll wager Cinderella
gets stuck up a chimney while one of the wicked step sisters
marries the prince.”

The gloom
pressing down on Peter’s brain lifted allowing him to smile. With
luck the twins would go on for hours, and there wouldn’t be enough
time for Peter and Isabel to act out their unpractised list of
social situations. He’d calmly promise to entertain Agnes the
following evening when he’d be halfway to London with Isabel.

George put his
hand on Cosmo’s shoulder, “Come upstairs and have a glass of
lemonade. You can sit next to me.”

“Why would I
want to sit next to you?” snapped Cosmo. “You and Cecil are always
mocking me…”

“That doesn’t
mean we don’t like you,” said George.

“Do you ever
want to spend time with me without Cecil at your elbow? No. You
don’t like me.”

“Cosmo, it’s
been a hot day. We’re all fraying at the edges…”

“My edges
frayed years ago,” said Cosmo.

“You’ll be more
frayed if you find I’ve finished off the cake and lemonade.”

“I don’t want
any cake or lemonade.”

“You can’t stay
in here. This heat will boil your brain like a plum pudding.”

“So I’ll die.
No-one will miss me.”

“Papa, tell
Cosmo to come upstairs.”

“Leave him!”
Peter ignored the muttered curses coming from the light green coat
and left the door open as he led the way out into the hall. “He’s
upset because I don’t have a week to spend at the seaside.”

George lowered
his voice. “Don’t feel bad Papa, Cosmo’s been upset from birth.
He’s always moaning about being the fourth son. People probably
think you make him scrub floors and eat table scraps. All he needs
is a wicked stepmother to complete his life of woe.” The mention of
stepmothers made Peter smile as he slapped George on the back. A
few agonising hours and he’d be holding Isabel as his wife. “Have
you had good news Papa?”

“Why?”

“You’re smiling
as if you’ve had too many bowls of rum punch.”

Peter’s
euphoric smiled dimmed as he imagined his two eldest sons riding
after Peter to rescue Isabel. “I uh…took some laudanum…for my
knee.”

“Have you any
news from Mabel? Has she agreed to see you?”

Peter forced
his smug smile into a fierce frown. “Oui.”

“Truly?” His
tallest son easily wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “I hope she
gives you another chance. If I fell in love and found the lady’s
door closed to me…” The younger man sighed as if fearing the
unthinkable. “How do you bear it?”

Peter silently
cursed his lips as they reformed into a smug revealing smile. Too
much smiling might make his son suspicious. The thought made his
face contort into an unhappy expression. “It’s c-cursed hot in
here.”

“It’s no better
outside. I hope it’ll rain tomorrow and clear the air.”

“Rain?” Peter’s
smile faded without effort as he saw a vision of reaching London in
his curricle with his bride drenched to the skin. She might catch a
chill. She might die of fever like his father. Pausing mid-step,
thirty years vanished. He was standing in the main drawing room in
Adderbury House feeling the weight of the world on his young
shoulders. There wasn’t another tear to cry. All he felt was rage
as he choked on the smell of death. Staring at his father’s corpse,
dressed for his final ride to church, he could hear his mother
sobbing as she begged the Vicar for another hour with her husband.
In that moment Peter hated his father for dying and for putting him
in a position where he was forced to bruise his mother’s broken
heart by ordering the lead coffin sealed.

“What’s the
matter Papa? Are you ill?”

“The mention of
rain…made me think of my father.”

“I’m sorry
Papa. I forgot that rain makes you sad. I wish I could have known
him.”

“So do I. He
always made me feel big.”

Peter could
feel his son looking at him with concern. “You are big Papa.”

“Not as b-big
as Monsieur de Bourbon.”

“I see what you
mean. Monsieur is rather intimidating for a man 5ft 4’. That must
have been a frightening interview when you…called to
apologise…”

“You’ve no
idea,” said Peter.

“Aunt Agnes
says he keeps a loaded pistol in his pocket on the chance he needs
to shoot someone. I’m glad he didn’t shoot you. Anyway, lots of
people find you intimidating and almost everyone has to look up at
you.”

“It would have
been easier if he’d shot me. I wouldn’t need to worry about Ma
Belle dying of fever…”

The hand on
Peter’s shoulder gave an affectionate squeeze. “It’s true Mabel may
die tomorrow, but you might die tonight in your sleep. You can’t
worry about the unknown.”

Peter grimaced,
“Thank you son, that makes me feel so much b-b-better.”

“It should!
Anything might happen at any time. You have to focus on the prize,
not on the possibility of dying before you reach it. Win Mabel’s
heart, and then ride off in a cloud of dust to somewhere
romantic…like Canterbury.”

“Canterbury?”
Peter glanced at his son in concern. “What’s romantic about
Canterbury?”