Dancing the Maypole (37 page)

“You’re looking
flushed Mademoiselle,” said Cecil. Shall I fetch you a glass of
lemonade?”

“No thank you
Mr Smirke.”

A short silence
was broken by Cecil sighing, “This heat will be the death of us.”
The young man’s attention was diverted by the sight of his father
limping into the room, followed by his brother George. Isabel
smiled as her hero furtively glanced in her direction and then
eased himself down opposite, a fleeting look of pain interrupting
his scowl. “George,” asked Cecil, “why does Papa look like the
devil? Did Cosmo threaten to run away and join the Navy again?”

George perched
on the arm of the settee and loudly whispered into Cecil’s ear,
“Papa’s angry because Mamma never told him she hated rose sweets.
Frankly, if Papa can’t kiss a woman and taste the fact she’s been
sucking on violet sweets all day it doesn’t bode well for his May
belle.”

“Mamma probably
insisted on kissing him with her lips closed,” said Cecil. “You
know she was sensitive about her missing teeth.”

“Yes, but she
still had most of her teeth when they married. Maybe Papa doesn’t
know how to kiss a woman. He certainly doesn’t know what it means
to be romantic. He took Mamma to buy furniture and wallpaper for
her honeymoon. She must have been half-mad with boredom.”

Cecil smiled,
staring into the future, “I’ll take my wife somewhere romantic like
Vauxhall Gardens. We’ll eat some ham, enjoy the fireworks and then
find a dark corner…”

“Mamma hated
Vauxhall. She called it the Devil’s playground, but then she hated
crowds. I think she was only ever happy mending linen.”

Cecil visibly
shuddered, “If my wife prefers her sewing basket to my bed I’ll die
of shame.”

Peter’s cheeks
flushed as his nostrils flared in silent horror. His mortification
wasn’t over as his second son whispered loudly, “If my wife goes to
the grave unable to tell me I’ve been buying her the wrong sweets
I’ll feel like a monumental failure.”

Isabel snapped
her fan closed and lightly tapped Cecil on the arm. “Your father
looks ill. Do you think he’s in need of some lemonade?”

“George,” said
Cecil, “fetch Papa a glass of lemonade before he dies and we end up
responsible for Cosmo and Robert.”

Still sprawled
in the armchair, Robert opened one eye. “If you love me Papa, don’t
even think of dying before you make Uncle James my legal
guardian.”

“Yes, make
Uncle James his guardian,” insisted Cecil. “I’ll kill him and
they’ll hang me for murder. Mamma would flood heaven with her
tears. The last thing she said to me was, ‘Cecil, promise me you’ll
live to be Lord Adderbury.’ She was dying; I couldn’t tell her I
wouldn’t wish my father dead. ‘Cecil, she said, I want you to marry
a beautiful wealthy lady with lots of teeth…who won’t ever make you
feel ashamed to attend the playhouse.’ Well, that’s what she
said.”

“Your mother,”
said Peter, “should have told me I was giving her the wrong
b-b-blasted sweets. Why couldn’t she say, ‘My Lord, I hate rose
sweets. Don’t buy them it’s a waste of money.’ Why couldn’t she say
that? Am I so frightening?” Peter’s ferocious scowl made the answer
best left unsaid.

Isabel fanned
her face as she tried to think of something to say that would ease
the tension. “I prefer rose sweets…” Her cheerful words sounded
like a slur on the dead Lady Adderbury. “Violet sweets always make
me feel like I’ve been sipping a bottle…of perfume.” She was
digging her own grave. She smiled and then tried to smooth out her
mistake. “Violet sweets aren’t unpleasant, but I prefer chocolate
health wafers tainted with…” They were all looking at her as if
she’d declared herself insane. “…orange blossom.”

Cecil sighed as
if disappointed. “At least you won’t suffer the fate of the next
Lady Adderbury. She’s sure to receive a monthly supply of the wrong
sweets. Mamma probably told Papa what she liked, but he was
probably mentally planting fields… I mean fields of dirt, not the
euphemism for carnal activities.”

Peter looked as
though he’d fallen asleep with his face against an oven. “God
g-g-give me strength! Why must you say everything that passes
through your brain?”

Cecil looked
taken aback. “What? What did I say?”

“Take a deep
breath Papa,” said George. “You look about to burst a vein. You
don’t want to die. You haven’t told Mabel that you love her, and we
don’t even know who she is…”

Peter glared at
George. “Sacre Bleu! I’m not going to d-die for at least thirty
years. I may even outlive my sons. It happens!”

Robert opened
one eye and looked over at his father. “If Mabel writes you off,
you’ll die of a broken heart. If you start pining, don’t give up
the ghost until I reach my majority.” The young man closed his eye
and settled back into his chair with a smile. “Though being an
orphan would have some pleasurable benefits. All the ladies would
want to comfort me with kisses.”

Isabel had a
strong feeling it would be wise to change the subject away from
death. “Is your knee giving you pain my Lord?”

“Oui.” Peter
growled the word through clenched teeth.

“Perhaps you
should take a dose of laudanum.”

“I wish to wake
b-before noon tomorrow. I have a life to live, whatever some
heartless people may think.” He scowled at his youngest son, but
the boy’s eyes were closed.”

“You should
have mentioned you were in pain,” said Isabel. “I would have
insisted we rehearse sitting down.” Peter’s lips twitched with
amusement as anger faded from his eyes. “You should stay in bed a
week and rest your knee my Lord. I could help you pass the time by
sharing French planting techniques.” Pursing her lips, she silently
admitted she wouldn’t be discussing turnips. Coughing, Peter
tightly crossed his legs, his black eyes daring her to fling
herself into his arms. “Or if you wish, I could read you one of my
romance novels. It might give you some ideas on how to court your
mysterious Mabel.”

“Ma Belle…”
said Peter, his voice sounding hoarse.

George stopped
in front of his father and held out a glass of lemonade. “You sound
as if you’re coming down with something. Drink this, we don’t want
you to die.”

“I’m not
g-going to d-die!” shouted Peter.

“Good,” said
George, “I have no desire to become an orphan.”

“I’m relieved
to hear it,” snapped Peter.

The distant
cries of an angry infant announced the return of Peter’s brother
John and his pretty wife, Joan. The screaming stopped abruptly.
Presumably the babe was again content in her wicked uncle’s arms.
Fanning herself, Isabel silently screamed for George to sit down so
she could be sure Pierre hadn’t died of embarrassment.

Gulping down
the lemonade, Peter handed the glass back to George. He didn’t
trust himself to hold it. If he broke the glass, he might bleed to
death in Isabel’s arms - arms he couldn’t see because George was
towering over him like a walking tree. “Sit down George! You’re
making my neck ache.”

“Sorry
Papa.”

As soon as his
son stepped away, Peter met Isabel gaze. He forgot about dying as
her eyes smiled, easing the tension and making it easier to
breathe. His curricle would be delivered at six in the morning.
Another few hours and he’d retire to bed where he’d lie awake
worrying that their impulsive escape was too unplanned. Where would
they stay the following night? Would he have enough money? Smiling
eyes reassured him all would be well. Smiling back, he caught sight
of Cecil raising an eyebrow. Contorting his face into a scowl Peter
muttered, “It’s c-cursed hot this evening…” His announcement of the
obvious barely registered on the company. His view of smiling eyes
was blocked again. Scowling, his vision focused to find his
youngest brother, John, holding out Robert’s infant.

“Hold your
brat’s brat,” said John. “I need my wife.”

Peter stared at
the baby in shock, “What?”

“I’m going to
make love to my wife in your bed while you hold your
granddaughter.” A hot heavy bundle of white linen was dropped onto
Peter’s lap, followed by a shrill angry scream.

Peter
automatically gathered the infant into his arms, her heat and noisy
rage adding to his physical discomfort. “Why my b-bed?”

“Robert’s room
stinks like his feet, and we can’t use George and Cecil’s bed.”

“Why not?”

“They’re single
men.”

“So am I!”
hissed Peter.

John snorted in
contempt, “If an empty bed bothered you, you’d have done something
about it years ago. Hold the brat and don’t drop her.” John bent
down to address the screaming baby. “This is your grandfather,
Uncle Peter. Be a good brat. You need him to increase your dowry so
you can win a husband who wears a clean shirt every day.”

“I need my
b-bed,” said Peter. “I’m getting up early…”

“I haven’t had
an hour alone with my wife for weeks. If I send the brat off with a
servant, she screams herself blue and starts choking. She seems to
like you. We’ll only be two hours.”

Peter’s mouth
fell open in horror, “Two hours?” Peter saw his secret elopement
being pushed back a whole day. “Why the d-devil do you need two
hours?”

“One for
pleasure, one for sleep. What are you; one of those scheduled
fifteen minutes of relief before sleep sort of men? Your poor wife.
You probably never learned how to make her shudder with pleasure.
That would explain her preference for gulping pints of
laudanum.”

Peter felt his
face burn as he imagined Isabel changing her mind and deciding she
didn’t want to risk becoming the property of a bore who couldn’t
make love to his wife. “There’s a lady p-p-present,” shouted
Peter.

“Where?”

Peter nodded
across from him. “There!”

John Smirke
glanced at Isabel with indifference. “If Brat starts to smell or
looks hungry her wet nurse will be in the nursery…unless she runs
off like the last cursed slut. Don’t leave Brat with the old hag
who attends the fiends. She reeks of gin.”

Peter sighed in
relief as the baby’s cries softened to a bearable mewing. Looking
down he saw a little face that dredged up the memory of holding
George for the first time. She stared back with a wary expression
as if deciding whether to trust him. “Bonjour ma Petite!”

“Brat doesn’t
speak French,” said John.

“She’s a
Smirke. She needs a name. Allow me to be her godfather and name
her.” Seeing his brother’s scowl, Peter said impulsively, “I’ll
p-pay you.”

John pursed his
lips in doubt. “How much?”

“Three
thousand.”

“What sort of
name?”

“Hawise
Françoise.” Peter said the name in a reverent tone.

John Smirke’s
nose wrinkled as if he smelled something foul. “Hahwiss? What sort
of name is that?”

“Medieval…”

A horrified
groan in Peter’s ear made him to turn to find George leaning over
the back of the settee. “You can’t name a girl Hahwiss Papa. It
rhymes with that impolite word we’re not supposed to say in front
of a lady. All the kind young men she snubs, assuming she isn’t
ugly, will call her Prissy Hahwiss. The young men she meets in the
bushes will call her Ah-kiss. And if she can’t win at least one
offer of marriage her first season, she’ll end up known as
Hah-miss.”

“Call my
daughter Hawise,” said Robert, “and I’ll address her in public as,
Hah-piss. I don’t want my friends thinking I gave her that stupid
name. With luck, she’ll die in infancy. If she dies, I expect my
money to be returned with interest.”

Peter glared at
Robert, “Where is your heart?”

Robert opened
one eye, “Would you rather I lied and said I’d miss the creature?
No man wants to start life with all his money poured into the
cradle of a bastard.”

“If you’d
k-kept your trousers on she wouldn’t exist.”

“I’m a man,”
said Robert. “I have needs.”

“You’ll end up
needing a cure for the pox…”

“Not everyone
dies from the pox Papa.”

“Life is not a
game of Evens and Odds,” snapped John.

Robert sneered
in contempt and closed his eyes against future consequences.

Large black
eyes stared up at Peter unconcerned that her fate was being
decided. He could feel her knotting an invisible ribbon around his
heart. She’d dance around him, binding him fast until he woke up to
find he’d sacrifice anything to protect her. “I want to name
her.”

“Name her
what?” asked John.

“I d-don’t
know. It’s hot! I need t-time to think.” Peter suddenly inhaled the
intoxicating smell of summer as Isabel sat next to him and bent
over to see the baby.

“What about
Frances Hawise?” suggested Isabel.

John Smirke
scowled, “Stop screaming Frances…don’t kick the dog Frances…clean
your teeth Frances… No, I don’t like it. She’s only one-eighth
French. Why call the brat after France?”

Peter looked
down at big black eyes. “Bonjour Frances Hawise.” The baby smiled
back as if she understood. “Five thousand.”

John Smirke’s
own black eyes gleamed as he pursed his lips with interest. “Six
thousand! Three for her dowry, three for her upkeep.”

The infant’s
large black eyes smiled as if daring Peter to deny her.
“D’accord!”

John sighed in
resignation, “That’s a fortune for an ugly name, but at least she
won’t be known as Miss Ugly. Poor brat; I was going to Christen her
Jane.”

George shook
his head. “You’d be John, Joan, and Jane. You’d all have variations
of the same name. It sounds…incestuous.”

“It’s a good
English name!” said John.

Agnes entered
the drawing room and stopped to peer over the settee to see the
baby. “What’s a good English name?”

“John!” said
John.

Agnes raised a
single eyebrow. “You want to name the girl John? Have you fallen
over and hit your head again?”