Dancing the Maypole (41 page)

Cosmo’s face
flushed with rage, “If Mademoiselle’s kindness makes you jealous
because your dream lover can’t stand the sight of you, don’t take
it out on me. I’m not your whipping boy. As soon as I’m twenty-one
I’m leaving and I’m never coming back!”

Cecil turned to
George, “Except to show off his rich wife…”

“And to collect
his Christmas presents,” said George.

“I hate you!”
shouted Cosmo. “I hate all of you…except Mademoiselle. You’re all
hateful, heartless…Smirkes!”

Peter could
easily imagine Isabel changing her mind and riding off to join her
parents in France; anything to avoid having to mother his brats.
“Don’t say your name as if it’s some sort of offensive insult.”

“It might as
well be,” snapped Cosmo. “What good has a Smirke ever done? Was
there a Smirke at the Battle of Hastings? Was there a Smirke who
cared enough to choose between Cromwell and the crown?”

Cecil sighed in
irritation, “How should we know? We weren’t there!”

“There were
never any Smirkes present when the fate of our nation was being
decided,” proclaimed Cosmo. “Do you know why?”

George exhaled
another long sigh, “I have a feeling Cosmo will tell us…”

“While Harold
was getting an arrow in the eye at the Battle of Hastings our
Smirke forefather was fondling some defrocked nun in a barn.”

“Only Cosmo
would be a seer of the worthless past instead of seeing future
Scientific advances,” said Robert.

Cosmo ignored
his brother and continued, “There aren’t any Smirkes mentioned in
history because we were too busy copulating behind hedged or under
church pews…”

“I hope he’s
seeing into my future,” said George.

Cecil raised an
eyebrow, “You want to make love to your wife under a church
pew?”

“How could I
make love under a church pew? I’m too big. I need a wife.”

“You see!”
shouted Cosmo. “George could be doing anything, but he’s standing
here thinking about bedding some faceless wench.”

“I’m standing
here listening to you rant when I’d rather be thinking of bedding a
lusty wench. That should count for something.” Cosmo’s brothers
laughed as they nudged each other with their elbows.

“You won’t be
laughing when I marry a wealthy heiress, and you miss the wedding
because you weren’t invited.”

“That’ll make
Cosmo the talk of the town,” said George.

“At least for
three days,” said Cecil.

“Presuming he
finds an heiress willing to share his bank account,” sneered
Robert.

“At least I
have a bank account!” said Cosmo. “Any money your estate makes will
go to pay for your bastard…”

“Cosmo!”
Peter’s glare made the boy blush. “Go and change your shirt.”

“Where am I
supposed to change? My chamber will be occupied by Lucius and some
blood spattered barber.”

“Next time you
might consider the c-c-consequences before smashing a tankard into
your cousin’s face.”

“I broke his
nose because he slammed my head…”

“Yes,” said
Cecil with a weary sigh. We’ve heard the story.”

“Cosmo could
entertain the neighbours and change in the street.”

“Shut up
Robert, before I change your face…”

“Cosmo Xavier!
When you return to the drawing room, I expect you to act like a
gentleman and ignore Robert’s infantile taunts.”

“When I ignore
him, he says I’m spineless.”

“Then ignore
him some more,” said Peter. “Sometimes a man has to p-pretend he’s
deaf.”

“That’s easy
for you to say. You’re so tall you probably don’t hear what people
sneer at you. If you think the term Madderbury is insulting…”

“There’s a lady
p-p-present!”

“Yes, a lady
you flung over your shoulder like a bag of bones,” said Cosmo.
“Your dream mistress must think you the biggest offensive bore ever
born.” Peter winced as the words punched him in the chest. “If she
has any sense she’ll marry a soldier, and leave you to rot in your
attic.”

Taking several
deep breaths, Peter managed to sound calm, “If you’ve finished
insulting me, perhaps you’ll change your shirt for
Mademoiselle?”

Cosmo glared up
at him as if disappointed in his father’s polite response and then
turning, stomped down the stairs.

Peter struggled
to swallow a sudden lump in his throat as he watched the green
coat, covering stiff shoulders, move out of sight. A sick feeling
in his stomach promised future unpleasant scenes. “Children…”
Muttering the word under his breath Peter glanced at Isabel to find
her brown eyes filled with compassion.

“My Lord, come
sit down and rest your knee.”

Peter followed
Isabel back into the drawing room and gingerly sat down. “My son
hates me.”

“He doesn’t
hate you,” said Isabel. “It’s hot. He’ll forget it all by
morning.”

Cecil groaned
in despair, “He won’t ever forget. Ten years from now we’ll all be
gathered for Christmas, quietly relaxing in front of the fire,
feeling full of good cheer, when Cosmo will start moaning into his
cup about the time we came to Bath and he was thrown out of The
Maiden’s Head because of Lucius and Papa blamed him for stinking up
the drawing room.”

“I think he
just wants people to spend time with him,” said Isabel.

“Yes,” said
Cecil “and when we do he moans about the people who aren’t
present.”

“Or the bore
lectures us about one of his facts he thinks we need to know,” said
Robert. “As if I care how many unmarried women die in
childbirth.”

Peter glared at
Robert, “It so happens that people we find boring usually find us
equally boring. Remember that next time he tries to save another
young woman from an early grave by reminding you to keep your fall
buttoned.“

“I thought we
weren’t supposed to mention falls in front of ladies,” said Robert
with a sly expression.

“It’s a little
late for niceties,” snapped Peter. “If you’d listened to your
brother you wouldn’t have to look forward to reaching your majority
out of pocket, or admitting to any future lady you might wish to
wed that your niece is your daughter, or that you’ve whored your
way through the country gaining every imaginable disease along the
way.”

“Papa please!”
Robert blushed in horror. “You’re embarrassing me.”

“I’m
embarrassing you?” Peter caught Isabel’s eye and exhaled the rest
of his lecture in an angry sigh. Her silent sympathy made his
failure as a parent easier to bear. “Forgive me Mademoiselle, it’s
been too long since I regularly shared a d-drawing room with a
lady. I fear I forget my manners…again.”

Isabel sat
opposite, cradling the infant. “Your manners aren’t as bad as you
imagine my Lord. Your faux pas appear unintentional. My father
enjoys being intentionally rude. He pretends he doesn’t know he’s
mortifying English people, but he does. I think Mamma is insensible
to embarrassment. Perhaps that’s what happens after forty years of
marriage.” She glanced down at the baby and then up at Peter with a
look in her eyes that made the empty hole in his chest feel full of
warm sunlight. He chortled with euphoric laughter until he caught
sight of George eyeing him with concern. The smile fell from his
lips as he forced himself to look away from Isabel’s amused
expression and focus on the bracket clock. Agnes would return at
any moment and insist he stand up and humiliate himself, but it
didn’t matter. At first light, with Isabel at his side, he’d be
laughing his way to London.

Glancing at her
dishevelled hero, Isabel found it easy to imagine Peter Smirke
stranded on a desert island. With his black curls jutting out at
odd angles, and the knot falling out of his cravat, he might have
just waded ashore after escaping from Spanish pirates. He’d take
off his coat, survey his new home, and then set about gathering
coconuts into a sack fashioned from his linen shirt. Shaking with
silent laughter, Isabel’s amusement abruptly ended as the
newly-named Frances opened her eyes and let out a piercing
wail.

Wincing, Isabel
stood up and lightly bounced the baby in her arms making reassuring
noises. Propping Frances against her shoulder, she started singing
the French lullaby that always soothed her sister’s infants. She
was confident the child would calm, and then her hero would know
she’d be an excellent mother. Cecil, George, and Robert hurried
from the room with pained expressions, the last one out closing the
door. Isabel silently cursed her luck. After waiting hours for
another chance to be alone with Peter, she was holding a screaming
infant.

After five
minutes, Frances’ red face was turning purple. “Ma Belle…” Isabel
raised her head to find Peter standing beside her with outstretched
arms. Her ears ringing, she sighed in defeat and handed him the
baby. Her smile settled in her heart as she watched him cradle his
granddaughter in his large hands. He crooned an English lullaby in
a muted baritone, but there was no softening of the angry wail.

Isabel was
trying to think of a tactful way of suggesting Peter interrupt his
brother’s conjugal activities when the door burst open, and John
Smirke marched into the room. Peter’s large dressing gown was held
closed with only two buttons revealing the man was otherwise naked.
Blushing, Isabel looked away, but her gaze returned to
flesh-coloured gaps outlined by black silk. The scowling man
snatched up the crying infant causing near instant peace.

“You couldn’t
let me have another half hour with my wife could you? Now, instead
of dozing in my wife’s arms, thinking charitable thoughts, I’ll be
lying on my back staring at the ceiling holding a hot infant. I
hope you wake in the night lusting after some ugly woman who hates
you. Or better still, you wake to find yourself chained to this
maypole. The way she ogles you, she’s obviously desperate to become
the latest lamppost in the family…”

Isabel bristled
at the insult until she noticed Peter’s face had drained of
kindness as he gave his brother a spine-chilling glare. “If you
weren’t holding an infant, I’d break your snotty nose. You insult
Mademoiselle!”

“So?” John
Smirke was unrepentant. “Are you now the old maid’s self-appointed
guardian?”

“No.”

“Shock me, the
lady’s lover?”

“You insult
Mademoiselle de Bourbon…”

“What do you
care?” John sneered up at his older brother, “I’ve heard you flung
the wench over your shoulder and carried her from your house in
disgust.”

“I
was…momentarily insane. You are being intentionally offensive.”

“Of course,”
sneered John. “Saint Peter would never intentionally insult a lady
by maltreating her person. Heaven forbid! So now you’ve won the
lady’s pardon you expect us to forget you’ve made a spectacular ass
of yourself…”

“At least I’m
attired for a d-drawing room,” said Peter apparently trying to
change the subject. “Mademoiselle does not wish to see your
nakedness.”

“How do you
know?”

“Because she’s
a lady!”

John’s upper
lip curled in contempt, “What you know about ladies wouldn’t fill a
broadsheet. Joan enjoys seeing me naked. She says I have a…”

“John!” Isabel
jumped at the loud sharp word and held her breath as Peter flushed
with embarrassment. “Your nakedness is not a fit subject for the
drawing room.”

His brother
pursed his lips in disgust. “And you’d know that, because instead
of finding a wife, you’ve spent the last decade reading the latest
etiquette tomes written by old hags desperate for attention.
Miss…whatever your name is…”

“Mademoiselle
de Bourbon,” offered Isabel.

“Mademoiselle,
if you’re contemplating becoming the next Lady Adderbury, pray save
yourself from the travails of childbed and buy a dog. My brother
may be handsome, rich, free of the pox and taller than most horses,
but that doesn’t make him a sensible catch. The man’s first wife
was his chambermaid. Hardly an inspiring recommendation.”

“Unless he
loved her…” said Isabel.

“A man can’t
love a woman he pays to empty his chamber pot. She’s like the chain
in one of those new fangled water closets. The kind you pull to
flush away…”

“What is wrong
with you?” snarled Peter. “Go tell your wife I need my bed and
don’t take half the night dressing. I need the bed linen changed
before I retire.” It was a command without any room for
discussion.

John Smirke
pursed his lips in defiance, “Joan hasn’t slept properly for weeks
because of you. She’ll rest as long as she pleases and if she
doesn’t wake, you can sleep in a chair.”

Isabel glanced
at Peter’s hands. They were clenched in fists. Her gaze returning
to his face, his black eyes were boiling pitch. “It’s not my fault
your wife can’t sleep.”

“No? You
created the thoughtless pig whose brat thinks I’m her nursemaid. A
brat who wakes up four times a night and screams herself blue until
I pick her up and carry her to her wet nurse.”

“I raised
Robert to be a g-good man. If the boy insists on following your
hellish example there isn’t much I c-can do, is there?”

John’s black
marble eyes narrowed with resentment. “You think you’re so
superior; always the elder, always the biggest, always in the
right. You think you’re superior because you never do anything
obviously wicked. You don’t do anything wicked because you have the
imagination of a brick. You’re a boring red brick in a boring red
wall built to keep people safe from unknown pleasures.
Mademoiselle, if you have any sense you’ll pack your trunks and
find a man who’ll appreciate your breasts. Heaven knows Saint Peter
won’t have noticed them.” Turning away, John Smirke shifted the
baby to his shoulder and headed for the door. “Poor brat, was
Uncle-Grandpa Peter holding you like a piece of mouldy cheese?
Don’t worry, not all Smirkes are idiots…”