Dancing the Maypole (45 page)

It was an
impossible question that needed an inspired answer. “Son, for
eighteen years my dreams were haunted by a woman I still can’t
remember meeting. I thought she was a fantasy I’d concocted to ease
my loneliness. I can’t remember losing my heart, but I know it’s in
her possession. When she’s within view…colours are brighter, smells
are stronger; I feel intensely alive. And when she smiles at me…
Not a simpering smile. Not the smile of a woman posing for a
portrait or trying to dazzle. The smile that evokes a shared
memory; that she knows that I know what she’s thinking. When she
smiles at me like that, I’m no longer a freakish walking windmill
with a stammer. I’m her c-castle, her hero.” Peter nearly choked on
the last word. “At least I hope I am.”

“I don’t want
to wait eighteen years Papa.”

“Then don’t set
yourself up for years of heartache, like I did. Don’t chain
yourself to a woman you think will make you happy because she can’t
see your pretty face. Don’t assume, like I did, that the woman will
look or be a certain way. The woman who wins your heart may have
perfect sight. You may have to look up into her eyes. She may not
be English. She may not find pretty blonde men attractive. You may
have to work very hard to c-convince her to let you own her heart.
Whether a woman can or can’t see your face shouldn’t be a reason
you consider her a possible wife. The heart d-doesn’t need eyes;
don’t try to see for it.”

Charles exhaled
a loud sigh, and looked up from the floor. “I don’t think I loved
Mrs Malet, but I loved the thought of her singing in my garden. I
am grateful that I own a house and land, but it’s like a tomb.
There’s no laughter or heated arguments. It’s not a home. I hate
being there on my own.”

“You’re always
welcome to share the arguments and laughter under my roof.”

“Thank you
Papa.”

Peter’s tired
brain flashed images of his other unhappy son. “Cosmo was hurt by
what you said to him the other evening. He considers you his best
friend.”

“I know,”
sighed Charles, “but I wasn’t in the mood to be lectured by my
younger brother. Cosmo’s never kissed a girl; why does he have to
offer romantic advice? When he learns he was right; I’ll never hear
the end of it. As they drop me in the crypt he’ll be telling anyone
who’ll listen how he told me I was a fool to fall for a blind widow
nearly old enough to be my mother.”

Peter shrugged
his shoulders, “That’s what brothers are for. You don’t always
understand or like them, but they’re a part of you. They’re the
only people who know you; even if they don’t understand or like
you. This afternoon your Uncle John flew into a passion, verbally
tore off my clothes, and left me naked in front of Ma…Mademoiselle.
I could have k-k-killed him. I had no idea he knew me so well. If I
asked John for help, and it was within his power, he’d help me. I
may be an interfering bore who once pummelled him black and blue
for refusing to marry a woman he thought he’d got with child, but
I’m his brother.”

Charles eyes
bulged in shock. “You pummelled Uncle John and he didn’t kill
you?”

“It was my
responsibility to make him see sense. I couldn’t tell my mother her
favourite son had been pleasuring an old maid for money, or that
the old maid was with child.”

“No, that would
have broken Nana’s heart. I’m sorry I didn’t confide in you about
Mrs Malet. I knew what you’d say, and I didn’t want to hear
it.”

“Son, if your
heart falls into the pocket of a woman who has thirteen years on
you, the only p-person you need c-confide in is the lady. You look
shattered. Mademoiselle’s bed is empty.” The words made Peter’s
chest ache. “Her father carried her off to the other side of
Bristol.”

“What?”
exclaimed Charles. “That’s awful! How are we going to…I mean; I
thought her father was going to France.”

“So did
Mademoiselle,” said Peter.

“That’s cursed
inconvenient. When will she be back?”

The thought of
having to verbally discuss Isabel’s fate made Peter nauseous. “I
don’t know. Go get some sleep. I won’t mention you’ve
returned.”

“Thank you
Papa.”

Alone again,
Peter glared at the clock as it struck a quarter past six. No
longer distracted by his son’s pain, he was aware of the empty ache
in his chest. Even if Isabel had arrived safely, she’d be too tired
to send word. She’d be fast asleep while he went mad with
worry.

He was lost in
a daydream where he was challenging Monsieur de Bourbon to a duel
when a soft cough made him flinch. He turned to see Frederick
holding out a silver tray containing a letter. Peter picked up the
letter and stiffly requested the footman close the drawing room
door on his way out. After the door clicked shut, Peter pressed the
letter to his nose. Hope faded. There was no smell of lilac.
Limping to the window, he caressed the melted blob of wax stamped
with a generic seal.

Taking a deep
breath, he broke the wax. It took several long seconds for his
tired eyes to focus on the words, and then his stomach tightened.
It was from the agent Lucius had left in charge of Adderbury.
Peter’s opportunistic neighbour, the greedy Mr Thompson, had herded
fifty pigs into Peter’s apple orchard. Peter’s agent had been
pummelled for daring to suggest that if the trespassing porkers
weren’t removed, the Smirke family would assume they were a gift
and indulge their taste for bacon every week for a year. The pigs
were feasting on fallen fruit, so Peter’s farm workers couldn’t
finish picking apples for fear of being killed by the pigs.

Peter was
halfway to the door to wake Lucius, when he remembered his cousin
would have gulped down a large dose of laudanum before having his
nose straightened. Lucius wasn’t fit to travel. Crunching the
letter in his hand, Peter paced around the drawing room feeling
impotent against fate. He’d never see Isabel again. Even if she’d
survived the journey to her aunt’s, he’d end up shot by some
highwayman, or one of his wheels would crack, and he’d break his
neck falling into a ditch. Collapsing onto a sofa, he closed his
eyes against the cheerful green and gold drawing room. He didn’t
want to be reminded of his brother’s happiness.

The next thing
Peter knew; he was being torn from the comforting nothingness of
deep sleep back into the nightmare of losing Isabel. Cecil ignored
Peter’s hostile sneer and cheerfully slapped him on the shoulder.
“Come and eat something Papa. You need to keep up your strength if
you intend to roll your beauty in the hay. A man can’t fall on his
knees and recite sickly poetry on an empty stomach.”

“Go to the
d-devil…has there been any p-p-post?”

“Why?” Cecil
arched a single eyebrow. “Are you expecting a letter from
Mabel?”

Peter’s sleepy
brain dredged up the letter still clutched in his hand. “I’m
expecting more bad news from Adderbury. That swine, Thompson,
p-parked his p-pigs in the apple orchard, and then pummelled Smith
for demanding they be removed. I’ll have to…” Peter’s brain flashed
with a bright hopeful light as he realised he didn’t have to die.
“I need you return to Adderbury and tell Thompson to move his
pigs.”

“You don’t want
me to tell Thompson to move his pigs,” said Cecil. “He’ll shoot
me!”

“Why the
d-devil would he shoot you?”

“The last time
we met, he offered me his daughter’s hand in marriage and fifteen
thousand pounds. Robert thinks her upturned nose is adorable, but
when I look at Felicity all I see is a snout.”

“What?” Peter
sat upright. “Thompson made you an offer of marriage? Without
consulting me?”

“I know, I was
horrified too. The thought of seeing Felicity Thompson naked leaves
me completely flaccid. When I told Thompson I’d be unable to
consummate the marriage because his daughter brings to mind a pig,
he tried to stab me with a letter-knife. A man can’t even tell the
truth without someone taking offence.”

“When was
this?” asked Peter.

“Six months
ago.”

“Six months?
Where the d-devil was I?”

“Attending that
house party up north where Iris Bedingfield mocked your stammer.
I’ve never met anyone so self-absorbed as Miss Iris. Appropriately,
if you say her name quickly with a French accent it sounds like
misery…”

“How the
d-d-devil would you know she mocked my stammer?”

“It was the
talk of the village. Servants know everything Papa. There’s no
better currency than the Lord’s latest humiliation. Mother said the
servants used to be able to sell stories to the shopkeeper for
sweets and ribbons. I assume that was before she married you.”

Peter shivered
in fear at the thought of his brothers’ servants revealing his
secret.

“I’ll never
forget that look on your face. You came home looking like someone
had used your heart as a shuttlecock. George thought it best not to
mention Thompson’s offer. I managed to forget about it…until now.
Send Lucius; once he’s fit to travel he’ll want an excuse to leave.
I get the feeling he’d find being roasted on a spit preferable to
sharing a roof with Aunt Agnes.”

“It can’t wait
that long,” said Peter. “Thompson’s cursed swine will soon tire of
apples and start foraging. They’ll trample some child picking
mushrooms, and it’ll be my fault. I want to court Ma Belle without
feeling guilty. I want to bring my bride home to a happy
village.”

Cecil gazed
into the distance, “It’s a pity Charles isn’t back. He can look
quite frightening when he effects Uncle John’s supercilious
manner.”

“Curse Thompson
and his swine! I’ll have to g-go myself.” Peter stood up feeling
defeated. Fate would get him; something bad would happen. “I’ll
d-die in an accident. I’ll never g-get to marry Ma Belle.”

“You sound too
morose to be travelling on your own. I’ll come with you.”

“No! I need to
go on my own.” Peter knew that he wouldn’t be able to drive all the
way to Adderbury without making a detour to visit Isabel. With any
luck, Monsieur de Bourbon would shoot him and he’d bleed to death
in Isabel’s arms. He’d expire with his cheek resting on her soft
bosom. Having decided he’d die in peace; Peter shoved his agent’s
letter into his pocket. “I smell bacon! Did you say breakfast was
served?”

“The first
dishes arrived twenty minutes ago. If you don’t hurry your bacon
will be in Cosmo’s stomach.”

Peter followed
his son to the green breakfast room, and ignored the paintings of
chickens as he heaped poached eggs onto his plate.

Deaf to the
conversation, Peter mindlessly chewed his food. “Peter!” A hard
elbow poked him in the ribs making him spill chocolate down his
cravat. It took an effort to lift his head and glare at Agnes.
“Cecil says you’re returning to Adderbury to save the villagers
from marauding pigs.”

“T-T-Thompson,
the evil swine, settled his pigs in my orchard. Smith went to
ask…”

Agnes
interrupted, “As you’ll be driving northward, I need you to make a
detour and call on my cousin Isabel. She writes that Marie forgot
to pack her favourite fan.”

Peter’s breath
froze in his lungs, as his brain finally comprehended the words.
Isabel was safe! He tried to slowly exhale, but it came out as a
groan.

“There’s no
need to sound tormented,” said Agnes. “You needn’t stay longer than
the obligatory fifteen minutes. It’s unlikely Uncle Louis will kill
you for delivering a fan.”

The number
fifteen echoed in Peter’s brain like a death sentence. For a whole
fifteen minutes, he’d be trapped in a drawing room with Isabel’s
parents and any other family in the mood to ogle the infamous Lord
Adderbury. He’d sit eight feet from Isabel stammering about the
weather, stand to take his leave, hand her a fan and then be forced
to walk away not knowing if she’d still be in the country when he
returned. He’d have to find an excuse to see her alone. Better
still, to meet after dark. If her aunt didn’t keep peacocks or
guard dogs he’d sneak up to the house…

“Papa?” said
Robert.

“What?” snapped
Peter.

“I think you
should send Cosmo to Adderbury. He likes telling people what to do,
and while he’s there he can pay his respects to Miss Felicity. I
understand from a reliable source she’d enjoy giving him his first
kiss.”

Cosmo made a
choking sound. “You’re such a liar. The only Smirke she wants to
kiss is Cecil, preferably at the altar. Every time I see her she
asks me if I think Papa will live much longer. Last year she
offered me five pounds to steal some of Cecil’s unwashed linen. The
woman’s deranged.”

Cecil stood up
and gave Cosmo a menacing glare. “You gave that pig-girl a pair of
my smalls?”

“No! Do I look
like an idiot?”

“I think you
do…” began Robert.

“Shut up
Robert! She didn’t want your dirty smalls Cecil. She wanted a
shirt; something that smelled of you.”

“I think I’m
going to be sick,” said Cecil. “For the sake of your sore nose, I
hope you refused.”

“Of course I
refused,” said Cosmo, “but then she offered me ten pounds. If
someone offered you ten pounds for one of my shirts, you’d tear the
one I was wearing off my back.”

“The only woman
who’d want Cosmo’s shirt,” sneered Robert, “is one left naked in a
ditch.”

Cosmo glared at
Robert, “The only thing a woman would do with one of your stinking
shirts, is dress a scarecrow.”

Cecil cracked
his knuckles. “You sold Miss Felicity one of my shirts for ten
pounds?”

“How could I
steal one of your shirts when they’re all numbered? One of the
laundry maids would have been blamed. I sold her one of mine. She
couldn’t smell any difference, which I found rather odd. You’d
think with that big nose…”

“Cosmo
Xavier!”

Cosmo turned to
glare at Peter, “What? Why are you glaring at me?”