Dancing the Maypole (46 page)

“You should
have refused the request; your lie may have c-c-caused harm.”

“How?” demanded
Cosmo. “My shirts smell better than Cecil’s. If the lunatic wants
to sniff a man’s shirt…”

“You lied to
the woman,” said Peter. “You abused her trust. Are you a gentleman
or a knave?”

Cosmo slammed
down his knife and fork and stood up. “Obviously, I’m a knave! Why
pretend I’m worthy of your time or esteem? You should have sold me
to a childless farmer in need of an heir. Heaven knows Mamma would
have given her blessing. If Cecil went to visit her, she’d talk and
smile until he left. When I tried to sit with her, after five
minutes she’d ring for more laudanum.”

Cecil groaned,
“Oh here we go…”

“It’s true
Cecil! I know you all wish I’d died in my cradle.”

“Preferably of
the croup,” said Robert.

“Robert
Benjamin!” Peter’s reprimand was barely acknowledged. “Cosmo…that
isn’t true! We d-don’t…”

“Excuse my
despicable person,” shouted Cosmo. “I wouldn’t want to put you off
your food. You might die of starvation and expect me to attend the
reading of your will for one last humiliation. No doubt my
inheritance will be the trunks of old tat cluttering up the
attic.”

Peter gargled
on the flood of conflicting emotions overwhelming his tongue as he
watched Cosmo stomp from the room. George Smirke turned back from
watching his brother leave. “I’ll go up to Adderbury and speak with
Thompson Papa. I’ll take Cosmo and give him time to talk about his
favourite facts…”

“No, I need to
go.” The sound of the front door being slammed made Peter jump.
Cosmo was off again to find trouble. Leaping to his feet, Peter
limped at a gallop to the front door. Yanking it open, he looked
right then left to see his hatless son walking away with a faint
limp. “Cosmo!” Hearing his name the young man paused, and then he
was running as if in fear of the gallows. Turning a corner he was
lost from sight. Peter cursed his throbbing knee and scowled at the
passing traffic.

“Poor Cosmo
Xavier…” Peter turned his heavy head to find the romantic agent
leaning against the doorframe with folded arms. “Why are you
standing there? Go after him!”

“I have a
swollen knee, and I haven’t slept. Why the d-devil couldn’t you
come tell me Isabel arrived without incident?”

“Lying is a
sacking offence,” said the agent. “Hell is being dead and
bored.”

“What?” Peter’s
head snapped to the right. “What happened?”

“The
usual…shots fired at the carriage by some idiot tired of life. If I
had to steal money to buy watered beer and a tough piece of
diseased mutton, I’d want to die too.”

The empty box
in Peter’s chest dropped into his stomach with a painful clunk.
“She wasn’t hurt?”

“Only if you
consider being thought your father’s giant lover hurtful. I never
met my father so I can only assume I’d have been insulted. Mother
must have thought him handsome, but still, the mistake would upset
any sensitive soul. The blackguard only had time to bark once in
amusement before Monsieur shot him in the heart. He nearly took the
door off when he fell…”

“Blast his
eyes! I told him to stay the night. I told him it was dangerous. I
told him not to g-go. Are you sure she wasn’t injured?”

“Yes, but poor
Cosmo Xavier’s heart is breaking…”

“Make me feel
worse!”

“All you have
to do is spend time with him.”

“I d-don’t have
time,” roared Peter.

The romantic
agent raised a ghostly eyebrow. “There are two whole weeks before
the ball. You have more than enough time for your son.”

“Cosmo doesn’t
want me to sit with him for half an hour. He wants me to take him
to the seaside.”

“Then visit the
seaside.”

“I need to take
Ma Belle a fan and then drive up to Adderbury to move some c-cursed
pigs. I need a special licence, which means I have to go to London.
It’ll be a miracle if I make it to the ball so we can elope. With
my luck, her father will shoot me in the leg and I’ll bleed to
death in Isabel’s arms.”

“At least your
death will be romantic. All I could do was lay there in my bed
blind and ugly from years of excessive drink, while my wife and
mother sobbed buckets as I prayed for release. I’d much rather have
been shot while I was still handsome. What man wouldn’t want to die
with his face pressed against a woman’s voluptuous…”

“I can’t call
on Ma Belle with Cosmo in tow. One of her c-cursed relations will
say something. He’ll know she’s… C’est impossible!”

“The impossible
is accomplished daily. Have some faith Peter Augustus. Have Agnes
write Isabel Désirée that you won’t be coming alone.”

“If I take
Cosmo, I won’t get to kiss Ma Belle.”

“You’ll live,”
said the romantic agent without any sympathy. “Would you rather
kiss Ta Belle or bury your son?”

“Is he going to
die if I don’t take him?”

“How should I
know? I’m a romantic agent not a seer. Speaking of which, you must
return Isabel Désirée’s fan, the one you saved from the fire.”

Peter narrowed
his eyes in distrust. “Why?”

“Because she
needs it.”

“What for?”

The romantic
agent groaned, “Go to bed Peter Augustus! If a shifty looking
wretch wearing a knee length cambric shirt and green leggings
appears and recommends you take Isabel Désirée fishing on a moonlit
lake, you’ll know I’ve resigned.”

“When will you
return?” asked Peter. The romantic agent walked off in the same
direction of Cosmo without answering, causing passing horses to
snort in fear. Peter watched until the agent faded from view. The
empty ache in his chest was being stretched in two directions. The
thought of his son feeling unwanted and unloved made him feel sick;
as sick as the thought of having to wait two weeks to kiss
Isabel.

Needing
solitude, he limped back inside and up to his room where he quietly
closed the door, relieved to see the maids had changed the bed
linen. Undressing, he remembered the easier years of fatherhood.
Cosmo had been a needy infant. His wife, exhausted from a day spent
running after two toddlers with the baby Charles balanced on her
hip, hadn’t had the energy, or arms to attend her fourth son. Cosmo
was left in the nursery with servants until Peter ordered the
nursemaid to bring him the infant.

Peter could
remember the pleasant weight of Cosmo’s tiny body slumped against
his shoulder as he sat at his desk long after midnight. Sitting up
late made it easier to pretend his wife no longer desired his
company either before or after dinner. Did Cosmo know his first
word had been Papa? Why hadn’t he ever told the boy? Slumping onto
the bed Peter was asleep before he could berate himself further for
wishing he didn’t have to choose.

The Neilson’s
famous wood-panelled reception room was situated on the ground
floor to the left of the entrance hall. The large Elizabethan
windows, shimmering with rippled Queen Anne glass, gave the best
view of the drive. Oblivious to the beauty of the room, Isabel
stood staring out the window at the ribbon of crushed white stone
curving down the hill. As if longing could make Peter’s curricle
appear.

“There she is!”
The boom of Aunt Gwen’s scathing voice at the open door made Isabel
jump in fright. “The girl is still gaping at the drive…”

“She’s probably
telling herself a story,” said Madame de Bourbon, coming to
Isabel’s defence.

“Pish!” said
Aunt Gwen. “Too many stories are unhealthy. Look what all those
fairytales did to our sister, Lavender. She wasted her youth on a
pretty man who lived for cards and dice, and where is she now?
Living in sin with that little Italian Count who refers to her as
his Grande Madre, and refuses to move unless she orders him around.
Ugh! Lavender couldn’t sink lower if she tied lead weights to her
ankles and jumped into the sea.”

Madam de
Bourbon’s smile tightened, “Thankfully, Isabel has never swooned
over a gambler. The poor man would have been trussed up like a pig
and deported to some distant colony in a leaking ship. Louis is
very protective.”

“Protective?
Pish! The trouble is, your little Louis never learned to put his
little foot down. If one of your daughters desired the moon, he’d
climb up a ladder and pull it out of the sky. Who’d have thought a
Frenchman could be so doting?”

“Louis loves
his children,” said Madame de Bourbon with restrained indignation.
“Most Frenchmen do.”

Gwen Neilson’s
response was a contemptuous snort. “Was it loving to wait for his
eldest daughters to disgrace themselves before giving them a taste
of the habit? You had far too many daughters to raise any of them
properly. You should have given Isabel to me. I’d have raised her
to look out a window with her mouth closed. And if Agnes had been
left in my care I’d have made sure she found an intelligent
husband. The girl has a brain like a man. How could you fling her
into the arms of that idiot, James Smirke? Now we’re faced with the
onerous chore of welcoming his mad brother into the family. You
should have refused the connection. Did you consider that Isabel is
still young enough to breed?”

“Agnes is very
happy with her idiot. You can’t browbeat a child into obedience and
expect a happy ending. If Papa hadn’t forbidden Lavender from
dancing or speaking with her pretty gambler, she might have stopped
crying long enough to see the man was a cabbage-head. You need to
let children live their lives. If they marry an idiot; c’est la
vie.”

“Pish! You
won’t be saying, ‘c’est la vie’ if Isabel runs home holding a
Smirke-bundle and begging sanctuary from her mad husband. He’s
probably one of those idiots who enjoy watching a naked woman scrub
a floor. Isabel should have married my Robert. He’s tall,
beautiful, wealthy, and moderately intelligent; not that you’d know
it the way he spends every hour God gives him with his trousers
around his ankles.”

“Isabel is in
love with Lord Adderbury. Try to be pleasant to the man for
Isabel’s heart.”

“Of course I’ll
be pleasant. I’m always pleasant!” Gwen Neilson’s insulted tone
made it clear she was unaware of any irony in her statement. “Why
do so many people think I’m heartless? I’m as loving as the next
woman.”

Madame de
Bourbon visibly exhaled her opinion on her sister’s heart.
“Isabel’s dream husband has asked her to marry him. Let’s shove her
into his arms and wish her well. That’s what you and I wanted; a
little help to smooth the path of love. Let’s give her what we
didn’t have.”

“I’m not
throwing her a ball for my health. I don’t want the girl to die
clutching a book of sickly love poems, muttering to an imaginary
lover, like Aunt Lucy. Don’t be surprised when Isabel gives birth
to a lunatic. Every time Agnes leaves her brats with us I have to
bribe them not to poison the servants. Smirke blood is obviously
tainted…”

Isabel strained
her ears to hear her mother’s reply. “And you never threatened to
poison Nanny if she didn’t give you more sweets?”

“I wouldn’t
have actually killed her, unlike those sweet-faced demons. They’ve
wrapped Robert around their fingers. He thinks they’re little
angels. Men!”

“I thought
Robert hated them,” said Madame.

“Robert my
husband!” Gwen rolled her eyes, “Why would I be talking about my
son, the thankless toad? He knows his father longs for
grandchildren. Does that move his stoney heart to find an obliging
wife and do his duty? As if we’d be so blessed…”

Isabel held her
breath as she waited. Would her mother reveal her cousin Robert’s
secret; that he’d adopted thirteen of his bastard daughters? No-one
had yet dared tell Robert Neilson’s parents that he’d long since
made their dearest wish come true. Isabel sighed in relief as her
mother remained silent. That was probably wise. The person who
informed the six foot Gwen Neilson that her son had been hiding
thirteen granddaughters from her would probably lose several
handfuls of hair and an unknown quantity of blood.

Madame de
Bourbon wisely ignored the contentious subject of her nephew and
returned her sister’s attention back to the present. “If we’re
going to call on Lady Herbert, we’d best leave soon. I promised
Monsieur I’d walk with him in the maze before dinner.”

“Why would you
want to walk anywhere with your little Louis?” Gwen’s question was
more of a sneer. “All you can see is the top of his head.”

Isabel heard
her mother inhale a deep breath before calmly replying, “Why would
your husband want to walk with you? All he can see is the top of
your head.”

Aunt Gwen
wouldn’t be verbally defeated, “It’s part of the natural order that
a man should look down and see the top of his woman’s head. It
doesn’t help that your little Louis always looks like he’s wearing
a dead poodle on his head. Every time he stands next to me I feel
an urge to throw a stick to see if he’ll fetch it.”

Madame de
Bourbon’s eyes narrowed, “I like my husband’s grey curls.”

“That’s just as
well, considering the top of his head is all you ever see of
him.”

“That is not
all I see of my husband,” said Madame.

“Ugh! I suppose
on the rare occasion you still see his forehead. The thought of you
mating the man brings to mind a silver trout gasping for breath on
top of a beached dolphin. It’s unnatural! Look at the consequences.
If you’d married a big man, your son wouldn’t need to visit freak
shows to find a mistress small enough to look up at him.”

Madame de
Bourbon’s lips compressed to a white line, “Please don’t mention
freak shows in my son’s hearing. He’s painfully sensitive about his
mistress’s former occupation.”

“Your son is
far too sensitive. You should have insisted he join the Army. A few
bullet wounds would have tempered some steel into his little
spine.”