Dancing the Maypole (19 page)

Cosmo gasped in
horror along with his brothers. No sensible woman would want a man
who’d treated her friend like a brace of pheasants.

“The good
lady,” continued Lucius, “is refusing his advances. As for your
father’s strange behaviour; your Aunt Agnes has been advising him
on sartorial and romantic matters. He thinks in this instance a
lady’s opinion more valuable. My efforts to persuade him to abandon
the ribbons have obviously been unsuccessful.”

“Why would Aunt
Agnes advise Papa to dress like a fool?” asked Cosmo.

“Your aunt
believes that if your papa can prove to Mademoiselle de Bourbon
that he’s slightly mad, Mademoiselle will forgive him and put in a
good word to her friend. Without Mademoiselle’s good opinion, your
father will never hold his dream lover in the flesh. He’ll die a
lovelorn wretch.”

Cecil Smirke
scowled in confusion, “Why would Mademoiselle recommend Papa to her
friend if she thinks him mad?”

“How should I
know?” said Lucius. “Women never make any sense.”

“Cosmo did say
Papa tried to steal one of his dances with Mademoiselle,” offered
George.

Remembering his
father snatching Mademoiselle’s dance card made the blood rush to
Cosmo’s cheeks. “When I told him to leave her alone he glared at me
as if he wanted to punch me for daring to defend the lady. If he’s
trying to reclaim the lady’s good opinion, he’s unlikely to succeed
acting like a deranged overbearing lunatic.”

“How would you
know Cosmo? Your experience of women wouldn’t fill a dance card.
I’ll wager they see you heading in their direction and flee.”

“Shut up
Robert!” snapped Cosmo.

“Make me! For
all you know, Mademoiselle’s friend may prefer overbearing
lunatics. Pity, that’s another woman you can cross off your list.
You may be a lunatic, but you’re hardly overbearing…unless one is
sitting next to you when you fart.”

Cosmo sneered
at his brother, “You’re just jealous Mademoiselle likes me better
than you.”

“She’s old
enough to be my mother. Why would I be jealous?”

“Because
Mademoiselle has promised to introduce me to several of her
stunning nieces next season.”

Robert snorted
in amusement, “I’ll wager she hates them. Mademoiselle probably
hopes you’ll bore them to death with your stupid facts. I keep
telling you; you’d have more luck with the ladies if you kept your
mouth shut and smiled like an idiot.”

“Robert…”
Lucius Smirke’s hard gaze made the young man shift uncomfortably in
his seat. “…if you wish to be treated like a man, you might
consider editing your conversation of snotty childish remarks. As
for your papa, whatever you do, do not tell Mademoiselle de Bourbon
that his Lordship keeps a singed fan in his pocket as if it were
some sort of key to his lover’s heart. Your papa has suffered
enough embarrassment this month.”

Frederick
knocked warning the Smirkes to pause their private conversation.
The footman set several dishes of toast on the table, replenished
the butter dish, orange marmalade, and retreated closing the door
behind him. Robert Smirke appeared to have forgotten he hadn’t yet
consumed his morning ration of toast as he stared unseeing at his
older brothers. “I can’t imagine Papa kissing a woman. I don’t
remember ever seeing him kiss Mamma, but then Papa wouldn’t suck
the breath from a dying woman’s lungs. It would be against his
principles.”

“Are you
blind?” sneered Cosmo. “Papa kisses Aunt Agnes every time we come
to visit. I suspect you’ve been too busy ogling the maids to
notice.”

“Kissing Aunt
Agnes is like kissing a stone statue of the Virgin Mary.”

“How would you
know Robert? Are you turned papist? Do you secretly inflict your
fetid breath on stone ladies’ lips in the hope one will come alive
and grant you absolution for your many sins?”

“Cosmo; it was
a simile, but as the only woman you’ve ever kissed is Aunt Agnes
you wouldn’t understand…”

Cecil Smirke
tapped his knife against his plate calling the table to order. “If
you must re-enact your nursery years at breakfast; eat with the
fiends upstairs.”

Cosmo felt the
words like a slap. “I’m twenty years old; a year younger than
Charles. You never insinuate Charles should be in leading
strings.”

Cecil exchanged
a long-suffering expression with Charles. “That’s because Charles
acts like a man. If you were to follow his example instead of
reacting to Robert’s childish jibes you might find yourself treated
like an adult.”

“How am I
supposed to follow Charles’ example when he’s always off with you
and George? He never wants to do anything with me. No-one wants to
do anything with me. You probably wouldn’t miss me if I died.”
Cosmo glared at his food knowing his three eldest brothers were
exchanging another long-suffering look.

Charles’ knife
and fork paused over his eggs. “Shall we all ride out this
afternoon to one of those village churches you haven’t explored?
I’ll help you look for old graffiti Cosmo, but I refuse to climb
another bell rope. I had a headache for a week last time, and you
didn’t even thank me for my efforts to make that rubbing. I nearly
went deaf, and all you said was, ‘1787? That’s rubbish!’ If you
want people to spend time with you, you might consider being
grateful for their efforts to help you.”

“I was
grateful!” said Cosmo. “Is it now a sin to be disappointed? No-one
understands me…”

Charles sighed
in exasperation. “Sulk and I shall certainly avoid you. Are you
going to help up identify Papa’s dream mistress or blight
Mademoiselle’s drawing room with your self pity? You don’t want to
persuade Mademoiselle that you’re unfit to introduce to her young
relatives. She may decide to introduce them to a more genial young
man like George.”

“Mademoiselle
finds me perfectly genial,” protested Cosmo.

“I thought
Cosmo said no-one wanted anything to do with him.”

“Shut up
Robert, I hate you!”

“Good. That
means I don’t have to waste my time trying to understand you.”

Cecil tapped
his knife on his plate calling them to order. “Enough! What do we
tell Papa?”

Lucius again
became the centre of attention. “Nothing…unless you want him to
send you all back to Adderbury. Any more interference and your papa
might take my advice and sell the lot of you into the King’s
service.”

Cosmo sneered
at Lucius, “If only you’d take the king’s shilling. We wouldn’t
have to be reminded daily we’re related to the devil.”

“The fact
Lucius beats you at chess doesn’t make him the devil,” said Cecil.
“You know he wants you to hit him so he can pummel you until you
beg him to take your second property as a peace offering.”

Cosmo glanced
at Lucius to find his cousin smiling at him with that infuriating
grin that begged a fat lip. “Fiend!” Lucius smiled as if he had a
plan…as if it was only time.

“Leave Lucius
to his dreams. As for discovering Papa’s dream lover; George,
Charles, and I will call on Mademoiselle while you escort Robert to
that lecture on hot air ballooning.”

“Robert can
take himself. I’m coming with you.”

“Not if you’re
going to sulk,” said Cecil.

“I’m not
sulking!” Cosmo’s sullen glare made his older brothers roll their
eyes as they started discussing how to inspire Mademoiselle de
Bourbon to reveal a list of her bosom friends. The brothers barely
noticed Lucius finish his breakfast and leave the table.

Standing in his
shirtsleeves, in the middle of a moonlit wood, Peter realised he
wasn’t alone. Moon shadows cast by slender birch, oak and ivy-clad
hawthorn, created jagged lines across the silver pond and the woman
in white. Her long curly hair, black against her chemise, his Belle
waded into the water.

The full moon
overhead gave an ethereal bluish tint to linen floating around her
hips. Smiling, she crooked her finger, beckoning him to join her.
Longing constricted his chest as he rushed into warm water,
rippling the shadows against his companion. Oblivious to the wind
rustling through the wood or the fragmented image of distant bluish
fields, there was only the woman who’d been eluding his embrace.
“Ma Belle…tu me manques!” Leaning against him, she smiled promising
a sublime feast after weeks of famine. Peter clutched her wet body
closer, “Tu es ma coeur…ma vie.” Her answer was to wrap her arms
around his neck and return his passionate kiss. Picking up his
Belle, he was carrying her back to the shore to find a bed of
leaves when the romantic moonlit scene was extinguished by a burst
of blinding sunlight. Opening his eyes, Peter found he was in a
nightmare.

Monsieur de
Bourbon leaned forward with pursed unhappy lips, “When did you last
coupe the hair in the nose?” Wincing, Peter closed his eyes and
rolled over, hoping to return to his dream lover. “Un amour
Français does not have the hair protruding from the nostrils and he
brings the flowers when he visites to parler his address.”

It was Peter’s
luck that the long awaited tryst with his dream mistress would turn
into a lecture by her father. “Go to the devil!”

“You were
having les rêves agréable non?”

“This is hardly
an agreeable dream…” Face down in his pillow, Peter was
surrendering to the memory of his dream lover’s hungry kisses when
he was suddenly conscious of his feet being cold. Curling up, a
sharp pain brought back the memory of whacking his knee on Isabel’s
bedpost. He’d nearly fainted as she turned over in her sleep and
muttered something in French. It was five minutes before his
shaking hands could tie the ribbon around her wrist. If the
romantic agent hadn’t been hovering nearby… Peter was mentally
beside her bed in the dark room. The intoxicating smell of summer
made it hard to think as he mentally eased himself onto her bed and
woke her with soft kisses. The sunlight was fading into darkness
when something sharp jabbed Peter in the backside bringing him
fully awake. Rolling over, he found his silk nightshirt rolled up
around his hips and Monsieur de Bourbon’s thin moustache only
inches away. “What the d-devil are you d-doing here? Where are my
bedclothes?”

“You came to
visite ma petite fille at the hour of the dead, non?”

Peter belatedly
rolled away from ferocious eyes and fell off the bed in his haste
to put his feet on the floor. Standing his full height he felt
uncomfortably vulnerable in his nightshirt. “I tied a ribbon around
her wrist. C’est tout! I didn’t even k-k-kiss her…I swear
it!”

Monsieur’s
heels ominously tapped slowly around the bed. “You make the toy of
ma petite fille…”

“Non! I want to
marry her, but she refused…” Peter had to clear his throat.
“…again. She insists I g-give her une bonne raison…”

“Oui.” Monsieur
pulled a small pistol from his coat pocket and cocked it. “Ma
petite fille, she desires that you have for her the love
romantique. She does not want to hear the lies. I do not want to
see ma petite fille cry at ma table. You will visite Isabel and
give to her the flowers. You will tell ma petite fille that you
have for her the love romantique, and then you will aller au
Scotland where you will make love to her on the anvil.”

“One c-can’t
make love on an anvil. It’s too…” Peter grunted in agony as
Monsieur’s kicked his injured knee. Growling in anger, he conquered
an urge to curse the man he hoped would soon be his father-in-law.
Bending over to rub away the pain, he glared into the shorter man’s
eyes. “I c-c-can’t tell her I love her. That would be a lie.” Peter
winced as the older man slapped his face.

“Do not give to
me the excuses pitoyable. You désires ma petite fille non?”

Ferocious eyes
stared Peter into an emotional corner. “Oui.” The word was a squeak
as if Peter’s voice hadn’t yet broken.

“Bon!” The
cocked pistol was elegantly waved to accentuate the Frenchman’s
point. “Tu la désires…alors…you have for Isabel the love
romantique. Non?”

Peter sighed,
bracing himself for another slap. “Desiring a woman is not the same
as loving a woman. She’ll know it’s a lie. I don’t want to hurt
her…again.”

A small boot
tapped the floor as if counting down the seconds to Peter’s death.
Dark brown eyes narrowed as the pistol was pointed at Peter’s
groin. “If Isabel agrees to marry Robert Neilson, I will shoot you.
If Isabel enters the convent, I will shoot you. If Isabel is not
your wife by the end of the year, I will shoot you. Développe the
love romantique, or the cows will chew the grass grown from your
heart.”

“Neilson?”
Peter flinched as the thought of Isabel marrying her cousin caused
a strange ache in his chest. “Neilson is the one you should be
feeding to your cows. If a man like that ever comes near my
daughter…”

“Bof! Isabel
has thirty-six years. She can choose to marry un monstre, but you
will not live to cry at the célébration. You will be feeding the
grass.”

“You c-can’t
kill me because I c-can’t profess to love her.”

“Non? Her heart
it longs for you. She will not die of a heart broken.
Comprends?”

“I swear I’ll
try to love her,” cried Peter. “I’ll be a good husband…”

“Non! You will
love ma petite fille, or you will feed the grass.”

Peter rolled
his eyes in irritation. “I can’t fall in love with a woman because
there’s a p-pistol p-pointed at my…p-person. Fear can’t ignite
t-t-tender feelings.”

“Bah! You do
not understand the blood Français. D’amour, it is un mystère. You
think you have the désir sexuel. You think it will passer. You
think the heart is insensible then one morning you wake from the
dreams agréable to learn that the belle femme who smiles down at
you and makes you feel like a big man is to be given to some grande
vache who has the bad reputation. You run to her aide, mais her
papa thinks you are too short for his petite fille, too French. Le
belle fille with eyes that make the chest ache cries on your head
because she does not want to marry the grande vache. Finalement,
you comprends that you love her. That she is the femme ideal, that
without her you will die. You know you will do anything to aide
her. Pas du tout!”