Dancing the Maypole (38 page)

“Don’t be an
idiot, I was going to name her Jane. It’s a good English name.”

Agnes shook her
head, “And the female version of John. You’d be Jane, John, and
Joan. It sounds incestuous.”

George nodded,
“That’s what I said.”

Peter glanced
at Isabel profile smiling at the baby, “Her name is Frances
Hawise.”

Agnes raised
both eyebrows. “Hmm…that’s an….interesting name.”

John’s upper
lip curled in contempt. “It’s hideous, but not as hideous as
Agnes.”

Agnes returned
the sneer with a serene smile. “From the landing, I believe I saw
your wife balanced on the bannister like a circus performer.”

John Smirke
paled and ran from the drawing room. “Joan! Don’t do that! You’re
not a blasted bird.”

“Smirkie! I was
starting to think you’d died again.”

“Get off the
bannister before you fall and break your neck!”

“I’m not going
to fall, I have excellent balance. I could have been a ballet
dancer…” Boots were heard thundering up the stairs.

Agnes sighed in
relief as a door was slammed shut on the second floor. “I’d hate
for Joan to die in my house. John would move in, die of a broken
heart and then linger as a wailing spirit.”

“I hope they
never visit me,” said George. “The bannister on my staircase has
wormwood. The thought of Uncle John moving in, with Robert’s brat
in tow, is too depressing. Who’d marry me?”

“Countless
hungry women,” said Agnes, “but they might not be sane. With your
paternity, you’ll probably fall in love with a girl who spends so
much time dreaming of being swept off her feet she’ll see you
coming and think you’re a moving hat stand.”

George’s black
eyes lit up with excitement, “Is Papa’s Mabel a dreamer?”

Peter craned
his neck to glare at his sister-in-law. “Ma Belle isn’t a topic I
wish d-discussed!” The two people behind the settee ignored
him.

“Do you know
her well?” asked George.

“Well enough,”
said Agnes.

George’s eyes
lit up, “Is she good and kind?”

“Yes, but she’s
not very sensible,” said Agnes. “No sensible old maid would turn
down the chance to marry a big handsome man over forty who’s
reportedly solvent and free of the pox. Not many Lords over the age
of thirty can make both those claims. I fear your father doesn’t
appreciate my candid analysis of his situation. Peter you’re
looking rather flushed, do you need a glass of lemonade?”

“Non!” The word
was spoken through gritted teeth. “Where are the twins? George said
they were hoping to perform a play.”

“One has a
bloody nose and is weeping at my refusal to allow her a sweet. The
other is holding her father’s attention by banging her head against
a wall to create a bruise large enough to deserve sympathy.
Everything has to be a contest between those two. James insisted on
remaining with them till they’re calm. Don’t worry Peter, I’m sure
you and Isabel will provide adequate entertainment.”

“I’m holding
the…Frances.”

Agnes smiled,
“She’s an infant, not an elephant. You can hold her while you
perform situations using your newly-acquired manners…”

“Isa…bel?”
Peter’s heart froze as George said the name as if he’d heard it for
the first time. Peter’s eyes narrowed as George rushed across to
kick his sleeping brother in the leg. “Cecil! Wake up!”

“Get your mad
dog off my leg and I’ll kiss you…”

“Wake up
Cecil!”

“What the
devil? Did you just kick me?”

“Papa’s May
Belle…it’s a pet name!”

“What?” Cecil
glared at his brother. “We knew that when he told us he called her
his beauty. I fall asleep for five minutes, and you take to the
bottle…”

“No, listen!”
George’s whisper was again heard by the entire room. “Papa must be
in love with someone whose name ends with bell! Why else would he
call her his Belle?”

“Because she
makes him randy,” mumbled Cecil. “That’s why men fantasize about
women. Now if you don’t mind…”

“How many
different names end in bell?” asked George. “I hope her name isn’t
Florabell. That’s an awful name! What about Mirabelle? I could fall
in love with a Mirabelle, especially if she had long black
curls.”

Cecil closed
his eyes, “I could sleep if you went away to find her. Go ask
Papa!”

“He’s not going
to tell me.”

“No I’m not
g-going to tell you!” said Peter. George turned around, visibly
shocked that his conversation had been overheard. “I won’t tell you
her name b-because you’ll c-concoct some mad scheme to help me, and
I d-don’t need any more blasted help. Not from the living. Not from
the dead.”

“How would the
dead help you Papa?” George raised a worried eyebrow, “You haven’t
been visiting a somnambulist have you? The dead can’t tell you if
you’re loved. How would they know? I’d never trust a ghost. They
must be bored to death. They might think it a great joke to tell
you what you want to hear.”

“It was just a
saying,” said Peter.

“We only want
you to be happy,” said George.

Cecil stretched
out his legs and closed his eyes, “I only want to sleep.”

“I’d b-be happy
if you’d stop trying to help me.”

“Does her name
end in belle?” asked George.

“I’m not
g-going to tell you!”

“Cecil; he
didn’t say it didn’t. I’m right! Papa’s in love with a woman whose
name ends in belle.”

“Your logic has
gone angling,” said Cecil. “For all we know, the woman’s named
Anne.”

“Annabelle!”
exclaimed George. “There must be hundreds of little blonde
Annabelle’s who speak French.”

“Ma Belle’s
name is none of your affaire!”

George stared
at Peter with his jaw set in obstinate defiance.

Peter decided
it might be best to change the subject. “If you must help someone,
help Cecil. Where were you today when Cecil told a young woman in a
red and white striped dress that he wanted to suck on her like a
b-boiled sweet?”

George gasped
as he turned to look at his brother. “I left him for ten minutes. I
needed to ask Lucius what he thought about my planting scheme away
from Cosmo who thinks he inherited land management skills along
with his two properties. Cecil, what were you thinking?”

Having fallen
back to sleep; Cecil was unconcerned with his inability to grasp
social niceties. Mumbling in his sleep, he spread his legs and
scratched himself with relish and then slumped into a deeper
sleep.

“God g-g-give
me strength!” muttered Peter. His youngest son, Robert, was a
heartless lecher, his eldest son, Cecil, had the social manners of
a dog and his three middle sons were either senseless or too kind
for their own good. He’d failed as a father, but Isabel didn’t seem
to notice. Peter could feel her sitting near, the smell of lilacs
wafting past his nose as she fanned her face. Glancing down, he
found his granddaughter had followed Cecil’s example and fallen
asleep. As Peter lightly caressed the silky black hair, the
infant’s slack lips twitched with a faint smile as if she knew
she’d already wound the ribbon securely around his heart. Watching
her chest rise and fall, the oppressive heat tugged on his own
eyelids. Closing them for the briefest moment, he was far away,
rescuing Isabel from a giant rat wearing blue dancing slippers,
when George lifted the sleeping infant from his arms.

Hearing the
front door slam shut, Lucius pushed his glasses up his nose, and
peered down from the first floor window. A man in a pale green coat
was marching away from the house in the direction of the town, his
face hidden by the broad brim of a straw hat. The determined angry
stride was unmistakable. Cosmo was upset, and would probably end up
sharing one of his questionable facts with the wrong people. Lucius
glanced behind him, hoping to pass the responsibility on to one of
his cousins. Peter was lightly snoring, George was pacing back and
forth with the sleeping infant and Cecil muttering in his sleep.
Sending Robert after his brother would ensure a public brawl.
Lucius was paid handsomely for his services and talents, but at
times no amount of money seemed worth the effort. Being a Smirke
tipped the scales in the favour of rescuing the boy. If Lucius ever
managed to acquire his dream estate, he’d want to convince a
well-dowered young woman to become his wife, not that his dream
showed any sign of materialising. His suggestion that Mademoiselle
pay him to leave was an impulsive gamble. If she offered him one
thousand pounds to clear off, he’d take it. Combined with his
savings he could afford a modest gentleman’s property and have
enough money left over to buy seed and hire men to plant it.
Depending on the harvests, he’d be able to return the money within
a few years. The impulse was bound to have unpleasant consequences,
but at thirty-eight a man had to throw the dice that fell into his
hand.

Abandoning the
faint breeze coming in the open casement, he hurried after his
young cousin, only stopping to grab a hat. He followed the green
coat past Cosmo’s usual coffee house, towards a more dangerous part
of town. Lucius swore under his breath as his cousin disappeared
into The Maiden’s Head. If Cosmo was hoping to be pummelled he’d
chosen the right place. Common sense strongly urged Lucius to turn
and walk away. If Lucius were really unlucky there’d be half a
dozen criminals sharing a bottle of rum all of whom hated John
Smirke. In a dark, smokey room, Lucius’glasses and short light
brown hair were no guarantee he wouldn’t suffer for his cousin’s
sins. Cursing his luck, he cracked his knuckles and followed Cosmo
inside.

Lucius took
several long seconds to adjust to the dim light, and then he
physically reeled at the stomach churning stench of unwashed bodies
and dirty linen and the heat of confined men. Spotting the straw
hat sitting alone at a table near the back, Lucius ordered a pint.
The landlord’s assumption that he was following his rebellious son
into the hell hole went uncorrected. Lucius squeezed past a group
of rough looking men, their heated conversation fading into a
threatening silence. Looking straight ahead, Lucius studiously
avoided eye contact until one sneered, “Four-eyes!”

With an inane
smile, Lucius held up his pint in a cheerful salute. “Better to see
the ladies!”

“He looks like
a lady with short hair,” said one.

“He looks like
a bloody Smirke,” said another.

Lucius shrugged
his shoulders, “One of the bastards ravished my mother…” He sighed
in relief as they believed his lie and let him pass.

Sliding onto
the chair opposite Cosmo, he ignored the younger man’s scowl and
lowered his voice. “If they ask, you’re my son. We’ve had a row,
and you wanted to assert your independence.”

“Go to
hell!”

“You’re
welcome. The next time you wish to be pummelled black and blue you
need only punch me. At least I won’t try to break any bones.”

“As if I’d
trust Lucifer to be so kind.”

“Just because
you’re a snotty selfish brat doesn’t mean I want to see you brought
home in pieces.”

“No, you want
to see me brought home a corpse so you can persuade Papa to give
you one of my properties.”

“If that was
the case, I’d have poisoned you years ago.”

“Really?”
sneered Cosmo. “Is this your latest pathetic attempt to gender my
gratitude? I thought you’d given up.”

“As one of my
Lord’s chattels, your gratitude is meaningless.”

Cosmo’s face
twisted with indignation. “Oversee your backside out the door. I
don’t want to see your stupid pretty face.” The younger man tipped
his head forward and covered his eyes with a hand.

“No-one asked
me whether I wanted this face. If I’d been given a choice, I’d much
rather have looked like you.”

“Pish!”

“For a man,
beauty is a curse. It attracts the wrong kind of attention as often
as the right kind.”

“You’re not the
one invisible to the ladies. You don’t know what it’s like to wait
months to see a girl only for her to moon over your brother.”

Lucius pushed
his glasses up his nose as a carefully forgotten wound throbbed
with rage. “Oh I know what it’s like.”

His younger
cousin looked stunned. “You? In agony for a girl? Who was she?”

“Our
neighbour’s cousin. She’d visit every summer. When we were sixteen
she secretly trothed me her heart and promised to marry me. I was
lucky to win her affection. She had a dowry of six thousand and a
three hundred pound annuity that she’d receive when she married.
The next year she arrived the usual week. I walked over to pay my
respects, but she wasn’t in. I walked over every day for weeks and
every day she was either indisposed or not at home. When her
cousins threw their summer ball, I arrived early and cordially
asked her for a dance. She looked past me and regally proclaimed
that all her dances had been promised. I froze like a dolt unable
to comprehend how my future wife could forget to save me a dance.
Then my older brother, pimply blockhead heir to the manor, walked
up and requested her dance card so he could choose his three
promised dances. She’d finally realised my pretty face, and sincere
regard had no monetary or social value. My impoverished heart was
no longer attractive.”

“Bad luck!”
sneered Cosmo. “I’ll wager she married a better man.”

“She married my
brother.”

The straw hat
tipped back revealing a horrified expression. “Her? She has a
moustache!”

“She didn’t
have a hairy upper lip at seventeen. You’re not the first younger
brother to discover that life is unfair. At least you don’t face a
bleak future as a servant.”

“Only because
I’ve made sure of it. At least you grew up the spare heir. No-one
needs a fourth son. Even Papa thinks I’m a senseless idiot.”