Dancing the Maypole (57 page)

“He loves me!”
The words were filled with rapture as Isabel restrained the impulse
to jump up and swirl in joyous circles.

“So he should.
You’re a lovely girl. We always hoped you’d become our daughter. I
know your Aunt Gwen has said some unkind things about Smirkes
during your visit, but she’s just upset that you won’t be marrying
our Robbie.”

“I’m sorry
Uncle; I’d never marry Robert. If he has a heart, it’s at the
bottom of a well.”

“That’s why we
hoped you’d fall in love with him. We knew you’d never be a
jelly-girl; one of those mindless creatures who quiver with
pleasure at his nearness, as though his beauty made him a God. His
mother worries we’ll die, and there won’t be anyone to throw a book
at his head or tell him to find his own wife. He doesn’t know it,
but he’s running out of time. The next twenty years will seem like
a post-chaise ride to London. One morning he’ll wake up, and ache
as he gets out of bed. He’ll look in his dressing mirror and see
deep lines in his face. When he turns to ask his paramour if she’ll
still love him when he needs a footman to help him up the stairs,
there won’t be anyone there. All the beauty worshippers will have
found younger, more handsome faces to adore. He might turn and find
a pretty young thing in his bed, but she’ll only be there for his
money. Her eyes won’t shine with admiration or love. You never want
that for your child.”

“I’d feel sorry
for him, but he was horrible this evening. He asked me to marry him
to save the family from another Smirke connection. I’m afraid I
lost my temper. He’ll probably never speak to me again.”

“That would
explain why he looked like someone had smashed one of his cherished
porcelain figurines. You did him a service. He’s been reminded that
male beauty isn’t everything to every marriageable female.”

“Perhaps he
should marry a blind woman. I know of a widow who’d suit.”

“People don’t
need eyes to be turned by a pretty face. When I was young, I had a
friend who lost his sight as a child. He overheard a woman talking
and was enchanted by her voice. He pursued her and fell in love
with her heart. Everyone was expecting him to propose, when a
mocking acquaintance informed him that his sweetheart was as plain
as a pewter plate. My friend was enraged with me for telling him
she was beautiful. I assured him she was beautiful, on the inside.
He never spoke to me, or the lady, again. It didn’t matter if he
couldn’t see the woman’s face; he wanted a wife other men would
envy. He married a stunning little contessa who poisoned him and
ran off with his money. Other men envied him for only two
months.”

“What happened
to the ugly woman?”

“She married an
artist and had numerous happy children.” The sound of the bracket
clock chiming midnight made her uncle jump to his feet. “Hell’s
Bells! We’re late!”

“Late for
what?” asked Isabel. “Has my mother organised one of her annoying
surprises?”

He ignored her
questions and grabbed the lamp. “Hurry!”

Picking up her
skirts, exposing her lower legs to the shadows, Isabel followed the
light as it left the room. Her pounding heart echoed the tapping of
her feet as she ran through a maze of rooms and long corridors
taking her into the oldest part of the house. She was out of breath
when she caught up with the stationary light, but the waiting man
was her father. The lit candles set in sconces on the wall high
over his head etched his face with a thousand years and made his
grey hair look white. The thought of her strong invincible father
succumbing to death required the use of her smelling salts. He was
looking up at her with sad eyes and pursed lips as if trying to
decide how to tell her unpleasant news. “Has someone died?”

“Non.”

“Lord
Adderbury? Did you say something that upset him? He hasn’t left
without taking his leave? Oh Papa…” She pressed her ring against
her nose as a pinched sensation enveloped her chest as if her heart
had been shoved into a drawer too small and the key turned in the
lock. “…he hasn’t changed his mind? He hasn’t jilted me?”

“Non.”

Her panic
magically disappeared leaving her irritated. “Then why are you
looking at me like someone’s died? Where’s Uncle Robert? Where’s
Pierre?”

“He is waiting
for you.”

“Oh…you didn’t
shoot him?”

“Non. He has
for you the love romantique comme un homme Français.” He beckoned
her closer. “Give me the left hand…”

“Why the
left?”

“We do not have
the time for the questions absurde.” He gently took her hand and
stood there looking at it as if he might never see it again. “Ma
Petite…I have for you the advice paternal.”

“You want to
give me fatherly advice now? I thought Uncle Robert said
Mamma…”

“Écoute!” Her
spine automatically straightened as if she were still six. “The
men, they are not like the heroes fictive. Occasionally, they make
the bad decisions…”

“I’m aware of
that.”

“Bah! Have you
been the wife? Non! There will come the day when Adderbury says or
does the thing très stupide…”

“I’ve lived
that day several times already.”

“Écoute! If you
want the happy marriage, do not tell to him he is un grande vache
stupide. The bad decision, it will make him feel like the big cow.
He does not need the wife who rubs the wounds with salt. Ta mère,
she is the woman wise. She does not tell to me when I am the
imbécile.”

“Why are you
giving me marriage advice in a corridor?”

Her father gave
no sign of having heard the question. “Isabel! Are you parfait?
Non! You often make the bad decisions. I have told to Adderbury
that if he wants the happy marriage he will not tell to you that
you are imbécile when you do the things absurde. I do not have the
time to list examples. Écoute! Your mind is it a book? Non.
Adderbury, he cannot lift your mind off the shelf and find the page
that describes how you feel. You must tell to him if he is making
you vexed…”

“He’ll know I’m
vexed when he feels a book hit his head.”

“Non! You will
not throw the books. You will tell to him like une Princesse
Français that you are not pleased. And when he does the things that
make you smile you will tell to him, “Oui! Comme ça.”

“He’ll know
he’s making me smile when he sees me smile.”

“Bah! The men,
they need to hear the words. Répéter! Oui! Comme ça.”

Isabel rolled
her eyes and obeyed hoping it would end the conversation. “Oui!
Comme ça. Yes! Like that.” Isabel flushed as a moonlit scene
flashed into her head. She was lying in Pierre’s arms, the bed
curtains casting deep shadows over their faces. He couldn’t see her
smiling in the dark. She coughed over her embarrassment. “It sounds
better in French.”

“Bien sur!” Her
father tenderly kissed her hand as if the doctor had given her
weeks to live and tucked it under his arm. “Ta Mère, she has for
you une vraie suprise. Prends une profonde inspiration.”

Being told to
take a deep breath for her mother’s surprise filled Isabel with
dread. She pressed her vinaigrette to her nose and silently prayed
the surprise wouldn’t involve Pierre singing a love song. Her
father knocked three times on the giant chapel door set between the
sconces and then stood waiting as if he couldn’t turn the handle. A
muffled roar of rustling skirts and creaking pews made the hair
stand up on the back on Isabel’s neck. The chapel door swung
inward, held by a footman in livery.

Stepping into
the chapel she stared at the blurry congregation feeling stupid.
“Isabel!” Turning, she found her mother holding up a gold diadem
tied with dark blue and gold silk ribbons; the royal colours of
France trailed into a gleaming striped pile on the floor. Her
mother’s smiling eyes glistened as she placed the narrow feminine
crown on Isabel’s head and arranged the ribbons to fall over her
shoulders. “In half an hour you will be known as Isabel Smirke and
Adderbury will have the privilege of calling you his lady, but you
will always be de Bourbon. May your children learn the language of
your heart and honour their father for choosing you to be their
mother. Don’t cry…Pierre is waiting for you.”

Even with his
back to the congregation, Isabel knew Pierre had that
spine-chilling glare on his face. She could almost feel the poor
man’s heart bursting as he tried to hide his most private feelings
from staring eyes.

The footman
closed the door behind her with a loud clunk, and several
heartbeats later a harpsichord and a cello, overhead in the
family’s gallery, burst into a duet. Her mother kissed her on both
cheeks and then her father was parading her past a dozen pews
crammed with relatives. At the altar, her father formally kissed
her hand and left her standing next to her stiff groom, still
staring straight ahead as if under a spell. With only a few inches
between them, Isabel turned her head just enough to see Pierre’s
grim profile from the corner of her eyes. She watched as black eyes
slowly rolled to meet her gaze. Freed from the spell, the stony
grimace softened until the visible corner of his mouth turned up in
a boyish smile. Her hand was lifted to his lips and then tucked
under his arm and held tightly against his ribs. The congregation
sat down, and the priest began reading the marriage service. Isabel
could only hear the east wind moaning through a thousand moonlit
leaves as she stared into adoring black eyes.

“You may now
kiss the bride!” The congregation leaned forward to witness the
kiss, but the groom appeared to have frozen stiff. “My Lord! Do you
wish to kiss the bride?”

Marooned on a
moonlit desert island, Peter was anticipating more than kisses.
Lying beside the half drowned Isabel; he was watching her wet bosom
rise and fall. They were cold and wet, but gloriously alone. He
could shout his feelings without fear of being locked in his own
attic. He could make love to Isabel without getting shot in the
foot. Absorbed in warming Isabel’s wet salty lips, Peter could hear
ocean waves crashing into his heart as Isabel returned his
kiss.

“Pierre!”

Feeling
Isabel’s warm breath on his ear, Peter turned to smile at his
bride. Veiled in silk ribbons, he admired the visible stripes of
her smiling face. The internal clamour of his heart was pulverising
the remains of his mental chest, drowning out all external sound.
The truths he’d tried to hide from himself were wailing through his
body. One moment a sword of sadness was furiously impaling his
vital organs. A few moments later he was melting, drunk on
happiness. He acknowledged each ghostly emotion, setting it free to
find it’s own resting place.

“I hope Papa
hasn’t changed his mind,” said Robert Smirke in a horrified
whisper. “He’ll never find another bride worth eighty-thousand
pounds.”

“Papa isn’t
changing his mind,” said George in a booming whisper. “He’s
probably overcome with emotion; he’ll soon find his tongue…”

“After ten
celibate years,” interrupted Cecil, “I’d be overcome with a need
to…ouch!” Cecil flinched in pain as his brother punched him in the
shoulder. “What the devil was that for?”

“Everyone can
hear you!” boomed George.

“So? You know
they’re all thinking it.”

“Pierre!”
shouted Isabel, shocking the entire congregation into momentary
silence.

Peter visibly
jumped in shock, “What?”

Hearing the
congregation guffaw, Peter turned to glare at the priest.
“Well?”

The man stared
back with an expectant look. “Do you wish to kiss the bride my
Lord?”

“Yes, of
course!” snarled Peter, causing muffled laughter.

“Then pray kiss
your bride before her father requests an annulment.”

“Oh!” Blushing,
Peter’s cravat tightened as the beating of his detached heart
echoed in his empty chest. Glancing at Isabel, he found adoring
brown eyes watching his face. The echoing heartbeat quickened.
Somewhere deep in a hidden pocket, his heart was warming her thigh.
The thought made him smile. Her eyes smiled back, daring him to
give into the gnawing hunger for her nearness. Lowering his head, a
painful electric current leapt from brown eyes burning his stomach.
Soft lips accepted his stiff formal kiss. Overhead, two wooden
angels blew their trumpets in royal approval and then the
harpsichord and cello struck up a joyful march to empty the chapel.
Pews creaked as the congregation stood to watch the bride and groom
to walk up the aisle, but the newlyweds only movement was to step
into each other’s arms.

Adoring fingers
combed deep into Peter’s hair, “This feels like a dream. Any minute
you’ll sprout horns and hooves and inform me I’ve just married Pan,
the God of goats and sheep. You’ll start playing your pipes and
I’ll dance around you until I wear away the soles of my shoes.”

“Will this
lively d-d-dancing wear away anything else?”

“I hope not,
I’d be dancing in my chemise. It would be rude to remain fully
dressed while my Pan-lover was exposing his hairy goat-legs.”

“Your chemise?
I wish I were half goat! I hope you won’t be disappointed by my
boring man-legs.”

Stretching like
a contented cat, Isabel leaned her whole weight against Peter. “I
won’t be disappointed.”

Insensible to
exasperated wedding guests, Peter’s brain was enthralled by the
pressure of Isabel’s hips and the warmth of her arms around his
neck. Smiling brown eyes pulled him closer until he was breathing
the scent of her cheek. Transported to a summer garden, the air
sweet with cabbage roses and drying linen, he could hear the shrill
laughter of happy toddlers trampling the flower beds. Shaking with
silent laughter, he smiled as soft lips lightly caressed his chin.
Staring into Isabel’s smiling eyes, Peter felt like the biggest man
in the world. Bowing his head, he accepted her kiss with parted
lips.