Dancing the Maypole (9 page)

“Peter!”
Startled, he sloshed hot tea down his leg. “James is back. Since we
had your letter, the boys have been fretting over your arrival…”
The door flew open as laughing Smirkes jostled into the room. The
twins screeched in delight at the sight of their Uncle Peter, but
the five brothers huddling for mutual support in grim silence.
“Imps; go tell Nursey about the circus.”

The identical
girls pouted in tandem at their mother, “We want to stay. We
wagered Cosmo he’d be whipped by Uncle Peter.”

“It was their
wager,” said Cosmo. “I only accepted.”

Agnes eyed her
daughters with a firm expression. “I warned you not to wager your
cousins. If Cosmo wins your pocket money you won’t be able to buy
sweets the rest of the week.”

“Uncle Peter,
please say you’ll whip Cosmo!”

“Yes, do, and
we’ll win a shilling each.”

“I never whip
my sons.” The howling twins were picked up by their father and
carried away.

Agnes stood up,
“If you’ll excuse me I’ll see if luncheon is ready.”

Peter felt the
room spin as Agnes closed the door behind her leaving him at the
mercy of his guilt and five pairs of wary black eyes. Putting down
his cup and saucer, he stood up and cleared his throat. “I should
never have said those things or sent you away. Treating
Mademoiselle like…that. I was beastly. I hope you’ll forgive me. I
wasn’t myself.” His eldest son stepped forward and affectionately
thumped him on the back, signally to the other four to follow.

Cecil smiled up
at him, “Don’t worry Papa, you won’t be celibate much longer. We’re
going to help you find a wife.”

“I don’t need
help.”

“Uncle James
says you do. It’s a pity Mademoiselle de Bourbon wasn’t your type.
Eighty thousand pounds is a tempting fortune; even if she is old.”
The thought of losing Isabel to his heir made Peter scowl. “Don’t
be angry Papa. We had to do something. We don’t want you to moan in
your sleep for another ten years.”

“How do you
know what noises I make in my sleep?” said Peter.

“We’ve all had
to share a room with you when visiting family,” said Cecil.

“Does every
b-blasted person in my house know I sometimes moan in my
sleep?”

Cecil visibly
cringed, “Mamma mentioned it to a few people in the village.”

“The village?
Next you’ll tell me everyone knows what I d-d-dream about.”

“Mamma told us
you made love to a dream mistress, didn’t she George?”

“Yes, we were
quite shocked, but Mamma said she didn’t mind because she often
dreamt she was married to the innkeeper. When we asked why you
sometimes cried in your sleep, she said you’d married the wrong
woman.”

Peter eyes
bulged in disbelief, “What?”

The four
younger brothers looked at their fathers face and remained silent.
Cecil could only tell the truth, “Mamma made us promise that we’d
never marry a servant because the two of you never had anything to
talk about. She’d often say; ‘Your Papa is a good man. You must
obey him, but don’t feel bad if he bores you. I wish I’d married Mr
Pots.’”

Peter was
gripped by a mad urge to kill his dead wife. Was he the only person
in England who hadn’t known he’d bored his wife to death? Was there
anyone who didn’t know that he had a dream mistress or that he
sometimes woke to find he’d been crying in his sleep? He flushed,
horrified by mental images of his children, servants, and villagers
discussing his most private moments. The pictures whirled around
his brain like a waterwheel in a flash flood. “Your mother…” said
Peter. “It was very wrong of your mother to mention my private…” He
couldn’t think of a word that wouldn’t make him even more
embarrassed. “She shouldn’t have mentioned
our…incompatibility.”

Cecil
affectionately slapped him on the back, “So…who is this woman
haunting your dreams Papa?”

Peter’s face
burned as if pressed against hell’s door. “How would you feel if I
were to interrogate you on your intimate reveries?”

Cecil blinked
as if surprised by the question. “I’d think you interested in my
emotional well being. We often talk about our dreams. It makes us
feel better, doesn’t it George?”

George sighed
with disappointment. “Not when I’ve made love to some lusty dream
wench and wake alone. Poor Papa…all these years waking…with
needs…”

“I don’t want
to d-d-discuss this subject!”

Peter’s firm
command was ignored by Cosmo. “Those dreams are my favourite…what
are you smirking at Robert?”

“Let me guess;
you’re ravished in your sleep by hairy Amazons.”

“Actually she’s
a fairy creature with green eyes and copper curls who wears
diaphanous pink…what’s so funny about that?”

“She sounds
like Cousin Pru,” said Robert. “Poor Cosmo! No wonder you were so
glum during our last visit. It must have been galling to see her
make eyes at me. Did you know I kissed her three times…or was it
five?”

Cosmo flushed
with rage. “And which of your…admirers do you dream about Robert or
do they take turns on the quarter hour so you can fit them all
in?”

The youngest
Smirke brother shrugged his shoulders. “Never dream. I go to
bed…wake up…nothing between. It’s not my fault Cousin Pru doesn’t
want to kiss a crackfart.”

“I hate you!”
Cosmo jabbed a punch at his younger brother. “You poured your oily
charm on her because you knew I wanted to kiss her.”

“You never said
you wanted to kiss her.”

“I told you she
ravished me; obviously I wanted to kiss her.”

Robert rolled
his eyes, “So I wasn’t listening while you blathered about your
lust. I probably thought you were mumbling another pointless
fact.”

“Robert
Benjamin…” Robert found himself the object of his father’s
spine-chilling glare. “…a gentleman does not chase a young lady to
tease another suitor. Would you break a heart for a g-game?”

“Never Papa!
Cousin Pru was kissing me to make Charles jealous. She begged me to
help her. She said she’d die if she didn’t kiss him again before we
left.”

“What do you
mean again?” Cosmo turned to glare at his favourite brother.
“Well?”

“Pru jumped out
of a tree and landed on me. I couldn’t breathe! I thought I was
dying as she gnawed my lips like raw beefsteak. I hate being
pretty,” said Charles. “I attract mad women and man milliners; I’m
going to marry a blind woman. I want to be loved for my heart, not
my face.”

Cosmo’s eyes
narrowed in envy. “At least you attract someone’s attention. I’ve
yet to meet anyone who wants to kiss me. Why didn’t you tell me Pru
kissed you?”

“Because I knew
it would upset you. I was trying to spare your feelings.”

“It’s not
faire! I try hard to be a good man and what does it get me?
Nothing! Why don’t girls want to kiss me?”

Peter put an
empathetic arm around his fourth son’s shoulders. “You’ll find her
Cosmo. Just don’t marry the first…” His five sons all looked up at
him with sad eyes. “Your mother seemed p-perfect when I was
fifteen…twenty-one. If I had waited a few more years I’d have
realised we had nothing in common. Being my wife made her
miserable. I failed her as a husband.”

“By falling in
love with another woman?”

“Cecil, I don’t
want to talk about it.”

Cecil was a
bloodhound on a scent. “Do you still dream about this other
woman?”

“Yes.”

“Often?”

“Maybe.”

“Is she
married?”

“No.”

“Then, she
might be in love with you,” said Cecil. “You could make a love
match.”

Peter flushed
again as his five pairs of inquisitive eyes demanded information.
“She isn’t married, but it’s hopeless and that’s all I’m g-going to
say.”

Cecil thumped
him in triumph, “Call on her! Tell her how you feel. She can’t be
very young if you’ve been in love with her for ages. Is she a
widow?”

“No,” said
Peter. “Find your own wife!”

Cecil ignored
the command. “Maybe she’s been pining for you…”

“She won’t
marry me. Forget I said anything.”

“Is she
engaged?”

“No…I don’t
know…I don’t want to think about her. If I think about her more,
I’ll end up in B-Bedlam.”

“Ah,” said
George. “She’s rejected his advances. Perhaps Aunt Agnes can…”

“No!”

The drawing
room door opened, and Agnes eyed her nephews with her habitual
marble expression. Cecil had to share the good news, “Did you know
Papa’s in love with some old maid he’s been dreaming about for
years? All we have to do is discover her identity and then persuade
her to marry Papa.”

“Look at your
father,” said Agnes. “Look at him!” The five young men obediently
turned to look. “The man has had his private feelings published in
every major broadsheet. You’re lucky he’s a liberal parent; I know
men who’d whip the skin from your backs for that stupid ad. Go and
wash your hands and change your shirts for luncheon and not another
word on your father’s affaires of the heart unless he brings up the
topic.” Peter sighed in relief as his chastened sons meekly left
the room and thundered up the stairs out of earshot. “You look
tired Peter. Would you prefer a tray in your room?”

“No, I’ve spent
the last three days alone with my unpleasant thoughts.”

“There’s no
reason to be morose. Isabel won’t stop wanting you because you lost
your temper, called her a maypole, and carried from the house like
a sea chest. Give her time to romanticise your contretemps and
she’ll soon concoct a reason to forgive you.”

“Forgive me, if
I d-doubt you.”

“Peter, you’re
a wealthy beautiful Lord free of the pox in search of a wife. I
know ladies who’d poison their husbands to see you put a wedding
ring on their finger; even after that stupid advertisement. Relax
and be ready to catch Isabel in one of her swoons. My cousin wants
a hero who’ll overcome impossible odds to win her or die trying.
Don’t worry about my Uncle Louis. If he knows Isabel wants you
he’ll only shoot to wound.”

“Is that
supposed to comfort me?”

“Being shot
isn’t the end of the world. It’s painful, but unless the wound
gangrenes and you die, it heals and you get on with life.”

“That’s easy
for you to say. You’re a woman. You’re never going to be shot.”

Agnes smiled as
if he’d said something amusing, “James agrees you need some heroic
grooming. He’ll take you to his tailor in the morning. You’ll stay
with us for a few months. Bath should offer numerous opportunities
to practice being a hero. Come and have lunch and let your brother
remind you how wonderful you are.”

Isabel stared
unseeing at her plate; her knife and fork forgotten. She’d failed
to banish Peter Smirke from her thoughts. The image of the man
bowing to her, his bandaged hand clutched to his chest as he took
his leave, it haunted her waking hours. Whatever he’d wanted to
say, his tongue couldn’t form the words. After several agonising
attempts he’d given up with a pained expression. Had his black eyes
been begging for forgiveness? The man made no sense. His words had
been bitter, but his passionate kisses… She shivered with pleasure
at the memory.

Peering through
closed curtains, she’d watched him leave. He’d put on his hat,
pulled on his gloves and then stood on the drive staring at the
house like a rejected lovelorn suitor. She held her breath as he
took a step, but he turned and climbed onto his seat. Carefully
taking up the reins; he waited for his groom to take his seat
before driving slowly away. She’d watched until the black curricle
was only a flash of black through oak leaves. Every mile must have
caused agony to his hand.

Had Peter
Smirke already forgotten her? Would he marry Helene Carteret?
Isabel viciously stabbed her food with her fork and winced as
silver screeched against china. It meant nothing to her if he
married a poisonous harpy, nothing but misery. She was aware of her
parents having a whispered conversation, but the soft French words
drifted past her ears. If her father pursed his lips and declared
one more time that she should have accepted Peter Smirke’s
proposal, she’d throw her plate at his head. Just because an
eligible man with French blood had proposed, she was expected to do
her duty and fly the nest. Silver prongs scraped her china plate,
forking a single pea. It was useless.

Peter Smirke
would remain in her thoughts with impunity; her father had refused
her teary request to reclaim the fan. If she wanted it, she’d have
to claim it. How did her father expect her to do that without
making a scene or… If she’d found the nerve to sneak into Peter’s
chamber, would she have found her fan or… If Peter had wrapped his
arms around her waist and pulled her onto the bed…would she have
found it under his pillow? It was just as well. If her father had
found her in a man’s bed…she unconsciously made the sign of the
cross over her chest, flinging the solitary pea across the table at
her parents.

“Isabel!” She
ignored her father and silently prayed he wouldn’t say the hated
words. “We know the heart it iz broken, but you must eat. We will
not watch you dissipate into death. Manger! Maintenant!”

“I’m not
hungry.”

“Tu n’mange pas
pour three days…you are famined. Eat!”

“I can’t eat. I
can’t sleep.” Isabel’s lower lip trembled. “I want one whole day
without having to think of that horrid Smirke, and don’t tell me
that I should have married the man, or I’ll never eat again.” Her
knife and fork fell to the floor with a clatter. “I hate my life. I
wish I could throw the last week into the fire and rewrite it from
the beginning. I want a happy ending Papa…”

Jumping up from
his chair, her father rushed to her side and wrapped his arms
around her shoulders. “Ma petite fille, you will be happy eh? Ton
Père will find you le bonheur directement. You need to laugh et
danse avec les beaux hommes.”