Dancing the Maypole (47 page)

“My son’s spine
is adequately steely,” said Madame through clenched teeth, “he
simply doesn’t enjoy being reminded he’s so small.”

“When have I
reminded your son he’s small? I haven’t seen the boy in years. I
assume he must be shaving if he has a mistress…”

“Louis is a
grown man of thirty.”

Gwen’s eyebrows
rose in shock, “He’s thirty? He looks twelve!”

Isabel had a
strong feeling if she didn’t end the conversation about her
brother, the two sisters would soon be pulling out each other’s
hair. “Mamma? Were you looking for me?”

Before her
mother could reply, Aunt Gwen was striding towards the window,
ending the danger. Isabel watched her mother take another deep
breath and close her eyes. She was muttering something, probably a
silent prayer for strength to endure her sister’s tongue.

“I’m pleased to
see your mouth is closed!” said Gwen. The six foot woman frowned
down at Isabel’s dress, “I promised Lady Herbert we’d call this
afternoon and share all the latest gossip from Bath. She
particularly enjoys amusing stories about Smirkes. Go put on a
pretty hat and…”

“I don’t know
any amusing Smirke stories,” said Isabel with a straight face.

“Pish! You’ll
put on your hat and oblige my invalid neighbour. She has a
granddaughter who’d make Robert a quiet, obliging wife. If you’d
married my son I wouldn’t need to smile and pretend the old woman’s
sagging breasts don’t pop out of her ancient décolletage every time
she reaches for the teapot. You will oblige me out of the goodness
of your heart.”

“I can’t leave
the house.” Isabel hoped she sounded firm. “Lord Adderbury is
bringing my fan.”

Isabel’s
beautiful aunt looked down at her with indignation, “You’re going
to disappoint my neighbour for the sake of a fan?”

“My favourite
fan. I need it…” Isabel’s eyes swung around the room looking for
inspiration. “…for the ball.”

Gwen snorted in
contempt, “Your mad lover can bring it to the ball. The whole of
England knows he can afford a coat with pockets.”

“Agnes wrote
that he’s bringing it today. It would be rude not to be here when
he arrives.”

“When do you
expect him?”

“Soon…” Isabel
could feel her aunt’s strength of will battering her resistance.
“Agnes said he’d call today. I expect him any minute.”

“Smirkes! What
sort of lover sends word through his sister-in-law that he’s
planning to call, but doesn’t mention when to be expected? Living
with that idiot is turning Agnes into a mushroom.” Aunt Gwen held
out her gloved hand. “The letter. Let me read it. Agnes might have
mentioned the time in an oblique manner too complicated for you to
understand.”

Isabel pressed
her arm over the slit in the side of her skirt that allowed access
to her bulging pocket. The letter contained several Smirke
anecdotes best kept between Smirkes. Aunt Gwen’s neighbour didn’t
need to know that Peter’s bastard granddaughter had spewed all over
his brother John’s shoulder at breakfast. That Peter’s third son,
Charles, had returned from Adderbury to announce he wouldn’t be
marrying the blind Widow Malet or that after a sleepless night
pacing the drawing room, Peter had blighted the breakfast table
with his most frightening look until Agnes held up Isabel’s letter;
after which he’d gulped down his food with a constipated smile. “I
burned it.”

Her aunt
sniffed in disbelief. “I hope Adderbury appreciates his good
fortune to have found a loyal, wealthy wife. Have you cleaned your
teeth, child?”

Isabel bit back
a tart reminder she was far too old to be a child. “Yes, and I’ve
been sucking on rose sweets all morning.”

“I hope you
washed properly under your arms. You don’t want the man to find you
stinking like a chambermaid; he might end up longing for his dead
wife.”

“I bathed this
morning, with soap, and then liberally doused myself with
scent.”

Aunt Gwen
leaned over and sniffed Isabel with a grimace. “Remember, you want
to ensnare the man, not chase him away. If he hands you a bunch of
ugly flowers, smile and tell him you think they’re lovely. You’re
too old for the truth. You want him to think you’re in love with
him.”

Feeling
insulted, Isabel loudly exclaimed, “I am in love with him!”

“At least you
sound convincing,” said Gwen. “You look rather pale and sickly. You
haven’t been starving yourself to look more petite, have you?”

“I haven’t
slept well…” began Isabel.

“Well don’t
meet the man with that weary, dyspeptic, frown or he’ll think
you’ve been tumbled by a footman. He’s probably planning to arrive
late in the hope I’ll invite him to dinner and then offer him a bed
for the night. I hope you’re not allowing the man excessive
liberties. You don’t want to end up like your sister, waddling up
the aisle looking like you’ve swallowed a pumpkin; not when you’re
marrying a man named Peter. Have you put your money in a
trust?”

“No,” snarled
Isabel. “Adderbury is a good man.”

“Fool! You’re
lucky some miniature rakehell hasn’t carried you off to Scotland,
declared himself your husband, and then squandered your inheritance
on high heeled shoes. Your father should have insisted the money be
put in trust for you and your heirs. Girls do so many stupid things
these days, swan around Egypt on camels, sail to Greece to stare at
naked statues, fall in love with nincompoops. That ancient French
uncle who left you all his money should have known better. At least
your silly scrapes amused him…”

“He wasn’t
laughing at me, he was laughing at my stories…”

“Don’t be
ridiculous!” snapped Aunt Gwen. “You’ve never told me a story that
made me laugh. At least you had the sense to charm a wealthy
cabbage-head.”

“I wasn’t
trying to charm anyone,” insisted Isabel. “Great Uncle Roland
always said a bastard son would inherit his fortune, but it turned
out there was no son. He explained in his will that he lost his
heart to a tailor who was stabbed to death by a patron who thought
the man had padded his bill for a waistcoat. I always wondered why
uncle cried when I described my heroes’ trousers.”

“Men!” Gwen
rolled her eyes in contempt, “Pray Adderbury isn’t planning to
spend your money enlarging that wardrobe he lives in.”

“I wouldn’t
want him to change it.”

“You won’t have
any say in the matter if he decides to shovel your money into a
builder’s pocket. Don’t stand there gaping like a fish. Go and put
on a hat. The carriage will be here any moment. Lady Herbert is
expecting your company.”

Isabel
stiffened in defiance. “And I’m expecting Lord Adderbury! Give Lady
Herbert my apologies.”

“Pish! If
Adderbury delivers your fan, my servants are quite capable of
carrying it up to your room. If he calls, and finds you out, he’ll
return another day or see you at the ball.”

“Non!” shouted
Isabel. “I don’t want to wait another day! I need to see him today
and I’m going to stand right here until his curricle rolls down the
hill if I have to wait all night.”

Her aunt leaned
back visibly offended. “Well! There’s no need to shout like a
fishwife. I shall inform your uncle’s servants to listen out for
terrified screams. There’s no telling what that Smirke will
do.”

Isabel flushed
with anger, “Your servants can mind their own business. I’ll be
perfectly safe. Adderbury is a good man.”

“Except when
he’s throwing you over his shoulder like a drunken harlot who’s
collapsed on his table after an evening of wild debauchery. If you
were my daughter, I’d horsewhip the miscreant, not wheel your chest
of gold to his carriage and wave you away. There’s still time to
make a better match, even if you are long in the tooth.”

Isabel shook
her fists at the floor, “I don’t want a better match. I want Peter
Smirke!”

“Well don’t
share the sentiment with your lover in that tone. Men find
desperation as appealing as a dead whore. If you don’t know any
amusing Smirke stories for Lady Herbert I shall need to make some
up. She’ll never know the difference…” Aunt Gwen sighed in
exasperation as Isabel’s mother crossed the room to join them at
the window. “Don’t cosset the girl. She’s old enough to sew her
third widow’s reeds…”

“I need to
speak with Isabel…” said Madame.

After a short
silent pause Gwen scowled, “Well speak to her!”

“Isabel is very
sensitive. She’d be embarrassed if you were to hear what I have to
say to her. I won’t be long.”

Gwen Neilson
sighed loudly in irritation, but turned and walked away leaving
mother and daughter in private.

Madame de
Bourbon touched Isabel’s cheek, “I know you’re upset with me for
insisting your father drag you away from Bath, but I have my
reasons.”

Isabel blinked
away angry tears, “Why do I have to wait here in agony when I could
see him every day? I want to share the same table. I want to return
to Bath!”

Madame de
Bourbon’s eyes smiled in amusement, “Without agony, there is no
ecstasy. You’ll share his meals soon enough Petite.”

“I waited
eighteen years to see him smile at me again,” wailed Isabel. “I
want to be in his arms…”

“Isabel, you
may think running off to London would best ease the longing, but if
you choose that road you’ll never have another opportunity to
relive your first dance and have the happy ending you crave.
Sometimes we need to give love a second chance.”

Isabel stared
in disbelief at her mother, “I’ll dance with him as his wife. How
is that not a happy ending?”

“Dancing as a
wife is a different dance. You need to dance with Adderbury as a
lover.”

Feeling faint,
Isabel unconsciously lifted her vinaigrette and inhaled the stench
of ammonia. “I can’t repeat the dance, I burned the dress.”

“Your Aunt Gwen
is sure to have a white dress from 1801 tucked away in a trunk. We
might need to lift the hem, but…”

Isabel’s eyes
widened in horror, “I’m thirty-six Mamma! I’m not wearing debutante
white and I’m certainly not borrowing an old dress. I’ll look a
quiz!”

“Non!” Her
mother’s piercing stare made Isabel hold her breath. “You’ll look
like the girl in the painting all grown up. C’est parfait! You told
me Adderbury was enchanted with your portrait…”

“He probably
admires all his mother’s paintings,” said Isabel.

“Don’t be a
ninny! A man doesn’t stare entranced at a painting of young woman
he danced with once unless she’s a stunning beauty, or he’s in love
with her and you are merely pretty. You still have the fan.”

“I don’t!
Pierre…” Isabel blushed as her mother raised an eyebrow. “Adderbury
pulled it out of the fire and refused to give it back.” Isabel
dropped her voice so her aunt wouldn’t hear. “When I wrote to
Agnes, I said I’d forgotten my favourite fan, hoping he’d use it as
an excuse to call. I don’t know if he’s bringing my fan and I don’t
care. I just want to see him. I need to see him Mamma. I need to be
in the same room with him, or I’ll die.”

Madame de
Bourbon rolled her eyes, “If Agnes sent word that Adderbury is
coming today, then he’ll come.”

“Not if he’s
died in a carriage accident!” Isabel’s wail echoed off the painted
ceiling. “What if I never see him again?” Isabel inhaled her
smelling salts. “I couldn’t bear it…”

“Bof! Do you
want him to arrive and find you looking consumptive, or smiling
with bright eyes and red cheeks? Be sensible and start concocting
reasons to keep the man here late enough to insist he stay the
night. Imagine kissing your hero in the maze by moonlight…” Isabel
blinked back tears of relief as her mother tenderly pinched her
cheek and then walked from the room without looking back.

The view of the
drive blurred… Under a midnight sky filled with diamonds, Isabel
was standing in the heart of her uncle’s maze with Pierre. The
white marble sculpture of Cupid firing his bow gleamed in the
moonlight as if waiting to be released from a spell. Shivering, she
remarked on the cool evening air. As she hoped, Pierre removed his
coat and draped it around her shoulders. It was still warm from his
body. Pretending to admire the night sky, she laughed as he dragged
her into his arms and warmed his lips on her cheek. Her whispered
suggestion that the heavens would be more easily admired from a
horizontal position was agreed. Stretched out on the damp grass
with his coat rolled up under their necks she lay next to her hero
wondering how long it would be before he tired of the sky. At last,
he rolled onto his side. On asking which constellation was his
favourite, he bent over and lightly covered her with kisses…

Peter was
barely conscious of the reins in his hands as he directed the
horses forward, past the undulating curves of an intimidating red
brick wall. The enclosed estate meant his destination was just out
of sight. A disagreeable whirlwind in his stomach made it hard to
imagine the next half hour would be any more pleasant than the
previous two. His son, Cosmo, had been sharing travel related
statistics since leaving Bath. It was not the day Peter wanted to
learn the likelihood of being robbed by some murderous innkeeper,
or stabbed by a lunatic ostler. Almost every village inspired more
stories of broken hearts, ruined families, or death. Peter’s fifth
attempt to explain the advantage of travelling the occasional mile
in silent contemplation merely prompted a story of a monk who after
two years of silence, had come to believe he was the Virgin Mary.
The moral being that silence was to be avoided unless one wanted to
end up in Bedlam married to the man chained to the next wall.

Peter could
only hope Isabel would be able to persuade Cosmo that society,
particularly the female half, didn’t want to know how many
prisoners choked on fish bones before they could be hung nor the
average number of soldiers who returned after a year in service
abroad to find their wives impregnated in their dreams by ghostly
Incubi. Unfortunately, that future was too far away to ease Peter’s
indigestion.