Dancing the Maypole (48 page)

A sensible man
would have resisted the temptation to see Isabel. A sensible man
would have sent the fan by special courier, and taken the shortest
route home to Adderbury. Peter wasn’t in a sensible state of mind.
If the visit went without incident, he’d spend fifteen minutes in
Isabel’s company and then take his leave by kissing the air over
her hand. He didn’t want to kiss air. The pleasant thought of
holding Isabel was disturbed by a red brick structure appearing
through leafy trees. The imposing gatehouse made him flinch.
Depending on the length of the drive, he’d soon face the prospect
of being shot or worse, having to explain to his son that Isabel
was his dream mistress. “Papa! Aren’t you listening? Stop the
horses. I’m going to burst!”

Peter took his
eyes off the road to glare at his son. “What?”

“Stop the
horses! I need to water the wall.”

“Here?” Peter
saw visions of Isabel on horseback riding by. “Next to the road?
Someone might see.”

“Who? We
haven’t passed a soul since we left that cursed inn where the ugly
innkeeper kept winking at me…why aren’t you stopping?”

“The mistress
of that g-gatehouse may be planning to dry her linen on the
hedge.”

“We’re at least
a quarter of a mile away. I won’t be standing in front of her
window watering the hedge. If you’re feeling prudish, I’ll water
the ground behind the curricle. No-one will see…why aren’t you
stopping?”

Peter silently
cursed his luck. “Why didn’t you mention this two miles back?”

“I’ve been
mentioning it every fifty yards. Don’t you listen to anything I
say?”

“It’s hard to
listen while d-driving with a windy stomach.”

“I told you not
to order the steak and ale pie,” said Cosmo, “that inn stank of
stewed horse…”

“I’m not
stopping for you to water the wall. You’ll have to wait. I’m here
to return Mademoiselle’s fan not offend her uncle’s
neighbours.”

“It won’t take
a minute,” pleaded Cosmo.

Peter scowled
at the road, “We’ll be at the house in five minutes. You can water
a wall after I visit Mademoiselle.” Peter’s loquacious son was
deathly silent. “See? Here’s the gatehouse…” The shutters were all
closed. Peter had failed again. Cosmo sat with tightly folded arms
and a strained angry expression. Sighing in irritation, Peter
pulled the horses to a stop. “Hurry up. If you’re not back in two
minutes you’ll be walking to the house.”

Cosmo looked at
him in disbelief, “Where do you expect me to go?”

“Right there!
Peter pointed in the direction of the paving stones leading to the
back of the house. Hurry b-before someone comes along.”

“You want me to
sneak into someone’s garden and water their plants? The house is
probably inhabited by two old witches who prefer living in the
dark. They probably cast spells on strangers who enter their
garden…”

“I’ve stopped!
Go!”

“Yes, you
stopped once there was a higher probability I’d be humiliated. You
probably hope I’ll wet myself and die of shame so you can give
Cecil my last two properties.”

Muttering a
French curse on ungrateful children Peter slapped the horses into a
canter and glared at the white road curving through the landscaped
park. “The house was empty,” shouted Peter over the noise of the
wheels and horses hooves.

“Gate houses
are never empty,” retorted Cosmo.

Peter was
cursing all gatehouses as a giant carriage driving away from the
house lurched into view, and hurtled past, the wheels spitting
white stones. The road dipped suddenly over an edge, down a long,
gentle slope to a late medieval manor house fit for a king. Built
of red brick, the house had started life in the late Gothic period,
survived Elizabeth’s reign to end in a war of taste between baroque
and neoclassical. Peter cringed at the sight of inefficient
disorder. There were probably fifty forgotten rooms full of ugly
ceramics all gathering dust.

“Oh Papa…”
Cosmo’s voice was full of wonder. “…look at all those twisting
chimneys. There must be fifty of them. I wish one of my houses were
Elizabethan. You’d never find boring ghosts in a house like
that.”

“There’s no
such thing as g-ghosts.” It was Peter’s standard reply when one of
his sons complained of unseen company.

“Tell that to
George. A ghost throws dirt at him every time he reads in the
garden.”

“It’s probably
Robert playing tricks,” said Peter.

“It’s not
Robert! It’s a ghostly young woman. George has seen her several
times. She probably died in the middle of reading a book, and
resents not knowing how it ends. I’ve tried reading in the garden,
but she never throws dirt at me. She’s probably in love with
George. Typical! Even dead women find my brothers more
attractive.”

Seeing the
house loom closer, Peter painfully overcame a mad impulse to race
to the front door, to see Isabel a few seconds sooner. Reining the
horses to a slow trot he turned to his son, “The ladies don’t find
you unattractive Cosmo; they find your facts and stories,
embarrassing.”

“Thank you
Papa, I’ll sleep well tonight knowing the ladies find me a
monotonous bore.” The words were brittle.

Peter sighed in
irritation, “I didn’t say you were a monotonous b-bore…”

“No, you hint
every twenty minutes that you’d rather travel in silence. You
should have allowed your old-maid cousin, Mad Felicity, to adopt
me. She’d have a living doll and you’d be free of your least
favourite dishonourable son.”

Peter jerked
hard on the reins. The horses came to an abrupt stop a few feet
from the giant forbidding door carved with the date, 1473, as if
callers needed proof the house was as old as it looked. “I don’t
want to be free of you! Do you know how many hours I spent holding
you as an infant? You are my son and I love you!” The words roared
over the horses and up to the chimneys.

Peter heard his
angry words echoing off the front of the house as his son stared at
him in horror. “Are you trying to embarrass me to death? Boots will
repeat every word below stairs.” Boots, the short, slender groom,
in Peter’s livery, had already jumped down from his precarious seat
at the back, and was standing to attention holding a bridle.

“The fact I
love my son is hardly t-titillating news.”

“It is when you
shout the fact at your son while seated in an open vehicle on a
stranger’s drive. What is the matter with you? Ever since that
cursed advertisement you’ve been…deranged.”

Acutely aware
that Isabel was behind one of the numerous windows, Peter took a
deep breath, and forced himself to speak calmly. “If you ever wake
to find your heart’s been missing for eighteen years, you’ll know
how I feel.”

Cosmo snorted
in contempt, “Who needs love? I’ve lived twenty years without
it…”

“Now you’re
b-b-being impertinent,” said Peter.

“How? If you
loved me, you’d spend time with me.”

“I am spending
time with you.”

Cosmo’s lip
curled in contempt, “To spend time with someone you have to give
them your attention. You probably haven’t heard a single word I’ve
said all day. I might as well talk to myself. At least I won’t
complain about my conversation.”

Peter closed
his eyes, and muttered French curses on difficult children. “Stay
here!” It was a command that threatened dire consequences if
disobeyed. Handing Cosmo the reins Peter climbed down overwhelmed
by the temptation to abandon his responsibilities and run away with
Isabel. For a few pleasurable seconds, he could almost believe he’d
be happier far away from ungrateful sons and irritating neighbours.
He was being a fool. Leaving Adderbury House in Cecil’s hands, and
moving to France, would only provide new irritating neighbours
who’d hate him for being English, and any number of children who’d
hate him for the same reason.

“Why do I have
to sit here like a smelly piece of cheese?” asked Cosmo. “I want to
see Mademoiselle. If she marries a fortune-hunter and moves to
France, I’ll never see her again.”

“You’ll see her
again,” snarled Peter.

“How do you
know?”

Peter ignored
the question. “I’ll return shortly.”

“You’ll be at
least fifteen minutes, or they’ll think you unspeakably rude. I
wouldn’t make my son wait that long to relieve his bladder. It’s
heartless!”

“I’m not
heartless!” The angry words shouted from the ground upset the
horses. The vehicle jerked forward nearly sending his son flying
off the perch. Peter’s heart was in his throat as the groom calmed
the horses.

Cosmo sat
upright and then turned to glare at him. “Make up your mind Papa.
Either your heart has been missing for eighteen years, or it
hasn’t.”

Backed into a
verbal corner of his own making, Peter exhaled through clenched
teeth. “Drive over to the stables, relieve your b-bladder, and then
return and wait for me here.” It was a simple solution to a
complicated situation. As long as his son couldn’t overhear
Isabel’s relatives asking about wedding dates he’d be safe.

Before the
groom could let go of the horses’ heads, the front door swung open.
Peter’s stomach flipped inside out as Isabel stepped smiling into
the sunshine. “My Lord…and Mr Smirke what a lovely surprise. Have
you had a pleasant journey from Bath?”

His heart
pounding in his ears, Peter opened his mouth to return her
greeting, but was cut off.

“Not really.”
Cosmo’s angry tone promised to ruin the visit. “Papa thinks I’m a
bore. I don’t know why he asked me to come. I can only assume he’s
planning to drive around a sharp corner in the hope that I’ll fall
into a ditch, break my neck and reduce his yearly expenditure.”

“Your father
doesn’t want you to die,” said Isabel. “Come inside. I’ve ordered
lemonade. You must be parched after driving through clouds of
dust.”

“Papa’s ordered
me off to the stables…like a wet dog.”

“His Lordship
must be jesting…” began Isabel.

“Papa jest?”
Cosmo snorted. “If my father thinks I’m tedious, he should try
talking to his mirror. Don’t be surprised when you read in
Gentleman’s Magazine that the second Lady Adderbury has officially
died of boredom.”

Peter’s cheeks
burned as he glanced down to find Isabel looking up at him with a
single raised eyebrow. “I never said he was tedious. If Cosmo must
fill every mile with chatter, he c-could at least share pleasant
stories. I don’t want to hear about travellers being murdered by
g-ghostly monks or greedy innkeepers. There’s a lady I wish to
spend time with, in the flesh. I don’t want to think about being
murdered. If I die I’ll have to haunt her b-bed…”

“I thought you
didn’t believe in ghosts,” sneered Cosmo.

Mademoiselle
pinched her lips between her teeth in a frown, but her eyes were
laughing. “It sounds like a silly misunderstanding. Smirkes are
never dull. Riding over long dusty roads under this sun; who could
remain pleasant? Come inside Mr Smirke. I insist!” Isabel waved
Cosmo down off the curricle and practically dragged the young man
up to the door where a footman was waiting. “Show Mr Smirke to the
nearest chamber with soap and water. Attend his every need.”

“God Bless You
Mademoiselle!” said Cosmo, exuberantly kissing her on both
cheeks.

Peter cringed
as his son could be heard demanding the footman to lead him to the
nearest empty chamber pot. “Boots, wait for us here…”

Isabel’s smile
faded, “You’re not leaving so soon? Promise you’ll stop long enough
for the horses to be rubbed down and watered.” Her eyes silently
begged him to stop for the night.

“As you
wish…see to it Boots!”

“My Lord…”
Boots touched his hat and climbed into the curricle and drove
off.

Peter’s stomach
flipped again as Isabel tucked her arm around his dusty coat sleeve
and smiled up at him. “I’m glad you’re here in the flesh Pierre.”
The sound of her voice and the caressing pressure of her arm
inflated his chest. He was an air balloon waiting to soar into the
sky. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks pink and moist, as if
she’d run to meet him.

“Papa won’t
shoot you. He thinks men need to be told they can’t have something
before they know they want it.”

“I know what I
want,” whispered Peter. His gaze was drawn to the expanse of skin
framed by her low décolletage. Refocused on her eyes, his knees
threatened to give way at the look of longing in her eyes.
“Lovely!”

“My bosom or my
face?”

He looked
around making sure there wasn’t anyone close enough to overhear.
“Both!”

She flushed
with pleasure and pressed closer. “Has anyone ever told you that
you look particularly handsome covered in dust?”

“Non.”

Isabel blushed,
“You look like you’ve been conjured up out of a desert. I can see
you riding a camel over miles of sand, with a jewelled dagger
tucked in your belt…”

“With you in my
arms,” interrupted Peter, “we’d flee from a lost regiment of
Napoleon’s army who refuse to believe France could lose the
war.”

“Yes, and while
you heel the camel, I’ll lift my skirts and flash my long legs at
the men. They’ll all think they’re hallucinating and let us
disappear into the rolling sands…”

Peter scowled,
“I d-d-don’t want to share your legs with a regiment of
soldiers.”

“Would you
rather die and leave me to seduce the commanding officer?”

“Non!”

“I thought
not,” said Isabel.

Peter allowed
himself to be dragged out of the heat, through the giant door into
an entrance hall with a black and white marble chequered floor.
Peter’s hat was carried away, along with his linen overcoat.

“Do you need to
refresh yourself?”

Peter shook his
head and whispered, “Could we speak in private?”