Dancing the Maypole (56 page)

“Isabel has for
Adderbury the love romantique. Adderbury desires Isabel like the
lover who is starving. She will not have the heartbreak.”

“But he was
seen…”

“C’est sans
importance!” His nemesis was momentarily silenced as she reeled
back visibly insulted at his commanding tone. His attempt to end
the conversation failed as he knew it would.

“You can’t
shove Isabel into the arms of a man who can’t even think to lock a
door or close the shutters before indulging in illegal activities.
The man is an idiot.”

“Oui, un grand
idiot who has for Isabel the love romantique.”

“How can he be
in love with Isabel when he’s in love with some man named
Abel?”

“If he desires
to live, he will have for Isabel the love romantique. I have only
the little time to tell to Adderbury how to be the good husband.
Excusez-moi.” Monsieur stepped around his sister-in-law and regally
continued down the steps ignoring her muttered curses on short
heartless Frenchmen.

Everyone was in
place. His wife was standing next to the opposite maypole with her
giant brother-in-law who’d dance with Isabel while the family
slipped away to fill the chapel. The giant would then lead Isabel
on some pretext to her surprise wedding. With luck Isabel wouldn’t
faint halfway down the aisle. As the dancers clapped their
appreciation for the music, Monsieur caught his wife’s gaze. For
several heartbeats, he was a young man struck by admiring eyes.

The music over,
Monsieur winked at his smiling wife before affecting a stern
expression. His daughter’s smile faded as he physically stepped
between the two lovers. “Bonjour ma petite; you are appreciating
the dance?”

Isabel sniffed
her ring, “I’m enjoying it very much Papa. I feel like I’m in a
magic garden…” She snapped open her fan as she looked up over
Monsieur’s head at her companion. Monsieur turned to see Lord
Adderbury’s black eyes glazed over with longing. “…a garden where
anything is possible.”

“Oui, the
maypoles…” Monsieur waited until Adderbury thought to look at him.
“…they are très jolie, non?” Adderbury turned to look at the
ribbon-covered maypoles circling the dance floor and opened his
mouth to agree with his host. “Idiot! The maypole at the elbow. She
is très jolie non?”

Adderbury
flushed in embarrassment as his black eyes rolled back to Isabel’s
face. “Elle est très belle!”

“Oui! All my
daughters they are beautiful, but tell to me, do you have for
Isabel the love romantique?” Adderbury smiled at Isabel like a
drunk eyeing his first drink of the day. He’d already forgotten the
question. Rolling his eyes in exasperation, Monsieur took out his
watch and noted the time. Looking up he found his wife and giant
brother-in-law approaching. “Monseigneur!” Adderbury slowly pried
his gaze from Isabel’s smile. “Isabel’s uncle wishes to have
Isabel’s next dance. You will come with me. I have for you some
paternal advice romantique. Allons-y!”

Isabel stared
at her father as if he’d ordered her lover to set sail for the
moon. “Papa, Adderbury is a widower. He doesn’t need romantic
advice.”

“Bof! If he did
not need the advice, he would have purchased a special license and
secretly married you weeks ago. Are you the secret wife? Does he
injure the ankle crossing the park to meet you in the moonlight, a
secret husband feverish with need to hold his wife? Non! He needs
the advice.”

“Papa, you
threatened to shoot him if he came to see me!”

“A man in love
listens to the heart. He will stare down death to hold the woman
who boils his blood. He does not deliver a fan and disappear.”

“He had
obligations.”

“A man in love
has one obligation; the heart of his chérie.”

“Pierre needed
to spend time with one of his sons.”

“Bah! His sons
they are grown men. If he has not spent time with them it is too
late. I will tell to him how to be a good husband. Et voila, we
will all be content.”

“Oh no!” Her
eyes looked down full of panic and horror. “Not the marital
lecture!”

Monsieur pursed
his lips in irritation. “Adderbury will soon be your husband. He
needs to know how to make love to a femme Français. The man has
only bed his maid. I’ll wager my prize ewe your lover has the
competence sexuelle of the blind ram. I will give Adderbury the
advice romantique so you will not run to your Mamma crying that
your big idiot climbs into the bed to perform his duties conjugal,
and makes you wish you were having the toe nails cut.”

“Papa please!
Don’t talk so loud! Someone will hear. Do you want me to die of
embarrassment?”

“Non, Petite. I
want you to die content. I do not find pleasure in giving the
advice romantique. Do you think I want to say the things that will
make Adderbury wiggle like the drowning worm?”

“Oui!” Her eyes
accused him of being a heartless fiend.

“Bah! You do
not know your petite Papa. Your sisters, they do not complain. They
are content. Non?”

“They can’t
complain or you’ll shoot their husbands.”

“Exactement!
They are content. If they did not care for their husbands’ blood,
they would take the lovers. The music for the next dance, it
commences. Allons-y!”

His daughter
theatrically sniffed her ring, “I feel deathly faint. I need Pierre
to walk me in the garden.”

Monsieur pursed
his lips in exasperation. His daughter would walk to the nearest
dark corner where she’d spend the next hour kissing her big idiot.
“If you faint, your uncle will aid you.” Monsieur gracefully waved
his arm towards the door, “Adderbury!” It was a polite request with
a steely undertone that threatened the need for bandages if
ignored.

“Ma Belle…”
Taking hold of Isabel’s offered hand; Adderbury pulled it to his
lips. “…is there anything you’d like me to b-bring you; lemonade,
ribbons, diamonds…?”

Monsieur rolled
his eyes, “We are not voyaging to India. We are walking to the
other side of the house. Allons-y!” Monsieur held his head high,
oblivious to hundreds of curious eyes following them out of the
ballroom. He didn’t have time to worry how short he looked next to
Lord Adderbury; he had twenty-five minutes to give a lecture that
normally lasted two hours. It took finesse to pass on intimate
knowledge of being a good husband without showing any sign of
embarrassment. He didn’t have time for delicacy; Adderbury needed
to be standing at the altar before Isabel was led into the chapel.
It would be a blunt exchange best done by moonlight so the shadows
would conceal any telltale redness in Monsieur’s cheeks.

Smelling salts
pressed against her nose, Isabel watched in horror as Pierre was
led away. Her father’s lecture on the art of good husbandry had
been known to leave courageous, battled-scarred men visibly
trembling in their boots. Her brother-in-law, Maurice, had
described it as a crawl through hell’s kitchen, where he was forced
to eat his way through mountains of revolting recipes with only a
glass of muddy water to wash it all down. She’d overheard her
sisters on numerous occasions whispering about their respective
husbands’ ordeals. Unless her father had mellowed since his last
lecture, poor Pierre would be given the choice to describe in
minute detail how he believed a man should make love to his wife,
or receive a lead ball in his foot. If her hero chose the former,
he’d then endure her father’s tutorial on how to make a woman
happy, along with any added wisdom he thought useful. Isabel saw
white flashing stars as her mother said something about dancing.
Isabel was still staring at the doorway when the music started.

“You look pale,
Isabel,” said Uncle Robert. “Do you need to sit somewhere quiet? We
don’t have to dance.” Isabel had to tip back her head. At six feet
nine inches, the elder Robert Neilson was a giant man. Staring up
into kind eyes, with her head tipped back at an uncomfortable
angle, she realised how blessed she was to be tall. If she’d been
born a short woman she’d have fallen in love with Pierre and then
spent the rest of her life with a neck ache.

“Yes, somewhere
I can breathe.” Looking around she cringed at numerous curious
people staring at her. Taking his arm, she allowed him to lead her
towards the door, but her progress was halted by the abrupt
appearance of a young woman in yellow. “Iris?”

Iris
Bedingfield smiled like a vicar invited to a pulpit, “Cousin
Isabel, I hear you’re shortly to become the latest Lady Adderbury.
Is it true?” The innocent words had a poisonous undertone as if the
beautiful young woman had first force-fed them to a viper.

Isabel’s spine
stiffened as she resisted the impulse to be rude. “Oui.”

Iris stood with
her head tipped back waiting for Isabel to say something more.
“Will you honeymoon?”

“Probably.
Why?”

“When it’s over
I shall pay you a visit. After spending weeks caged with Lord
Madderbury in a moving carriage, you’ll need someone to take your
mind off the coming years.”

“If I didn’t
enjoy my Lord’s company, I wouldn’t have accepted his
proposal.”

“Not even out
of desperation to escape the shelf? Hmmm…what if you wish to dance?
I can play rigs and reels on the pianoforte. You could dance till
you fell into each others arms or tripped over a rug.”

“It’s kind of
you to offer, but if we need to dance Adderbury will know someone
who’ll oblige us; his son, if he’s at home…”

“Which son?”
asked Iris, her dark blue eyes burning with curiosity.

“Does it
matter?” replied Isabel.

“Of course
not,” sneered Iris, visibly disappointed not to have learned which
son would be playing the piano. “Well? Aren’t you going to invite
me to stay?”

“I don’t like
you. Why would I invite you to visit?”

“Because I’m
your cousin, and it’s polite. Pray Lord Adderbury forgets to pack
his travelling barometer for the honeymoon, or he’ll be forecasting
the weather between kisses. I wish you all the usual felicitations
etc… Good evening Uncle!”

Perplexed,
Isabel watched the younger woman swan back into the ballroom.
“Honestly! She treats me like a leper for years, and suddenly she
wants to plague my house?”

“I believe Iris
has her eye on Adderbury’s heir,” said Uncle Robert. “No doubt
she’s hoping to pursue the poor young man in a more intimate
setting. Don’t be surprised when her carriage mysteriously cracks a
wheel on Adderbury’s drive.”

Isabel crossed
herself at the thought of one of Peter’s sons’ marrying Iris. “Are
you trying to give me nightmares Uncle?”

Uncle Robert
smiled in amusement, “You won’t have nightmares tonight.” Isabel
eyed her uncle with concern. Her whole family was going mad, but it
didn’t matter. Pierre was going to rescue her. They’d drive through
the morning darkness and then find a country inn… Lost in a mental
kiss, she was unaware of being led through a confusing maze of
moonlit rooms and corridors to the farthest corner of the
house.

“As I promised,
someplace quiet.” Starting from her daydream, Isabel found herself
in a lady’s sitting room; pink silk walls gleaming in bright
lamplight. The footman silently standing at attention inside the
room was a man-shaped shadow. “Thank you George; I’ll put out the
lamp.” The shadow bowed and closed the door behind him.

Transfixed,
Isabel stared at the full-length portrait on the wall opposite the
open windows. The youthful Gwen Neilson stood under some trees in
pink silk; her skirt clutched by an angelic, longhaired little boy
wearing the typical white short-sleeved dress and ribbons of the
nursery. The rest of the wall was a patchwork of sketches and
paintings of the only son at various stages of childhood and young
adulthood. Other than the small table with an oil lamp, standing
between two large chairs facing the painting, the room was
unfurnished. Isabel sat down and stared at the paintings. “Aunt
Gwen was a stunning beauty.”

The elder
Robert Neilson sat down in the other chair and smiled at the
portrait, “She still is. This is where your aunt sits and
dreams.”

“What does she
dream about?”

“I’ve never
asked. The pieces of a broken heart are like rare Ming china, best
kept out of reach of dogs, children, and gawping visitors who may
become envious and tempted to break them again. I don’t want to
know if she spends hours wondering what might have been if her
little Frenchman had married her. I prefer to imagine she sits here
daydreaming of me.”

Isabel’s eyes
widened in shock. “Aunt Gwen fell in love with a short man? Who was
he?”

“The son of
French aristocrats who found the prospect of a giant English
daughter-in-law, even for a younger son, too mortifying to allow.
The usual threats were made, and the young man retracted his offer
of marriage.”

“How sad.”

“Not sad for
me! He made a bad choice, and I benefited. It appears you’ve made a
good choice. I understand Adderbury is a decent young man. Your
father is quite pleased for you.”

“He is? Then
why does he keep threatening to shoot Pierre?”

“Your father
has weathered four sons-in-law. I trust he has his reasons.”

“Papa doesn’t
need a reason. I think he likes shooting people.”

“You’re in
love. You’re looking at the world through a convex lens held in
front of your heart’s desire. Lord Adderbury appears larger than
life, while your parents are off to the side, looking, and probably
feeling, small and unimportant to you. Your father may have been
through this before, but that doesn’t mean he finds it easy. When
our Robbie packed up his childhood and carried it away to a home of
his own we found it hard. You think you have endless years, and
then your child leaves home and it’s too late for all the things
you meant to say or do. It’s humbling to have to write and ask your
son if you can visit, instead of walking to his room. Monsieur may
wish to shoot your Pierre, but he won’t. Not tonight. Does
Adderbury return your regard?”