Dancing the Maypole (20 page)

“I
understand…”

“Non!” barked
Monsieur. “You married the domestique sans challenge. Quelle choix?
Why would she not marry you? You have the money. You have the belle
face. You are…big. The women they like the big men non?”

“Actually some
women think I’m too b-big and you have no right to sneer at me. I
happen to know one of your son-in-law was a servant.”

“Ah oui, but
Henri nearly died saving ma petite fille from the bandits.”

“Bandits he
probably p-p-paid to attack, to make himself look like a hero.”

“Non! I paid
them. He killed all three and almost met the good God. He is a man
d’honneur who has for ma fille the love romantique. Et toi? You
entrer furtivement and leave the grande footprints on the clean
floor, attach un ruban to Isabel without the note d’amour and you
do not wake her for a kizz?” The Frenchman shook his head in
disbelief. “You are un idiot, un cretin, un imbécile.”

“She would have
thought I was some ravisher. She’d have screamed, woke the house
and then you’d have shot me and fed me to your grass.”

The Frenchman
clicked his tongue in disgust, “Franchement, you are too Anglais!
If you entrer furtivement chez moi again you will crawl onto her
bed and whisper her name in her ear, c’est Isabel.” The heavy
sarcasm caused Peter’s cheeks to burn even hotter. “You whisper,
‘Isabel, mon amour…Isabel! I could not sleep…my heart, my body, it
aches for you…’ She will open the eyes and think you are un rêve
agréable. She will put the arms around your neck, and you will make
love to her before she knows you are réel. I will then hunt you
down, shoot you in the leg and whip the skin from the back. If you
say, ‘I love Isabel’ after every lash…you will have her
immédiatement.”

“How kind of
you!” sneered Peter. “You’ll allow me the privilege of lying in her
arms as I d-die.”

“Oui. C’est
romantique!”

“Being shot and
horsewhipped does not fall under my d-definition of romantic.”

“Idiot! Isabel
would nurse the wounds. Her heart would fill with the tender
thoughts. She would forget that you are un grande imbécile.”

“If I ever feel
the need to ask you for romantic advice Monsieur, I’ll shoot myself
and save your c-c-cows indigestion.” The Frenchman pursed his lips
in wordless contempt. He looked Peter up and down as if making a
mental note of the size of hole to dig in his meadow and then
elegantly turned on one heel and walked from the room without
glancing backwards, leaving the door open. “Blasted…” The impulse
to curse the French was only halted by the fact Peter would be
cursing his own blood. Growling, he limped to the door and slammed
it shut. Thinking uncharitable thoughts about short Frenchmen Peter
slung his bedclothes back onto the bed, pulled the covers up over
his head and fell back to sleep. Lost in the strange realm of
shifting images he stepped through an open doorway. He was in
Isabel’s bedchamber outside London, but the room opened into the
rose garden at Adderbury. She was standing near the fireplace
admiring something in her hands. “Ma Belle?”

Her head jerked
up as she clutched her treasure as if afraid he might try to grab
it. “Mr Smirke…what are you doing here?”

He glanced
around to make sure her father wasn’t waiting to shoot him before
approaching her. “I was hoping to find you.”

She looked at
him in disbelief, “Why?”

“I need to kiss
you,” said Peter.

“You didn’t
kiss me last night. What sort of lover are you? You must be a
foundling; you can’t possibly be half French.”

“I am! My
mother is French!”

She snorted in
contempt. “You’re not half French; you’re half idiot. Your wife’s
been dead eight years…eight…and you didn’t once try to find
me.”

Peter clutched
his chest as the words caused a stabbing pain. “Ma Belle…I wanted
you…I thought of you every night, but I thought you were a dream.
If I’d remembered…”

She looked at
the object in her hands. “You still can’t admit you love me. I’m
nothing but a pleasurable dream. This might as well be a worthless
paperweight.” Opening her hands she revealed a highly polished
heart carved from black marble.

“What is that?”
asked Peter.

“You gave it to
me the first time we met.”

“I did? What is
it?”

“Where does he
keep the key?” Cosmo’s voice jarred Peter’s dream.

“It’ll be in
one of his boots.” Cecil was somewhere behind Cosmo who was now
standing nearby staring at Isabel’s treasure.

“He’s moaning
in his sleep. He sounds as if he’s in pain.” Robert was at Peter’s
side staring up at him as if making a study of Peter’s face.

The dream Cecil
took hold of Robert and dragged him away. “You’ll be moaning in
pain if you wake him.”

Somewhere
behind Peter the unflappable Charles was orchestrating the madness.
“Shake out the boot on the bed. Don’t drop it into a floor crack or
we’ll never learn who she is. Hurry!”

Isabel looked
into Peter’s eyes. “Shall I tell them what you gave me?”

“Ma Belle,
please don’t tell them; they’ll ruin everything!”

The dream Cosmo
stepped closer and stared intently up at Peter’s face. Did you hear
that? He called a woman’s name…

“Cosmo, we’re
leaving.”

“I heard him
say Mabel…I swear he did!” said Cosmo. “Listen, he might say it
again…”

Peter glared at
his dream children, “Go away, I want to kiss Ma Belle.”

“There he said
it again…Mabel. Papa’s in love with a woman named Mabel…” insisted
Cosmo.

“He said
Marble!” Robert Smirke pulled free of his older brother. “He’s
probably dreaming he’s in Italy inspecting naked women carved out
of marble…”

“You’re both
going deaf,” said George. “Papa said May Belle. He’s probably
dancing around a maypole with some lusty wench.”

“I have
excellent hearing,” hissed Cosmo. “If Mademoiselle has a friend
named Mabel, she’s sure to be the one.”

The dream
Isabel rolled her eyes in irritation, “Your children are
idiots.”

“We have the
fan,” said Cecil. “Come away from the bed Cosmo before you wake
him.”

“Just think
what they’d do if they knew what I’m holding in my hands.” Isabel
held out her open hands. “Look! It has your name on it.”

Peter pulled
his reading glasses from his pocket and read his full name in
elaborate script carved into the stone. “My heart!” He looked down
at his chest and was horrified to find his shirt front unbuttoned
revealing a miniature cupboard door in his chest. He felt inside,
but it was empty. He tried to close it, but the door failed to
catch.

“The
heart-cupboard won’t shut when it’s empty. I’ve been trying to
close mine for nearly nineteen years.” Why hadn’t he noticed
before? Out of her chest swung open a door the width of a hand.
Peering inside he could see the cupboard was empty.

“Where’s your
heart?” asked Peter.

“In your
pocket, unless you’ve lost it.”

Peter groped in
his coat pocket and pulled out a polished amethyst stone heart.
Turning it over he found it carved with Isabel Désirée de Bourbon.
Holding it in his hand he stared at her chest. “Does the emptiness
cause you pain?”

Isabel pursed
her lips in irritation, “What do you think Mr Smirke? How does your
chest feel?”

“Horribly
empty!” groaned Peter. “I need my heart.”

“You can’t have
it. It’s my treasure. If you want to hold it, you have to hold
me.”

Wrapping his
free arm around Isabel’s waist Peter moaned in pleasure as she
rubbed the black stone over his chest. After years of emptiness, he
could feel sweet emotions he thought he’d lost forever. “Ma
Belle…Ma coeur…” He lightly placed the amethyst heart against her
chest and smiled as she slumped against him, her parted lips
demanding a kiss. Picking up Isabel, he carried out into the garden
to a secluded spot under a lilac tree.

“Wake up
Peter,” said Agnes. “You can’t sleep all day. Isabel will think
you’re old.”

Peter looked
over his shoulder and glared at Agnes standing in his garden. “Go
away! I’m making love to Ma Belle…” He turned to smile at Isabel,
but she’d disappeared along with his heart. The emptiness in his
chest made him groan in pain as he slumped face down into the
grass.

“If you want to
make love to Isabel; shave your face and call on her. I think you
should wear the green trousers and lavender coat today.”

Peter lifted
his face from his pillow and glared at his sister-in-law standing
next to his bed. “I was sleeping!”

Agnes smiled,
“Did I wake you? Pleasant dreams are nothing compared to the real
thing.”

“Leave me
alone, I’m t-t-tired.”

“Too tired to
learn your helpful sons left a few minutes ago to buy flowers and
call on Isabel? I think they know something. They looked
suspiciously smug.”

Peter sat
upright. “Flowers? Why are they c-calling on Mademoiselle?”

“Several of
them danced with her last night, it’s polite to take flowers.
Isabel will ask why you didn’t accompany them, and they’ll tell her
you were snoring like an old man…”

Peter flung off
his bedclothes and tried to leap out of bed, but nearly fell over
as he was forced to balance on his good leg.

“What’s the
matter with your leg? Did Uncle Louis pay you a visit? He said he
needed to find a chamber pot, but he came downstairs muttering
curses on big idiots.”

“We had a short
d-d-discussion…”

“You’re lucky
he only kicked you in the knee!” said the voice of Agent 1680.

Turning, Peter
scowled at the smiling romantic agent shimmering near the window; a
human shaped sunbeam.

“You don’t have
time to stare out the window,” said Agnes. “Your loving sons are
off to help you. Don’t forget to wash under your arms. I can smell
you from here. Isabel might fall out of love if you walk into her
drawing room smelling like a randy ram. I’ll send up a tray. I’d
hurry if I were you. There’s no telling what your brats might say.
Remember, you’re wearing the green trousers with the lavender
coat.”

Snarling, Peter
waved Agnes out of the room. As soon as the door was closed he
hissed at the agent, “Well?”

“Cosmo Xavier
is convinced your beloved is named Mabel. He heard you muttering
‘Ma Belle’ in your sleep. They were in here earlier.”

“They?”

“Your five
sons…”

“What were they
d-doing?”

“Searching for
a certain something to show Mademoiselle.”

The agent
raised his ghostly eyebrows in a look that sent a chill down
Peter’s spine. “No!” Peter felt hellfire licking at his dreams as
he rushed around the bed, grabbed his left boot, and shook it out
on the bed. It was empty. He flushed and then chilled as he picked
up his other boot. The small key to his travelling desk fell out.
Had he only thought he’d put it in the left boot? His hand shook as
he turned the key and lifted the lid. The fan was gone.

Pacing her
private sitting room, Isabel stopped to glare at the portrait of
her younger self. Sad eyes mutely refused to help devise a scheme
to induce Peter to repeat his offer. Now that she was desperate to
create some drama in her life, her creativity had evaporated. If
only Pierre would kidnap her and be done with it. She’d sulk for a
few miles, and then those black eyes would pull her into waiting
arms. Sitting on his knee, wrapped in the smell of happiness, she’d
push her fingers into thick curly black hair and kiss him until
he…

Lost in a
pleasurable dream world, she didn’t hear angry heels approaching.
The door slammed behind her making her jump. Turning round, her
father glared at her as if he could read her sinful thoughts.
“Papa?”

“Les homme
Anglais sont stupide! We go to France. I will find for you un homme
Français.”

Isabel’s
stomach heaved as if the house were already sailing over large
waves. “Find me a Frenchman? What?”

“We go to
France! You will not marier un grande vache…”

Seasickness
turned to panic as fear crushed the air from her lungs. “You didn’t
speak with Lord Adderbury?”

“Mais oui!”

Isabel
repressed a scream of rage, “He’ll think I sent you. He’ll never
marry me!”

“Bof! Adderbury
is too big, trop stupide…trop Anglais!”

Grabbing her
vinaigrette, she pressed it to her nose with a shaking hand. “Did
you upset him? What did you say?”

“I told to him
how to win the heart of une femme Français and he…” Her father’s
eyes flashed with rage as he clenched his fists. “…he…il a refusé
to make love to you like a Frenchman. He does not have for you the
love romantique. We will return to France, and then he will ache
for you. He will know he loved you, but it will be too late.
Pah!”

Isabel rolled
her eyes, “I know he’s not in love with me, but…”

Her father held
up an imperious hand stopping her. “You are une femme Français. You
need a man who has for you the big passion. Adderbury would not die
to protect you from the bandits…”

“Of course he’d
protect me from bandits,” protested Isabel. “He’d protect any
woman.”

“His heart it
would not freeze with the terreur that the bandits might ravish
you.”

Isabel inhaled
another lungful of ammonia as the sweet memory of Peter calling her
Ma Belle rang in her brain; a bell calling a novice to prayers.
“You can’t know that Papa.”

“Bof! We leave
for France le matin.”

“In the
morning?” Isabel pressed her vinaigrette against her nostrils as
her knees threatened to give way. “I won’t go!” She was talking to
herself. Her father had already left the room. Shouting orders in
correct Parisian French; her father was fed up with his wife’s
country and would be returning to his own land with or without his
daughter. Excited servants filled the house with running footsteps
and cheerful laughter.